Ravenword and The House of the Red Death - 2: The Journey

2

The Journey

An innocuous yellow taxi pulls up to the curb at San Francisco International Airport near the sidewalk check-in kiosk where a beleaguered T. J. is coordinating a gaggle of luggage with Motisha barking orders over his shoulder. The sky is a wide canvas of deep blue, which is unusual for the Bay Area, despite the fact that it is late May. Contrary to popular imagination, not all of California is perpetually awash in sunshine, even in spring, and nowhere is this truer than the sullen northern coast of the Golden State. For many, as attested by Samuel Clemens, their coldest winters were indeed summers spent in San Francisco, where the billowing fog is pulled in and out of the Golden Gate on the wings of the biting Pacific wind. But today all suggestion of gloom or calamity is vanquished in the disregard of sunlight and anticipation. Parson emerges from this taxi to the chorus of humanity’s coming and going with Motisha’s strident vocals taking center stage. As the cab driver moves swiftly to the trunk to transfer his luggage to the baggage cart of an approaching porter, Parson watches Motisha and T. J. with a devilish grin. After tipping the taxi driver and skycap, he strolls up to them, his eyes dancing from point to counterpoint.

“First class!” Motisha shouts over the noise of cars, public announcements, and passengers walking in all directions and chattering away in a world of their own. “First class!”

“It’s world business class, honey,” T. J. corrects as he and the baggage handler fumble in their haste to tag the cases.

Motisha scorns him with a glance, but he is too preoccupied with getting the luggage taken care of in the time she has allotted to notice. “World class, even better.”

“No, no,” the handler corrects through a burdensome accent, “all the same. Bags all the same, no class for them.”

Motisha is just about to unleash on the unsuspecting attendant when Parson takes mercy on him and makes his presence known. “Jesus on a stick, the wealthy know how to travel!”

T. J. looks up with a grin, but the only offering Parson gets from Motisha is an impatient scowl. The athlete straightens and extends a hand that Parson waves back like a swarm of gnats.

“Handshakes are for business and pussies, which in this part of the city are the same thing,” he chides, pulling T. J.’s tall frame into an embrace.

T. J. chuckles awkwardly, patting him on the back politely.

“Come on, Miss Bitch, you’re not so mean as to scare me off,” Parson levels at Motisha.

Her commanding facade drops momentarily, giving Parson his shot at a genuine exchange, but as soon as the hug is over she’s back on the handler like a spider on a fly. Parson and T. J. share a sympathetic sigh, and then Parson slips into the crowd. “See you on board or at Betty Ford!”

Inside he finds Vin, Agnot, and Charlie waiting at the gate, where panoramic windows showcase the bustling tarmac.

“Two lesbians and a straight man,” he bellows, striding up to them with his arms outstretched.

Charlie smiles brightly and is the first to give him a hug.

“The perfect recipe for straight porn,” he continues, moving on to Agnot, “or so they say.”

Agnot’s embrace is brief but sincere, while Vin braces himself for Parson’s lingering squeeze. Parson, however, waves him back, feigning disinterest.

“No, I don’t think you get one today, mister.”

Vin’s face drops with surprise as his cheeks flush with dejection.

“Oh, who am I kidding?” Parson gushes, wrapping his arms around him. Vin returns the tease with a bear hug that leaves Parson pulling away with a red face of his own. “Brute.”

“We weren’t sure you were gonna make it,” Agnot says as Parson shoves Vin’s shoulder playfully.

He composes himself and looks at the three proudly. “Well, I almost didn’t. Some basher over on Hill Street didn’t know who he was fucking with. I gave him one swing and then the beating of his life. While he was lying in the gutter crying like Lindsay Lohan in an orange jumpsuit, I kicked him in the ribs and asked him how it felt to get his ass kicked by a fag! Then I took his wallet and used his ATM card to supplement this little excursion to Italy.”

“You did not!” Charlie gasps.

“Yes I did,” Parson retorts defiantly. “The dumbass had his pin number on the back of his card, so I dragged myself up all pretty and pulled as much out of his accounts as I could. Whoever watches the surveillance camera will see Miss India Man at her most delectable.”

“You kicked a gay-basher’s ass?” Agnot echoes skeptically.

“I haven’t gone to the gym every day for the past six years just to look gorgeous at the beach—which I do. It’s a dangerous world, and we’ve got to take care of ourselves.”

A giddy Julia suddenly appears at their side, jumping up and down and convulsing with eager giggles.

Parson quickly drops his austere stance and joins her pogo.

“I wonder how many people he’s got in that head,” Agnot quips.

In full bounce mode, Julia grabs Parson and wraps her arms around him before bounding to Vin, whose attempt at hugging her while she bounces causes their friends to snicker. Moving to Agnot, Julia makes a genuine attempt at subduing her effervescence, but it only changes manifestation. Instead of jumping up and down, she runs in place like a child waiting outside a bathroom.

“Parson was just telling us how he got spending money for the trip,” Charlie reports upon her turn.

Julia’s jubilation deflates and she turns back to Parson. “I hope it didn’t involve a microwave and three months of physical therapy.”

The voice over the PA system announces the boarding for their flight, interrupting the exchange and pressing them to grab their carry-ons and tighten up in line.

“Where’s Billy?” Julia asks, rolling one of her rings around her finger.

Vin answers quietly. “I don’t think he was able to get the cash together.”

II

After the customary queue and shuffle, the five settle into their own little block of coach seats near the back of the plane. Vin’s first act is to put his face to the window and survey their surroundings.

“Hmm, the fog is rolling in,” he observes, “and fast.”

Julia sets her knees on her seat between him and Parson and leans across to replace his face at the window. “That’s weird.”

“Honey, it’s going to be hard for me to have a conversation with your ass if you keep moving it around like that,” Parson rebukes with a playful spank.

Behind them, Agnot rolls her thickly mascaraed eyes. “Yeah, fog in San Francisco—that’s really fucking weird.”

Julia turns to hover over the back of her seat and face her antagonist. “Agnot.”

“Julia.”

“It’s like some creepy presence is—”

“Oh shit,” Charlie moans, bringing the playful vignette to a sudden close.

“There’s your creepy presence,” Agnot follows quickly, nodding toward the front of the plane.

Billy is driving toward them with a dangling backpack careening dangerously past the heads of the unfortunate passengers in the aisle seats.

Julia turns and catches his attention with a fanning wave, which prods him to quicken his pace, much to the dismay of those who have been watching his haphazard approach.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice announces from overhead. “The tower has cleared us to get going ahead of schedule, so if you will please take your seats and buckle up, we’ll get on our way.”

“We’re really getting socked in,” Vin reports from his window as the engines wind up and the plane backs out.

Ahead of them a flight attendant takes the stage to recite the safety procedures, and Billy plops down in the seat next to Charlie.

“So…” Charlie begins, searching for the most diplomatic confirmation of her own misfortune as she can manage, “…you’re sitting here?”

“Yeah. Why?” Billy replies defensively.

“No reason,” Charlie says with a plastic smile.

Agnot leans forward and looks at him through narrowed eyes. “You do one disgusting thing, and I’ll give you a mile-high beating. Got it?”

Billy shrinks into the back of his seat, and Julia shoots Agnot a silent rebuke.

“You can sit next to me,” she chimes happily, nodding to Parson.

“Sure, the lesbians and I can be the queer line of aerial defense.”

“Just don’t do anything gross, okay?” Julia adds quickly in her sweetest tone.

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on it later,” Billy answers before reaching down into his backpack and retrieving a surprisingly well-cared-for hardbound.

Julia notices the raised eyebrow of the flight attendant at the back of the plane and rights herself, snapping the seatbelt in place with a giggle.

III

The jetliner is soon in the air with the San Francisco Bay shrinking behind and the six members of Ravenword tossing idle talk between them. In business class, T. J. is reclining with a warm hand towel over his eyes as Motisha is returning her improperly prepared cocktail to the attendant when a bout of turbulence rattles the fuselage.

The plane lurches, sending T. J.’s hand towel to the floor.

Motisha’s fingers dig into his arm.

“We’re okay,” he assures, patting her hand and looking to the jostled attendant making her way back to the service station with Motisha’s drink like a cat on a trampoline.

The seats begin to tremble, prompting Motisha to release her grip in favor of her seatbelt, much to T. J.’s relief.

“This is your captain. Looks like we’ve come up on some unstable air. Please remain seated while we try smooth things out for you.”

Overhead, the seatbelt indicators light up.

A second pitch throws the passengers forward, and the cabin lights dim.

The turbulence melts into a sluggish glide. The lights do not return, but the low setting draws a relaxed sigh from Motisha. She sits back and closes her eyes contently, savoring the ethereal ease of the carrier’s momentum. She soon remembers, however, that she is due a cocktail and turns to stare down the flight attendant.

The aisle recedes darkly, yet she can make out a pale figure huddled in the back and convulsing. Annoyed at the prospect that the woman is wasting time laughing, no doubt flirting, with someone in the shadows while she waits for her drink, Motisha raises her hand and snaps her fingers. The wan attendant nods to the order and straightens. A moment later she is approaching.

Could she be any slower? Motisha gripes in the glacier of her mind.

As she draws closer, Motisha’s irritation bleeds away. The woman seems horribly pale, as if her arteries have been cut at the ankles.

Motisha stares. How can a flight attendant be airsick?

The attendant looms, extending a dubious cocktail. Gray circles bag her eyes, and perspiration blisters her forehead and upper lip.

Motisha recoils.

The woman’s thin, purple lips issue a shallow, nearly inaudible apology.

A sinister cold bites Motisha’s fingers as she takes the glass absently.

A tiny bead of crimson blooms on the brow of the sallow incubus and methodically trails her ghostly face.

Motisha’s eyes are wide and track the bead until it dangles on the woman’s jaw.

It releases to dive and expand cloud-like in the cocktail.

Motisha throws the glass to the floor. Grappling wildly with her seatbelt, she bolts to her feet. “What is the matter with you? How can you be serving drinks? You’re going to get us all sick!”

Before the rant is expelled, T. J. is checking her with the same expression of shock and confusion as the surrounding passengers.

Dumbfounded, the attendant can only gape as her crewmates rush to her side.

Motisha falls silent, blinking at the lovely attendant, who is suddenly a vision of youth and health.

The cabin is bright and permeated with the monotonous droning of the engines.

Motisha grapples for T. J.’s hand as her brain reels.

Confounded, he takes her hand with a reassuring squeeze.

Her mouth stretches into an assumed smile as her posture stiffens. “Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room, please?”

Speechless, the attendant gestures toward the service station.

“Thank you.” Motisha clasps her hands at her waist, turns in an about-face, and proceeds down the aisle, throwing her head and shoulders back in a rigidly dignified display of composure.

“What was that about?” the second stewardess asks the first as they make their way back to their station.

“I have no idea, but it’s too early in the flight to have someone freaking out,” she replies churlishly, trying to shake the incident from her nerves.

“Well, I’d better go back to coach. I doubt there’s anyone on the plane who didn’t hear that.”

IV

“Did they let you see her?” Julia asks as Parson returns to his seat.

“Not at first, but then I told them she’s my snooty older sister,” he answers, taking his seat beside her sideways to face the group.

Agnot looks at the blond-haired, blue-eyed Caucasian incredulously.

“What?” he sings with a shrug. “I told them she was adopted.”

“Is she okay?” Vin checks.

“What happened?” Julia interjects.

“Couldn’t tell ya. She just freaked out, and now her lips are tighter than Hemsworth’s abs.”

“Who the hell is Hemsworth?” Billy asks, with little interest in Motisha’s drama.

Parson’s eyes scroll over Billy. “Never mind.”

With new and rich fodder, the five dissect the intriguing vignette as the airliner carries them over the continent, leaving Billy to his book. As the plane leaves the eastern seaboard, night overtakes the flight rapidly, and they follow the cue of dimming lights in a bid to sleep in the cramped confines of coach. In business class both Motisha and T. J. slumber soundly in the cradle of sedatives provided by the very accommodating crew.

Crack!

Vin is torn from his rest by the stunning clap. His bleary eyes dart to the window as a blazing bolt ravages the wing. Fiery fractures race to the fuselage, harrowing him to the core.

Crash! Roar!

Julia wakes screaming as the ceiling is ripped away!

Debris is sucked into the thunderous black stratosphere. Corpses in the surrounding seats, bloated and purple, compound Parson’s horror as they quake grotesquely in the tempest.

Shrapnel from an exploding engine blasts Agnot’s window, splaying it with fractures as the plane plummets. Gasping in the hurricane of decompression, she turns to Charlie amid the clarion groan of splitting metal.

A voiceless scream taps Charlie as seatbelts snap around her like minds in a madhouse. Rising like demons, the dead tumble through the cabin to the abyss of the growing breach.

Aghast, Billy watches the last of the corpses sail by in a concert of grotesque thuds and crunches.

The front of the plane tears away, sending Ravenword strapped to their doom.

Their chorus of shrill screams jar the passengers from their slumber as stricken flight attendants sweep to the heart of the primal alarm to find the six howling and convulsing in their seats as if wired to electric chairs.

“Stop it!” an attendant shouts, shaking Parson frantically. “Stop it!”

Vin’s eyes fly open and spin in confusion.

“Stop it now!” the attendant shrieks as another attendant begins shaking Billy and Charlie.

Both wake with the same crazed and terrified expression.

Parson grapples with his seatbelt.

Charlie and Agnot lunge in their seats, gasping, as if breaking the surface of a pool.

All eyes, fear-riddled or vexed, are fixed upon Ravenword. The terrible ethereum of the nightmare lingering like a spell until it is broken by a barking voice ordering them out of their seats.

Under the hard and forceful glare of a rigid and imposing man, the six file to the station at the back of the plane in contrite obedience as the flight crew attends the cabin full of shaken travelers.

Barricading the aisle with his commanding form, the stern agent surveys them one by one. “A stunt like that warrants charges.”

Vin looks at his companions and then to the man who, by his bearing and authority, he assumes to be an air marshal. “It wasn’t a prank. I dreamt the plane was struck by lightning.”

“Twice,” Julia adds fretfully.

“Three times,” Agnot corrects.

The six look at each another with faces drawn in horrible wonder, their minds wrestling against the implications.

“Were there dead bodies in yours?” Parson whispers, his voice faltering.

“Yeah, they were being sucked out of the plane,” Billy answers flatly.

“This is impossible!” Charlie cries, clutching Agnot.

“And then we fell,” Julia finishes. “The front of the plane broke off, and we fell.”

The agent assesses Billy momentarily, his instincts insinuating that the youths are not lying. “Pull yourselves together.”

“I think it’s time you return to your seats,” the lead flight attendant chides.

“No,” the man counters, looking to the attendant gravely, “give them time to shake it off. Something to drink would help.”

“You don’t—” she begins, only to be interrupted.

“My treat,” he interjects sharply. “I’ll take one too.”

V

The flight into Europe’s gray morning is restless and drawn for everyone on the plane but happily uneventful. The arrival of Ravenword in Paris is equally subdued, save for the scornful glares and murmurs from their fellow passengers. The disdain of those traveling on to Milan, however, is palpable but tempered by the compulsory mad dash en masse to the gate of their connecting flight.

Motisha and T. J., kempt but not fresh, are already boarding while their six cohorts wait in a line headed by a flock of nuns in classic black-and-white habits. Their Italian banter and jovial laughter gives Vin a sense of relief, while Agnot wonders how many of them are lesbian. Parson, travel-weary as he may be, is not so beleaguered to allow any of the attractive Frenchmen to escape his attention. His bleary eyes smile with every unspoken salutation from a handsome passerby. Most of this is lost on Charlie, whose head is propped on Agnot’s shoulder while Julia sits wilted on the floor behind them, holding her head in her hands. Trailing, as usual, Billy continues to bury his oily face in a black-bound hardback.

To everyone’s relief, the wait is brief, and they are soon boarding. The six coach-class members of Ravenword sink into their seats without speaking, sharing the hope of more and peaceful sleep. In business class, Motisha shoos away the attendant with a wave of her hand as she reclines and closes her eyes to enjoy the music feeding through her headphones. But this particular attendant is French and has little patience for spoiled Americans.

“Mademoiselle will upright her seat, s’il vous plaît,” she orders with icy professionalism. “We must all be in order for takeoff.”

T. J., seeing the sharp seriousness behind the attendant’s polished smile, pats Motisha’s hand earnestly.

She opens her eyes and glares at the attendant as she pulls the headphones from her head.

“Mademoiselle will upright her seat, s’il vous plaît,” she repeats, returning Motisha’s glare without flinching or sacrificing her smile.

Surprised by the attendant’s fortitude, Motisha offers the flight attendant her most dour smile and uprights her seat. “I’ve traveled all the way from California and am quite tired.”

“Then you would not want to do anything to prolong the flight, oui?” the attendant replies before turning away. “Merci.”

“Je voudrias le mimosa, s’il vous plaît,” Motisha volleys before the stewardess can get away. “Merci!”

T. J. sinks in his seat, well aware of how this stretch of the flight is going to unfold. As the engines roar to life, he offers Motisha a weak smile.

VI

Unlike Paris, Milan hits their senses like a chorus of opera singers. Whether due to fatigue or distraction, de Gaulle seemed harried and stifling, whereas Linate is animated, colorful, and laced with a mixture of elusive aromas. To everyone’s surprise, Motisha is waiting for them at the gate.

“None of us stole anything from you, Miss Sis, so you can go on ahead and get your bags,” Parson quips as the manicured masses sweep past them.

“Actually, my luggage is being forwarded to my hotel.”

Motisha’s deflection is answered with raised brows and a variety of exasperations.

“So you’re not coming with us to the castle?” Agnot surmises in the driest tone she can conjure.

Motisha looks at the disheveled group of collegiate pedestrians, struggling to suppress her blithe smile.

“No,” she answers bluntly. “I have no interest in a bus and donkey ride into the back hills of Italy when Milan awaits.”

Parson crosses his arms, looking at her like a mother catching her child after curfew. Charlie’s weary countenance, however, brightens at the prospect of a Motisha-free holiday. Julia simply stands staring at Motisha in disbelief, while Billy continues to read his book, camouflaged in apathy.

“You came all this way to shop?” Vin stammers, stunned by her decadence.

Motisha’s smile is just about to crescendo when she notices a small, dark figure beside her. With the rest of Ravenword, her attention is drawn to the shriveled old woman standing with dark, wild eyes transfixed on them as if she were witnessing the horrors of her history.

“Excuse me,” Motisha says with gelid politeness. “Can I help you?”

The old woman lifts her tortured eyes from the company as a whole to meet Motisha’s, and her freckled hand rises to meet her wrinkled gasp.

“La clemenza,” she whimpers in an old-grain Italian dialect.

A blanketing darkness falls upon them with the utterance, vanquishing the cheerful greeting of Italy and leaving only the old woman’s anguished face. Her stare descends on them one by one, like a cold draft. Motisha takes T. J.’s hand, and the rest of Ravenword tighten their ranks.

A sun-beaten old man steps through the blanketing dread and takes the old woman’s arm, nodding apologetically as he tries to pry his wife from her dark perch. “Perdonarci, perdonarci,” he begs. “Venuto, Maria, venuto.”

Stiffly, whispering “la clemenza” like a skipping record, she gives in to his lead, yet her tortured gaze does not break until they are swallowed up by the throngs.

The ominous vapors diminish with her vanishing, returning Ravenword to the sights and sounds of the airport.

“Absolutely,” Motisha trumpets as if the old woman had never appeared, snapping the company back to the contention at hand. “I come to Milan every spring. You go and do whatever it is you are planning to do for two weeks, and I will be ‘vivere la vita Italiana.’”

“I can’t believe you!” Agnot carps.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Vin presses T. J., who stands beside her sheepishly.

“He does not have to explain himself to you!” Motisha snaps.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” T. J. defends.

Charlie and Julia trade exasperated sighs as Parson tries to intercede. “I think Motisha is better suited to staying in Milan and shopping like the lucky bitch that she is while the rest of us have our own adventure.”

“It’s just that we RSVP’d for eight,” Vin admonishes gently.

“One or two fewer persons will not make a difference,” Motisha interjects, her flawless complexion flushing with anger.

“What do you mean one or two?” Vin checks, his own tropical cheeks reddening.

Motisha smiles at T. J. as if she were about to present him a surprise gift. “I’ve booked the accommodations for us both.”

“What?” T. J. blurts, genuinely surprised.

“I knew you wouldn’t agree to my making the arrangements if I told you in advance,” she explains with bright, hopeful eyes, “but now that you’re here, just think of what a wonderful time we could share.”

“So all the arrangements we made don’t matter,” Charlie interjects.

“I don’t see why you can’t accommodate a little flexibility,” Motisha replies in a saccharine tone.

“It’s rude,” Agnot carps.

“Oh no! You do not lecture me in that regard!”

The crack of a hardbound book slapping the marble floor silences the mêlée abruptly.

“What’s your problem? All you guys did was bitch over being stuck with her for two weeks, so why don’t you just shut the fuck up and let her do her thing!”

With that Billy grabs his shabby backpack and shuffles down the terminal, leaving Ravenword dumbstruck at his back.

VII

Motisha’s face reaches through the window of the taxi to meet T. J.’s. Their kiss is brief, and while T. J. looks on her with tender regard, Motisha chances a fleeting glance at the company.

“You call me as soon as you change your mind,” she says softly, squeezing his hand.

T. J. steps back as the cab pulls away to dodge and challenge the traffic beyond the line of coaches at the curb. The departure of the next coach eclipses her quickly, and he returns somewhat bashfully to the rest of Ravenword.

“Black?” Julia moans as the next bus pulls forward. “Why do we get the black one?”

“It’ll only be a few minutes,” Vin proffers. “The station isn’t far.”

Ravenword stand in the brisk morning air, watching reluctantly as the door of the polished ebony coach opens with a hydraulic whisper. The eager commuters behind them, however, provide no opportunity for hesitation. Sooner than they would like, their luggage is stowed, and the darkly tinted windows are subduing the bright environs of the city. Billy shuffles evasively to the back of the bus, where he crumples into a corner and hides himself behind the bindings of his book. The remaining six fill the first three rows behind the driver, unfazed by his petulance.

Giggles rise behind Vin and T. J. as Julia slaps Parson playfully. In the seats in front of them, Agnot and Charlie are relishing the Italian architecture beyond the windows in low and intimate tones. Beside him, Vin checks their itinerary, leaving T. J. to the full, uncomfortable brunt of the commuters filing past them. Like a parade of eyes, the boarding passengers stare invasively.

T. J. can feel his cheeks and ears warming and tries to distract himself with the finials Charlie is pointing out on a nearby building. Her voice, though, seems muffled and distant, as he cannot break his awareness of the Italians congesting the aisle. Not as quickly as he would like, the seats fill and the bus pulls away from the curb with a gentle tug.

Ravenword are suddenly ripped from their individual microcosms into the confusion of a disembodied cry, the lurching of the bus, and the piercing halt.

The howl of a banshee rises like a siren from the street, and the cabin explodes as the Italians leap to their feet, craning their necks to gawk at the tragedy.

The chaos expands exponentially as the commuters pour out of the coach behind the stricken driver. The seven, however, remain seated and stoking their collective denial. Charlie buries her face in Agnot’s shoulder, and Agnot looks back at Vin and T. J. with haunted eyes. Julia and Parson simply stare past them at Agnot, sharing her stunned horror.

Whistles and sirens overwhelm the shouts and cries channeled into the bus from the open door. A moment later, a police officer is gesturing to the Americans. “Via dall’autobus, per favore.”

Needing no translation, they stand and file out of the coach somberly. Their emergence into the sunlight is punctuated by their own involuntary gasps and a terrible squeal from Julia. The broken body of the crone who had shrouded them in her spell in the terminal is sprawled on the hot pavement. Her inconsolable husband is wailing over her.

Security and police keep the crowding bystanders at bay as Ravenword are ushered away from the awful scene by an officer. As paramedics rush past them, shoving gawkers out of their path, an unspoken accusation hangs over the company, and the old man falls strangely silent.

As a paramedic gently maneuvers the little gray man out of the way, the old Italian’s eyes fall on the seven Americans. With his gaze, the collective attention of the crowd rests upon them, arresting the momentum of their retreat.

As if summonsed, they each turn to look slowly over their shoulders.

With eyes nightmarishly transfixed, the old man raises a crooked and incriminating finger at the seven. His mouth gapes with a grotesquely writhing tongue. A scream, as if the old man were meeting death incarnate, tolls from his hollow and tortured throat.

The men of the crowd rush in to catch the withered gaffer as he clutches his chest and swoons.

Women gasp and shriek.

Taking advantage of the terrible distraction, the officer sweeps the Americans behind the line of coaches and out of sight. Visibly shaken, he gestures to them to stay put and then rushes over to a group of coachmen waiting for clearance as if the death of a pedestrian were routine.

With hopeless resignation Vin looks at his companions. Julia is crying in Parson’s arms with T. J. standing over trying to comfort them both. Charlie and Agnot are wrapped tightly around each other and shaking. It is then that Vin realizes Billy’s absence. Panning their surroundings, he finds no sign of their disheveled companion but instead the recognition of an unexpected and familiar visage.

The agent who had threatened them with charges on the flight to Paris stands between the buses speaking with the young police officer, who is now pointing in their direction. His eyes meet Vin’s and within seconds he is making his way to them with determined strides.

“A dead elderly woman and six screamers, and…?” the man observes, his tone grave and humorless. He turns to T. J. “You were with the hysterical woman.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

Vin and the other four tighten ranks around T. J., wearing similar expressions of curiosity and apprehension.

“What are you doing here?” Vin asks, issuing the question that could have been posed by any of them.

“You know him?” T. J. follows, surprised and puzzled.

“No,” Agnot states abruptly. “Let’s go.”

The company is surprised by Agnot’s interjection but doesn’t challenge her. A wary bond unites them, but as they turn to find their new bus, Julia casts an apologetic glance back.

“Where are you headed?” he calls after them.

“Lucca,” Julia pipes to the consternation of her companions, who check her with collective groans.

“What?” she exclaims in a hushed voice with her head low and cocked. “He’s a cop. Don’t we have to answer his questions?”

Agnot grasps Julia’s arm and pulls her ahead of the group like an errant child. Julia doesn’t resist, but her smirk communicates her annoyance and incredulity.

“We’ll miss our train,” Vin offers weakly, too tired to mediate. “I’ll find Billy.”

Charlie’s gentle squeeze on Agnot’s shoulder tempers her frustration with Julia, who jerks her arm out of the grasp and glares back at Agnot. Behind them T. J. and Parson try to keep an eye on the stranger as covertly as possible.

“Who told you he’s a cop?”

Julia’s face turns like a page in a book from resentful to confused.

Agnot waits, watching the gears turn in Julia’s head.

Julia scrunches her nose contritely.

At the same time, Vin finds Billy standing at the edge of the perimeter created by the police. The doors of the ambulance are just shutting out Billy’s view of the old woman’s body when he turns and steps right into Vin.

“What the hell?” Vin rebukes, dismayed at Billy’s repugnant brashness.

“What?” Billy rebuffs.

Vin blinks back at him, at a loss for words, the crowd around them dissipating quickly.

“Oh, we got a new bus,” Billy notes with a chilling ease.

Vin can only gape as they hasten to board with the others.

T. J. steps back to let Billy climb into the bus as Vin follows close behind.

Vin steps onto the coach but pauses when he realizes T. J. is not coming up behind him. Turning, he finds the reluctant athlete fidgeting on the curb.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not going,” T. J. blurts, stifling the sense of betrayal.

“What?” Vin shouts, at the end of his rope. “You’re going to stay here with her?”

“It’s just getting too weird,” T. J. asserts. “And now we’re being tailed by that guy. I just can’t.”

“Fine!” Vin retorts. “Go shopping!”

Before he can rally a defense, Vin storms into the bus and the door shuts T. J. out of the company.

Ravenword stew silently on the brief drive to Milano Centrale. Five of them attempt to use the defection as a means to shake off the horrid accident. Unfortunately, that line of reasoning only brings them back to the dark odyssey that their journey has become, which, in turn, draws them full circle back to the accident. But it is the macabre disposition of the sixth that unsettles Vin the most and he wonders how well they really know Billy—or one another. A dark shadow sets on his brow as he ponders what might lie ahead.

VIII

Not even the warm and spectacular Italianate facades of Milano Centrale are able to lift the six remaining members of Ravenword from their despondency. Their silence contrasts the bustling voices and booming announcements as they navigate under the colossal vault of grand arches. The rays of the bright midmorning sun filter through the innumerable square panes of the skylights bridging the arches to fall on Vin’s crinkled copy of their itinerary. He pauses to get his bearings, bringing the group to a halt like a brood of chicks beneath a mother hen.

Julia shifts her weight to one leg and cocks her pigtailed head upward to take in the golden blush of the neo-Renaissance walls while letting a deep sigh tumble from her lips.

“I’m tired of being creeped out and bored.”

Her fellows remain quiet as Vin pans the cavernous station.

Julia repeats her propeller-esque sigh and shifts her weight.

“So,” she begins slowly, testing the waters, “if he wasn’t a cop…?”

Charlie, who is resting her head on Agnot’s shoulder, looks up at her lover for signs of a response. Agnot does not oblige, choosing instead to imitate Billy and ignore the lure.

“Or,” Julia continues, “a marshal…?”

Vin catches a passing attendant to get directions and Julia deflates over her failed attempt to pull them out of their gloom. Parson reaches over and pulls her into a hug, shaking his head and shrugging as Vin rushes back to the ensemble frantically tapping his watch.

“We’ve got to hurry!”

With that, he hurls himself into the station, pulling a startled and bewildered Billy by the sleeve.

“Come on!” he shouts behind him.

Like a diminutive stampede, they trail behind with their backpacks dancing over their shoulders and tightly packed duffel bags swinging to their frantic gait. Sweeping through the crowds like leaves through a picket fence, the six spill onto the platform cradling train 595 and dash to the closing doors with desperate shouts.

The platform is empty save an attendant, who stares at them with the rest of the passengers as the conductor steps out of character and holds the train for the young tourists.

His dour greeting does little to dampen their gushing gratitude as they file by. Checking their tickets, he points into the car without speaking and then scurries into the adjoining car as if the six were plague ridden.

Panting, they file down the narrow aisle one by one, searching for empty seats to no avail. Regardless of being late, the group quickly realizes the pitfalls of traveling on a general ticket. As they press past clusters of stalwart standing passengers, the concept of overbooking is added to their lesson. At the end of the car, a gap opens at the elbow, small but empty, where Vin turns to his companions after surveying the car ahead.

“Looks like this is it,” he says over the racket of the wheels, dropping his duffel bag in the corner.

“Who cares, as long as we can sit down,” Billy spouts, crumpling to the floor.

“That was fun!” Julia trumpets gleefully, falling onto her own duffel.

“We’ll probably have to do the same thing in Viareggio,” Vin announces, following Julia’s example and sitting on his duffel bag. “We only have fourteen minutes to find our connection, and I’m sure the train will be just as packed.”

“At least it’s not too hot,” Julia proffers.

“What is this, The Amazing Race?” Agnot grumbles, trying to catch her breath.

“One team down,” Parson quips, jostling Billy for space.

“Parson!” Julia rebuffs, afraid the group will relapse into their somber malaise.

Billy, having no interest in anything outside his book, slides over, and Parson plops down beside Julia with a playful grin. “Maybe it’s a speed bump, and they’re corralling goldfish in bikinis down the catwalk!”

Charlie and Vin both let out a laugh amid Julia’s and Parson’s giggles. Agnot rolls her eyes but can’t repress a smile, while Billy remains hidden behind the hardbound. It is only his irritation with Billy that brings the title of the book to Vin’s attention: The Castle of Otranto. Vin marks the title but doesn’t allow it to distract him from the refreshing joviality that has overtaken the group.

Their journey along Italy’s west coast is engaged thusly and augmented with sneaking peeks at the spectacular vistas as they are carried between dramatic mountains to the east and the dreamy blue Tyrrhenian Sea to the west. Any recollections of the unpleasantness that has dogged them are willfully waylaid by jokes and jibes as the train rolls south to Viareggio.

Soon the line is sprinting past the bright little buildings of the seaside town and slows noticeably as it glides into the station. The six gather their bags eagerly as the cars on either side are engulfed in a cacophony of disembarking travelers.

“Jesus christ,” Agnot grumbles. “Is everyone getting off?”

The train empties more quickly than any of them expect and soon they are on the platform looking to Vin for direction.

The station is small and bright, allowing he and the group to find their way easily. The warmth of the sun paired with a cool Mediterranean breeze bolsters their spirits to genuine optimism, which even the posting regarding the connecting train does little to dampen.

“Six hours!” Agnot bemoans.

“What are we going to do for six hours?” Charlie sighs.

Eager smiles blossom on the faces of Parson and Julia simultaneously as they look at each other and then at their comrades.

“The beach!”