The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (57 page)

Tenzin walked over and peeked around Carwyn.
 
“I like her.”

Beatrice glanced at Tenzin and smiled, but quickly looked back to Giovanni, who had not taken his eyes off her.
 
His face had shut down, and his expression was impossible for her to read.
 

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Carwyn tug on Tenzin’s arm, and they both left the library.
 
Giovanni walked to the table, leaning against it as he stared into the fire that crackled in the grate.
 

“I have to agree with Carwyn,” he said, “that was very well done.
 
Very smart.
 
You’ll have to talk to Caspar.
 
He can help you clean the money…if you need any help, that is.”
 
The corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful smile.
 

Beatrice walked over to him, standing before him and lifting a hand to stroke his cheek.
 
His smile fell, and he closed his eyes, leaning into her palm.
 
She felt the ever-present crackling heat that ran along his skin as she held her hand to his face.
 
Finally, he looked at her, and the stoic soldier met her gaze.
 

She took a deep breath.
 
“I’m going to L.A.”
 

“Yes,” he murmured, “I know.”
 
He closed his eyes, and rubbed his face into the palm of her hand.
 

“Gio—”

“You have a wonderful life in front of you, Beatrice De Novo.”
 

She felt the tears come to her eyes.
 
Ask me to stay,
she thought.
 
Ask to come with me!
 
Tell me you love me as much as I love you.
 
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
 
“Are you staying in Houston?”

He shrugged and took her hand from his face, threading their fingers together and holding them to his chest.
 
“For now.
 
Caspar seems to be very attached to this house,” he said, “and this city.”
 

“And you?”

He dropped her hand, and pulled her toward him.
 
His fingers traced her cheek, his arms encircled her, and his warm lips met her own.
 
They kissed slowly in the flickering light that filled the room.
 
She could feel his energy hum along her skin, and she pressed closer, drawn to the hidden fire that burned between them.
 

After a few lingering minutes, his lips slowed and he trailed kisses across her cheek.
 
She closed her eyes, and held him close as he whispered in her ear.
 

“Ubi amo, ibi patria.”

Epilogue

Los Angeles, California

February 2005

The man walked under the shadow of the arch and into the flickering lights of the courtyard.
 
He examined the bungalow-style apartments that surrounded him, and smiled at the calico cat perched near a bubbling fountain.
 
It was an old complex, and brilliant red bougainvillea climbed the stucco walls.
 
He could smell the scent of the ocean as the evening fog rolled up the Southern California hills.
 

The cheerful lamps near each door lit up the numbers of the apartments, and he scanned them until he found the one he was looking for.
 
As he approached, he examined the windows, smiling when he noted the heavy bolts which secured her home.
 

“Excuse me?
 
Can I help you?”

He smiled and turned to face the old woman who held the cat in her arms.
 
Listening carefully to the surrounding apartments, he noted the lack of activity, and the faint sounds of sleep that issued from most.
 
He held out his hand with a smile and the woman took it, opening her mind to him.
 

“Where is Beatrice tonight?”

“She went out with some friends from school,” she said with a soft smile.
 
“I heard them leaving earlier.
 
Such a nice group of girls.”
 

He smiled and led the woman over to the bench near the fountain, still holding her hand.
 
“Do you know her well?”

“She comes over for coffee in the morning sometimes; I think she misses her grandmother.
 
And she takes care of Miss Tabby for me when I go see my daughter.
 
I’m glad she moved next door.”
 

He smiled at the old woman.
 
“Does she have many friends?”

“Not many.
 
But the friends that do come by seem very nice.
 
There are two other young ladies, and a young man I see.”
 

He paused.
 
“Are they dating?
 
Beatrice and the young man?”

The woman tugged on her cardigan, but leaned toward him, as if telling a secret.
 
“I asked her if she had a boyfriend, but she just looked sad.
 
I think she left someone behind in Texas.”
 

“I think she did, too,” he murmured, before he cleared his throat.
 
“Do you have a key to her apartment, Mrs. …”
 

“I’m Mrs. Hanson, dear.
 
You seem like a nice young man.
 
Are you a friend of Beatrice’s?”

He smiled softly. “Something like that, yes.”
 

“That’s lovely.
 
You’re very handsome.”
 

He smiled, his green eyes lit in amusement.
 
“Thank you.”
 

“You should take Beatrice on a date.
 
She’s very pretty, you know.”
 

“Yes, she is.”
 
He smiled.
 
“She’s beautiful.”
 

“Are you going to wait for her?
 
Would you like some hot chocolate?”

He reached over to pet the cat the old woman held.
 
It purred under his hands and made Mrs. Hanson smile.
 

“I can’t stay, but I was hoping to leave something for Beatrice.
 
Do you have a key to her apartment?”

She smiled and nodded.
 
“Oh, yes.
 
Do you want to wait here?”

Planting the suggestion for her to bring him the key and then go to bed, forgetting his presence entirely, he let her go.
 
She took the cat inside her small apartment, and returned a few minutes later bearing a small brass key.
 

“I’ll leave this under your door before I go.”
 

“That’s fine.”
 

Standing, he took her hand again.
 
“Thank you, Mrs. Hanson.
 
Time for you to go to sleep.”
 

She waved absently and walked to her door.
 
He watched her walk inside, before he turned to Beatrice’s apartment, noticing the familiar fragrance that lingered near the entrance.
 
He opened the door and slipped inside, making sure to leave the lights off.
 

He almost staggered when he entered the small room.
 
Her scent infused the air, and he took a deep breath as his gaze traveled around the living area.
 
There was a small armchair, a plush sofa, and stack of books piled on the coffee table.
 
Following the honeysuckle trail, he lowered himself onto the opposite the end of the sofa where she must have sat.
 

He sank into the couch, imagining her across from him and lifting her small feet into his lap as she had so many months ago.
 
He lingered only a few minutes before he peeked into the bedroom, smiling when he saw the tall, black boots that stood by the closet doors.
 

There was an old dressing table in the corner, and he walked to it, taking special note of the pictures tucked into the frame of the mirror.
 

A postcard from Dublin.
 

A picture of her grandmother from the previous Christmas.
 

A blurry shot of Beatrice with a group of girls at what looked like a night club.
 

A small picture of her sitting on a horse in a damp meadow, the sun glinting off her dark brown hair as she smiled.
 

In a corner of the mirror, he saw a small phrase written on a worn index card.

Ubi amo, ibi patria—Where I love, there is my homeland.

The man touched the card tucked into the mirror, noting its worn edges and smudged letters. He traced the edges for a moment before he stepped away.

He took the picture of her on the horse and tucked it into his pocket before he walked to her bed and sat on the side where he knew she rested.
 
Hesitating for only a moment, he reached into his coat and withdrew two items.
 
The man looked at the small, leather-bound volume of sonnets in his hand, and gently traced the gold lettering on the front.
 

I sonetti di Giuliana

Tucking the plane ticket to Santiago under the small book, he placed both on her pillow where she would find them.
 
He looked longingly around the room for a moment, before he stood and walked out the front door, carefully locking it behind him.
 

He tucked the brass key under Mrs. Hanson’s doormat and walked over to the fountain.
 
Sitting on the bench, he looked around the old courtyard, trying to imagine her laughter echoing off the walls.
 

The man lingered for a few moments, letting her faint scent swirl around him along with his memories.
 
Then he stood, walked back under the arch, and disappeared into the night.
 

END OF BOOK ONE

THIS SAME EARTH

Book Two

ELIZABETH HUNTER

All men are by nature equal, made of the same earth by one workman;
 

and however we deceive ourselves, as dear unto God is the poor peasant as the mighty prince.

—
Plato

Prologue

Cochamó Valley

Chile

August 3, 2005

I’m here. Where are you?
 

And do you know it takes two days to get here from Los Angeles? I had to wait an extra day in Santiago so I could catch the plane to Puerto Montt. I thought you’d be the one meeting me at the trail, not Gustavo, but it was nice to catch up. Also, ouch. My legs are going to kill me tomorrow from all that riding.

So, where are you?

August 4, 2005

Isabel says you wrote her to say that
I
would be coming but didn’t say when
you
would be coming. Should I be worried?

August 5, 2005

And now everyone is doing the whole vampire clam-up-and-not-tell-me-anything thing. Screw you all. If Isabel and Gustavo aren’t worried, then I’m not going to worry about you, either.

August 17, 2005

I’ve been here for two weeks now. Where the hell are you?
 

Ever since you came to my apartment (Do you know you always smell like smoke to me, by the way? I thought something was burning when I came home that night.) I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.
 

Is this you being pissed at me for leaving Houston?
 

You never once came to visit me in L.A. Not once. Except to break into my apartment and leave me the sonnets (which I brought by the way) and take one of my favorite pictures, of course. Would it have killed you to hang around for a while?

Haha. I just realized that was unintentionally funny.

August 20, 2005

Took a ride today.
 

You still aren’t here.

Think I might go rock-climbing tomorrow—with the Reverte’s oldest son. The really handsome one.

Why aren’t you here?

I’ve been sleeping in your room, and I discovered that without any light to wake me up in the morning, I sleep a
really
long time. I’m very well rested.
 

Is that what this was? Just a getaway for Beatrice so she could relax? Not saying I don’t appreciate it, but…

No, actually, I don’t appreciate it. I love this place, but I came here to see you, not ride horses, and hike, and eat Señora Reverte’s really excellent cooking.

So, where the hell are you?
 

I have a return ticket for the thirty-first. I’m not hanging out until you get here. If you even plan on getting here.

August 25, 2005