The Dead Speak in Riddles

The Dead Speak in Riddles

Keith Gouveia & Giovanna Lagana

Copyright © 2013 Keith Gouveia & Giovanna Lagana

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 148413818X

ISBN-13: 978-1484138182

No part of this book may be distributed, shared, resold, posted online, or reproduced in any electronic or hard copy form.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities between actual persons or events is entirely coincidental.

Cover art design by Mathieu Mallet.

Artwork from a free images section of the photo stock site MorgueFiles.com has been altered and used in creating the cover. The artwork is used under a royalty-free license.

DEDICATION

To Lisa, the greatest partner a man could ask for.

—Keith Gouveia

To my hubby and kids, you are my inspiration.

—Giovanna Lagana

Table Of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Authors

PROLOGUE

Father Abramo struggled against the three men carrying him down into the Capuchin catacombs underneath the Palermo monastery. With a man on each leg and another with his arms linked around his own, Abramo could not jerk free. Their sudden aggression had caught him by surprise, for they were all men of the cloth and at one time he had called them friends.

You can’t do this!

You brought this on yourself, Abramo. You took an oath, said Father Clemente, his grip getting tighter.

An oath we intend you to keep, added Father Ernesto.

They know, Father Abramo thought. He slammed the back of his head into Father Leandro, hoping to connect with the bullish man’s chin, but his blow fell short of its mark and harmlessly hit his wide chest.

You shouldn’t fight us, Abramo, Leandro said, his voice deep and lacking compassion. This is God’s will.

It’s misguided, he argued, but they said no more.

The catacombs were the final resting place of the friars and priests of the church, still adorned in their clerical vestments, and a select few local luminaries who provided funds to maintain the church. As they traversed through the long corridors, they passed countless carved stone niches and bodies hung on the walls like morbid art with their arms crossed in front of their chests. Clusters of matted hair clung to their chins and scalps, their once sun-kissed skin now an ashy hue. Their faces distorted from time and gravity, giving them the appearance as though they were screaming from beyond the grave.

A chill danced down Father Abramo’s spine as he knew they were taking him to the farthest chamber in the catacombs; a room used for embalming before segregating the corpses. Even if he could break free, the so-called men of God would certainly tackle him from behind as he made his way through the narrow tunnels, for they knew its intricacies far better than he. The claustrophobic fear embraced him with its icy chill every time he stared down the entrance in front of the church’s altar, and he’d done all he could to avoid the dark bowels. He had always hated the idea of one day being laid to rest in the catacombs with the other priests. It seemed unnatural. Dust to dust. But for whatever reason, the practice was maintained, some long-standing belief that transcended the diverse cultures of Sicily.

Upon entering the final room, Father Abramo’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of his love atop a terra-cotta table, surrounded by a puddle of crimson. She lay motionless, stripped of her dignity and exposed for all the world to see. Her brown hair draped over her shoulders and almost reached to her bosom to cover her nakedness. How he had longed for many years to see her supple flesh, but this was not how he envisioned it.

Ersilia...Ersilia? What have you done?

We have preserved her beauty before she was corrupted by the sins of the flesh. Pray our Lord sees fit to reunite the two of you in Heaven, said Father Ernesto.

Don’t worry, her body will be laid to rest with the other virgins, added Father Clemente.

His fellow priests carried him over to an adjacent table and he eyed the two, long slits running down his love’s arms, the edges of the wounds folded over. He took note of the faint trace of blackish goo inside the wound.

How could they have taken someone so cheerful, so lively, from this earth?

Even in death, Ersilia looked beautiful. Her complexion had always been fair and if not for the fatal wounds, Abramo could have believed she was merely sleeping, awaiting his gentle kiss.

She was innocent. How could you do this? he asked as the three priests pinned him to the table.

Innocent, you say? another voice came, one Father Abramo recognized immediately. The man stepped out of the shadows holding a small bowl of black, viscous fluid and adorned in a red, ceremonial robe with the hood pulled over his head, casting a menacing shadow over his sunken features. She has bewitched a servant of God.

Father Nicolõ...I told you in confidence.

Just be grateful we’ve acted before you fell into temptation. For now you will most certainly be welcomed to sit by His side. Had we waited any longer and you tasted the fruit of her loins...well...I’d say the fires of Hell burn hotter than your passion.

You have betrayed our Lord far more than I would have. You have taken a life. A life so pure —

Silence! Father Leandro covered Abramo’s mouth with his hand. Father Nicolõ has been given special permission. As men of the cloth, it is our duty to purge heretics as she from this earth.

Father Abramo tried to speak on her behalf, but he could barely suck in a breath through the sausage-like fingers pressed tightly to his lips.

From the folds of his robe, Father Nicolõ produced a ceremonial knife. You will remain here with your brothers, the way God intended.

Abramo moaned in protest, but his plea was ignored. The blade pierced his forearm and sliced through his flesh. The spilled blood felt cool upon his skin and with one brachial vein open, Father Nicolõ walked around the foot of the table to slice open the other. Father Clemente, who had Abramo’s arm held tight against the table, squeezed his bicep and rolled his fingers into the muscle to quicken his death.

As the blood pumped out of the gash, sparkles of rainbow colored lights danced in his vision. The walls seemed to spin around him and the moisture in his mouth dissipated.

Father Abramo forced his head to the right to gaze upon his love one last time, wanting her beauty to be the last thing he’d see before parting this world. A tear rolled down his cheek as he envisioned her suffering.

I’m sorry, my dear Ersilia, he thought. Sorry that you had to endure this all because I confessed my love to a man I believed my friend. I hope you knew I was willing to give this all up for the chance to be with you. You are, and always will be, special to me.

Father Nicolõ began to chant, his voice distant and incoherent to Abramo’s ear.

Is that the psalm of David? No. Perhaps Romans 15:13? No matter, he thought.

Whatever prayer the overzealous priest recited for Abramo’s soul would not protect Nicolõ’s soul from the fires of Hell.

The blade pierced Abramo’s left arm, the sudden surge of pain ignited his senses. More of his blood flowed and the room seemed to expand as if he were falling away.

No, he told himself. This is not the work of God. If he can forsake me for love, than I shall forsake Him.

Father Abramo wriggled his lips under the portly fingers and was able to open his mouth enough to bite down.

Father Leandro yipped in pain as he withdrew his hand and stepped away from the table.

Capitalizing on Father Clemente and Ernesto’s shock, Father Abramo kicked outward, sending both men crashing to their backsides.

You fool. You shall burn in Hell for this transgression.

You first, Father Abramo said, then grabbed hold of his robes and pulled him close. I shall take from you what you took from me.

With that, Father Abramo leaned in and clamped his teeth upon the priest’s throat. He pulled back and tore a chunk of flesh away with him. Blood gushed forth and Father Abramo lapped at it like a wild dog, the taste sending shockwaves of euphoria through his body. His wounds ignited in unholy fire, then the pain subsided and the slits in his arms were no more. Something inside him awakened; something primal. An unquenchable thirst; a hunger unlike any he had experienced before.

Father Nicolõ’s screams frightened the other priests into fleeing and Abramo quietly laughed at their cowardice. Unwilling to allow Nicolõ to break free from his hold, Abramo tackled the man to the ground and drank greedily. Soon his flailing arms went limp at his sides.

With each mouthful of blood he consumed, Abramo could feel more of his senses coming alive. He could hear his victim’s heart beat slow and the heavy footfalls of the other priests as they fled through the catacombs. He smelled the coppery aroma of the blood passing over his lips and the putrid smell of the dozens of mummified corpses—a mixture of spoiled meat, sour air, and decayed fabric.

As Father Nicolõ’s heart beat its last, Abramo stood. The precious liquid of life dripped from his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, then licked it clean. Exquisite, he thought as his taste buds sprang to life.

The footsteps sounded louder suddenly and he was unsure if his hearing was still improving or if someone was coming. Not wanting to be caught by surprise, he turned around in time to see Father Leandro rush toward him with a spear held out and aimed for his heart. With cat-like reflexes, he swatted the tip of the spear downward and the blade pierced his abdomen instead of its intended target.

Father Leandro’s eyes went wide and his lower lip trembled at the unflinching sight of Abramo. The fear etched on the man’s face caused a smile to stretch across Abramo’s face. He put his hands on the handle and stepped back, pulling the weapon from Leandro’s hands.

This can’t be...you should be —

Dead? Abramo finished for him as he pulled the spear tip from his flesh. The pain was minimal, a slight irritation as it passed through muscle, then skin.

Both he and Leandro stared at the blood-soaked tip upon its exit. A coiled section of intestine dangled off its sharp edge as blood dripped to the floor. Abramo couldn’t help but wonder if he needed to shove the spongy, tubular tissue back inside himself.

As if answering his question, the wound ignited in an orange flame, and as the flame burned out, the wound closed.

Leandro sniffed the air around them. Brimstone? That’s how you have this strange power. You’ve sold your soul to Belzebù.

I did no such thing.

Liar! Leandro reeled back with his right hand, then launched himself forward.

Abramo could see the fist sailing toward his jawbone as if it were in slow motion. At any time he felt as though he could pluck it out of the air and snap it back, but out of curiosity, he allowed Leandro to catch him flush on the left side of his face. The blow barely caused his neck to tilt to the right. He grinned as Leandro’s eyes went wide with fear.

Before the priest could realize the danger, Abramo twirled the spear around in his hands and plunged its pointed tip into Leandro’s chest. He gasped as the blade entered just below his heart and exited through his back. Abramo could hear the blood rise up in the man’s throat, it bubbled and popped as he tried to breathe.

With the spear angled upward, he pulled the man close. He reached around the left side of Leandro and plucked the piece of muscle off the spear. He brought it to his lips, the aroma enticed his senses.

Monster! Leandro spat, blood splashed upon his face and Abramo smiled before lapping off what he could.

No more than you, my friend, he answered, then tossed the piece of Leandro’s flesh into his mouth. I’ll see you in Hell.

With the strength of three men, Abramo hoisted up on the spear’s handle. The blade sliced through bone, muscle, and skin before exiting out his shoulder. A geyser of blood erupted from the separation of flesh, and then turned into a trickle as Leandro’s body fell lifelessly to the floor.

Now for your accomplices.

Abramo stepped over the fallen priest and made his way through the dank corridors. Those cowards are probably halfway to town by now, he thought, neither Father Clement or Ernesto had the courage to help Leandro. So much for kinship.

Amongst the decay and rot, he caught a faint, vinegary scent that proved his suspicion incorrect. They’re still here. I can smell their sweat. Abramo looked to his right then his left and caught a sparkle of light reflected off a shovel aimed for his head. He caught it just beneath the broad blade and yanked it out of Father Clemente’s hands.

Fool, he said, then pelted the priest with the back of his hand. The force of the blow caused Father Clemente to fall to the floor.

Leave him be, monster!

The mummified corpse of a friar flew at him, tossed by Father Ernesto.

Have you no respect! Abramo said, catching the brown-robed cadaver.

As he gently laid it in place, a rope flew overhead. It found solace around his throat and was then pulled taut. It didn’t take Abramo long to figure out he didn’t need to breathe. The tightness around his neck was a minor nuisance that could cause him no harm. His hands reached up to grab the rope and he noticed his fingernails were a half an inch longer and tapered to a sharp point. Their appearance shocked him and Father Clemente used the time wisely to get to his feet and reclaim his weapon. With the shovel perched over his head, Father Clemente rushed him. Abramo quickly spun around as the shovel’s blade came hurtling toward him. The metal clanged against Father Ernesto’s skull and Abramo followed it up with an elbow blow into his midsection. The sound of bones cracking echoed in his ears. Father Ernesto fell to the side in a slump, both hands clutching the back of his head.

Abramo spun around to face Father Clemente, who appeared remorseful at what he had done. Without batting an eyelash, Abramo’s right arm hooked upward. His fingernails sliced through the man’s jugular and Father Clemente choked on the crimson fluid filling his mouth.

No...please...no more, Father Ernesto begged, but Abramo was in no mood to show mercy. He placed the heel of his sole against the priest’s temple and focused all his weight on the single point.

Father Ernesto screamed in pain as his eyes bulged from their sockets, tears of blood streaked down his cheeks as his skull folded in on itself. With a juicy pop, brain matter exploded across the tufaceous soil.

It’s done, he said with a heavy heart. He turned to look back, his eyes able to cut through the darkness and see Ersilia’s naked form. I cannot stay here, he thought, I have failed as a man and a priest.

Thunder cracked in the night, an ominous boom to Abramo’s ears. The dripping of water echoed off the walls as rain poured outside. With his enemies dead and his love lost to him forever, he walked through the long subterranean passages lined with the dead, unafraid and defeated. The bodies looked upon him with their sightless eyes; their bony,