Excerpt from The Curse of Pietro Houdini by Derek B. Miller, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He reached down and pulled me up and repeated: "Massimo."

Did he name me or did I name myself? Regardless, the transformation was nearly complete.

My face was as soft as a baby's, my shoulders slender. My eyes too big. But now my name was maximum, the top, the peak; all to describe a half-dead child with snot running down a broken nose and blood mixing with the salt of tears.

"Just a boy?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"All right, Massimo," he said, looking me over. "I am Pietro Houdini. Chemist. Painter. Scholar. Master artist and confidant of the Vatican." He looked up the mountain at the abbey for emphasis or affirmation. Its walls were white and reflected the sun. It was a vibrant thing as though the light came from inside it. "I have time. I will take you home."

"No!" I yelled.

This confused him. I could see by the way he flinched that he misunderstood. He thought I'd felt threatened by him, like he might be a new attacker. But I was never afraid of Pietro Houdini. It was the word "home" that had terrified me. I would never go back to Rome. Rome was haunted by death and I needed to go south. To go away.

"You already decided not to stay here. So… where?" he asked.

"Naples," I said.

"Naples," he repeated as if to confirm my order at a café. "Where are your parents?"

I didn't answer.

After a long-enough time for him to understand the words not spoken he said, "So… Naples."

"Yes. I will go there or I will die," I explained.

He nodded his understanding, not at the value of my words but at the intractability of my ideas, my determination, and this new encounter that he could not explain but could also not ignore.

He responded gently: "Whether you are going to Naples or not, my friend, you are not going now. The Allies have won the battle for North Africa. Now they are fighting in Sicily. They are coming for Naples. Racing them is not a good idea. One should never be anywhere near soldiers fresh from combat, my young Massimo."

He stood there with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes looking to heaven for intervention or guidance or—at the very least—to ensure there was a witness.

"You are alone?"

I didn't answer that either. The word "yes" was not available because of its finality.

Pietro Houdini stood silently and stared at me, asking a question I couldn't hear. It was hot and his body was perfectly still. His mind, I felt, was building a plan as big as a cathedral.

When the plan was finished he said, "Okay. You will come with me. You will not understand this but the monks of Montecassino have requested my presence to help protect one of the greatest repositories of art in Western civilization. War is bad for culture, as it happens. That place, up there, is one thousand, four hundred, and fourteen years old. It is a fortress filled with wonders. They tore down the temple of Apollo to erect it. He was the god of war. I suspect he remains angry. I also suspect that the abbey has a very good wine cellar that is poorly guarded and shamefully catalogued, all of which is to my great benefit. If one needs to stay out of sight and wait for a dark moment to pass, there are worse places than a fortified wine cellar on a mountaintop. Believe me, I've checked.

"So," he continued. "You and I share the same problem and the same destination, which is why the abbey is the only solution for the moment. If you come with me there are conditions. So listen. No talking when we get there. Talking is for me. You listen or else pretend to listen. You will be doing a great deal of listening and pretending to listen. Now… fix your cap, Massimo. You'll want to tuck that hair in and then get it cut. Secrets and lies are illusions and one must commit to the illusion if it is to work! This is why I am called Houdini."

He started off and I followed him. Bruised, limp, weak. For the next two hours I dragged myself up a five-hundred-meter mountain without ever asking—without even wondering—why he wanted me to come. Following Pietro Houdini seemed the most natural act in the world.

Excerpted from The Curse of Pietro Houdini by Derek B. Miller. Copyright © 2024 by Derek B. Miller. Excerpted by permission of Avid Reader Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.