A Hidden Fire: Elemental Mysteries Book 1 (13 page)

He looked away, hoping she had not seen the flicker of recognition at the old name.  He ignored the burning in his chest as he walked back to the library table and collected himself.  He glanced over to see Carwyn smiling at her. 

“Anything else you can remember?  It really would be helpful.”

She shook her head.  “It sounded like they were mostly personal.  I only read the translation on one.  They were talking about a new servant, or squire, or—or something like that, and his education.  There was something about meeting Lorenzo de Medici.”  She blushed slightly and glanced back at him; his eyes were glued to her as she spoke.  “Something about a scandal.  I can’t—I can’t remember all of it.  I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I think you’ve remembered plenty,” Caspar broke in.  “I’m sure that’s what they needed to know.”

She looked for him in the back of the library.  “Did a vampire donate those letters, Gio?”

He still didn’t speak but nodded as he stared into the fire. 

Carwyn finally answered her.  “I think that’s where you picked up the scent.  He must have handled them before they were donated.”

Giovanni was careful to keep strict control of his features as his mind flew in a thousand directions, finally settling onto one inescapable conclusion.

He had been deceived. 

“Gio?”

He heard her voice and knew what she wanted to ask. 

“Giovanni?” she almost whispered. 

“Do not ask questions you know I will not answer, Beatrice,” he bit out. 

“But—”

“It’s not—” he broke off for a moment, “not for you.”

She stood to face him.  Giovanni could see the angry confusion in her eyes, and he could not blame her.  She squared her shoulders and turned to Carwyn. 

“I’m going home.  I guess I’ll see you at the library tomorrow.”

Caspar stood with her.  “I’ll see you out.”  The butler escorted the young woman out of the library, but not before she shot him a pointed glare. 

Carwyn rushed over to Giovanni as soon as the two humans were out of the room and began speaking in rushed Latin. 

“The letters—”

“‘They’ll be there soon, and there’s more where they came from,’” Giovanni muttered, quoting the mysterious e-mail from weeks before they had both been baffled by.  “‘You’re welcome.’”

“Lorenzo sent the letters, Gio.  It’s the only explanation.  He must have slept with them on his pillow for the scent to be that strong.”

“Those letters were bound in a correspondence book.  If he has those two, he has all of them.  If he has the correspondence books…” 

“He has all your books.”

Giovanni leaned his hip against the table, still staring into the fire as the memory of other fires haunted him.  “We don’t know that he has them all.”

“But the rumors—”

“Are rumors, nothing more.  It is possible…many things are possible.  What we do know is he has the correspondence books and he sent the letters.” Giovanni cursed.  “And if his note is correct, there will be more.”

“He was never one to bluff,” Carwyn growled.  “Why?  Why now?”

“Why didn’t I know he had them?” Giovanni asked, pushing away from the table and pacing the length of the library with deliberate strides.  “After five
hundred
years?  Or why is he sending them now?”

“You tell me.  You know him far better than I ever will.  What’s his game?”

Giovanni stalked the room, mentally shifting the pieces, and trying to make sense of everything they had learned that night.  One disturbing thought kept circling his mind until it was all he could think about. 

“You’re missing his boldest move, Carwyn,” he muttered to the priest as he halted, leaning against the oak table and staring at the empty desk in the corner of the room.  “He didn’t send them to me.”  He nodded toward the desk.  “He sent them to her.”

Carwyn’s eyes widened as he turned to stare at the girl’s desk and heard Giovanni murmur, “He sent them to Beatrice.”

Chapter Ten

Houston, Texas

December 2003

H
e had gone to prison for love.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the translation of the second letter of Angelo Poliziano to Giovanni Pico as she huddled in the stacks, avoiding the packed reading room on Wednesday afternoon.  Pico had been imprisoned for his affair with a married woman and only escaped because of his connection to Lorenzo de Medici.

“I hope this letter finds you well, and free from the imprisonment which shocked us all.  By this time, Signore Andros should have arrived in Arezzo with the letter from Lorenzo.  Do not feel the need to thank me for my intervention, for the Medici was eager to take your part in the matter and needed little convincing, from either myself or the odd Greek.”

He had gone to stay with Signore Niccolo Andros in Perugia, presumably to study Andros’s library of mystic texts and recover from his imprisonment.

What happened to the little boy?
Beatrice wondered as she skimmed over the notes from the second letter.  The letter mentioned their mutual friends, even Savaranola himself, but Beatrice was more enthralled by the hints of scandal than she was about the more historical significance of the translation.

She read it twice, adding to her notes on the first which she then tucked carefully in her bag.  Though both letters had been under the intense scrutiny Dr. Christiansen had predicted throughout the day, she had managed early in her shift to get her hands on them for a few minutes to make a copy of the notes.  There was little doubt in her mind that Giovanni and Carwyn knew exactly who the letters had come from.  She scratched down a reminder to herself to tell them that Dr. Christiansen mentioned more letters would be arriving. 

“B?” Charlotte called.  She shoved her copy of the translation and her notes into her messenger bag and stood up, pretending to examine a stack of photographs that needed to be catalogued.

“Hey, I know you’re as sick of the philosophers as I am,” Charlotte sighed, “but could you come take care of the reading room for a bit?”

“Sure.”

“I know you’re going to be here all night, but if I don’t get a break from the chatter, I’m going to end up throwing old reference books at them.”

Beatrice smiled and held in a laugh.  The reading room was unusually packed that afternoon, as the philosophy department took a look at the documents.  The history department had already come and gone for the day, and the Italian studies department was due that evening.  Apparently they had all worked out some tentative custody agreement for the Pico letters.

“Are they scheduled to stay through the evening hours?” she asked, conscious of the two guests she had no doubt would be showing up when it was dark enough.

Charlotte nodded.  “Yeah, I guess philosophy’s leaving at five, and then the Italian chair is showing up to take a look at them.  Have you met Dr. Scalia?”

She shook her head.

“He’s a hoot.  He’s got these enormous glasses and looks like an owl, but he’s sweet man and not too chatty.  He’ll be here most of the evening, so between him and Dr. Handsome, you should have a pretty quiet room.”

Beatrice sighed, wondering whether poor Dr. Scalia was going to shake hands with Dr. Vecchio and forget about the letters he was supposed to be examining.  She had a feeling Giovanni would be more than happy if the Italian professor suddenly remembered he needed to pick up his dry-cleaning.  She might have to lay some ground rules about playing with cerebral cortexes while in the library.

Reminding herself that Carwyn would also be in attendance, she decided there would definitely need to be ground rules.

Every now and then, she had wondered why she had so easily accepted her strange new reality.  The more she thought about it, the more Beatrice decided that the idea of vampires just didn’t seem that far-fetched.

She could accept there were things in the world that science didn’t understand yet, and who was to say that some of those things didn’t have fangs and need to survive by drinking human blood?

As she sat at the reference desk, listening to philosophers quietly argue the meaning of this, or the implication of that, she thought about how much had changed since Giovanni had lived as a human.  If Dr. Giovanni Vecchio was, indeed, the Italian count the letters were addressed to, that meant that he was 540 years old, and even at age twenty-three had been considered one of the most progressive humanist philosophers of the Renaissance.

He hadn’t answered her questions, but it was too coincidental that the two mysterious letters had been donated by a vampire to the very library where Giovanni had chosen to do his research and she worked.  They had to be connected.

 Not long after six o’clock, a small man with a shock of silver-grey hair walked through the double doors. 

“Dr. Scalia?” she asked of the man, who did remind her of an owl with his large round glasses and tiny nose.

He smiled eagerly.  “Yes, yes!  And you are?”

“I’m Beatrice De Novo.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.  You have an appointment for the Pico letters, is that correct?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As she listened to another academic wax eloquent on the importance of the two Italian letters, Giovanni and Carwyn silently entered the reading room.  She quickly settled Dr. Scalia at the table with the Pico letters and walked over to the two vampires.

“Okay,” she whispered in her sternest librarian voice, “he’s a sweet, old man, and I don’t want you two to mess with his brain.  He’s a professor.  He needs it.”

Giovanni frowned.  “Really, Beatrice, how clumsy do you think we are?  He would never realize—”

“Don’t care.  It’s
his
brain.  Stay out and wait your turn.”

She saw Giovanni’s nostrils flair a little in annoyance, or maybe he had simply caught the scent of the old parchment at the other table.  Carwyn, she thought, looked like he might break into laughter at any minute and kept glancing between his friend and Beatrice.

“Fine.  If I could have the Tibetan manuscript then, Miss De Novo.”

She rolled her eyes at his tone, but turned and walked back to the stacks to get the manuscript for him as he chose a table near the small professor who was already busy taking notes.

By the time she got back, she noticed that Giovanni had assumed his usual position at the table, though he was watching Dr. Scalia with an almost predatory stare.  She set the book down in front of him and grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the stack he had sitting on the table.  With a quick scribble and a fold, she wrote a small note and propped it in front of the 500 year old vampire.

No biting.  No altering cerebral cortexes.  Have a nice day.

He couldn’t keep the smirk from sneaking across his face.  He looked up at her, winked, and bent his head to his notes.

Wearing her own smile, she walked back to the reference desk to find Carwyn had pulled a chair over and was reading the paperback she had started that morning.  As always, he was eye-catching in a loud Hawaiian shirt that clashed with his red hair and made his blue eyes seem to pop out.

He glanced up from the book.  “Do you—”

“Shhh!”  She glared and put her finger to her lips.

“Such a librarian.  You need wee glasses sitting on the tip of your nose when you do that,” he whispered loudly.  She heard Giovanni shift at his table and she looked over her shoulder to see him glaring at Carwyn.  Snickering, the mischievous vampire reached into her book bag and pulled out the notebook that she’d been using to take notes on the mysterious Pico and his letters.

She could see when Carwyn discovered the notes, but he didn’t look angry.  On the contrary, he looked inordinately pleased and immediately flipped to the back of the notebook and began to write.

You’re a curious thing, B.

Flipping the notebook to her, she read and took a moment to respond.

I’ve had some curious things happen to me this fall.  Also, I feel like we’re passing notes in study hall.

We are,
he wrote back. 
So, what do you want to know that Professor Chatty won’t tell you?

She couldn’t hold in the snort when she wrote,
Everything.

Carwyn just smiled and took a few moments to write back.

I can’t tell you his story.  One, I don’t know all of it.  I don’t think anyone does.  Two, what I do know is not mine to tell.  But you’re welcome to ask me anything about my life that you’d like.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. 
Anything?

Other than what color pants I’m wearing (red, by the way) I’m an open book.

She held back the giggle. 
Always try to match your hair and your underwear.  It’s just a good rule of thumb.  How old are you?

He smiled and wrote back. 
I’m around thirty-five…plus a thousand years.  Approximately.

Beatrice gaped for a moment, trying to reconcile a thousand years with the relatively young man before her.  She tried to imagine the things Carwyn must have seen and how much the world had changed since he was human.  She couldn’t begin to imagine.

Where were you born?

Gwynedd.  Northern part of Wales.

And you’re still there?

For the most part, I always have been.  I’m quite the homebody, unlike our Gio.

She narrowed her eyes and wrote,
Are you really a priest?

He chuckled quietly. 
Yes, you don’t have to be an old man, you know.  And my father was a priest.  And my grandfather.  And one of my sons became abbott of our community after I was gone.

She frowned. 
Kinda lax on that whole celibacy thing, huh?

Carwyn grinned. 
Not uncommon in the Welsh church.  And it was before Gregory.  (Look it up.) Many Welsh priests married.  Rome had a hard time conquering Wales.  Militarily and ecclesiastically. 
He winked as he finished the sentence.

So you were married?

He just nodded and smiled.  “Efa,” he whispered.

She paused for a moment. 
What happened to your wife?  Your children?

Carwyn offered a wistful smile. 
My wife went to our God before I was turned.  She died quite young from a fever.  Our children were taken in by our community when I disappeared.  I went back years later.  Those that survived had good lives.

She looked at him, and for a moment, she could see the hundreds of years in his eyes, but they quickly lit again in joy.

There is a time for sorrow and a time for joy,
he wrote. 
I have a new family now.

Beatrice raised her eyebrows in question and he continued writing with a smile.

You’ll come to Wales someday and meet them.  I have eleven children.  Most of them have stayed fairly close to home.  We keep the British deer population under control.

She mouthed ‘wow,’ but only wrote,
So none of you bite people?

He grinned. 
Not usually.  Just if they smell really good, like you.  Joking.

She rolled her eyes. 
Never married again?  Do vampires even get married?  That seems kind of normal for the mystical undead creatures of the night.

Some do. 
He smiled.
 
It’s not uncommon.  One of my sons has been married for four hundred years now.  I haven’t ever wanted to again.

Her eyes bugged out
.  How do you stay married to someone for 400 years?

He frowned seriously before he wrote back. 
Separate vacations.

She couldn’t contain the small snort that escaped her.  She glanced up, and Dr. Scalia was still raptly studying the Pico letters, but Giovanni was glaring at her and Carwyn in annoyance.  She rolled her eyes and mouthed, ‘Get back to work.’

Giovanni smiled and shook his head a little.

She caught Carwyn watching them out of the corner of his eye.  He began to scribble on the notebook again.

He’s never married.

She paused for a moment and Carwyn continued writing.  He handed the notebook to her.

Don’t pretend you weren’t curious
.

She glared at him
.  I can’t even imagine Professor Frosty dating,
she wrote quickly and tossed the notebook at him.