MASTER OF THE ABYSS

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1702 A.D.
REPUBLIC OF VENICE
                    

Shadows flickered off damp walls. A single oil lamp clenched in a sweaty fist illuminated the dark corridor. Emanuele Quattrone tightened his grip on a wheellock pistol to steady his nerves. 

Behind him, three men matched his pace. Each wielded two primed flintlocks and a sheathed rapier. Moments prior, they’d used their swords to dispatch six Protectors patrolling the Palazzo Ducale, inside and out. The blades enabled silent deaths for a stealth entry; the firearms were required for the bullets’ speed. A flintlock was also holstered on Emanuele’s hip. He prayed one of their weapons would find its target.

“This way, friends,” Emanuele whispered in Venetian. “We’re almost there.” 

The narrow underground passageway necessitated that they travel in single file, and the corridor’s curvature limited visibility to a mere ten paces. All four men had trained their bodies for this moment. Their thin, muscular frames flew past the rough ashlar stone walls. Rank air and mildew stifled their breathing. The leather jerkin beneath Emanuele’s brown petticoat chafed against his skin. Still, he soldiered on, leading his meager squadron through the Palazzo’s bowels.

Emanuele paused at a T-junction. He relied on memory, recalling the map passed down to him from his great-great-grandfather. That illustrious man was the first Exalted Master of the Ancient Order of the Seventh Sun—before he was betrayed by his own and sentenced to Paradiso in 1614.

If they turned east, the passageway would’ve reached a stairwell to the Great Council Room, home to Paradiso and the souls within. The westward path led them to the warden of the souls, the Painter, Jacopo Tintoretto. It led to vengeance… and an end to the madness.

Emanuele didn’t hesitate. The Order needed to be demolished. He’d been waiting all of his forty-two years for this moment. So far, everything had gone to plan, yet his heart rattled. Perspiration drenched his shirt. 

As members of the Order, Emanuele and his colleagues had beheld the fantastic. They were privy to truths of this world few would believe. Each person on Earth was gifted a single soul that traveled through seven lives. Upon conclusion of the seventh, one’s soul faced final judgment: ascension or eradication. 

Except the Painters.

Emanuele also witnessed corruption—crimes against nobility and commoners alike. None epitomized the venality like Jacopo Tintoretto. Imbued with the power of the Sun Crystal, he was one of three who’d been gifted an extended lifespan. Tintoretto had been a Renaissance giant, but that did not justify his continued being. He was an abomination. A curse on Christ himself. Only the Lord should live beyond the lifespan of a mortal man. At 184 years of age, Tintoretto should’ve been worm food.

His most grievous sin was taking hundreds of lives—souls now confined for eternity in his duplicitous masterpiece, Paradiso. 

Emanuele made the sign of the cross with his pistol hand. 

Wrongs would be righted.

A rustle on the ground prompted him to halt. His compatriots followed suit. A rat scurried by—demon spawn fleeing from the mouth of Hell.

Releasing a breath, Emanuele continued for twenty more paces until an oak door blocked the passageway, like the goal of Daedalus’s labyrinth. Who was more dangerous—the Minotaur… or the Painter?

Emanuele beckoned his men closer to the door. He was told the Painter’s living quarters would be locked from the outside, but that was not the case. Apparently, Tintoretto was free to come and go. That posed a new problem. Should the door be sealed from the inside, they’d have no means of entry. Emanuele raised the lantern. Shadow and tricorne hats shrouded his compatriots’ features, but concern glazed their eyes. 

“We’ve come too far to fail, my friends,” Emanuele whispered. “We’ve lost too many.”

They nodded their agreement. 

After setting the lantern on the ground, Emanuele wrapped his free hand around the door handle. 

Footsteps and angry voices reverberated from the far end of the corridor. 

“We’re discovered,” his comrade whispered. 

Emanuele’s bones quivered with the unmistakable, gnawing ache of desperation. It wasn’t a labyrinth; it was a deathtrap. With a silent prayer, he pressed the thumb latch and cracked the door. All exhaled relief. 

He threw the door open. His friends squeezed past and rushed in, pistols at the ready. Slipping inside, Emanuele slammed the door shut and slid the bolt across the frame. 

“Welcome, brethren.” Tintoretto’s spry, deep voice belied his years. He stood at an easel in the far corner, with his back to the door. Lush, silvery hair cascaded over a white linen robe on a small frame, but the Painter was anything but diminutive—his presence dominated the space. 

“We should talk,” he said.

The men froze, unsure of what to do. 

Emanuele took stock of his environs. The room was smaller than he’d imagined, especially for a man not only central to the Order but worshipped by them. A dozen candles cast golden light on cluttered living conditions. Fetid, stale air forced him to breathe through his mouth so he didn’t gag on the stench. A stained mattress and chamber pot were tucked into a corner. Stacks of leather-bound books lay strewn about on a writing desk and an Oriental rug. Three other easels stood on the floor. Paint jars, brushes, and paintings, either loose or framed, overwhelmed the space. The artworks were masterpieces of all types—landscapes, portraits, still life, and somber depictions of the abyss.

“Who is the leader of your delegation?” The Painter dabbed his brush on his palette and applied strokes of gray to the canvas.

The men moved aside for their captain. Emanuele took a tentative step forward, despising himself. Why was he indulging this monster? The wheellock weighed heavy. He couldn’t will himself to use it, either unable to kill an almost-mythical being or incapable of shooting someone in the back. “Face us,” he said.

Tintoretto continued painting what appeared to be storm clouds. “What is your name?”

“Emanuele Quattrone. Face us. I demand it!”

“Quattrone?” The Painter grunted without turning. 

“Descendant of Senator Marco Niccolò Quattrone, first Exalted—” 

“I know who the traitor was.”

The insult to his forefather incensed Emanuele. He raised his gun and cocked the hammer.

“End him,” his compatriot whispered. “Do it now.”

Someone pounded on the door. Frantic yelling seeped through the wood.

With a shaking hand, Emanuele aimed at the Painter’s head. He squeezed the trigger. 

As if hearing the pistol’s wheel, Tintoretto shifted. The weapon discharged, emitting a cloud of smoke. The bullet flew through the canvas and struck the wall. 

Tintoretto dropped his artist’s tools and spun. With unholy speed, he launched himself at Emanuele. A glimpse of a thick white beard whooshed through the gun smoke. The Painter clutched Emanuele’s throat and shoved him back into his compatriot, slamming both against the wall. Emanuele’s head whiplashed into his friend’s nose. Blood splattered Emanuele’s neck. The man slumped to the floor. 

Emanuele steadied himself. The other men raised their flintlocks, but Tintoretto stole Emanuele’s rapier from its scabbard. In a flash, the Painter twisted and sliced through both men’s wrists. They cried out and dropped their weapons. 

Their reactions were short-lived—as were they. Tintoretto severed their throats before doing the same to the third man in as many seconds. All three collapsed. Arterial spray gushed from their lacerations. Emanuele’s friend clamped his neck, choking and writhing, until the Painter lodged his rapier in the man’s heart.

“I told you we should talk,” said Tintoretto, without a hitch in his breathing, undisturbed by the blood painting his robe and floor.

Emanuele met the gaze of the man standing victoriously before him. “You—you’re a monstrosity. Offspring of Satan himself.”

“A curious observation. Since it is I who shall grant you Paradise.” 

I
PRESENT DAY

MADRID

Carlo Zuccaro’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved. Sweat drenched his forehead and neck. 

The flashbacks had been coming more frequently and vividly. This recent one was a new development. He’d had visions of Tintoretto but hadn’t witnessed the man’s brutality outside of a Convocation. Carlo once believed the Renaissance master was a tool of the Order—as they expected Carlo to be. To the contrary, Tintoretto was the group’s beating heart. If the Order assumed Carlo would bow to their commands—to kill and sentence innocent souls to Paradiso—they had instated the wrong person. Carlo was the new Painter, but he had a choice. Simply living in obscurity for the remainder of his unnatural life would prevent additional souls from being imprisoned. 

He shuddered. Everyone dreamed of more time; he was only twenty-six and had already learned how quickly dreams became curses. 

Adjusting to his present surroundings, he slowed his breathing, wiped his brow, and scanned his new hotel room. The blinds veiled the city’s lights. He sat on the carpet, his back against the bed. A lit cigarette dangled between his fingers. 

It had been a long twenty-four hours.

Five mini bottles of vodka, four mindless comedy movies, three room service meals, two showers, one hour of sleep, and zero daylight had done nothing to appease Carlo’s nerves. Sketches of Julia O’Connor on hotel stationery lay scattered about the room, an activity that gave him equal parts solace and distress. He gazed at the black-ink drawing, a decent likeness, but he wished he had color to capture her true beauty. How he longed to see those green eyes and honey-blonde hair.

He sighed. She was lost to him forever. Ironic, since she was never his. 

Incredibly, losing Julia wasn’t the worst thing to happen to him.

Beyond his regressions to the assassination attempt on Tintoretto, Senator Quattrone’s torture, and a half-dozen souls who’d been beaten, raped, and had their life essence sucked from them, every thought imaginable swam in Carlo’s head. The strongest was a voracious barracuda. 

His life was over. 

More than once, he cried like the day his father died in a still-unexplained fire. His eyes again clouded at the memory, but he wiped his face with the back of his hand, determined not to let emotions get the better of him. He still yearned to learn the truth about his father’s death, but he didn’t give a shit anymore about the Order or being Painter. He had to consider his life, his future. How could he return to Venice? How could he continue his art career? How could he reconcile with Julia? 

A mere two weeks prior, he was Venice’s rising-star artist. But it was all a sham. His benefactor and supposed father figure, Salvatore della Porta, Exalted Master of the Ancient Order of the Seventh Sun, had been grooming Carlo his whole life to be Tintoretto’s replacement—a position forced upon Carlo when Nick O’Connor extinguished the first Painter’s long life. Della Porta had withheld so much from Carlo, not the least of which was the ability to hear Paradiso’s furious prisoners—including his father.

Carlo stood and paced the room, careful to sidestep any drawings of Julia and people from his flashbacks. He puffed on his cigarette like an asthma inhaler. 

Would things have been different had he not met Nick and Julia? How a fleeting moment could alter a life. Nick was also able to hear a soul in Paradiso, but only one—Isabella Scalfini, Nick’s beloved from his past life. Carlo had truly wanted to help, but as the American tourist regressed to Angelo Mascari, a swordsman from the sixteenth century, everything went to literal hell.

A long drag from his cigarette served to only fuel his nicotine addiction. He snuffed the butt in the overflowing glass ashtray on the dresser and caught himself in the mirror. Bloodshot hazel eyes stared back at him beneath a mop of dark brown. He looked as miserable as he felt.

The tiny room and putrid air suffocated him. The walls tightened by the hour, threatening to squeeze him like a grape in a vise. If he stayed in this room, he’d end up slitting his wrists in the bathtub. The Order be damned; he needed to breathe.

He snatched his key card, wallet, and passport off the nightstand.

People streamed by Carlo in the bustling nightlife of the Malasaña neighborhood. Couples dined and drank. Groups of friends filed into bars with varying types of music, backdropping his cacophonous soundscape. 

While the fresh air and activity lifted his spirit, Carlo walked in slow motion, sticking to the walls and shadows. He lowered the brim of his newly purchased Real Madrid hat to enshroud his face. He’d always admired the football club and their aggressive tactics on and off the field, though he was currently very much on defense.

Other than being landlocked, from what he’d seen, Madrid seemed to be his ideal city. If only the Order didn’t have a base of operations there. Not to mention its proximity to Venice. Nowhere in Europe was safe.

He chugged his Coke.

America seemed to be a good choice for his career. Maybe New York. No, farther. Los Angeles. Hell, why not Hawaii? He could change his name. Would a vacationing Order member recognize him? Argentina was a better option. Or maybe Thailand. Julia would become a memory, but he could paint landscapes and sell them on the beach. His friend had spent two months traveling Southeast Asia and raved about the joys of lounging in a hammock by day and dancing with girls at quarter, half, and full-moon parties by night. 

The moon brought him back to the Order and their ceremonies based on lunar phases. Knowing the group had sentenced Senator Quattrone, as well as his descendant, sent waves of agitation and anger through Carlo. Was history repeating itself? 

He rubbed his tatted forearms. Was it a parallel situation? Or had he betrayed della Porta? 

A group of drunk college-aged kids headed straight for him, not even acknowledging his presence. Carlo shimmied out of their way like the ghost he was.

‘They are liars, free us.’

Senator Quattrone’s soul had uttered the words from Paradiso in the Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum the night before. Was he warning Carlo? Had his father also been deceived? Perhaps there was a history of double-crossed souls. Carlo wondered why he’d yet to see his father’s memories. Then again, there were thousands of souls locked away, and he’d only gained the recollections of a handful.

If there were a possibility of freeing his father, Nick, and the other souls, Carlo would need to return to the Palazzo Ducale to complete the task. But he was ostracized from Venice, and now, hunted. 

His phone chimed with an SMS. A number he didn’t recognize. A text in English. ‘Kapital Club. Third Floor. 2:00.’

It was 1:08 AM. Carlo searched Google Maps and found the club was a thirty-minute walk away. It could’ve been a ruse, but would della Porta set a trap in a public place, especially a nightclub? Possibly, but he’d play the odds. 

There was a 0.001% chance it was Julia.