Venice in early summer was a place of light. At 9pm, the sun still clung to the sky, its withdrawal beneath the horizon a protracted affair. In a month’s time, tourists from the Far East and the US would descend on the city. Its waterways would overflow with gondolas rented at peak rates, their occupants defying the city’s elegance with fanny packs and khaki shorts and selfie sticks. Their noise would reverberate off the stately old facades, roll across the canals and infect the twilight peace that lit the city, if only briefly, with pure magic.
Will nodded thanks to the young server who sat him at a table for two by the water. She lit the candle in the center of the table and offered two menus. He waved her off.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ll have an Aperol Spritz and she’ll do a Campari and soda with the thickest orange twist you can manage.”
The server exited to fill the order, and Will settled back in his chair. He pulled out a thick book and opened to his marked page. He was reading a biography on each American president in chronological order. He’d made it to Zachary Taylor with minimal detours and a skim through Harrison’s because that one seemed pretty pointless.
Silently, the server placed the drinks and departed. Will looked toward the water, and his mind wandered as he watched the gondola ease over the calm water. It all felt very familiar, of course. This wasn’t his first time at a canal-side restaurant, waiting with that specific Campari drink on the table.
He lifted his cocktail and took a long sip. Something wavered through his glass-refracted vision. As he lowered the glass, he saw he was no longer alone at the table.
“They never get the twist right,” the woman said, shaking her head in disappointment.
“You say that every time.”
“Did you tell her to do it chunky?”
“Yes.”
She lifted the glass. The faded red drink looked very inviting, especially its long, thick twist. “And this is the best they could muster?”
“Next time I’m telling her to throw the whole orange in.”
Her long hair was jet black, but it shone with a hint of blue every time the candlelight caught it at the right angle. She was almost pretty, but she looked worn out. In her defense, her worn out was a great deal better than his own. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. Still, he always wondered what she looked like when the city was at its height a few centuries prior.
“You’re doing jokes now?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
Will shrugged. “You know what I’m doing.”
“Yes, I do.” She lifted the drink and took a hearty sip. “Chasing after ghosts.”
“He’s not a ghost.”
“Oh no?” she asked, sounding mostly disinterested.
“Twice he’s been in custody. We’ve raided three of his hideouts in the last two years. We’re getting closer.” Will defended his work with verve. His tone was so serious it verged on menacing.
“And yet he remains…?”
“At large.”
“Ah,” she sipped and exhaled. “I was looking for ‘ephemeral.’”
“He’s in the city. We just need to pin him down somewhere.”
“Or even “covered in a white sheet.’”
Will shook his head and laughed mirthlessly. He picked up the fork at this place setting. Slowly, he tapped it on the table, thoughts coalescing in is mind.
“He’s the last one,” he whispered.
“I bet.”
“He wasn’t the last time we spoke,” Will pointed out. “There were three.”
She downed most of her drink but left just a touch at the bottom. She pointed at the glass. Faded red liquid began to refill from the few drops at the bottom. In a moment, a refreshed drink bubbled in front of her.
“And there were five before that, and twenty before that and a hundred before even that,” she said, irritated. “Yet all were hunted and captured and exterminated by the scourge of the magical underworld.”
Will said nothing, a facial twitch his only reaction.
“So it’s almost over. And I suspect there’s been just the one left for some time?”
“He’s the best,” Will answered.
“Is he? Or is that how you’ve justified having not caught him yet?”
Again, Will chose against an answer. She shook her head, then decided to try something else.
“The last time we spoke. There were three left?” He nodded. “How’d you get them?”
“One was in Monaco. He was a fish fighter. I organized a high stakes game between a Godzilla fish and a plesiosaur re-gen.” Will spoke with his eyes semi-unfocused. He was legendary among the new recruits for his memory. He could recall specific details from successful and failed collars that were twenty years gone.
“The next was in the Rockies. We had a whole thing with a downhill ski race and the mountain goat king.”
She watched him carefully as he spoke. Well trained and an old vet, he was normally an expert at masking his emotions. But he was either getting sloppy or just getting old, because his whole body was singing to her extra-human vision.
“Last one we got in an African hunting lodge. He’d been after some very specific ore from an abandoned mine. And it was very rightfully abandoned. If I wanted to speak to ghosts, I would know exactly where to go.”
On the water beyond their table, the day’s last light danced on the darkening water. A wooden power boat coughed to life a few berths down. An older man reversed the craft from the dock, spun it around and puttered off. Up and down the canal, lights began to click on. Whole buildings came alive at once from timers set on the exterior fixtures.
“That sounds pretty glamorous,” she said softly.
Will looked at her sideways. “Does any mortal life sound glamorous to you?”
“Sure,” she said, and her voice softened. “My whole existence is in these canals, down little alleys and soundtracked by the ceaseless buzz of motorboats. I wouldn’t trade it for the prospect of death, of course, but sometimes a girl gets jealous when she dreams of other places forever unseen.”
Sighing, Will set the fork on the table. He lifted his glass, but there was only half a sip left. He tilted it toward her and opened his mouth. But before he could ask, she pointed at the glass, and it refilled from its own remains.
“I didn’t bring that up to make you jealous. Rather I…” he trailed off, then finished lamely. “Well, you asked.”
“I did, but not to stoke my own minor jealousy,” she said. “I had another point to make entirely.”
“Which is?”
“This guy is the last one,” she started. “And you are, I presume, prepared to retire when he’s caught?”
“Gladly.”
“But somehow he continues to elude you.”
Will shrugged. “He won’t for long.”
She leaned forward and brought to bear the entirety of her immortal presence. It was all he could do to keep from diving into the canal from the edge of the restaurant porch.
“I think he will,” she said. “I don’t think he remains at large through any particular skill or cunning. But I do think that a man like you doesn’t retire.” She let that hang in the air for a moment.
“Conveniently, a man like you can’t retire as long as people like him roam free. Strange how that works.”
Of all the things the Spirit of the Canal could have said, Will had expected an accurate psychological analysis the least. He’d spent as much time chasing this last crook as he had chasing his first, when he was 22 and green and knew basically nothing. Somewhere in the back of his head, a voice whispered that this last collar had remained incomplete through more than simple circumstance. He’d spent a lot of time tuning out that voice.
“I’ve often wondered what life in Venice would be like without all of us, the spirits and the sprites, the shamans and the shadows.” She shrugged and downed her drink. “But I always come up with the same answer.”
“Oh?”
“Mundane,” she said. “Magicless, mundane and decidedly unglamorous.” She stood and smoothed her dress. “He’ll be at the masquerade tonight at the American businessman’s place. You know the one, with the balcony view of the Rialto Bridge.”
“Yes, I know it,” Will said.
“If you hurry, you can finish this tonight.”
Will nodded. Plans began to formulate in his head, checklists of how to handle this kind of last minute operation. She could see the plans coagulate in his efficient, experienced mind.
“Catch him. Don’t catch him. You know I won’t interfere either way.” She sighed and put a hand on his shoulder. “But be prepared to live with the consequences if you do.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Will said softly before adding, “It’s what I do.”
She smiled, and for the first time he felt actual warmth from her.
“No, Will, it’s what you have done,” she said.
“Isn’t that the same thing?” he asked.
“Is it?”
She left the restaurant without looking back. Moments later, he heard her steps across the dock below. Then a light splash from the canal. He knew in that moment he’d never see her again.
“Anything else, sir?” the server asked.
“No, thanks.” She began to walk away.
“Actually, yes,” he said before she’d gone too far. “I’ll have a Campari and soda with the biggest twist the bartender can stand to make.”
“Certainly, sir. Your guest will be returning?”
He shook his head. “No. She won’t. This is an… honorary drink.”
Will leaned back in his chair. He opened the biography again and let the warm summer night settle over him. The sounds of the canal were his background music, and he eased himself into 19th century America. The last one had evaded him for this long. No one would question how the master crook had once more slipped through the cracks.
The Tall Tale Year 