The battle was already lost, but Amalia couldn’t concede with grace.

 

  “Why the hell does it have to be me?” It sounded petulant, she hated sounding petulant, which made her even angrier. Everything about Gustavo’s tone and posture said there was no wriggle room here. Amalia looked around her mentor’s study, eyes drawn to the window overlooking the Grand Canal. There was no escape.

 

   “I’ll thank you not to curse, my dear.” He sat back behind his elaborate desk, surrounded by his books and scrolls, arms crossed.

 

  “Yes sir. But why me?”

 

  “Joining the Council so young is an honor with obligations. You go because I’m your superior and I say so. When you’ve been on the Council a decade, you can choose missions. For now, when I say go, you go. Got it?” Gustavo’s huge head, with its mane of graying curls, was tilted to the side. He looked at her like he was examining a strange seashell. Those gray eyes, usually lively with a secret smile, were cold.

 

   Amalia sighed in defeat, fingering the silk of her gown. There would be no silk out in the field. “All right, tell me again. What and why?”

 

   “The Duke of Savoy’s pet cardinal has petitioned our help. He says demons are stalking the town, and thinks their relics are the target.”

 

   “How does this involve Venice, and me?”

 

   "They’re under attack, and have asked us for help. You’re stealthy, you know Savoy and you won’t  be recognized.” He was tapping the desk in annoyance, a bad sign.

 

   “But the Church hates the Arcane Councils.”

 

  He shook his head, “The Church is more than one thing. Now we show our value, stepping to clean up problems they can’t handle.”

 

   “What assets will I have?”

 

   “A letter of introduction to the Duke’s majordomo, and a token from the cardinal. Contact is up to you. There’s no Council in Turin.”

 

    “So, no support, and no assets except what I carry,” she winced.

 

    “Correct.” He didn’t have to sound so smug about it.

 

  “What’s the threat?”

 

  “Something’s targeting the palace. People have died.That’s all we know for sure.” 

 

  “Not much to go on.” She looked past him, already planning.

 

  “So I’m sending my best.”

 

  “Don’t patronize. I’m a spy, not a fighter.”

 

  “The Duke’s people wouldn’t come to us if they weren’t terrified. They have nowhere else to turn.” Now that he was sure she would go, he was returning to his usual air of satisfaction.

 

  “What are you not saying?”

 

  “France has wanted to rule Savoy for two generations. Louis wants it. Duke Victor Amadeus is determined to be his own man.”

 

  “So you think it’s France?”

 

  He shook his head. “Black magic isn’t King Louis’s style. But maybe someone released the dogs, and now they have ideas of their own.”

 

  “What do I do?”

 

  “Go there, sniff out the problem, and stamp it out.”

 

  “So, simple, right?” she snorted. “When do I leave?”

 

   “How does this afternoon sound?”

 

   “Terrible. l need a day or two to square with Francesco about the poison factory. He just put me in charge of the blue.”

 

    “Blue, that’s metals?”

 

   She paused for a beat looking at her mentor. She’d sworn solemn oaths not to talk about the doings of the poison factory, but she’d sworn even more solemn oaths to Gustavo. It wasn’t impossible to deceive him, but it was damn difficult. She loved Venice, but her first loyalty was the Council.

 

   “No, sea life. ‘Cesco thinks I’m a genius, because I sorted their quality issues. Once the stuff’s concentrated, it glows in the Unseen, so I can tell at a glance if a batch is good. And I got them testing on rats instead of dogs and people, it saves a lot of trouble.”

 

    “And the Doge’s reward for doing good work is more work? I’ll take care of Morini.”

 

   “If I disappear for a few weeks, maybe he’ll take me off the blue. I’d rather work on the red anyway.”

 

    “Red? That’s snakes?” She had to hide a smile at Gustavo’s  barely repressed shudder.

 

   “ I’ll need travel money, and documents. Tell me everything I need to know.”

 

    A woman traveling alone across Italy in 1687 was unthinkable. Amalia traveled under one of her favorite identities, Alain Capobianca, an itinerant scribe. Bella, the mare she kept outside Mestre, was smart, fleet, and good company. Amalia held her back: the roads were dangerous.  A fresh mount that could flee any moment was just common sense. 

 

    The journey was routine. Four days later, a saddlesore Alain was buying drinks in a dive favored by servants of the Royal Palace in Turin. The goal was learning everything about one Filippo Donato, majordomo of the ducal palace. Amalia had landed a set of fifth floor rooms, under the brand new identity of Anne Marie Costini, a refugee widowed by the recent riots in Siena. 

 

    The next morning a well dressed Anne Marie applied at the palace for a job, the ink barely dry on her glowing letter of introduction. Made up to bear a striking resemblance to Filippo’s mistress, she managed the interview with a mix of flirt and proper. Donato offered her a position in the kitchen as an assistant procurer. It was a fine catch, giving her reason to be around town and meet people.

 

    Growing up in the players troupe had given Amalia the gift of sizing up a town. The people huddled too close, casting nervous glances. Mothers held their children tight, wearing worried frowns. Turin was a town on edge, the people afraid. 

 

    She trailed Mistress Michelle on her rounds, meeting vendors, learning their stories,  building an image of reserved but competent. When she made the rounds alone, she’d have them laughing at her tales, and getting stories out of them.

 

    The streets were deserted when she headed home in the falling dark. Shadows flickered at the edge of her vision, and a faint moan came from an alley. In a shop doorway, she opened her perception to the hidden world. In the ghostly twilight of the Unseen, the street was sprinkled with glowing arcane constructs, broadcasting anxiety and fear: haunt spells. The work was unfamiliar; simple, brute force craft. It smelled of the north, ice and iron. What worried her was the quantity, not the quality. There were dozens of the constructs, blotchy melons glowing a malevolent purple, scattered across the neighborhood. Some were fresh, others days old and fading.

 

    Being out at night meant traveling as male. She returned to her rooms as Anne Marie to change her clothing, pulling her hair back in a careless queue. A few minutes with her makeup kit coarsened her features. Pads above her hips changed her profile, and a tight wrap around her chest, annoying as ever, completed the transformation to Alain. He paced the room a few times, rehearsing the longer, jerky strides of the role, shoulders back, arms rotated out. It was time to get to work. Alain slipped out Signora Costini’s window onto the rooftop. 

 

    Illusion, the delicate interplay of light and sound with human perception, was her strength in the Unseen world. Her foe was using it on a massive scale, and she needed to know why. The streets were too wide for rooftop crossings. She scouted the block, finding an empty balcony with the door open. Jaunty music from a poorly tuned harpsichord came from below, with the sour smell of cheap wine and the musk of sex. It was a brothel, and her route to the street.

 

    Gathering herself, she focused to forge a smudge, a construct that dispersed reflected light across every angle. It left a gray blur that was hard to look at, causing eyes to bounce away. It wasn't perfect, staring intently would beat it, so the trick was to give no reason to stare.

 

    She eased into the building, making a furtive descent down the back stairs.The  occupants preoccupied, she made the first floor without incident. The front parlor, all red velvet and bad art, was occupied by a fierce madam, two thugs, and a pair of working girls sprawled on a couch. Getting out the door without being seen would be tricky. Hidden on the dark stairs, she crafted a sound illusion. As one of the thugs yawned, she cast it through the parlor toward the kitchen noises in the room beyond.

 

    A crash and the sound of breaking glass sent the goons running for the kitchen, the matron right behind. With everyone’s attention elsewhere, Alain darted to the door, opening it and pausing the smudge at the same time.

 

    He entered with a bow and a flourish. “Good evening, ladies, I’m looking for my brother Alphonse. Is he here? He’s tall, fair hair, a curling mustache and a blue jacket?”

 

    The surprised tarts turned their attention to him, with quick professional appraisals, giggling and fluttering eyelashes. Alain studied them, suppressing any spark of lust to encourage them. It was always fascinating how professionals provoked desire so effortlessly.

 

    “He dropped by earlier, and ran out for a few minutes. He said he’d be right back. Why don’t you sit beside me and wait,” offered a lanky brunette in a husky voice. Beside her, a short blonde scooted aside, patted the cushions, and poked out her chest, giving him an inviting smile.

 

    “Thank you ladies,” Alain replied with a smaller bow, “but it’s urgent family business. I must find him at once.” With that, he was out the door, unable to resist a smile. It was odd that Alphonse had been at the brothel, since he didn’t exist. Amalia had a soft spot for sex workers, with their strange mix of brutal honesty and effortless deception. Handled with care, working girls were a treasure trove of information. She might be back.

 

    There must be a pattern. To find it she’d go up. The tallest thing around was the Palatine Gate, part of the city walls from Roman times. Navigating the ancient stone staIrcase in the dark was spooky even for her, and she was what mothers frightened their children with. The landing opened onto a wide walk, the city spread below, quiet and dark, with a few lonely islands of light.. 

 

    Being nearsighted in the Unseen was usually an advantage. Tonight  it meant that after she opened her perception, it took time for things to come into focus. She stared, the chill spring wind biting her ears.

 

    The intent was clear. In the shadow world, the  illusions glowed thick around the cathedral, dwindling quickly farther away.There were clusters around the gates and the palace. It would be  impossible to enter either without passing haunt spells. She didn’t know who the enemy was, but they were focused on the cathedral.

 

    Back on the street, she crouched by one of the constructs. On the point of taking it apart, something felt wrong. The density wasn't  right for an illusion. It had none of  the airy feel. She gave the spell the arcane equivalent of a gentle shake. The illusion spell she could see in the Unseen should have chimed in the construct, but instead there was a heaviness, a feel of contained force.

 

    So it was more than it appeared. There was something inside the outer spell, an entirely different level of sophistication, and her estimation of the foe went up sharply. The sheer number of spells was impressive, but this construct was a different order of craft. Easing down the dark and empty street, she checked another, and another: all the same.

 

    Time to trap the trappers. She scouted the plaza around the palace. A couple of blocks west was the perfect spot. An arched passageway ran above an alley, almost on top of one of the haunt spells..

 

    Amalia took the time to imbue another protective spell onto her cloak. It was a fine piece of work, heavy wool with an elegant but understated border in green. What made it special were the layers of persistent spells worked into the fabric. Invisible to any but an adept paying serious attention, it had several layers of craft. It would slow a bullet, and stop all but the most forceful blade. It repelled mosquitoes, lice and bedbugs. And it was damn warm. She laid an ephemeral illusion onto it for concealment and deflection, concerned about what might come out of the construct.

 

     Then she crafted what amounted to a long stick in the Unseen and poked the haunt spell. Nothing. She poked harder. Still nothing. She sharpened the point of her spell, changing it  to a cutter that could sever spell bindings. Gripping it tightly through her cloak, she gave the construct a fierce jab.

 

    In the Real, there was a crack like a stick snapping, but in the hidden world, there was an explosion of power, with a flash of light and brightly colored streamers of spells lancing out in all directions. Instinctively, Amalia ducked under the cloak, hearing a hissing sizzle as the plumes settled to the ground. When everything was quiet, she flipped it back.

 

    The street was unmarked in the Real, but in the Unseen, there was a chaos of colored lines criss-crossing the street. A few of them twitched suspiciously, with an oily, unclean feel and a smell of decay. It was nasty work, probably lethal. It seemed impossible for so many of these workings to be in this city. 

 

    Spots of color were dripping off her cloak. She shook it in disgust, pleased to see them shake off. Thank the gods for deflection spells.

 

    The traps were serious pieces of Craft. Only a powerful adept with time and resources could create them. What the hell was she dealing with?

 

    Minutes ticked by, the night quiet until she caught a whiff of something easing down the alley. It was barely perceptible, a patch of darkness edging forward. She slowed her breathing and waited. As it came close, she delved a normal human aura, a shadow easing across the cobbles. A man in a dark cloak edged into the plaza, carefully stepping across the remains of the eruption.

 

    He can see in the Unseen, Amalia realized. The newcomer moved more like prey than hunter, wariness in every move. He bent over the destroyed haunt spell, studying the mess. A scuffle of boots across the plaza snapped his head up, and he skipped across the remnants of the spell to melt into the alley.

 

    The two figures that emerged across the plaza were anything but cautious, stomping across the cobbles. They crouched at the shattered spell, studying the remains in silence. The night was dark, and Amalia could see little except they were large and wearing dark cloaks but their gait seemed awkward.

 

    As one, the pair stood and turned toward the alley. She could feel the first man slipping away to the west. The newcomers moved slowly, an eerie unison in their walk. As they passed beneath, she managed a quick delve. Whatever they were, it wasn’t strictly human. The aspects were all wrong. In the low light, it was hard to see details, but their arms were too long, their steps jerky and crabbed.

 

    There was the distinctive sound of a blade being drawn. A clash of steel rang down the alley. The brutes in the alley below picked up their pace, still silent.

 

    Dammit! She hated diving into a fight she didn’t understand, but this was what she’d come for. Cursing, she ran down the stairs and raced after the pair. Thank the gods for soft-soled boots.

 

    The alley opened onto the broad cobbled expanse of the Via della Basilica, lit by a lantern on the street. Two men with swords faced off. Another figure, hairy and crouched,  lunged in from the side. One man attacked with a falchion, clumsy and aggressive. The defender landed a cut on his off side the attacker didn’t seem to notice. The crouching figure’s hands crooked like claws.

 

    The beasts ahead growled, and went to all fours at the same moment, rushing forward. Before she knew she’d made a decision, Amalia had drawn her rapier and charged the pair. She was on the human’s side, she knew that much.

 

    A lunging slash hamstrung the one on the left. It fell forward in a heap, lashing out. She dodged, feinted, and countered. The creature clawed at her, and she attacked the outstretched arm, which ended in a wicked set of claws. It collapsed in a heap, and she darted past.

 

    Falchion was bleeding from both arms now, barely keeping his sword up. He’d swung around to block the man’s retreat. The other two creatures were lunging in, making savage swipes. Their opponent’s legs were slashed and bleeding.

 

   She sprang forward with an all out cut at the nearest creature’s neck that dropped it cold. The other rounded on her, a vicious swipe that forced her  back. It kept charging, and she skipped to the side, slashing as it went by. She followed up, spinning behind it and attacking the far side. The creature was awkward, human in form, but with a muzzle like a baboon. It paid for its slowness with a slash to its arm, followed by a stab from her dagger. The changeling howled before bounding down the street, leaving a scent of rank decay. She turned to find the swordsman panting against the wall above a motionless Falchion.

 

   The two regarded each other for a moment. Pitching her voice low, Amalia asked, “Can you walk?”

 

   The man put weight on his leg, and winced, stifling a groan. “I have to,” he muttered.

 

   “Any reason to keep this one alive?” she asked, gesturing toward the first creature, who was crawling away from them on the cobbles.

 

   “No.”

 

    She put it down, and turned back to the swordsman. “Alain Capobianca, of Venice. Who are you?

 

   “Darby Agner, Copenhagen,” he said in graceful Italian with a northern accent.

 

   “Well, Darby Agner, do you want to meet the city watch?”

 

   He winced. “I’d rather not.”

 

    “Then we should leave now.” She picked up the light, looking at him, and instantly felt better. Youngish, broad shoulders, a narrow face with bright eyes and the beginnings of laugh lines..

 

   The whistles of the Watch shrilling nearby made up her mind. She adjusted her new ally’s cloak to hide his wounds. 

 

    “Put your arm around me. We’re drunk,” she said, shifting the lantern to her right side and pushing her left shoulder under his right arm. “Now move.”

 

    “Right,” he gasped, stepping forward with a little moan.

 

    “Keep going,” she barked, before breaking into a popular drinking song.

 

    A block away two large City Watch accosted them, hands on sword hilts.

 

    “You, halt!”

 

    “Good evening, sirs!” Alain slurred.

 

    “Did you see anything?”
 

     “Oh, sirs, yes, the most beautiful girls. Mine had eyes like an angel, oh, and breasts…”

 

    “No, I mean any fighting?” the other guard demanded.

 

    “Oh, no sir, we got along very well,” he smirked.

 

    “Fighting in the streets, you idiot!” the exasperated guard shouted.
   

    “Oh, no sir, not around here, this is a nice town!”

​

    “Uh, uh, umm hmm,” Darby agreed.

 

    “Get off the streets, you morons, it’s not safe,” the first guard said, brushing past them towards the bodies they’d left behind.

 

    Alain hurried them another block before turning south to find shelter in a doorway.

 

    “So, Darby of Copenhagen, where do you stay?”

 

    The man was in pain, having trouble keeping up even with help. “The Gray Eagle, by the cathedral.”

 

    “If I get you there, will you explain what happened back there?”

 

    “Yes,” he managed.

 

    “No holding back?” Alain asked sharply.

 

    He tensed, prepared to lie, and then she felt his surrender. “No holding back.”

 

    “Good, let’s get that leg tended.”

 

    The drunk act got them to the inn. Pushing Darby up the stairs was hard work, even with his help. In his room, he collapsed on the bed. She pulled his boots (unsurprisingly, well supplied with knives), and surveyed the shredded trousers. Without a word she began cutting them off. Darby laid back panting, but then managed to sit up to watch.

 

    “What were those things?” she asked.

 

     There was a long silence. 

 

    “No holding back, remember?” she reminded him.

   

    “Droshi,” he said with an air of defeat.

 

    “And what is a droshi?”

 

    “A changeling.”

 

    “They were human once?”

 

    “Yes. They’re clumsy alone, but in a pack they’re deadly.”

 

    “What were you doing in that alley?” she asked, peeling away the last remnants of his trousers and discarding them on the floor.

 

    Another long silence, then, “I was hunting their master.”

 

    “For who?”

 

    “My prince.”

 

    “One of Emperor Leopold’s vassals?”

 

    A grudging nod.

 

    The left thigh had three clean scratches, but the right looked more like raw meat. She shook her head. “Do you have liquor?”

 

    He gestured to an armoire, and she returned with a bottle, pouring the spirits onto a rag.

 

    “This is gonna sting,” she said, and began cleaning the wounds. Darby gave a series of tight gasps.

 

    “What are droshi doing in Turin?” she asked.

 

    “They’re barely intelligent. The master, the strzyga, controls them.”

 

    “A mage?”

 

    He nodded. “You could say that.”

 

    For the first time, she doubted him. Moving the lamp closer let her see his face better. “No mage can do that kind of black magic in a Christian town. Doesn’t the Blessing affect him?”

 

     “The Blessing?”

 

    “The Great Spell that rebounds on anyone using dark magic against humans. It kills fast.”

 

   “Oh, that,” Darby said with a dismissive wave. “The strzyga can survive the Blessing for weeks or months. They do all the damage they can before they die.” 

 

    “I don’t understand. Where did it come from?”

 

    Darby shook his head. “You won’t believe me.”

 

    “Try me. No holding back, remember?”

 

    He looked at her hard for a long moment. The leg was clean now, but there were a couple of gashes that needed stitching. Alain opened his kit for needle and thread, passing Darby the bottle..

 

    “You won’t like this part. Have a slug.”

 

    Stitching human isn’t much different from stitching cloth, except that it’s a lot stickier, the cloth is tough and won’t stay still, and it mutters and groans. Still, pretending it wasn’t a person helped. Alain made short work of the cuts after dusting them with powder from the kit.

 

    “What’s that?” he asked.

 

    “It dulls the pain, helps it heal, and keeps down the swelling,” Alain replied, putting the jar away. He tore a sheet for bandaging. “Where did the strzyga come from?”

 

    “In the Thirty Years War, there were atrocities all around. In the chaos, something came through.”

 

    “Something came through? What do you mean,” Alain asked, wrapping the bandaging.

 

    “Infernal creatures showed up, and started wreaking havoc.”

 

    “Demons? And they’re still around forty years later?”

 

    “They still pop up like weeds, from time to time.”

 

    “And you’re the gardener, pulling weeds?”.

 

    “Something like that,” Darby replied, grunting in pain as Alain tied a bandage.

 

    “What led you to that alley?”

 

    He looked around the room, seeking a way out. “I felt a, a disturbance. I went to investigate.”

 

    As suspected, he was sensitive to the Unseen. And like any sane man, uncomfortable having that known.

 

    “What now?” She’d made up her mind. She could work with this man.

 

    “Find and kill the strzyga.”

 

    “How?”

 

     “Not sure. With time, I can suss them out. Turin’s not a big place.” He said it with confidence, hands folded on his stomach. He’d done this before.

 

    “What are they doing here?” Alain asked, putting away the kit.

 

    “No idea.”

 

    “I think they’re trying to steal holy relics, probably the Shroud. Does that make sense?”

 

    He nodded agreement. “They’re drawn to objects of power. Given time, they’ll gather enough of them to open a gateway.”

 

    “Gateway? To where?”

 

    “We don’t know if it’s the real Hell or not. Close enough, anyway, a place where there are a lot more strzyga.”

 

    “If I help you find this strzyga, what will you do?”

 

    “Kill it.”

 

    “How? Are you a mage?”

 

    After another long silence, he said, “No. Sensitive, not Gifted, as the magickers say. My style is surprise attacks with local muscle.”

 

    It was a lot to take in. She was not a believer in ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ but then again, one took allies where one could find them.

 

    “Why are you here? Are you a mercenary?”

 

    He laughed, making him wince. “It’s complicated,” he said. “I owed someone, and coming here was the price.” He looked at Alain, really looked at him, for the first time. “And what brought you to that alley?”

 

    “It’s complicated. The simple version is the Church asked for help, and I got sent.”

 

    “Sent by who?”

 

    “Venice. But I’m the one asking questions. This strzyga, who controls it?”

 

    “No one. They rant gibberish and threats if they’re caught, but they don’t work for anyone local.”

 

    “At least it’s not France.”

 

    “There’s going to be a war,” Darby agreed gravely.

 

    “Speak for yourself, Venice has been at war for centuries. What will you do now?”

 

    “Track the strzyga, and call in the locals.”

 

    “I can help. Want to work together?”

 

    He reached out a hand, “Darby of Copenhagen, at your service.”

 

    Alain shook it firmly, aware how much larger his hand was. “Alain of Venice. Well met. I’ll need time to track the beast. I work in the palace in the day. Meet me tomorrow night?”

 

    He looked down at his leg. “I’ve had worse. It’ll be stiff, but I’ll be up and about tomorrow.”

 

    “Dusk at the Palatine Gate?”

 

    “See you there. We’ll hunt,” he said grimly.

 

    “Good night, then, Darby of Copenhagen,” Alain said with a smile. He was likable, and nice to look at, too.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ she sighed, back in her rooms. Some rickety stairs in a courtyard lead to the roof, letting her skip the brothel. There was enough droshi blood on the dirk for a tracking spell. Building it was a struggle, her energy level was low. She left it inactive, anchored to a twig stowed in her pouch.

 

    The last job was a note to Donato, signed Vincenzo, that explained the haunting, and that covert agents of the church were working it. Military assistance might be needed on short notice. Exhausted, she turned in. Anne Marie would have an early morning.

 

    The castle stores were a mess, but Anne Marie was an organizer. She had a busy day that felt like progress. Shift over, she returned to her rooms. After a change of outfit and gender, Alain grabbed street food and wandered toward the gate. A giant pair of matching bronze statues commemorated the Caesars Julius and Augustus. It was beautiful work, but when she rubbed Julius’s toe for luck, there was a shiver of power.

 

    Intrigued, she stepped back and opened her inner sight.

 

    The pair were ancient, and had a solid, comforting aspect in the Unseen, centuries of civic pride. It was old magic, pagan stuff somehow tied to defending the city. She could feel the monuments drawing a thread of power from the humans nearby. No one had tapped it for a long time, so there was raw energy just sitting there. 

 

    Reaching out with the basic Roman access protocol got a quick response in what was probably archaic Latin, wrapped in layers of encryption. That’s why there was a treasure trove of power laying around: no one could get to it. The caretakers hadn’t passed the secret on, a pity.

 

    An expert could just waltz in and take it. She knew enough Roman codes to unravel it eventually, but that would take time. Best to forge a quick binding to access it later, no telling if it might be useful. The binding worked like a charm, like it had been waiting for her. She was tying it off when Darby appeared, walking stiffly but looking fit.

 

    “What news, Alain?” he asked cheerily.

 

    “I have a tracker. I gave the majordomo a heads up we might need troops in a hurry.”

 

    “Huh. I mostly just slept. But I feel good. Nice work on the leg, you have a damn fine hand with a needle.”

 

    “Thanks. Let me finish my dinner, and we’ll get started.” What she really needed was to finish the binding. She ate slowly, wrapping it up. Then she brandished the twig.

 

    “When I crack this, it will point at the beast that ran. It’s not precise, but it gives  general direction and distance.”

 

     Darby appeared unsurprised at the magical artifact. “Nice,” was all he said.

 

    “Too close, and the droshi or strzyga might sense it. What do we do when we find them?”

 

    “Sic the local authorities on them. This is Turin’s fight.”

 

    “Agreed. Let’s do it.” She broke the twig, throwing away half. A gentle warmth came from the remaining piece. Turning in a circle, there was a faint tingle to the south. “That way,” she pointed. “So this strzyga, can it pass as human, like to rent a house?”

 

    Darby gave a skeptical shrug. “Not likely.”

 

    “Then we’ll find them in the slums, squatting in a hovel they’ve taken over?”

 

    “As good a guess as any,” he agreed.

 

    They took wide loops east and west. A long walk narrowed it down to a slum in the southeast quarter. Turin was a wealthy town, well governed, but the poor were always there.

 

    “Got it, it’s near Wharf Street and Lower Street,” she told Darby, grinding the twig into the cobbles. 

 

    “Let’s have a look,” was all he said, hand going to his sword hilt.

 

    They walked like they had business, better dressed than the beaten down folk of the quarter. Amalia knew they were close, but a walk around the block came up empty.

 

    “Hey,” she said to a scruffy youth idling by a fountain, “I’m looking for someone. New in the neighborhood, dark hair and skin, walks kind of hunched over.”

 

    A flicker of recognition lit the youth’s eyes. “What’s it worth?” He was short, barely more than a child, with black curls above a ragged tunic.

 

    “A silver,” Amalia said, digging out a small coin out by feel, not taking her eyes off her informant.

 

    “Audetti’s place, round the corner, fourth door on the right, second floor,” was the reply, along with a wide-eyed reach for the coin.

 

    “Show me,” Amalia said, closing her hand.

 

    The street was grimy, the poorest they’d seen. The fourth building was dark, unlike its neighbors. Walking by the door, she caught a whiff of decay. This was the place.

 

    Holding out the coin in a closed fist, she asked her guide. “When did they get here?”

 

    “Uh, two weeks ago?”

 

    “Do they have friends around?”

 

    “Nah, Ain’t seen old Pascal since they got here. Old man said he sold’em the place. Nobody believes it.” Anthony’s voice cracked, and he kicked a grimy sandal at the filth in the street. He was angry about Pascal.

 

    “How many?”

 

    A shrug. “A dozen, more?”

 

    Amalia opened her fist. The coin disappeared.

 

    “What’s your name?” she asked, turning her attention to the urchin.

 

    “Anthony,” said proudly, shoulders back.

 

    “What do you do, Anthony?”

 

    “I keeps my eye on things round here,” with a sweeping gesture to the decrepit neighborhood.

 

    “Perfect. I need this house watched. Tell me when anyone leaves. Can you do that?”

 

    “Yeah.”

 

    “How many in your crew?”

 

    “How’d you know?” The youth flinched back, suspicious.

 

    “Just a guess,” she soothed. “How many?”

 

    “Six. Eight, countin’ the littles.”

 

    She held out three more silver pennies, open handed. “Full-time watch, with a runner to my friend Darby Agner here at the Gray Eagle if more than one leaves. Deal?”

 

    The pennies vanished, and Anthony’s face lit up. “Deal!” 

 

    “We’ll wait while you round up a shift,” she said, and then he was gone, running. They edged into a doorway, and she turned to Darby.

 

    “I found them, partner. Now what?”

 

    “When Anthony gets back, I go round up  the local heavies.”

 

    “The Duke’s men?”

 

    “Yep. So how’d you do that?” he asked.

 

    “Do what?”

 

    “Find an informant who turned into your watch team.”

 

    “He’s an urchin. It’s how they size up strangers. He saw us as opportunity, not intruders. Good citizens in a poor neighborhood see outsiders as a threat.”

 

    He grunted something like acknowledgement, looking thoughtful. Minutes passed, and Darby was beginning to hint she’d been cheated when Anthony returned with two even scruffier youths, none of them breaking five feet tall.. 

 

    “If they move, a runner to the Gray Eagle, one tails, one stays,” Alain told them. “If nothing happens, come to the Eagle in the morning and get paid.” The urchins muttered agreement, and faded into the shadows. Darby and Alain headed back to the inn.

 

    They were barely out of the slum before a breathless Anthony raced up. “They’re on the move, going north,” the youth gulped, breathing hard. Something about the youngster’s heaving shoulders triggered a memory Amalia filed away for later.

 

    “How many?”

 

    “The old man, and at least a dozen.”

 

    “It’ll be the Shroud,” Darby said grimly. “I’ll slow them. Get me help quick as you can.”

It was madness, suicide, it was magnificent. In that moment Amalia’s heart went out to the tall northerner.

 

    “Anthony, you still my runner?” she demanded.

 

   “Yessir!”

 

    “Take a note to the palace,” she said, burrowing into her pouch for paper and quill. A tavern window’s light let her write a brief note: “Cathedral under attack. Bring force -Vincenzo” She pressed the signet ring into the grime of the street and then onto the paper. 

 

    “Get this to the officer of the watch at the palace main gate. Got that?” she asked, passing him another silver.

   

    “If you get help, there’s five more.”

 

    “I will, I will!” Anthony was hopping in excitement.

 

    “Hurry!” Darby urged, but the youth was already gone.

 

    “Darby, any weapons in your room?”

 

    “A crossbow.”

 

    “Good man, let’s go.”

 

    He gave her a searching look. “You sure? This will get messy.”

Gustavo would never forgive her if she flinched, or Francesco either. It was why she was here, what she’d trained for. “I’m in,” she said, before breaking for the Eagle.

 

    Darby’s bow was a bulky thing. He carried it and Alain the quiver as they jogged to the massive church.

There are always small doors at the back. Alain picked a secluded one. It was locked, so he traded the quiver for a pick kit.

 

    “No time,” Darby said, moving him away from the door before backing off and launching  a flying kick. There was a crack as the jamb splintered, then they were in the darkness beyond.

 

    Darby fumbled with a striker, but it was Alain’s turn to say, “No time.” He fired a light spell, attached to a crossbow bolt. Darby grunted, and followed. They emerged from a small hallway into the apse, and ran through the nave to the small side chapel where the shroud resided. The reliquary was undisturbed. Alain turned toward the narthex.

 

    “What’s your plan?” Alain asked.

 

    “They’ll come in the front door. Can you shoot?”

 

    “Pretty well.”

 

    “Get the strzyga. They don’t go down easy. Then help me with the droshi. Just like Cannae, a double envelopment!”

 

    Alain painted a crossbow bolt with a lethal paste. How do you do a double envelopment when you’re outnumbered eight to one? Still, she loved his style. A crackle of power in the Unseen washed through the room.  A crash rang from the narthex. She felt the cathedral’s awareness of something wrong.

 

    “You take the left side, me the right. They’ll spill in, and I’ll draw the droshi off. Back me  up when you can. Got it?” Darby asked, even as he ran for the far side.

 

    “With you.” Alain gathered the bow and ran for the southwest wall, hidden behind the pews. There was time to cast a cloak of shadow, but then her reserves were spent. The doors crashed open, and a mob of droshi burst in. 

 

    Most moved on all fours, claws skittering on the flagstone. A few managed a halting gait upright. She’d seen packs of wolves in the Apennines. These creatures had none of their flowing grace. But they did move like a pack, each aware of the others. Sniffing and growling in the low light, they seemed more animal than human.

 

    There was some order, because the group spread out in a half circle and began advancing into the nave. She counted fourteen before the tall figure of the strzyga was in the doorway, following his servants.

 

    Darby swept out of his corner, quick as thought, and laid into the far side of the droshi with a wordless scream of rage, felling two before they knew what was happening. The remaining droshi surged towards him. He spun away into the nave.

 

    In the Unseen, Amalia felt power gathering, a putrid, evil thing. The strzyga was raising a spell. She raised the bow, took aim, held her breath just so, and ever so gently pulled the trigger.

 

    It was a fine shot, catching the man just under the shoulder blade, a guaranteed clean kill. Except the strzyga didn’t drop, only screamed in rage. He raised his arms, and lightning crashed into a column beside her, leaving a bright afterimage. Drawing back, he lashed out again and again. The purple bolts smashed all around, the noise unbearable. Her concealment spell stayed whole. He couldn’t see her, but he damn sure knew she was close. 

 

    The strzyga stretched out an arm, and there was a glowing purple rod in his hand, crackling with sparks. It grew longer, impossibly long. He jabbed the beam of light into a corner of the nave, then began lashing out with it. It struck a column near her with a crash, and splinters of stone peppered her face. Suddenly there was a lurid purple light above him that hurt the eyes and shredded her concealment spell. The strzyga stared at her, his face a mask of hate, readying another spell.

 

    She darted behind the nearest column, dropped flat, and crawled between a pair of pews. The stone floor was cold under her hands. Everything smelled of feet. She crawled forward, holding her scabbard in both hands to keep it from scraping. The strzyga was behind the columns now, battering everything in sight. She crawled beneath several pews, working toward the narthex.

 

    She had nothing to counter his weapon, the crossbow lost. Maybe if she could rush him from behind…

There was a stirring in the Unseen, a deep subterranean rumble, and she felt a pressure build. It was a new presence, not the strzyga, something ancient but familiar.

 

    Let me in!

 

    The strzyga emerged from behind the columns, searching. He smashed the pew in front of him, and began laying about with the purple beam, destroying them one by one.

 

    LET ME IN!

 

    The voice came through the binding to the Caesar statues, flaring bright in her inner vision. It wasn’t just untapped power, it was a Presence, the spirit of the city, a living thing that was old, older than humans, perhaps. It was so much more than just a simple nature spirit. It has lived with, nurtured, and prospered with Turin for centuries, and was an essential part of it now. And it was angry.

 

    LET ME IN!

 

    It was dangerous to open yourself to spirits, forbidden. Demonic possession was real, and allowing something inhuman into your mind could be a death sentence. She looked down the center of the aisle, seeing most of the pews flattened. With a boom, the two more were splintered. He was seconds from crushing her hiding place. It was her only choice.

 

    Come! She invited, and the city spirit flowed into her with the force of a howling gale. Her awareness exploded, she felt she could see every detail of the building, the city, all at the same time. She was ancient and powerful, everywhere at once. And she was too weak to even stand.

 

    STRIKE!, the Presence demanded. The binding from the monuments flared bright in her inner vision.

   

    Without being fully aware of how she did it, she pushed it from her to the strzyga, feeling the power brush past his shields like a warhorse through tall grass. The binding attached to the demon, and a wave of power from the city guardian crashed in, turning it incandescent in the Unseen. The surge lasted for a fraction of a second, and for an age, as the strzyga was pummeled by the power unleashed.

 

    When it ended, her foe was on his knees, gasping, the purple light all but out.

 

    AGAIN, demanded the genius loci. AGAIN!

​

    The second strike was even easier, no more than a flick of the wrist. It crashed into the strzyga like a hammer blow, driving him to the floor.

 

    She managed to stand, feeling power flow into her limbs.

 

    Darby was fighting for his life. He’d led the droshi halfway down the aisle. Now he flitted between the columns. A crowd tried to herd him away from the Chapel of the Shroud, pinning him against the wall. He cut through them, faster than anyone she’d seen, lashing into the far end of their line. Already there were a couple more droshi down. No one could fight that hard for long, he needed help. She grabbed a handful of the poisoned bolts, prepared to charge.

 

    What happened next she would always wonder about, whether she acted of her own accord, or as an instrument of the guardian. It was not really her style, but desperate times...

 

    With a scream, she drew her rapier and charged the downed monster, slashing through his neck with vicious swipes, kicking the severed head away from the body and turning towards the droshi, a growl in her throat.

 

    Darby was hard pressed, making a wild stand at the entrance to the chapel. It was too wide for a single man to defend, as the scratches on his shirt and trousers showed. The creatures were threatening and lunging at him from the front and both sides. He was forced back, inside the far side of the opening, and the droshi swarmed inside, spilling around him, forcing him into the corner.

 

    They didn’t expect her, though. She tore into the crowd on the near side, a whirling angel of vengeance, slashing necks and arms, swiping with the bolts in her right hand. Then she was inside the chapel. Screaming. She fought her way between the droshi and the reliquary, her vision tinted with a red haze.

 

    The horde flinched away from the new threat, and at the same time Darby surged out of the corner they’d backed him into. For a glorious moment she knew they would hold, pushing the creatures back into the nave.

 

    “Good to see you,” Darby panted. “The strzyga?”

 

    “Dead as I can make him,” she managed, darting back from a pair of lunging droshi before launching a spinning counterattack from the door inward.

 

    “All they can do is destroy it, then,” he grunted, backpedaling from a surge of four  creatures. She skipped forward to clip the nearest, only to see three others dart past, circling behind them.

 

    “Too many!” she yelled, “Defend the Shroud!”

 

    They fell back slowly, making the swarm work for every foot. But she was tiring, and Darby was sucking air. They’d been fighting for several minutes, or an eternity, she had no idea, it was sheer chaos. Someone had fixed a magelight on the ceiling, it must have been her. The world shrank to a circle of snarling creatures with too-long arms. Clawed hands were always lunging, alone, in pairs, and groups. Darby was a rock, the center of her world. He was counting cadences, “Stamp, lunge, counter, left, now whirl!” and something about the way he did it made her believe they could keep fighting this impossible fight.

 

    We’re holding! She began to believe they could win. There were several droshi down inside the chapel, and she began to push forward against a wall of slashing claws, when a whirl went bad, and she fell headlong.

There was an inhuman shriek of triumph. Claws were raking her shoulder, her back. With a howl of rage, Darby was there, slashing and stabbing, screaming, “Get up!” She crawled behind him and clawed her way up the reliquary, managing to bring her sword up only to see him go down under a swarm of droshi. Her vision went red, and she laid into the struggling mass with a fury too raw to be entirely her own.

 

  Her next memory was her in the corner, Darby flat on the floor behind her, rage filling her world with a cold precision, “Cut, thrust, dodge, parry, cut!” There were a half dozen of the creatures facing her, trying to push her ever farther into the corner, with her fighting for space to keep them at bay.

 

    This is a good way to die, some part of her mind said. Take as many of these bastards with you as you can. Another part noted that some droshi were no longer trying to kill her, clawing at the reliquary instead. The rest showed a healthy respect for her blade. The reliquary was fighting back, blue and white sparks flaring at their claws, but the creatures kept attacking, and the sparks were failing.

 

    If you could save one, would it be the relic or the man? something asked, which only made her angrier. Edging right, she realized she still held a crossbow bolt in that hand. She launched a furious assault to the left, pushing back two creatures before whirling right, planting the bolt in a neck, then engaging the next in line.

It was all working so well, until a heavy body crashed into her from the side, and her sword went flying. The last thing she saw before curling into a ball in her cloak was a pair of the creatures slashing at the prostrate Darby, thinking, “I failed him.”

 

  There was pain in her shoulder, drumming sounds, a clash of metal, and screams. Suddenly it was very quiet, and her last thought was, “There’s no sound when you’re dead. But I didn’t think it would hurt so much.”

 

    “Get those damn things out of here!”  It was a voice to be obeyed, full of command, and she struggled to open her eyes, to get those damn things out of here, whatever they were, and wherever here was. “And get the horses outside.”

 

    Huh. She’d always wondered if there were horses in heaven. And if there were horses in hell, maybe it wasn’t as bad as advertised.

 

    “Vic, this one’s alive,” someone said, and then the world spun as she was turned over, and suddenly she was sitting up looking into the face of a large man in a green hat.

 

    I’m alive. Darby! She lurched forward, scrambling to her knees to crawl to the corner. He was sprawled on his back, lacerations across his chest and legs, and there was blood, too much blood. 

 

    She slapped him across the cheek, hard. “Darby, stay with me. Stay with me!” His eyelids fluttered. “Open your eyes, look at me,” she shouted in command voice, imbuing it with the faint power she could muster. His eyes opened wide.

 

    “You’re my bodyguard. I hired you in Venice, remember?” she said much more quietly. “Stay with me, I’m saving you,” loudly.

 

   “Get me my fucking pack, over there!” she howled, pointing to the narthex. By now she was aware of several armored men, looking at her in surprise. No one moved.

 

    “You fucking useless assholes!” she swore. “You, dumbass, get down here.” Surprised to find her cap still on her head, she tore it off and pressed it to the wound in Darby’s thigh. “Hold this goddamn thing tight, dimwit,” she shouted at Greenhat, “like your ass depends on it. I’ll be right back.” She staggered to her feet, managing a stumbling run to the corner, grabbing her kit and tottering back to Darby.

 

    “He needs a priest, not a doctor,” someone said, but she ignored them as she dumped the contents onto the floor. The jar of red paste, good, and yes, here was the flask of venom. She opened them both, tossing the stoppers aside, pouring the flask into the paste, covering it with her hand, and shaking it hard.

 

    It was ready, but it needed light to set. Could she do it? She would fucking well try. “I need light, get that torch over here,” she screamed at a nearby page, who only looked baffled, turning to Greenhat.

 

    “Bring that torch, you stupid pissdrip!” she howled in command voice, and the page moved as if in trance.

 

    “Hold it right there, shithead, don’t you dare move. You,” she said, turning to Greenhat, “good job, now pull it off!”

 

    As soon as the cloth was gone, blood spurted from Darby’s wound, but then she had the paste on it. She begged the guardian spirit she could still feel, “Light, please, I need light.”

 

    The flash was so bright she saw nothing but white, followed by afterimages of vague shapes. “A miracle,” someone breathed.

 

    Her vision returned in bits, flashes of shadow painting the room. When she could see she checked Darby’s leg, a bloody mess but no longer bleeding, the paste set. His face was pale, but he was breathing. “A doctor, he needs a doctor,” she managed, before crawling to the corner. She retched long and hard until the shakes came.

 

    Then someone was wiping her face gently with a damp cloth, saying soothing words. Amalia struggled to her feet, to find herself looking up at a bemused Greenhat, cloth in hand..

 

    An armed man approached, bowing to him. “The cathedral is secure, Your Highness.”

 

    “Very good. Get a crew to clean up this mess,” Greenhat replied, gesturing to the dead creatures. He returned his attention to her.

 

    Oh shit! She’d just cursed a sovereign in his own cathedral, not a good look. A glance down her front showed her shirt torn in multiple places, and her boob band flopping, showing definite cleavage. So much for Alain.

 

    “And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Greenhat asked gravely.

 

    “Your Grace, I am Sister Maria Novak of the Abbey of Saint Angela in Trieste, lately in the service of Venice,” she said, bowing low, clasping her arms to hide the shaking. And cover her breasts.

 

    “What brings you to Turin, Sister?”

 

    “I am here by request of Cardinal Costello,” she said, fumbling in her pouch to withdraw the signet ring, offering it. It was hard to project dignity when you were bloody, staggering, and in rags, but dammit, she’d try.  “Am I then addressing His Grace Victor Amadeus, Duke of Savoy?”

 

    Greenhat nodded, studying her. “What happened here?”

 

    “The fiends meant to steal the shroud. I sent my runner. My bodyguard and I fought them.”

 

    Two men entered the chapel with a stretcher, and very gently slid Darby onto it, moving quickly with a practiced air. She watched, sick at heart, until they were gone.

 

    “They were too many, and overwhelmed us,” she choked.

 

    “It was well done, Sister. You held, long enough. Savoy is in your debt. Ask of me what you will.”

 

    “A place to heal for me and my man.”

 

    “The very least I can do! What else?”

 

    After a long pause, she asked, “My runner found you, then?”

 

    Amadeus laughed. “He screeched for the captain of the guard loud enough to wake half the palace.”

 

    “He is a she, my lord, a poor orphan from your city. I would ask you to find her a place.”

 

    “Nothing more?”

 

    “She’s clever. Teach her letters.”

 

    He laughed. “Done. But surely, something for you?”

 

    “Venice is a jealous mistress, she resents me taking gifts. But I would like to be recognized by Costello as an authorized user of the arcane arts, in the service of Mother Church.” Looking down at the bloody rag that was her cloak, she added, “And I could use a new cloak.”

 

    Amadeus nodded. “So be it. We will talk more on this, but for now, you need healing and rest. I look forward to hearing your story, Sister Novak. Are there more like you in Trieste?”

 

    “I, I have been away from the cloister for some time, my lord.” 

 

    “I can see how that life might not suit you. My nuns aren’t good for much but singing and praying and gardening.” He looked at the downed droshi surrounding where Darby had lain.

 

    “Martial skills, leadership, and  a fine command of language. We don’t get many like you in these parts. Let’s get you to a healer.”

 

​

    The soft morning light was luxurious, and she felt good for a change, walking without pain. There was still a buzzing in her head, and bits of the Unseen kept leaking into the real, but she'd worry about the god-touch later. She made her way down the elegant hallway, ignoring sideyes from the staff. So petty of them to still be upset about the Anne Marie ruse!

 

    “How is he?” she asked the nervous attendant.

 

    “He slept well, my lady, and the fever is broken. His color is good and he woke lucid.”

 

    “Very good. Leave us please,” she said, stepping past, closing the door to the luxurious suite behind her and sliding the bolt before turning to the bed.

 

    “How are you, Darby of Copenhagen?” she asked, pitching her voice low.

 

    “Not dead, at least. And who are you?” He was reclining on pillows in a canopy bed heavy with velvet.

 

    “I am Katrin du Bois of Venice, but you might know me as Alain. My friends call me Amalia.” Her hair was swept up, her gown fine, and she’d spent time on her warpaint. She looked good, and she knew it.

 

     He stared for a long moment, working it out, and liking what he saw. “I knew there was something odd about you.”

 

    “Odd, my hero?” she asked, moving to sit on the bed. “How so?”

 

    “Um,” he sputtered, “not odd so much as, er “ he tailed off. “You fought well, I mean, for a woman. I mean, um, you saved my life. Thank you.”

 

    “And you fought like a lion, and saved mine. For which I am very grateful,” this with pouting lips slightly parted, and chest forward.

 

    “Um, so, we’re good?” he asked. Poor man, he still wasn’t getting it.

 

    She pulled back the covers, and slipped in beside him. “Darby, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”