Venom (23 page)

Falco slid the glass from her fingertips. “I’ll refill this, and then we’ll get you positioned.”

“Positioned?” Cass fumbled over the word.

Falco pulled her over to the divan, then left her standing beside it as he strode across the room to a tall armoire hidden in a shadowy corner. “I’m going to paint you, of course.”

“Paint me?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” He returned to her and placed a full glass of cloudy brown liquid in her hand. “Sorry. That was the last of the wine. All I’ve got left is Tommaso’s special brew.”

Cass made a face, but accepted the glass. “I’d like to see some of your paintings,” she said, in an attempt to stall. Part of her had been hoping that Falco would want her to sit for him ever since she met him, but now that it was happening, she felt horribly self-conscious.

Falco smiled. “You want to see if I’m any good before you become my latest victim?”

“No, I just—”

“I’m joking.” Falco removed a stack of canvases from underneath the long table. He held them up one at a time. The first one was easily recognizable—Andriana, in an outfit very much like the one Cass was wearing.

Falco hadn’t painted her exactly as Cass remembered her, though. She looked older, more worn. Her lips were full of fine lines, making her smile seem forced.

“She looks broken,” Cass said.

He ran a hand through his floppy brown hair. “Yes. That’s exactly the feeling I got when I first met her. A broken doll masquerading as a favorite toy. It would be easy to paint her as beautiful, what people see from a distance, but I’m trying to capture the most accurate image possible.”

Cass nodded, avoiding the intensity of Falco’s eyes. She struggled with the same thing in her writing, the idea of describing the world as it truly was. Falco held up a second canvas, an older woman, Agnese’s age. But whereas Andriana was hollow, this woman seemed buoyant, joyous. Falco hadn’t misportrayed her age; her face and arms ran deep with wrinkles. Her eyelids sagged, and the skin on her neck hung in thin translucent folds. But there was something about the light in her eyes, her posture, that made this woman more beautiful than the blonde prostitute.

“Who is she?” Cass marveled at the contours of the old woman’s body, the outline of blood vessels lingering beneath the skin. She thought again of her aunt and felt a pang of loneliness. She hoped Agnese would return from Abano in high spirits as usual. Despite the fact that Cass often wished she was free of Aunt Agnese’s influence over her, the villa was starting to feel empty without her.

“I don’t know. A Gypsy. She used to sell rugs at the Sunday market.”
Falco traced one finger along Cass’s exposed collarbone. “Amazing, isn’t it? The human body, so frail—yet so efficiently put together. A study in contradictions.”

“Yes—amazing,” Cass said. She was a little afraid to admit to Falco she’d been trying to express the very same thing in her journal. She didn’t want him to tease her about her writing, as Luca had when they were little. “I feel the same way about the whole world sometimes. People seem simultaneously weak and resilient. Life can be cruel—and yet it is full of hope too.”

Falco avoided her eyes as he stacked the canvases. “I’ve seen my share of cruelty,” he said. “Much of it at the hands of the so-called righteous. What is it about religion that leads people to unspeakable violence? Wars, executions…” His voice trailed off, and Cass felt certain he was somewhere far away in that moment. But like a curtain lowering and lifting, the darkness in him vanished as quickly as it came.

“Now then,” Falco started as he tucked the canvases back beneath the long table. “Have I proven myself, Signorina Cassandra? May I paint you?”

Cass looked down at her long legs protruding from the ruffled skirt. She willed back the images of Aunt Agnese and Luca that threatened to overwhelm her. “You’re not going to display it, are you?” she asked.

“I thought I’d hang it by the entrance to the Grand Canal. Call it
Signorina Cassandra Caravello in Her Undergarments.
What do you think?”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.” Falco dragged the wooden stool and easel to the center of the room. He gestured for Cass to take her place on the
divan. “Please.” He pulled a pair of lamps close, murmuring something about the insufficient lighting.

“Under normal circumstances,” Falco said, “I would ask you to sit during the daytime. It’s the only way to get a clear picture. But it isn’t often I have the place to myself.” He grinned. “And you are certainly not a normal circumstance.”

Cass felt herself blushing; she was sure he would have to paint her complexion a mottled red.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Right now it looks as though you’re sitting on a pincushion.”

Cass tried a new pose and Falco laughed. “Let me,” he said, and, reaching out, set about readjusting her. He gently eased her onto her left hip, letting the right leg fall forward in front of her. He pulled part of her hair over her shoulder so it twisted and curled around her neck. Cass sipped her drink nervously, hoping the alcohol might relax her. Each of Falco’s touches generated a tiny bolt of lightning inside her. The charge was starting to build up to dangerous levels.

“Are your legs cold?” Falco asked.

Cass managed to choke out a no. Her whole body was racing with heat, and she felt about two touches away from spontaneous combustion. She was seized by a fleeting impulse to run away; at the same time, she wished he would touch her forever. The costume, the posing, the mysterious alcohol that was dissolving her inhibitions. Cass felt wild and alive, even more so than she had the night they went to the brothels. That night she had been someone else, but tonight she was posing as herself, and she loved it.

Falco stepped back to consider his work. “Almost perfect.”

“Almost?” Cass pretended to pout.

“I know.” Falco rooted around in the armoire and returned with
something folded inside his hand. He held it up for Cass to see—a necklace made of shining amethyst. It reminded her of something, but she wasn’t sure what. Probably one of Mada’s thousand necklaces. That girl had more jewelry than the Doge’s entire family.

Cass shivered as Falco clasped the necklace around her throat. The stones felt like ice against her neck.

“All right. How about a demure look? A stretch for you, I know.”

Cass widened her eyes and pursed her lips, just slightly. She tilted her head to the left.

Falco shook his head. “You look like you’ve swallowed a bee. Forget shy. Let’s try something that comes a little more naturally. How about disdain?”

Her eyebrows instantly went up. “I am not disdainful!”

“Perfect.” He downed the rest of his muddy liquor. His brush began to flow across the canvas.

Cass felt a charge of excitement, but tried her best not to smile. As she held her position, Falco painted in frantic bursts, pausing occasionally to move the lamps or adjust ringlets of her damp hair. Each time he stopped, she would beg to see the progress and he would shake his head and tell her she had to wait.

As time passed, Cass’s muscles started to ache and the liquor began to make her sleepy. She fidgeted on the divan. “What do you think happened to Liviana?” she mused. She shook her head, stifling a yawn. “Where could her body have gone?” A sense of guilt and sadness pulsed through her.

Falco dipped a thin brush into a brilliant red spot on his palette. “You seem to have an unhealthy obsession with that girl’s corpse, Cass. Why is it so important to you?”

She twisted the delicate stem of her empty glass back and forth
in one hand. “She was my friend. Why wouldn’t it be important to me?”

She thought about the other missing bodies in her past—those of her parents. Even in death, she was still somehow robbed of those closest to her. Not knowing what had happened to the bodies—it gave her a sense of unease. Of unfinishedness. How do you move on when you have nowhere to direct your grief?

“Merely an observation.” He held his paintbrush up in mock surrender. “I wish tonight had been more productive.”

“And you didn’t see the man that danced with me? Dressed all in black?” Cass was a little disappointed that Falco had not been paying more attention to her. “There was something about him…” She shivered. “Even his mask was different. Predatory, almost.”

“I didn’t see him, but there are only a few craftsmen in town who produce masks of noble quality. Maybe we could go into town tomorrow and ask some questions.”

Cass remembered the feather floating down from the second floor on Dubois’s palazzo to land on her hand. If only she had kept it instead of flinging it to the ground. “Maybe we can ask some questions about Dottor de Gradi too. Find out what sort of medicine he practices.”

The paintbrush slipped from Falco’s fingers, falling to the floor and leaving a splotch of red on the gray stone. Falco bent down to retrieve it. “Maybe,” he said. “You look tired. Do you need a break?”

“Yes.” Cass sat up on the divan, rolling her head around in a circle. “Can I see?”

Falco refilled her glass and then came to sit beside her. “Not yet,” he said, rubbing her neck gently.

“Why not?” Closing her eyes, she tilted her head down to make
more room for Falco’s hands. Again, something deep inside of her whispered that she should run away while she still could. And again, Cass ignored it.

“Because it’s not perfect yet.” Innocent words, but he said them in a way that was soft and full of longing.

Cass kept her face down, her eyes closed, afraid of what she’d see if she opened them.

Falco brushed her hair back over her shoulders. He traced a finger around the edge of her lips. “But you are,” he breathed, low, right near her ear. And then, slowly, he touched his lips to her cheekbone and left them there.

Cass felt torn in two, like the sky split by lightning. One side guilty. One side wanting. She froze, statue-still, as Falco’s lips brushed against her earlobe and then moved down and across her jawbone. His mouth hovered in the air, a parchment’s width away from hers. Eternities came and went.

Slowly, Cass tilted her lips to meet his.

And then Falco’s mouth was on hers, burning hot, but softer than she had imagined. And Cass felt her whole body tense up and then go weak. Blindly, she reached out for one of his hands, lacing their fingers together. She pressed her lips against him, her soul against him, and she felt truly warm for the first time. Like she’d been living her whole life in a block of ice and had finally escaped into the sun.

Falco’s other hand moved up to cradle her face. Cass felt her heart beating against her rib cage like a bird trying to wing free. Their mouths moved against each other, and she couldn’t believe the heat they were creating. She couldn’t believe it was possible to feel the way she did, so completely intertwined with another human being. It felt
like they were on a boat, the whole world swaying around them like waves.

And then: a heavy rapping from outside. Instantly, Cass pulled back, her head throbbing a little. Falco swore under his breath. Both of them looked toward the door. A chorus of drunken voices broke through the quiet night.

“Don’t move,” Falco said. “I’ll get rid of them.”

Cass flipped her hair in front of her shoulders. She pulled the costume down over her legs, disoriented. “Who is it?”

“Just some of the gang.” Falco brushed his lips across Cass’s forehead. He nodded toward the canvas. “Don’t peek either.”

He slid out of the room, shutting the red door behind him, leaving Cass alone where guilt began tugging at her again.

She was engaged to Luca. She was supposed to be looking for Livi’s body. What was she doing? With a shaking hand, she touched her lips. The pressure of Falco’s mouth on hers came flooding back. Had it really happened?

Her brain felt foggy. Was it the kiss, or the liquor? She tried to push Livi and Luca and the kiss from her mind. She couldn’t think about it, wouldn’t think about it.

A burst of laughter from outside caught her attention. She crept over and pressed her ear to the door, curious. She caught snatches of conversation.

“…another pickup…well compensated for our troubles.”

Pickup of what? Cass squeezed her eyes closed in concentration.

“…plague…perhaps the next couple of nights…San Giuda…”

“I’m sick of the smell of death…”

The smell of death.
That was Falco. She was sure of it. The words swirled in her head, along with the effects of the strange liquor.

The knob rattled and Cass jumped back from the door, but no one came in. She wandered around the room, her heartbeat picking up speed. What did it mean? What secrets was Falco hiding? She nearly tripped when she came upon a full-length mirror leaning next to the armoire. A jagged line bifurcated the surface, slightly offsetting the left side of Cass’s reflection. She swayed from side to side, watching her body distort as it moved along the jagged crack. Whatever he’d given her to drink, it was making her light-headed, confused.

One of the lamps burned out, startling Cass. She grabbed for the wall to steady herself, but the room rotated slightly and her palm landed on the cold surface of the mirror. Her reflection fragmented into pieces and re-formed, but it wasn’t her anymore—it was Livi.

“No,” Cass whispered as the dizziness threatened to engulf her. “You are only a dream,” she slurred, feeling hot and panicked. Without thinking, she lashed out at the image with her hand. She gasped as pain ran through her palm and a series of lines spiderwebbed out from the initial crack in the mirror. Cass could swear the image was morphing now, divided by all the cracks: it was turning into an older version of herself. Her father appeared behind her, broken and misshapen in the glass fragments. The woman in the mirror was her mother. Blood seeped through the front of her gown. Cass felt a thick wave of nausea rise up inside her. Her mother bent forward, and Cass saw she had a ring of bruises around her neck and an X carved into her chest.

“No,” Cass repeated, stumbling backward from the mirror, and her father reached out his arms to catch her. Only now he was Falco.