The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (29 page)

“Gio—”

“Where is she now?
 
Where is beautiful Claire?
 
When did you stop loving her?
 
When was the last time you even thought of her?”

Caspar paused, finally nodding in understanding before he went to pour himself a drink; then he sat down on the sofa and stared into the cold fireplace.
 
Giovanni picked up his scotch and settled into his chair.
 
He noticed that Beatrice’s scent lingered in it, and he wondered whether she had sat there that evening.
 

His eyes softened as he looked at the man he had watched grow up, mature, and eventually grow old.
 
He knew he would someday face Caspar’s death, and that day grew closer with every sunset.
 

“Caspar,” he said.
 
“Beloved son of my friend, David.
 
You have been my child, my friend, my confidante, my ally in this world.
 
And I will be here long after you have left me.
 
What are you asking of me?
 
Do you even realize?”

Caspar glared at him.
 
“Do you think I want you to be alone when I’m gone?
 
Do you think I don’t know?
 
Don’t pretend she is only part of your search.
 
I can tell you have feelings for her.
 
I know you want her.”
 

Giovanni set down his drink, gripping the arms of the chair as he followed Caspar’s eyes to the cold grate.
 

“If I had feelings for her…they are inappropriate.
 
I need her—”

“You need—”

“
I need her,
” he glared at Caspar, “to trust me.
 
I need to keep her safe from my own mistake, and I need her to find her father.”
 

“To find out what he knows.”
 

“Yes, and to find out why Lorenzo wants him so badly.”
 

“So you’ll keep her safe so you can use her to find her father.”
 

“Yes,” he said, his face carefully blank.
 

“And that’s the only reason you’re keeping her around?”

Giovanni sat stiffly in his chair.
 
“That’s the main reason, yes.”
 

Caspar’s eyes narrowed.
 
“You’re such a liar sometimes.”
 

“And you’re melodramatic.”
 

He stood and walked to the fireplace to light it.
 
The nights were starting to carry the soft warmth of springtime, but they were still cool enough that he knew a fire wouldn’t be unwelcome to the old man on the sofa.
 
He snapped his fingers to ignite the kindling in the grate and carefully added a few pieces of wood.
 

“You act like you’re so cold,” Caspar said.
 
“But you’re not, and don’t pretend that her father is the only reason you’re interested in her.”
 

He crouched down at the grate and willed the small fire to grow.
 
“I will find her father.
 
I will find my collection.
 
I will take care of Lorenzo, and then Beatrice De Novo can go on to live a relatively normal life.”
 

“Oh?
 
Is that so?
 
Do you plan to wipe her memory, too?”

He paused, the thought of wiping himself from the girl’s memory more painful than he wanted to admit.
 
But, he rationalized, there was no need for it.

“Of course not.
 
She’s obviously trustworthy, and after the Lorenzo problem is gone, there is no reason she couldn’t have a relationship with her father.
 
She deserves that.”
 

“She deserves a relationship with her father?”

Giovanni stared into the growing flames.
 
“Of course.
 
I wouldn’t deny her that.
 
Not if I could help it.”
 

“But you’d deny her yourself.”
 

He felt a flare of anger, but he tamped it down and stood up to turn back to Caspar, his posture deliberately casual.
 
“I’m not going to discuss this.”
 

“Why not?” Caspar asked.
 
“Don’t you think she has feelings for you?
 
Do you see the way she looks at you?
 
Carwyn and I both see it.
 
As surprising as it might be to you, the two of you fit together like—”

“Do you think I haven’t thought of it, Caspar?”
 
His temper snapped and he could feel the flames jump in the grate behind him.
 
“Do you think I haven’t thought about keeping her?”

“Then why don’t you—”

“The nights we’ve spent poring over this book or that map?
 
The way she makes everything lighter?
 
The way I find myself having to hold back from telling her everything—everything?
 
Like she would even want to know?”
 

“How do you know she doesn’t want to know, you stubborn old fool?”

“You think I haven’t fantasized about taking her?” he bit out.
 
“About having her in my life?
 
Do you think I haven’t thought about it?”

Caspar stood stiffly to walk closer to the fire.
 
“So what’s stopping you?
 
She’ll still help you find her father.
 
She wants it as much as you do.
 
Do you think she’s not smart enough to understand the consequences?
 
You won’t even give her a chance, you idiot!
 
Or are you just afraid that she’ll say no?”

A sharp longing rose in his chest, but it was smothered by bitterness.
 
“She’s a child.
 
She doesn’t know what she wants at this age.
 
At twenty-two you wanted to marry Claire Lipton and run away together to join the theater.
 
Three years after that, you wanted to become an airline pilot.
 
And after that—”

“You know, I already know I have a short attention span, you obnoxious git.
 
You don’t have to rub it in.”
 

Giovanni took a deep breath, and laid a hand on Caspar’s shoulder.
 
“The point is, she’s at an impulsive age, and if she has feelings for me, they are…infatuation.
 
It wouldn’t be fair to take advantage of that.”

“But you’ll use her to find her father, won’t you?
 
No problem taking advantage of that.”

He stiffened and pulled away.
 
“You said yourself, she wants to find him, too.”
 

Tears pricked Caspar’s eyes when he looked at him.

“You’re a good man, Giovanni Vecchio.
 
Don’t forget that in this mad search.”

Caspar turned and walked back to the sofa, sitting and picking up his drink.
 
He stared into the fire and Giovanni watched the calm settle over him.
 

“You know, I don’t remember much from my life before you.
 
I was so young when you took me in.
 
I remember hiding in that attic in Rotterdam with my father.
 
I remember how hot it was, how stifling.
 
I remember the smell of dust and old paper from the books my father saved.”

“You were such a quiet child.”

“I remember seeing you for the first time,” he continued, “and my father holding me and telling me I could trust you because you were an old friend.
 
That you weren’t one of the bad men, even though you were a stranger.
 
That you would take care of me.”
 

Giovanni sat down in his chair and took a sip of scotch.
 

“Were you scared?
 
When I took you to England?
 
When you had to be locked up during the day in the house when you were little?
 
I tried to explain it the best way I could, but you were only four or five, you must have been confused.”
 

Caspar shrugged.
 
“Children are so adaptable.
 
I don’t remember being afraid.
 
I remember being a little older and realizing that most children didn’t sleep during the day and that most went to school, but by then I understood what you were.
 
And then, there were all our adventures.”
 

Giovanni had taken Caspar on many trips as the boy had grown older and more useful.
 
He had always been a wonderful companion.
 
At first, he had called him his son, then his nephew, then eventually his brother as their appearances became more similar and Caspar aged.
 

In his long life, the boy he had rescued remained the human Giovanni had loved the most, and it had broken his heart when Caspar told him in his forties he had decided he didn’t want to be turned.
 
He was the first human the vampire had truly wanted to sire.
 

He looked at the old man.
 
“Has it been a good life with me, Caspar?
 
Do you regret never marrying or having children?
 
Did I keep you from that?”

Caspar shook his head.
 
“I never felt like, had I wanted a family, they would have been unwelcome to you.
 
And I know how fond you are of children.
 
No, I just never found the right woman, I suppose.”
 

“Isadora?” Giovanni asked with a smile.
 

He shook his head, a smile creeping across his face.
 
“She’s one of a kind, Gio.
 
My lord, she’s so bloody adorable.
 
I want to steal her away and monopolize her every moment.”
 

“You are smitten, old friend.”
 

“Completely.
 
You’ve met her, can you blame me?”

Giovanni smiled thinking of Isadora and Beatrice.
 
He thought about the two women, grey hair against black, with their heads together, smiling on Dia de los Muertos.
 
He thought of the way they laughed and teased each other, and the ease and love between them.
 
In his mind, he saw Beatrice as she aged, her dramatic features slowly taking on the handsome dignity of her grandmother and her eyes exhibiting the unique wisdom that was only evident from a life well lived.
 

“No, I certainly can’t blame you, Caspar.
 
They’re stunning.”
 

Caspar gave him a pointed look, but Giovanni continued.
 
“If things get dangerous in the city, take Isadora to the house in Kerrville.
 
You’ll both be out of the way there.
 
I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
 

“What about B?”

“No, she stays here.
 
I’ll need her.”
 

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged.
 
“Don’t worry.
 
Nothing will happen to her.”
 

“Because you need her?”

He glanced at Casper in the flickering light.
 
The fire had started to die down, and he could feel the dawn beginning to tug at him after his long journey.
 

“You need her,” Caspar repeated, “so you’ll keep her safe?”

“Of course.”
 

Caspar nodded and finished his drink, setting it down on the coffee table and standing up from the sofa.
 
“Of course.”
 

The old man walked upstairs, his step slightly slower than the year before as he climbed to the second floor.
 
The next year would be slower still, until it would be necessary to move his old friend to one of the rooms on the ground floor.
 
Though he knew Caspar was in excellent health, he also knew that the passing of time carried inevitability and with that would come loss.
 

He spent another hour staring into the fire before he finally banked it and climbed the stairs.
 
He entered his walk-in closet, took off his old watch and put it on the dresser before he stripped out of his clothes and placed them in the laundry basket for Caspar to tend in the morning.
 
He punched in the code to his sleeping chamber and walked through the reinforced door.
 

As he entered, he looked around at the spartan furniture that decorated the space.
 
There was only a small bed; despite his tall frame, his body would hardly move while in its day rest, a desk where he kept some writing paper, the older fountain pens he still preferred, and a rotary phone.
 
The one piece of decoration was the photograph of the Arno River that flowed through the heart of Florence and the arches of the Ponte Vecchio that spanned it.
 
The picture had been taken in the middle of the day, and the shops along the bridge glowed vividly in the searing Italian sun.