Part 7 (2/2)

But I don't believe those things!

Then how can you explain them?

”Stop this!” she whispered, s.h.i.+vering. She rinsed herself, stood, grabbed the towel and wrapped it around her torso. She believed in proof, not superst.i.tion. But what proof could there be that Urbano was or was not a vampire?

Dear Lord, she was going to have to dress herself and go down to that carriage or slip out the back way and set off on her own.

He would come after her. She was sure of it. What she wasn't sure of was whether he would do it so that he could suck her blood and her soul, or to protect her from her own rash action. Because if she escaped with no money, no connections... she'd be back fending for herself on the streets. Or in a brothel. Oh, she didn't like that thought. At the very least, her cottage would be up in smoke. She raised the lid of the trunk with a shaking hand. What would she do? The next minutes held a decision that was... unthinkable. Her mortal soul was in danger, but something else was in danger too. She had to know whether the world held things like vampires or not, because if it did, then everything else that was happening to her might be true too, in which case the world was a very different place than she'd imagined.

Why hadn't he sucked her blood?

He'd sucked the blood of the tavern maid instead. Who hadn't seemed the worse for wear. Indeed, she had been given a new confidence and the joy of feeling valued. But vampires are monsters. How were they killed? A stake through the heart.

Dear me. I can't imagine stabbing anyone in the heart.

You who have lived on the streets by your wits ? Is there anything you couldn't do ?

Perhaps there was. She took a breath. She must know for certain what he was before she cast herself away from all chance of realizing her dream. Her eyes had been seeing nothing of the room around her. Now her glance fell to her trunk. There, on top of the folded dresses in tissue laid neatly inside, was the garnet crucifix she had refused. It was set in silver filigree.

At least she could know.

Chapter Seven.

Gian tucked into a beefsteak in the little osteria that served the hotel, feeling better for a quick bath and a change of raiment. He should be thinking only of how he could get the emerald to Mirso Monastery where the world could be protected from it. That was his sworn duty. And he had always lived his life by duty and honor. Why else had he fought those d.a.m.ned wars in North Africa against appalling odds'? He'd paid the price for that duty in nightmares and an ennui that left him uninterested in any aspect of life, including women. The girl had been right about the impotence just as she'd somehow guessed about the violence and the pain in his past. Perhaps LaRoque had told her when she had wormed her way into his confidence to steal the stone. Blast the girl. He should be concentrating on his mission. The Elders had sent him to find the stone. He had a purpose. That might be his only hope of finding a way back to what he had been.

But he just couldn't keep his mind on his work. His world had dissolved in chaos. The fires for instance. Were those really his doing? And the girl. She didn't even seem to realize how odd it was that she could resist his powers of suggestion. In fact, it always came back to the girl... She was an exact opposite of him, in every way. She had no honor at all. A thief, a charlatan who seemed to be able to ignore what she didn't believe in. But courageous, educated, thoughtful. He'd never encountered her like.

Well, speak of the devil. That's what she'd said to him that night in her rooms.

He rose as the waiter let her in. She was wearing red again. Emilia, the unconscious donor of the wardrobe, loved red. This dress was burgundy, like new wine, with soft, loose sleeves and a waist just below her ribs in the latest fas.h.i.+on. Gian had never liked those high waists that refused to reveal a woman's form. The bodice curved over the girl's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She wore a thick black ribband around her neck to hide the fading bruises Elyta had left. That would become a fas.h.i.+on, if the women of Firenze had eyes. It made her neck look slender and elegant. She had knotted her hair up hastily, for tendrils wisped around her neck and ears, but the effect was... attractive. She was so stupidly conscious of that scar. One didn't even notice it after the first day or so. And except for that she was a diamond of the first water. He frowned. Something was bothering her. Her eyes glittered with fear and determination.

She stalked in and stood, rod-straight, in the center of the room. The door closed behind her and still she did not move.

He raised his brows. ”Will you eat something?”

Her jaws clenched. ”I... I wonder if you would a.s.sist me with this clasp?” She came forward, hesitant. Her hand was clenched around a delicate silver chain until her knuckles were white. She opened it slowly. The garnet crucifix.

Ahhhh. Gian could not help but smile. So, she was even more intelligent than he thought. She had put the clues together. Now she wanted to know for certain rather than run screaming away because she was courageous, and because she did not want to believe those clues since that would mean that all things were possible whether you could see them and touch them or not.

All those hours in the carriage he had half wanted to tell her what he was, perhaps in recompense for her revealing her own past.

Or perhaps because he had revealed himself to no one except his mother and at some point that didn't count. Or perhaps he had wanted to tell her because, in the telling, he might reveal his nature to himself. He knew little of himself these days, and what he knew appalled him. But now that the moment when he could reveal himself was on him, he knew he would hide the truth. Why spoil her certainty? Why burden her dreams with monsters? Why risk her revulsion? It was his job to tell her that monsters did not exist and keep her by him until he could see her safe.

He nodded. ”Of course.” She was actually holding her breath. He took the crucifix from her and undid the clasp. So many things people believed about his kind were myths, garlic and crucifixes among them. He'd never been dead. He was flesh and blood, as painful as that was at times. He glanced up. She was staring at him as though her life depended upon what she was seeing. ”Will you turn round, or shall I clasp it behind your neck?”

She seemed incapable of moving. So he leaned in and reached around her neck. His lips were inches above her hair. He could feel her heaving breath. He was strangely touched. And excited. He eased closer. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s brushed his waistcoat. His c.o.c.k stirred as it had whenever he was near her. A false promise these days and a torture, knowing it was false.

He stepped back, feeling almost awkward, hoping she did not notice her effect on him. She looked up, her blue eyes big, searching his face. Just to be certain she understood what was happening, he reached out and lifted the cross as though to examine it. As his knuckles brushed across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s he noticed that his hand was trembling slightly. He cleared his throat lest his voice betray him. ”A pretty bauble, and old.” He let it drop to the cleft between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It nestled there, smug. He turned her to the great mirror that hung over the mantel, so she could see her reflection and, more importantly, his. She still did not say a word. She was thinking. He could see it in her eyes. He was not out of the woods yet. ”Will you sit? I ordered you tea, since the British seem to like it so. And Luigi said you ate eggs for breakfast.”

He pulled out a chair. She hesitated, and then sat. He poured her tea from the pot and returned to his seat.

”Tell me about this disease your servants say you have,” she said, without preamble.

Good. She was already searching for other explanations for what she had seen and guessed. ”An... infection in my blood. I was born with it.” Well, not exactly an infection. An infestation more likely, though a glorious one. He must let her ask the questions.

That would tell him exactly how much she had guessed. He wouldn't volunteer any more than he must. He laid a plate with eggs and bread and b.u.t.ter and pa.s.sed it to her.

She took it absently. ”Sophia said that is why you go about only at night.”

”I am sensitive to the sun. It burns my skin quickly and hurts my eyes.”

”Burns.” She thought for a moment. She was thinking about how he had survived the burns she saw in the square outside her lodgings.

”It isn't all bad.” He shrugged. ”It also lends me a certain resilience. I heal quickly.” Healed anything except decapitation.

She nodded, pensive. ”You do not wear lenses, do you? Elyta had the same red eyes and they seemed to glow when there was no reflective light source.”

Red eyes that should have made this little charlatan do anything he wanted, but somehow didn't. He cut a bite of meat, ”My condition affects the pigmentation of my irises.”

”You share the disease with Elyta?”

”And LaRoque. The one from whom you stole the emerald.”

”How was she so strong? Are you that strong?”

He managed a laugh. ”I should hope I'm stronger than a woman. But still, who knows? She trained in the Orient. You have heard of the art of jujitsu?”

She shook her head.

”An old martial art. The fifteen hundreds, I think. It uses points of leverage and the enemy's weight against him. Elyta could throw a man twice her size across her hip.”

The girl chewed her lip. He saw her gathering herself. This could be bad.

”You know hypnotism, do you not?”

That was one way to describe the power he had from the parasite in his blood. He called it compulsion. ”Not a crime, surely.”

Neither of them was even pretending to eat at this point.

”You used it on... that girl in the tavern, didn't you? You don't need to deny it,” she added. ”I saw you.”

Had she seen him with his fangs run out, taking that girl's blood? He answered warily. ”Then you saw that I left her feeling better about herself than when she came in. As a woman should after an... intimate moment.”

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