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 HELLO THERE, FREAKS

Warhead is a men’s adult fantasy fiction with violence, harsh

language, hot monster babes, and even hotter intimate scenes.
Needless to say, this book isn’t for the faint at heart, so if you are
offended, please don’t read further. Some graphic parts of the book
may trigger readers.
But if you like what you’ve read so far, then dive right in.
Note: unconventional relationships are explored throughout this
book. (AKA MFFF+)
Sign up to my newsletter for book release updates:
Subscribe For Free
Love my stuff? Then sub to my new Patreon for exclusives
such as advanced chapters, tasteful art, and sneak
previews to my upcoming projects.
Troy Maverick

Beta Read by Stoham Baginbott

Edited by Stoham Baginbott/AL
 THE BROTHER’S CODE
.

WARHEAD
A Super Hero Harem Adventure Series

TROY MAVERICK
.

Copyright © Troy Maverick 2022

All rights reserved. No portion of this book without permission may
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any
form or by any means- electronic, photocopy or recorded, without
the written prior consent of the author, as it is strictly prohibited.
Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is
given to the author with specific direction to the original content.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
1 WAREHEAD:
THE BROTHER’S CODE

1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
Books By Troy Maverick
 CHAPTER ONE

Liam

“T
RIAL 1726, CODENAME: WARHEAD. So far, the subject has
taken our tests well. Signs of extreme durability are apparent, both
internally and externally. Tissues are immune to high thermal
exposure. At times, the skin will reflexively absorb heat energy and
repel it as a defense mechanism. Limitations do not end with thermal
sensitive receptors—subject exhibits chemical and electrical
immunity as well. Systematic analysis of our full scope yields
subjective results, studies revealing that the subject’s emotions affect
response time and reliability. These immeasurable variables may
stunt our research…”
Her heavy Polish accent was like knives to my ears…
Bright lights in a whitewashed room looked like hazy starbursts
burning inside my eyes. There were too many to count. It made this
induced wooziness worse. My eyes darted to the camera standing on
the right of the surgical table that I was strapped down to. I took a
hard rattled breath, barely registering the silhouettes of my company
— one woman in a low red bun, and two tall men in bleach white
coats, all of them covered from head to toe. I had special names for
them: the head bitch in charge, the hunched ass-kissing yes man,
and the stocky nasally nose breather with a blood fetish. They had
gas masks, visors, and a wheeled side table with their routine
instruments of torture.
 It was about to get messy, and I wasn’t ready for another round
of reconditioning, my sole purpose here being a guinea pig to their
inhumane experiments. I knew they were trying to break me, both
inside and out. I’d lost track of the years I’d been trapped in this
nightmare, enduring all of the traumatic mind-splitting trials with no
foreseeable end.
Her hunched lackey geared me up, the next stage after they’d
injected me with something to weaken my powers. The gear looked
like an upgraded torture mask with webs of wire coming out of the
forehead plate, with the other end of those wires hooked in a
biological machine. The inside of the mask had circuits running
through it, prepared to register responses and signals on the monitor
panel. Once it was strapped on, I felt the true biomechanical
hallmarks of this mask stretch around my face. Its eight appendages
wrapped tightly around my head on its own. I started to panic, my
body shaking, my chest tight, and my blood firing. I gasped shallow
quiet breaths while I looked at the head scientist bug-eyed, her
attention glued to the monitor connected to those wires as the stocky
lab rat fixed a chainsaw in his grip.
My body wouldn’t wait for what came next. Immediately, I felt
my core heat up, my heart rate skyrocketing. This response came on
its own—I had no control over it. Yet, I encouraged it, knowing the
aftermath would set me free and put these fuckers in their place!
But on cue, the wench pushed the brakes on me…
“Please, the injection,” the psycho ordered her puppet, a
syringe from the metal prep table already loaded with a red liquid to
shut me down. I was screaming behind my mask, my maddening
muffled cries provoking them. Every time my chest started to heat up
and glow, that bitch jabbed a needle in my arm to tame the nuke, my
body shutting down immediately from the exposure.

It was like a match in a hurricane, the fight in me gone before it

ever began…
“Introduction to our serum, Kato-evo3, continues to inhibit the
subject’s most devastating ability: nuclear detonation,” she said,
breathing out a nervous sigh of relief. “Definite triggers remain
inconclusive. Catalyst evolves throughout the bloodstream, branches
through the extremities before the reaction compresses inside the
subject’s chest cavity. Safety precautions are still in effect if the
subject refuses to stabilize, use of special engineered nerve agents
will contain the reaction.” She paused briefly, recomposing herself
after she cleared her throat. “Now that the subject has been
neutralized, we will continue the reconditioning process.”
These people were insatiable—they wouldn’t stop. Every time
those heavy metal doors opened, I knew what was next. And every
time, I felt this reconditioning process inching closer and closer to
truly breaking me. I was beginning to feel the damage produced by
their weapons—guns, blades, explosives, even thermal power as hot
as the sun’s surface. They’d monitor my heart rate to confirm their
findings, looking past the lies I’d programmed my stoic face to feed
to them. No pain, no tears. My mental disciplining had been a tiring
trial of its own. Sometimes I couldn’t help but cave in, the idea of
never leaving this place shattering me. And when the stocky one
revved up the chainsaw again, I tightened my fist and protested.
“N-no,” I said, barely able to croak. My body started to
convulse, my adrenaline and anxiety churning my blood. “NO!” I
cried, pushing against my restraints with all of my might, my neck
straining from the resistance.
“Super strength, one of your measurable factors. Also a trait
we’ve long learned to suppress. Please, keep still. We need to
calculate how your cells cope under the reconditioning process, and
adding more cortisol to the equation will only prolong your
suffering.”
“Fuck you!” I roared, seething. “When I get the hell out of here,
I’ll—”
“Empty threats, dear Warhead,” she interjected as she leaned
into me, that cold smile on her bitter. “Be still, my love. You’ll need
to while we run more tests.”
I gasped, looking over her shoulder to that fat gore-happy prick
enthusiastically raising the chainsaw over his head.
“P-lease, stop this!” I begged, my demeanor making the
quickest turn from rage to absolute fear. “Stop torturing me!” My
voice shriveled. “W-why, w-wh-y are you doing this?”
“The product of these trials will soon shine its light. Greatness
takes skill and commitment… delicate research and time...”
“Don’t do this,” I wailed, the sight of the power tool slicing into
my bloody legs making my jaw clench, my body crying out in agony…
“PLEASE DON’T DO THIS!”~

“Please, don’t do this!” Rachel cried, snapping me out of my

daydream. I gasped, looking down at the blond peach-faced teen and
her theatrics in front of Charlie’s Bakery. She continued banging her
fists into the storefront glass, making a total scene. It took me a
second to figure out what she was fussy about, the lights inside the
shop were out with the CLOSED sign staring back at us. “It’s only
two in the afternoon, why the heck are they closed?”
“Could be a Jewish holiday.” I gave her a gentle smile as she fed
me those pouty lips and puppy eyes, the bag of groceries her parents
told us to fetch sitting in my cradling arms. “Don’t worry. We can
swing by Jimmy’s instead.”
“But Jimmy’s doesn’t have those delicious, mouthwatering
strawberry turnovers I love!”
“But they have those strawberry-filled mini puff pastries that
are just as good.”
She flattened her eyes at me, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Don’t you dare, Liam,” she sassed. “Don’t you dare compare the
two!”
“Heh, well, it’s not like we have a choice, do we?” I said with a
just as cheeky voice. “Come on. I want to make it back in time for
lunch. Marsha is making meatloaf again!”
“No, Mom is making that for dinner,” she corrected me as we
continued walking. “What she’s making for lunch are those nasty
avocado and egg salad sandwiches.”
“Great, also an all-time favorite!”
“Egh, that dedication to your weirdness never ceases to amaze
me.”
I chuckled, letting Rachel lead the way to Jimmy’s. It was a
sunny afternoon for September, with a light autumn breeze rolling
in. The weather and mood was in complete contrast to when Rachel
had first found me on the side of those dingy train tracks, along the
outskirts of Roe City. It had been a dark winter, and till this day, I
still couldn’t remember how I managed to run into a group of teens
drenched with mud, blood and grime, my body completely stark
naked. Her three friends took off in a terrified hurry, but not Rachel.
She wasn’t afraid, and for the life of me, I couldn’t understand what
the hell had made her stay that night.
I had ten seconds to convince her that I wasn’t there to harm
her… ten seconds I wouldn’t need. Because right away, I could tell
she had wanted to help me, driving us both to her house after she
stuffed me in her small bubble jacket. The ride back to her home had
been a blur, but her mother’s reaction was imprinted in my head like
a hard memory I couldn’t forget. She had tossed all types of kitchen
warfare at me, where Rachel had to stop her from calling the cops. I
didn’t blame her; a sketchy looking, six foot plus, dirty brown-haired
stranger had just waltzed into her front door at the dead of night
with her teenage daughter.
It was safe to say that her parents hadn’t approved, but she
found ways to keep me close; in the garage, in the tool shed, sneaking
me periodically in and out of the house to go to the crapper. The
weeks it took for them to finally accept me had been worth it, and
now Marsha and Jeremy saw me like the, ehem… boyfriend their
daughter never had.

Damn, those three years went by fast, hadn’t they?

While Rachel and her parents were enthusiastic about us being

a couple, I never confirmed it, only playing along with the idea to
keep their persistence at bay. Not to say that Rachel wasn’t my type;
she was gorgeous. I just didn’t feel suitable to date anyone. At least,
not right now. Getting too close to someone had always been
something I was against, and I didn’t want to hurt anyone by
accident, especially not Rachel…
Every day, I’d ask myself why hadn’t I left yet, and every day,
I’d choose my own selfish needs over her safety. I wanted to feel like
I was part of something, part of someone. I saw Rachel like the
family I never had. And if I did, I couldn’t say that I remembered
being anywhere but with the Henderson’s. The memories of my
younger years were obscure, where only suppressed visions like
those I had a few minutes ago would crawl out of my head
unannounced. They reminded me of what I had gone through for
easily over a decade, making me feel less human.
All I cared about now was the present, and how I had the
greatest life after Rachel brought me in.
Welcoming a complete stranger into her home…
Honestly, I might have been the biggest hypocrite I knew. I was
already attached, emotionally invested. It was why I hadn’t found it
in me to leave and ditch her every chance I had.
My face stretched into an appreciative smile as I watched her
strut down the busy streets of downtown Roe City, humming her
tune with her hands in her pockets. I matched her speed, walking
alongside her now, with an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Hey, how about
when you’re in school tomorrow, I swing by Charlie’s and get you
some of those turnovers? My treat.”
She grinned ear-to-ear, that sly look on her face smiling at me.
“I’m getting the feeling of déjà vu,” she replied. “Because the last
time you said something along those lines, you came back with an
empty brown bag filled with flakes and broken dreams.”
 I chuckled. “Okay, you gotta’ cut me some slack. They pulled
that batch fresh out of the oven. The aroma was killing me!”
“All I hear are excuses,” she teased, pushing her bangs behind
her ear, giving me a side cutesy look. “Hmm, maybe I should make
you go out there and get me some sweets, for being so sour with me.”
She slipped her arm around my elbow, pinning us hip to hip as we
walked.
“Eh, sour?”
“Or difficult. Whatever word floats your boat.”
Oh… what she was referring to finally clicked. But, I felt like an
asshole for turning her down over a dozen times already, in all of her
subtle hints and notes. Her body language asked the question before
she did, and I guess she already read the answer off my face when I
gave her that defeated chuckle.
“I’m tired of not putting a label on it. I know you’re only acting
and playing along for my parent’s sake,” she said, looking up to me
hopelessly. “Liam?”
“Rachel, you know I hate telling you no.”
“Then don’t! The age thing doesn’t matter! It doesn’t bother
me, why does it bother you?”
“It’s… not that,” I said, second guessing myself. Well, Rachel
was nineteen, and I was twenty-nine, but she was an adult,
regardless of the huge age gap. Like I said, I didn’t think Rachel was
unattractive. Honestly, she was a bombshell, a real catch for anyone
lucky enough to court her: long silky blond hair, gentle brown eyes,
and a slender frame for her petite height. It’d just break me if I got
her hurt…
 It was one of the reasons why I never liked sleeping in the
house…
“Do I need to get drunk again so you can sl–”
I bumped her shoulder to shoulder, hushing her as we walked
down the congested sidewalk. “Hey! Everyone doesn’t need to hear
our dirty business!” I whispered to her sheepishly.
She giggled. “It’s cute when you get all red and flustered. But
I’m done being nice about it, Liam. I want us to be together. And I’m
willing to do whatever it takes.”
I’d rather hurt her emotionally than physically. Of course, I
couldn’t expect her to understand where I was coming from. I hadn’t
told her who I was, or what I was.
I answered her disappointment with unsettling silence. I was
speechless and didn’t have it in me to reject her again. So she
stopped trying, and like always, Rachel wiped that solemn look on
her face and pretended like she didn’t secretly hate my guts.
I sighed, clenching the grocery bags in my hands. “Rachel, I’m
sorry…”
“No, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” I grunted, temporarily breaking our stride to look
at her seriously. “I’m not brushing you off on purpose. Honest. I have
a good reason for it, and one day, I promise, I’ll… tell you everything.
I’m just not ready yet. And trust me, I don’t think you’re ready for it
either.”
“Liam—”
“Once I tell you, everything else will start to make sense. I have
to take care of something inside me first, and do it the right way, for
the both of us… I don’t want to fuck up and regret it.” I cradled her
face, stroking my thumb over her soft cheek, her radiant smile
making its debut again.
I was playing a dangerous game by falling for her, and I’d have
no one to blame but myself if this came back to bite me in the ass.
Time was something I didn’t have, and I’d be lying to myself if I said
I had the slightest idea on how to fix this bomb sitting inside of me.
“Don’t sweat it, Liam. I’m not mad,” she said, continuing her
walk as I followed her. “Because today, Dracier Bio-Tech will be
announcing their greatest bio-engineering discovery to America! The
Awakening!” she delightfully beamed, curving the topic as she
stretched her arms out happily. “And it’s going to be broadcasted
right here in Watch Square!”
I looked up to all of those towering flat screens filled with ads
and movie trailers and thought to myself that this Awakening wasn’t
just a big deal for Rachel, but for everyone. Watch Square had always
been packed, but it wasn’t until she reminded me of the big news in a
few minutes did I catch the overly congested streets—almost as
packed as their traditional New Year’s Eve celebration. All around us
people stood waiting to watch with their heads up high, and their cell
phones eagerly counting down the time for the revolutionary
announcement. It’d been on Marsha’s kitchen calendar, and I
couldn’t believe I’d seriously forgotten about it.
“Oh, just two more minutes now,” Rachel said.
“Crazy how no one has even the slightest idea what this is all
about,” I said.
“All of this mystery isn’t going to be for nothing. I can feel it!
They said they’ve been researching this project for almost two
decades!” Rachel exclaimed, stopping her steps just along the street
curve. Between William’s Street and Butcher Boulevard we waited,
the most anticipated scientific breakthrough known to man seconds
away from being televised.
The time drew near, and for a moment it felt like the entire
world stopped moving. Everyone broke what they were doing to stare
at the massive overhead building screens, the intro to CBS News
reflecting in my marveled eyes. I had to admit, Rachel got me
excited, too, the bubbly blond wrapping her arm around mine while
the busy city anxiously waited in silence.
And then, static…
Wait, static?
“Huh? What happened?” Rachel said, lifting her head off my
arm.
Well, that was very anticlimactic.
We looked at each other confused, whispers throughout the
crowd flooding the streets. No one had a clue, all of the screens in the
square turning black seconds after the static scratched our ears.
“What a load of bull!” Rachel protested. “First Charlie’s, now
this! Disappointment rounds all over.”
I heard what she was saying, but something about this didn’t
feel right. The confused look on my face was replaced by anxiety as a
looming feeling rolled over my head. I couldn’t put any two words to
it, but whatever this eeriness was had the hairs on the back of my
neck standing straight. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath,
as if I were bracing myself for impact. And then the air grew foggy,
and everyone was pointing up at the black speck from the sky closing
in on us.
 We didn’t have a second to process anything. Before chaos
could strike, a bright blinding light flickered over our heads,
swallowing the entire square in a blinding white sheet in the sky.
Clouds spread, the sun disappeared, and a roaring blast like a
thunderclap exploded mid-air.
The flash second thereafter was a faded blur…
The detonation forced my body to move. I dropped the grocery
bag and leaped into Rachel, shielding her body with mine before the
air pressure dropped us both on the pavement. I felt crushed by the
weight of the blast, waves of infrared and ultraviolet light stripping
through my back and heating my skin. Something told me it could
have been much worse, because this wasn’t an ordinary nuke that
had just dropped into Watch Square…
Everyone and everything felt the rage of the blast, Roe City
being knocked off its hinges in an instant. The air down my lungs
was being sucked in by the vacuum this doomsday blast had caused,
while I tried to shield my face from the debris and gust of dust
fighting to bury me in rubble. Objects were tossed, buildings were
stripped, and people were caught in the violent sweep of a hot roiling
smoke. And then the true face of the blast made its appearance, the
thick smell of fumes coating the scene in cryptic red…
Shit, this was biological warfare, set to destroy the very people
of Roe City…
I tried not to inhale the fumes, but it’d already been too late.
Maybe I could save Rachel, coughing out the smoke while stripping
off my jacket to give it to her. But when I looked down, she was gone,
the sidewalk looking back at me in a hazy fog.
 “R-Rachel?” I rose to my feet, my eyes anxiously looking for her
in the dense fog and heat. “RACHEL!” I cried, my heart racing, my
adrenaline bringing out the worst in me. Shit, I couldn’t panic, not
now, even if the scene around me looked like the world was ending.
People were frantically running around, bloodcurdling cries of pain
and fear battering my ears. The devastation was on another level, my
eyes growing wide to the chaos that had dropped on us in a matter of
seconds.
But that wasn’t the worst part of it…
I witnessed change on a biological and chemical level, the likes
of which I’d never seen before. Those who had died from the impact
may have been the luckier ones, women and men alike morphing and
contorting into inhuman mutations—growing extra body parts,
others with missing limbs in place of monstrous and animalistic
features. Some looked even less human than that. My breath
shuttered, while blood, soot, and deprivation clung to me like a
second skin. I was horrified but I couldn’t peel my terrified eyes
away, watching the suffering of Roe City’s people through a hopeless
lens.
The desolate scene went spiraling in my head. Not once did I
ask myself how the hell I made it out of this unscathed. I guess deep
down I had an idea, something my subconscious mind refused to
accept. I slugged down the path that grew dark with the stain of
Dracier Bio-Tech’s sin, because this couldn’t have been one big
coincidence.
Revolutionary, mind-blowing, the awakening of mankind as
we knew it.
 And no matter how hard I tried to tell myself that I was just
going through one of my routine nightmares, I couldn’t convince
myself with how real everything around me felt…
“Rachel!” I shouted again, over a dozen times over. Until my
voice was gone, and my will to continue left my tired bones. It must
have been the chemical in the air that forced its way through my
lungs, finally taking its toll on me. I still fought through the sluggish
feeling running its course, while the gruesome scene in front of me
pinned my back against a wall. People were lit up in flames, others
melting in their own acidic ooze, some even jumping off buildings
and cars—it looked like a stunt show from hell.
It was finally too much for me to take. I fell on my knees before
my face hit the ground, my body collapsing unconsciously.
 CHAPTER TWO

I
felt my body resting in a dreamy limbo, while something that
sounded like shitty elevator music irritated my ears. My thoughts
were bringing me back to my dark memories, the black void inside
my head eager to pull back the curtains to the surgical table. I didn’t
allow it, fighting the paralysis in my muscles to stir myself awake.
I gasped, clean air filling up my lungs. My eyes fell into slits as I
looked over to the radio, my body feeling sore and achy. I shook the
sleep away, the ambiance in this unfamiliar contemporary bedroom
giving me mixed vibes all over. I should have been grateful that I had
a roof over my head after that disaster, but at the same time, I
couldn’t help but feel like I’d just been abducted and held captive. I
looked up, noticing the warm ceiling lights were dim, because the
sun was out, as if Monday morning had already strolled by…
How long had I been out for?
“Ugh,” I grunted, my voice groggy as I sat up on the bed. I
looked over to the large windows until my vision cleared, my eyes
readjusting to the scenery now showing me its true colors.
This space was massive and chic. Whoever abducted me had a
place in wealth and power.
I shot up on my feet, still covered in blood and dirt, stammering
myself over to the curtains of the window to gauge where I was. I
hadn’t a clue, the back courtyard to this campus stretching for yards,
maybe even acres… The sky was clear, the birds were whistling and
the trees sashayed in the gentle wind—a clear contrast to how
everything had been a few hours ago. I wish I could have said this
place looked even remotely familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger to
how I’d gotten here, barely remembering anything from before I’d
passed out.
Though, I did remember someone…
“Rachel…”
My head went numb and my teeth clenched down as I tried to
remember what had happened to her. One moment she was there,
and then the next, she was gone. There was no trace of her, no matter
how many times I played that moment over and over again in my
head. No clues, not even a faint trail. Something inside me begged
me to look for answers, my feet heading right out the door to look for
Rachel.
For the most part, the halls were empty. But one thing was for
sure, this place was massive.
I got lost in the labyrinth, a home of a hundred doors and even
more possibilities. I didn’t understand how a place this huge could
feel so very vacant, vacant enough to where all I heard were my
footsteps pacing forward. I was on the third floor, so I decided to
make my way down to the first, where I caught the sound of a woman
wailing.
Down the corridor and past the right corner—I couldn’t see her
yet, but her painful voice echoed down my path. I stood my ground
and waited for her to appear, noticing her shadow growing closer and
closer to me the longer she complained.
 “Ahh, an entire home, bodiless? Is this a joke? I am so very
hungry!” she cried. “Somebody, anybody… I need nourishment!
Huh?” She gasped when we locked eyes, the sight of a woman
leaning on the other end of the hallway making me freeze.

I held my breath, my chest dropping into my stomach as I

registered her off features. She was dangerously beautiful, both
deadly and alluring at the same time. Her fingertips against the wall
were tainted black, my eyes shamefully locked on her busty figure
underneath those battered and torn clothes. The black bangs over
her eyebrows did nothing to hide her demoness-like appearance,
from her black pooled eyes with red pupils, to those four short and
sharp horns on her forehead.
We had a stalemate, a staring contest for all of five seconds.
Until she gave me a mischievous grin, her eyes lighting up at me like
she found herself a prize.
“Finally, a meal!” she beamed.
Wait, what?
The confused look on my face protested, this mystery woman
making me shirk back. She lunged, launching at me like I was her
prey. I couldn’t move, my eyes growing wide when I noticed her
fangs. The hostile demon girl came at me with relentless speed. She
hissed, her face churning into something monstrous. It wasn’t until
she reached me that my feet moved, my instant reaction to buck her
off before she reached in for my neck. I wasn’t going to satisfy her
with a bite, grabbing her wrists in the air and using her momentum
against her.
 I dropped on my ass for leverage, my foot under her midriff
while I pulled her over my roll. I wasn’t about the business of hurting
a girl, but this one went dark on me, and I had no other choice but to
defend myself.
The power behind my overhead swing nearly left me breathless.
She crashed into the wall a few feet behind us, colliding into drywall
and wooden beams to break her fall. The dust suspended in the air
clouded me from getting a visual of her, but the lack of sound on her
part was making me wary.
I really hoped I hadn’t killed her, my feet moving toward the
gaping cutout in the wall cautiously.
This wouldn’t be the first time I realized how abnormally strong
I was. On the rare occasions I had slipped up and used my inhuman
strength, I’d get rattled, as if I were discovering it for the first time.
The source of my power remained a mystery, and something I
refused to share with the world. I figured it was for the best, because
ever since I had introduced myself to my new life, I hadn’t had a
reason to use it.
Until now…
It was then I realized my once quiet life was seriously over.
From Dracier’s fucking bio-nuke, to this bizarre need to protect
myself from a bloodthirsty predator beast woman. I tightened my fist
once I heard soft snickering on the other side, the debris dispersing
gradually in my shielded eyes. I lowered my arm just an inch, and in
a flash second, these black grabby tendrils snapped right at me.
“Shit!” I nearly tripped over my feet when she startled me,
those tendrils reaching over my wrists and grabbing me tight. She
had a good grip on me, but when the smoke cleared, I noticed those
tendrils weren’t coming from her, but from this small ugly one-eyed
blob.
It looked like a black octopus with a shadowy demonic aura, its
piercing yellow eye growing wider the more I struggled to break free
from it. In terms of strength, I surpassed it, but that didn’t stop this
demon from trying to subdue me.
“Good job, Nunu!” the witch beamed, crawling out of the hole
with spider legs that randomly materialized on her back. “Keep him
there! I want to take my time with him!” she admitted in a light and
sultry voice, slipping her supple body between the arms of that
demon thing while she retracted her black spider legs.
She pressed her slender fingertips on my chest, her dark and
greedy bedroom eyes locked on my lips. Her other hand was curious,
lacing over my belt while her thigh pressed up against my groin.
“Mmm, you’re quite a looker, too. And feisty, just how I like my
men,” she purred, those gentle fingers of hers trailing over my nape
and under my hair.
“I’m sorry, but you’re not my type,” I tried to jest, making that
devious smile on her face stretch even wider.
“That’s okay. I like a challenge.” I wouldn’t give her one, head-
butting her dead-center. The cheap move was enough to peel her off
of me, knocking her right into that blob behind her. The creature
released me when its blood thirsty friend collided into it, giving me a
chance to buck it.
Although, I didn’t get very far. The blob was relentless, using all
of its appendages this time to wrangle my running feet off the floor.
I dropped like a ton of weights, Nunu dragging me toward her. I
tried to break free from those grabby tendrils, but every time I tore
through one tentacle, another would grow in its place.
I was being swallowed in, its arms stretching further up my
body the closer I got to her. My breath went ragged and I started to
panic, squirming and writhing to break free from this persistent
restraint. The dire situation was bringing back haunting memories,
my heart starting to race while I struggled to keep my knees on the
floor.
“Be still, my love,” she cooed as she approached me, that
expression making my eyes dilate. “This will all be over soon.”

The demoness triggered me, her words reaching into the depths
of my past trauma and unlocking the nuclear power inside. My core
began ticking like a time bomb, heating up as a response to a threat. I
tried fighting the reaction, because blowing up this entire estate with
her in it would be overkill.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have a say in what my body wanted to
do.
My mind saw a problem and wanted to deal with it accordingly.
No loose ends, no rocks left unturned. Except this wasn’t the vile
woman who had tortured me years ago. Either way, she would share
the same fate, the explosion in me begging to come out.
I curled up into a kneeling fetal position, with my veins bulging
down my forehead, and the clothes on my back searing. The girl’s
wicked pet released me, its tentacles melting off of my nuclear hot
skin. She must have noticed I was about to detonate, taking a few
steps back before I could muster a warning, “R-run…” I begged,
feeling like I was on the losing end of this battle. It was only a matter
of seconds now before I blew, until I felt a needle prick my neck, the
contents of a syringe flowing through my blood.
 “This is not the place for that, Chago,” a flat feminine voice
from behind me disciplined, that poison she fed me numbing my
entire body.
I fell into another black out, slowly slipping unconscious…
 CHAPTER THREE

-yesterday at Watch Square-

Rachel

I
kept telling myself that it was all a bad dream as I tried to gather
the little feeling I had from my tingling fingertips. I finally had
enough strength to open my heavy eyelids, noticing a thick red fog,
with little white specks gliding about. When my vision adjusted, I
realized that those specks were men in hazmat suits, in a scene that
looked like a shot from a science fiction horror film.
I sucked my teeth, fighting the toxic air from filling my chest as
I lay on the pavement in the middle of Watch Square. It was
pointless, and I knew it, trying to protect myself anyway. God only
knew how long I had been knocked out here, already having had
breathed in a load of this shit, just now waking up to the realest
nightmare of my life.
One by one, the people in those hazmat suits were plucking up
motionless victims of the devastating blast, and carrying them into
black armored vans. I dropped my elbows on the sidewalk to arch my
top half up to get a better view, but I slipped, catching my arm falling
into the cement. I gasped, realizing my body was sinking into the
ground, my eyes scanning my lower half to witness a phantom-like
change to my legs.
What the hell?!
Was I dead?!
 I was hyperventilating, everything suddenly hitting me at once.
I looked around, panicking and realizing that I was in deeper trouble
than I thought. Bodies were everywhere, the smell of blood, the taste
of death. Holy fuck, I was one of them who hadn’t made it, wasn’t I?
That explosion had killed me!
But I couldn’t understand—Liam, he was blocking me from the
blast with his body. He protected me!
Where was he?
Why wasn’t he with me!
The more I freaked out, the deeper my body plunged. If I kept
at this hysteria, my entire body would sink into the sewers. I made
the connection that my emotions had a part in how far I’d drop, so I
tried picking myself up, enough to have my composure in a placid
place.
For all of five seconds…
If I didn’t want to freak out, I couldn’t open my eyes and let the
view shatter me into pieces. I slipped my hand over my lips as I
gradually controlled my levitation, finally bringing my feet flat on the
ground. “Please… Liam,” I mumbled, forcing myself to look around
for him in the wreckage scattered about.
Straight carnage.
I felt sick to my non-existent stomach.
I should have been more worried about myself, but I had to
look for Liam. I had to make sure he survived this! The last few
seconds before that bright white light fell from the sky played in my
head, my mind trying to give me hints and clues of where I had last
seen him. But everything was left in ruins, and I couldn’t make out
landmarks no matter how hard I tried.
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 CHAPTER VII

The Spell of the Laurenziana

 VII
THE SPELL OF THE LAURENZIANA

The most fascinating city in all Europe is Florence, and the most alluring
spot in all Florence is the Laurenziana Library. They say that there is
something in the peculiar atmosphere of antiquity that reacts curiously upon
the Anglo-Saxon temperament, producing an obsession so definite as to cause
indifference to all except the magic lure of culture and learning. This is not
difficult to believe after working, as I have, for weeks at a time, in a cell-like
alcove of the Laurenziana; for such work, amid such surroundings, possesses
an indescribable lure.
Yet my first approach to the Laurenziana was a bitter disappointment; for
the bleak, unfinished façade is almost repelling. Perhaps it was more of a shock
because I came upon it directly from the sheer beauty of the Baptistery and
Giotto’s Campanile. Michelangelo planned to make this façade the loveliest of
all in Florence, built of marble and broken by many niches, in each of which
was to stand the figure of a saint. The plans, drawn before America was
discovered, still exist, yet work has never even been begun. The façade remains
unfinished, without a window and unbroken save by three uninviting doors.
Conquering my dread of disillusionment, I approached the nearest
entrance, which happened to be that at the extreme right of the building and
led me directly into the old Church of San Lorenzo. Drawing aside the heavy
crimson curtains, I passed at once into a calm, majestic quiet and peace which
made the past seem very near. I drew back into the shadow of a great pillar in
order to gain my poise. How completely the twentieth century turned back to
the fifteenth! On either side, were the bronze pulpits from which Savonarola
thundered against the tyranny and intrigue of the Medici. I seemed to see the
militant figure standing there, his eyes flashing, his voice vibrating as he
proclaimed his indifference to the penalty he well knew he drew upon himself
by exhorting his hearers to oppose the machinations of the powerful family
within whose precincts he stood. Then, what a contrast! The masses vanished,
and I seemed to be witnessing the gorgeous beauty of a Medici marriage
procession. Alessandro de’ Medici was standing beneath a baldacchino,
surrounded by the pomp and glory of all Florence, to espouse the daughter of
Charles V. Again the scene changes and the colors fade. I leave my place of
vantage and join the reverent throng surrounding the casket which contains
the mortal remains of Michelangelo, and listen with bowed head to Varchi’s
eloquent tribute to the great humanist.
The spell was on me! Walking down the nave, I turned to the left and
found myself in the Old Sacristy. Verrocchio’s beautiful sarcophagus in bronze
and porphyry recalled for a moment the personalities and deeds of Piero and
Giovanni de’ Medici. Then on, into the “New” Sacristy,—new, yet built four
centuries ago! Again I paused, this time before Michelangelo’s tomb for
Lorenzo the Magnificent, from which arise those marvelous monuments, “Day
and Night” and “Dawn and Twilight,”—the masterpieces of a super-sculptor
to perpetuate the memory of a superman!
A few steps more took me to the Martelli Chapel, and, opening an
inconspicuous door, I passed out into the cloister. It was a relief for the
moment to breathe the soft air and to find myself in the presence of nature
after the tenseness that came from standing before such masterpieces of man.
Maurice Hewlett had prepared me for the “great, mildewed cloister with a
covered-in walk all around it, built on arches. In the middle a green garth with
cypresses and yews dotted about; when you look up, the blue sky cut square
and the hot tiles of a huge dome staring up into it.”
From the cloister I climbed an ancient stone staircase and found myself at
the foot of one of the most famous stairways in the world. At that moment I
did not stop to realize how famous it was, for my mind had turned again on
books, and I was intent on reaching the Library itself. At the top of the
stairway I paused for a moment at the entrance to the great hall, the Sala di
Michelangiolo. At last I was face to face with the Laurenziana!
 SALA DI MICHELANGIOLO
Laurenziana Library, Florence

Before I had completed my general survey of the room, an attendant

greeted me courteously, and when I presented my letter of introduction to the
librarian he bowed low and led me the length of the hall. The light came into
the room through beautiful stained-glass windows, bearing the Medici arms
and the cipher of Giulio de’ Medici, later Pope Clement VII, surrounded by
arabesque Renaissance designs. We passed between the plutei, those famous
carved reading-desks designed by Michelangelo. As we walked down the aisle,
the pattern of the nutwood ceiling seemed reflected on the brick floor, so
cleverly was the design reproduced in painted bricks. Gradually I became
impressed by the immense size of the room, which before I had not felt
because the proportions are so perfect.
Doctor Guido Biagi, who was at that time librarian, was seated at one of
the plutei, studying a Medicean illuminated manuscript fastened to the desk by
one of the famous old chains (see page 14). He was a Tuscan of medium height,
rather heavily built, with full beard, high forehead, and kindly, alert eyes. The
combination of his musical Italian voice, his eyes, and his appealing smile,
made me feel at home at once. Letters of introduction such as mine were
every-day affairs with him, and no doubt he expected, as did I, to have our
meeting result in a few additional courtesies beyond what the tourist usually
receives, and then that each would go his way. I little realized, as I presented
my letter, that this meeting was to be so significant,—that the man whose
hand I clasped was to become my closest friend, and that through him the
Laurenziana Library was to be for me a sanctuary.

Dott. Comm. GUIDO BIAGI in 1924

Librarian of the Laurenziana Library, Florence

After the first words of greeting, I said,

“I am wondering how much more I can absorb today. By mistake I came
in through the church, and found myself confronted by a series of
masterpieces so overpowering that I am almost exhausted by the monuments
of great personages and the important events they recall.”
“A fortunate mistake,” he replied smiling. “The entrance to the Library
should be forever closed, and every one forced to come in through the church
as you did, in order to absorb the old-world atmosphere, and be ready to
receive what I can give.—So this is your first visit? You know nothing of the
history of the Library?”
“Simply that everything was designed by Michelangelo,—and the names of
some of the priceless manuscripts in your collection.”
“It is not quite exact to say that everything was designed by the great
Buonarroti,” he corrected. “It was Michelangelo who conceived, but Vasari
who designed and executed. Let me show you the letter the great artist wrote
to Vasari about the stairway you just ascended” (page 280).
Leaving me for a moment he returned with a manuscript in his hand
which he read aloud:
There is a certain stair that comes into my thoughts like a dream, the letter ran;
but I don’t think it is exactly the one which I had planned at the time, seeing that it
appears to be but a clumsy affair. I will describe it for you here, nevertheless. I took a
number of oval boxes, each about one palm deep, but not of equal length and breadth.
The first and largest I placed on a pavement at such distance from the wall of the door
as seemed to be required by the greater or lesser degree of steepness you may wish to give
the stair. Over this was placed another, smaller in all directions, and leaving sufficient
room on that beneath for the foot to rest on in ascending, thus diminishing each step as
it gradually retires towards the door; the uppermost step being of the exact width
required for the door itself. This part of the oval steps must have two wings, one right
and one left, the steps of the wings to rise by similar degree, but not be oval in form.
“Who but a great artist could visualize that marvelous staircase through a
collection of wooden boxes!” Biagi exclaimed. “Vasari built this great room,
but the designs were truly Michelangelo’s,—even to the carving of these plutei,”
he added, laying his hand on the reading-desk from which he had just risen.
“See these chains, which have held these volumes in captivity for over four
hundred years.”
He asked me how long I was to be in Florence.
“For a week,” I answered, believing the statement to be truthful; but the
seven days stretched out into many weeks before I was able to break the
chains which held me to the Library as firmly as if they were the links which
for so many years had kept the Medicean treasures in their hallowed places.
“Return tomorrow,” he said. “Enter by the private door, where Marinelli
will admit you. I want to keep your mind wholly on the Library.”

VESTIBULE of the LAURENZIANA LIBRARY, FLORENCE

Designed by Michelangelo

The private door was the entrance in the portico overlooking the cloister,
held sacred to the librarian and his friends. At the appointed hour I was
admitted, and Marinelli conducted me immediately to the little office set apart
for the use of the librarian.
“Before I exhibit my children,” he said, “I must tell you the romantic story
of this collection. You will enjoy and understand the books themselves better
if I give you the proper background.”
Here is the story he told me. I wish you might have heard the words
spoken in the musical Tuscan voice:
Four members of the immortal Medici family contributed to the greatness
of the Laurenziana Library, their interest in which would seem to be a curious
paradox. Cosimo il Vecchio, father of his country, was the founder. “Old”
Cosimo was unique in combining zeal for learning and an interest in arts and
letters with political corruption. As his private fortune increased through
success in trade he discovered the power money possessed when employed to
secure political prestige. By expending hundreds of thousands of florins upon
public works, he gave employment to artisans, and gained a popularity for his
family with the lower classes which was of the utmost importance at critical
times. Beneath this guise of benefactor existed all the characteristics of the
tyrant and despot, but through his money he was able to maintain his position
as a Mæcenas while his agents acted as catspaws in accomplishing his political
ambitions. Old Cosimo acknowledged to Pope Eugenius that much of his
wealth had been ill-gotten, and begged him to indicate a proper method of
restitution. The Pope advised him to spend 10,000 florins on the Convent of
San Marco. To be sure that he followed this advice thoroughly, Cosimo
contributed more than 40,000 florins, and established the basis of the present
Laurenziana Library.
“Some of your American philanthropists must have read the private
history of Old Cosimo,” Biagi remarked slyly at this point.
Lorenzo the Magnificent was Old Cosimo’s grandson, and his contribution
to the Library was far beyond what his father, Piero, had given. Lorenzo was
but twenty-two years of age when Piero died, in 1469. He inherited no
business ability from his grandfather, but far surpassed him in the use he made
of literary patronage. Lorenzo had no idea of relinquishing control of the
Medici tyranny, but he was clever enough to avoid the outward appearance of
the despot. Throughout his life he combined a real love of arts and letters with
a cleverness in political manipulation, and it is sometimes difficult correctly to
attribute the purpose behind his seeming benevolences. He employed agents
to travel over all parts of the world to secure for him rare and important
codices to be placed in the Medicean Library. He announced that it was his
ambition to form the greatest collection of books in the world, and to throw it
open to public use. Such a suggestion was almost heresy in those days! So
great was his influence that the Library received its name from his.
 The third Medici to play an important part in this literary history was
Lorenzo’s son, Cardinal Giovanni, afterwards Pope Leo X. The library itself
had been confiscated by the Republic during the troublous times in which
Charles VIII of France played his part, and sold to the monks of San Marco;
but when better times returned Cardinal Giovanni bought it back into the
family, and established it in the Villa Medici in Rome. During the fourteen
years the collection remained in his possession, Giovanni, as Pope Leo X,
enriched it by valuable additions. On his death, in 1521, his executor, a cousin,
Giulio de’ Medici, afterwards Pope Clement VII, commissioned Michelangelo
to erect a building worthy of housing so precious a collection; and in 1522 the
volumes were returned to Florence.
Lorenzo’s promise to throw the doors open to the public was
accomplished on June 11, 1571. At that time there were 3,000 precious
manuscripts, most of which are still available to those who visit Florence. A
few are missing.
The princes who followed Cosimo II were not so conscious of their
responsibilities, and left the care of the Library to the Chapter of the Church
of San Lorenzo. During this period the famous manuscript copy of Cicero’s
work, the oldest in existence, disappeared. Priceless miniatures were cut from
some of the volumes, and single leaves from others. Where did they go? The
Cicero has never since been heard of, but the purloining of fragments of
Laurenziana books undoubtedly completed imperfections in similar volumes
in other collections.
The House of Lorraine, which succeeded the House of Medici, guarded
the Laurenziana carefully, placing at its head the learned Biscioni. After him
came Bandini, another capable librarian, under whose administration various
smaller yet valuable collections were added in their entirety. Del Furia
continued the good work, and left behind a splendid catalogue of the treasures
entrusted to him. These four volumes are still to be found in the Library. In
1808, and again in 1867, the libraries of the suppressed monastic orders were
divided between the Laurentian and the Magliabecchian institutions; and in
1885, through the efforts of Pasquale Villari, the biographer of Machiavelli, the
Ashburnham collection, numbering 1887 volumes, was added through
purchase by the Italian Government.
“Now,” said Biagi, as he finished the story, “I am ready to show you some
of the Medici treasures. I call them my children. They have always seemed that
to me. My earliest memory is of peeping out from the back windows of the
Palazzo dei della Vacca, where I was born, behind the bells of San Lorenzo, at
the campanile of the ancient church, and at the Chapel or the Medici. The
Medici coat of arms was as familiar to me as my father’s face, and the ‘pills’
that perpetuated Old Cosimo’s fame as a chemist possessed so great a
fascination that I never rested until I became the Medicean librarian.”
Biagi led the way from his private office through the Hall of Tapestries. As
we passed by the cases containing such wealth of illumination, only partially
concealed by the green curtains drawn across the glass, I instinctively paused,
but my guide insisted.
“We will return here, but first you must see the Tribuna.”
We passed through the great hall into a high-vaulted, circular reading-
room.
“This was an addition to the Library in 1841,” Biagi explained, “to house
the 1200 copies of original editions from the fifteenth-century Presses,
presented by the Count Angiolo Maria d’Elchi. Yes—” he added, reading my
thoughts as I glanced around; “this room is a distinct blemish. The great
Buonarroti must have turned in his grave when it was finished. But the
volumes themselves will make you forget the architectural blunder.”
He showed me volumes printed from engraved blocks by the Germans,
Sweynheym and Pannartz, at Subiaco, in the first Press established in Italy. I
held in my hand Cicero’s Epistolæ ad Familiares, a volume printed in 1469. In the
explicit the printer, not at all ashamed of his accomplishment, adds in Latin:
John, from within the town of Spires, was the first to print books in Venice from
bronze types. See, O Reader, how much hope there is of future works when this, the
first,
has surpassed the art of penmanship
There was Tortelli’s Orthographia dictionum e Græcia tractarum, printed in
Venice by Nicolas Jenson, showing the first use of Greek characters in a
printed book. The Aldine volumes introduced me to the first appearance of
Italic type. No wonder that Italy laid so firm a hand upon the scepter of the
new art, when Naples, Milan, Ferrara, Florence, Piedmont, Cremona, and
Turin vied with Venice in producing such examples!
“You must come back and study them at your leisure,” the librarian
suggested, noting my reluctance to relinquish the volume I was inspecting to
receive from him some other example equally interesting. “Now I will
introduce you to the prisoners, who have never once complained of their
bondage during all these centuries.”
In the great hall we moved in and out among the plutei, where Biagi
indicated first one manuscript and then another, with a few words of
explanation as to the significance of each.
“No matter what the personal bent of any man,” my guide continued, “we
have here in the Library that which will satisfy his intellectual desires. If he is a
student of the Scriptures, he will find inspiration from our sixth-century Syriac
Gospels, or the Biblia Amiatina. For the lawyer, we have the Pandects of Justinian,
also of the sixth century, which even today form the absolute basis of Roman
law. What classical scholar could fail to be thrilled by the fourth-century
Medicean Virgil, with its romantic history, which I will tell you some day; what
lover of literature would not consider himself privileged to examine
Boccaccio’s manuscript copy of the Decameron, or the Petrarch manuscript on
vellum, in which appear the famous portraits of Laura and Petrarch; or
Benvenuto Cellini’s own handwriting in his autobiography? We must talk about
all these, but it would be too much for one day.”
Leading the way back to his sanctum, Biagi left me for a moment. He
returned with some manuscript poems, which he turned over to me.
“This shall be the climax of your first day in the Laurenziana,” he
exclaimed. “You are now holding Michelangelo in your lap!”
Can you wonder that the week I had allotted to Florence began to seem
too brief a space of time? In response to the librarian’s suggestion I returned
to the Library day after day. He was profligate in the time he gave me.
Together we studied the Biblia Amiatina, the very copy brought from England
to Rome in 716 by Ceolfrid, Abbot of Wearmouth, intended as a votive
offering at the Holy Sepulchre of Saint Peter. By this identification at the
Laurenziana in 1887 the volume became one of the most famous in the world.
In the plate opposite, the Prophet Ezra is shown by the artist sitting before a
book press filled with volumes bound in crimson covers of present-day
fashion, and even the book in which Ezra is writing has a binding. It was a
new thought to me that the binding of books, such as we know it, was in
practice as early as the eighth century.
 THE PROPHET EZRA. From Codex Amiatinus, (8th Century)
Showing earliest Volumes in Bindings
Laurenziana Library, Florence (12 × 8)

At another time we examined the Medicean Virgil written on vellum, dating

back to the fourth century, and the oldest Codex of the Latin poet.
“This is a veritable treasure for the classical scholar, is it not?” Biagi
inquired. “While the Medicean collection remained in the hands of the
Chapter of San Lorenzo some vandal cut out the first leaves. See,—the text
now begins at the 48th line of the 6th Eclogue.”
I felt almost as if I were looking at a mutilated body, so precious did the
manuscript seem.
 “In 1799,” the librarian continued, “these sheets were carried to France as
part of the Napoleonic booty. Later, through the good offices of Prince
Metternich, under a special article in the Treaty of Vienna, the volume was
returned to Italy. In 1816 a solemn festival was held here in Florence to
celebrate its restoration to the Library. Such events as these,” Biagi added,
“show you the place the book holds in the hearts of the Italian people. Look!”
he exclaimed, pointing disgustedly at the stiff, ugly binding placed upon the
Virgil in Paris during its captivity. “See how little the French appreciated what
this volume really is!”
The Petrarch manuscript yielded me the originals of the famous portraits
of Madonna Laura de Noves de Sale and of Messer Francesco Petrarca which
had hung in my library for years; my friend’s comments made them assume a
new meaning. The poet’s likeness so closely resembles other more authentic
portraits that we may accept that of Madonna Laura as equally correct, even
though the same opportunity for comparison is lacking. What could be more
graceful or original than the dressing of the hair, recalling the elegance of the
coiffures worn by the ladies of Provence and France rather than of Italy, even as
the little pearl-sewn cap is absolutely unknown in the fashions of Petrarch’s
native country. After looking at the painting, we can understand the inspiration
for Petrarch’s lines:

Say from what vein did Love procure the gold

To make those sunny tresses? From what thorn
Stole he the rose, and whence the dew of morn,
Bidding them breathe and live in Beauty’s mould?

So we discussed the treasures which were laid out before me as I returned

again and again to the Library. The illuminated volumes showed me that
marvelous Book of Hours Francesco d’Antonio made for Lorenzo the
Magnificent, which is described in an earlier chapter (page 146); I became
familiar with the gorgeous pages of Lorenzo Monaco, master of Fra Angelico;
of Benozzo Gozzoli, whose frescoes give the Riccardi its greatest fame; of
Gherado and Clovio, and other great artists whose names are unknown or
forgotten.
Besides being librarian of the Laurenziana, Biagi was also custodian of the
Buonarroti and the da Vinci archives. Thus it was that during some of my
visits I had the opportunity to study the early sketches of the great Leonardo,
and the manuscript letters of Michelangelo. Such intimacies gave me an
understanding of the people and the times in which they worked that has
clothed that period with an everlasting halo.
As our friendship expanded through our work together, Biagi introduced
me to other fascinations, outside the Library. I came to know Pasquale Villari
and other great Italian intellects. My friend and I planned Odysseys together,
—to Vallombrosa, to Pisa, to Perugia, to Siena. We visited the haunts of
Dante.
Nor was our conversation devoted wholly to the literary spirits of
antiquity. One day something was said about George Eliot. I had always shared
the common fallacy that she was entitled to be classified as the greatest realist
of the analytical or psychological school; yet I had always marveled at the
consummate skill which made it possible for her, in Romola, to draw her
characters and to secure the atmosphere of veritable Italians and the truest
Italy without herself having lived amongst the Florentines and assimilating
those unique peculiarities which she so wonderfully portrayed. For I had
accepted the myth that she had only passed through Italy on her memorable
trip with the Brays in 1849, and secured her local color by study.
I made some allusion to this, and Biagi smiled.
“Where did you get that idea?” he asked. “Her diary tells you to the
contrary.”
I could only confess that I had never read her diary.
“George Eliot and Lewes were in Florence together in 1861,” he
continued; “and it was because they were here that Romola became a fact.”
Enjoying my surprise, the librarian became more communicative:
“They studied here together from May 4 until June 7, 1861, at the
Magliabecchian Library,” said he, “and I can tell you even the titles of the
books they consulted.”
Perhaps I showed my incredulity.
“I have discovered the very slips which Lewes signed when he took out
the volumes,” he continued. “Would you like to see them?”
By this time Biagi knew me too well to await my response. So we walked
together over to the Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale, the library which became
famous two hundred and fifty years ago through the reputation of a jeweler’s
shop boy, Antonio Magliabecchi, and was known as the Biblioteca
Magliabecchiana for more than a century before the Biblioteca Palatina was
joined with it in 1860 under its present modern and unromantic name.

ANTONIO MAGLIABECCHI
Founder of the Magliabecchia Library, Florence

As we walked along Biagi told me of the unique personality of this

Magliabecchi, which attracted the attention of the literary world while he was
collecting the nucleus of the library. Dibdin scouted him, declaring that his
existence was confined to the “parade and pacing of a library,” yet so great was
his knowledge and so prodigious his memory that when the Grand Duke of
Florence asked him one day for a particular volume, he was able to reply:
 “The only copy of this work is at Constantinople, in the Sultan’s library,
the seventeenth volume in the second bookcase on the right as you go in.”
We entered the old reading hall, which is almost the only portion of the
building still remaining as it was when George Eliot and George Henry Lewes
pursued their studies at one of the massive walnut tables. The jeering bust of
Magliabecchi is still there; the same volumes, resting upon their ornamental
shelves, still await the arrival of another genius to produce another masterpiece
—but except for these the Library has become as modernized as its name.
“I was going over some dusty receipts here one day,” my friend explained,
“which I found on the top of a cupboard in the office of the archives. It was
pure curiosity. I was interested in the names of many Italian writers who have
since become famous, but when I stumbled upon a number of receipts signed
‘G. H. Lewes,’ I realized that I was on the track of some valuable material.
These I arranged chronologically, and this is what I found.”
Now let me go back a little, before, with Biagi’s help, I fit these interesting
receipts into the story of the writing of the book as told by George Eliot’s
diary, which I immediately absorbed.
Silas Marner was finished on March 10, 1861, and on April 19 the author
and Lewes “set off on our second journey to Florence.” After arriving there,
the diary tells us that they “have been industriously foraging in old streets and
old books.” Of Lewes she writes: “He was in continual distraction by having to
attend to my wants, going with me to the Magliabecchian Library, and poking
about everywhere on my behalf.”
 Library Slips used by George Eliot in the Magliabecchia Library, Florence, while
writing Romola

The first slip signed by Lewes is dated May 15, 1861, and called for
Ferrario’s Costume Antico e Moderno. This book is somewhat dramatic and
superficial, yet it could give the author knowledge of the historical
surroundings of the characters which were growing in her mind. The following
day they took out Lippi’s Malmantile, a comic poem filled with quaint phrases
and sayings which fitted well in the mouths of those characters she had just
learned how to dress. Migliore’s Firenze Illustrata and Rastrelli’s Firenze Antica e
Moderna gave the topography and the aspect of Florence at the end of the
fifteenth century.
From Chiari’s Priorista George Eliot secured the idea of the magnificent
celebration of the Feast of Saint John, the effective descriptions of the cars, the
races, and the extraordinary tapers. “It is the habit of my imagination,” she
writes in her diary, “to strive after as full a vision of the medium in which a
character moves as of the character itself.” Knowledge of the Bardi family, to
which the author added Romola, was secured from notes on the old families
of Florence written by Luigi Passerini.
 “See how they came back on May 24,” Biagi exclaimed, pointing to a slip
calling for Le Famiglie del Litta, “to look in vain for the pedigree of the Bardi.
But why bother,” he continued with a smile; “for Romola, the Antigone of
Bardo Bardi, was by this time already born in George Eliot’s mind, and needed
no further pedigree.”
Romance may have been born, but the plot of the story was far from being
clear in the author’s mind. Back again in England, two months later, she writes,
“This morning I conceived the plot of my novel with new distinction.” On
October 4, “I am worried about my plot,” and on October 7, “Began the first
chapter of my novel.”
Meanwhile George Eliot continued her reading, now at the British
Museum. La Vita di G. Savonarola, by Pasquale Villari, gave her much
inspiration. The book had just been published, and it may well have suggested
the scene where Baldassarre Calvo meets Tito Melema on the steps of the
Cathedral. No other available writer had previously described the struggle
which took place for the liberation of the Lunigiana prisoners, which plays so
important a part in the plot of Romola.
In January, 1862, George Eliot writes in her diary, “I began again my novel
of Romola.” By February the extraordinary proem and the first two chapters
were completed. “Will it ever be finished?” she asks herself. But doubt
vanished as she proceeded. In May, 1863, she “killed Tito with great
excitement,” and June 9, “put the last stroke to Romola—Ebenezer!”
Since then I have re-read Romola with the increased interest which came
from the new knowledge, and the story added to my love of Florence. Many
times have I wandered, as George Eliot and Lewes did, to the heights of
Fiesole, and looked down, even as they, in sunlight, and with the moon casting
shadows upon the wonderful and obsessing city, wishing that my vision were
strong enough to extract from it another story such as Romola.

Such were the experiences that extended my stay in Florence. The memory
of them has been so strong and so obsessing that no year has been complete
without a return to Biagi and the Laurenziana. Once, during these years, he
came to America, as the Royal representative of Italy at the St. Louis
Exposition (see also page 182). In 1916 his term as librarian expired through
the limitation of age, but before he retired he completely rearranged that
portion of the Library which is now open to visitors (see page 149). The
treasures of no collection are made so easily accessible except at the British
Museum.
I last visited Biagi in May, 1924. His time was well occupied by literary
work, particularly on Dante, which had already given him high rank as a
scholar and writer; but a distinct change had come over him. I could not
fathom it until he told me that he was planning to leave Florence to take up his
residence in Rome. I received the news in amazement. Then the mask fell, and
he answered my unasked question.
“I can’t stand it!” he exclaimed. “I can’t stay in Florence and not be a part
of the Laurenziana. I have tried in vain to reconcile myself, but the Library has
been so much a fiber of my being all my life, that something has been taken
away from me which is essential to my existence.” The spell of the
Laurenziana had possessed him with a vital grip! The following January (1925)
he died, and no physician’s diagnosis will ever contain the correct analysis of
his decease I shall always find it difficult to visualize Florence or the
Laurenziana without Guido Biagi. When next I hold in my hands those
precious manuscripts, still chained to their ancient plutei, it will be with even
greater reverence. They stand as symbols of the immutability of learning and
culture compared with the brief span of life allotted to Prince or Librarian