The door swings open after I knock a second time, and stooping in the doorway is the small man, made to look even smaller by his hunched posture. Despite the sweat on my skin and the heat on my breath, my blood feels like ice when he greets me with a smile. He does not seem unfriendly, yet my instinct is to fear him. His unblinking eyes, blue like deep night, capture mine as he stares at me, and his voice, like soft wind in distant caverns, is colored by a strange accent, perhaps Prussian. “How may I help you?”
“You are Kei”—an unwelcome gulp sticks in my throat—”Keitus Vieta? The artist?”
His smile widens, and my knees judder as his thin flesh stretches across pointed cheekbones, making little veins beneath his skin wriggle like trapped worms. But I am no stranger to old age; Mama’s appearance was far worse, yet it never bothered me. Nevertheless, there is something dreadful about this old man—an ugliness that writhes deep beneath the pale surface—and something worse still, as though my senses are rebelling at his very presence. He should not be here. Yet here he is.
But it is a far more dreadful thing that I have an inclination to judge him. Vieta has done nothing impolite nor improper, so I make my best effort to return his smile.
“You know of me?” He takes my hand, then presses my knuckles to his dry lips. “It is a rare thing for old Keitus to be sought out. Especially by one so … handsome.”
Still he does not blink, and I am compelled to look away as an involuntary revulsion forces me to withdraw my hand. To look at anything but those intrusive eyes is a relief, and I gaze behind him and into his home. Beyond the door is a gloomy hallway colored by indigo luminescence from a room to the side. A lantern sits on a shelf, looking as though it has not been used for some time, and paintings I recognize by Federico Barocci, the famous artist staying near San Gimignano, hang from the walls. I find it unusual that Vieta chooses not to display his own works of art.
“But where are my manners, Miss Mancini.” He reaches for my hand again, the fingers clammy like old meat as they curl around mine. “Please come in.”
“I didn’t tell you my name,” I say, resisting his subtle pull on my hand. “How do you know it?”
Vieta’s fingers tighten slightly. “Cleg and Malley returned with the body of Lena Mancini less than an hour ago. Since she had two sons and two daughters, only three of whom were eager to profit from her passing, I assume by your timely arrival that you are the fourth, and you were not aware of the transaction nor content with it. It was Francesca who received the money two days ago, so you must be her younger sister, Dominique.”
I meet his eyes again, nod. “Is Mama … ?”
“Inside?”
I dare not look away and miss any hint of disclosure from his expression. A nervous tear blurs my vision as he studies me.
“Why, yes.” He takes a step back, luring me through the door. “I have not yet had the opportunity to—”
“Mama deserves a proper burial, Mr. Vieta. I am sure you can appreciate that. You must have known the passing of loved ones.” I offer a timid smile as I glance at the floor, ashamed of the brash way I interrupted him. But the heat of the crowd is still on my skin, and the pain of Mama’s passing presses its urgency upon me. Still, there is never an excuse for such impertinence.
Keitus returns my smile, closes the door behind me. “I have no wish to distress anyone. If it pleases you, I will arrange for my men to have the body sent to a priest, but I will of course, require the return of my payment.”
How would I go about persuading Fran to do that? Perhaps I should find the money myself and not tell her that I came here. But how could I pay such a debt?
“You seem ill at ease.” His gaze is on my hands as they knead each other. “Perhaps it would be best for you to wait here awhile at least until the riots have calmed. Please come inside and be seated. Would you like a drink?” He creeps into the room with the blue light, and after a moment of indecision, I follow.
“I don’t wish to intrude—” I stop when I see inside.
The dark blue glow radiates from a cane leaning against the wall closest to the door. The cane itself is a peculiarity with its curiously bright stone set in a gnarly claw, but it is nothing compared to the grotesque gallery on display before me.
There is no furniture, only hideous sculptures fashioned from a mottled substance that looks like it has been tortured into distorted forms of the human body. Enlarged contortions, twisted mannequins with a metallic sheen that might be blood in a different light. Some of their faces have been crafted with such attention to detail that I can almost see the terror in their eyes. Limbs are perverted by impossible knots, extended to disproportionate lengths with joints and sinew skewed and swollen like reflections in a warped mirror.
The room seems colder now that I have seen these horrors. And I am sure they are watching me.
Keitus stands in an open doorway on the other side of the room. “Pay no attention to my eccentricities.”
“Is this your … art?”
“A gallery of sorts. It does not appeal to many, but one must find expression for the workings of one’s heart, yes?”
I glance at the sculptures, preferring even them to his bulging stare. I am sure there are people who can appreciate Mr. Vieta’s work—such delicate weavings in the textures and harmonious curves in their posture—but I cannot move myself to enjoy such a mockery of God’s creation. “Do you sell many of these … ?”
“Alas, no, but I have no concerns. I have no shortage of coin and these”—he motions a withered hand—”are merely a creative outlet born from a greater passion of mine. They are the residue of another purpose.”
“Another purpose?”
“Indeed, but you need not know of that. Come through. I have a little brandy to set you at ease, my dear.” Keitus disappears into another hallway beyond the door.
I weave my way between the effigies, fearing an unexpected touch or a sudden rush of cold breath from their gaping mouths as I pass, but I reach the other side with no incident and chide myself for thinking so darkly. With faltering breath, I follow Keitus Vieta into another room, trying to dismiss my expectations of seeing a bloody torture chamber through the next door, and finding, to my relief, a much more pleasant place.
At first glance the room appears normal—a long center table with ten walnut chairs surrounding it, burgundy walls, tall bookcases, a large fireplace, and an array of display cabinets. But still my senses sharpen with the promise of danger. The light is too dim; the air is stale and carrying the bitter stench of something like ammonia.
“Brandy.” Keitus sets a small glass on the table and pulls out a chair for me.
“Thank you.” And I sit down, still avoiding his gaze.
“At the door you expressed a wish for your mama to have a proper burial. Do you still wish this?”
“More than anything.” I force myself to look at him, praying my trepidation will fade, but it does not. “How much did you pay my sister for Mama … Mama’s body?”
“Twenty florin.”
I try not to let my disappointment show, but a twitch in his lip tells me he sees something in my expression. “Too much for you?”
“It may be difficult. I—”
He lifts a hand to silence me. “Perhaps an alternative payment can be made other than coinage.”
“I would gladly give you anything.”
Keitus smiles, and once more I am struck by how wrong this man feels. A sip of the brandy causes my stomach to lurch with sudden fright. How could I trust this man? Anything could be in that glass. But again I judge harshly for no other reason than unfounded fear.
“An object,” he says, moving closer. “It need not be valuable. I need something your mama used very soon before she passed on. A glass she drank from perhaps or a hairbrush used this morning.”
“Why?”
“I hoped for some item of her clothing to give me what I need, but all of it is too … weak. I need something stronger.”
“Stronger? I don’t understand.”
Keitus pulls out a chair next to mine, sits in it, and gazes at me a little too intently. “You recall your childhood?”
“And did you ever play as a child?”
“I used to play with my brothers.”
“And what did you play?”
I close my eyes, almost ashamed at the memory. Ashamed yet aware that it was also the innocence of youth. “We used to play Pass the Plague.”
“I see.”
“Arrigo always won. We used to run through the streets and into the fields behind Baggio’s farm—Baggio always shouted at us on the way past, but he was too fat to chase us.” I pause, allowing a moment of sentimentality to soften my uneasiness.
“I loved to hide among the trees where they couldn’t find me, but there was an old oak tree Arrigo especially liked. It died years ago and the inside was hollow, so he would always hide inside it until I was caught.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven or eight, I think.”
“You didn’t play when you were nine?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember the last time you played that game?”
I think for a few seconds, sifting through snippets of memory—Fran on her back laughing loudly, Livio running from the woods screaming about a spider that had crawled into his hair, my grazed knee when I fell in the road. Fond memories and regretful memories mix in my mind, filling me with dreamy nostalgia. “No, I don’t think I can.”
“But there was, wasn’t there, Dominique?” His eyes bulge again. “One day you played that game for the very last time. You had no knowledge that it would be the final game, but it was.”
I take another sip of brandy. “I suppose so.”
“For all things there is a last time. To all things an end.”
I feel my pulse quicken. “Yes.”
“And between all things there is an exchange of power and will.” His words grow quieter and slower. “When the candle burns, it gives light. When the heart wills, the body acts. When the crow calls, the worm flees. With all things in this world there is cause and there is effect. But what if … the effect is denied? What if the exchange is broken?”
“I don’t understand.”
Keitus’s smile fades, and for the first time he blinks and looks away. “Powers are released, and unless they are harnessed, they flutter away. The powers will move, wander until dissolution.” His gnarled fingers claw the air. “Death is the greatest severance. There is so much power in the human will. So much power wasted, so many intentions left unfulfilled.”
“But when people die their souls go to be with the Lord or with Satan. Is that not the truth?”
“I am not speaking of the soul.”
“Then what?”
“When your mother died, the bond between cause and effect was broken. Those feelings and will of thought that were so strong in her mind retreated into personal objects she connected with immediately before her death. The last vessel she drank from, the last book she touched, the cloth she patted against her forehead for the last time—all become unwilling containers of an effect unfulfilled, a power harnessed for a short while.”
“You talk of unknown powers. Things that sound like witchcraft,” I say. “You are a witch!”
“No. Merely a science that has yet to be understood.”
I stand and grab the back of my chair, pushing it between us. “Get behind me, Satan. I’ll not listen to witchcraft.”
“Satan?” Keitus stands too, and though he is much shorter than me, I feel smaller than an insect when he looks at me. “If Satan were real he would surely cower if I called his name.”
Thinking only of escape, I spin around, set my sights on the open doorway behind me. I don’t know if Keitus is making a move to stop me, but I lunge forward and break into a run, fearing his yellow nails tearing at my back, imagining him exploding into a blood-eyed demon, devouring the room behind me, surging outward to fill the house like a poisonous cloud. A scream escapes me as I stagger through the door, catching my shoulder against the frame.
In my peripheral vision I see him still standing in the same place, watching me as I flee, with no obvious intention to stop me. Somewhere in a rational corner of my mind, I’m aware that he has done nothing to warrant my panic, but the dark, primitive part of my instincts justifies my terror as I stumble into one of his statues and scream again.
Flailing, clawing forward, I am almost at the next door that will take me to the exit hallway when my left hand momentarily connects with something hard and hot, the handle of Keitus Vieta’s cane. Lightning-blue sparks rip the air when it falls, and as I crash to the floor I hear the crack of wood against stone and see the cane spinning away from me. The jewel in its handle is shimmering, sending wave after wave of heat over my head. Several of the mannequins topple in the wake of the violence like mummified victims caught in a blast of volcanic fury. As pain burns through my palm, I look at my hand to see the branding of the artist’s jewel on my skin—a glistening circle where the flesh has been burnt away.
With nothing but the natural compulsion to survive driving me on, I crawl into the hallway, pull myself up against the final door, open it, and career into the empty street to land on my back.
My breathing, hoarse and desperate, almost drowns out new noises in my head—noises that sound like a jeering rabble crowding in from all sides. I stare up into the night sky faced with the fathomless heavens sprinkled with stars. God must be watching me. He knows I am here, knows I have resisted the dark, knows the terror that consumes my soul as I lie on the cold cobbles.
“Though I walk … through the shadow of the valley of death … I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.” I close my eyes, trying to shut out the howling of my thoughts as a hundred confused voices fight to be heard. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”
I scream as the image of Keitus Vieta’s cane, rippling with power, slams to the forefront of my mind. Eyes open to dismiss the power of that thought, I tilt my head forward and look at the doorway of the small man’s house. There he is, hunched and black, but he is not coming for me. Instead he is slowly closing the door. And as it clicks shut I cry out to God, begging for my salvation, pulling at my hair to silence the cacophony of voices.
One voice sounds above the rest, but it is not the answer of my Savior. “Witch!” says Mama. “I spit on the day my womb conceived you, and I wish a demon’s fate on your soul. You, of all my children, are my biggest disappointment and in no small way.”