“He’s harmless, really. Far more harmless than me.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “Really? Tell that to your vase.”
He chuckled and, reassured of her mood, placed a hand on the small of her back to lead her into the library where Caspar was pouring a drink from a crystal decanter, and Doyle was hissing at the large Welshman who shoved him out of his favorite chair.
“It’s raining out there, Gio. I come to your place to escape the rain, for heaven’s sake. I get enough of this at home.”
Giovanni was curious what Beatrice would make of one of his oldest friends. Though Carwyn was a priest, he rarely wore any kind of uniform, preferring to dress himself more like a surfer than a man of the cloth when he visited the United States.
He removed his soggy coat and hung it on the back of his chair, revealing a garish shirt with scantily clad hula girls dancing across the back. He must have caught Beatrice’s stare, because he only smiled again and sat down, reaching for the drink Caspar held out to him.
“Thanks, Cas. We don’t have to wear black, you know.” He nodded toward Giovanni, who had shown Beatrice to the small couch in front of the fire and sat down next to her. “This one does it because he thinks it makes him look dashing, or he really is that boring. Haven’t figured that one out.”
“I vote boring,” Caspar quipped. “God knows I’ve tried to break him out of his shell.”
“Though,” Carwyn shrugged. “Look at the girl, Cas. Perhaps he’s met his match in the black wardrobe department.”
“Thanks,” Beatrice finally piped in.
He winked at her. “Great boots, my dear. Do you ride motorcycles? And if not, would you like to?”
Giovanni leaned into the back of the couch, stretching his arm casually behind Beatrice, unable to completely turn off his territorial instincts around another vampire, even his old and trusted friend.
“You’re early, Father. Everything all right in Wales?” he asked nonchalantly.
The sharp glint in the Welshman’s eye told him they would be having a more private discussion once the humans left, and tension made the blood begin to move in his veins. He instinctively moved closer to Beatrice, who was listening to a story Carwyn had begun relating about one of their more outrageous exploits in London in the late 1960s when Caspar had been much younger.
The three friends took turns making the girl laugh with their wild tales and quick, needling humor, and Giovanni took a strange kind of delight in the amused expression that lit Beatrice’s face every time Caspar or Carwyn told a story that proved to be embarrassing to him. He simply shrugged and took another sip of his whiskey.
After a couple of hours, he noticed Beatrice’s eyes begin to droop, and she nestled a little more into his side on the small sofa. He pushed aside the urge to reach down and run a hand along her hair. “Caspar,” he asked quietly, “could you drive Beatrice home, please?”
She sat up, as if surprised by Giovanni’s question. She glanced at her watch, not realizing it had been pressed into his leg and was now dead.
She shook it for a second then glared at him in annoyance.
He shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”
“Yes, you will. I’d appreciate a ride home, Cas, it must be late.”
“I’d be happy to drive you. Let these two old men catch up on their secret vampire business without us.”
She chuckled, having no idea how true the statement was. “I’m surprised my grandma hasn’t called already.” She yawned and stretched as she stood, treating Giovanni to a glimpse of the smooth skin at her waist. He shifted slightly, looking away as she stepped over his long legs.
Gathering her bags from the desk she used, she quickly followed Caspar out of the library.
“Good night, everyone. I’ll see you on Wednesday, Gio. Carwyn,” she smiled, “very interesting meeting you.”
“Likewise, B. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.” The Welshman stretched his long legs in front of him and batted away the cat as they listened to Caspar and Beatrice walk down the stairs. Only when they had both heard the kitchen door slam shut did Carwyn turn to Giovanni with a grim look on his face.
“Heard from your son lately?”
Chapter Eight
Houston, Texas
December 2003
Beatrice and Charlotte stared at the letters Dr. Christiansen spread out on the table like a proud father.
“This could be the start of a very exciting new collection, ladies.”
“I have to confess, even though they’re thematic orphans in our collection, they are so damn cool,” Charlotte murmured as she examined the old parchment.
“How old are they?” Beatrice asked.
The grey-haired director set the letters down on the table in the reading room and pulled out a sheaf of notes from his briefcase. “They’ve been dated to 1484. A very important year in the Italian Renaissance—really, what some would consider Florence’s golden age. It was before Savaranola, and there was a blossoming of art, philosophy, classical studies—”
“James, we know what the Italian Renaissance is,” Charlotte remarked.
“Well…” The academic blushed a little. “It’s a very exciting pair of letters. The translation was done at the University of Ferrara, and the letters were authenticated there as well.”