“It went straight to voicemail,” Peter said, looking worriedly down at his phone. “I hope nothing terrible happened to her. Renea never lets her phone die. You don’t think something happened, do you?”

“Whatever life throws her way, I’m sure Mrs. Mayhew will be able to handle it.”

Hearing that from Greg did make Peter feel a tiny bit less anxious. The Van Helsing was right. Renea was probably fine. Still, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy. The place where he and Greg paused for Peter to make the call was probably a contributing factor to his unease. As was the queasy feeling in his stomach from his first go at portal travel.

With the god cat tucked under his arm like a football, Peter had followed Greg in stepping through the sarcophagus. The other side, presumably somewhere in Italy, turned out to be in an underground catacomb. But, as Greg had mentioned right before they made the jump, just because the note that came through was in Italian did not mean it came from Italy. And that the assumption that it did was only speculation on Peter’s end. The portal that brought them here, wherever here turned out to be, appeared to be one of several sarcopha-portals.

The eerie catacombs were coated in layers of dust and the floors had not been swept or mopped in ages, which Peter found distasteful. The only portion of flooring not coated in dust was a straight path from the room’s single exit to a chair located between the three sarcopha-portals, leading Peter to believe that the only people to ever come to this place were those like Alexandreta - who had tossed the note through to Kuzco’s domain. Vampires or their lackeys set on watch duty.

When Peter and Greg were tossed from the portal, which they were, they found the area blessedly vacant. Greg scouted ahead, moving quickly and quietly toward the sole exit of this little portal cove. Knife in hand, he stuck his head out of the doorless exit and looked both ways. He turned back to Peter, giving him a firm ‘wait’ signal. A little too firm, in Peter’s opinion. And then the big man left the room, heading left.

Leaving Peter waiting. He loathed waiting.

When Peter’s patience and will power petered out, he approached the exit, reaching it as Greg came through. They bumped into each other.

“Do we need to go over hand signals, Peter?” Greg asked, glaring down at the shorter man. “For the last time, this,” he made the same signal, “means to fucking wait.”

“I did wait, Greg. What are you not understanding about this? You say wait, I wait. It’s not like your little hand signal defines the parameters and even the thought of waiting for an unspecified amount of time gives me anxiety.”

Greg took a deep breath and looked upward as though praying for strength. “How about this, then? Wait, right here in this spot, until I come back. It’s for your safety, Peter. This place smells like vampires and blood. A lot of both.”

Peter squirmed. Greg still hadn’t given him a specific amount of time, but he could see from the man’s expression that arguing would not go well. He nodded sullenly.

Greg was gone for several minutes, and Peter used all of his inner strength to remain standing still - though he did begin humming quietly to himself and bouncing back and forth on his toes. When he did finally make it back, now holding a glowing orb that lit the halls behind him as if by the sun itself, he waved for Peter to follow. With commands like ‘come’ and ‘wait’, he was starting to feel like Greg’s way-too-good-looking pet.

“The other way just led to more catacombs, went even deeper. The vampire stench grew stronger the further I went. This way,” he went on, navigating the bends and forks as they walked, “leads to a stairwell going up.”

They reached the stairs and Greg once again commanded his pet to wait. Peter glared, but waited. The stairs creaked loudly under the big man’s weight. He heard Greg returning before he saw him.

“Coast is clear. It’s an abandoned church, I think. May have company soon, but for now it’s just you, me, and… what was his name? The cross guy? You know the one, zombie son of the Christian God? I’m totally shooting a blank.”

Peter blinked rapidly for several seconds. “Jesus? Are you talking about Jesus?”

Greg snapped and pointed at Peter. “That’s the one. You, me, and Jesus. This church has old paintings and statues of him everywhere.”

“All Christian churches do. He’s kind of a big deal in that religion,” Peter had informed Greg before shooing him away so that he could call Renea.

After leaving her a voicemail that he was certain would get him scolded later, he turned the sound on his phone back on so that he wouldn’t miss her return call. And then the pair of them, with Omacatl on their heels, ascended the stairs.

As Greg reported, it was as quiet and empty as the catacombs beneath. The entire floor was one large chapel that was just as dirty and neglected as the catacombs had been. The windows were boarded, the only light to illuminate the battered pews and lectern came from Greg’s handy magical flashlight ball. Together, they approached the large, heavy double doors.

“I’ll bet you a favor it’s Italy out there,” Peter said, stopping short just before opening the doors.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Greg frowned. “What kind of favor?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, shrugging. “Betting money just doesn’t seem that interesting now that we have all of that cash this jacket had in it. How about this: if we’re in Italy then you have to go to a goat yoga class with me someday?”

“And if not?” Greg asked, not looking happy about the prospect of attending a goat yoga class with Peter.

“Then I’ll…” Peter scratched his chin. “I have no idea what kinds of things you do for fun, Greg. We could…” he paused, looking Greg up and down speculatively. “Scare children? Lift weights? Grill steaks outdoors? Whatever you want, big guy.”

Greg just rolled his eyes and pushed on the doors. They were locked. Greg’s lips scrunched together as he appeared to consider something, and then he took a step back and kicked them open. The latch and locking mechanisms were destroyed by the kick, leaving Peter staring wide eyed into the unmistakable canal’s of Venice.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, pointing a finger in Greg’s face.

It looked to be late morning, the sun was still rising and the streets running parallel with the canal - connected by bridges here and there - were bustling with activity. Little boats that were incredibly aesthetic to Peter’s eye moved slowly along the calm surface of the water, some filled with boxes and crates and others the stereotypical striped-shirt guys with silly hats using long poles to propel starry eyed couples along the romantic canals.

Omacatl shocked both Peter and Greg with her violent response to the sunlight. As soon as the light poured through the doors, she backed up until the light no longer touched her fur, hissing angrily. Peter didn’t think the sun would hurt the god cat, but considering she’d been trapped in Kuzco’s domain for who knows how long, maybe the brightness hurt her eyes.

After a few seconds, the cat hesitantly put one paw in the light. And then, squinting against the brightness, stepped all the way into it. She chirped happily, and then brushed affectionately against Peter’s leg. He smiled sadly at how happy it made the god cat to finally see the light of day, and bent to rub her head.

Greg’s expression was sour. “We didn’t agree to any stakes for the bet. Congratulations on being right, though, Peter.”

Peter frowned, and then brightened almost immediately as Omacatl climbed up onto his shoulders, hunkering down as though she meant to stay a while. Even Greg couldn’t take away the pleasure that gave him. “I’ll take it.”

With the god cat, Omacatl, riding on her new master’s shoulders, Peter and Greg began putting some distance between themselves and the vampire’s portal hub. The three of them attracted curious glances from people going about their days as they moved, directionless, away from the abandoned church. As well they would.

Even individually, and for no reason other than the way they looked, both Peter and Greg had a tendency to attract attention - Peter because of his flawless good looks, and Greg because it was a rarity to see someone his size. The whole issue was made worse by the fact that they were both filthy, bleeding, and Greg’s shirt was torn off at the shoulder. Add to those facts that a hauntingly beautiful cat was riding on Peter’s shoulders, by all appearances taking in the sights of Venice, and they were bound to be noticed. A lot.

They walked in silence for a time until, after putting several blocks and a handful of turns behind them, Peter motioned for Greg to stop.

“Where are we going?” he asked, not exactly hating the walk.

Venice was beautiful, after all, and he’d only seen the picturesque city in photographs and movies. Still, they were now in another country without their passports - which had been left in the hotel suite. At least Peter’s was. He wasn’t sure if Greg even had a passport. Peter was exhausted and now that they were out of Kuzco’s lair and away from any immediate danger, it began weighing on him with each step.

“I haven’t been to Venice in decades,” Greg said, scanning the streets - perhaps looking for recognizable landmarks. “I used to know a guy with a boat, but crossing the Atlantic isn’t something you can just roll up and ask for as a favor. And that’s if he’s even still alive.”

“What do we do if he isn’t?”

Greg’s lips pressed together, and then curled to one side. “You any good at swimming?”

“I mean… yes. But be serious, Greg. We should get a room at a hotel or something. Set up a base camp until we hear back from Renea. Maybe she can help.”

Things, as they so rarely did, went exactly as Peter hoped they would.

He and Greg found a charming hotel and checked themselves into a two-bedroom suite. Omacatl jumped from Peter’s shoulders and wandered off to explore the suite as Peter sank wearily into the couch. It was a firm but comfortable thing with an overly modern design. He jumped immediately back to his feet when his phone started ringing. Tears of relief rose to his eyes and fell unbidden down his cheeks so fast that he was unable to hide them from Greg in time.

He could not have cared less. Renea was alive and well.

“Sweetheart! You’re alive!” Peter nearly shouted into the phone.

“Peter,” her voice came through. She sounded both incredibly relieved and terribly exhausted, a perfect mirror of how Peter was feeling himself. “I’m so, so glad you’re okay. What the hell happened?”

Peter gave his wife the update in a very Peter Mayhew fashion. Glossed over the important things, gave too much detail on things that were of no consequence, and used several sentences that either made no sense contextually or required further questions for clarification.

“Oh,” he said, remembering another tidbit of important information as the slight, dark form of Omacatl slunk out of one bedroom and into the other. “And we now have a cat. Don’t freak out. I know you’re allergic. I didn’t forget, obviously, otherwise we would probably already have several cats. But this one is a god,” he raised the last syllable like it was a question, “so it probably doesn’t have anything so mundane as dander. Right?”

The silence from the other end of the call extended for an uncomfortably long moment.

“I don’t even care,” Renea said finally.

Peter smiled. As well as he knew his wife, Peter was certain that at least a half-dozen questions had just entered her mind after his latest word vomit. Instead of demanding answers to them, she just accepted that they now have a god cat without asking a single clarifying question, and all for one reason: she was just glad he was alive.

Peter Mayhew felt incredibly loved at that moment.

They continued catching each other up as Greg shouted loudly at the hotel room’s phone.

“Room service,” he said the words loudly and slowly. “No, no, no. Stop. I don’t speak Italian. Do you speak English? No. Room service. Peter,” he said, now holding his hand over the corded phone’s microphone with a desperate look on his face, “I need help.”

“Just say fettuccine,” Peter told him. “Say, ‘due fettuccine alfredo per favore’.”

Renea wanted to hash out a plan of action to get Peter home quickly, but both of the Mayhews were in desperate need of a good night’s sleep and only their love for each other was keeping them awake through the conversation. They agreed to rest and then get back to locking down the details in the morning.

“And tell Flapjack I’m sorry. He’s never been to Italy and will definitely be sad that I went without him. Tell him we’ll go together sometime.”

Peter could almost feel Renea’s eyes rolling from Venice, but heard her pass the message to Flapjack. The old boy whined sadly.

Despite being thoroughly sore and tired physically with a mental fatigue to match, both Peter and Greg agreed that a drink or three were necessary. Fettuccine and whiskey accompanied the pair of weary adventurers as they ate and drank with a purpose.

“I feel bad that we left Mrs. Mayhew to deal with all of our luggage. And the dog,” Greg said, looking guilty. He hammered the rest of his glass of whiskey.

“Don’t,” Peter told him flatly. He matched Greg by finishing his own glass.

Greg looked shocked. “I’m surprised to hear that from you of all people.”

“There’s no point feeling bad about it now. We’ll both pay for it in one way or another,” he told Greg, filling each of their glasses with a healthy serving of whiskey. “Believe that.”