The Demoness of Waking Dreams (24 page)

After a pause, he said, “That was the first one I got, just after I died. I was shot in the back. My flesh exploded, torn into a thousand shreds. When I was sent back to earth as a Guardian, the tattoo was there. A constant reminder of what had happened.”

“Not every Guardian has such markings,” she said.

“The Archangels wanted to remind me of what I’m doing here,” he ventured. “Maybe they thought I had a higher chance than the other Guardians of straying.”

Maybe they were right,
he thought.

“Most of the tattoos depict different Assignees I’ve had over the years,” he said. “In some form or another. Some of the animals represent the spirits of people I’ve helped.”

“Am I supposed to end up there, too?” she wondered aloud. “Perhaps after you’ve dealt with me, there will be a spear through this dragon’s head. That’s what you were sent here to do, wasn’t it? Destroy me.”

She said it as a fact, not a question.

One that he denied, shaking his head. “I told you, I came here to apprehend you, not to harm you. And I have obviously not been successful at capturing you.”

“But you were successful at every other assignment you had. Isn’t that right? You’ve saved hundreds of people. Maybe thousands,” she said, stroking his skin.

“I wouldn’t say I saved them. You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. All of my human Assignees have saved themselves. I just showed them the way.”

You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
Brandon’s words circulated in Luciana’s head. She wrapped herself in a blanket and went outside to sit on the beach, looking out into the darkness of the Adriatic. He came up behind her, kissed her shoulder as she looked out to sea.

“Tell me what happened to your sister.”

“Corbin killed her,” she said, not knowing what else to say. “He wanted to hurt me, and he knew where to get me.”

“I want to know everything, from the beginning,” the angel insisted.

“You already know about me. You were given a file on me, were you not?”

“I don’t know your side of the story. I want to hear the words from your own lips.”

“That’s a very long story,” she said. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Begin at the beginning,” he told her. “I want to hear everything. Especially why you hate Julian Ascher so much.”

She sighed. “The beginning. If you insist…

“I was born in 1756, the daughter of a rich silk merchant in a city blooming with gilded lilies. Surrounded by the pleasures of festivals and Carnival, showered with gowns and jewels supplied by the wealth of my father’s silk trade. My sister, Carlotta, was five years younger. I loved her, even though she could be very spoiled and sometimes acted like a brat.

“All of Venice celebrated in those days, but the city was going downhill. After its military and political position slipped, trade began to decline. Our father invested everything he had in a shipment of silk from the Far East that he thought would bolster our family’s depleted finances. The ship sank, and we lost everything. Our parents panicked.

“I was seventeen years old when our world of luxury was torn apart. Little by little, the house was stripped. First it was the Tintorettos and the Tiepolos, and then the antique furniture. Then the silver services and the Murano glassware. Our mother’s jewels, our father’s collection of pleasure boats.

“Our father ordered me, ‘You’ll have to marry, and soon. We’ve no time to spare.’

“The man they picked for me was my worst nightmare, a man who knew our family through my father’s business connections. Old, fat and degenerate. I had feared him since childhood—he had been leering at me since early adolescence. Since our youth, Carlotta and I had secretly nicknamed him
‘il vecchio pedofilo.’
‘The old pedophile.’

“When I heard the news, I cried for three days, sobbing without end on the silk carpet of my bedchamber. My mother tried to bolster me, saying, ‘You’ll ruin your eyes if you cry like that, darling. Then your husband-to-be won’t want you at all, will he?’

“I hoped that would be the case. Fleetingly, I contemplated slitting my wrists or disfiguring my face. But ultimately, I was too afraid of God to carry out such a death or even to harm myself.

“‘It’s either marry or go to work in the
Arsenale,
’ my father joked, referring to the famous shipyard where workers were employed to build Venice’s naval fleet. ‘Or you could become a courtesan.’ When I realized he was only half joking, I cried even harder.

“In the end, I realized I would have to find another way.

“I went to the Redentore Church and lit a candle. On my knees, I begged in prayer,
‘Please, God. Send me a way out of this. Give me a sign.’

“On the way home from the church, I saw Julian Ascher sauntering beside the Grand Canal. I thought God had answered my prayers.

“As it turned out, he had not.

“I loved Julian. Even though I was in a desperate situation, my heart was pure. But Julian used me. He took my virginity. Then he discarded me like a broken piece of glass, a trinket that had outlasted its novelty. The last time I saw him before he departed for England, I wept, begging him to take me with him. He refused. He left me to fend for myself.

“Although Julian had already left the city, the rumors spread. Venice is a small town, and it was even smaller back then. Soon the whole town was chattering about it, and
il vecchio pedofilio
found out that I was a ruined woman.

“The only people who had not heard about the scandal were foreigners. I found an Englishman named Thomas Harcourt, who seemed like a fine prospect for a husband, although in reality I knew nothing about him. I was a good enough actress that I could counterfeit love, enough to fool him into thinking I was a virgin. That part was easy. A little slit of my hand, a few drops of blood on the sheets. Harcourt did the gentlemanly thing and married me.

“Once he took me back to England, I saw another side of Harcourt that was far from genteel. A cruel, perverse side that was drunken and harsh, that thought nothing wrong with beating me until I bled. But in those times, if a man had wanted to beat his wife, there was nothing she or anybody else could do about it.

“And it was all for nothing.

“As soon as I left Venice, Carlotta was married to the decrepit old pedophile in my place.
Il vecchio pedofilio
had gotten his beautiful bride in the end, after all. One that was even younger than he had hoped for. My sister was only twelve years old.

“I had thought I would have time to figure out a way to help her. But I was wrong.

“In Venice in those days, marriage was often delayed into the twenties, not like it had been in earlier centuries. My sister’s wedding was not illegal. But to me, my parents had committed an act of monstrosity. In hindsight, it was an act of desperation.

“The old pedophile was every bit as bad as I had feared. As the years ticked by, Carlotta’s innocence ripened into maturity. She was no longer the child bride the old pervert had paid for. He took to frequenting whores, the younger the better. He contracted a bad case of syphilis and passed it on to Carlotta. She suffered a string of miscarriages due to the illness. She wrote me letter after letter detailing her misery, but there was nothing I could do. I was helpless, trapped beneath Harcourt’s petty despotism.

“Ten years after I had come to England, I ran into Julian Ascher in a ballroom in London. I hated him, but I hated Harcourt more. I threw myself on Julian’s mercy. Begged him to kill Harcourt in a duel. I had thought it would be a sure thing. My drunkard husband was normally incapable of walking a straight line, much less shooting straight. But the duel didn’t go as planned, and both men were killed.

“I buried Harcourt and bowed my head at his funeral, as a good widow should. But I did not truly mourn him. Nor did I feel badly for Julian. I didn’t regret the way that he died, nor the fact that his death solved my greatest problem.

“I rushed home to Venice, hoping to finally help Carlotta. She was heavily pregnant again with a child she thought would survive. But I was too late.

“She died in childbirth, and the baby died shortly after taking its first breath.

“I survived for a year after that, a free woman at last.... Until Harcourt clawed his way out of hell and strangled me.”

The sun began to creep over the horizon, spilling light into the room and washing over his face. She saw the tiredness in his eyes; she was tired, too. Too tired to recount anything more. There was too much, too many years…

“What happened then?” he pressed. “How did you get out of hell? How did Carlotta end up at the brothel?”

“That’s a story for another day,
caro.
You asked why I hate Julian Ascher so much, and there is your answer. Tonight, we have already run out of time. The rest will have to wait for the future.”

The future.
What a ridiculous notion, she chided herself. The idea of a time between them that would be peaceful enough for the telling of stories…that was more nonsensical than a fairy tale. She reminded herself,
Demons don’t live for the future. Not a real future. We might be greedy for something we want. But mostly, we are trapped in the past. Or we live for the moment. But if we are swayed by considerations of the future, those considerations have only to do with revenge.

“Come with me. You know you can. It’s the right thing to do.”

“I can’t just waltz out of Venice with you,” she laughed softly, laying her cheek on his broad chest, tracing her fingers over the images of ink drawn over his body. “The demon hierarchy will be out for my head. It is impossible. Corbin would retaliate. He would take revenge. There is Ca’ Rossetti to consider. I have worked for centuries to preserve it. It has been the seat of my family for over a thousand years. And there are other things…” she said vaguely.

“What? What is there that ties you to this city?”

Her eyes wide, she didn’t answer.

“You know it’s possible,” he said. “If Julian Ascher can change his ways, you can, too.”

At the mention of his name, she flinched. “Don’t talk about him.”

They sat for a long while, staring out to sea together.

“If it happened, I would have to make preparations. At home,” she said, very tentatively. “I cannot make any promises. There are others at stake, still. Other considerations, other people. My Gatekeepers…” she said, looking out to sea, wondering where Massimo had gone, whether he had enough sense to make it home without her.

“That you consider the possibilities is all I ask,” Brandon said.

She thought of Violetta, and the sad singing that rang through the halls of Ca’ Rossetti. Wondered if Violetta would ever find a way to let go of this world, and if Massimo had spent the night listening to that melancholic singing.

“Meet me at the opera,” she said, flinging the suggestion out, reminded by that thought. “Tomorrow night. I will consider it....”

* * *

Back at Ca’ Rossetti, Massimo and Violetta sat on the rooftop. He watched her wistful, young face as she watched the sun rise over the rooftops, unfurling the city into daylight.

“I wonder when she’s coming back,” he said.

“I don’t really care,” said Violetta. “I’m glad we have a little time to ourselves. A stolen moment, without her. Where did she go?”

“With her lover,” he admitted.

“The angel?” Violetta asked. “But she always says that demons are incapable of love.”

“Her whole way of thinking is unraveling,” he told her. “Everything she has worked so hard to accomplish is falling apart.”

“That is the nature of time, my love. The old falls apart. So the new can grow.” Violetta moved her hand to his cheek, mimicking the gesture of touch although the connection was impossible.

“How did you get so wise in such a short time on earth? And so brave? I’ve never seen anyone stand up to the
baronessa
like you, even when your life was at stake.”

She shook her head. “I’m not wise and I’m not brave, Massimo. I don’t even know if I can bring myself to do what is necessary....”

“What do you mean?” he said. “Have you figured out what you need to do to let go?”

She did not say anything, but bit her lip and let her long, brown hair hang forward; a sheer curtain covering her sheer face.

“If you know what to do, then do it. You must. That, or remain a ghost forever. Is that what you want? It’s not what I want for you,” said Massimo.

“Of course that’s not what I want,” she whispered. “I want to touch your face. I want to hold your hand and feel your breath when you whisper in my ear. I want to
be.
I want to stay in this world with you, forever.”

“We will see each other again, Violetta,” he murmured, closing his eyes and wishing he could hold her. “I know we will. After you leave this place. We will find a way.”

But he knew no such thing.

He only knew that he wanted what was best for her, and that it did not involve him.