The Sixth Day (A Brit in the FBI #5)(43)

“The book you brought home, Papa, it is the story of the brothers?”

“It is, young Marco.”

“I want to drink the blood of virgins,” the child whispered, and his father slapped him across the mouth, hard.

His father stood over them, his face suffused with blood and anger.

“I am sorry, Papa,” Marco whispered, wiping the blood from his mouth. “I was only thinking of Luciano, of ways he could be strong again.”

“It is a story, Marco,” Giovanni repeated, praying it was so. “It is not real, only a tale like the ones the bards tell us when they visit. You must swear to me you will never believe this tale or any like it. You must swear you will never act upon anything in this story. Swear to me!”

He shook both Luciano and Marco. Marco, terrified for his brother, yelled, “We swear, Papa, we swear. Let him go, please, let him go. We won’t ask to hear the tale again. Please tell us about the campaign. Tell us about the men you killed in battle.”

Luciano said, “Yes, Papa. Tell us about the campaign. Tell us.”

Marco watched his father draw a deep breath. Still, he kept himself between Luciano and their father, holding his brother’s hand so it wouldn’t shake, and pretended to listen to his father tell of fighting and death and pillage, all those deaths ordained and commended by the priests.

When their father left them and they were alone in their soft feather bed, Marco and Luciano spoke of the tale, of the long-ago brothers, twins, just like them, who lived for generations, and how they were able to do so.

Marco held his brother tight, afraid to say the word aloud, but he did. “Perhaps the blood of a virgin will help give you strength, Luciano, like the brother in the book.”

Luciano, a thoughtful boy, said, “It is possible the blood of another has healing properties. This must be why the physicians bleed us. Perhaps they give our blood to those weaker than us. I agree this may work. Are you going to steal Papa’s book?”

“I need the instructions. Perhaps there are ways to make the blood taste better.”

“You know he keeps the book on the shelf in his outer chambers. He plans to give it to our new mother as a gift for their wedding.”

“Then I must go tonight. I pray he will not catch me.”

“He isn’t in his chambers. He is bedding a chambermaid.”

“How do you know, Luciano?”

His brother’s gray eyes darkened. “I watch, I listen. I feel this strange book may be my savior. Even with it here in the castle, I feel stronger.”

Marco slipped into his father’s rooms, comfortable in the knowledge his father was busy with a chambermaid.

It was easy to find. The book sang out to him. It felt warm in his hands. He opened it and studied the drawings, but he didn’t recognize what they were. And the words on the page were in a strange language he’d never seen—yet somehow they seemed familiar. Several pieces of paper were loose inside the binding. He could see the numbers were out of order.

But the sense of them—Marco didn’t need to read the words to know what they were saying.

They needed blood. The pages needed blood.

He hurried back to his brother, and, by candlelight, they sat with their hands linked, each touching the book. The loose pages held instructions, Marco knew it. He pulled them out. Other pages were bound, so he left them intact. Luciano had to draw on one of the pages, he had to mark it, he said, and it had to be in blood. Marco pricked his arm and Luciano drew a picture in his blood on the page. Luciano had to have the page, had to. One page had a drawing that called to him. He used the edge of his knife to slice out the page. He slid it inside his pillow along with the pages that held the recipes. Marco prepared to return the book to his father’s rooms.

The roar of their father’s voice was nearly enough to blow out the candle. It guttered and flickered, then strengthened again. “What are you doing?”

Giovanni grabbed Marco’s small arm, dragged him upright, and pulled him from the bed. “I know you stole my book! This is a gift for your new mother. How dare you?”

“I’m sorry, Papa, I’m sorry. I thought it called to me, but I was wrong. It is blasphemous. I was bringing it back to you. We don’t want it.”

Giovanni’s heart pounded hard. He said between gritted teeth. “It is merely a book, of no importance at all. Only a book. Go to bed.” And he grabbed the book and left their bedchamber.

Giovanni was frightened. He remembered his young groom Franco was called to kill his compatriots, remembered how he’d told Giovanni about the two brothers, the twins. All along he’d believed the groom was lying, making it up. Ridiculous, but now—Marco had said the pages called to him? Just as his groom had said?

He sat up with the book all night, but he couldn’t understand anything in it. The next morning, he summoned the visiting Jesuit, here to officiate his marriage. He wrapped the book in a white cloth and put it in a box. He called the Jesuit aside. “Father, please take this book away with you. Back to Rome. I no longer want it in my home.”

The Jesuit took the book without a word. “As you wish, my lord. However, I am not to see Rome for quite some time. I travel to England at week’s end. With your blessing, I will take it there, far away from your lands.”

The book left soon after.

Marco and Luciano stood on the ramparts of the castle, watching the priest ride away. They thought they heard the book crying, crying for the parts of it left behind.