A Hidden Fire

Chapter Three

Houston, Texas

October 2003

“Going out this evening?”

Giovanni looked up from buttoning his shirt to see Caspar standing at the door to his large suite of rooms on the third floor of the house. The heavy drapes were still drawn to protect the room from the setting sun, but Giovanni was feeling uncharacteristically light as he finished his evening preparations.

“Yes.” His voice was clipped, but cheerful, as he answered. “Daylight savings time, Caspar.”

Though most of his existence without sunlight did not bother him, Giovanni did envy the mortal freedom of movement during daylight hours. Thus, the short days of winter and the early dark was always something he considered cause for celebration.

Caspar chuckled at the boyish excitement on his friend’s face. He went to hang the dry cleaning in the large walk-in closet at the back of the room.

“It’s the most wonderful time of the year,” he sang, while instinctively dodging the balled up socks Giovanni threw at him. A large grey cat sitting quietly in the corner of the bed unfolded itself and went to investigate the socks.

“Still a smart ass,” Giovanni chuckled.

“Still a dark and twisted demon of the night,” Caspar retorted as he hung the pressed shirts on the racks.

He grinned. “Don’t tell the priest.”

Caspar looked over in surprise. “Is Carwyn coming to town?”

Giovanni nodded and bent to tie his charcoal grey shoes. “December, most likely. He said he’ll make a proper visit and stay for a few months.”

“Excellent,” Caspar replied. “I’ll make sure his rooms are ready for him.”

“I think he’s bringing one of his beasts, as well.”

The cat curled around Caspar’s legs and chirped until he reached down to stroke its thick grey fur.

“Sorry, Doyle. I guess you’ll have to sleep inside for a bit while the wolfhound is in town.”

Doyle made his displeasure known by lifting his tail and leaping back onto the bed.

Giovanni glanced at the cat as it tiptoed across his pillows. “Make sure the gardeners check the fences, as well. I know his dogs are well-trained, but I’d hate to have one wander off like last year. Also, prepare them for the massacre that will no doubt ensue in the flower beds.”

“Of course.” Caspar paused, quietly observing his friend’s evening preparations and looking at his watch to check the time. “It will be pleasant to see him for a longer visit this time. More like the old days.”

“Yes, it will.” He trailed off, his mind already darting to his agenda for the evening.

Caspar noted his friend straightening the collar of his white shirt. “You shouldn’t wear white, you know. It washes you out, and you’re already pale as a corpse.”

Giovanni frowned and turned to him. “Funny. You’ve been watching the English women again, the ones with the clothing show, haven’t you?” He shook his head in mock sorrow tsk’ing his friend as he looked in the mirror, trying to tame his hair.

Caspar sighed. “I can’t help it. Their sardonic British humor and impeccable fashion sense lures me in every time. I do love an ironic woman.”

Giovanni snorted and turned, grabbing his black coat from the chair by the dressing table and checking it for cat hair. “When was the last time you had a date with a woman who wasn’t on the television?”

“Six months. When was the last time you did?”

“Last week.” Giovanni shrugged on his jacket, satisfied it was free of grey fur.

Caspar scowled. “That doesn’t count and you know it.”

Giovanni walked toward the door, chuckling. “That didn’t seem to be her opinion, or at least, she wasn’t complaining.”

Caspar listened to his steps recede down the hallway and turned to Doyle. He looked into the cat’s thoughtful copper-colored eyes. “It doesn’t count if they can’t remember, Doyle.”

Doyle looked at Caspar critically, curled into a ball, and began purring on Giovanni’s pillow.

“Last week?” Caspar muttered as he left the room, turning out the lights behind him. “More like thirty years.”

Giovanni walked down the stairs, pausing to grab his car keys from a drawer in the kitchen before he walked into the dim light of the evening. Unwilling to waste the dark, he sped over surface streets, hoping to reach his destination before closing.

When he pulled the Mustang into the parking spot near the University of St. Thomas, he looked at the clock on the dashboard of his car. He only had fifteen minutes left before the chapel closed, so he strode across the green lawn and headed toward the octagonal brick building which housed Mark Rothko’s black canvases.

As he entered the deserted chapel he had not been able to visit in months, he nodded at the docent, bypassed the various books of worship near the door, and took a seat on one of the plain wooden benches. He quieted his mind and allowed his senses to reach outward as he stared at the seemingly static paintings that lined the white walls.

His skin prickled in awareness of the lone human by the door. He allowed himself to concentrate on the solid beat of the man’s heart as his ears filtered the myriad noises flowing in and around the small building.

Giovanni’s eyes rested on the black canvas in front of him. The longer he stared, the more the texture and subtle swirls of paint leapt out from its depths. No longer merely black, the paintings whirled and grew, taking on dimension never noticed by the casual observer.

He sat completely still and let his soul rest in the simplicity of the quiet room. Too soon, he heard the guard’s heartbeat approaching. He stood and turned, not willing to have his peace interrupted by the words of the docent asking him to leave.

As he exited the chapel, he saw the cover of the Holy Bible sitting on the shelf by the door. He was reminded of his phone call that afternoon with one of his oldest friends.

“I’m coming for a visit,” the priest had informed him. “A proper one.”

“Out of whiskey or deer?”

“Neither, Sparky. You’re getting in one of your moods again, I can tell.” Carwyn’s Welsh accent tripped across the phone line.

“Oh, you can tell from across an ocean? You must be old,” Giovanni quipped in the library as he spoke on the old rotary phone. “I don’t need last rites yet, Father.”

“No, but you do need a bit of fun. That’s why I’m interrupting my very busy drinking and eating regimen to come for a visit.”

“Has Caspar been tattling on me again? Irritating child. And I’m not getting in a mood.”

“Just the way your voice sounds right now tells me you’re already in one,” Carwyn lectured him all the way from his remote home in Northern Wales. “I’m coming for a visit, and I’m bringing one of the dogs. Lock your demon cat up.”

“I have a project going right now.” He attempted to distract his friend as he stared at the flickering candle on his desk, repeatedly passing his fingers through its flame. The fire leaned toward him, dancing in the still air of the library. “And Caspar’s cat is not a demon.”

“The cat is yours; and you know it’s far more demonic than we are. I’ll not have it sleeping on my head again.”

“It’s not like you can suffocate.”

“No, but I can get cat hair up my nose, which is not a pleasant way to wake up. What’s your project?”

“Do you remember the job I did for that London banker about five years ago?” Giovanni lifted his fingers, pinching the air and drawing the candle flame upward.

“Not really, you know I find most of that dreadfully boring.”

“It was a Dante thing.”

“Oh yes, the Dante thing. Not much, I remember you mentioning it, that’s all.”

“Mmmhmm. There was an expert I heard rumors about-one of us. He was young but sounded like he was worth tracking down. In the end, I couldn’t find him. Didn’t need him anyway, but a mutual acquaintance mentioned a Boccaccio manuscript he had.” Giovanni let the flame grow to a foot tall before he began manipulating it to curve and twist before his eyes.

“How very fascin-”

“It was a rare copy. Florentine.”

“Why is this interesting to me?”

“Because I think it was one of mine.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“From your library?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“An American, turned in Italy around ten years ago while he was there working. I looked for him, but he vanished quite admirably.”

“What does this have to do with your project?”

“I think I may have met the Dante expert’s daughter at the library where I’ve been doing that transcription for Tenzin.”

He would have chuckled at the sudden silence on the phone, but he was distracted by the perfect circle the flame formed. It reminded him of the ancient symbol of a snake eating its tail. It bent to his will, turning continuously in front of his eyes as he waited for Carwyn’s response.

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

“It would be, if either of us believed in coincidence,” he murmured as he let the flame unfurl and return to its home at the tip of the candle, shrinking until it was no larger than his fingertip.

“How would anyone newly sired have access to your library? The rumors have swirled for years, but there’s been no actual proof.”

“Yet I am in Houston. And if I’m correct, I met the daughter of an immortal who was rumored to have a book I haven’t seen for over five hundred years.”

“What do you think-”

“I don’t know what to think right now, Father. I need more information. I’ve already sent a letter to Livia. As for the girl? I’m proceeding as if it’s of no consequence at the moment. She’s…interesting.”

“’Interesting’? I can’t remember the last time-”

“Did you know daylight savings time started this week? I’ll be able to visit the museum again.”

“Your phone manners are abysmal, Gio. It’s not polite to interrupt someone, you know, even if you’re not in the same room.”

Giovanni smirked into the darkened room. “I knew what you were going to say, and I didn’t want to talk about it. They’re hosting a lecture next week at the museum about Dali, I-”

“What a fascinating subject change. We’re going to forget about the daughter?”

He smiled at the priest’s interruption. “For now, yes. I see her every week at the library. I even saw her last night. So far, nothing leads me to believe she knows anything about our kind, which means her father, if he is the immortal I want, hasn’t been in contact. So, there’s nothing to be done at the moment. I need to investigate more.”

“Fine. Let me know when the pieces move.”

Giovanni paused, staring into the turning flame in front of him. “Maybe they won’t. Maybe it is just a coincidence.”

Carwyn’s voice was soft when he replied, “Do you really believe that?”

“No.”

“Dr. Vecchio?” a familiar voice asked. “What are you doing here?”

He turned, surprised to see Beatrice De Novo standing in front of a Leger painting in one of the contemporary rooms; an older woman standing next to her. The young student’s typical uniform of black was broken by the deep red shirt she wore and demure black flats replaced her combat boots, as he thought of them.

“Beatrice? How unexpected to see you here.” He wasn’t sure why seeing her at the museum caught him off guard. It was a popular destination for students, and he tried to convince himself it was purely serendipitous she was here on the evening after he had been speaking about her. “A pleasant surprise, of course.”

The older woman looking at the Leger painting turned, and he saw the history of Beatrice’s slight accent in front of him as he examined the older woman. Spanish blood seemed dominant in her handsome features, and he looked into a pair of clear green eyes. She smiled and took Beatrice’s arm.

“¿Es el profesor guapo, Beatriz?”

Her accent, he noted, was educated, and from the Guadalajara region of Mexico.

Beatrice laughed nervously at her grandmother’s question. He smiled, happy that the girl had referred to him as ‘the handsome professor.’ Blushing, she smiled at Giovanni. “Dr. Vecchio, this is my grandmother, Isadora.”

Giovanni bowed his head toward the older woman, charmed by the graceful formality she seemed to exude.

“Mucho gusto, Señora. Me llamo Giovanni Vecchio. Your granddaughter has been a great help to me at the library.”

“And of course he speaks Spanish,” he heard Beatrice mumble.

“Beatrice, manners please,” Isadora chided. “Dr. Vecchio, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you a lover of contemporary art?”

He smiled and nodded, tucking his hands carefully in his pockets. “I am. I was just visiting the Rothko Chapel before it closed and thought I would take a walk through the main collection before I left. Are you a fan of Leger?”

“I am. Though I love the surrealist collection here as well. We live near Rice, so I’m able to visit quite frequently. You are doing research at the university?”

He nodded. “Yes, though really more as a favor to a friend who studies Tibetan religious history. She lives in China and I’m transcribing a document for her.”

“A lot of work for a favor.” She paused, but he did not explain further, so she asked, “Are you a professor?”

Giovanni caught the curious angle of the girl’s head as she listened for his response. He knew he was the focus of some speculation at the library, though he also knew even the best researcher would find nothing about him that he didn’t want found.

“I am not. My family is in rare books, Señora De Novo. I work mostly in that area.”

“Oh? How interesting! Are you a collector yourself? Of books? Or art?” Beatrice’s grandmother nodded toward the modern portrait on the wall next to them.

He smiled enigmatically. “I have my own book collection, of course. One my family has added to for many years. I enjoy art, but I don’t have a collection, per se.”

“My grandmother is a very talented painter, Dr. Vecchio.”

Giovanni turned to Beatrice, who had been standing, listening to their conversation. “It must be a pleasure visiting the collection with an artist.”

She smiled and took the elderly woman’s arm. “It is.”

“Would you like to join us?” Isadora asked.

He looked at Beatrice and smiled. He decided it was a perfect opportunity to gather more information.

“Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

He felt lighter as he strolled with the two women. He felt his expression-the intense concentration his friends often needled him about-soften, and Giovanni could even feel his posture relax they walked. Like her granddaughter, Isadora was charming and very intelligent.

He glanced at Beatrice as they walked through the Menil Collection. He noticed the affectionate and familiar way the two women spoke to each other and recalled a few of the major points in Caspar’s report on the girl.

Beatrice De Novo, born July 2, 1980, in Houston, Texas.

Daughter of Stephen De Novo, deceased, and Holly Cranson, whereabouts unknown.

Adopted at twelve by her paternal grandparents, Hector De Novo and Isadora Alvarez, plumber and homemaker/artist.

Senior at Houston University in the English Literature department. Accepted to the graduate program in Information Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles.

According to Caspar’s sources, Beatrice had been working in the Special Collections and Archives department of the university library since her sophomore year. Apparently, she had called the department weekly for three months asking if any position had become open since her last phone call. The young woman so impressed the staid director, Dr. Christiansen, he eventually created a position for her as a reward for her persistence.

“Do you enjoy folk art, Dr. Vecchio?” he heard Isadora ask.

He turned his attention back to her. “I do.”

“You should join us for the art center’s Dia de los Muertos celebration tomorrow night, then.”

“Grandma-” Beatrice tried to break in, but Isadora shot her a look. No doubt, she had not missed Giovanni’s quiet examination of her granddaughter.

“I would love to, Señora.” He smirked at Beatrice’s shocked expression and slight blush. “But I don’t want to intrude on a family outing.”

“Nonsense!” Her small hand fluttered like a butterfly in dismissal of his objections. “It’s like a fair. Everyone is welcome. It’s been too long since I’ve had a handsome escort who enjoys art as much as I do.” Her eyes twinkled at him and he smiled.

“Well then,” he replied, “how can I refuse? But I insist you call me Giovanni, Señora De Novo.” He was pleased the opportunity for further research had presented itself so conveniently. “If I’m going to escort you for the evening, that is.”

“You must call me Isadora, then.”

“Oh brother,” Giovanni heard Beatrice mutter, as she chuckled and shook her head.

“Are you from Houston originally?” Isadora asked.

He glanced with a smile from Beatrice to a Warhol painting on his left. “I grew up primarily in Northern Italy, though my father traveled frequently for his work and I often went with him. I moved to Houston three years ago,” he replied, turning to meet Isadora’s keen gaze. They measured each other for a few moments in the bright light of the gallery.

“Grandma,” Beatrice broke in. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave soon.”

Isadora’s gaze finally left Giovanni’s, and she smiled at her granddaughter. “Of course. It was such a pleasure meeting you. The art center on Main Street tomorrow? We’ll be there around seven o’clock.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Such a pleasure to meet you, and to see you, Beatrice.” He nodded at them and allowed his eyes to meet Beatrice’s dark brown ones. They were narrowed in annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t quite tell, but he winked at her before she turned and led her grandmother toward the lobby.

He stayed at the museum until closing, planning his objectives for the following night. He suspected Beatrice’s grandmother thought she was playing matchmaker between Beatrice and the handsome book-dealer. He was more than happy to play along, as a grandmother would readily give information to a polite young man interested in her attractive granddaughter.

She was also more likely to have information on her son and what he had been working on in Italy. Beatrice had only been a child when her father was killed, but Isadora had not.

As he swam laps that evening, he thought about the girl. She was far too young for him, even if he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her behavior was a curious mix of innocence and wariness, and he wondered how much experience she had with men. She kept to herself, but he had the distinct impression she was no wallflower.

Beatrice De Novo was intriguing, and he found her humor and intelligence far more compelling than the average college student. He knew from her physical response to him that she found him attractive, and he was comfortable using that as he determined what she knew and how it could be of use in his own search.

“Caspar?” he called out when he returned to the house after his swim.

“Yes?” he replied from the library.

Giovanni walked upstairs and stood in the doorway. Caspar had started another fire, and the familiar smell tickled his nose. Doyle was curled up in his favorite chair; the cat looked up, blinked at Giovanni, and closed his eyes again.

“Any word back from Rome?”

Caspar looked up from his book and shook his head. “You know how slow Livia can be. Added to that, she refuses electronic correspondence, even for her day staff. I suspect we might see some sort of response by the new year.”

Giovanni scowled in frustration but knew his friend was probably correct.

“So you really think the girl’s father was turned?” Caspar asked.

He nudged the cat off his chair.

“How many American Dante scholars were killed under mysterious circumstances in northern Italy in 1992? It’s far too coincidental. If the rumors about the book are true…”

“But why are you interested in the girl?”

“Don’t fret, Caspar. She’s perfectly safe. And you know how nostalgic the young ones can be. He was rumored to have access to books that are rightfully mine. Now I have access to his human daughter. If I can use the connection to trade for information…or more, I will.”

“But do you really think he knows about your books?”

Giovanni stared into the flames as the heat began to lift the water from his skin and dry his towel. “If it’s him, and he has what was rumored, then yes. It sounded genuine. Livia will know, and she’ll know who sired him. No one turns a human in that part of Europe without her knowing about it, even if it’s against their will.”

“And whoever sired him-”

“No one stumbles across a library that ancient and that valuable when they’re that young. The sire is who I’m looking for.”

“So we wait.”

“Well,” he mused, “we might be able to do more than that. I’m meeting with the girl and her grandmother tomorrow night.”

“What? On a Friday?”

“I’m going out later.” He shrugged. “Don’t fret, old man.”

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “A divergence from routine, Gio? What is the world coming to?”

Shaking his head, he rose and walked toward the door.

“See if you can prod some of Livia’s day people tomorrow over the phone.”

“Of course.” Caspar paused for a moment. “Is it worth it, Gio? The books? This obsession? All these years?”

“What do you hold in your hands, my son?”

“A book.”

“No, you hold knowledge. Knowledge sought for centuries. Knowledge that some have died for. Knowledge that some have killed for.”

“Why would anyone kill for a book?”

“It is not a book.” The slap rung in his ears. “What is it?”

“Knowledge.”

“And knowledge is power. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Giovanni paused in the doorway, letting his wet hair drip in his eyes as he pushed back the memory, the driving need to discover pulsing in his quiet veins. “You ask me that every time I find something new.”

“And you never really answer me.”

“Yes, I do,” he murmured. “You just don’t like the answer.”

He slept late the next day, not rising until the sun was low in the sky. Though he preferred more pleasant and leisurely meals, the oblivious human woman he had fed from the night before had sated his physical hungers for the week and allowed him to retain the genteel manners he had carefully cultivated for the previous three hundred years.

Giovanni dressed thoughtfully, choosing casual clothing that was more likely to set the De Novo women at ease and detract from his inhuman complexion. Though the slight current that ran under his skin allowed him to adjust its surface temperature, nothing could diminish the almost luminescent paleness.

“Ah,” Caspar exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. “The grey is a good choice. Makes you look much less demon-of-the-night.”

“Please, Caspar,” he implored. “A date with a live woman. Soon.”

Caspar chuckled and looked up from the newspaper. “I’m meeting a friend tonight, as a matter of fact. I was just looking at what movies are opening this weekend. I’m looking for something horribly gory.”

“I’ll never understand your affinity for those pictures.”

“And I’ll never understand your affinity for professional wrestling, so we’re even.”

Giovanni rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Caspar.”

The lights of downtown twinkled, and he could see streams of children already weaving through the neighborhood in their costumes. It was Halloween night, and with Dia de los Muertos falling on Sunday, the whole weekend would be devoted to the macabre, grotesque and mysterious. He drove through the streets, amused by the teenagers and students in their elaborate costumes, enjoying the sense of revelry in the crowded bars and clubs of the Montrose district.

He pulled into the parking lot across from the art center and immediately heard the music of mariachis fill the air. Houston’s Mexican-American community was an integral part of the cultural scene, and he was happy to have an excuse to participate in the odd festival celebrating the dead. He saw children with elaborate face painting and a few adults, as well. The smells of earthy spices and sugar filled the air, and he scanned the crowd for Beatrice and her grandmother.

“Giovanni!” Isadora’s clear voice called from a nearby booth selling tamales. He walked over to the older woman but his eyes were drawn to Beatrice standing behind her, holding a drink and a small paper plate with two tamales on it.

“Dr. Vecchio, how are you tonight?” It was the first time he had seen her with her hair down. It fell long and perfectly straight down her back, with a few errant pieces slipping over her ear. He held himself back from touching it; though he could admit to himself he wanted to.

“B, I’m sure you can call him Giovanni. You’re not at work, after all.”

He turned to Isadora. “Ladies, you’re both looking lovely this evening.” He smiled at Isadora, who was wearing a vivid green dress. “And of course, Beatrice, feel free to call me Giovanni.”

She was dressed in black again, but this time, she wore a wide collared shirt that showed off her graceful neck and collar bones and another trim skirt that fell to her knees. He was strangely pleased to see that her combat boots were back, and she had switched her ruby piercing out for a tiny silver stud.

“Giovanni, huh? No nickname?” Beatrice asked. She frowned a little before she continued. “That must have been quite a chore to spell in kindergarten.”

He smiled and watched her offer her grandmother the drink, but she made no move to unwrap the tamales she had bought.

“Oh, I’ve been called many things over the years, but all the men in my family are named Giovanni.”

“Really? Is that traditional?”

“What is your name?”

“Whatever I want it to be.”

“Why?”

“Because I am superior to mortals.”

He blinked to clear the unexpected flash, wondering why the memories of his father had been so near in his mind in the past few weeks. “For us, yes.”

Beatrice gestured to the line of food vendors. “I’m sorry we didn’t wait for you. We ate earlier, but there are plenty of things to choose from. Please help yourself; we can wait.”

He shook his head, “No, I’ve eaten as well, thank you. Shall we go to look at the art?”

“Ofrendas, Mariposa. Ofrendas first,” Isadora said with a smile as she took Giovanni’s arm and steered them toward a small building.

“Do you know much about Dia de los Muertos?” Beatrice asked as they walked.

He shook his head. “Not much. I haven’t spent a great deal of time in Latin America.” He knew plenty, of course, but he preferred to hear her explanation.

“It’s not usually celebrated until November second, but the art center hosts a family fair on Halloween so parents have an option other than trick-or-treating for the kids.” Beatrice smiled at a pair of small children in skeleton costumes with flowers in their hair as they rushed past on the way to the carnival games.

He observed their small, retreating forms. “It certainly seems popular.”

“It is. It used to be just Mexican families, but now a lot of people like the tradition.”

“And the ofrendas?”

Beatrice smiled. “Just little offerings for the dead. Things they liked during their life, you know?”

They walked inside the small building to see a makeshift altar set up and decorated with marigolds, crosses, and cheerful skeletons. Small candles flickered among them. Sugar skulls were mixed with small toys and placed in front of children’s pictures; bottles of tequila, mugs of chocolate, and small plates of food were propped in front of the pictures of adults.

The small room was decorated elaborately, and the walls were lined with pieces of art celebrating the holiday. The flickering lights of saint candles lit the room as they sputtered in their brightly painted votives, and he could smell incense burning.

“The art is a mix of professional and student,” Beatrice murmured, withdrawing two framed photographs from the messenger bag that hung on her arm, along with a small bottle of expensive tequila.

Isadora had left them to chat with some women at the end of the altar but soon walked back to Beatrice with a smile.

“Las photos, Beatrice?”

“Si, abuelita,” she said, and handed Isadora the two small frames. They walked to the end of the altar where a few other families were setting up pictures and ofrendas.

Isadora placed the two pictures on the altar and touched their frames. Giovanni spied an older man who must have been the grandfather in one picture. The younger man in the other photograph so closely resembled Beatrice, he had little doubt it was her father. Stephen De Novo stared out of the photograph with the same dark eyes that the young woman had.

Giovanni wondered whether Stephen’s eyes had changed color when he turned, as sometimes happened. Oddly enough, he found himself hoping they hadn’t.

He tried to examine Beatrice’s expression as she unwrapped the tamales and placed them on small plates in front of the two pictures, but her dark hair curtained her face and obscured her features. She placed the bottle of tequila between the two pictures, tilting them as if they could keep each other company on the crowded altar.

The women stepped back to examine the effect, whispering to each other in Spanish but smiling and laughing as well. He cocked his head and looked around the room.

Though it was filled with symbols and depictions of the dead, there was no fear and very little sorrow. It was unusual to find such celebration in the name of loss, and he found himself touched by the demeanor of the partygoers.

Beatrice was smiling when she turned, and he saw Isadora wander toward a group of older women, nodding at him as she walked away.

“Do you want to walk outside? There’s some music playing,” she asked. “I imagine she’ll chat with her buddies for a while, then come join us. I have to get out of the incense.” She waved her hand in front of her nose and laughed.

He had hardly noticed the heavy smell until she mentioned it. He was so accustomed to filtering out the various and sundry smells of life around him that he did it automatically. He realized he probably hadn’t been breathing at all in the close environment of the crowded room.

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the doors. He placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her through the people streaming into the building. When they exited, he stepped away, suddenly aware of her body from the press of the crowd.

“Was that your father and grandfather?”

She nodded. “My grandparents raised me after my father was killed. We all lived together anyway. My mom’s MIA. Dad worked a lot and traveled, so my grandparents took care of me.”

“When did your grandfather pass away?” he asked, careful to keep up the ruse of an unknowing companion.

“Two years ago.” She smiled wistfully. “He had heart problems.”

“What happened to your father?” He paused for effect. “Unless that’s too personal, of course. I don’t mean to intrude.”

They lingered in front of a guitarist who was playing a children’s song for a small group. Beatrice shook her head, frowning a little.

“It’s fine,” she said quietly. “Random violence happens everywhere, I guess, even picturesque Italian cities. He was in Florence for a lecture series and was robbed. His car was taken and he was killed. I’m sure they didn’t want him to identify them. And he would have. He had an almost photographic memory.”

Yes, I imagine it’s even better now.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Beatrice.”

She turned to him, amusement evident in her face. “Why do you insist on using my name like that?”

He stepped closer. “Like what?”

She flushed, but didn’t back away from him. He noticed her body was already reacting to his proximity. The hairs on her arms were drawn toward his energy and goose-bumps pricked her skin. He wondered what would happen if he reached out ran a hand along the smooth skin of her forearm. He could almost imagine the soft feel of it under his fingertips.

“You know…with the accent.” Her eyebrows drew together. “And the old-fashioned manners. And what’s with the grandmother-charming?” She glanced at him before looking back toward the guitarist. “Are you trying to charm me, too?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “Are you charmed, Beatrice?” he asked, letting her name roll of his tongue. “I don’t think you are.”

Ignoring his own reaction and reminding himself of his objective, he took a deliberate step back and slipped his hands in his pockets, nodding toward another musician at the end of the parking lot.

“Shall we?”

She followed where his eyes led and they stepped back into the flow of people.

“Your personality is too large for one letter, Beatrice. And, for the record, I don’t think anyone charms your grandmother. She does all the charming necessary.”

She laughed, her head falling back as her eyes lit in amusement.

Giovanni stopped for a second, entranced by the clear, joyful sound. He stared at her, drawn to her dark eyes. He stepped toward her a fraction too quickly, but the girl was lost in her own amusement and didn’t notice.

“Yeah, Gio. My grandmother got all the charm in the De Novo family. She’s got it in spades, my grandfather used to say,” she replied, still chuckling.

Not all of it.

“Gio?” he asked, amused she had chosen the name only his closest friends called him.

“Well,” she shrugged, “you don’t look like a ‘Gianni’ to me, so…yeah, ‘Gio.’ If you’re going to call me Beatrice, I’m going to call you Gio.”

He stopped in the middle of the crowd, staring at her until she halted and turned back to look at him.

“What?” she asked, and her forehead wrinkled in confusion.

The people flowed around her, the seemingly endless, monotonous stream of humanity he had lived among for five hundred years. But she stood, dressed in black, her fair skin flushed with life and her brown eyes lit with a kind of intelligence, curiosity, and humor that set her apart. For a moment, he allowed himself to forget his interest in her father and enjoy the unexpected pleasure of her company.

She was bold and shy, formal and friendly. She was young, he realized, and innocent in a way he could hardly remember, yet her short life seemed to have been shaped by loss and abandonment. She was, surprisingly, rather fascinating.

“Inexplicable,” he muttered under his breath, and walked toward her in the crowd.

He hadn’t realized she heard him, but her eyebrows lifted in amusement.

“Nothing’s inexplicable. Just not explained yet.” She smirked at him in the noisy mass of people, and he let his green eyes linger on her face for a brief moment before they kept walking through the fair.

“Perhaps, Beatrice. Perhaps you may be right.”