The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (53 page)

“Andros?” he called.
 
“My uncle first met him in Lorenzo’s court in 1484.
 
It was the same visit to Florence when he first met me.”
 

Giovanni walked back in the bedroom, which was finished in plaster and wood on three walls.
 
The far wall, at the head of the Giovanni’s bed, was hewn granite and the candlelight in the room caused the black flecks in the stone to dance.
 

“I first met Andros when my uncle visited his villa in Perugia.
 
He had collected an extraordinary library and gave my uncle many rare books and manuscripts to study, though I later learned he had always intended to take them back.
 
Andros’s books are the real treasure, tesoro.
 
My uncle’s books are valuable to me, but Andros’s library was legendary.”
 

He arranged the blankets over her before crawling in the bed, and settling a warm arm around her waist. “It had no equal I have ever seen.
 
Greek, Roman, Egyptian, Hebrew, Persian.
 
Even some Sumerian clay tablets.
 
He’d amassed it over twenty-five hundred years, and inherited other manuscripts from his own sire, who I never met.
 
It was an astonishing collection.”

Since he’d woken her from the nightmare that had plagued her for weeks, Giovanni couldn’t seem to stop touching her.
 
As tumultuous as her feelings toward him were, she found his presence comforting, and his touch seemed to warm the persistent chill that had tormented her since the night she’d fallen into Lorenzo’s hands.
 

“And Lorenzo still has it?”

He shrugged.
 
“He must.
 
It was all housed together after my uncle died.
 
So if he has my uncle’s books—”

“At least you got those back, right?”

She felt his arm tighten around her waist.

“I did.”

There was a long silence as the memory of that night nudged at her.
 
Finally, she heard him whisper, “I haven’t even looked at them.”

Her breath caught. “None?”

“Caspar had them shipped here for safekeeping, but…”

She nodded and put her hand over his arm, weaving her fingers with his.

“We should look at them.”

“Not tonight.”

“No, tell me more about when you met your uncle.”

 
He paused before he continued.
 
“It was all in 1484.
 
It was a very eventful year.”

“What else happened?”

She felt him sigh and she curled into his chest.
 
“He met Lorenzo de Medici that trip, and then me, and then Andros, of course.
 
Andros had been lingering in the Medici court.”
 

“Why?”

“Why was my sire in Florence?
 
He told me later he was ready to create a child—he never had before—and he wanted to pick from the brightest of the city.”
 
Giovanni propped his head up on his hand and looked at her.
 
“He was looking for a ‘Renaissance man,’ I suppose.
 
Initially, he set his sights on my uncle, but then my uncle disappointed him.”
 

“How did he disappoint him?
 
Not smart enough?”

“Oh no, my uncle was brilliant,” he said wistfully.
 
“No, Giovanni fell in love.”
 

She swallowed the lump in her throat and remembered the slim book of sonnets he’d held in his hand the night she was taken.
 
“With Giuliana?”

He nodded, and lay his head on the pillow next to hers, lifting a hand to play with a strand of her hair.
 
“He met her in Arezzo, visiting an acquaintance.
 
She was married…not her choice, of course, but it never was then.
 
Her husband was cruel and dull.
 
Even Lorenzo hated him, though he was a Medici cousin.
 
But Giuliana and Giovanni…they were so beautiful.”
 

“She was beautiful?”

He paused, and she rolled onto her back so she could see his expression.
 
His eyes were narrowed in concentration while he thought.
 
“It’s difficult to say.
 
My human memories are not always clear.
 
I
remember
her as beautiful, but that could be a child’s perspective.
 
I remember the way my uncle smiled at her.
 
She was very kind to me; she liked to play games.
 
I don’t think she could have any children of her own.
 
She never did in all the time they wrote to each other.”
 

“What happened?”

“She was married, and my uncle was thrown in prison when their affair was discovered.
 
Though Lorenzo de Medici found my uncle entertaining, so he intervened.”
 

“But they stayed in contact?”

He nodded and let his hand stroke along her arm.
 
Everywhere he touched gave her goose bumps, but not from the chill.
 
His energy, which he normally kept on a tight lease, seemed to hum along his skin as he reminisced.
 
She could see him taking longer and longer blinks, and could only assume the sun was rising in the sky.
 

“They wrote beautiful letters to each other,” he said quietly.
 
“He locked them away; I never discovered where he put them.”
 

“But why did that matter to Andros?
 
They couldn’t marry anyway, why—”

“My uncle fell into a depression toward the end of his life.
 
After his imprisonment in Paris, he lost his spirit.
 
He stopped writing Giuliana.
 
He no longer had the same joy he’d always carried before.
 
He destroyed his poetry.
 
He burned many of his more progressive philosophical works and corresponded more with Savonarola, who had become so radical by then it taxed even Poliziano and Benevieni’s friendship.”
 

“When were the bonfires?”

“The ‘bonfire of the vanities?’” he murmured, and she was reminded of the book she had been reading so many months ago when they had first met.
 
His amusement at hearing the title finally made sense and she smiled.
 

“Yeah, those bonfires.”
 

“It was after I had been taken, but before I was turned.
 
My uncle left me everything; though he wasn’t exorbitantly wealthy, his library was substantial and Andros wanted it, so he took it.
 
When Lorenzo told me years later that everything had burned in the fires, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine.
 
Many of his books would have been considered heretical, and so many things were lost.”
 

“What did your uncle write about?”

Giovanni smiled wistfully and placed a small kiss on her forehead.
 
“He thought that all human religion and philosophy could be reconciled.
 
That the quest for knowledge was the highest good; and that somewhere, between all the wars and debate, there was some universal truth he could discover which would bring humanity together.”
 

Beatrice paused and watched his green eyes swirl with memories.
 
“He sounds like a wonderful man.”
 

“He was…an idealist.”
 

She reached up to place a small kiss on his cheek, which had grown a dusting of stubble since she had kissed him so many weeks ago at the Night Hawk.
 

“The world needs idealists.”
 

His hand trailed up from her arm and cupped her cheek.
 
His eyes searched her own before he leaned down to place a gentle kiss on her mouth.
 
It was soft and searching, and she felt his arm pull her closer.
 
She also felt his eyelashes fluttering on her cheek, and knew he was struggling to remain awake.
 

“Sleep, Gio.”
 

“Will you be here when I wake?” he mumbled, almost incoherent from the pull of day.
 
“There’s more…”
 

“Yes,” she whispered.
 
“I’ll be here.”
 

Though his arm lay heavy across her waist, and his head slumped to the side, Beatrice felt safe for the first time in weeks, so she closed her eyes and joined him in a dreamless slumber.
 

When she woke, he was still sleeping, so she pulled away from the tangle of his arms and went to the front of the house.
 
She boiled some water and made black tea to drink on the front porch.
 
When she went outside, there was fresh milk sitting on the porch, and a block of ice for the icebox.
 

She was surprised by how peaceful she found the simplicity of life in the valley.
 
The house had no electricity, but she didn’t miss it as much as she imagined.
 
The fire in the main hearth was constantly burning, and it heated a small water heater by some mechanism she still didn’t understand, but appreciated anyway.

Other than the dreams that had plagued her every night, Beatrice had never felt more peaceful, and she understood why Giovanni had wanted her to come to this quiet place.
 
Her soul, as well as her mind, had been refreshed.
 

She could hear the rustle of someone approaching through the trees, and sat up straighter in instinctive alarm.
 
She relaxed when she saw the oldest son of the Reverte family, who kept the lodge at the base of the valley.
 
Arturo had escorted her over some of the gentler riding trails as she explored the valley.
 
He was riding his favorite horse and leading another one for her.
 

“Ciao, Beatriz!”
he called with a smile.
 

“Buenos días, Arturo.”
 

“¿Quieres cabalgar?”

“No, grácias,”
she said, declining his offer to ride.
 

“¿No?
 
Estás segura?”
he asked with a wink.
 

She thought about getting some fresh air but was unsure of what time Giovanni would wake, so she nodded that, yes, she was sure, and waved him off with a smile.
 
She realized she wanted to be there to hear the rest of Giovanni’s story and didn’t want to lose time when he woke.
 

To say she had been stunned to learn he was the orphan the count had adopted, instead of Giovanni Pico himself, was an understatement; though when she thought about her research into the life of the fifteenth century philosopher, the ages had never seemed exactly right.
 
She still had many questions, but she was beginning to understand how valuable the correspondence of his uncle and friends would be to the boy who had loved them.
 

She ate a small meal and perused the bookcases in the living room.
 
When Giovanni had mentioned his books the first night they’d come to the house, Beatrice had frozen, thrown back to the night he had callously traded her for the books he had sought for so long.
 

At least that’s what she had thought at the time.
 

Her mind understood what he had been saying since he had rescued her, but a small part of her heart found it difficult to let down her guard around the magnetic man she knew she still loved, though she had trouble admitting it—even to herself.
 

Beatrice found a harmless paperback and crawled back in bed with the sleeping vampire, who had not moved from the position she left him in.
 

“Sheesh,” she grunted as she shoved his arms over to clear a spot.
 
“You’re heavier than you look, Gio.”
 

He just lay there, silent and unbreathing.
 

“It’s probably really evil that I want to draw something on your face right now, isn’t it?”

She examined his unmoving form.
 
“I could draw a big, curly mustache, right on your upper lip, and you wouldn’t be able to stop me, would you?” She lay down and traced her finger over his upper lip.
 

“Yep, that would piss you off for sure,” she muttered.
 
“You’re so damn proud, Giovanni.”
 

Ironically, his face looked childlike in repose, and she found herself wishing the soft curls still covered his forehead so she could brush them away.
 

“Or should I call you Jacopo?” she murmured.
 

She liked the feeling of his childhood name in her mouth, so she continued in a soft voice.
 

“Does anyone else know your name, Jacopo?
 
Does Lorenzo even know?” she said.
 
“I wonder…”