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When finally apprehended, the killer told police that indeed, several women had been spared because he hadn’t been able to enter their apartments because of the garlic.
Jordan sat back, staring at the book. She wondered if Italian would-be vampires might consider themselves immune to garlic.
She found herself thinking about Ragnor. She never saw him in the early hours of the day. He had a strange habit of appearing when she expected him to be elsewhere, and disappearing when she was sure he had just been near. He would tell her nothing about his past.
She suddenly jumped up, thanked the waiter who was always so attentive and kind, and hurried back to her room.
She turned on every light and stood in front of the mirror. She studied her neck thoroughly. Not a pinprick. She felt foolish.
She looked at her E-mail. No return as of yet. She bundled her two vampire books into her bag and hurried out of the hotel, eager to reach the district station where Roberto Capo worked.
It was very much like any police station at home. There was an information officer at the front desk.
There were a number of people there, all speaking among themselves in different languages. She didn’t need to speak Italian to realize that two of the women being ushered in were being arrested for prostitution. A balding man ahead of her had lost his wallet in a gondola. The pretty Italian woman at her side was bringing her husband some lunch.
Jordan asked for Roberto Capo, apparently managing the question in Italian so well that the officer gave her a long reply?none of which she understood. But he read her baffled expression and smiled. “Roberto was in this morning and just left. He was not feeling well. ” The officer shrugged. “He had last night off.
He’ll be in tomorrow morning. ”
“Thank you so much. Does he usually work mornings, or nights?”
“Now, during Carnevale? He works all hours. Call if you like, before you come in. I’m Dominic Donatello. I’ll be on days from nine to five for the next week. I’ll find out his hours for you. ”
“Again, thank you so much. ”
“You are the American who was frightened at the contessa’s party. ”
“Yes, that’s me. ”
“I’m so sorry. ”
“Thanks one more time. Especially for not laughing at me. ” He waved a hand in the air. “Women like the contessa . . . they don’t realize that there is real crime in the world and one must not make fun of death and terror. ”
Jordan suddenly heard her name called. She turned; it was Alfredo Manetti.
“Miss Riley, how are you?”
“Very well, thank you. ”
“What are you doing here?” he asked politely. “Come, come, into my office. ” A moment later, she was seated at the all too familiar desk where she had been made to feel a fool after the contessa’s party. But this morning, Alfredo seemed to have no intention of making her feel foolish.
“You’re still upset,” he said.
She leaned forward, folding her hands on the desk. “I’m sure my cousin explained all this to you before.
I was engaged to a homicide cop, and he was killed in the pursuit of cultists. I know that such people are out there. And now?you have a severed head. ”
Alfredo leaned forward then. “And I assure you, forensics are working studiously on discovering the identity of the man and the cause of his death. ”
“Well, I would say that the removal of a man’s head is a good reason for death,” she murmured.
He flushed; the tables were somewhat turned.
“What else?” he asked.
“A friend of mine is missing. Tiff Henley. ”
Alfredo threw up his hands. “Mrs. Henley comes and goes like the wind. ”
“Yes, but she had invited a group of us over, and she wasn’t there. And she didn’t show up at the party last night. I’d like you to find out what has happened to her. ”
“I will find out what I can about your friend,” he said. “And as to the contessa . . . she has contributed huge sums of money for orphaned children throughout Italy. She helps finance large groups of poor Europeans, just so that they can see the wonder of Venice. She is generous to a fault. ”
“I’m accusing the contessa of nothing. I’m merely saying that I believe something bad is going on, and that if it doesn’t stop, many people might die. ”
“I will take your words to heart,” he told her.
She rose, wondering if he meant what he said, or if he was mocking her. She was determined to talk to Roberto Capo, no matter how difficult it might be. It was aggravating to have to wait another day, but she didn’t intend to say anything more to Alfredo Manetti.
She thanked him and left the station.
As she entered the lobby of the Danieli, the concierge called her to say that he’d received a message for hen Roberto Capo had called the hotel and wished to meet her. He had left an address for a trattoria where she could find him until seven-thirty or eight.
She glanced at her watch. It was just five, but she decided to leave right away.
The concierge brought out a map and showed her how to reach the address, suggesting that she might want to take a water taxi, since it was a bit of a walk. She didn’t mind walking, and according to the map, she could take a side calle or two and stop by Tiff’s, knock on the door, and see if by chance Tiff would respond today.
She thanked the concierge and headed back out.
Five o’clock, and it was already getting dark, she noted.
In front of the hotel, she stood still for a minute, listening. All she heard was the chatter, laughter and the occasional shout that rose on the promenade. A vaporetto had pulled in at the dock; there were plenty of people out and around.
She remained still for several more seconds and realized that she was listening for the sound of wings, for hisses and whispers on the air.
There were none.
At Tiff’s, she pounded on the door and waited ten minutes, knocking again and again. Tiff made no appearance.
At last giving up, Jordan decided to start her walk to the trattoria.
At first, she ran into people here and there. The festivities for Carnevale were beginning to wind down; though some people still wore costumes, headed to private parties or events, more and more people were wearing street clothes, and seemed to be going about their daily business.
As she came closer to the area where she was to meet Roberto, she realized that she was encountering fewer and fewer people. Once again, as she followed the map, she crossed over one little bridge after another.
There were fewer shops.
Fewer lights.
She realized uneasily that it had grown very dark; the night came on quickly in Venice in the winter. The evening was chill, and clouds were passing over the moon.
“It may snow again,” she told herself out loud, and realized that as she was speaking she was growing afraid.
She stared at the map again and started across another little bridge. Something looked familiar here.
She realized she was heading in the same direction she had come when she followed the dottore and ran into Salvatore D’Onofrio and saw the beautiful, but decrepit, old church.
Just then, she found herself halting in the center of the bridge. What there was of moonlight fell upon her here.
On either side of the bridge, the buildings seemed to melt into shadow. She swallowed hard, turning.
Down the narrow canal, she could see another bridge. And standing in the center?-just as she was standing?she could see the caped figure of a dottore. He seemed highlighted in moonlight, and all around him, the world seemed to be in shadow.
She wondered if she imagined the figure.
It beckoned to her. She felt her heart thundering. Instinct warned her that she should run along, but she stood still, just feeling the slam of her heart agains
t her chest.
Then the dottore turned, and seemed to float across the bridge, cape flying behind him.
She did hurry then; she started to run. As she came across a shadowed walkway, a hissing sound seemed to surround her ears. She told herself that it was the sound of her own breathing.
She sensed the strangeness fluttering around her, as if a dozen birds flew by, close to her ears, twittering, whispering . . .
She tried to read her map while running. She burst from the shadowed walkway to a dark piazza, with lights here and there.
Looking down an alley, cast in an eerie mist of shadow and light, she could see the old derelict church.
Again, she stood still, afraid of the church, and yet tempted to walk toward it. More than tempted; she felt a pull . . .
She looked at the map. The trattoria was to her right.
She was going to come back to the church. But though she was impelled to go in that direction, something stronger bid her away.
She saw the lights of the small trattoria casting a glow upon the path ahead of her.
She started toward it, rounding the little angle in the street that would bring her to the entry.
In front of it was a medieval archway between very old buildings. Before she could reach the shadowed area below the archway, she saw Roberto Capo on the other side. He was shaking his head in a frenzy.
“Don’t come! Don’t come?go! To your left again as you head back, there’s a vaporetto stop! Go!” Suddenly, she was certain that she heard wings; a flurry of wings, alive with whispers and hisses. The shadows beneath the archway seemed to extend, like a black, viscous liquid, coming after her.
Shadows! she protested mentally. Shadows, changing beneath the moon!
But Roberto had told her to run.
The shadows were stretching in the other direction as well. Suddenly, they seemed to sweep over Roberto Capo, encompassing him as a giant wave of ink-black sea . . .
Or like the wingspan of a great ebony bird.
She turned and ran.
As she did so, she dropped her map. She didn’t pause to pick it up. She didn’t look back. She felt that the ink-black shadow wings were following, close on her heels, and she had to escape them before . . .
There was a feeling of glacial cold at her nape. As if an ice-encrusted finger of pure bone had thrust out from the darkness and touched her, as if it would creep around her throat like a vine, hold her, pull her back . . .