The Elemental Mysteries: Complete Series (8 page)

The small room was decorated elaborately, and the walls were lined with pieces of art celebrating the holiday.
 
The flickering lights of saint candles lit the room as they sputtered in their brightly painted votives, and he could smell incense burning.

“The art is a mix of professional and student,” Beatrice murmured, withdrawing two framed photographs from the messenger bag that hung on her arm, along with a small bottle of expensive tequila.
 

Isadora had left them to chat with some women at the end of the altar but soon walked back to Beatrice with a smile.
 

“Las photos, Beatrice?”

“Si, abuelita,”
she said, and handed Isadora the two small frames.
 
They walked to the end of the altar where a few other families were setting up pictures and ofrendas.
 

Isadora placed the two pictures on the altar and touched their frames.
 
Giovanni spied an older man who must have been the grandfather in one picture.
 
The younger man in the other photograph so closely resembled Beatrice, he had little doubt it was her father.
 
Stephen De Novo stared out of the photograph with the same dark eyes that the young woman had.
 

Giovanni wondered whether Stephen’s eyes had changed color when he turned, as sometimes happened.
 
Oddly enough, he found himself hoping they hadn’t.
 

He tried to examine Beatrice’s expression as she unwrapped the tamales and placed them on small plates in front of the two pictures, but her dark hair curtained her face and obscured her features.
 
She placed the bottle of tequila between the two pictures, tilting them as if they could keep each other company on the crowded altar.
 

The women stepped back to examine the effect, whispering to each other in Spanish but smiling and laughing as well.
 
He cocked his head and looked around the room.
 

Though it was filled with symbols and depictions of the dead, there was no fear and very little sorrow.
 
It was unusual to find such celebration in the name of loss, and he found himself touched by the demeanor of the partygoers.
 

Beatrice was smiling when she turned, and he saw Isadora wander toward a group of older women, nodding at him as she walked away.
 

“Do you want to walk outside?
 
There’s some music playing,” she asked.
 
“I imagine she’ll chat with her buddies for a while, then come join us.
 
I have to get out of the incense.”
 
She waved her hand in front of her nose and laughed.
 

He had hardly noticed the heavy smell until she mentioned it.
 
He was so accustomed to filtering out the various and sundry smells of life around him that he did it automatically.
 
He realized he probably hadn’t been breathing at all in the close environment of the crowded room.
 

“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the doors.
 
He placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her through the people streaming into the building.
 
When they exited, he stepped away, suddenly aware of her body from the press of the crowd.
 

“Was that your father and grandfather?”

She nodded.
 
“My grandparents raised me after my father was killed.
 
We all lived together anyway.
 
My mom’s MIA.
 
Dad worked a lot and traveled, so my grandparents took care of me.”
 

“When did your grandfather pass away?” he asked, careful to keep up the ruse of an unknowing companion.
 

“Two years ago.”
 
She smiled wistfully.
 
“He had heart problems.”
 

“What happened to your father?”
 
He paused for effect.
 
“Unless that’s too personal, of course.
 
I don’t mean to intrude.”

They lingered in front of a guitarist who was playing a children’s song for a small group.
 
Beatrice shook her head, frowning a little.
 

“It’s fine,” she said quietly.
 
“Random violence happens everywhere, I guess, even picturesque Italian cities.
 
He was in Florence for a lecture series and was robbed.
 
His car was taken and he was killed.
 
I’m sure they didn’t want him to identify them.
 
And he would have.
 
He had an almost photographic memory.”
 

Yes, I imagine it’s even better now.
 

“I’m sorry for your loss, Beatrice.”
 

She turned to him, amusement evident in her face.
 
“Why do you insist on using my name like that?”

He stepped closer.
 
“Like what?”

She flushed, but didn’t back away from him.
 
He noticed her body was already reacting to his proximity.
 
The hairs on her arms were drawn toward his energy and goose-bumps pricked her skin.
 
He wondered what would happen if he reached out ran a hand along the smooth skin of her forearm.
 
He could almost imagine the soft feel of it under his fingertips.

“You know…with the accent.”
 
Her eyebrows drew together.
 
“And the old-fashioned manners.
 
And what’s with the grandmother-charming?”
 
She glanced at him before looking back toward the guitarist.
 
“Are you trying to charm me, too?”

A slow smile spread across his face.
 
“Are you charmed, Beatrice?” he asked, letting her name roll of his tongue.
 
“I don’t think you are.”
 

Ignoring his own reaction and reminding himself of his objective, he took a deliberate step back and slipped his hands in his pockets, nodding toward another musician at the end of the parking lot.

“Shall we?”

She followed where his eyes led and they stepped back into the flow of people.
 

“Your personality is too large for one letter,
Beatrice.
 
And, for the record, I don’t think anyone charms your grandmother.
 
She does all the charming necessary.”
 

She laughed, her head falling back as her eyes lit in amusement.
 

Giovanni stopped for a second, entranced by the clear, joyful sound.
 
He stared at her, drawn to her dark eyes.
 
He stepped toward her a fraction too quickly, but the girl was lost in her own amusement and didn’t notice.
 

“Yeah, Gio.
 
My grandmother got all the charm in the De Novo family.
 
She’s got it in spades, my grandfather used to say,” she replied, still chuckling.
 

Not all of it.
 

“Gio?” he asked, amused she had chosen the name only his closest friends called him.
 

“Well,” she shrugged, “you don’t look like a ‘Gianni’ to me, so…yeah, ‘Gio.’ If you’re going to call me Beatrice, I’m going to call you Gio.”
 

He stopped in the middle of the crowd, staring at her until she halted and turned back to look at him.

“What?” she asked, and her forehead wrinkled in confusion.
 

The people flowed around her, the seemingly endless, monotonous stream of humanity he had lived among for five hundred years.
 
But she stood, dressed in black, her fair skin flushed with life and her brown eyes lit with a kind of intelligence, curiosity, and humor that set her apart.
 
For a moment, he allowed himself to forget his interest in her father and enjoy the unexpected pleasure of her company.

She was bold and shy, formal and friendly.
 
She was young, he realized, and innocent in a way he could hardly remember, yet her short life seemed to have been shaped by loss and abandonment.
 
She was, surprisingly, rather fascinating.

“Inexplicable,” he muttered under his breath, and walked toward her in the crowd.
 

He hadn’t realized she heard him, but her eyebrows lifted in amusement.
 

“Nothing’s inexplicable.
 
Just not explained
yet.
”
 
She smiled at him in the noisy mass of people, and he let his green eyes linger on her face for a brief moment before they kept walking through the fair.
 

“Perhaps, Beatrice.
 
Perhaps you may be right.”

Chapter Four

Houston, Texas

November 2003

“Why do you dye your hair black?”

Beatrice looked up from the computer screen to see Giovanni staring at her again from his seat in the reading room.
 

“What?”

“It must be dark brown anyway; why do you dye it black?” he asked again, his eyes narrowed intently on her face.
 

She wanted to laugh at his confused expression but kept a straight face as she answered, “Because it’s almost black, but not quite.”
 

“I don’t understand.”
 

She looked at him over the reference desk, a small smile flirting at the corner of her mouth.
 
“I just felt like it hadn’t really committed to a color, Gio.
 
I don’t do things half-assed.
 
I don’t want my hair to, either.”
 

He set his pencil down and leaned back in his chair.
 
“So, you’re saying you dye your hair because you think it’s…lazy?”

He cocked his head in amusement.
 

She shrugged.
 
“Not lazy, more indecisive.”
 

He smiled.
 
“You realize that makes no sense, of course.
 
Your hair color is determined by your genetic make-up and has no reflection on your personality or work ethic.”
 

She glared at Giovanni playfully before sticking her tongue out at him.
 

He looked at her in astonishment for a moment before he burst into laughter.
 
She was startled by the unfamiliar, but not unwelcome, sound and joined him before she looked at the clock on the wall.
 
It was already ten to nine.
 

Still chuckling, she said, “All right, hand over the book.
 
I’ve got to lock up.”
 

He smiled at her and began to pack the manuscript for storage.
 
She walked over, picked it up, and began her nightly closing ritual.
 

In the weeks since he’d joined her and her grandmother at the festival, Giovanni had become surprisingly friendly.
 
She found him lingering around the student union on random nights of the week, holding cups of coffee he never drank and wandering through the student-study area in the library.
 
He made a point of chatting with her, but she found his intentions as puzzling as his profession.
 

She had searched his name online, and though she found a myriad of rare books and antiquities dealers, his name never appeared.
 
She found a copy of his business card with Charlotte Martin’s notes, but the only contact information on it was a phone number she was reluctant to call, though she did program it into her phone.
 

When she asked her grandmother about the intriguing bookseller, she was shrugged off.
 

“It’s like he’s from another planet, Grandma.”
 

“He’s old-fashioned…and European.
 
Maybe he just doesn’t advertise online.
 
There’s nothing wrong with that.”
 

“But not even a public telephone listing for his business?
 
Not a single mention?
 
It just seems odd.”
 
She sat at the breakfast table, drinking coffee and watching her grandmother start the chili verde for dinner that night.
 

“Do you feel unsafe with him?”
 
Isadora turned to her, a look of concern evident on her face.
 
“You’re alone with him in that reading room for hours every week.
 
I won’t have you feeling unsafe.”
 

Beatrice shook her head.
 
“No, it’s not that.
 
There’s just something…”
 

Isadora turned back to the stove.
 
“You’re creating a mystery where there is none, Mariposa.
 
I think he’s a nice man.
 
Just old-fashioned.”
 
Her grandmother fell silent, and from her expression, Beatrice could tell she was reliving some of the dark times that had marked her granddaughter’s teenage years.
 
Not wanting her grandmother to worry about her strange fascination, Beatrice attempted to lighten the mood.