The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (31 page)

“Carwyn?” she called across the lawn.
 
The vampire turned to her with a guilty expression, and she watched in fascination as the numerous piles of dirt in Caspar’s prized rose garden started crawling across the lawn and back toward the holes the dog had dug them from.
 
The dark earth didn’t float, exactly, but appeared to simply move by its own volition when Carwyn flicked his fingers at it.
 
It was almost as if the dirt had become a living thing, and small piles chased each other across the dark grass.
 

“B!
 
No need to tell the professor about Bran’s indiscretion now, is there?”

She just stared at the self-moving dirt.
 

“That is so freaking cool.
 
How do you—I mean, I know you—that is just so…cool.”
 

“Thanks.
 
This?
 
This is no big deal.
 
Try fixing the mess that six or seven of these monsters make in a vegetable garden before a scary nun finds them.
 
Now that’s a challenge.”
 

“Really?”
 
She frowned as she continued to watch the small piles of dirt gradually disappear into the earth.
 
Even the grass seemed to knit itself together where the dog had dug it up.
 

“No, not really.
 
I’m joking.
 
Moving boulders is a slight workout.
 
Or causing an earthquake, manipulating faults, things like that.
 
Gardening isn’t really much of a challenge anymore.”
 

“You can cause earthquakes?”

He sighed, a playful look in his eyes.
 
“There’s such a delicious joke there, but I’m going to be good and hold back.
 
With the amount of sexual tension permeating these grounds, even a bad ‘rock your world’ line is liable to ignite something.”
 

“Very funny.”
 
She rolled her eyes and tried to remember why she came to find him.
 
“Gio’s got a question for you, I think.
 
Something about a private collection in Central Italy?
 
Or maybe it’s the auction he’s curious about, I’m not sure.”
 

Carwyn immediately ran to the house at vampire speed, leaving Beatrice and Bran in the garden.
 
She looked at the dog, who seemed to smile playfully before he loped off in the direction of the hydrangeas.
 

“Slowest thing here,” she muttered.
 
“Why do I always have to be the slowest thing here?”

When she reached the French doors, she heard Carwyn speaking in quick Italian into the rotary phone by the small desk in the living room.
 

Italian and Spanish had enough similarity that she could understand snatches of what she heard.
 
She knew he mentioned books, and she heard the Italian words for “Vatican” and “library” pop up more than once.
 

He finally put down the phone and Giovanni started in with the questions, this time, at least, they were in English.
 
He kept his voice low, mindful of Caspar and Isadora in the kitchen.
 

“So?
 
What did the he say?”

Carwyn shook his head and spoke quietly.
 
“Not one of theirs.
 
He says that sounds close to one of the fronts they’ll use in private auctions sometimes—enough that someone who was bidding more casually wouldn’t suspect—but it’s definitely not them.
 
And he doesn’t know about any new Savonarola correspondence, though he sounded like he was practically drooling at the thought.”
 

Giovanni frowned.
 
“So if it
is
Lorenzo, and he’s not using these to draw De Novo out—because these would hold no interest for a Dante scholar—why was he selling correspondence books from the fifteenth century, and buying them from himself?”

Carwyn had been leaning against the wall, looking out the dark windows with a finger tapping his chin.
 
Suddenly, he smiled wickedly.
 
“Oh, Giovanni.
 
Virgil himself would be impressed with your virtue.
 
He’s doing it because he’s a clever, clever boy.
 
And clever boys who want to clean money might just use a private auction to do it.”
 

Giovanni let loose a string of Italian curses and slapped a hand on the table, scaring the cat, who jumped off his lap and ran upstairs.
 

“What does he do?” Beatrice asked.
 

They both looked at her as if they’d forgotten she was there.
 

“I mean…that’s laundering money, right?
 
That’s what you’re talking about?
 
Don’t drug dealers do that kind of thing?
 
Is he a drug dealer?”

Carwyn shrugged.
 
“He’s got his hands in any number of fairly dirty pots.
 
Smuggling mostly, and other types of clandestine shipping.
 
Not all of it necessarily illegal, but most of it…questionable.
 
I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his fingers in drugs or anything else.
 
The question is – why does he need some of his funds clean at this point?”

“He won’t need it to find her father.
 
He has other channels for that.
 
He’s planning something,” Giovanni muttered, frowning again and biting a lip in concentration as he studied the printouts in front of him.
 
“In the human world?
 
Something legitimate?”

Carwyn was still tapping his chin.
 
“Whatever it is, it has something to do with the books.”

“Why?” she asked.

Giovanni was sitting silently at the table, shaking his head. “Too much coincidence.
 
To many pieces moving at once,” he muttered.
 
“Her father.
 
My books.
 
The letters.
 
Now the money…” He kept muttering to himself as suspicion grew in her mind.

Her father.
 
Giovanni’s books.
 
Lorenzo stole the books and wanted her father.
 
A connection started to tickle the back of her brain, but she shoved it to the side for the moment and turned to Carwyn.

“Isn’t it easier to do that stuff electronically?
 
Laundering money?
 
Why is he doing it through auctions?”

Carwyn chuckled.
 
“I’m sure it is, and someone with half a fool’s worth of knowledge in electronic markets could do it better than he could.
 
But he’s not all that up on digital technology, I’m betting.”
 

“He’s not, though I’m sure he thinks he is.
 
Lorenzo was always overconfident.
 
He was never very good at adaptation.
 
Many immortals aren’t,” Giovanni said.
 
“I know some vampires who took fifty years or so to even start driving a car.”
 

Beatrice rolled her eyes.
 
“You crazy international men of mystery, you.”
 

Giovanni looked at her.
 
“You think
we’re
backward, you should meet—”

“Tenzin!” the priest yelled then lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder at the kitchen door, as if suddenly remembering the humans in the house.
 
“Oh, she’s the worst, isn’t she?
 
Has she ever been in a car?
 
I’ve never seen it.
 
And I can’t even imagine her getting in a plane.”
 

Giovanni snorted.
 
“I got her in a carriage once in India, and she nearly kicked the door down getting out so fast.”
 

Beatrice just listened to them talk about their friend, intensely curious about the woman who seemed to inspire such simultaneous awe and affection.
 

“How does she get around if she doesn’t drive or fly?
 
Does she walk everywhere?” she asked.
 

They both stopped chuckling and looked at her.
 
Carwyn winked.
 
“Who says she doesn’t fly?”

Her jaw dropped.
 
“No freaking way!”

“‘Like a bird,’” the priest sung under his breath.
 
“So bloody convenient controlling air, isn’t it?”

“Carwyn,” Giovanni muttered in warning.
 
“Not your place.”
 

“Oh, B won’t say anything when she meets her, will you?
 
Besides, I imagine Tenzin’s already seen her in a dream or two anyway.
 
She probably knows Beatrice better than she knows herself.”
 

Giovanni huffed and began putting his documents away.
 
“Ignore him.
 
It’s getting late.
 
You should probably get your grandmother home.”
 

She rolled her eyes.
 
“That’s right.
 
Don’t want to get the kids in bed too late, do we?
 
Besides, if we get in too late, our friendly neighborhood surveillance guys might start sweating in their minivan.”
 
She had begun teasing Giovanni about their guards after her initial discomfort about them wore off.
 
Now, she liked knowing they were there.
 

“Well, B.
 
This is goodbye for now,” Carwyn walked over to embrace her.
 
“But not goodbye forever, you must promise.”
 

She let herself be enveloped by the mountain of a man who had become a trusted friend and confidante over the last four months.
 
She had known he was leaving the next night—though she had no idea how any of them traveled—and Beatrice struggled to hold in the tears that wanted to escape as she hugged him.
 

“Now, now, darling girl.
 
Just let me know when I need to come and rescue you from boredom, all right?”
 
She laughed against his chest and felt him squeeze her just a little tighter.
 
“I’m only a phone call away.”
 

“I’m going to miss you so much,” she whispered.
 
“You’ll be back?”

“Of course!”
 
He stepped back and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of his flowered shirt.
 
“There now.
 
And you’ll be back to Houston for Christmas, will you not?”

She nodded and sniffed.
 
“Yep, and let’s face it, the weather in L.A.’s got to be better than this, right?
 
And your shirts will totally fit in.
 
You have to come visit me.”
 

He winked and chucked Beatrice under her chin as she composed herself.
 
“And see all the California girls?
 
Count on it.”
 

Gathering her things, she gave one last look to the smiling man in front of her then glanced toward Giovanni.
 
“I’ll see you on Wednesday?”

He nodded and winked.
 
“Count on it.”
 

The next Wednesday, Giovanni and Beatrice chatted quietly about her end-of-term projects and finals, taking advantage of the empty reading room before Dr. Scalia arrived for his seven-thirty appointment.
 
There was also a new professor coming at eight o’clock to see the Pico letters.
 

“When do you think you’ll move?”

“I want to be there by the middle of August.
 
That should give me enough time to find my way around before classes start.”
 

She knew they weren’t mentioning it, but the prospect of the Lorenzo problem continuing unresolved into the fall was something that hung heavy over her plans for the future.
 

“That’s a good idea.
 
I want you to know,” he paused and looked around the empty room.
 
“I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry about your grandmother.
 
Whatever happens.
 
Please don’t let that trouble you.
 
I will make sure…nothing will happen to her.”
 

She nodded, touched by his concern for her grandmother, which was no doubt partly the result of Caspar’s growing affection, but also—she hoped—at least partially out of concern for her, as well.
 

“Thanks.
 
That does—” She broke off when the small Italian professor stepped through the door of the reading room.
 

“Ah!” he said.
 
“How are you young people today?
 
Dr. Vecchio, a pleasure as always.
 
How goes your transcription?”

Giovanni glanced at the open scroll which sat lonely on his table near the desk and smirked at the twinkling eyes of the cheerful academic.