Chapter 8 #2
Okay so, yeah, unhinged possessiveness was a mutual thing. At least Jesse and I were on the same homicidal page.
“Noted,” I said. “And you should know something, too.”
“What’s that?”
I reached up and traced the curve of his eyebrow with my thumb. “I’m not going to get myself hurt tonight, okay? You don’t have to worry.”
His lips parted. “Okay,” he whispered.
We stayed that way for a long moment, the mate bond a thick current between us. A sharp caw made us both jump. A crow fluttered from a windowsill above us and disappeared, its black wings swallowed by the night.
“Bad omen?” I asked, turning back to Jesse.
He shook his head. “Romans have always had crows. They’re highly intelligent, in addition to being nosy. They remember faces.”
“If you tell me you’re a bird expert, I swear to god…”
Laughing, he tugged me back to the light and noise of the street.
“How did Carlo become a vampire?” I asked.
“He was a remarkable composer,” Jesse said. “He attracted the notice of a master vampire who wanted Carlo to write music for his household, so he turned him. Eventually, Carlo grew stronger than his maker and killed him.”
I startled. “You’re shitting me.”
“No.”
“So much for loyalty. Was his master an asshole or something?”
“That’s a common vampire trait,” Jesse said dryly. “They’re also very territorial. It’s not unheard of for fledglings to challenge their master. About once a century, you hear of one amassing enough power to stage a coup.”
“Doesn’t Carlo worry about the same thing happening to him?”
“Probably.” Jesse glanced toward the street. “But he also doesn’t let his fledglings get old enough or strong enough to challenge him.”
Moments later, Jesse stopped across the street from a building that dominated a whole block.
It rose five stories from the cobblestones, its pale facade carved with pilasters and rows of arched windows framed in stone relief.
Thick cornices separated each floor. Iron torch brackets lined the entrance, the shadows from their flames dancing over the stonework.
A conservatory of glass and iron crowned the roof.
My McMansion-loving parents would have eviscerated their iPhone storage taking photos of it.
“Ready?” Jesse asked.
Not really.
“Yep.”
We crossed the street. Halfway up the steps, a young woman in a black, figure-hugging skirt suit stepped from a side door and nodded to us.
“Gentlemen,” she said with a soft accent. “Signor Tesoro is pleased to meet with you now.”
Her demeanor was polite, but there was no question we weren’t getting inside unless we went with her.
“Grazie,” Jesse said with a quick look at me.
We followed her through the door, which led to a hallway illuminated by sconces on the burgundy walls.
The woman moved silently ahead of us, her black stilettos leaving little stab wounds in the carpet.
Her dark-brown hair was secured in a low ponytail that descended to her lower back.
When she led us around a corner, her collar shifted, exposing twin puncture marks on her neck.
Bruises discolored the skin around the tiny circles.
One of Carlo’s pets. But a favored one, maybe. She didn’t look ready to keel over.
We trailed her through more corridors decorated with gold-framed mirrors and tasteful art. As we made our way deeper into the opera house, a man began to sing.
The hair on my arms lifted. I’d never been to an opera, and my experience with classical music was limited to ninth grade choir performances and a couple of Broadway shows my parents had taken me to before my mom decided too much exposure to musical theater might make me gayer.
This was something way different. The man’s voice rose and fell, each note unfurling like he’d painted it in the air. The sound grew louder.
Louder.
We passed an open doorway, and I slowed, caught in the voice’s tractor beam.
Rows of seating sloped to a stage lit by a single spotlight. Private boxes with red and gold curtains ringed the upper levels. A man stood under the light, one hand lifting as he sang.
Another man sat at a piano to one side of the stage, occasionally striking a single note. A handful of people observed from the front row.
“This way,” the woman said. She’d stopped several steps ahead, an expectant look on her face. Jesse had slowed, too, and he put a hand in the small of my back as we caught up with her.
A few corridors later, we reached a set of glossy black doors. The woman pushed them open and stood aside to let us pass.
Dark wood paneling covered the walls. An enormous candelabra sat at the edge of a desk big enough to have crossed the Atlantic with the Mayflower.
A man sat behind it, his features youthful but unremarkable. His hair was somewhere between brown and blond. His eyes were blue. Nothing about him was unpleasant to look at. He was just the sort of person you saw and immediately forgot.
The woman turned to him and spoke in brisk Italian, but I caught “Van der Meer” and “Lawson.”
The man—who had to be Carlo Gesualdo—gave her a sharp look. “English for our guests, Alessia.”
She slammed her eyes downward. “Of course, signore.”
“Leave.”
She obeyed like he’d yanked on a string, pivoting in place and exiting without so much as a glance in our direction. When the door shut behind her, Carlo motioned to the chairs in front of his desk.
“Please make yourselves comfortable.”
Jesse took the chair on the left. I settled into mine, which was closest to the candelabra. Wax dripped down the candles and onto the desk. My mother would have had a shit fit.
Carlo turned to Jesse with a smile. “Wolfseeker. It’s been a long time since I spoke with one of your kind.”
The hair lifted on my nape—but not the way it had when I’d heard the man sing. This didn’t make me want to walk toward it.
No, everything inside me tightened, my body bracing like it had on the football field when I’d prepared to take a hit.
Jesse inclined his head. “Signor Tesoro. We’re grateful for the audience.”
Carlo folded his hands on top of his desk, and I had to wrench my gaze from his knuckles so I didn’t think about how he’d murdered his wife and her lover.
He turned his smile on me. “I’d heard rumors of a newly sired wolf in the Americas. Tell me, boy. What do you think of immortality so far?”
Fuck. Jesse and I hadn’t rehearsed this. What the hell was I supposed to say? The idea of living forever was weird. On the other hand, Jesse was excellent at rimming my ass.
“So far, so good,” I said.
Carlo stared.
And, abruptly, I realized why he freaked me out so much. He wasn’t moving. Not like a regular person, anyway. His chest didn’t rise and fall. He didn’t blink. His eyes stayed open like a doll’s, the irises round and bright.
“I’m eager to take in a performance,” Jesse said. “I’ve spent a great deal of time in Rome over the years, but I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting the Teatro della Rosa.”
He continued, praising the building’s architecture and trading small talk with Carlo. I busied myself cataloging the office and trying not to be too obvious about it.
The space lacked windows, which made sense given Carlo’s iffy relationship with sunlight.
A closed laptop sat near his elbow, the sleek black case a jarring contrast to the ornate candelabra.
Built-ins behind him held books and a couple of marble busts.
My gaze moved over the shelves and almost kept going.
On the lowest shelf, a wooden holder held small blue vials stoppered with cork. They were pretty things, the glass the only splash of color in the room. Dark liquid inside caught the candlelight.
Blood. Carlo’s maybe. He probably kept it on hand for his “pets.”
“We heard an incredible tenor as we came through,” Jesse said, pulling my attention back to the conversation.
“Francesco,” Carlo said with a slight nod. “His final performance is tomorrow evening. It’s a bittersweet thing.” He turned his round, unblinking eyes on me, and I suddenly felt kinship with the butterflies my sophomore biology teacher had pinned on a mat.
Carlo went on, seemingly unaware he was Uncanny Valleying me into a flop sweat.
“Francesco enjoyed a successful career when he was human. He embraced the dark gift in 1905 and spent decades in silence. A performer who never ages attracts attention. But the silence became its own kind of death for him, so he began to sing again. A few recordings from his human years survive, but the quality is too poor for anyone to match that voice to the man on my stage tonight. That won’t always be the case.
If he continues performing publicly, humans with cell phones will ask questions. ”
He paused like he waited for me to reply. But I had no idea how to respond to someone who ran around saying “dark gift” like a cartoon villain.
And I’d promised Jesse I’d be good. Speaking up would probably earn me another round over his lap, followed by a round or three on his dick.
Which wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to me, but I wasn’t going to slip up and start some kind of supernatural turf war just because I loved getting my cheeks clapped.
Jesse cleared his throat. “Francesco is generous to share his gift with the world one last time.”
Carlo turned to him. “Infatti.”
I had no idea what that meant, but Carlo looked content enough. Slowly, I let myself relax.
“Now,” Jesse said, “I’d like to discuss the purpose of our visit.”
Relaxation flew out Carlo’s non-windows.
Jesse pulled out his phone, swiped a couple times, and placed it on the desk. “Ulfrik Haraldsson is a rogue werewolf. He was recently photographed outside this opera house. He also attended a performance. The problem is, I killed him two months ago.”
Carlo leaned forward, his chair creaking as he studied the screen. After a moment, he sat back. “I’m sorry, but I’ve never seen this Ulfrik Haraldsson.”
“Are you certain?” Jesse asked. “A rogue werewolf attended a performance in your house. I’m surprised he escaped your notice.”