“Ferrara.” Giovanni held out his hand, startling the man back to awareness. “So good to see you again. What has it been? Seven years or so?”
Zeno frowned. “What are you talking about? I received a letter from you in April.”
“Of course.” He held out a hand for Beatrice’s. “I know you met my lovely wife last year.”
“Zeno,” Beatrice said. “So good to see you again. I cannot thank you enough for your help with this. Between the four of us, I just know we’re going to track down this manuscript.”
“The four of us,” Zeno repeated.
Was Giovanni the only one who noticed the man’s eyes darting to Fina repeatedly? He doubted it as the woman’s face had taken on more than a bit of color.
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “I know you’ve corresponded, but Zeno, let me introduce Fina to you. Serafina Rossi, our librarian in Perugia. Fina, this is Zeno Ferrara, former priest, handwriting expert, and terror of the Vatican.”
“Hello.” Zeno held out his hand and folded both of them around Fina’s palm when they touched. “Ignore her. She married a fire vampire, so she’s clearly not sane. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Signora Rossi.”
“Signorina Rossi,” Fina answered quietly. “Please, call me Fina. And it is a pleasure to meet you as well, Signor Ferrara.” She looked around the room with a slight smile. “The scope of your work… You have understated it in your letters. It is monumental. Detailed handwriting and historical analysis on so many documents. I cannot imagine such a project. Truly a work for the ages.”
“Please, you must call me Zeno.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. “I have been so impressed with the reports I have heard from Perugia. I understand the collection was completely unorganized when you arrived.”
Beatrice couldn’t stop the smile no matter how much she bit her lip.
The two librarians wandered toward the worktable, chattering like old friends, and Giovanni sidled up to his wife.
“Do you see it?” she asked almost silently, well aware of Zeno’s sharp hearing. No matter, the vampire’s gaze was locked on Fina’s, rapt in every word that left her mouth.
“I see it.”
“They’re perfect for each other. I’d forgotten how handsome Zeno is. Nothing like you, but he definitely has the rumpled-professor-sexy going on.”
“Is that supposed to be flattering?” He tried not to laugh at her. “It’s certainly a face that drew much attention before he joined the church.”
She gasped a little. “Zeno’s a reformed scoundrel? Exactly what Fina needs! How did I miss this?”
“Perhaps because it is none of your business.”
“Pfft.” She punched him playfully in the stomach. “Whatever. I’ve got an eternity for whatever business needs doing. This is going to be great.”
He stopped and put a hand on the small of her back. “She’s human, tesoro.”
“So was I.”
Her eyes told him she knew exactly what he was saying.
“There are no guarantees of happily ever after here,” Giovanni said.
She smiled a little ruefully. “That’s life, isn’t it? No guarantees about anything. We make the best of what we have. Every day. And I have a feeling those two have been putting off really living for too long.”
How could he not kiss her?
“Meddler,” he whispered as their lips parted.
“I know.” She swiftly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Since I don’t have any presents—”
“You’re getting presents! You just get them in January.”
“I have to amuse myself somehow.”
“I’m glad you’re amused.”
“Gio, what would you have done if I hadn’t wanted to turn?”
His smile fell. “Come. We should get started. I can hear the priests’ nervous pacing at the thief among their books.”
Two hours later they had found all the letters from the young priest in California that Zeno suspected he had in the collection. There might have been more, but there was no way of knowing. Between him and Beatrice, they’d checked every box of unexamined correspondence from the New World and found three more letters on top of the seven he’d found before. Combined with the letters from the Roman priest, they constituted a total of twenty-five documents.
They began sorting by date, the letters from Brother Rafael in California on one side, the ones from Brother Pietro in Rome on the other.
Zeno tried to focus on the letters and not the distracting Fina Rossi.
When she walked in, he’d known it was her. Zeno didn’t know why or how, he just knew. It wasn’t her thick hair the color of chestnuts or the deep brown eyes, for he hadn’t known she possessed those. Or her set of sensuously full lips. Or her rather stunning figure.
Perhaps it was the look of quiet excitement on her face. Serafina of the intriguing letters would be quietly excited to visit the famed Vatican Library. Perhaps it was the very professional black briefcase she carried with a hint of whimsy in the red-striped lining that peeked from an open pocket.
Perhaps he simply knew. From her blood, the pulse of which heightened the moment their eyes met. From her scent, which was touched with vanilla and almonds as if the scent of crumbling paper perfumed her skin.
Zeno wanted to write his name across that skin. Trail the ink over the soft white of her arm and lose his stained fingers in the fall of her hair.
His reaction knocked him sideways. Zeno had not wanted a woman like that in a long, long time.
“What is this manuscript you mentioned, Beatrice?” He had to stop fantasizing about Fina’s skin. This wasn’t the time.
“Mnrf.” Beatrice took the pencil from her mouth. “I have a client looking for a manuscript detailing wine-cultivation practices in California during the mission period. He’s eccentric. He told me that a priest working at one of the missions had written it, but he had no idea who the priest was or where this manuscript might have gone. I’d put it off for a while until I found a clue in another of the letters in my collection.”
“The ones that Gio sent to Fina?” He raised his head and winked at the woman, only to see she’d put on reading glasses to look closer.
Her lips were pursed, her hair twisted up in a knot secured with a pencil.
Dear God…
She smiled. “I believe this was in another set of letters. Giovanni had already sent me the ones here because they were written by a Roman priest and he thought they belonged with the Vatican correspondence in the Vecchio Library in Perugia.”
“I’ve heard what an impressive collection it is.”
Her eyes lit as she talked about her work. It was… entrancing.
“It is so diverse,” she said. “At first I could make nothing of the theme, but over time I began to see that all the documents—save for a few pieces here and there—related to the virtue and progress of humanity. It is a primer, so to speak, of the ideal classical individual. A map of self-improvement, if you will, gathered through the greatest periods of human achievement.”
He saw Giovanni grimace and suspected some of the rumors he’d heard about the fire vampire’s sire must be correct.
“A fascinating collection then. I hope to see it someday.”
There was the rush of her blood again. He didn’t think she feared him, so it must be pleasure? Excitement to share her work?
“Of course, Signor Ferrara—”
“Zeno.”
“Zeno.” Her pulse didn’t slow. “We often have visiting scholars. You would be most welcome.”
How many of those scholars came to examine the books and how many to see the beautiful, demure director of the Vecchio Library? How many were vampires like himself? He felt his fangs drop on instinct, so he looked back at the table, not wanting her to notice.
She had turned back to her own work by the time he wrestled his instincts under control.
He did not become possessive of humans. It was not his priority, and he had cho
sen not to indulge that aspect of his immortal nature. His assignations with women over the years had been friendly but casual. Respectful, always. For the offer of blood, the giving of it, was as sacred to him now as it had ever been. In war. In the sacrament. Blood was life.
But Zeno would be the worst sort of liar if he didn’t confess that he wanted Fina’s.
Though young vampires such as him could be highly possessive, he’d always fought against it. He had given up all possessions when he joined the church. Given up the wealth gained through lying and manipulation. And though he drew a generous salary for his work at the Vatican, he lived simply.
He had learned as a human: Earthly possessions had a way of owning their master.
And to possess one such as her? Infinitely more dangerous.
“I think I have something,” she said, flipping the paper over. “It is in the postscripts on the back. I had overlooked them because they don’t refer to anything related to wine. But if we’re looking for the identity of the writer, I think they might be compelling. I believe these two priests were quite close, as it appears the Roman priest—”
“Brother Pietro.”
“Yes, Pietro—might have been counseling Rafael in some spiritual matter.”
Zeno said, “I’ve just sorted these and I’m beginning to skim the contents. I believe you’re correct. Look at 1801.”
Zeno and Fina moved down the table, standing across from each other as they looked for the correct letter and its response.
“Here,” she said. “In May. This is what I saw. In the second to last paragraph, it reads: ‘I urge you, brother, to fight against this temptation. For you know there can be no end that will satisfy God or yourself. Pray for guidance and confess to your brothers there. But do not… do not be tempted.’ Please forgive my Spanish; it is not the best.” She stopped and looked at Zeno. “What was in the letter before this one? To what is he referring?”
Zeno found the one dated before the letter Fina had read. He skimmed it, but there was nothing. Nothing but the day-to-day life of the mission. Concern about a sudden disease that had struck the animals. He flipped it over to examine the back of the letter. Eight small words sat lonely on the back of the page.
I cannot stop my thoughts turning to Antonia.
“Antonia,” he said. “He cannot stop thinking of Antonia. Had Father Rafael been in love?”
Beatrice moved next to him, taking the letter from his hands. “Who was she?”
Giovanni asked, “Is there any way of knowing? She could have been anyone.”
Fina said, “She was obviously known to both of them. A relative of Pietro’s perhaps?”
Beatrice asked, “What kind of records does the church keep on eighteenth-century Franciscans? Anything?”
“Hmm.” Zeno thought he might know of someone who would know, but the human would be sleeping at two in the morning. “Let me work on that tomorrow. For now, let’s see what else we can find.”
Beatrice frowned. “Not that I don’t love a good mystery, but does this have anything to do with a manuscript on early viticulture?”
“You want to know where your book went, no?” Zeno growled. “It seems to me that the more we find out about Brother Rafael, the more we might be able to trace his manuscript. Fina, do you have the next?”
“The next after the mention of Antonia is the one I read before,” she said. “It would be Rafael’s turn to respond.”
He looked up; her heart was racing again.
“Are you all right, cara?”
“Fine.” She flushed. “Thank you.”
“Are you tired? I forget that you are not a monster of the night like me.”
That got a smile out of her. “I’d hardly call you monstrous.”
“Wait till you see me in a temper.”
A crooked smile curved her lips. “I cannot imagine.”
Giovanni burst into laughter, and Zeno threw a sharpened pencil at his face, which he caught easily.
“The next letter, Zeno. Before I tell her all your secrets.”
“Very well.” He walked down the line. “Ah, here. ‘My dear brother, only you know how much I honor her. Only you know how pure our love. How can such be called a sin? For I carry her in my heart in this foreign place. She is light.’” He glanced up, feeling Fina’s eyes on him. “‘Though I know she cannot be mine, still I long for her happiness.’”
Wordlessly, Fina picked up the next letter and scanned it.
“Here, just at the bottom: ‘Though your sincerity is honorable, yet our faith must bid you to abandon this, brother. For other purposes mark your steps. Purposes far greater than earthly temptations.’”
Zeno found the next letter.
“‘Do the scriptures not write that God himself is love? Brother, I cannot abandon hope when I have no word that hope is lost. For the lady’s devotion remains true, though I am oceans away from her. I go to Santa Maria tomorrow. I must pray.’”
Fina read again, already finding the next letter Father Pietro had written.
“‘My dear brother, surely you must see that there is no hope. For our vows are eternal—’”
Zeno broke in. “Obviously that’s not true.”
Fina smiled and continued, “‘—and our work is God’s own. What comparison is there between… fleshly gratification and heavenly delight?’”
Zeno cocked his head. “I’m rather sure there can be both. Very well, here’s the next from our boy, Rafael. Don’t buy it, brother,” he muttered to the page. “‘He writes, ‘And yet, my dear Pietro, my devotion is steadfast. Had all hope been lost for me, I know you would have written of it. Therefore, I shall hope. And though an ocean separate us, and the world condemn us, I believe heaven does not.’”
Beatrice crossed to read over Zeno’s shoulder. “That’s beautiful.”
Fina read, “‘I cannot deceive you that the lady remains unattached, though faithful to her family and to God. Her position in society is uncertain should she remain unwed. And what have you, a poor Franciscan, to offer her, even were you to abandon your vows? I plead with you to flee from this strange attachment.’”
“A harsh fate,” Giovanni said. “Even if Rafael had abandoned his vows, he stood to return to his lady with nothing. Would he even be able to return to Spain? Was Antonia Spanish or Italian? It seems clear that though Rafael was of the Spanish church, Pietro was a Roman.”
Beatrice picked up the next letter and handed it to Zeno.
“Only one line at the bottom of the page: ‘My soul is in agony. Surely God must save me from this.’”
“‘Pray, my brother,’” Fina read back to him, her voice aching. “‘For God does not desire his children to suffer pain such as this. Pray and devote yourself to your work.’”
“‘I cannot pray,’” Zeno read from the next, his own heart beating once as he listened to her. “‘For what are empty words against this despair? Without her, the light is gone. My work brings me no joy without the contemplation of her countenance. I see her smile within the sun. Her hair in the trailing vines I tend. I can only touch them since I cannot reach her.’”
“‘I beg of you, brother’”—there were tears at the corners of Fina’s eyes—“‘to tend your vines as you would tend the one you love. What purpose is there in this world without the Lord’s mission? I mourn for your pain. Devote yourself to God’s work as you would devote yourself to her. For in this you must find the satisfaction lost to you in this life. And know that this world is only a prelude to the next. There is still hope.’”
Was there still hope?
Zeno skimmed through the last letter. He read it. Read it again, the words locked in his mind. Then he let his eyes meet Fina’s as he recited Rafael’s last missive. “‘I will come for her. I have no choice. She is all that is light and beauty in my life. My soul is but a mirror of her own. My heart, her twin in devotion. Surely God cannot condemn us. Surely the world must be kind. I will come for her, though oceans separate us. I
have a plan. Tell my love to wait for me. I beg you, my brother, tell her I shall come. For what is an ocean against eternity?’”
Zeno let his eyes fall back to the page. “Presidio de Monterey, 1803.”
Chapter 3
Rome, Italy
For what is an ocean against eternity?
He was so much more than she had imagined. Fina lay in her bed, breathless at the memory of Zeno’s voice, reading the letters as if the two of them had been the lovers, parted by fate.
The dark tangle of his hair, touched with silver at the temples. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. He must have been in his forties when he’d been turned. Unusual, from what she had learned. But then what did she know? She was a child in his world, stumbling through life with her organizer and briefcase, assisting those far wiser than herself.
He seemed so very human… until he did not. She could see the flashes of predatory awareness in him when his temper slipped. The body that moved just a little too fast. She did suspect that he could be the “terror of the Vatican” as Beatrice had called him. For surely a man—a vampire—like Zeno was no tame thing.
How did he feel so familiar? Was it his letters, which had so perfectly captured his mercurial personality and gruff humor? It had to be. Fina had felt immediately comfortable despite having never met him before. This stranger. This vampire! It was as if their minds were already familiar even if their bodies were not.
The way he’d watched her… Even miles away from Vatican City, in the luxurious Vecchio home, she could still feel his eyes.
“Mama?”
She heard Enzo’s sleepy voice from the hall. They’d only returned an hour before dawn. Fina was both exhausted and wired by the night. She lay in her bed, dressed for sleep, but sleep did not find her.
“Come in, Enzo.”
Her boy pushed open the door. Twelve years old. Where had the years gone? Soon he would be a man. Her heart ached a little at the knowledge even as she felt a surge of pride. She had done this. No one had helped her, save for Giovanni’s son. She had raised Enzo. Loved him. Taught him. And she had done well.
The Stars Afire Page 5