The Serpent's Curse (27 page)

Venice

T
he Gran Teatro opera house was a simple stone box with four columns separating large, dark-paneled entry portals.

Now that they were hiding behind the base of a large statue of a man in armor, knowing that Galina would soon be there, Wade was a mess of nerves. His senses were raw. Everything meant something. Nothing meant nothing, and he needed to take in every detail.

“Let us wait and watch,” the inspector whispered. “Once everyone enters, we will lose ourselves in the crowd.”

“I feel so out of place,” Becca said.

“No way,” said Lily. “We're as important as anybody. More important, I'd say. Just think about what we're doing. Who else in this crowd is after an ancient relic
and
a murderer
and
is a Guardian
and
is going to see a famous opera? Nobody but us. Not that anyone will ever know, because real heroes don't seek the spotlight, but we'll know.”

“You're starting to talk like Darrell now,” Wade said.

“He must have infected me,” she said.

At ten minutes before nine, four boys in feathered costumes descended the stairs, ringing hand bells. This was the signal that it was time to enter the opera house.

“That is our invitation,” the inspector said. “Let's find our box. Be alert.”

Weaving into the crowd, the four ascended the stairs and were greeted by two smiling attendants in muted uniforms. Presenting their ticket, which was apparently good for up to eight people, they entered the lobby. A wide and tall flight of carpeted stairs stood ahead of them. It led to the upper seats.

“Box Three-Seventeen is on the third tier, halfway up,” Becca said, holding Boris's ticket. “I feel like we're approaching the scene of a crime now that Boris is . . . you know.”

Wade nodded. “Me, too. Everybody, keep your eyes open.”

“And ears,” said Lily. “This is an opera, after all.”

“Well said,” added the inspector.

They were finally shown to
scatola del teatro
317 by a woman in a maroon suit. She unlocked the door and let them into a narrow room opening up to the inside of the theater. A heavy velvet curtain hung from the ceiling of the box, separating the hallway door from the seats.

When Wade gently pulled the curtain aside, he gasped. “Are you kidding me?”

From the square outside, the plain facade of Gran Teatro La Fenice gave little hint of the opulent and enormous theater inside. The walls were painted gold. Sconces of spherical lights outside each box shone like fairy bulbs on the orchestra-level seats below. Dozens of boxes on five levels were filling up, while hundreds of people moved about in the aisles below. The orchestra pit was peopled by black-suited musicians, tuning, playing scales and melodies, chatting, or calmly waiting for everyone to sit.

Their box opened onto the hall like its own stage, while the box itself was luxury Wade had never experienced before. Beside the velvet-covered railing were eight tufted armchairs aimed at a precise angle to the stage. The chairs were gold and white and reminded him of the furniture in Terence's apartment in New York. As if the theater weren't showy enough, a heavy crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, bathing the hall in brilliant, warm light. It blinked once, twice, and they sat down in the shadows of the box and waited.

Wade knew Mozart, of course, though Bach, being so mathematical, was his favorite composer. Still, he was eager to hear
The Magic Flute
and wished Darrell were there with him to appreciate it. On the other hand, he wanted to be discovering the location of Greywolf with Darrell and his father in Saint Petersburg, too. He decided to phone his father. It went to voice mail. He tried Darrell and that too went to voice mail.

Five minutes passed. No one entered the box from the hall. The lights dimmed. The last remaining guests took their seats; everyone quieted.

“I hope they find where Greywolf is,” Wade whispered.

“They will,” said Becca.

“I believe so, too,” said the inspector. “Let me tell you, I will be happy to get you back together with them as soon as I can. I am far out of my comfort here. But hush now. It begins. Eyes open.”

The conductor waved his baton several times, and the audience's quiet turned to utter silence. It was an amazing moment, but nothing like the one that followed, when the conductor flicked his baton up.

Coming from such profound silence, the initial chord of the overture was thunderous and deep, a call to attention and an invitation to the mystery to follow, as if to say,
Wake up! Listen, and you'll hear a fantastic story . . . !

From that instant on, Wade was hooked.

Whenever Becca heard a piece of music that touched her somehow—and
The Magic Flute
's overture was exhilarating and deeply moving—she wanted to share it right away with her sister. Maggie was far more musical than she was. As soon as she made it back to Austin, and everyone was safe again, Becca would share this, too.

The overture ended with booming chords, kettle drums, and bright strings, and the audience applauded wildly. This lasted several seconds, until the conductor raised his baton high once more, and the hall quieted again.

With intimations of danger, the stage curtain lifted on a scene of stylized rocks in a wilderness of mountains. A man named Tamino came in singing urgently. The insistent strains of violins rose and fell behind him. Still singing, he pulled an arrow out of a quiver and shot it offstage.

The arrow reminded Becca that they were looking for Galina. She scanned the rows of spectators below. But would the leader of the Teutonic Order be sitting among them? No, she'd be moving around like a cat, in the halls, maybe in the high seats, searching.

The children in the audience shrieked with delight. A green, scaly, outrageously horned, and slightly comical serpent appeared. A serpent, of all things!

With human feet obviously visible below the scaly hide, the serpent opened its mechanical jaws. It belched out a cloud of red smoke, as if it were breathing fire. It lunged awkwardly at the man, who shot more arrows. Then the serpent wounded the man. He fell. At the same time, three cloaked figures emerged from behind one of the strange rock formations. They carried spears, and—singing, of course—they stabbed the serpent, who fell over in a heap, which set the children cheering once more.

Despite the opera's comedic elements, Becca saw another story unfolding. The evil serpent was Albrecht. Copernicus was the archer, and the three mysterious helpers who slayed the serpent were none other than the Guardians.

Becca glanced over at Lily and Wade. Their mouths were open, their eyes fixed on the stage. She tapped Lily's hand.

Lily turned to her. Her cheeks were wet. “It's so . . .”

“It is!” Becca whispered.

The opera was performed in German, but the supertitles were in Italian. Either way, only Becca and, from the look of it, Inspector Yazinsky understood the story, though it was easy enough to grasp the action. After the serpent-slaying scene, there appeared a comical friend of the archer. This was the bird catcher Papageno, a scruffy-looking guy laden with birdcages.
Birdcages!
She thought of Boris again and grew sad. Though parts of the story were funny, it was hard not to see it as deadly serious. The story centered on a flute with magical powers, but its true meaning was in the trials of the young archer and a young woman who was the captive of a bunch of evil people. That, too, was like their life right now.

Sara was the captive.

After what seemed like a short while but was nearly an hour, Wade leaned over to her and Lily. He was frowning. “If no one's going to show, maybe the message for Boris is hidden in the box somewhere. Or maybe we've been fooled—”

The hall door whooshed open behind them and the velvet curtain twisted aside. An older woman in a gown stood there, clutching the curtain, her face as pale as ice. Inspector Yazinsky rose instantly. “Madam, you are hurt?”

“Where is Boris?” she gasped. “Galina Krause . . .”

“Boris is dead,” Wade said, rising from his chair. “Galina killed him. Is she
here
—?”

The woman stumbled forward, tearing the curtain from its rings. She fell awkwardly toward the inspector, then slid to the floor among the chairs. The black handle of a knife protruded from her side.

“She . . . took . . . it . . . ,” the woman gasped.

“It? Boris's message?” asked Wade.

The inspector bolted out the door into the hall. “I'll follow Galina.”

“I'll get a doctor!” said Wade, and he ran out of the box with the inspector.

“Help is coming,” Lily said to the woman as she and Becca knelt next to her.

“I never knew what the message meant,” the woman mumbled. “Only Boris . . . the clock . . .” Her voice faded as the music continued.

“What clock?” asked Lily. “Did you have a clock for Boris?”

“Midnight . . .” The woman's eyes glazed, and breath rushed out of her mouth.

“Oh no. Oh no.” Becca leaned over the railing. “Doctor!” she cried. “We need a doctor!” People in the neighboring boxes tried at first to shush her.
“Medico!”
she shouted.
“Abbiamo bisogno di un medico!”

The music stopped raggedly. Faces stared up from the orchestra and the stage. The rear door of the box opened. Wade rushed in with a handful of medical personnel.

“Galina stole the message, a clock,” Lily said. “Where's the inspector?”

“Following her. Come on!” Wade took Becca and Lily by the wrists and pulled them after him. “She's escaping, but we can catch her.” They pushed against the crushing flow of people running to box 317.

W
ade was out quickly enough to see Inspector Yazinsky racing after Galina down a set of stone steps leading to the water. Galina flew like a shadow around a corner and vanished. Wade panicked. She reappeared on the stone landing.

“Is she alone?” asked Becca “I don't see—”

“Not likely,” said Lily. “Not if there's a relic at stake.”

But is the relic here?
Wade wondered as they tore down the steps to the inspector. Or was Galina in Venice only to intercept the message meant for Boris? And a message about what? From whom? Galina wouldn't take this side trip from Russia by herself. Then where were the others? The Italian faction of the Order they hadn't seen yet?

They reached the water just as Galina hopped into a waiting motorboat. The man at the helm didn't look like an agent of the Order, but he gunned the engine loudly, and the boat roared away. The inspector waved to the boats, calling in Russian. They didn't move.

Becca pushed down the steps in front of him.
“Un motoscafo! Presto!”

One started up his motor and whirred quietly toward the landing.
“Sì? Per dove?”

Becca pointed down the canal.
“Seguire quella barca!”

The pilot wagged his head from side to side when the inspector drew out his badge. Then Lily waved a ten-euro note at him.
“Sì! Sì!”
he said. They jumped in. He threw the boat into gear.

What Wade hoped would be a high-speed chase was anything but. The canal outside the theater, Rio delle Veste, was narrow and clogged with scores of black gondolas moored along the sides. Slicing past them, Galina's boat nearly tore one of them in half.

“Faster!” said Wade.

“Is electric motor,” the pilot said. “For eco, yes?”

“That woman stole something from us!” Becca snapped. “Chase her!”

“Sì,
but,
la polizia,”
said the pilot.

“I
am
the
polizia
!” boomed the inspector, slapping his badge again.

“Not here you not,” the driver said.

Lily pushed two more bills into his hand. “Go!”

The pilot shrugged and hit the accelerator. They made up some of the distance, but Galina's gas-powered boat was pulling away. Then, seconds before it vanished around the corner, she turned back, her hair flying around her face. There was a silent flash of light from the vicinity of her hip, a splash, and the sound of a thud striking their motorboat below the waterline.

The inspector tugged out a small pistol. “Keep your heads down!”

“Che cosa?”
the driver cried out.
“No, no—”

When Galina's own driver realized she was firing a gun, he cut the engine and began shouting at her. So, he wasn't one of her agents. She whipped her gun at him, and he splashed noisily into the canal. She took the wheel herself.

“Please!” Becca urged. “It's life and death!”

“Death of motor license!” the pilot said, even as he jammed down the accelerator.

They trailed Galina left onto the curving Rio dei Barcaroli. Pedestrians on the bridges overhead shouted in punctuated phrases—curses, Wade was certain—but their boat sped underneath, barely squeezing past gondolas that looked suddenly like bobbing coffins. Galina yelled out something in Italian, and dark figures swarmed out of the shadows on the sides of the canal and darted across the bridges, taking aim with pistols.