“What happens here?” theConteasked.
“Nothing more,” the twin on the right said.
“We will be the last,” the twin on the left intoned.
“It ends with us,” the smallest brother stated, hand slashing emphatically.
But the oily madness returned, determined to smother the brothers, their bodies writhing as they struggled to pull free.
The vision faded.
TheConteshook his head, turning to stare at his scribe.
Had he witnessed a Truth? Would the D’Angelo line—and by extension the insanity—end with them?
He loved his gift. He embraced the madness. Did he evenwanthis line to end?
TheContepondered the idea, giggling as he walked out of the room.
ONE
Florence, Italy
July 2016
Jack Knight-Snow, Lord Knight
The facts are straightforward.
I am a ghost.
Loss defines me.
(Though other terms also come to mind—lost, losing, loser—words that are kissing cousins toloss.)
As a ghost, I have losteverything.
Not only my physical body . . . my ability to touch and feel and smell and taste. Not just the family and friends who died generations ago. Not simply my money and my estates.
I have lost my very name.
I was born John Alexander Frederick Knight-Snow when George III was King of England. In 1812, I inherited my father’s title, becoming the sixth Baron Knight.
For the first twenty-nine years of my existence, I was Someone Important. I sat in the House of Lords. I debated parliamentary bills and wrote laws. I had the care of thousands of people on my shoulders.
I mattered.
Now, I am just . . . Jack.
Jack the Ghost.
Beyond these basic facts, I know one more truth—
A ghost is an echo.
A clinging memory of what once was.
Currently, I have no relevance. My existence has no meaning.
