So arrives the final chapter! If ye missed the previous libro, read it here!

If ye wish to start from the beginning, find Libro I here! Each one links to the next, so ye may read it in sequence entire. Onward…

Our true gothic tale so far: Summersbane finds himself tasked with an exorcism, in the dark canals of Venice. To rest, the ghost demanded revenge, & our dread necromancer helped her seize it! They braved battle, & a priest, & a yacht, & now return to the man who set this all in motion…

Summersbane Saga
Ghost of Venice

Libro V: Adío, Venezsia

Assessore Luca DiLago sat & squirmed at a table overlooking the lagoon. The checkered tablecloth flapped in the wind, as the cool air from the sea kissed his nervous face. Atop the table sat a half-drunk bottle of bardolino, a scarlet olive sapling, & two Morano blown-glass cups. The lazily-setting Sun played its photons through the glass’s inlaid greens & reds, their imperfections creating a mosaic on the back of Luca’s hand.

He noticed a spot of dirt on the glass; licked a finger, & wiped it clean.  He had been digging a hole for most of the day, up until around an hour ago, which is dirty work—even in Italy. But, the terrifying necromancer Summersbane had commanded digging, so he dug. The Regional Council of Veneto had charged Luca with securing this exorcism, regardless of what it took, & he dared not return a failure. He sighed, remembered witnessing his old friend Catalina covered in blood, angry with horrible purpose, back on the bridge two nights ago. Luca should have felt angry, or scared, but he just felt a profound sense of loss. He could not afford to fail, but success meant losing her forever.

Was there no way to cheat the situation?, he wondered.

He pondered this fateful question, here on the Valle Millecampi, an Island he & Catalina used to visit with their families. Here they learned to hunt ducks; Catalina's father beamed with pride when she downed her first, & Luca’s father scowled with scorn when he had missed—but Catalina never scorned Luca. The world repaid her kindnesses with such misery…he sighed again. Their old duck blind slouched in disrepair, next to a rotting pier, & he slouched too.

A sploosh & a galunk interrupted his self-piteous reverie. Soren Summersbane, principal necromancer of the Dead Council of Ten, pulled himself up from the waves & onto the pier, deftly maneuvering as bits & pieces of it collapsed into the water. The undead gentleman winked at Luca, which chilled him to the bone. The necromancer dried himself with the wave of a hand, revealing a shimmering tuxedo; at once it seemed black, but iridescent. He then turned to the lagoon & whistled; the reeds of the marshland parted, as a gondola glided through. A gossamer veil hung on the boat’s four-post enclosure.

When the gondola landed itself at the pier, Summersbane proffered his foul hand; from behind the veil, stepped Catalina! Her long brown hair framed her full cheeks & Roman nose, rosy with life! Her piercing blue eyes, complemented by sapphire gemstones sewn into her full-length silver-silk dress. Embroidery & brocade, on every inch, told the story of Venice—of the wars, the ships, the sea, of its people. Her ruby slippers seemed to float atop the sand, as Luca’s mouth dropped open. 

She took the empty seat at the table, while Summersbane poured out the wine for the two of them, like a maître d'hôtel of old.

“You—live?", blurted the astonished assessore.

“That was the response I was hoping for,” Catalina giggled, while taking a sip. She turned to their waiter. “Excellent taste as ever, stregone.”

Summersbane bowed, “You honor us, signorina.” He then plucked the sapling from the table, spun on his heels, & walked to the hole Luca had dug, to begin the planting.

“I don’t understand—how are you here, Catalina? What happened to Giacomo?”

“I am avenged,” she said, with a haunting finality.

Luca fidgeted, as a moment passed. “Well…I should thank you. They promised me honors for helping to remove the wailing—that is, the you. But I was afraid that would mean you were gone forever! I’m sorry, I would never have said yes if I’d—”

Catalina clasped his hands, gently, as she would when he was just a nervous boy. “I am so happy for you, Luca. Tell me, how have you been these last years? Before I died, we…well. Giacomo kept us apart, sai?”

Luca talked about the comings & goings of regional government, of burying his father, gossip around town. He bragged & whined about having to fend off ancient suitors, now that his mother was newly single. Catalina talked about all her travels—the food, the business deals, the gossip. They joked & chatted on for hours, old friends given a second chance. When she talked, he listened, savoring her every word. When Luca talked, Catalina listened, hanging onto every syllable.  

It would be the last time she heard him, after all.

The bottle went dry, & the Sun began to set, & Luca blurted, “Goodness, let’s get you a coat. You must be—”

“Luca, I have something important to tell you.” She looked to Summersbane, who had finished planting the sapling & fastened ropes around the tree in the traditional style. He whistled some unhappy tune, & seemed not to notice.

“I thought that vengeance was what I needed, Luca, but that wasn’t my unfinished business.”

Luca, missing the point, began to jabber. “Well that’s great, then you can stick around? A loophole! We can spend forever together! I will just pay Summersbane to keep you on Earth, & we’ll never finish your business! Then we can reintroduce you to the city. Oh, we’ll have to throw a party for—” 

“When I married Giacomo, I married him because that was what was expected of me. My father chose Giacomo, he thought the family needed a strong patriarch. Being the only daughter, I wasn’t allowed to choose. My father thought he knew best…he didn’t.”

“I’ll say,” Luca whispered.

“But now I can—my last desire, it’s…” She wisely stopped talking, & leaned in. Catalina kissed Luca, & his eyes shot open in disbelief. He melted into the kiss, taking her in—

He reached out to embrace her, but his hand met air. He opened his eyes, & she was gone. 

Luca stood up, panicking, heart pounding. “Lina! Where did you go!?” 

None answered but the wind.

“You!,” he growled, pointing to Summersbane. The necromancer ignored him, kneeling to his sapling, muttering words Luca couldn’t make out. He stormed over, grabbed the foul being’s shoulder, & slapped him as hard as he could, across the unsettling face.

“You bastard! Bring her back!,” the assessore screamed. 

Summersbane looked down at Luca, with a growing red indentation where Luca’s signet ring had cracked into his cheek.

Luca struck out again, this time into Summersbane’s chest; another to his rib. Again & again, Luca threw his fists, his eyes filled with tears & his screams full with sadness & he punched & he punched until he began to sob. Summersbane stood, unmoving, as the little man sank to his knees.

“I loved her, but I never thought I was good enough,” Luca gasped.

“She loved you,” the sorcerer replied.

“Why did she have to go?”

“You all do.”

The sapling had grown to a tree, full & fruiting. Fireflies danced around the small hunting island, as the Sun retired for the evening.

The tree’s branches continued to stretch & grow, while the lightning-bugs played between its vermillion leaves. The roots, deep & wide, drank of the marshy waters. 

Summerbane looked down at Luca, who seemed enraptured by the tree. “She could have stayed a fantasma forever, you know. I would have gladly kept her in undeath to live alongside you—if she had but asked.”

Luca sobbed beneath the unsettling tree. Summersbane looked out at the emerging stars, then fished around in his belt for his pocket watch, & clicked his tongue.

“Beh, Luca…”

“Oh, what is it now? Leave me to my grief, stregone!”

“I hate to do this, but…I need you to say, ‘The contract with the Council of Ten is fulfilled.’”

“What?”

“I am so sorry, but, I have to hear you say it. In English, Italian, Venetian, it doesn’t matter…” he gently gestured for Luca to hurry up.

“Summersbane of the Council of Ten, you have completed your damnable task set out by the doomed city of Venice. May you go & never darken my door again!,” Luca spat, an impressive display of bravado from the meek bureaucrat.

After a long beat, Summersbane clicked his tongue again. “It…has to be exact.”

“Augh! Fine! The contract with the Council of Ten is fulfilled!”

Summersbane smiled, too widely, & handed Luca a receipt that was fresh but somehow also ancient. “We hope our services have met the contracted minimum requirement of quality. The Dead Council of Ten thank thee for thy continued patronage, & look forward to providing further dark necessities to thee or thy descendants.”

“Madonna, shut up! This is no time for customer service!”

“Vabbe’. Still, Luca, I need to tell you one last thing, on a personal note—”

“VAFFA’, STREGONE! I BANISH YOU FROM THIS ISLAND!”

Summersbane shrugged, turned, & floated to the gondola, without looking back. It silently whisked him back to the haggard city of Venice, its lights twinkling eternally in the night. He could hear Luca’s wailing echo across the lagoon, all the way back to his Council’s estate. The satisfying sound of a job well done.

One Year Later

The Assessore of the Regional Council of Veneto squatted gingerly in his dinghy, on the way to the forsaken island of Millecampi. A year had passed since Catalina disappeared from Luca’s life, but it felt like an aeon. He had helped prize her family’s fortune from Russian fingers after Giacomo’s death, sinking the funds into Venice’s schools. Sure, the increasing tides would doom the city in time, but otherwise, life went on. For most people, anyway. For Luca, life seemed frozen & distant. If anyone had paid attention to Luca DiLago, they would have noticed that he never smiled, stopped speaking in meetings, never attended official parties. But, now, nobody noticed.

Luca had become a ghost.

The crimson olive tree stood proudly against the wind, & the familiar table with its two chairs greeted Luca, as the pier creaked under his weight. He sat down at the table, facing the tree, & uncorked a bottle of Romano swill.

Day turned to night, & Luca drank alone with the fireflies & the tree. At the last drop, he slammed the bottle down, despondent. 

He looked up, & squeaked, for the hated Summersbane stared back across the table.

“Good thing I brought my own, eh?” The horrid necromancer, the unbelievable bastard, produced a small grey pitcher, as if from the very air. Engraved upon it were a satyr & a nymph, & Luca would almost swear they were moving. The undead scoundrel took a long sip.

“Have you ever had proper Vinum Romanum, from a bit of proper lead? A friend turned me onto it…hard to come by, nowadays.”

“Come to mock me, oh dark one?”

“My goodness, Signore DiLago, is that any way to greet a friend?” Summersbane asked, as dark coagulating liquid stained his lips. 

“What kind of friend are you?,” said Luca, petulantly. 

“The kind bearing a gift.” He took another sip, & with his other hand, daintily placed a small bell upon the table. Made of brass, with a bone handle.

“It took me a lot longer to make one that someone without the Talent can use—oh, & if anyone asks you what the handle is made out of, just say it’s narwhal tooth.”

“A—a bell?” Just then, Luca recalled the night on the bridge that returned Catalina into his life; the necromancer had used a bell to summon her back from the void. 

“Ring it, & see. If you trust me.”

“I do not.”

“Wise.”

They waited a long hour in silence; Summersbane finished off his lead flask, then took to idly filing the antlers on his crown. Eventually, the assessore broke, & grabbed up the bell, ringing it in a panic. As the sound resonated, louder & louder, the crimson olive tree began to shake, & Luca did not notice the necromancer’s grotesque grin.

Olives grew, rotted, & fell, in the span of seconds. The pits & skins & bits quivered toward one another, coalescing into a steaming mass. From the steam, rose a familiar fantasma.

“Luca?,” she asked, weeping.

“Catalina!,” he cried, scrambling toward her. He went to embrace her, & this time, they held each other tightly.

“See?,” said Summersbane, now eating a rotten pear. “A gift, amico. For both of you.”

“Oh thank you, thank you! I’m sorry I ever doubted you—” the necromancer cut him off, with a single upraised finger.

“You have offended me indeed, little man from the Little Council. & a necromancer does not accept simple apologies, when so great a gift has been so rudely spurned.”

Luca began to sweat, & Catalina seemed to as well.

“In exchange for the bell—which, once every year, will harvest this tree & call back your lover—I request two favors.”

“For your Council of Ten?”

Summersbane chuckled, & spat out a worm. “For me.”

“I will not harm Catalina, & I will not kill anyone!”

Summersbane leapt up onto the table, cackling. “What kind of favors would those be, assessore? To ask of you things I can do myself?”

“What do you want, then? Why torment us?,” Catalina asked, with more steel in her voice than most ghosts can muster.

Summersbane perched on the edge of the table, at an impossible angle, & spread his arms wide.

“I ask only a little harm, to do a lot of good. You see, we necromancers thrive on misery—& in a city, misery's a numbers game. Every 5 months, you will adjust the sales tax by a quarter of a percentage point. Whether up, down, I leave that to you,” he hissed, crushing a firefly in his fingers. He then whispered to it, & it rose again, with a sickly purple glow.

“Boh…you want…irregular adjustments to tax policy? To make more misery? Why not a war, or—”

“Some prefer war, or plague—I used to! But I have found, in my 600 years, that bureaucracy is a more sustainable source of woe. It spreads the misery over the whole population, but only by so much. No riots, no uprisings—you simply make things juuuust uncertain enough, just uncomfortable enough, to make a trip to the bottega a little more difficult, the paycheck a little less predictable. The people feel worse, but not so badly that they do anything about it.”

The drying red drink—wine? or blood?—pooled at the corners of the necromancer’s mouth, adding an extra patina of madness to his ravings.

Luca seemed to consider the proposition, & opened his mouth to speak, but Summersbane drew a sickly ebon wand, & aimed it at him like a pistol. “One more thing, Luca DiLago. The bell will only ring at night.”

“That’s not so bad—”

“And every year, when you call her, I will be here to collect her tears.”

“What!?”

Summersbane mimed weeping, & tears of blood streamed down his cheeks. “Lacrime, Luca. Tears, tears. From crying?”

Luca & Catalina both simply stared in shock.

“I know, I know! It sounds bad.”

“You are, what, drinking her tears!? What kind of horrible monster are you?”

Summersbane snarled. “I will not explain myself to you, assessore. Ghost-tears are valuable, & my business with them is none of yours.”

“You are sick,” the little man shot back, finding his spine. Summersbane leaned in close—too close; Luca could smell the blood on his breath, & see the nothing in his eyes.

“I grow impatient. You forget yourself, little mortal. These are my terms, & you have no leverage. So: you increase the fractional misery of Venice, & I annually collect a vial of Catalina’s tears. ‘Tis a small price to pay for immortality.” Summersbane stepped back, picking up the bell from the table. “I certainly paid much more for mine own.”

“You—you would have me make her cry each year? What kind of bastard do you take me for?” 

“The kind who goes into regional government, I suppose.” Summersbane stepped one foot onto his ghostly gondola, applying unbearable sales pressure to the poor little fool.

“Luca, please!,” begged the specter.

“Lina, I cannot make you cry, I won’t hurt you, I won’t be like Giacomo!”

“Then…kiss me one more time. Please.”

A bittersweet smooch, across the veil of mortality; a loving tear cascaded down her cheek.

Summersbane shoved Luca aside, pressed a small green vial to Catalina’s face, & collected the tear. “That’ll do! Grazie!” He quickly boarded his gondola, & waved it back toward Venice.

As it floated on, he shouted back toward the island. “I never said they had to be sad tears, Luca! Enjoy the rest of your night, see you next year! Consider leaving me a review!"

The lovers, in relief & disbelief, ignored his ramblings, & began to pack an eternity into one Moonrise.

The necromancer smiled, listening to the joyous laughter & chatter of Luca & Catalina carry across the lagoon. The satisfying sound of a job smartly parlayed into an annual contract.

A keen observer would have noticed that Luca DiLago, eccentric assessore of the Regional Council of Veneto, always took a boat across the lagoon each year, at Feralia. Maybe they would have noticed two lovers sharing a meal, on an unremarkable island, beneath a peculiar olive tree. Maybe they would have noticed two men, meeting in an abandoned canal, exchanging vials of spectral tears. However, there were no observers in Venice.

Only ghosts.

THUS ENDETH THIS SUMMERSBANE SAGA

Enjoyed this tale, mortals? Did it chill ye, thrill ye, leave ye pondering love & longing? I hope so—if not, well, simply ring this bell…

I must thank, of course, Soren Summersbane, for undertaking such an incredible adventure, & allowing me the honor of compiling the true events into this story. If ye wish for more like this one, please share this saga with a friend!

I shall write ye all again this Wednesday, with news of this week’s live episode! Thank ye to all who read our tales, to all who share them with others, & of course thank ye to those kindly folk who can & do send $5 monthly to support our works. Be safe, be well, & remember: never trust a necromancer bearing gifts.

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Editor, Cameo as “Friend”