A Hidden Fire Page 4

  “What does this have to do with your project?”

  “I think I may have met the Dante expert’s daughter at the library where I’ve been doing that transcription for Tenzin.”

  He would have chuckled at the sudden silence on the phone, but he was distracted by the perfect circle the flame formed. It reminded him of the ancient symbol of a snake eating its tail. It bent to his will, turning continuously in front of his eyes as he waited for Carwyn’s response.

  “That’s quite a coincidence.”

  “It would be, if either of us believed in coincidence,” he murmured as he let the flame unfurl and return to its home at the tip of the candle, shrinking until it was no larger than his fingertip.

  “How would anyone newly sired have access to your library? The rumors have swirled for years, but there’s been no actual proof.”

  “Yet I am in Houston. And if I’m correct, I met the daughter of an immortal who was rumored to have a book I haven’t seen for over five hundred years.”

  “What do you think—”

  “I don’t know what to think right now, Father. I need more information. I’ve already sent a letter to Livia. As for the girl? I’m proceeding as if it’s of no consequence at the moment. She’s…interesting.”

  “’Interesting’? I can’t remember the last time—”

  “Did you know daylight savings time started this week? I’ll be able to visit the museum again.”

  “Your phone manners are abysmal, Gio. It’s not polite to interrupt someone, you know, even if you’re not in the same room.”

  Giovanni smirked into the darkened room. “I knew what you were going to say, and I didn’t want to talk about it. They’re hosting a lecture next week at the museum about Dali, I—”

  “What a fascinating subject change. We’re going to forget about the daughter?”

  He smiled at the priest’s interruption. “For now, yes. I see her every week at the library. I even saw her last night. So far, nothing leads me to believe she knows anything about our kind, which means her father, if he is the immortal I want, hasn’t been in contact. So, there’s nothing to be done at the moment. I need to investigate more.”

  “Fine. Let me know when the pieces move.”

  Giovanni paused, staring into the turning flame in front of him. “Maybe they won’t. Maybe it is just a coincidence.”

  Carwyn’s voice was soft when he replied, “Do you really believe that?”

  “No.”

  “Dr. Vecchio?” a familiar voice asked. “What are you doing here?”

  He turned, surprised to see Beatrice De Novo standing in front of a Leger painting in one of the contemporary rooms; an older woman standing next to her. The young student’s typical uniform of black was broken by the deep red shirt she wore and demure black flats replaced her combat boots, as he thought of them.

  “Beatrice? How unexpected to see you here.” He wasn’t sure why seeing her at the museum caught him off guard. It was a popular destination for students, and he tried to convince himself it was purely serendipitous she was here on the evening after he had been speaking about her. “A pleasant surprise, of course.”

  The older woman looking at the Leger painting turned, and he saw the history of Beatrice’s slight accent in front of him as he examined the older woman. Spanish blood seemed dominant in her handsome features, and he looked into a pair of clear green eyes. She smiled and took Beatrice’s arm.

  “¿Es el profesor guapo, Beatriz?”

  Her accent, he noted, was educated, and from the Guadalajara region of Mexico.

  Beatrice laughed nervously at her grandmother’s question. He smiled, happy that the girl had referred to him as ‘the handsome professor.’ Blushing, she smiled at Giovanni. “Dr. Vecchio, this is my grandmother, Isadora.”

  Giovanni bowed his head toward the older woman, charmed by the graceful formality she seemed to exude.

  “Mucho gusto, Señora. Me llamo Giovanni Vecchio. Your granddaughter has been a great help to me at the library.”

  “And of course he speaks Spanish,” he heard Beatrice mumble.

  “Beatrice, manners please,” Isadora chided. “Dr. Vecchio, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you a lover of contemporary art?”

  He smiled and nodded, tucking his hands carefully in his pockets. “I am. I was just visiting the Rothko Chapel before it closed and thought I would take a walk through the main collection before I left. Are you a fan of Leger?”

  “I am. Though I love the surrealist collection here as well. We live near Rice, so I’m able to visit quite frequently. You are doing research at the university?”

  He nodded. “Yes, though really more as a favor to a friend who studies Tibetan religious history. She lives in China and I’m transcribing a document for her.”

  “A lot of work for a favor.” She paused, but he did not explain further, so she asked, “Are you a professor?”

  Giovanni caught the curious angle of the girl’s head as she listened for his response. He knew he was the focus of some speculation at the library, though he also knew even the best researcher would find nothing about him that he didn’t want found.

  “I am not. My family is in rare books, Señora De Novo. I work mostly in that area.”

  “Oh? How interesting! Are you a collector yourself? Of books? Or art?” Beatrice’s grandmother nodded toward the modern portrait on the wall next to them.

  He smiled enigmatically. “I have my own book collection, of course. One my family has added to for many years. I enjoy art, but I don’t have a collection, per se.”

  “My grandmother is a very talented painter, Dr. Vecchio.”

  Giovanni turned to Beatrice, who had been standing, listening to their conversation. “It must be a pleasure visiting the collection with an artist.”

  She smiled and took the elderly woman’s arm. “It is.”

  “Would you like to join us?” Isadora asked.

  He looked at Beatrice and smiled. He decided it was a perfect opportunity to gather more information.

  “Of course, it would be my pleasure.”

  He felt lighter as he strolled with the two women. He felt his expression—the intense concentration his friends often needled him about—soften, and Giovanni could even feel his posture relax they walked. Like her granddaughter, Isadora was charming and very intelligent.

  He glanced at Beatrice as they walked through the Menil Collection. He noticed the affectionate and familiar way the two women spoke to each other and recalled a few of the major points in Caspar’s report on the girl.

  Beatrice De Novo, born July 2, 1980, in Houston, Texas.

  Daughter of Stephen De Novo, deceased, and Holly Cranson, whereabouts unknown.

  Adopted at twelve by her paternal grandparents, Hector De Novo and Isadora Alvarez, plumber and homemaker/artist.

  Senior at Houston University in the English Literature department. Accepted to the graduate program in Information Studies at the University of California, Los Angeles.

  According to Caspar’s sources, Beatrice had been working in the Special Collections and Archives department of the university library since her sophomore year. Apparently, she had called the department weekly for three months asking if any position had become open since her last phone call. The young woman so impressed the staid director, Dr. Christiansen, he eventually created a position for her as a reward for her persistence.

  “Do you enjoy folk art, Dr. Vecchio?” he heard Isadora ask.

  He turned his attention back to her. “I do.”

  “You should join us for the art center’s Dia de los Muertos celebration tomorrow night, then.”

  “Grandma—” Beatrice tried to break in, but Isadora shot her a look. No doubt, she had not missed Giovanni’s quiet examination of her granddaughter.

  “I would love to, Señora.” He smirked at Beatrice’s shocked expression and slight blush. “But I don’t want to intrude on a family outing.”

  “Nonsense!” Her
small hand fluttered like a butterfly in dismissal of his objections. “It’s like a fair. Everyone is welcome. It’s been too long since I’ve had a handsome escort who enjoys art as much as I do.” Her eyes twinkled at him and he smiled.

  “Well then,” he replied, “how can I refuse? But I insist you call me Giovanni, Señora De Novo.” He was pleased the opportunity for further research had presented itself so conveniently. “If I’m going to escort you for the evening, that is.”

  “You must call me Isadora, then.”

  “Oh brother,” Giovanni heard Beatrice mutter, as she chuckled and shook her head.

  “Are you from Houston originally?” Isadora asked.

  He glanced with a smile from Beatrice to a Warhol painting on his left. “I grew up primarily in Northern Italy, though my father traveled frequently for his work and I often went with him. I moved to Houston three years ago,” he replied, turning to meet Isadora’s keen gaze. They measured each other for a few moments in the bright light of the gallery.

  “Grandma,” Beatrice broke in. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t leave soon.”

  Isadora’s gaze finally left Giovanni’s, and she smiled at her granddaughter. “Of course. It was such a pleasure meeting you. The art center on Main Street tomorrow? We’ll be there around seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. Such a pleasure to meet you, and to see you, Beatrice.” He nodded at them and allowed his eyes to meet Beatrice’s dark brown ones. They were narrowed in annoyance or amusement, he couldn’t quite tell, but he winked at her before she turned and led her grandmother toward the lobby.

  He stayed at the museum until closing, planning his objectives for the following night. He suspected Beatrice’s grandmother thought she was playing matchmaker between Beatrice and the handsome book-dealer. He was more than happy to play along, as a grandmother would readily give information to a polite young man interested in her attractive granddaughter.

  She was also more likely to have information on her son and what he had been working on in Italy. Beatrice had only been a child when her father was killed, but Isadora had not.

  As he swam laps that evening, he thought about the girl. She was far too young for him, even if he appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. Her behavior was a curious mix of innocence and wariness, and he wondered how much experience she had with men. She kept to herself, but he had the distinct impression she was no wallflower.

  Beatrice De Novo was intriguing, and he found her humor and intelligence far more compelling than the average college student. He knew from her physical response to him that she found him attractive, and he was comfortable using that as he determined what she knew and how it could be of use in his own search.

  “Caspar?” he called out when he returned to the house after his swim.

  “Yes?” he replied from the library.

  Giovanni walked upstairs and stood in the doorway. Caspar had started another fire, and the familiar smell tickled his nose. Doyle was curled up in his favorite chair; the cat looked up, blinked at Giovanni, and closed his eyes again.

  “Any word back from Rome?”

  Caspar looked up from his book and shook his head. “You know how slow Livia can be. Added to that, she refuses electronic correspondence, even for her day staff. I suspect we might see some sort of response by the new year.”

  Giovanni scowled in frustration but knew his friend was probably correct.

  “So you really think the girl’s father was turned?” Caspar asked.

  He nudged the cat off his chair.

  “How many American Dante scholars were killed under mysterious circumstances in northern Italy in 1992? It’s far too coincidental. If the rumors about the book are true…”

  “But why are you interested in the girl?”

  “Don’t fret, Caspar. She’s perfectly safe. And you know how nostalgic the young ones can be. He was rumored to have access to books that are rightfully mine. Now I have access to his human daughter. If I can use the connection to trade for information…or more, I will.”

  “But do you really think he knows about your books?”

  Giovanni stared into the flames as the heat began to lift the water from his skin and dry his towel. “If it’s him, and he has what was rumored, then yes. It sounded genuine. Livia will know, and she’ll know who sired him. No one turns a human in that part of Europe without her knowing about it, even if it’s against their will.”

  “And whoever sired him—”

  “No one stumbles across a library that ancient and that valuable when they’re that young. The sire is who I’m looking for.”

  “So we wait.”

  “Well,” he mused, “we might be able to do more than that. I’m meeting with the girl and her grandmother tomorrow night.”

  “What? On a Friday?”

  “I’m going out later.” He shrugged. “Don’t fret, old man.”

  Caspar raised his eyebrows. “A divergence from routine, Gio? What is the world coming to?”

  Shaking his head, he rose and walked toward the door.

  “See if you can prod some of Livia’s day people tomorrow over the phone.”

  “Of course.” Caspar paused for a moment. “Is it worth it, Gio? The books? This obsession? All these years?”

  “What do you hold in your hands, my son?”

  “A book.”

  “No, you hold knowledge. Knowledge sought for centuries. Knowledge that some have died for. Knowledge that some have killed for.”

  “Why would anyone kill for a book?”

  “It is not a book.” The slap rung in his ears. “What is it?”

  “Knowledge.”

  “And knowledge is power. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  Giovanni paused in the doorway, letting his wet hair drip in his eyes as he pushed back the memory, the driving need to discover pulsing in his quiet veins. “You ask me that every time I find something new.”

  “And you never really answer me.”

  “Yes, I do,” he murmured. “You just don’t like the answer.”

  He slept late the next day, not rising until the sun was low in the sky. Though he preferred more pleasant and leisurely meals, the oblivious human woman he had fed from the night before had sated his physical hungers for the week and allowed him to retain the genteel manners he had carefully cultivated for the previous three hundred years.

  Giovanni dressed thoughtfully, choosing casual clothing that was more likely to set the De Novo women at ease and detract from his inhuman complexion. Though the slight current that ran under his skin allowed him to adjust its surface temperature, nothing could diminish the almost luminescent paleness.

  “Ah,” Caspar exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. “The grey is a good choice. Makes you look much less demon-of-the-night.”

  “Please, Caspar,” he implored. “A date with a live woman. Soon.”

  Caspar chuckled and looked up from the newspaper. “I’m meeting a friend tonight, as a matter of fact. I was just looking at what movies are opening this weekend. I’m looking for something horribly gory.”

  “I’ll never understand your affinity for those pictures.”

  “And I’ll never understand your affinity for professional wrestling, so we’re even.”

  Giovanni rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Caspar.”

  The lights of downtown twinkled, and he could see streams of children already weaving through the neighborhood in their costumes. It was Halloween night, and with Dia de los Muertos falling on Sunday, the whole weekend would be devoted to the macabre, grotesque and mysterious. He drove through the streets, amused by the teenagers and students in their elaborate costumes, enjoying the sense of revelry in the crowded bars and clubs of the Montrose district.

  He pulled into the parking lot across from the art center and immediately heard the music of mariachis fill the air. Houston’s Mexican-American community was an integral part of the cul
tural scene, and he was happy to have an excuse to participate in the odd festival celebrating the dead. He saw children with elaborate face painting and a few adults, as well. The smells of earthy spices and sugar filled the air, and he scanned the crowd for Beatrice and her grandmother.

  “Giovanni!” Isadora’s clear voice called from a nearby booth selling tamales. He walked over to the older woman but his eyes were drawn to Beatrice standing behind her, holding a drink and a small paper plate with two tamales on it.

  “Dr. Vecchio, how are you tonight?” It was the first time he had seen her with her hair down. It fell long and perfectly straight down her back, with a few errant pieces slipping over her ear. He held himself back from touching it; though he could admit to himself he wanted to.

  “B, I’m sure you can call him Giovanni. You’re not at work, after all.”

  He turned to Isadora. “Ladies, you’re both looking lovely this evening.” He smiled at Isadora, who was wearing a vivid green dress. “And of course, Beatrice, feel free to call me Giovanni.”

  She was dressed in black again, but this time, she wore a wide collared shirt that showed off her graceful neck and collar bones and another trim skirt that fell to her knees. He was strangely pleased to see that her combat boots were back, and she had switched her ruby piercing out for a tiny silver stud.

  “Giovanni, huh? No nickname?” Beatrice asked. She frowned a little before she continued. “That must have been quite a chore to spell in kindergarten.”

  He smiled and watched her offer her grandmother the drink, but she made no move to unwrap the tamales she had bought.

  “Oh, I’ve been called many things over the years, but all the men in my family are named Giovanni.”

  “Really? Is that traditional?”

  “What is your name?”

  “Whatever I want it to be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am superior to mortals.”

  He blinked to clear the unexpected flash, wondering why the memories of his father had been so near in his mind in the past few weeks. “For us, yes.”