The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (6 page)

“The cat is yours; and you know it’s far more demonic than we are.
 
I’ll not have it sleeping on my head again.”
 

“It’s not like you can suffocate.”
 

“No, but I can get cat hair up my nose, which is not a pleasant way to wake up.
 
What’s your project?”

“Do you remember the job I did for that London banker about five years ago?” Giovanni lifted his fingers, pinching the air and drawing the candle flame upward.
 

“Not really, you know I find most of that dreadfully boring.”
 

“It was a Dante thing.”
 

“Oh yes, the Dante thing.
 
Not much, I remember you mentioning it, that’s all.”
 

“Mmmhmm.
 
There was an expert I heard rumors about—one of us.
 
He was young but sounded like he was worth tracking down.
 
In the end, I couldn’t find him.
 
Didn’t need him anyway, but a mutual acquaintance mentioned a Boccaccio manuscript he had.”
 
Giovanni let the flame grow to a foot tall before he began manipulating it to curve and twist before his eyes.
 

“How very fascin—”

“It was a rare copy.
 
Florentine.”

“Why is this interesting to me?”

“Because I think it was one of mine.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“From your library?”

“Yes.”

“Who was he?”

“An American, turned in Italy around ten years ago while he was there working.
 
I looked for him, but he vanished quite admirably.”
 

“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 laughed 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 smiled 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 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.