Read Online The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) by Carrie Bedford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carrie Bedford
Tags: cozy mystery, female sleuths, Crime thriller, British Detectives, Paranormal Suspense, supernatural mystery, traditional detective mysteries, psychic suspense
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monuments in an era long before modern equipment and engineering.
Aware that we were close to the top, the visitors around me chattered with excitement. A flight of steep steps that followed the curve of the inner dome made for a dramatic final ascent before we emerged onto the exterior terrace. It was crammed with people, but I found a space at the railing and peered cautiously over the edge of the parapet. Below, the red roof of the dome curved away in a precipitous drop that made my stomach turn. People on the streets below looked like tiny insects and even the tall palazzos of Florence seemed like dollhouses from here.
A man leaned with his back to the railing, ignoring the view. He had dirty blonde hair and a pockmarked face with a sullen expression that stood out among the noisy, cheerful tourists surrounding him. I caught his eye and turned away. I didn’t remember seeing him in the queue at the entry. For some reason he made me nervous, so I moved on, following the circular terrace to take in a different view. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that he was still in the same place. I was just being jumpy, I concluded.
I came up behind the British tour group and listened to their guide telling them we had climbed 463 stairs to get here. After a few minutes, I returned to the exit and the steps that led back down to the cathedral floor.
Back inside the walls of the dome, I followed the crowd, making slow progress. We’d been descending for a few minutes when we came to a halt, waiting for a single-file stretch of corridor to clear. Someone behind me asked what was happening and when I turned to explain, I saw the man with the pockmarked face again. The hair prickled on the back of my neck. Was he following me? No, I decided after a few seconds. I was being paranoid. I recognized other faces in the queue of people behind me, including all the Brits. We’d all gone up to the dome, walked around the terrace, and descended at roughly the same pace. He must be a tourist like everyone else, in spite of his surly expression.
We started to move again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching me. Discarding my customary courtesy, I slipped in front of a middle-aged couple and sidled past a group of five older tourists who’d probably caused the slowdown earlier. Ahead, the spiral staircase was empty. I trotted down as quickly as I could.
Once or twice, my foot slipped on the worn stone treads, a reminder to slow down. I’d visited some of the castles in Scotland, where I’d learned all about the tricks of their spiral staircases. They wound in the direction that allowed the castle inhabitants to carry swords in their right hands as they ran down the stairs, while intruders fighting their way up were forced to hold their weapons in their left hands. And many of the staircases had trick steps, a rise that was a different height from the others and would cause the unwary to fall.
In spite of my nerves, I met no armed raiders on my way down and soon reached ground level inside the Duomo.
Since there was no sign of the man with the pockmarked face, I slowed my pace and relaxed. I was considering a visit to the crypt and the ruins of the original cathedral, Santa Reparata, when someone bumped into me from behind. A hand yanked at my bag, pulling on the strap hard enough to send pain shooting through my shoulder and across my chest. I half-turned to face my assailant. It was the man with the bad skin. Clutching my bag in both hands, I tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed my arm and put his face close to mine.
“Give me the key,” he said in English. His breath smelled of garlic and his accent was foreign, but not Italian. I couldn’t quite place it.
I shouted for help while squirming to free my arm from his tight grip. My cry attracted the attention of two security guards on the opposite side of the large cathedral. They jogged over but, by the time they reached me, the man had given up on his
Aware that we were close to the top, the visitors around me chattered with excitement. A flight of steep steps that followed the curve of the inner dome made for a dramatic final ascent before we emerged onto the exterior terrace. It was crammed with people, but I found a space at the railing and peered cautiously over the edge of the parapet. Below, the red roof of the dome curved away in a precipitous drop that made my stomach turn. People on the streets below looked like tiny insects and even the tall palazzos of Florence seemed like dollhouses from here.
A man leaned with his back to the railing, ignoring the view. He had dirty blonde hair and a pockmarked face with a sullen expression that stood out among the noisy, cheerful tourists surrounding him. I caught his eye and turned away. I didn’t remember seeing him in the queue at the entry. For some reason he made me nervous, so I moved on, following the circular terrace to take in a different view. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that he was still in the same place. I was just being jumpy, I concluded.
I came up behind the British tour group and listened to their guide telling them we had climbed 463 stairs to get here. After a few minutes, I returned to the exit and the steps that led back down to the cathedral floor.
Back inside the walls of the dome, I followed the crowd, making slow progress. We’d been descending for a few minutes when we came to a halt, waiting for a single-file stretch of corridor to clear. Someone behind me asked what was happening and when I turned to explain, I saw the man with the pockmarked face again. The hair prickled on the back of my neck. Was he following me? No, I decided after a few seconds. I was being paranoid. I recognized other faces in the queue of people behind me, including all the Brits. We’d all gone up to the dome, walked around the terrace, and descended at roughly the same pace. He must be a tourist like everyone else, in spite of his surly expression.
We started to move again, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was watching me. Discarding my customary courtesy, I slipped in front of a middle-aged couple and sidled past a group of five older tourists who’d probably caused the slowdown earlier. Ahead, the spiral staircase was empty. I trotted down as quickly as I could.
Once or twice, my foot slipped on the worn stone treads, a reminder to slow down. I’d visited some of the castles in Scotland, where I’d learned all about the tricks of their spiral staircases. They wound in the direction that allowed the castle inhabitants to carry swords in their right hands as they ran down the stairs, while intruders fighting their way up were forced to hold their weapons in their left hands. And many of the staircases had trick steps, a rise that was a different height from the others and would cause the unwary to fall.
In spite of my nerves, I met no armed raiders on my way down and soon reached ground level inside the Duomo.
Since there was no sign of the man with the pockmarked face, I slowed my pace and relaxed. I was considering a visit to the crypt and the ruins of the original cathedral, Santa Reparata, when someone bumped into me from behind. A hand yanked at my bag, pulling on the strap hard enough to send pain shooting through my shoulder and across my chest. I half-turned to face my assailant. It was the man with the bad skin. Clutching my bag in both hands, I tried to pull away from him, but he grabbed my arm and put his face close to mine.
“Give me the key,” he said in English. His breath smelled of garlic and his accent was foreign, but not Italian. I couldn’t quite place it.
I shouted for help while squirming to free my arm from his tight grip. My cry attracted the attention of two security guards on the opposite side of the large cathedral. They jogged over but, by the time they reached me, the man had given up on his
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