Read The Florentine Cypher: Kate Benedict Paranormal Mystery #3 (The Kate Benedict Series) for Free Online Page B

Bloody car died on the M25. I’m waiting for a tow truck.”
    “Oh no, Leo. I’m sorry.”
    “You’d better go ahead without me. The towing company’s saying it’ll take an hour to get a truck out here. They’ll haul it back to Oxford. Will you be okay?”
    “Of course. I’ll go straight to Dad’s and I’ll ring you when I arrive. I hope you get home okay.”
    After an uneventful flight, we landed in Pisa, and I stood in the passport line fighting off a wave of fatigue even though I’d slept on the plane for a while. Italian airports always smelled the same to me, a subtle mix of perfume, smoke, and leather. If someone could bottle it, I’d keep it on hand for whenever I felt homesick for Italy.
    Around me, a few auras circled over my fellow passengers. Were they oblivious to their impending fate, or did they know they were on borrowed time, aware of the heart slowing down or some dreadful disease tightening its grip?
    There was nothing I could do for them, but still the auras weighed on me. I was relieved when I reached the front of the queue. The border control officer was cute and flirted with me, making a joke about my outdated passport photo. Eight years ago, I was still at university, my dark brown hair was six inches longer than it was now, and even in the formal pose required for the photo, I looked more relaxed and happy than I currently felt. After he’d wished me a lovely stay in his wonderful country, he sent me on my way. Emerging into the main concourse of the small airport, I headed outside to find a taxi. It was a perfect spring afternoon, with blue sky, and a light breeze ruffling the umbrella pines that dotted the lawns in front of the terminal.
    I joined the back of the queue, which moved quickly as several gleaming Mercedes taxis gathered up their passengers and moved on. When it was my turn, I watched in dismay as a battered Fiat drew up in front of me. Just my luck. Although I hung back, hoping the driver would move on, he jumped out to take my duffle bag, wresting it from me in his enthusiasm. The passenger seat was piled high with old newspapers and three mobile phones, and I guessed the boot must be in the same state because he put my duffle on the back seat next to me. A plastic Madonna bobbed above the rear-view mirror, barely visible through the blue smog that filled the interior. Fortunately, the driver threw his cigarette stub away and opened his window a few inches before asking me where we were going. He told me his name was Taddeo.
    As soon as we set off, he picked up one of his mobiles, where it remained glued to his ear. He didn’t do much listening though. He talked non-stop in rapid, staccato Italian. Although I missed a few words, I soon became intimately acquainted with his health problems and his fractious relationship with his wife and her relatives. I wished I’d remembered to bring my headphones so I could listen to music on my phone.
    I’d unsuccessfully called Claire’s number on the train to Gatwick and again before boarding my flight. Now I tried again, but there was no answer. What would I do if she didn’t turn up before I had to leave on Sunday afternoon? She might be out of town for the weekend or for a month. And where was Ethan? He still wasn’t answering texts or calls. Coming here seemed insane now, an ill thought-out gesture of good faith in Ethan with little chance of success.
    We were on the PI-FI, the main road to Florence, when I noticed Taddeo checking his mirrors. Curious, I twisted around to look out of the back window. The car behind us kept flashing its headlights, and the driver was gesticulating wildly.
    “I’m going to pull off at the next exit,” Taddeo said. “We may have a flat tire or something’s falling off the bottom of the car.”
    Given the state of the little Fiat, that wouldn’t surprise me. I was eager to get off the
autostrada
before anything catastrophic happened but, like many other stretches of motorway in Italy, this