Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 3: The Beach

3

The Beach

The argument that created the vacancy in the wooden chairs clustered under the vivid turquoise-and-white umbrella now occupied by Ravenword, still rises over the skimpily clad throngs on the outstretched beach. Unprepared for seaside recreation, the company lounges in an array of makeshift beachwear. Parson is the only exception and is delighted to flaunt his fire-engine red, box-cut Diesels and gym-wrought physique. Julia, in a pink bra and the faded yellow short-shorts she sleeps in, giggles at the bare breasts bouncing past them, while Vin and the lesbians recline under the umbrella in board shorts and T-shirts. Billy’s attire remains unchanged.

Looking from the delicious multitoned menu of bodies surrounding them to the improvised casual-frump of the straight and lesbian alliance, Parson stands and grabs Julia’s hand. “Let’s go look at boys!”

Agnot rolls her eyes but joins Charlie and Vin in a welcome chuckle as the two trot gleefully into the sea of sunbathers.

“Thank god for broken-down trains!” Agnot yawns, relishing the respite of leisure with a stretch.

“Well,” Vin hesitates, looking at his hands, “not really broken down.”

Charlie’s carefree expression quickly melts. “Do we really need to know?”

As if given permission to enjoy himself, he grins. “Should we go check out girls?”

Agnot and Charlie smile and look to each other for accord before shifting in their chairs to stand. As Vin rises, the three look to Billy, who, by all appearances, is too engrossed in his book to notice their uncertain invitation.

“Just go,” he brays without looking up.

Much to Billy’s satisfaction, the three disappear quickly, and he turns a page in solitary contentment. By the turn of the next page, however, a presence pulls him out of the gothic fantasy. His eyes rise slowly over the book.

Standing behind the vacated chairs is the mysterious man from the plane, bare-chested and in swim shorts. His muscular build belies the gray at his temples and taunts Billy’s insecurity with his own pudgy physique.

Billy returns his icy-blue gaze, unflinching. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” he replies, crossing his powerful arms, his enigmatic smile doing little to lessen the hardness of his features. “Waiting for the next train.”

“Wait somewhere else,” Billy rebuffs.

“Give me your locker number and key,” the man states in a tone that implies he is accustomed to giving orders.

“What for?”

He does not answer, choosing rather to prod the slovenly youth with his imposing mettle.

Billy complies with a resentful smirk, lowering the book to dig through the grimy pockets of his maculated jeans. Crumples of tumbled paper and lint spill out with the key lodged between two of his fingers, and with a heave, he reaches across the shade of the umbrella to slap the graven shard on a chair.

Rolling back into his recline like a slug on a leaf, Billy returns to his book with indifference. When he chances another glance over the pages, the man is gone. His shifty eyes pan the surrounding bodies, checking for his companions.

II

Ankle-deep in the foamy surf, Parson and Julia mark and ogle the finest of the male holidaymakers as they stroll between sand and sea. The saline shallows are a virtual pedestrian highway under the noonday sun, and they find themselves squeezing through several large groups, much to Parson’s delight. Ahead, three sun-kissed brunettes in bright designer bikinis chatter like vivacious finches while assessing Julia with disparaging glances. Parson can make out a bit of French as they pass, but his focus on their language evaporates as they burst into derisive laughter behind him.

Shrinking, Julia blushes and crosses her arms to hide her bra.

“Fuck those bitches!” Parson snaps over his shoulder with the wave of his hand.

“Parson!” Julia snickers, her countenance brightening under his austere defiance. “I really should’ve worn something else, though.”

“Says who?” he counters. “And drop your arms. You have a beautiful rack! Show it off!”

Julia recoils with gull-pitched squeals as Parson grabs her wrists playfully to pry her arms from her chest. At the same time, she spins on her heels just as a retreating wave sucks the sand out from underneath her and, in an explosion of splash and spray, she plummets into the surf, taking Parson down with her. They leap out of the sea foam, crowing joyfully and wiping the salty water from their faces. Parson’s eyes widen a split second before howling with laughter so convulsive that his six-pack abs pull him into a bow. Julia’s confusion is just as fleeting before gasping in horror and throwing her arms against her naked breasts.

Bellowing, Parson falls back into the shoals, reveling in the comedy of Julia’s frantic pivots in search of her bra.

“Parson!” she yells, unable to suppress her own giggles. “Help me find it!”

Few of the beachgoers mark her dance of modesty and desperation, and those who do take little note. Parson’s mirth and Julia’s desperation, however, are quickly subdued as a golden Adonis with dripping black locks jogs to her side with her bra dangling from his sculptured hand.

“For you, bella ragazza,” he offers in a dulcet tenor, extending the sopped garment with a caress of her arm.

A glorious thrill rifles through her, robbing her of her ability to either speak or tear her gaze from the rivulets running down his chiseled, sun-kissed chest.

“You speak English, no?” he asks, bowing his head to look into her eyes.

“Si,” she sighs melodiously, staring into his speckled green eyes.

Behind them, Parson sits in the waves equally hypnotized by the Italian god’s flawlessly contoured back, muscular legs, and tight, round butt that settles the question of why Speedos are still on the market. He shakes himself abruptly, realizing that if he allowed his gaze to linger on the contents of those white Speedos any longer, he would have to get waist-deep into the sea. Checking himself, he stands.

“Hi,” he says, sounding like a good imitation of Julia despite himself.

“This is your boyfriend?” the noble Italian asks, giving Parson the once-over.

“No,” they blurt in unison.

“Friends,” Julia spouts, fingers waving between she and Parson.

“Just friends,” Parson interjects.

“Traveling companions,” she gushes.

“Nothing going on here,” Parson insists.

“I am Aldobrandi. Aldo to my friends.”

“Julia,” she replies, realizing only then that he is still holding her bra, and she her breasts.

“Parson,” he announces, leaning in to shake Aldo’s hand only to realize it is occupied by the bra.

Aldobrandi smiles politely, “You are omosessuale, yes?”

The uncertain expression on Parson’s face prods Aldo to scour his English vocabulary and try again. “You are gay?”

Parson’s grin is tainted, and he and Julia exchange an uncertain glance before he answers, “Absolutely.”

“Then you may help bella Julia with her bikini,” he says, offering a gentle smile to Julia and handing the bra to Parson. “I will turn away.”

“The beach, the beach!” Julia hisses, moving to use Aldo’s magnificent form as a shield as Parson tries to help her untangle the straps.

“I can do it! Just help block me,” she insists, slapping back his hands.

Parson’s heart races to be shoulder to shoulder with Aldo, who is showing no sign of aversion. The question of which one of them he prefers is distracting, yet in no way impedes Parson’s survey of Aldo’s body, which stands as solid and magnificent as the great mountains that rise over Viareggio. Unfortunately, his inspection is short-lived as Julia bounces from behind them, extending a shy hand to Aldo.

“Thank you so much!”

“Of course, bella,” he replies sweetly, taking her hand and kissing it.

Parson shifts on a twinge of jealousy before Aldo straightens and looks at them both.

“We may walk?”

“Absolutely,” Parson cedes, giving Julia an excited, albeit envious, glance.

To both their surprise, Aldo steps between them and links his contoured arms with them both. With a round of friendly smiles, the three begin to stroll in the spindrift shallows.

“You are staying in Viareggio?”

Parson and Julia look around him to check each other with bewildered expressions.

“No, we’re just waiting for our train,” Parson replies, enjoying the feel of Aldo’s arm against his and the cachet of being seen beside him on the beach.

“Ah, you go to Rome then?”

Julia takes Parson’s hesitation to reply as her cue. “We’re going to a castle!”

“Oh, si, si,” Aldo nods, impressed. “We have many castles. Which do you visit?”

“Castello Nel Buio,” Parson answers blithely.

Aldo halts abruptly and swings his powerful form around to take Julia’s shoulders in his hands, with eyes yet fixed on Parson with a burning glare. “You must not go!”

Struck by his explosive reaction, Parson stands frozen, feeling suddenly conspicuous and naïve.

“You’re hurting me,” Julia squeaks meekly, prompting Parson to lay his hand on Aldo’s arm.

But there is no thrill, as their fantasy has turned to fear.

“Perdonarci, perdonarci, bella Julia,” Aldo stammers, releasing his grasp and caressing her arms apologetically. Yet he remains fervent and takes each of their hands. “This place is dangerous, some say it is evil. Many have been harmed there.”

Julia places her hand over the one Aldo clasped to her own, and he eases his grip, his furrowed brows framing his green eyes with urgency.

“Hold the phone, drama-rama,” Parson chimes, no longer concerned with winning him over. “Are you saying it’s haunted?”

Aldo’s eyes narrow on Parson, recognizing the condescending incredulity on his face, and steps back, throwing his hands on his marble hips. “No! I said it is dangerous place. You go because of the English writer, yes? But that is not why I say you cannot go. There is…crime there. Danger.”

“Crime?” Julia echoes, the accusation staining her poetic preconceptions of the castle.

“Let us sit with drinks, and I will explain,” Aldo offers, his tone softening.

“We didn’t bring any money,” Julia says sheepishly.

“We didn’t expect to entertain a local…hottie,” Parson quips with a probing grin.

Aldo smiles back at him, his brows now high. “Ah, yes. I see. Come with me. We will drink and talk to when your train comes or the sun goes down to the sea.”

III

Billy’s attention is once more drawn away from the woes of Lord Manfred, but this time by the clambering of Agnot and Charlie back into their chairs, each cradling a paper bowl of gelato. Irked by the interruption, he tries to return to the page.

“Hey,” Charlie exclaims, pulling the plastic spoon out of her mouth. “Why is your locker key on the chair?”

Billy’s head turns sharply to her indication. There, indeed, sits his locker key, having returned unseen.

“I was looking for something in my pockets.”

“Are you going to leave it there all day?” Agnot chides.

Billy snatches up the key, quickly barring the lesbians behind the width of his hardbound, yet his indifference has been undermined by the implications of the key.

“Where are Parson and Julia?” Vin asks as he saunters through the sunlight to the shade of the umbrella before taking his seat in a brisk and cheerful manner. His matted black hair and the fine dusting of salt on his bronze Madhya skin betray his afternoon activities.

Billy stews, annoyed with the impertinence of the women and even more so with Vin’s belaboring the interruption.

“Haven’t seen ’em,” Agnot states through a mouthful of gelato.

“We should find them before it gets too late,” Vin says half-heartedly, reluctant to leave the shade of the umbrella. “We only have a couple of hours.”

“They’re big girls,” Billy snaps, slapping his book shut and lurching out of his chair. “They know.”

Vin and the lesbians are taken aback by his outburst and storming away.

“Do you think something’s bothering him?” Charlie asks quietly.

“Hopefully his hygiene,” Agnot retorts.

“Come on, Ag,” she prods, “it’s just not like him. And it’s the second time.”

Agnot’s and Vin’s eyes meet with significance.

“We’re all pretty run down,” Vin offers.

“Should someone talk to him?” Charlie presses.

“No,” Agnot exclaims curtly before shifting to a gentler tone and demeanor. “I mean, what good will it do, babe? He’s tired. We’re all tired. Everything will be fine once we can finally get a fuckin’ good night’s sleep.”

Charlie nods and takes another scoop at her gelato.

The reminder of their weariness threatens a surrender that descends on them like a spell, and Vin perks with willful defiance. “Should we go find them or trust them not to get lost?”

“Or kidnapped,” Agnot chortles. She mocks seriousness, putting her spoon to her chin.

They exchange glances.

“Fine,” Agnot relents. “I guess it’s better than falling asleep in these fucking wooden chairs.”

“What about Billy?” Charlie checks.

It takes a moment for Agnot and Vin to understand her point.

“He’s a big girl,” her lover punts.

Despite the afternoon heat, the sun on their skin and the energy of the surrounding beachgoers sweep away any lethargy threatening to thwart their first opportunity to enjoy themselves since leaving San Francisco. They amble down the bustling beach, chatting as Charlie expounds on points of interest with Agnot’s arm hanging leisurely across her shoulders.

“Searching for a needle in a haystack,” Agnot bemoans after twenty minutes.

“Well, if you were Parson, where would you go?” Charlie chimes with a wry grin.

“Besides a stranger’s bedroom,” Agnot retorts.

“Do you think he’d take Julia to a bar?” Vin wonders.

“Don’t be fooled. That little Hmong princess is not as innocent as she seems,” Agnot poses cagily.

Scanning the beachfront cabins and hotels, Charlie spots an outdoor lounge under a bright-blue canopy. With a lighter stride, the three navigate through the golden forest of the beautiful and the bold to close quickly on the bar.

“Ya know, I could go for a nice cold gin ’n sin,” Agnot sighs, before being halted abruptly by Vin’s soccer-mom arm block.

He brings a swift index finger to his lips and then points past them.

Following his direction, the picture produces the same expressions of intrigue and suspicion in them as is burning in Vin’s eyes.

In the portico of the adjoining hotel, the suspected air marshal is locked in a contentious row with an agitated young Italian man caught in nothing but white Speedos. A curt gesture by the statuesque Italian brings the conversation to a halt.

Fearing discovery, Vin nudges the lesbians to the bar swiftly.

Stepping under the canopied entrance, they find Parson and Julia easily, as they are sitting conspicuously at a little table in the center of a wide open-air window. Their gregarious giggles and the plastic Italian flags sticking out of their shorts exaggerate the frame of revelry, replete with fruity umbrella cocktails and American top forty overhead.

“Hey, ladies!” Parson cheers upon spotting their approach.

At the same time, Julia bemoans like a nine-year-old, “Aw, it’s not time to go already?”

“Get up,” Agnot spurs petulantly as the three reach the table. “We gotta get outta here.”

Parson and Julia look at them with surprised, albeit tipsy, consternation.

Charlie throws a backward glance at the entrance while Vin tries to allay any overreactions Agnot’s orders may have stirred.

“We just saw the guy from the plane,” he explains.

Parson takes another sip of his nearly full cocktail before responding with a flip of his hand, “And?”

“And?” Agnot echoes incredulously. “The creep is following us, and we need to go!”

Parson sets his drink down gingerly and folds his wrists one over the other to lean on the edge of the table. “Girl, you need to learn how to dig in your high heels when a buzz cut shows up to spoil the fun!”

Julia’s snicker is stifled by Agnot’s glare, and Parson amends himself. “Or whatever the faux fellas are wearing this season. Do clodhoppers come in heels?”

“She’s right,” Vin interrupts, hoping to stave off Agnot’s temper. “It would be a good idea to head back to the station.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Parson retorts.

“Can we just finish our drinks?” Julia pleads sweetly.

“What if he comes in here?” Charlie presses, plying herself to Agnot’s side despite the afternoon heat.

“Mary, Joseph, and Hey Zeus! What if he does?” Parson balks, shrugging his shoulders. “We haven’t done anything. He can’t arrest us.”

“But he’s following us!” Agnot insists.

“Okay,” Parson states flatly, looking at them as if he were talking to kindergarteners. “Take it from someone who’s been followed by a lot of strange men. First, there’s nothing you can do about it. Two, they can follow all they want, they’re not going to get what you’re not gonna give. And last, our Italian stallion just walked in, so you bitches need to clear out.”

Vin, Agnot, and Charlie look to the entry only to be surprised by the approach of the chiseled Italian who had been talking with their stalker.

Julia squeals, and Parson admires the play of the white linen shirt over his tan, muscular form.

“Buongiorno!” Aldo trumpets amicably, surveying Vin, Agnot, and Charlie with his arms wide as if ready to embrace them. “These are your friends, yes?”

Agnot’s calculating eyes meet Vin’s as her head tilts slightly. In concert, the two pull the nearest empty chairs up to the table.

“And who might you be?” Agnot smiles shrewdly, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms as Charlie settles in next to her.

“Aldobrandi,” he answers happily, taking the seat between them.

“So tell me, Brandi—”

“Aldo. This is how my friends call me,” he corrects politely, his smile somewhat faded under the bleaching brazenness of the young woman who looks harder than her age should allow.

“Whatever,” Agnot dismisses, evoking gasps and reproaches from her friends. “What were you doing talking to that guy over by the hotel?”

Annoyed and embarrassed by her direct rudeness, Parson and the others erupt into apologies, only to be allayed by Aldo.

“No, no, it is fine. I understand she is being a friend to you.”

“No excuse,” Parson interjects, glaring at Agnot.

Having subdued them, Aldo leans into the group, wearing a grave expression that, to Parson and Vin, seems foreign to his handsome features.

“He saw me with bella Julia and bello Parsone and pulled me away when I go to change to my shirt,” he begins, his voice no longer jovial but as grim as his countenance. “I know nothing to tell,” he deflects preemptively, anticipating Agnot’s interjection. “It was he who brought forward this cursed place you are to visit. I ask him to help you, to…dissuade you from going, but he did not answer. Then,” Aldo finishes, lowering his voice so that the five must huddle to hear, “I tell him of l’Ordine degli Intercessori per i Maledetto Rosso.”

His earnest eyes meet each of theirs one by one before translating, “The Order of Intercessors for the Red Damned.”

Ravenword exchange puzzled and hesitant glances, unsure whether he is making fun of them.

“What is that?” Julia asks, unable to wait on his pause.

“They pray for the souls in the Englishman’s story,” he answers.

Agnot leans away, again folding her arms. “Now I know you’re fucking with us.”

Aldo’s face widens, taken aback by her accusation. “No, no, some believe that the Englishman came away with this story as true when he visited the very same place.”

“Do you mean Edgar Allan Poe?” Vin asks, correlating the “red damned” with the author.

“Si, yes, the writer from England,” Aldo answers quickly, nodding.

The faux pas breaks the tension as well as Aldo’s credibility.

“Poe was American,” Vin corrects gently, hoping to avoid embarrassing the earnest Italian.

“And he never came to Italy,” Agnot states flatly.

Puzzled by the contradiction, Aldo stands, surveying the group sincerely yet cautiously. “But I am told he came from England in eighteen hundred and twenty. Only from here did he go to America.”

Vin considers the possibility, knowing Poe had spent five years between Scotland and England before returning to the United States in 1820. “Well, for argument’s sake, how can this Order help? We’re going to have to get going soon.”

“If you mean to go on to Castello Nel Buio, the Order must be told so they can help in protecting you. I will tell them of you, and they will help,” he says, leaning into the table.

This simplistic answer does little to engender faith in either Aldo or his story, but Vin and the rest of Ravenword, with the exception of Agnot, respond with gracious smiles.

“How do you know all this?” Julia asks as if a light bulb has gone off over her head.

A hint of blush accentuates the richness of his bronze face, but he does not drop his gaze as he straightens. “I am from Badia di’Cantignano, a small town very near to the mountains where this place of yours is. We know much of the legends.”

“So you do think the place is haunted!” Parson volleys lightly, giving Aldo a wink.

As the Italian stammers, Vin rises from the table and extends his hand to Aldo.

“Thank you,” Vin offers sincerely, “for the information and…help. It was nice meeting you.”

Aldo shakes Vin’s hand and pulls him into a terse embrace with his great strength to whisper in his ear. “Find the dagger.”

Before Vin is able to react or reply, Aldo kisses his cheek and then the other before exploding with joviality and kissing the others likewise. The scene is a happy chaos of voices, embraces, and laughter that is soon replaced by sun and drudging strides over the sand.

IV

T. J. sits in the nineteenth-century Lombard chair, luxuriously upholstered in red-and-gold silk, staring at the bags from Gucci, Dior, and other fashion houses huddled on the bed like monoliths on a crimson sea. Behind him the architecture of Milan is muted by the gossamer sheers that drape the window and scatter the Italian light throughout the lush room.

In the elegantly tiled bathroom, Motisha sits on the bidet staring at a pregnancy test in a churning stew of elation, anxiety, and shrewdness as the bellicose stain of her father’s indifference leeches to temper any rash declarations. As the silent minutes pass, she grows more resolute. Without a twinge of equivocation, she mummifies the test stick in bathroom tissue to guard against discovery and drops it resolutely in the waste basket. With a deep and bolstering breath, she sets her composure, buries the revelation, and prepares herself for a perfectly distracting day of touring Italian delights.

“I adore the use of wood accents, but the red theme is a tad garish,” Motisha observes as she enters the main suite looking radiant in a lavish cream Lacroix dress suit. “Have you seen the vanity?”

The lack of a response from T. J. waylays her delving into the bags and she turns to face him fully, studying his countenance.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah,” he replies pensively. “I just feel bad about leaving.”

The smirk on her flawless face seems tantamount to drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa and does nothing to ease the nagging regret in his mind.

“You can’t be serious,” she exclaims, turning to the first bag within reach. Her expression changes to a coy smugness. “I knew you’d choose me,” she says with the sideways glance of a vixen.

T. J. offers her as reassuring a smile as he can muster and stands to helps her, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically.

“Oh!” she cries with delight, withdrawing a hand from the bag.

“What?” T. J. exclaims, rushing closer.

Motisha turns to him cradling a small black velvet box.

“Was this supposed to be a surprise?” she asks through a gleaming smile and adoring eyes.

T. J. flushes and fidgets, unsure how to answer her.

“You are such a dear,” she coos, reaching up to caress his cheek before giving him a tender kiss that exaggerates his clumsiness.

“Uh, I didn’t get you that,” he stammers, looking down at her with a wan and nervous smile.

Her brows furrow as she retrieves the small card within the envelope affixed to the underside of the velvet box. “You!” she sings happily. “It’s your handwriting.”

“Um, what?” he says taking the little card as she lifts the velvet top.

“Oh, Terrence!” she gushes as T. J. reads the card. “It’s lovely!”

Dance with me…

It is written, indeed, in his own handwriting.

A chill runs down his back as she withdraws from the gift box a delicate ruby teardrop pendant on an equally delicate gold necklace.

“Oh, Terrence,” she gasps softly, staring at the stone as if hypnotized, “you really shouldn’t have.”

T. J. turns the little card over to find l’Ordine degli Intercessori written in tiny letters over an ornate watermark crest.

“Please, help me with it on,” Motisha insists in a bright, soft voice as she turns her back to him, holding the pendant high on her chest. “I want to wear it to dinner.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” T. J. replies, hesitating to take the ends of the gold chain.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Motisha rebuffs, a hardness seeping into her tone. She glances over her shoulder expectantly as she holds her hair aside.

“May you’d want to get it appraised—or cleaned—before wearing it out,” he says, cringing the moment the words leave his lips. Hoping to deflect her reaction, he lays the pendant against her breast and clasps the ends of the petite gold necklace.

“Don’t be foolish,” she whispers, turning around to kiss him again. “I will always measure its value by this moment.”

Motisha steps back to display the pendant against her lovely brown skin and extends her arms in invitation. “Dance with me.”

Upon the invitation, the room is abruptly swallowed in cold darkness.

T. J. recoils.

A ghoulish, rotting corpse in tattered blue rags has replaced his beautiful lover.

Aghast in the void, his hand shields his silent scream.

A grasping, bony claw reaches out as it staggers toward him.

Horror-stricken, T. J. swoons, hands flailing for an anchor.

The ghoul’s grimy fungus-spackled neck and jaw twist gruesomely, as if desperate to speak. The very desperation that permeates the black-stained hollows of decay once home to eyes pierces his soul.

A howl rises from T. J.’s throat, his eyes peeled madly to their margins.

“What is it?” Motisha shrieks.

Sweeping the bags off the bed, she throws him down and holds his contorted face in her hands frantically. “Terrence! Can you hear me? Terrence, answer me!”

His wild eyes suddenly languish and blink.

Motisha lunges for the phone but is stayed by his hand on her wrists.

She looks into his eyes, grateful to find them fixed upon her.

Pulling her onto him, he grips her in an exquisite embrace.

V

The arriving train finds the six members of Ravenword waiting on the platform surrounded by those who did not make other travel arrangements to Lucca. Their unexpected excursion having bolstered their spirits, five of the six chatter and tease like so many siblings as the train whines to a stop and throws wide its doors. Overhead the fair blue of afternoon has deepened into the blushing azure of the sun’s impending set. They are happy to find the train relatively empty as they board and quickly lay claim to a cluster of seats facing each other.

Having learned the need for expedience, Agnot and Charlie fall into the first two as Vin ducks into the row across.

Waiting in gloomy silence for Julia to decide which seat she prefers, Billy screens the boarding passengers ahead with steely eyes and then chances a glance over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Agnot checks suspiciously.

“Waiting,” he replies, gesturing toward Julia.

“Ope! Sorry!” Julia giggles. She throws her backpack at Agnot’s feet and alights in the seat opposite her.

Parson’s descent, taking the seat next to her, clears the way for Billy to crumple into the window seat and use his book to wall off Vin and the rest of them. With no sign of the dogging agent on the train, Billy subtly positions the book so as to cast his survey on the platform.

There, in the queue of last stragglers trickling aboard, is the stern antagonist.

Billy’s covertness is sidetracked by a sudden interest in the events unfolding on the man. Two police officers have waylaid the agent, one on either side, and a station security officer steps between he and the open doors. The detention prompts the commuters to rush the train with agitated backward glances. The agent shakes off their grasp motioning to the train, obviously arguing their reason for preventing him from boarding. Raising his hands as if to allay their fears, he reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer and retrieves what Billy can only assume is his identification.

The doors of the train fold with a hydraulic shush.

The amplification of the agent’s insistence is evident on his face even from a distance.

The officers do not yield.

The initial tug of momentum announces the train’s commencement. Before it whisks them out of the station, however, Billy follows the pointing arm of the security officer to an old woman huddled anxiously on a nearby bench. The scene quickly falls away in favor of vignettes of Viareggio and Billy returns to his book, pondering the ramifications of the agent missing the train.

“You think everyone’s gay,” Charlie scoffs lightheartedly.

Accustomed to Billy’s reclusiveness, the five have continued their banter, unaware of the scene on the platform.

“Yes, Parson,” Agnot parlays, rebuffing his exaggerated astonishment.

“In all fairness,” Vin offers, “Parson has never accused me of being gay.”

“He only thinks that about hot guys,” Julia interjects innocently.

Her cohorts erupt in a storm of laughter.

“I didn’t mean it that way!” she bellows.

“Oh, girl,” Parson chuckles. “You’re going to be the end of me!”

“Parson!” Julia giggles, slapping his knee as she leans across him toward Vin. “I’m sorry.”

“I was on his rock-solid Roman god of an arm all day,” Parson declares as Vin shakes his head with a smile and waves his forgiveness to Julia. “If that’s not gay, I’ll turn in my wig.”

“Yeah, and Julia was on the other arm,” Agnot counters amiably.

“I think that’s just how Italians are,” Charlie presumes.

“Who cares!” Parson sighs blissfully. “What a day, what a day.”

“Wow!” Julia exclaims, her face mirrored in the window. “Look at that!”

Beyond the window, the fleeting landscape is a black silhouette beneath a torrid red band of sky that cradles the setting sun. The drama of Sol Invictus reclining through the blood of his conquests and into a dark Mediterranean bath mesmerizes the five. Nearly spellbound, they watch in silence. With every degree of his descent, the welling night seeps in to weigh upon their hearts and minds until the luminosity of their stolen day has been all but extinguished.

VI

Motisha and T. J. dine quietly on braised veal and risotto at an elegantly dressed table of silver and white. The champagne at Motisha’s ruby fingertips is burnished gold by soft candlelight, contrasting her flawless sienna complexion, which is subdued by composed irritation. The Milano-chic restaurant is a-hush with the beautiful, the stylish, and the wealthy and does little to ease T. J.’s sense of displacement. He casts his gaze from the bewitched teardrop pendant on Motisha’s lovely breast to the arched panes of the neoclassical windows and shudders at the blazing scarlet ribbon luring the sun beneath the horizon.

“I have had enough of this foolishness,” Motisha says evenly, reaching to squeeze his hand in an attempt to belie the implied criticism. “There is no point in ruining our holiday simply because your friends have convinced themselves that they have been caught up in some sort of gothic horror story.”

“What about the hospital?” T. J. insists, his eyes sharpened by dread. “The plane?”

Motisha lifts the crystal flute to her lips without breaking eye contact with T. J., indulging in more than a delicate sip. “We were caught up in the suggestive atmosphere of that society, nothing more.”

With his mind’s eye, T. J. witnesses the last shard of the blood-red sun drown in the black horizon and with it any hope or illusion he may harbor that things are not as they appear. He looks at Motisha’s fresh and beautiful face, and his heart sinks even deeper into the convincing sea to face the leviathan of his cowardice. Like the last, desperate gulp of air, he acquiesces to her denial, squeezing her hand and offering as genuine a smile as he can muster.

“You’re right.”

Motisha’s stern countenance breaks like the bright full moon through clouds, yet her sharp chocolate irises continue to scrutinize his face for subterfuge. “Of course I am,” she beams. “Oh! I can’t wait to introduce you to the passeggiata! It’s still a bit early,” she chimes, checking the time.

“The what?” he stammers, distracted by the churning of his head and stomach.

“Bella figura!” she fawns blithely.

Her ensuing discourse is muted by the compulsion to join his friends now mounting a fierce offensive against his fears. Regardless of the freakish events, and those that may lie ahead, the strongest detractor in rejoining Ravenword sits across the table espousing of the romantic joys of Lombardy. Only in this moment does he realize that he truly loves her.