Mozart’s Blood (36 page)

Domenico had spent the better part of a decade on his quest. He had grown adept at following rumors, hearsay, hints—and people. Compared to shadowing Zdenka Milosch, following Octavia Voss was laughably easy.

He buttoned his ceramic knife into his inner pocket, patting it to be certain it was secure. He followed her to Malpensa and watched as she bought a ticket for Prague. He acquired a ticket for the same Czech Airlines flight she took, sitting in the back of the plane with whiskered grandmothers and snot-nosed infants. He shadowed her as she changed money and wended her way through the terminal to the taxi stand. He noted the number of the cab that picked her up, and by the time it returned for another fare, he was ready.

Domenico hadn't bothered to change his money into crowns, and it cost him twenty euros to secure the cab he wanted. When the driver balked at revealing where he had dropped the blond American, Domenico showed him the neat, sharp blade.

“I love knives,” he said conversationally. “I've made a study of them, actually. Hunting, filleting…and this sort, that you can carry everywhere without detection.” The cabbie's eyes rolled toward him, but he drove on, pale and silent. He spoke almost no English, of course. But the message of the knife was universal.

As they turned into Mohács Road, the cabbie seemed to dredge up a few English words. “Mister. Knife, no. Please.”

Domenico laughed and let the point press into the fabric of the man's cotton jacket. “Just drive. Don't talk.” The cabbie pressed on the accelerator, and the cab careened around a curve. Domenico laughed again and pulled the blade back. It would be ridiculous to be in a crash now.

Everything was going beautifully. Finding the right cab, and an easily persuaded driver, seemed a good omen, further evidence that he was destined to succeed. Fulfillment was within his grasp.

He knew what was said about him. But soon, very soon now, they would no longer mock him behind his back. They would give him the respect he deserved, that he had earned. Thinking about it, thinking about the reward awaiting him, sped his heartbeat and filled him with fierce glee.

The driver swung the cab onto the shoulder of the road across from a dingy little stone building hung with vines. He said, without looking at Domenico, “Here.”

Domenico eyed the small house with high stone walls extending from either side of it. “If you're thinking of dropping me in the wrong place, believe me, you'll regret it.”

The cabbie, not understanding, shook his head.

“Damn it,” Domenico said. “Why don't you bloody people learn English? You're happy enough to take our money. You could at least learn the language.”

The cabbie only said, pointing a shaking finger across the road, “Here. Lady here.”

Domenico lifted the knife and pressed it against the side of the man's neck. “Are you sure?” he said softly.

This, at least, the stupid man understood. He nodded and said again, “Yes, yes. Here.”

The cabbie was trembling now. Domenico stroked his neck with the side of the blade, and a thin line of blood welled from his skin. The cabbie closed his eyes.

“Don't worry,” Domenico said in a soothing tone. “You're very fortunate. I'm not actually going to kill you, although I wouldn't mind doing it. But I don't think La Società would appreciate a dead man in a cab outside their compound.”

When he withdrew the knife the cabbie took a ragged breath and said something in Czech.

“Praying?” Domenico said. “Always a good idea.” He put his hand on the door handle, and as it began to turn, the cabbie opened his eyes and looked at him. Domenico pointed to the identification card set into the dash. “Don't forget,” he said. “If you've tricked me…”

The driver shook his head and said quickly, “Lady here. Here.”

“Right. I certainly hope so.”

Domenico climbed out of the cab and shut the door. The cabbie gunned the engine and shot away down the road in a spray of fine gravel.

Domenico straightened his jacket and dropped the knife into a pocket where it would be easy to grasp. He spared a few seconds to gather himself, to focus his mind on what was to come. It was not every day, after all, that a man achieved his destiny.

 

Ugo waited a half hour beside the road, hopping from foot to foot to try to stay warm. He began to think no one would pick up a half-naked youth, no matter how lost and vulnerable he managed to look.

When a Skoda hatchback pulled up beside him with a splatter of gravel, he was surprised to see a middle-aged, plump woman lean across the passenger seat to shove open the door.

Ugo bent to look inside the car. A wave of warmth swept out, scented by paint and paint thinner. The back of the hatchback was full of drop cloths and brushes and cans. The driver had dyed red hair and a generous, drooping bosom, half hidden by a pair of unlikely painter's coveralls. Her face was plump and pleasant.

“Thanks for stopping, madame,” Ugo said in Czech. “Can you give me a ride? It's not far.”

“I don't know, young man. You look like trouble to me,” she said, laughing. She pointed a paint-stained finger at his bare chest. “But I can't see where you'd hide a weapon.”

Ugo climbed into the Skoda and settled back against the vinyl seat. The warmth in the car enfolded him, and he heaved a grateful sigh. He rubbed at the goose bumps that stood out on his arms and chest. “Thank you so much, madame,” he said. He let his voice go high, like that of a young boy, and deliberately softened his features before he turned his face to her. “I was camping, and I got lost.”

She lifted one thick eyebrow. “Camping in January? Without a shirt?”

“I had a shirt,” he said sadly. “And shoes, and a backpack with money in it. But I was washing in a creek, and when I tried to go back to my campsite, I couldn't find my tent.”

“Silly thing to do,” she said with asperity. “If you don't have experience.”

“My mother said that. I guess she was right.”

She nodded knowingly. Passing headlights illuminated the alarming red of her hair. “You should call your mother right away, young man. She'll be worried.”

“I will. I have friends in Prague, in the New City. They'll let me use their telephone.”

“Good. I'll drop you in the square, will that work?”

“That would be great.” He gave her his best smile. “This is so nice of you.”

“You're lucky I saw you,” she said. “I don't usually pick up hitchhikers, but you looked pretty miserable.” She drove on, tapping her fingers against the paint-stained steering wheel to the strains of some sort of ethnic folk music coming from the radio. “I have a son of my own, and I wouldn't be too happy to see him stuck out here in the cold with no shirt.” She glanced at his feet. “Good grief, and no shoes! What were you thinking?”

Ugo endeavored to blush, shrugging and making apologetic noises. As she chattered on about her son and his youthful foibles, Ugo watched the passing road signs. It had been a long time since he had been to the elders' compound. The landscape was considerably changed since his last visit. He wasn't sure of the way, but he suspected he was fairly close. The wolf's instinct for direction was better than his own.

After a drive of fifteen or twenty minutes, the painter pulled off at one of the city exits. She turned off the roundabout and stopped the car under the too-bright lights of a filling station. “I'm just going to get some petrol. Sit tight.”

Ugo watched as she inserted a credit card into the pump, then went off toward the restroom, unbuttoning the straps of her coveralls as she did so. When she was inside, he opened the car door and slipped out. A man filling a Volvo stared open-mouthed at the sight of a shirtless, barefoot man. Ugo touched his forehead in a mock salute.

“A little cold to be half dressed, isn't it?” the man said.

Ugo grinned at him. “I'm freezing my ass off, actually,” he said before he sprinted away into the darkness behind the filling station.

He regretted not thanking his benefactress properly, but there was nothing he could do about it. He had seen a sign in the roundabout, with an arrow pointing to Mohács Road. He hoped there wasn't more than one road with that name.

Regretting the lost warmth of the Skoda, he set out down the road, slapping his arms for warmth and trying to ignore the discomfort of his bare feet.

 

Octavia felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of disorientation. In the dim light of the entryway stood Nick Barrett-Jones, who should have been in Milan. On her right were three ancient, unspeakable creatures and Zdenka Milosch, pale as death. Her colleague's healthy skin and clear eyes looked utterly out of place. The only detail about his appearance that seemed to fit the scene was a generous splatter of blood across his white shirt.

The Countess hissed at Octavia, “Teresa! What have you done?”

“I've done nothing!” she retorted.

But a moment later, as Nick strode out of the light from the hall and through the dimness toward her, she realized she had. She had gone to Massimo's hospital room, and Nick had found her there. She grasped everything in an instant.

He had followed her from Milan. It defied logic, but it had to be true. And it meant that Nick Barrett-Jones knew what she was.

He stopped a few feet from her, just beyond the circle of candlelight. Now, shrouded in the habitual darkness of the elders' parlor, he became as baleful a figure as the others. His eyes gleamed through the shadows, focused in a way she had never seen, either in rehearsal or on the stage. He was breathing hard, as if from some exertion.

“You have it, don't you?” Zdenka Milosch said, her voice low, almost intimate in tone. “You took it.”

Octavia instinctively shrank away from the cold fury emanating from the Countess. Her impression of a serpent was stronger than ever, and she knew the danger of those serpent's fangs.

Nick said, “I do. I did.” He bowed, as elegantly as any Don Giovanni could, and added, “How good to see you again, Countess Milosch.”

“You know each other?” Octavia demanded. “Nick, what are you doing here?”

“Have you brought my diary back?” the Countess said evenly.

“Oh, no,” Nick said. “But when I have what I came for, I'll be happy to restore it to you.”

There was a sound of feet slithering across the decrepit carpet, and one of the elders wheezed a word Octavia couldn't understand. The Countess said, “Yes, Anastasia. I know.” She reached down to the little table beside the sofa and rang the bell.

Octavia said, “Nick, you fool! You've taken your life in your hands.”

His laugh grated on her ears. “My life? What about yours, Octavia? Or should I say—” He bent forward, bringing just his chin and mouth into the light. He finished softly, “Should I say, Teresa?”

Octavia's knees turned to water, and she groped for a chair to support herself. She was ruined. He would tell them all, he would expose her. Her career—her life—would be destroyed. And Massimo—it would mean the end for Massimo, too, the innocent. A wave of hopelessness swept her so that her head spun. She had never longed for Ugo's clear mind and hard courage so much as she did at this moment.

As the Countess bent to ring the bell again, sharply, Octavia started around the sofa toward Nick. “You don't know what you've done, Nick. You don't understand—”

“He does, Teresa.” The Countess moved faster, pacing around the opposite end of the sofa, threading through the scattered tables as if they were made of air. She was at Nick's side in seconds. “He understands perfectly.” Her white claw of a hand seized his neck, and she pulled his head toward her. The ancients made whining noises, whimpering hungrily among themselves like dogs waiting to be fed.

In the same instant, the hulking gardener, Tomas, answered the bell, charging into the room with Kirska at his elbow. Octavia stopped where she was, one hand on the sofa back, the other pressed to her mouth.

As the Countess's lips parted to show her fearsome teeth, Octavia's stomach quivered in disgust. It didn't matter that she had done the same, countless times. It was still repugnant. She didn't want to watch, but she couldn't look away. She expected to hear Nick cry out, to protest, but he bent his neck forward, as if eager for the bite.

Octavia heard herself cry, “No, Nick!” she cried. “Don't do that!” At the same time, a part of her mind knew that it was just the answer, that the Countess could put an end to this now.

Anastasia whispered, “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”

The candle flames wavered, flickering over the grotesque scene, turning every player into a phantasm, a monster. It was hard to discern the actual figures from the shadows they cast. Kirska produced a ewer, a long narrow-necked pitcher, holding it ready before her.

But Nick, with the same speed and agility he had shown with Don Giovanni's épée, stepped behind Zdenka Milosch. He flung his arm around her throat with such force that she choked on her gasp of surprise. He bent her head back, and her fangs snapped uselessly, grotesquely, at empty air. A knife, its four-inch blade already bloodstained, glittered in his free hand. Before Octavia could comprehend what was happening, he slashed the fabric of the Gaultier sheath, exposing the Countess's hip and leg. They were so white they appeared phosphorescent in the bad light.

The ancients froze. They pulled back into their shapeless clothes, wheezing with alarm. Anastasia's face hid behind her hood. Eusebio reeled backward, nearly dropping his stick, hanks of thin gray hair flying about his head. Henri tottered a step or two, lurching into Anastasia.

Kirska fell back, too, muttering some imprecation, gripping the pitcher in her hands. The gardener, with an incoherent roar, lunged at Nick, showing his large, curving teeth.

“Not you!” Nick shouted. “Get back, or I'll kill her!”