Part 37 (1/2)

”Tiff, d.a.m.n you!”

She entered the church and started along the central aisle. She meant to move quickly.

Her footsteps were slow.

She saw the chapels on either sides of the nave of the church, secretive dens of shadow.

There were altars in all of them and artwork hanging above the altars.

She curled her fingers about the cross that hung round her neck.

”Tiff?”

Fear was setting in. She glanced at the side chapels to make sure that the shadows weren't moving. She imagined she heard a fluttering of wings.

It was the sound of her own breath.

Get out of here, idiot!

Then she realized that the candles at the altar were set around something in a rectangular pattern. A long rectangular pattern.

A body.

For a moment she stood dead still; even her heart seemed to cease to beat.

”Tiff?”

She started walking again, forcing her footsteps along faster.

Yes, it was Tiff. She was stretched out on the altar in a long white garment, just like the innocent ingenue in a horror movie awaiting the menace of the villain.

”Tiff, d.a.m.n you, this isn't funny! Get up.”

Something swept past her head.

Then, the roof above her seemed to be alive with the flutter of wings.

”Bats!” She looked up at the ceiling.

Yes, bats.

”Dive bomb me again, and I'll come back with a lighter and a can of gasoline, and let them arrest me for burning down half of Venice!” she threatened, raising a hand to the roof.

”d.a.m.n you, Tiff... !”

She neared the altar, shaking she was so scared and angry, but not about to leave without Tiffany Henley, and not without telling her just what she thought of this cruel nonsense.

”Tiff, get up!”

She swore, brus.h.i.+ng her sleeve on a candle as she reached out to shake Tiff.

It was definitely Tiff. Dressed in white ...

Like a white shroud, winding all the way up to her neck. Any minute now, Tiff would open her eyes wide and go, ”Boo!” She'd tell Jordan that she just couldn't help it, she had the money to play such an elaborate joke, and she just wanted Jordan to be able to laugh at what had happened at the contessa's palazzo.

But Tiff didn't move when Jordan shook her. Her arm was stone cold.

Jordan stared at her face. Her eyes were closed. Her color was ashen.

More than ashen. She looked as if her flesh had been bleached to white.

”Tiff... ?” She shook the woman again. Tiff wasn't just cold; she was icy. Jordan swallowed, losing her breath.

”Tiff?” she whispered again, this time her voice a plea.

But she knew the truth.

Tiff was dead.

She lifted her newfound friend by the shoulders. Then she gasped in horror, dropping the body and stepping back.

Tiff's head had remained on the altar. It had been severed from her body. Only the white shroud had hidden the decapitation.

She found her breath and let out a bloodcurdling scream. For an instant, she was transfixed in horror; a second later, the human drive for self-preservation shot into her like lightning.

She turned to flee, even starting to run for the open doorway before she saw that it was blocked.

A man stood there.

In black pants and a black leather jacket.

Head s.h.i.+ning golden in the candlelight.

Ragnor Wulfsson.

”Oh, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” she shrieked, stopping, looking madly about for a weapon, something to throw. A dusty hymnal lay on the ground; she plucked it up, throwing it ”Jordan, no!” he called to her, but she was in a frenzy, beyond listening, far beyond hearing him or comprehending.

She raced back for a candle, reaching for it with such abandon that she scattered half the candles, and disrupted the body.

She was dimly aware of the awful sound as the head hit the floor.

She threw a candle, then another.

”Jordan!” he shouted again, striding down the aisle. ”Jordan, d.a.m.n you, watch out, come to me, run to me!”

But she was backing away.