Company of Angels 02 - The Demoness of Waking Dreams

Marco, the four bronzed statues, were so famously robbed away from the Byzantine Empire. Sì, even the body of San Marco himself was stolen, his remains thieved out of Egypt by Venetian merchants in the ninth century.”
    Tourists loved this story. Just as they loved finding an authentic Venetian.
    And like all the rest of them, this one ate it up.
    He pulled out the chair next to her. “May I?”
    “Only if you’re in the mood for trouble,” she said, running a suggestive finger along the edge of her neckline, along the top of one perfect breast.
    He laughed, his eyes almost popping out of his head. “On the contrary. I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
    “Not exactly,” she said. “However, a trip in the other direction can be easily arranged.”
    He laughed at the odd statement, thinking it was a joke.
    Well, she thought. Can’t say I didn’t warn him.
    He flagged the waiter over and ordered two Cinzanos. When the drinks came, she thought about how easy it would be, what a subtle movement it would take to poison him. A slight squeeze of the fingers could decant a single drop of poison into his drink, too quick for his feeble human mind to even detect.
    Under the table, his hand rested on her thigh. Gave it a squeeze that made her want to kick him. Made her want to poison him right here in the square. To leave his dying corpse sitting in this metal chair, for one of the caffè waiters to find.
    But to do so would draw undue attention to herself. To take a risk that she couldn’t afford. Not right now.
    Instead, she stretched her face into a tight little smile.
    “Venice is so much more than a cliché for tourists,” she told him. “You come here for the festivals. Buy a carnival mask, drink some Prosecco. Tour the palazzos and the churches. If you consider yourself very stylish, you might have a Bellini at Harry’s Bar. But you will never get another chance to see Venice as the real Venetians know it. I would love to show you the secrets of my home. A part of the city that few other tourists have ever seen.”
    That part was no lie.
    Before the night was over, he would take a tour to the bottom of a canal.
    After all, how many tourists got to see that?
    She pulled the tourist toward one of the waiting gondolas, allowed him to help her into it.
    “Take a leisurely route,” she told the human gondolier, rattling off directions that would bring them within stumbling distance of her home. “Listen,” she said, leaning on the edge of the boat. “The gondoliers are singing barcarole, traditional folk songs. They sing all the time, but mostly popular songs from the South. ‘ O Sole Mio.’ That is what you hear in the canals so often, and it is not even from Venice. But once in a while, you will find some who sing the old Venetian songs. How beautiful, no?”
    But the tourist wasn’t listening. He pawed her, clumsily running his hands over her, evoking nothing but disgust in her.
    Soon, she promised herself. Soon this will be over, and he will be lying underwater.
    Then, the most disturbing thought popped into her mind.
    She found herself wishing Brandon’s hands were running over her.
    Wished it were Brandon’s tattooed, muscled arms holding her. His beautifully curved lips brushing over hers, instead of this cretin human tourist’s.
    And when she opened her eyes, there he was.
    Standing on the rooftop of one of the old palazzos, high above them, staring down at them. Silhouetted against the night sky by the moonlight, and there was no doubt why he had come.
    Luciana gasped out loud.
    “What is it?” asked the tourist.
    “Nothing,” she said, stealing a glance upward.
    The angel was strolling along the rooftops as casually as any human might stroll along the Mercerie, shopping for goods.
    Neither of the humans below—not the tourist nor the gondolier—gave a hint of even noticing.
    In a flash, the angel was beside them, bearing down on them. He ripped the man away from her. Grabbing the front of his shirt, he stared deep into the tourist’s eyes. Quietly, Brandon said, “Get out of the gondola now. Forget you ever met this woman. Your little adventure is over. You will not recall any of this. If you ever try to remember what happened tonight, you will only remember wandering among the streets of Venice, lost.”
    The human froze for an instant, in shock as the angel bore down on him.
    “Go!” Brandon thundered, nearly pushing him clean out of the gondola.
    In the calm water, the