The Vessel of Ra

Chapter 10: The Widow

Carlo opened his eyes. Light bled through the red curtains, reflecting on the velvet couch. He glanced down at his boots on the floor, toes pointing outward. While the apartment held its breath, his mind tracked backward. What had happened to him? Had he really transformed into a monster? Was he really human? How did his grandfather play into this?

A quick, sock-footed search showed Carlo was alone. The apartment smelled of rotten eggs―no, sulfur. Brimstone. Where were Octavia and Khun? Why would they leave him alone?

They had what they needed from him and were searching for Lucy. Octavia kept her word. He was safe. He imagined Khun would have other thoughts, but wasn't free to decide his own actions. Carlo knew how that felt.

He shivered again. Hot, melting flesh and bending bone. Those memories were never going to leave him. He felt he shouldn't exist in the world.

He laced his boots and left the Danieli, moving onto the streets of tourist Venice, disoriented even though he had lived all his life in the city. He couldn't dodge people, some eyeing him with indignity, others calling him names in English, Austrian, and French, not thinking he could understand. There was often dignity in a retort, but not today. He wove through the streets, dazed.

What was he really? What happened to his father? There was one person who might tell him the truth. What did his mother know? Paolo promised Sofia Borgia he would never tell Carlo about the day his father disappeared, and the magic in their life. What if Carlo didn't have a father at all? What if he himself was a demon Paolo Borgia had conjured, some lie shared by his "mother" and his "grandfather?" Carlo shook his head and turned his steps to darker, narrower alleys, to familiar buildings and dirty fountains, through the neighborhoods, playing children and laundry washing wives, to the front door of the apothecary shop, his home.

He rested his hand on the doorknob. What was he?

Carlo opened the door and the bell jingled. Peppo jumped up to greet him, and Carlo knelt to pet the dog, as always. Peppo didn't care what he might be.

"Mama?" Carlo called.

Sofia wheeled into the front room from the back hallway. "You're home," she said. "Where have you been all night?" Small lines tensed around her lips, but she stopped, and her expression softened. "You don't look well. Has something happened?" She tucked wisps of hair behind her ears and maneuvered the chair closer.

What must he look like? His mother would never spare him a scolding he deserved. He rubbed his hands over his face. Was there something wrong about him? Was his demon nature still showing?

"Did that Binder do something to you?"

Peppo wandered away. Carlo moved closer to Sofia. "Not her, Mama." No, not that Binder.

Sofia had knitting in her lap, blue yarn and small needles plunged into the yarn, ready to start a new project. She balanced her sharp shears on a chair arm.

Carlo breathed. "I have to ask you about something."

Sofia smoothed wayward hair back toward its bun. It flopped forward again, the gesture futile, but she patted it into place, or tried, once more. "Yes?"

"I have to ask you about Father."

"Your father is dead. There is nothing more to say." Carlo noted a small, uncertain note, fear in her voice.

"There are things I have to know. It's important. I dreamed of him. He told me not to trust Nonno."

Sofia laughed. "I've been telling you that for years. Did your father say why?"