A Hidden Fire

  He shook his head though there was no one to see. “Caspar talked to Nima…well, e-mailed her anyway. Apparently they’re both being silent lately.”

  “She usually only does that when she’s meditating.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  The silence stretched again. “Well, if there’s something to know—”

  “She’ll send word.”

  “Yes.”

  Both were silent on the line again as they gathered their thoughts.

  “I’m glad I’m coming, too, if for no other reason than to eat Caspar’s food. He’s a much better cook than Sister Maggie.”

  “Be careful how loud you say that, Father. Gruel for a month if she hears you.”

  Carwyn chuckled. “She’s happy to get rid of me for a while. She’s going to visit her sister’s family in Kerry while I’m gone.”

  “We’re looking forward to seeing you. Doyle especially.”

  “And on that note, I’m hanging up. Don’t call me again unless there’s an emergency. I’ll be there in two weeks, for heaven’s sake. Oh, have you ordered the match already?”

  “Of course. It’s on the night after you get here.”

  “Excellent. Goodbye.”

  “I’ll see you next week.”

  Giovanni hung up the phone and picked up the printouts Caspar had made of his e-mails from the previous day. Looking through them, he noticed they were still being put off by Livia’s people in Rome, and his client for the Lincoln documents was making a fuss again. He was bored by the whole matter and wondered whether he should just return the rude human’s retainer and move on to something more interesting.

  Then again, he realized, the case might be a good one to give to Beatrice. It was sure to keep her busy. The client was human, so the consequences of missing something or failing to find the requested document were negligible. Yes, he thought, it might be a good first project for the persistent Miss De Novo.

  He almost overlooked the last email in the stack. It was short, cryptic, and had clearly come from an immortal, as it was sent to the e-mail address he gave only to vampire clients. The message was brief, and the sender used an obviously false address.

  They’ll be there soon, and there’s more where they came from.

  You’re welcome.

  L

  He looked at the date and time the e-mail was received and stared at the final initial. Giovanni opened the locked drawer on the top right-hand side of his desk and slid the paper inside. Then he leaned back, sipped his whiskey, and let his thoughts wander to the past.

  “It’s there somewhere.”

  “I’ve looked, Gio. It’s not.”

  “Yes, Beatrice, it is. The client has been waiting for this document for months now. It is your job to find it. We know it was sold at auction in 1993. We know it’s in a private collection somewhere on the Eastern seaboard,” he lectured her as he pored over one of his journals he had taken from his locked cabinet. “Put the pieces together. There are only so many auction houses that deal with that kind of document on the East coast, and most of them keep old catalogues online now.”

  “From ten years ago?”

  He shrugged as he sat at the dark oak table in the middle of the room. “Well, that’s what I hired you for. I tracked it to the auction. The rest is the easy part. Look at the list I gave you.”

  He had put her on the trail of the boring Lincoln document earlier that night while he looked over some of his past clients, trying to ascertain who, exactly, the mysterious ‘L’ might be who had sent the cryptic e-mail. He wasn’t wasting energy on speculating what he or she might have sent, as there was wasn’t enough information yet. Whoever it was, he was certain it was related to Stephen De Novo and his lost books.

  “This is going to take forever.”

  “Forever is a very relative term when you’re talking to me. It’s going to take more time than you’ve spent on previous projects your insipid professors at the university have assigned you. Not forever.”

  “Old man,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Warned you, B,” Caspar called from the doorway.

  “I should have listened; his looks are deceiving,” she grumbled as she turned her eyes away from him to blink at the glowing monitor.

  He ignored them both and took out one of his journals from the period before he was turned, when Savaranola’s bonfires tore through the city of his birth.

  Caspar walked over and set a mug of hot tea in front of Beatrice before taking a whiskey to Giovanni. The butler set the tray down on the coffee table and picked up his own book to read in his favorite chair by the fire. It was Beatrice’s third week working at the house, and the three of them had already fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

  Giovanni darted around the library, often moving so quickly he startled Beatrice as she sat behind the computer, clicking the keys as she stared at the monitor, searching the vast digital territory he could not access. Giovanni would call out search terms as he worked, and she shooed him away if he got too close to the electronic equipment.

  Caspar joined them to read halfway through the evening, often bantering about favorite horror films with Beatrice or needling Giovanni in various languages.

  Doyle moved almost as quickly as the vampire, jumping from lap to lap and looking for any imminent treats to be dropped or sneaked behind Giovanni’s back.

  “Seriously, Gio. I see one of these houses you list with catalogues online, the rest—”

  The kitchen door slammed, and they all started at the sound. Giovanni held up a hand for silence, but didn’t hear any additional noise. Caspar walked swiftly to Beatrice’s desk and stood next to her, looking far more dangerous than one might expect from a sixty-seven-year-old butler.

  Giovanni, on the other hand, let out a low growl and slipped out the door in the blink of an eye.

  He paused on the stairs, sniffed the air, and relaxed.

  “You can hide, Carwyn, but your wet wolfhound cannot. I have company. Stop scaring the guest.”

  All of a sudden, something pounced on his back, and Giovanni and the silent intruder tumbled down the stairs in a blur. They rolled toward the entry way, knocking over a green vase that stood in the exquisitely appointed room. A pale white hand shot out, catching the vase before it hit the ground and tossing it toward the plush sofa.

  “That is turn of the century Bien Hoa. If you break it, I will break you,” Giovanni gasped out as his friend put him in a choke hold.

  “Oh, it’s fine, Gio! You’re such a prissy bastard sometimes.” Carwyn twisted around, trying to capture his friend’s leg in a lock, but failed. Carwyn had never been faster than him. His only advantage lay in his broad shoulders, heavily muscled arms, and the element of surprise, which he had lost.

  Giovanni twisted around, finally getting out of the choke-hold and flipping backward over Carwyn’s head to leap on his back. In no time, the Welshman was flat on his face with one arm twisted behind him, and a long leg bent his knees at angles that would have broken a mortal man.

  Giovanni decided to shock him, just for good measure. Carwyn hissed when he felt the sharp sizzle course through his body.

  “Damn it, Sparky!” he yelped. “Not fair.”

  “Yield?”

  “Of course, you bloody Italian, I yield. Now let me up.”

  Giovanni stood with a grin, holding his hand out to his old friend who scowled at him and grabbed it in a harder grip than strictly necessary. Carwyn walked over to the couch to retrieve the vase.

  “See? Not a scratch. I was an expert archer, you know.” He pulled back an arm as if aiming an arrow and sighted Giovanni with one blue eye. “Sired in my prime.”

  “Archery does not translate to tossing Vietnamese ceramics, you idiot,” Giovanni scowled and dusted off the vase before setting on its stand. “And where is your dog? It better not be digging anything up.”

  Carwyn shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’m sure he is. So, where’s the new blood?”


  Giovanni nodded to the top of the stairs.

  Carwyn looked to the top of the landing where Caspar stood, looking on in amusement. Beatrice peeked out from behind him, her dark eyes taking in the clearly immortal being now standing in the entryway.

  The new vampire almost tripped up the landing, his wild auburn hair flying and a grin overtaking his face as he peeked at Beatrice, who was still hiding behind Caspar.

  “Now, Cas, tell her I won’t bite, will you?” Carwyn grinned and shot a wink at her. Beatrice stepped out from Caspar’s shadow to examine Giovanni’s friend more carefully.

  Carwyn stuck out a hand. “Father Carwyn ap Bryn, my dear.”

  Beatrice shook it tentatively, her small hand dwarfed by the mountain of a man in front of her. “Father?” she asked skeptically.

  He winked at her before bending to press a kiss her delicate fingers. “Indeed.” Carwyn brought her hand up, suddenly twisting it to sniff her wrist. “No wonder you wanted to hire her, Gio.” Carwyn smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “She smells delectable.”

  Giovanni caught Beatrice’s quick gasp as he climbed the stairs. Caspar was chuckling and trying to shove Carwyn toward the library, and Beatrice hung back, her face flushed with embarrassment and her hand still caught in the Welshman’s grip.

  “Give her hand back, old man,” Giovanni muttered in a voice only an immortal would hear.

  Carwyn growled a little and shot him a look, but let Beatrice’s hand drop and walked into the library with Caspar. Giovanni stepped onto the landing, observing Beatrice’s reaction carefully. Her heart rate was rapid, but there was no smell of adrenaline in the air, so he knew she wasn’t afraid. Nevertheless, he approached her cautiously.

  “He’s harmless, really. Far more harmless than me.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Really? Tell that to your vase.”

  He chuckled and, reassured of her mood, placed a hand on the small of her back to lead her into the library where Caspar was pouring a drink from a crystal decanter, and Doyle was hissing at the large Welshman who shoved him out of his favorite chair.

  “It’s raining out there, Gio. I come to your place to escape the rain, for heaven’s sake. I get enough of this at home.”

  Giovanni was curious what Beatrice would make of one of his oldest friends. Though Carwyn was a priest, he rarely wore any kind of uniform, preferring to dress himself more like a surfer than a man of the cloth when he visited the United States.

  He removed his soggy coat and hung it on the back of his chair, revealing a garish shirt with scantily clad hula girls dancing across the back. He must have caught Beatrice’s stare, because he only smiled again and sat down, reaching for the drink Caspar held out to him.

  “Thanks, Cas. We don’t have to wear black, you know.” He nodded toward Giovanni, who had shown Beatrice to the small couch in front of the fire and sat down next to her. “This one does it because he thinks it makes him look dashing, or he really is that boring. Haven’t figured that one out.”

  “I vote boring,” Caspar quipped. “God knows I’ve tried to break him out of his shell.”

  “Though,” Carwyn shrugged. “Look at the girl, Cas. Perhaps he’s met his match in the black wardrobe department.”

  “Thanks,” Beatrice finally piped in.

  He winked at her. “Great boots, my dear. Do you ride motorcycles? And if not, would you like to?”

  Giovanni leaned into the back of the couch, stretching his arm casually behind Beatrice, unable to completely turn off his territorial instincts around another vampire, even his old and trusted friend.

  “You’re early, Father. Everything all right in Wales?” he asked nonchalantly.

  The sharp glint in the Welshman’s eye told him they would be having a more private discussion once the humans left, and tension made the blood begin to move in his veins. He instinctively moved closer to Beatrice, who was listening to a story Carwyn had begun relating about one of their more outrageous exploits in London in the late 1960s when Caspar had been much younger.

  The three friends took turns making the girl laugh with their wild tales and quick, needling humor, and Giovanni took a strange kind of delight in the amused expression that lit Beatrice’s face every time Caspar or Carwyn told a story that proved to be embarrassing to him. He simply shrugged and took another sip of his whiskey.

  After a couple of hours, he noticed Beatrice’s eyes begin to droop, and she nestled a little more into his side on the small sofa. He pushed aside the urge to reach down and run a hand along her hair. “Caspar,” he asked quietly, “could you drive Beatrice home, please?”

  She sat up, as if surprised by Giovanni’s question. She glanced at her watch, not realizing it had been pressed into his leg and was now dead.

  She shook it for a second then glared at him in annoyance.

  He shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

  “Yes, you will. I’d appreciate a ride home, Cas, it must be late.”

  “I’d be happy to drive you. Let these two old men catch up on their secret vampire business without us.”

  She chuckled, having no idea how true the statement was. “I’m surprised my grandma hasn’t called already.” She yawned and stretched as she stood, treating Giovanni to a glimpse of the smooth skin at her waist. He shifted slightly, looking away as she stepped over his long legs.

  Gathering her bags from the desk she used, she quickly followed Caspar out of the library.

  “Good night, everyone. I’ll see you on Wednesday, Gio. Carwyn,” she smiled, “very interesting meeting you.”

  “Likewise, B. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” The Welshman stretched his long legs in front of him and batted away the cat as they listened to Caspar and Beatrice walk down the stairs. Only when they had both heard the kitchen door slam shut did Carwyn turn to Giovanni with a grim look on his face.

  “Heard from your son lately?”

  Chapter Eight

  Houston, Texas

  December 2003

  Beatrice and Charlotte stared at the letters Dr. Christiansen spread out on the table like a proud father.

  “This could be the start of a very exciting new collection, ladies.”

  “I have to confess, even though they’re thematic orphans in our collection, they are so damn cool,” Charlotte murmured as she examined the old parchment.

  “How old are they?” Beatrice asked.

  The grey-haired director set the letters down on the table in the reading room and pulled out a sheaf of notes from his briefcase. “They’ve been dated to 1484. A very important year in the Italian Renaissance—really, what some would consider Florence’s golden age. It was before Savaranola, and there was a blossoming of art, philosophy, classical studies—”

  “James, we know what the Italian Renaissance is,” Charlotte remarked.

  “Well…” The academic blushed a little. “It’s a very exciting pair of letters. The translation was done at the University of Ferrara, and the letters were authenticated there as well.”

  “Is Renaissance Italian much different from modern Italian?” Beatrice asked, wishing, as she often did, that her father were still around to see some of the treasures she came across in her work.

  “Somewhat, but we don’t have to worry about that. Professor Scalia is practically chomping at the bit to take a look at them, and he’s an expert in the language. I suspect the whole of the history department, classics department, and the philosophy department will be our very eager visitors for quite some time.”

  “Philosophy department?” Beatrice asked, still examining the well-preserved letters on the table. She couldn’t help but admire how clean the edges of the parchment were. They look liked they had been preserved by a professional archivist when they were first written.

  “Oh yes, the letters are written from Count Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, a notable philosopher, to his friend, Angelo Poliziano, who was a scholar and poet in Florence. The two men had quite a correspond
ence and were known to be part of a close group of friends, all great thinkers and some quite controversial. Indeed, one of their circle was Savonarola himself.”

  “The crazy priest that burned all the books?” Beatrice asked.

  Charlotte chuckled. “There was a lot more to him than that. He was a fascinating individual, despite the bonfires.” She looked over at Dr. Christiansen. “Do the letters mention Savonarola?”

  “Only briefly. Feel free to take a look at the translations. They’re mainly personal letters. Pico spends some of the first letter talking about an orphan—or an illegitimate child of some sort, either is likely—that Poliziano had found in Florence; Pico had taken the child into his house. The count had no children of his own. The first letter is mostly discussing the boy’s education, but there is some mention of Poliziano introducing Pico to Lorenzo de Medici for the first time, and that is very significant.”

  Beatrice stared at the document, examining the curl of the ancient script and the old, yellowing parchment.

  “Firenze, 1484

  Caro Giovanni ...”

  1484, she thought. Was it a coincidence? Count Giovanni Pico della Mirandola. She shook her head. It was ridiculous to think he would have kept the same name for over 500 years.

  A faint memory of their meeting at the museum stirred in the back of her mind.

  “All the men in my family are named Giovanni.”

  “Well, ladies, much to do today! We’ll have to enjoy these treasures later. Charlotte, how are the preparations for the History of Physics exhibit coming?”

  Charlotte and Dr. Christiansen began discussing the exhibit the department was helping curate the following month, and Beatrice packed away the recently acquired documents and wandered back to the stacks to set the Florentine letters in the spot Dr. Christiansen had mentioned to her earlier. He seemed to think that more of the historical correspondence might be given to the university in the future.