Free A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) by Michael E. Henderson Page B

for you. Haven’t you noticed that whenever you go to a bar with him, he always gets what you get?”
    Mauro nodded. “I guess that’s true.”
    “Then order coffee.”
    “Okay. One more question, though.”
    “Yes?”
    “He said he jumped into the canal because people were chasing him. Did he tell you why they were chasing him?”
    “He told me some story about how he saw a man dragging a body disappear into a wall and then men started to chase him.”
    “I see. Thanks.”
    “Does it matter?” 
    “I don’t think so. Just curious. I have to go now. My partner will be expecting me.”
    “Thanks for coming, Mauro, and thanks for  understanding.”
    “Happy to do what I can. Ciao.”
    “Ciao.”
     
     
     
    THAT EVENING, THE HERBALIST’S SHOP was its usual mess. The old woman locked the door, pulled the blinds, and told them to follow her to the back. A small glass flask of a bluish-green liquid, the color of which reminded Brigham of the canals, sat on a table in the middle of the room. The woman handed the flask to Brigham. “This potion is lethal to shroud eaters. If they ingest it, they die.”
    Brigham held it up to the light, then handed the flask to Mauro.
    Mauro examined it. “Can we use this to tell whether a person is a shroud eater without killing them?”
    The old woman nodded. “They can’t stand the smell. They react violently to it.”
    “Once you give it to them, how long before they die?” Mauro asked.
    “Just a few minutes.”
    “What’s in here?” Brigham asked. “Is it poison?”
    “Its contents are a secret,” the woman said, “but it’s not poison to regular people.”
    “What about small animals?”
    The old woman frowned with annoyance. “You mean like a dog or cat?”
    “Yeah.”
    She shook her head. “Shouldn’t bother them.”
    “And when the shroud eater dies,” Brigham asked, “does it get, shall we say, messy?”
    “No, but they may vomit.”
    “Sounds messy to me,” Mauro said.
    Brigham shivered. “Just don’t give it to them in a good restaurant.”
    Mauro removed the stopper and sniffed it, then held it out for Brigham to smell. It was odorless. They thanked her and started for the door. The woman said something Brigham could not hear.
    “What’d she say?”
    “She wants fifty euros,” Mauro said.
    “Fifty euros? What? Does this shit have gold in it?”
    “Give her the money, and let’s get out of here.”
    “Me? This is all your idea. I’m only here to try to protect you from yourself. Anyway, I ain’t got no fucking money. You give it to her. You gondoliers always have a wad.”
    Mauro took a roll of cash from his pocket, sifted through several hundred-euro notes, peeled off a fifty, and gave it to her.
    “Now that you have this stuff, what are you going to do with it?” Brigham asked.
    Mauro shrugged. “I don’t have all the answers yet. Guess we have to find a shroud eater or two.”
    “We? There’s that ‘we’ again. What I think we should do is find a beer or two.”
    “That sounds good. Giving her all that money gave me a thirst.”
    They continued toward a bar. Brigham became silent.
    “There’s smoke coming from your ears,” Mauro said.
    “What?”
    “You’re thinking real hard about something. I’m not used to seeing you do that. It scares me.”
    “It ought to. I just had an idea,” Brigham said.
    “Wait a minute. I think that guy over there needs a gondola ride.”
    “Your gondola’s on the other side of town.”
    “Then I’m just gonna run.”
    “You ain’t goin’ nowhere. I need to get a small perfume bottle.”
    “Why do you need a perfume bottle?”
    Brigham held up the vial. “I’m gonna put some of this stuff in it and test it out.”
    “Test it out? Who will you test it on?”
    “I’ll tell you later. Now, let’s just get the bottle.”
    They went to a shop that sold good Murano glass. The person on whom he intended to test the liquid would recognize a cheap imitation, and he planned to