One With the Shadows (22 page)

My God. What was
that
? Where had they gone, and how? That couldn’t be the result of any disease. Was that what Elyta meant by “transporting”? Her mind raced. Whatever it was, Gian probably could do it too. He had neglected to mention that. And also about this “compulsion.” And eternal life. What else had he neglected to mention?

Then the contessa moaned.

No time for speculation now. Kate hurried to the contessa and knelt beside her. She lifted the contessa’s head into her lap. “Are you all right, signora?” The contessa’s eyelids fluttered. She opened them and tried to speak, but couldn’t. Her face was deathly pale. The red marks stood out over her breasts.
I hope you have your son’s power of healing
. “I’ll get help.”

The contessa’s eyes pleaded with her for something. But she could not stay to find out what. She laid the contessa down gently and scrambled for the stairs.

In the yard she found the servants milling about. Confusion hung in the air. “What happened, Luciano?” “How did I get here?” “One moment I was polishing the silver…”

“Your mistress needs help,” she cried. Several stopped milling, but still seemed too confused to be of any service. “She’s in the … the wine cellar.” This elicited no purposeful action. Kate looked around wildly. The contessa’s majordomo, Bucarro, sat on the rim of the fountain, his head in his hands. “You, you there.” She hurried over to him. “Get two strong men and follow me. Your mistress needs you.”

He blinked, and shook his head. Then he stood, as purpose banished whatever cobwebs clouded his thought. “Guiseppe, Pietro, get your wits about you.” He was a small, active man with drooping mustaches. He herded the larger footmen toward the door in a determined manner.

“She is near the wine racks,” Kate called as she hurried after them.

They trotted down the stairs. “Mater de Deus!” he exclaimed, rushing over to his mistress. Under his muttering guidance the two footmen carried the contessa up the stairs and into the house. Her dresser tut-tutted and ran ahead to prepare her bedchamber.

Kate was left behind at the top of the grand staircase feeling lost.

What had she done? Sent the vile Elyta and her cohorts after Gian. And his mother might well die anyway.

Kate had betrayed the man she loved.

Thirteen

Kate knocked on the door and entered the contessa’s bedchamber without waiting for permission. There was no time for courtesy. She had been pacing her own room for nearly an hour trying to find some way around it and she couldn’t. There was likely nothing to be done. It was too late. But someone had to do it anyway.

The contessa lay in a great four-posted bed hung with red and gold brocade and covered in red velvet embroidered in gold. Her dark hair spread out around her in a halo over her white pillows and her white embroidered nightdress. She was as pale as her sheets. The smell of cinnamon and that elusive something else still hung in the air, but all the contessa’s electric feeling of life had drained away to a steady, small tapping. A maid fussed with a vinaigrette at a small table under the window. At Kate’s hurried footsteps, the contessa opened her eyes.

“Contessa.” Kate sighed, relieved. “I must speak with you.”

“You leave her ladyship alone,” the maid scolded. She was an angular woman with her hair drawn back at the nape of her neck in a severe style that only made her cheekbones seem to jut the more.

“No, let her stay.” The contessa’s voice was a frail whisper. “You may leave us.”

Kate approached the bed. “Will … Will you be all right?” she asked. She couldn’t remember when she had felt so timid. How could she ask a woman this ill to rescue her son? And come to think of it, the contessa had fainted before Kate had told Elyta where to find Gian. Oh, that was bad. Kate tried to imagine telling the woman she had betrayed her son.

“Perhaps. Eventually,” the contessa replied. “Bucarro brought me a restorative.”

“Eventually” would not help Gian. Kate smelled something more than cinnamon in the room. It smelled like … Was the contessa wounded? It didn’t seem to be coming from the contessa. Kate glanced around and spotted a pewter flagon on the bedside table. She sidled over to it. The scent of blood was overwhelming. Kate froze. It was all true! All this talk of a disease was very well, but the disease was vampirism. Elyta and her cohorts hadn’t turned into bats, but they had been eaten up by a whirling blackness and disappeared. That was the next best thing.

“We don’t kill for it,” the contessa breathed. She must have seen Kate’s horror. “Bucarro bought this from a strong young man.”

Kate could only blink at her, her brain struggling to function. Gian was a vampire …

“Don’t hate him for it.”

“Hate … has nothing to do with it.” Suddenly she was angry. “He might have told me.”

“Forgive his cowardice.” She looked up at Kate with a distant curiosity in her eyes. “You were there, weren’t you? Why did they not finish me?”

“Because I told them where Gian had gone.” There. She’d said it. And her voice was calm if the emotions in her breast were not.

The contessa’s eyes narrowed in shock. “You
what
?”

“It was the only way to save you. I got the impression you could be damaged for life with that stone. In spite of the healing properties of your condition.”

“Ayyyy,” she moaned, then caught herself. “But, did you tell the truth?”

“Yes. I think they would have known if I had not.”

Despair washed through her eyes. “But Gian said we could not compel you.”

“I don’t think you can. But when Gian and Elyta tried, they both knew they’d failed. I needed her to believe what I said. So I let her compel me.”

“You have condemned my Gian to torture and death.” She clenched her eyes shut.

“All isn’t lost,” Kate continued. She had to believe that. “Someone must warn him.”

*   *   *

Gian dismounted from his horse on the waterfront in Amalfi, aching and tired. The lights of the town were inviting on his right, but he had no intention of availing himself of their hospitality. It was about eleven in the evening. He patted the lump that was the small silver box he’d stuffed into his breeches pocket, comforted. The fecund scent of the sea and the gentle slapping of the water against the wooden piles of the pier reminded him of peaceful times past. Small fishing boats were tied up along the length of the quay. Out in the harbor he could just make out the silhouettes of the ships rocking. He hoped his harbormaster was about. He needed his tender
Reteif
prepared and a crew assembled. They might make the evening tide tomorrow.

“Pescaro,” he called. “Where are you, you old ruffian?” His hired horse trudged behind him, its vigor spent. Once he had made it out of Firenze without encountering Elyta, there had been no need to rush. No one even knew his destination. He’d taken the journey in easy stages, riding at night and spending the daylight hours at inns along the way. Piccolo was now stabled at a comfortable posting house a little northeast of Rome stuffing himself with oats. His journey had lasted a week thus far, but there was still a long way to go. He must brave the deserts of North Africa to take the stone home. He had no idea exactly where that home was, but he had two friends who did. He’d stop in Algiers and look in on Ian Rufford and his new wife. They knew exactly where to find the Temple of Waiting.

A large, florid man with a sandy beard stepped out from the forest of masts along the pier. “That you, Master Urbano?” His voice was a booming baritone that could be heard over the wind and the creak of wood.

“None other. I’ll want the
Reteif.
I’m taking her down to Algiers. She’s to wait for me there. Two or three days there and the same back, at least two weeks at anchor. I’m guessing three weeks. Can you provision her and set her to rights for tomorrow’s evening tide?”

Pescaro made a mental list. “She’ll need some new ratlines and provisioning … Gaetjens will get the crew … I expect it can be done.”

“Eight of the clock sharp, then.” Gian was glad Gaetjens was there to captain her. The man was a French wizard on the sea. Now for a hot meal and refuge from the daylight. The servants at Villa Rufolo were in for a surprise. He glanced to the horse, drooping beside him. Best stop at a stable to get a beast that could climb the Valle del Dragone tonight.

*   *   *

Gian led the horse in through the lush front gardens of the Villa Rufolo toward the Moorish arches of the colonnade. Where was Ponciano? He kept a minimum staff at the villa when he was not in residence, but surely Rudolpho would have hired a boy to watch the front gate when Ponciano was at dinner. He patted the small box stuffed into his breeches pocket. That had become a habit in the last days.

“Ponciano! Rudolpho! Where are you, you old reprobates?” He tied the reins of the horse to one of the slender columns of the colonnade. He’d send someone to take it round to the stables as soon as he roused the house … He looked up at the lighted rooms on the first floor. That part of the house had been built in the seventeenth century. Most of the house was far older. He’d started building it in the twelfth century when he’d gone by the name Gian Vincenzo Rufolo, and enlarged it every time he spent twenty or thirty years or so in the vicinity. He saw no moving figures. The rest of the house was dark.

Well, Signora Ponciano would certainly be in the kitchens off to his right past the courtyard. This is what he got for coming unannounced.

But the kitchens were dark, their cheerful fires cold. Anyone in the house should have heard his hail. But no one appeared. He frowned.

He strode around to the back gardens, feeling strangely reluctant to simply bang on the front entrance. The gardens of Villa Rufolo were famous up and down the west coast of Campania. The pergolas were hung with honeysuckle vines, the tidy flower beds filled with cheerful annuals. He made out the yellow of marigolds and the red of salvia clearly in the night. Gardenia bushes lined the walkways. The air was heavy with scent. And on beyond the lower-level stone balustrade the rugged Amalfi coastline plunged to the night-black sea.

He stood for a moment, his back to the sea, looking up at those lighted windows where no shadows moved. This was not right.

Then he felt it. The air began to hum with energy. Four black vortexes appeared against the shadows of the garden, surrounding him.
Companion!
He called for power. A shock ran up his veins as it answered him. His field of vision went red.
More!
The black melted away, revealing Elyta Zaroff and three others. Their eyes were already red. A pool of black whirled around his ankles. But it was too late. Their combined will shushed over him, powered by their Companions’ energy. He was riveted where he stood. His breath hissed in his lungs as he drew more power. His body throbbed with effort. The pool of black rose to his knees.

And then subsided. He was caught like a butterfly in a net. With their combined power, he was helpless. He might flutter against it, but he could not escape.

“Gian,” Elyta cooed. “How nice of you to come. You look well. Better than Donatella. I’m afraid that is a hopeless cause.”

Gian’s stomach heaved. He bit his lip to stop himself from saying something that would give the bitch satisfaction. “What have you done with my mother?” Anger boiled in his belly.

Elyta ran her palm along his jaw, feeling the muscles that clenched there. Her burgundy gaze caressed his face. “Don’t look so dismayed. Her suffering served a purpose.” Gian smelled smoke. God, maybe his mother had been right, his talent for setting things ablaze might come in handy. “I needed someone powerful on whom I could test the stone.”

“What stone?” He had the emerald. Though she might well have it soon enough. That made him even angrier. He saw a wooden bench begin to smolder.

Elyta laughed. She was dressed, absurdly enough, in an evening cape of darkest aubergine clasped at her neck, and underneath some loose linen shift of a lighter shade. He could see her breasts move under it, unrestrained. “Yours was not the only stone that escaped the temple. Apparently Asharti took them from the fountain. They were left adrift in Casablanca when she died. One of her lieutenants thought to follow in her footsteps, but alas, it didn’t work out.” He fanned the anger in his breast as she talked. Fire might be his only hope. “The stones kept changing hands.” Here she glanced to the other vampires. “Sergei found the ruby in Athens. Now I have both of them.”

She looked around. “This is quite a lovely villa. I have been exploring today. I found, for instance, a perfect room for trysting. Just you and me and the stones.” She turned on her heel. Gian felt the clamps of steel power that held him go weaker as her attention turned elsewhere. He struggled against his remaining adversaries, but it was no use. Three of them were still stronger than he was. “Bring him.”

Two gripped his arms and dragged him toward the old part of the building. The old stone rooms had tiny barred windows in the fashion of the eleventh century when every house was required to be a fortress too. They might well be mistaken for a dungeon.

Another of Kate’s visions was about to come true.

Elyta’s voice floated back on air scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. “We need some time to make our plans down to the last detail, decide when and how to make sure I have all the influence I deserve.” She looked back over her shoulder, smiling seductively. “You, dear Gian, will be recreation. One can’t work all the time. I’ll have you on my terms now though.”

He gritted his teeth and held on to his anger. He had no desire for Elyta to have him on her terms. There—a pile of leaves rotting into compost began to put up swirls of smoke. The pergola sprouted tiny fingers of flame. Satisfaction bloomed inside him.

Elyta turned. She hadn’t noticed the fire yet. “You may want to know how I found you.”

Gian stared at her. Right. How
had
she found him?

“Your little scarred friend said you would arrive here sooner or later.”

Kate? Kate had betrayed his destination? She would not. And yet, she was the only one who might have guessed he had not gone to Mirso. She would
not
have betrayed him to Elyta … unless … “What have you done with her?” They were allowing him to speak.