A Hidden Fire
Page 45
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Giovanni halted his perusal to stare at her, and the flicker she saw for a brief moment spurred her on.
“I mean…you’ve been looking for these books. My dad was looking for something in Italy.” Suddenly, all the pieces fell together in her mind. “It was this, wasn’t it? What my dad was looking for? It was your books. Your letters. Or something related to it, right? That’s why you agreed to help me find my father.” She stepped closer to him, challenging the powerful immortal who watched her silently. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
She saw Carwyn and Giovanni exchange loaded looks.
“Told you,” Carwyn muttered.
Giovanni said something to him in Latin that sounded like a curse, but then he turned back to Beatrice. She could see the war in his eyes, but he finally gave a slight nod. “Yes, you’re partially correct.”
She was speechless for a moment, amazed he had actually told her anything. “So…okay, this guy that stole your books or letters or whatever he has—what does he want now?”
She saw Carwyn and Giovanni exchange another glance.
“We think he might be looking for your father,” Carwyn said quietly. “We’re not sure why, but that’s probably why he sent the letters here.”
“Okay, so my dad knows something…all right. And this guy’s dangerous, right? Does he make fire like Gio?”
Carwyn said, “No, he—”
“You don’t need to know—”
She glared at Giovanni. “I want to know who he is!”
“How very unfortunate for you.” He continued to examine the letters, looking over the second one and handling it as if it was made of finely spun glass.
“You arrogant ass—”
“Lorenzo,” he said. “He goes by Lorenzo now.”
Beatrice’s mouth fell open, “He’s not—”
“No,” Carwyn said. “No, not the one you’re thinking of.”
Giovanni brought the letters up to his face to finally examine them more closely. “He likes to give people the impression that he’s one of the Medici’s bastards,” he murmured as he searched the old parchment. “He’s not, but some think he is, and it adds to the mystique, I suppose. He likes notoriety.” He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and Beatrice could see them dart behind his closed lids as if he was searching his memory for some piece that had escaped.
“You see, B,” Carwyn spoke in an even tone, “some in our world choose to seek power. Power over land, humans, riches. And he wants something from Giovanni, otherwise, he wouldn’t be doing this. There is something he thinks he can gain.”
“Or someone,” Giovanni mused quietly, and the already quiet room fell completely silent.
“Someone?” Beatrice finally asked, her eyes nervous and looking toward the door as if a threat could walk through at any time. “Not—not me, right?”
Neither of them spoke, only looked at her with those infuriatingly blank expressions. Even Carwyn was wearing one, and it made her want to scream.
“Not me! I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t know anything about anything if Giovanni hadn’t clued me in. I mean—” she suddenly turned to Giovanni. “Why did you tell me this shit?” she practically yelled, her fear palpable.
“You asked, and you figured most of it out on your own,” Carwyn said softly. “Could we have kept it from you? Even if we tried? Would you rather have us make you forget? It wouldn’t matter now.”
Beatrice watched Giovanni stand and walk toward her; it was almost as if each step in her direction forced her farther and farther away from the safe, unremarkable life she had known. She had the simultaneous urge to run away from the approaching menace and run toward him and hold on for dear life. The problem, she realized, was that she had no idea whether he would catch her either way.
“I don’t know anything,” she said hoarsely, “He can’t want me. I don’t—why does he want me?”
For a fleeting moment, she saw pity touch his eyes. “Because your father does.”
Chapter Eleven
Houston, Texas
January 2003
He looked over the translation of the letter, reading words his eyes hadn’t touched for five hundred years. Even years later, Poliziano’s warm humor shone through the pages. He frowned when he found the paragraph he had been looking for.
These texts you speak of promise much hermetic knowledge, if they are what you believe them to be. In the celebration of our classical fathers, we too often neglect the older ideas of the East. I am glad that such rare treasures have found their way to your discerning hands, and I have no doubt you will find much wisdom from their examination.
“Yes!”
Giovanni’s head shot up when he heard her. Beatrice’s triumphant shout echoed across his home library and he watched as she jumped from her desk and began to do some sort of victory dance across the room.
“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked dryly.
“Only that I am,” she said with a huge smile, “the most awesome and amazing assistant in the entire world.” She continued to dance, wiggling in no particular rhythm toward the center of the room as he looked on in amusement. He tried to keep a straight face but was soon chuckling and shaking his head.
“I mean…you’ve been looking for these books. My dad was looking for something in Italy.” Suddenly, all the pieces fell together in her mind. “It was this, wasn’t it? What my dad was looking for? It was your books. Your letters. Or something related to it, right? That’s why you agreed to help me find my father.” She stepped closer to him, challenging the powerful immortal who watched her silently. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
She saw Carwyn and Giovanni exchange loaded looks.
“Told you,” Carwyn muttered.
Giovanni said something to him in Latin that sounded like a curse, but then he turned back to Beatrice. She could see the war in his eyes, but he finally gave a slight nod. “Yes, you’re partially correct.”
She was speechless for a moment, amazed he had actually told her anything. “So…okay, this guy that stole your books or letters or whatever he has—what does he want now?”
She saw Carwyn and Giovanni exchange another glance.
“We think he might be looking for your father,” Carwyn said quietly. “We’re not sure why, but that’s probably why he sent the letters here.”
“Okay, so my dad knows something…all right. And this guy’s dangerous, right? Does he make fire like Gio?”
Carwyn said, “No, he—”
“You don’t need to know—”
She glared at Giovanni. “I want to know who he is!”
“How very unfortunate for you.” He continued to examine the letters, looking over the second one and handling it as if it was made of finely spun glass.
“You arrogant ass—”
“Lorenzo,” he said. “He goes by Lorenzo now.”
Beatrice’s mouth fell open, “He’s not—”
“No,” Carwyn said. “No, not the one you’re thinking of.”
Giovanni brought the letters up to his face to finally examine them more closely. “He likes to give people the impression that he’s one of the Medici’s bastards,” he murmured as he searched the old parchment. “He’s not, but some think he is, and it adds to the mystique, I suppose. He likes notoriety.” He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes, and Beatrice could see them dart behind his closed lids as if he was searching his memory for some piece that had escaped.
“You see, B,” Carwyn spoke in an even tone, “some in our world choose to seek power. Power over land, humans, riches. And he wants something from Giovanni, otherwise, he wouldn’t be doing this. There is something he thinks he can gain.”
“Or someone,” Giovanni mused quietly, and the already quiet room fell completely silent.
“Someone?” Beatrice finally asked, her eyes nervous and looking toward the door as if a threat could walk through at any time. “Not—not me, right?”
Neither of them spoke, only looked at her with those infuriatingly blank expressions. Even Carwyn was wearing one, and it made her want to scream.
“Not me! I don’t know anything. I wouldn’t know anything about anything if Giovanni hadn’t clued me in. I mean—” she suddenly turned to Giovanni. “Why did you tell me this shit?” she practically yelled, her fear palpable.
“You asked, and you figured most of it out on your own,” Carwyn said softly. “Could we have kept it from you? Even if we tried? Would you rather have us make you forget? It wouldn’t matter now.”
Beatrice watched Giovanni stand and walk toward her; it was almost as if each step in her direction forced her farther and farther away from the safe, unremarkable life she had known. She had the simultaneous urge to run away from the approaching menace and run toward him and hold on for dear life. The problem, she realized, was that she had no idea whether he would catch her either way.
“I don’t know anything,” she said hoarsely, “He can’t want me. I don’t—why does he want me?”
For a fleeting moment, she saw pity touch his eyes. “Because your father does.”
Chapter Eleven
Houston, Texas
January 2003
He looked over the translation of the letter, reading words his eyes hadn’t touched for five hundred years. Even years later, Poliziano’s warm humor shone through the pages. He frowned when he found the paragraph he had been looking for.
These texts you speak of promise much hermetic knowledge, if they are what you believe them to be. In the celebration of our classical fathers, we too often neglect the older ideas of the East. I am glad that such rare treasures have found their way to your discerning hands, and I have no doubt you will find much wisdom from their examination.
“Yes!”
Giovanni’s head shot up when he heard her. Beatrice’s triumphant shout echoed across his home library and he watched as she jumped from her desk and began to do some sort of victory dance across the room.
“Anything you want to tell me?” he asked dryly.
“Only that I am,” she said with a huge smile, “the most awesome and amazing assistant in the entire world.” She continued to dance, wiggling in no particular rhythm toward the center of the room as he looked on in amusement. He tried to keep a straight face but was soon chuckling and shaking his head.
