Page 5 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)

Sébastien

M aking our way south from our meet-up with Dennis in Boston, we have stopped over in Liberty City en route to Alexandria, and our reunion with Agent McBride in readiness for our rescue mission—not only to take a much needed rest, but to make contact with doctor Azzura Perla, one of the collaborators of the late Margot and Landon Penny.

Caz, an artist with architecting online personae and reverse-engineering social interactions to his advantage; spent several weeks concocting a false student identity to ‘hook’ Dr. Perla through more mainstream avenues of communication—before we could communicate more plainly with her in more secure channels about the Zeitnot virus and her part in its creation.

Almost as soon as we’d been able to get some of the truth out in the open, she agreed to meet with us. Or, more specifically—she agreed to meet with me; the one who had unknowingly made the first breakthroughs in the Penny’s research in years.

Cursory research had given me some idea of what to expect when looking for Dr. Perla in the Dutch masters wing of the Liberty City Fine Arts Museum, per our meet-up plan.

At nearly eighty-one years old, the good doctor looked slightly more tired than the last available public photos of her accepting a lifetime achievement in biochemistry award half a decade ago, but otherwise—she looked fairly spry.

I sidled up to her; her gnarled knuckles folded neatly over the curve of her cane, her stylish silver shingle bob sharp as a knife at her cheekbones, a pair of bright orange, ovular glasses' frames perched on her elegant Roman nose.

For a moment we stand silently beside one another in front of “Still Life with a Glass and Oysters” by Jan Davidsz de Heem; the small painting–still incredibly impactful despite its size, and muted color palette.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dr. Perla’s weight shift nigh imperceptibly, moving slightly onto her right foot, her right hand about to lift from her cane to allow her to push off from the left like a gondolier navigating her aging body through the gentle eddying flow of museum goers.

“It’s enough to make one hungry for a little afternoon snack, non ?” I ask brightly without turning my gaze from the painting.

“Spring is still too early for oysters,” the doctor dismisses me, no doubt taking in the sight of my tattoos, my painted fingernails, my wild hair and unshaven jaw—assuming I’m just another tourist or artist haunting the halls of this sacred mausoleum of arts and artifacts.

“For me, it is never too early for something delicious.” I grin, turning my eyes to regard Dr. Perla—her hooded green eyes still screwed to the painting, but I don’t miss her exhausted sigh.

She’s wearing enough expensive Italian designer wear that she might think I’m just sniffing around for a sugar mama—not the man she’s been keeping secret correspondence with for weeks.

She says nothing.

“And that lemon peel in the glass.” I gesture to the painting, the tattoos in black ink seeming to jump up from my skin, oxblood nail polish chipping at the edges of my big thumb where I’ve been gnawing anxiously.

“Never seen citrus in a still life look so a-peel-ing,” I tease, hoping to break the ice.

I can smell the expensive cigarillo smoke on her over the sweet muscat and tuberose of her scent, can see the slight downturn in her lips as she prepares to turn and face me—to dismiss me to wait for her secret meeting in peace.

Azzura opens her mouth, taking a deep breath to begin her denial—but when her cloudy green eyes fall on me, her lips purse in a surprised ‘O’ shape, her pencil-thin brows disappearing behind the sheaf of her blunt bangs.

“Cazzo,” she hisses under her breath as she looks me up and down.

“Not here, Dottore,” I laugh before adding, “but perhaps after some oysters.”

“They are supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” she snorts a laugh, shrugging off the Italian along with her look of shock, regaining her composure.

“Shall we?” I ask, offering her the crook of my arm.

Without shame, the old bird reaches out and gives one of my bulging biceps a good squeeze. A giddy titter escapes her before she links her arm through mine, switching her cane to her free hand as we move slowly toward the exit.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she sniffs haughtily, both of us pausing to put on dark sunglasses as we finally make our way into the open daylight, taking our time shuffling down the accessibility ramp.

“Certainly not a muscle thug covered in…” She pauses for a moment—disdain dripping from every motion as she juts her chin toward my tattoos.

“What were you expecting? Some clean-cut Poindexter with thick glasses and a plastic pocket protector, eh?” I laugh.

“It’s like covering a Michelangelo or a Rodin in graffiti!” She ignores me, continuing her tirade on my tattoos.

“You don’t have to wrap your flirting in insults, Dottore,” I tease her. “I promise I already know my place.” I wink at her.

“Tch!” she clucks her tongue at me, but she’s grinning. “You never seemed like such a romancer in your… letters,” she sa ys carefully, doing her best to casually look over her shoulder, assuring that we’re not being followed.

“There’s just a certain something about my animal magnetism that doesn’t come across in print,” I sigh dramatically, patting her hand where it lies over my forearm.

Her nostrils flare, and I can tell she’s getting a handle on my scent for the first time.

She must approve of what she smells, because she lets out a captive breath—her shoulders loosening slightly.

“Has there been any update since your last letter?” she asks, the resignation in her voice revealing the depth of her exhaustion.

“No, I’ve no news,” I admit ruefully.

“And what about the girl?” Azzura asks hopefully, her grip tightening on my wrist. I don’t need to ask which girl; I know she’s talking about Louise.

My chest aches, and I have to take a deep breath before the words will come.

“She’s still alive,” I say and leave it at that. Any other details wouldn’t be a comfort. In fact, at any moment, I could be dropped to my knees—Louise’s pain and suffering, screaming white hot down the mating bond.

Silence unfolds as we cross the street to the park beyond.

“Will you help us?” My voice breaks the silence as we enter the shade of a large elm.

For the first time since we joined arms in the Museum—we step back from one another, Dr. Perla appraising me quietly, her fingers laid over her pursed lips.

While I await her response, I reach into the pocket of my jacket and pull the soft pack of 27’s from it along with a lighter.

Perla pulls her hand away from her mouth—her long manicured fingers dipping into the purse slung over her shoulder for a thin brass case.

“Of course I’m going to help you,” she snips with annoyance—pulling one of her thin cigarillos from the coffret of brass—placing it between her plum-painted lips daintily.

“I may burn in hell forever for what I helped Margot and Landon do,” she sighs and crosses herself, her lit cigarillo trailing sweet-smelling smoke like an impromptu censer as she makes the motions and momentarily bows her head.

I shouldn’t have been so bold, considering she could walk away from us at any moment while we still desperately needed her help—but I asked Azzura Perla the question that had been burning in my brain, what I needed answering before I would accept her help.

“Why did you do it? Help the Penny’s with the original Zeitnot, that is.”

“You should have met them when they had first gotten started.” Dr. Perla made a clicking noise with her tongue, waving her cigarillo through the air as she clung to my arm.

“Margot had been so sick and tired of the limits placed on us—sigmas and omegas—by the social demands made on us and how we are expected to spend our lives.”

I nod slowly, respectfully—but this only draws an exasperated sound from the Doctor.

“How little the ones who aren’t forced into a life as breeding stock seem to care for your plight,” she adds snippily, looking at me accusingly over the top of the tinted lenses of her sunglasses.

“My apologies, Dottore, I never meant to insinuate that I didn’t take the matter very seriously.” I gently pat her hand where it clamps over my forearm.

“Certainly it is not the same for gammas, deltas, or thetas as it is for omegas or sigmas—but the hierarchy of designations seems to harm everyone more than it ever helps them,” I clarify my stance on the matter—earning a curt nod of understanding from Dr. Perla.

“An astute observation.” She nods—barreling right along.

“Much like Margot and Landon, I dared to hope for a world where our children and grandchildren wouldn’t be bound by the same restrictions we had—a world where designation could be as fluid— a choice.”

We walk a few moments in silence under the boughs of trees in the public gardens.

“We should have known better than to play God,” she finally says in a hushed voice, crossing herself—the trailing smoke of her cigarillo marking her gestures for the son, the father, and the holy ghost. “I may never fully atone for my sins, but I can do my best.”

I allow her statement a moment to breathe before I ask, as vaguely and casually as possible—since we’re still strolling in public.

“How involved were you in the 1993 outbreak?”

Dr. Perla jolts to a halt, her gaze pinning me with surprise coated in a layer of anger.

“How much do you know about the 1993 outbreak?” she tosses back in clear challenge.

“If you knew Landon and Margot personally in addition to professionally—surely you knew their daughter Louise?” I float another question over the top, trying to ease Dr. Perla back toward a friendlier tone of conversation.

“Yes, I just heard about her passing a few weeks ago.” Dr. Perla side-eyes me, choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t hear any of the grisly details, just that she died in the line of duty,” she offers up, her voice cool—removed even.

Were we not out in the open—I could tell Doctor Perla that, with the help of samples of Louise’s blood, I had been able to recreate the treatment for the Zeitnot virus from the Penny’s original formula. That a vaccine was equally possible.

Luckily for Caz and I, the treatment hadn’t scrambled the designations of asymptomatic carriers of the virus; gammas and thetas like us.

I wanted to tell the Dottore about everything we had seen, to show her the recordings left to us by Landon and Margot—but I had to keep quiet until our more private meeting and chose my response carefully.

“She is one of my fated mates,” I say softly, the words causing pain to well up from the unending font of pining heartsickness deep in my chest.

“ Povero !” she gasps—letting go of my arm to clasp both of my meaty tattooed hands in her withered, gnarled ones.

“Well, you can imagine I know a great many things about Louise that others might not,” is all I am willing to elaborate where we could potentially be overheard.

Azzura Perla nods quickly, her lips pursed in an expression of pain.

“I am beginning to see what you mean.” She looks once over her shoulder before reaching into her clutch purse for a small square of cream-colored paper.

“This is where I will be staying.” She explains, tucking the card into my palm and closing my fingers over it.

“I’ll make the dinner reservations somewhere intimate so I can talk with you and your friends.

” She gives a coquettish wink, and I can’t help but admire the old bird’s style.

“Send a car, though.” She pats my knuckles, tapping an ash from the end of her cigarillo. “I’m too old for the subway, and those taxis will kill you.” She blows an air kiss, then turns and shuffles away from me into the crowd.