Ready, mortals? Our gothic epic continues! If ye missed the previous libro, read it here! Summersbane finds himself tasked with an exorcism, in the dark canals of Venice. To rest, the ghost demands revenge, & Summersbane must help her seize it…

Summersbane Saga
Ghost of Venice

Libro III: A Night in Capri

The Superyacht of Giacomo Dellarosso moored moodily off the south side of Capri. Giacomo, never satisfied with simple super-luxury, spent the night in his private villa amongst the wretched AirBnBs of the island. His house guard, a sin-ridden crew of thugs, stood at attention around the perimeter. The empty-hearted Giacomo gruffled lines of cocaine, & watched Formula 1 reruns—from the 90s, of the Scuderia Ferrari at its height. He muttered, “Michael Schumacher,” under his rancid breath as he inhaled deeply the powder. In his mind's eye, he drove a Ferrari as fast the wind, away from his Earthly troubles. The petty oligarch dreamt, without dreaming, of turns at a hundred chilometri per hour around the Nürburgring.  He certainly had time & money to make that dream come true, now that Catalina were gone.

As Giacomo chuckled & snorted in his cold & opulent room, an even colder man sat silently in a corner, clad in a black cassock, sipping a vodka. The votive candles arranged in a semi-circle before him sputtered, & burned, with the saint's faces staring out at him dead-eyed.  One of the flames whooshed out, & the old man finished his vodka. 

Up on the villa’s roof, Lorenzo’s shift had ended, but none yet came to relieve his post.  The grim-faced Romano wore a bulletproof vest beneath his tailored suit, but tonight, he still felt vulnerable. He gripped his P90 submachine gun—useless against a sniper, of course, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.  ‘Renzo took solace in the fact that the checks cleared, & that he would feel no remorse in abandoning his contemptible charge, that foul bastard Giacomo, in case things went South.

His stomach growled in unison with the roof’s hatch swinging open, & he turned toward it. “You’re late,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, I just finished my dinner. There is some stew left in the kitchen,” said the fresh guard Aurelio, he hefted himself up onto the roof. 

“What kind?”

“Goat…I think.”

“Capretto? Well, all right,” Lorenzo grumbled, as he climbed down the ladder. “Good luck on your watch, ragazz’.”

Aurelio lazily walked the roof’s perimeter. He gazed out at the sea, allowing his eyes to adjust to the night. He took out his binoculars; first he scanned the yacht—nothing amiss. Then he peeked at the different boats of revelers.  A nudist party on some puny fifteen-foot boat caught his eye, but for the most part, he saw a quiet field of dark ships bobbing in the waves. The smell of seaweed & kelp wafted up.

That’s when he saw…her.

She was on a rocky outcrop, in a small grotto of the Virgin Mary, carved into the stone. Emerging from the cloister, the strange woman shimmered in the moonlight, & dove, but made no splash. 

Did she make eye contact with me? From so far?, Aurelio thought, panic rising in his gut. He breathed, & brought the binoculars back up.

She reappeared at the base of the grotto, gliding out of the water. Aurelio knew this woman, & she should not be here. She turned toward him, a chilometro away, & seemed to lock eyes through his binoculars. 

“You’re dead,” he mouthed, sweating, his mind racing over the details of his sin. 

Giacomo had strangled the woman—wasn’t he the real villain? Aurelio had simply chained her down, & threw her corpse into the sea. It wasn’t the first time he cleaned up a monster’s mess, so why was she haunting him now? Why this one? Perhaps he had grown some sort of rudimentary conscience after going into the private sector. Perhaps it was because he was supposed to protect her. Perhaps it was because she called him “friend.” Perhaps no paycheck were worth the stain on his soul…many options presented themselves to his vile little mind.

But there she stood, atop the water, dripping wet & bound in chains. The woman’s lips began to move, saying the same thing again & again. Aurelio could not read them, the buffoon.

“Catalina,” Aurelio whispered, “I am sorry.”

Tears rolled down Aurelio's sallow cheeks, in grief. He wept, & wept, & could not stop. The tears welled up & streamed down, but did not fall to the rooftop. Instead, the tears trickled into his mouth, the bitter salts parching his tongue. He tried to scream, but could only gurgle, as a river of his own regret & betrayal drowned the coward Aurelio.

He collapsed, dead, but stood up moments later. Catalina, the vengeful fantasma, possessed Aurelio’s corpse. She flexed her new hands, Aurelio's guilty hands, then made her way down the rooftop hatch.

Lorenzo sat in the kitchen, slurping the dregs of his stale stew. He hated being here, even on break. He hated his boss. He hated that he was wanted by Interpol. But most of all, he hated the Russian.  

The Russian was some superstitious quack that the олигархи insisted on assigning to this man-child Giacomo. The boss believed in protecting all his ventures both physically & spiritually. Lorenzo was in charge of the physical protection, & he was good at it. Smuggling guns, arranging travel, arranging murders, he did it all! But the spiritual expert, that overpaid loon, he just sat there! Always lighting candles, reading old books, & jabbering some nonsense on this or that.  It was a waste of Lorenzo’s time to accommodate some civilian priest, but he valued life too highly to file a complaint.

His radio squawked, a strained & unusual sound.

“Intruders!,” blurted a warped voice. Lorenzo calmly drew his gun & slid the bolt back, chambering a round. He belched, & pointed his gun at the door, while backing away from the windows. 

It was that damned Russian who made the call—he heard the accent even through the distortion. What was the old man playing at?

“Report, all points,” he ordered into his radio. Static answered back. Was this real? Was there an actual attack?

The door crkkked open, slowly. Lorenzo brought the P90 up to his cheek, racked the slide. The P90 was made for this exact scenario; whatever came through would get chewed up.

“Lorenzo!,” said Catalina-as-Aurelio, as she entered, hands up. “Radio’s jammed!” Lorenzo lowered his weapon, disappointed.

“Cazzo, we are under attack after all…with me, let’s clear the floor. You take point, ragazz’.”

He slipped as he stepped forward, & noticed that Aurelio were dripping wet.  A large puddle of reeking seawater spread beneath him.

“Eh? Che fai? You went for a swim on duty? Why…ergh…argh!—” Lorenzo dropped his gun & doubled over in pain. His stomach wrenched, his head pounded as the pressure built. His belly deformed, & his intestines undulated, a foul parody of pregnancy—then, at horrifying speed, his body vaporized into a misty cloud of gore.

Summersbane appeared in the midst of the mist, perfectly clean, a horrid fetus born of blood.

“Must have been something he ate,” Summersbane chuckled.

Catalina stared blankly with Aurelio’s eyes, at the gallows-minded necromancer.

“Eh…you are what you eat?”

She sighed, almost imperceptibly.

“He really should have read the ingredients? Not part of a balanced breakfast? Capretto green is people? He served mankind? Come on, signorina, what do I have to do to make you laugh a little? You’re dead, not dead inside!”

“I don’t find death funny,” said Catalina, who was Aurelio, wiping gore from his face.

Summersbane shrugged. “Teleport through enough guts, grind enough bones, sleep in enough tombs, & you’ll get used to it.”

“Will I?”

“Allora…we don’t have much time, the Russian spotted us. That cagey priest must be using wards. I will deal with him. You, get your revenge on Giacomo.”

“And then, I rest?”

“That is up to you, Catalina.”

The unlikely pair strode to the reinforced door at the end of the hall. Using Aurelio’s eye, they opened the retinal lock to descend the stair.

They left two sets of footprints: one set in water, one in blood.

THUS ENDETH LIBRO III

THE SAGA CONTINUES IN LIBRO IV: DROWNED ONES!

Never have ye read such a ghost story, vero? I think a moving-picture adaptation of Summersbane’s life could easily surpass the moribund Bond! I may be biased. But, this tale, ‘tis far from over—two more chapters remain, coming each Monday! & I shall write ye all again on Wednesday, with news of this week’s live episode.

Thank ye to all who read our missives, to all who share these 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 stew.

Cheers,
Amoenus Franco
Wizard, Editor, Soup-Refutor