The crew that Peter hired to sail Greg and himself across the Atlantic would not be ready for the trip for another two days, leaving Peter some time to explore the city. They extended their stay in the suite to accommodate, and didn’t have anything left to do but wait.

Peter spent much of his 48 hours of freetime wandering the streets of Venice. Omacatl perched on the padded shoulder of his gaudy jacket with her tail wrapped loosely around his neck. The god cat seemed at least as interested in taking in all of the sights as Peter was, watching alertly, her eyes darting from one thing to the next as they moved through the beautiful city. Throughout, she sent the impression of gratitude to Peter so frequently and intensely that he couldn’t help the ensuing feeling of heartbreak that she’d been alone underground for so long.

Greg did come along for some of it, mainly during Peter’s meal-time explorations, during which Peter had to shrink Omacatl down to the size of a mouse and keep in his pocket. The god cat did not enjoy being shrunk down so much. Despite that, during a lunch enjoyed in a waterside diner, he checked his pocket to find the tiny deity sleeping and purring contentedly.

He’d found over his two days of exploration that Omacatl was always hungry. Any time food was served, or even passed them by as they walked through the beautiful streets of Venice, a dramatically strong sense of longing was pushed into Peter’s mind. Any time he ate, he shared with the cat - and the powerful impressions of gratitude were heaped upon him.

Peter found a local tailor and made an appointment to have his new jacket altered. He hated the way it looked but, due to its dimensional storage pocket, he felt like he had to wear the thing everywhere he went. That being the case, something had to be done about the gold baroque pattern covering every inch of it. To his surprise and profound disappointment, the dye wouldn’t take.

The tailor, Susanna, was a master of her craft. Yet she was just as baffled as Peter when she brought the jacket back out from her workshop. She reportedly tried several methods of altering the jacket, but was at a loss as to why, no matter what she tried, it remained as gaudy as it had been when Peter had plucked it free from the ashes of its original owner. He paid her for her time, of course, and then put on his ugly jacket and left her shop. For the moment, he’d just have to live with it. When he got home, after kissing Renea a thousand times, he’d dedicate more time and effort into the project.

Renea and Peter texted back and forth constantly and talked on the phone before bed each night while separated. She’d already made it home with Flapjack and was back at the office only 12 hours after her plane landed. He never ceased to be amazed by her. After everything they’d all just gone through, nobody would blame her for taking a few days off, but she took her responsibilities very seriously. And with Carol constantly trying to undermine her, Renea felt that her physical presence at the office was a necessity.

“Why were you in Portland when we met anyway?” Peter asked at dinner their final night in Venice. “Seems like an odd place to find a Van Helsing.”

“Portland’s weird,” Greg said, looking up at him with a mouth full of noodles. He chewed, swallowed, and downed a glass of wine before continuing. “It’s always been weird but, in the past decade, the supernatural activity there has been increasing at an alarming rate. Myself and a few other hunters relocated to see if there’s something bigger going on, and to reduce the monster population.”

Peter took another bite of his gnocchi, savoring the rich tomato sauce. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the explosion of flavor in his mouth. Here in Venice, garlic was king. And Peter Mayhew was likely to go home smelling almost as garlicky as Greg, the amazing aroma seeping out from his skin, considering how much he’d eaten.

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“Something bigger going on, like…” he prompted.

“Unsure. Maybe a lich. Maybe a necromancer,” he said, tilting his head back and forth as though the things he’d suggested were possible, but not very likely. “After spending a few years in the area though, I’m pretty sure we’ve got another case of cult-gets-out-of-hand. Same thing happened in Tucson a while back. Although it may just be a natural result of a new magical leyline forming. Hard to say for sure.”

“A cult,” Peter wondered aloud. “Magic cult?”

“It usually starts with a witch or warlock, sometimes a necromancer or lich,” he explained through a mouthful of noodles. “Even witches start the things up occasionally. They recruit gullible humans, brainwash them, and use various means of conversion to… empower their subjects. Sometimes those subjects take it upon themselves to spread the word of whatever brainwashed ideals their cult is built around, and begin recruiting and converting even more people. When it goes too far, word of their activity gets to hunter circles. We put them down. Haven’t seen any evidence of a cult in Portland yet, it’s just a gut feeling.”

“Huh,” Peter said thoughtfully. He could think of a few extreme religions in Portland just off the top of his head but, as Greg had said, Portland’s always been weird.

The next morning, Peter, Greg, and Omacatl met their ship’s captain at a visually striking Venice marina. He was an old man with wisps of white hair growing on the sides and back of his head. The hair once growing atop his head, it appeared to Peter Mayhew, retreated to his chin where it could grow with reckless abandon. The man’s beard was impressive, to say the least, and as white as Christmas morning. He did not, to Peter’s disappointment, appear to be missing any limbs or wear an eye patch.

“Hello,” the fat, bearded, and jolly looking captain greeted them at the walkway to Peter’s new boat. “I’m Mario, connoisseur of navigation and all things maritime. I am very pleased to meet you.”

His Italian accent was thick, but he clearly had a solid grasp of the English language. After introductions were complete, the three of them took a quick tour of the yacht.

It was a yacht, but not a luxury model. It was a 50 foot cruiser built in the early 2000s that Peter picked up for a paltry 495,000 US dollars. The exterior was a handsome polished dark wood that contrasted nicely with the much lighter bamboo flooring of the interior. Below deck there was a small but well-equipped kitchenette. Beyond that was another room, this one had bunk beds on either side where all four of the ship’s passengers would sleep.

Mrs. Rossi, the woman who brokered the deal, assured Peter that it was more than capable of crossing the Atlantic, and that it had actually done so several times already. When Peter brought up crossing the Panama canal, the opportunistic woman talked him out of even more money to provide the necessary documentation to do so. She also helped them hire the sailing crew, Mario and his nephew, Gieuseppe.

They were both related to Mrs. Rossi, too, but Peter forgot how exactly. The pair of sailors agreed to take them to the states and then fly home for what Peter guessed was slightly more than they’d make in a year working locally.

“We are ready to set sail whenever you are, but…” Mario told Peter and Greg after the tour. He looked to the empty dock, and then back to his passengers. “I expected that you would be bringing provisions. Even if we have perfect weather and no complications, the journey will take more than a week.”

Peter had planned for and purchased the provisions they’d need, but didn’t consider how it might look to Mario and Giuseppe when he continually pulled fresh sandwiches out of his jacket pocket until that moment. He frowned demonstrably.

“That is my mistake,” he said, wrinkling up his nose adorably. “Sorry.”

“No sorry, my friend. Give Giuseppe some money and we’ll send him for supplies.”

Giuseppe looked at Peter hopefully. Peter had no doubt that any extra money would be happily accepted as a tip. He was a handsome lad, tan skinned and bright eyed with curly black hair cropped short. By Peter’s best guess he was only 18 or 19. Peter smiled at the young man, and pulled out a few thousand dollars from his jacket.

“Get whatever you think we need, the rest is for you. But,” Peter said, pulling the wad of cash back as Giuseppe reached for it, “make sure you get everything that we might need, and more, just in case. And then the rest is yours.”

He handed over the money and Giuseppe slipped it into his pants pocket. The young man and his uncle conversed in Italian for a few seconds, and then Giuseppe turned to Peter with an earnest smile.

“I will,” he said earnestly, and then walked off of the ship with a pep in his step so peppy that he almost appeared to be skipping down the dock.