Felt. In the past, Carlo reminded himself. "My social circle is small enough. I can't risk losing anyone."

  "Still."

  "Still nothing. You are the noblest man I have met. You always do the right thing. I am proud to consider you my brother. Let me try to make you well."

  Drusus cleared his throat, and his finger strained at his cravat. "Don't you think that's a bit much?"

  Carlo pointed at his chest. "We Venetians have access to our feelings, unlike you English. You'll have to suffer."

  Drusus smiled. "Thank you, Carlo. From my heart."

  "Don't thank me until you see where I live. You will most definitely not be grateful." Carlo blew out a breath. "So. Lucy's getting married?"

  "Yes." Drusus studied him, no doubt measuring his reaction.

  Lucy marrying had never occurred to Carlo as a possibility. Carlo had built the last several years of his life around this foundation. "There must be logical reasons. What is it you English say? An eligible match? What is her fiancé like?"

  "His name is Atreus Galt." Drusus waited.

  "You expect a reaction from me?" said Carlo.

  "You stayed with us long enough to know the Galts and the Klaereons have a long-standing enmity."

  Carlo remembered, but considering the Klaereon reputation until recently, he wondered if the Galts had some reason for their enmity. Best keep that sentiment to himself. "So they do. This is a good way to mend fences?"

  "No. Octavia is against the match, as am I."

  "Your reasons?"

  "Galt is a vicious, power hungry man."

  Carlo blinked. "Why would Lucy align herself with someone like that?"

  "I can't tell you what she is thinking. Neither of us can persuade Lucy to abandon it. Octavia thinks you could."

  "Oh no," said Carlo. "I am done with Lucy Klaereon. These Klaereon women. They make us dangle like puppets on strings."

  Drusus nodded. "As I suspected. You care for Lucy, still."

  "No." Carlo thought better of denial. "I mean, I did. Lucy is betrothed now, so it doesn't matter how I feel about her." Gods, he was thirsty. Carlo caught the waiter's attention. When he'd paid for dinner, and he had more dreadful beer in hand, Carlo spoke again. "I'm not marrying anyone. I don't want to bring anyone else into the mess of my life." Carlo hoped repeating the words would make it so. "I have some regrets."

  "Did you find what you were looking for when you left us?"

  No, he hadn't. After months of fruitless search for his family, he had moved on. "Enough about me."

  Weariness covered Drusus like a cloak, so they buttoned their jackets and weaved their way through tables and talking students toward the door, exiting into the rain. Carlo glanced at the Berliners walking by, heads bowed against the wind, oblivious to the problems surrounding them.

  Drusus pulled up his collar. "Lucy said she and I were the same. After all this, we can't let Ra have her."

  "To lose Lucy to Ra is unacceptable," said Carlo. "I believe we are in complete agreement on that front."

  Carlo opened his eyes. Sleeping on the floor was not working. He had given Drusus the bed, although Drusus had struggled against using it. The coup de grace of Carlo's argument was Carlo’s insistence he wanted to watch Drusus sleep, in case there was a transformation.

  At three in the morning, there was no Khun, only an exhausted Drusus sleeping off his worry. Carlo's apartment was dry if dusty, as clean as he could make it, the apartment of a poor student. A bed with a thin mattress. A small table and a hard chair. One closet, a spare change of clothes. Carlo's typical decorating strategy of trying to build the rest of the decor out of books and papers. Two shelves in the room were lined with the ingredients of potions and elixirs. All this was a man's estate.

  Carlo's eyes stung with tiredness, but his mind swarmed with thoughts about Lucy. He had rescued Lucy Klaereon from suicide in Venice's Grand Canal five years ago. Lucy was a little person, the size of a girl, and Caius Klaereon, her father, saw her as deformed. Even though Lucy was a more powerful sorceress than Octavia, their father had manipulated both his daughters, preparing Octavia to kill her sister if Lucy failed to escape Ra’s control. And fail Lucy would, because Caius Klaereon did not teach her what she needed to triumph at her Trial against the god.

  In the end, Lucy had no Trial. Carlo's grandfather Paolo Borgia severed the tie between Lucy and Ra for his own purposes. Ra possessed Octavia and killed Lucy. Lucy was resurrected by Isis as a pale, soulless version of herself. Lucy saved Octavia by taking Ra into herself physically, capturing him with her mother's blood magic, becoming his living prison. Khun and Drusus had died and Lucy made one being from the two of them.

  Everyone involved was trying to rebuild their lives as best they could. As Carlo reflected, he had no difficulty believing Drusus would have psychological problems, or that Lucy was dangerous. Octavia was the only person who had improved, and no doubt she suffered because Drusus and Lucy suffered.

  After her resurrection, Lucy tried to be like other people. She could calculate how uncomfortable people were around her, how inappropriate her responses were, but it mattered less and less as she forgot what emotions looked and felt like. When Marcellus, Octavia and Drusus' first child, was born, Lucy was satisfied Octavia was safe and the family legacy would continue. She then announced to Carlo she was going to find Paolo Borgia and kill him, fulfilling her promise to the old man. She had informed Carlo with as little concern as if she were talking about picking an apple from a tree.

  Carlo slipped on his cloak and gloves, and left his apartment. Outside, the recent showers puddled in the streets. Carlo's soles were thin and rain water leaked through his right shoe. Mist speckled his coat and hat. Often when he was full of regret, Carlo would reflect on the unsatisfactory events in his life. On Lucy, or his grandfather's nefarious betrayal of Lucy, or his mother's disappearance, or his family's missing library, full of magical texts and artifacts he could neither see nor use. He didn't want the library, exactly. He just didn't want his grandfather to have it.

  No, Carlo could be honest with himself. He wanted the library.

  Carlo could hear footsteps behind him. Living in a disreputable neighborhood meant it didn't take long for someone to decide to rob him. Good. He needed the distraction.

  This time, the robber wasn't stealthy enough to keep from splashing. Real robberies were less melodramatic than those in fiction. For example, in the alley behind his apartment building, whatever weapon the robber wielded wouldn't catch a sinister gleam off the lamplight to forewarn Carlo of an attack. Carlo pursed his lips. This was the third attempt to take his money this week. He stopped and waited.

  A knife grazed his neck, the pain aggravating. Since his mother had stabbed him with sewing shears and he had learned he healed easily from murderous intentions, Carlo's mind was easy about his mortality from such a lackluster attempt at threat. No doubt these attempted robberies, these physical disruptions of his self-pity were good for him, although feeling sorry for himself was a luxury he felt he could afford. So was the luxury of schooling robbers. He gained satisfaction from encouraging thieves to make better choices.

  Blood coated Carlo's gloves as he dabbed at his neck. Before he mastered himself, Carlo licked the blood off the fingers. Nasty, salty stuff, but he wanted blood sometimes, like a child licking batter out of a mixing bowl. He regretted the gloves would no longer be wearable. He hoped the knifeman would take notice.

  "Your wallet, please," said the knifeman. His assailant was broad, the kind of fellow hired to unload boxes from wagons, arms as thick as barrels.

  Carlo was good at languages, so his German was impeccable. He kept his tone posh. "No," Carlo shook his head. "This is not the way to get money from me. You have made a mistake."

  "Like you have a choice." The man menaced a little closer. "You will give me your wallet." He reminded Carlo of himself, hungry and poor. Carlo was lucky to have a family trade. Still. One could make other choices beside menacing with knives.

  "I do have a choice, and so do you. Right now, you have an important choice. Make the right one. Put your knife away. Find another way to make money."

  The man pressed the tip of his knife into Carlo's stomach. "Give me your wallet."

  Carlo shook his head. "Let me explain this to you clearly. You will stab me. I will bleed, but I will not be hurt much. I might become angry. Then my fingernails will turn into small daggers and I will catch you by the throat and do you damage I would rather not do. On the other hand, I might keep my wits about me and merely pour some poison down your throat. You see, I have concern you might do this to someone else whom you might be able to kill, so my actions in either case would be preventative. I'd rather not hide your body from the authorities. Do you understand me?"

  The man pushed the dagger through Carlo's soft flesh. "You talk too much."

  Carlo's eyes narrowed and he gasped. His body illuminated like the sky during a storm, his fingernails punching through his gloves. He grabbed the robber's throat, lifted him and shoved him against the wall near a metal fire escape, the tips of the knifeman's toes grazing the cobblestones. Both gloves ruined, certainly.

  "You listen too little." Carlo's voice was thick.

  "Please, don't." Even in the dim alley, Carlo could see his skin turn sickly, pale.

  The knifeman's blood smelled delicious.

  "You stabbed me. I'm not inclined to listen to your begging. If I let you go, you will do this again."

  "No. I promise I won't."

  Carlo's smile was wide, too wide for a friendly effect. Using the portion of him that was divine had become easier with time. The man needed to believe Carlo was thinking of eating him, or something equally unsavory. "I promise you won't. Count on the fact I will find you if you don't change. I know many people worse than me. I might send them instead."

  Carlo plunged his hand into the man's jacket. He found a purse and two wallets. He dropped the man, who stumbled to his knees, his pant legs coated in muddy grime. "Go home."

  "Please. I have children to feed."

  "You can show me these children. In this puddle. I already have some of your blood. It's a small matter to conjure home."

  "What are you?"

  Carlo ignored him. "Let me see your children."

  The robber shook his head. "No. I—"

  "No children?"

  The robber shook his head.

  Carlo pulled his demonic nature back into himself and again became a thin Venetian. "Liars make me tired. Should I turn you over to the constabulary? They'll hang you."

  "Don't."

  "The world is a dangerous place, full of dangerous people. Why rob people like me? Why invite them to look at you?"

  "I promise, never again."

  "See that you keep that promise."

  As Carlo walked away from the robber, he shook his head. Santa Maria, he sounded so preachy! The chances the knifeman would change his ways? Slim. Carlo could hope, however. He was not a killer, could not condone killing. Another reason he and Lucy had parted ways.

  Back to flagellating himself with self-pity. The more things changed, the more they remained the same. Carlo started down the streets. He had an errand to run, but he would try to make it quick. Tomorrow would be a busy day, what with trying to kill Drusus and all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Carlo fell on the padded mat, hard. The gymnasium was empty in the early morning. He'd planned it that way, and he'd locked the door on the way in. The room smelled like sweat. Both Carlo and Drusus were stripped down to breeches and open-necked shirts.

  "I thought you were a gentleman of leisure," Carlo said. His right hip was going to bruise for sure.

  "Most gentlemen of leisure get some training in sword-fighting, shooting, and riding." Drusus stood over him, arms crossed. "I had two older brothers and an athletic father as well."

  Carlo stood up. "I prefer to think my way out of situations."

  "Have you thought of a way out of my situation?"

  "I have a way to begin. You're not going to like it."

  "Why?" Drusus stepped away from Carlo.

  "You heal, like I do, don't you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, if something happens to you. You heal, right? Like"—Carlo took a breath, blew it out—"when my mother stabbed me, I healed up. It took a while."

  "I suppose Khun might. I'm not certain. Why?" Drusus looked at Carlo sideways.

  Carlo crouched, circling Drusus. "No reason. Shall we try again?" Carlo reached out to grab Drusus, but missed. "I always wonder what happened to the other religious pantheons. Did Solomon only banish the Egyptians? Or, if we wandered through the Abyss, would we find little pockets of Roman or Teutonic deities in their own fake cities?"

  Drusus lunged forward and Carlo stepped back. "Stop trying to distract me."

  "A real god would be able to discuss theology and fight at the same time." Carlo swiped at Drusus' legs.

  Drusus swept Carlo's legs from under him again and Carlo hit the mat with a thump.

  "You know, when I hit you, it will be a quality hit," Carlo sat up. "One hit that will equal three of yours."

  "Venetians are boastful," said Drusus. "Full of themselves."

  "Give me one second," said Carlo, breathing heavily. "Tell me, Drusus. Do you think about blood, ever?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  So he didn't. "Unimportant."

  Drusus stared at him, rendering him transparent.

  Carlo squirmed. "I…sometimes crave blood."

  Drusus continued to stare.

  Carlo waved the words away. "I do not drink it. It smells better than it tastes."

  "Isis is your grandmother. I don't believe Isis ever drank blood."

  Carlo shrugged. "I probably inherited the taste from my grandfather."

  "Up," said Drusus. "Come on."

  Carlo climbed to his feet, his bones protesting. Drusus' lopsided smile made him look cocky. The combat opened up like a parade during Carnival as Drusus' worry loosed from its moorings. Drusus caught Carlo's arm and threw him to the mat. Carlo rolled with the throw and ended sitting. Drusus reached out to help him up.

  "I'm sorry," said Carlo. He punctured Drusus' arm.

  Drusus' hand flew to his arm as he hissed. "What did you do?"

  Carlo wandered over to the bag by the mat and dropped Paolo Borgia's poison ring inside of it. He rummaged around for a vial of yellow liquid. "I injected you with cobra venom."

  Drusus rubbed his arm. "You're joking."

  Carlo shook his head. "The zoo has cobras. I know people who know people. We keep some venom at the school."

  "Why would you do that?" Drusus’ voice was even, but underneath Carlo could hear anger simmering.

  "I want to talk to Khun. I hypothesize you will turn into him to save your life."

  Drusus glared at Carlo. "Khun is dangerous."

  "Maybe. You wanted my help. Let me find out."

  "This isn't help!" Drusus rubbed his arm. "Damn it! What if I don't change?"

  Carlo held up the vial. "Anti-venom. We've got thirty minutes before you die. Let's give it a bit, see what happens."

  "Give that to me!" Drusus started forward.

  "The venom works faster if you exert yourself, so I wouldn't."

  "Give it to me!" Drusus dragged Carlo toward him by the neck of his shirt and fumbled for the vial.

  Carlo gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and transformed. His skin glowed incandescently, a brilliant flash.

  Drusus let him go, hands flying to his eyes. "Damn it!"

  "Sorry," said Carlo. "I didn't want you to break the vial."

  "Since when could you do that?" Drusus sagged. In a few more minutes, he would begin to feel real effects. Drusus lowered himself to the mat and covered his eyes.

  "I glow when I transform. Isis has properties of light, so I suppose it might have something to do with that."

  "Will you give me the anti-venom?"

  "If I have to, yes. I don't think I'll have to."

  "You could have asked me about the poison."

  "You wouldn't have allowed it."

  "I hate you."

  Carlo shifted himself back to normal. He sat cross-legged by Drusus. "Just transform, why don't you?"

  "It's not that easy."

  "Certainly it is. Think unhappy thoughts."

  "Carlo…" Drusus' voice menaced.

  "Being ashamed of one's self is not a solid grounding for any kind of life, Drusus. You have to accept all of what you are."

  The skin around the puncture on Drusus' arm turned an angry red. "You're just like your grandfather."

  Carlo laughed. "Maybe I am. Telling me so is not going to convince me to do what you want." Carlo closed his eyes again. It had been a night long on worry, short on sleep. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry and I won't let you die."

  "You're sorry?" Drusus trembled.

  "Penitent."

  "Maybe it would be better if I did die."

  "Don't be so melodramatic. I know, that's like asking the sun not to shine, but try."

  Drusus' eyes clicked open. Carlo's own transformation toward his demon nature took time. His skin stretched painfully, bones twisted, heat came from underneath his skin. Drusus turned into Khun with a snap of the fingers. The hairy hand of the Egyptian god shot up and wrung Carlo's neck. Khun always went for the neck. Carlo dropped the vial and sticky fluid puddled on the mat. He hoped he wouldn't need that, or that at least he could salvage some.

  Khun lifted Carlo up as he rose to his hooves, all seven feet of him. "Transform," Khun mocked him. "Just transform, why don't you?"

  All right. Carlo lashed out with the knives of his nails. They lashed Khun's arms, but still the god held tight. Khun leered at him, then tossed him away. Hitting the brick wall took all the air out of Carlo and he slumped to the mat. "Hello, Khun," he croaked.

  Khun crouched down and lifted Carlo's bangs so he could stare into his eyes. "Hello, little brother. You look older. It is an improvement. Where are we?"

  "Berlin."

  "So, the husband ran, did he?"

  Carlo rubbed his neck. "He came to me for help. He says you're dangerous."

 

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