He didn’t turn to acknowledge her. “Funny how this river is named after the one in Hades, huh?”
She didn’t think anything concerning the afterlife could be considered remotely funny, but waited for him to make sense.
“Because people need stability. Paranormals like to keep things familiar. As the world evolves and changes around them, they want an anchor to their pasts, to the good old days when they didn’t have to hide, but could roam free on Earth with the gods.” He picked a small stone that had edged its way between two cobblestones and threw it far away. “I’m like that stone, in between worlds and constantly drowning in sorrow.”
“Peter.” Both she and her wolf were cut deeply by his words.
“I don’t have a past. I only have today, and what I make of it will shape my tomorrow. So, forgive me if I don’t bang you senseless, but I want more from life. Tomorrow, I want to look back at today and be proud of myself. But it’s looking more and more difficult, isn’t it?” He paused, his eyes reflecting the black of the waters. “And also forgive me if I can’t accept the idea of you with another man. I know it’s irrational, but I can’t help it. I thought we could keep seeing each other, but I was wrong. I like everything about you. Your spunk. Your mind. Not just your body. I wish you could feel the same for me.”
Ophelia was about to stop his tirade when he said, “The remains are gone. There’s no need for us to work together anymore. I think it’s best to say our good-byes now before we hurt each other.”
She stood frozen on the spot, speechless. And as it had happened only a moment before, both she and her wolf were in agreement on feeling bereft.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll walk to the nearest hotel after I see Barnes.” He waved one hand in the air. “Bye, Ophelia.”
Still unable to articulate a sentence or to even move, she watched him walk away from her.
****
Peter knew he had been rude, but he had to stop himself before it was too late. He had almost told her he loved her, and that would have been unforgivable. He couldn’t lay on her shoulders a declaration of that magnitude. He didn’t blame her for not feeling the same way. They hadn’t known each other for that long and he barely understood what he felt for her. But he couldn’t change his feelings. Earlier that afternoon, he had convinced himself that if he could have nothing else from her, he would accept whatever she had to offer. But it was a delusion. Their banter, although pleasant, would never be enough. He would always want more. And eventually, he would have said yes to whatever she asked of him, only to regret it the morning after.
He had gotten close to taking her in his arms more times than he could count. In his mind, he had made love to her a million times over. Only a few minutes ago, while he was explaining why it was for the best to never see each other again, he had imagined pinning her to the nearest wall while making her scream his name. He couldn’t take it anymore. Knowing she would be at Club Red later that night, hunting for a playmate, enraged him. That club had been his hunting turf for a while, and he knew its clientele well. The place catered to the ones who sought out extreme thrills. He wasn’t worried about Ophelia getting hurt. He knew she could defend herself, but it ate at him that he couldn’t be the one giving her those thrills.
He walked the whole length of the Promenade, keeping by the riverside. The lazy flow of the Styx had always had a calming effect on his mercurial moods, but now he could only see bottomless darkness and felt he would suffocate if he didn’t get outside. He hadn’t absorbed enough sunrays to break into a sprint, and the bike ride had also taken its toll, so he contented himself to walk although briskly to Castel Sant’ Angelo.
By the time he reached the Immortal Council’s headquarters and climbed the four flights of stairs leading to Barnes’s office, Peter was tired and his heart heavy. When he was admitted to the immortal’s presence, he wondered what he was doing there.
“I was waiting for you to show up.” Barnes barely looked away from his laptop.
Peter walked to one of the two metal and leather chairs placed before the mahogany desk. “Then tell me why Arariel moved the skeletons.”
Barnes looked outside the window before answering. “When the Holy Council tells you to jump—” He waved his hand in the air.
“I know that better than anyone else, but why would they be interested in those remains?” Peter didn’t know how much he could confide in the immortal.
“The proverbial fan has been hit several times in the last two days and the archangel decided we are not competent enough.”
“What happened?” Peter pointed at the espresso machine Barnes had behind his desk.
Barnes nodded for Peter to serve himself. “That journalist from The Roman Chronicles has written an article about the Roman vampire—” He angled his pc toward Peter, who was operating the machine, and showed him the screenshot of the piece with the picture of the fanged skull. “I must say quite the romantic story about a forbidden love à la Romeo and Juliet.”
“We knew that would happen, but from what I know the magazine she works for, it lacks of any professional credibility. I don’t think she can do much damage.” Peter made two cups and gave one to Barnes.
“You’d be surprised how certain stories take a life of their own. Lena Chiosi’s ridiculous article—which ironically does contain several true facts—has gone viral. People demand to know more. Religious groups are in an uproar. Several sects of fang-worshippers have sprung up overnight. In a nutshell, it’s a circus out there.”
“But, it hasn’t been that long since the couple’s remains were discovered. How is it even possible?”
“You were out of commission for the most part, so you couldn’t know, but Chiosi managed to create a movement of sorts, and everyone has something to say about her story. There is no other talk in television and podcasts at the moment. Only yesterday, there were marches in all the big cities in Europe condemning the Italian government for keeping the remains hidden because they are in collusion with the Church.”
Peter didn’t own a television, and he rarely read the news, but he had noticed more cars than usual crowding the streets. “I had thought that the wall-art depicting Ophelia and I was the vampires’ doing, but maybe I was wrong.”
“Who knows? The situation is clearly out of control. So much so that the Italian government, backed by the rest of the European community, has asked for the remains to be released into the hands of third-party specialists. As we speak, a team of Chinese, Indian, and American researchers is assembling. World-renowned archeologists, paleontologists, and anthropologists will be arriving shortly in Rome. Journalists have been trying to locate the remains since the Chiosi’s piece came out.” Barnes sipped his espresso. “The Holy Nation, in its infinite goodness, has decided to step in and give us a much-needed hand.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?” Peter brewed a second cup for himself and tripled the amount of sugar. Caffeinated drinks high in glucose would not affect him, but he found the act of drinking coffee pleasant, and was in need of pleasantness at the moment.
Barnes slumped against his chair. “I tried, but the Elders have decided they don’t care enough about ancient history and are more concerned about keeping the archangel happy since they are closing several deals with the Holy Nation. And, let’s not forget that only the Holy Council has the power to keep both governments and religious fanatics at bay while they conveniently find another set of remains to later release to the public. My educated guess is that the archangel will alter the memories of the guy who took that picture, and his phone will be doctored to look like the image he provided to Lena Chiosi was a fake. The whole debacle will come down to an elaborate prank.” He rested his chin on his bent arm as he slowly swiveled his chair. “May I ask you why you’re so interested in this case? I know that you went back there this morning.” To Peter’s silent question, Barnes smiled. “Guglielmo told me. And, by the way, I have an inkling that he doesn’t inform just me, but anyone wh
o is willing to bribe him with anything from money to coffee.”
For the second time since he had entered Barnes’s office, Peter wondered if he could talk freely with the immortal. “I have a personal interest.”
“How personal?”
“I might have known the victims.”
“Why do you say so?”
Peter’s skin tingled. “Something I saw in my readings.”
Barnes turned his chair all the way toward the window.
Peter threw the plastic cup in the trashcan under the table and walked directly in front of Barnes, forcing the immortal to face him. “Why don’t you look even remotely surprised by what I’ve just said?”
“I figured you had a reason to go back time and again.”
Peter gave the man a good look. His skin kept tingling. “No, it’s not that. What is it?”
“Just a hunch.” Barnes tilted his head first to the left then to the right, then up to the ceiling as if he were stretching his neck.
Peter had only to glance where Barnes had just so subtly pointed out to spot the camera.
“Anyway—” Barnes swiveled back toward his desk, took pen and paper from one of the drawers and started writing while hunched over it. “I’m glad you stopped by because there’s a renegade who might need your help. Here is his number. Give him a call. ” He folded the paper and passed it to Peter.
“Okay.” He stood and left after a few minutes of inconsequential chitchat. Only when safely outside of Castel Sant’ Angelo, he read what Barnes had scribbled. Meet me tomorrow morning at nine o’ clock down at the Promenade by the garage.
He should have gone looking for his night’s sleeping arrangement, but felt restless. The sky had finally cleared, but the sun was just setting and he thought it a better idea to soak up a few rays while the day lasted. He had exited Castel Sant’ Angelo by the human exit and walked to the bridge. Once he reached the parapet, he leaned against one of the marble statues, an angel whose stony wings were stretched out wide.
He closed his eyes and let the sun kiss him. The tepid warmth was enough to make him feel better, but it was soon gone, replaced by chilling breeze ruffling his hair. With nothing else to do until the next morning and nowhere else to be, Peter put one foot in front of the other and walked away with no destination in mind.
Using the Tiber as his compass, he kept by the riverside most of the time. He hadn’t set to stroll by Club Red, but when the night became dark, he found himself before the nightclub’s doors. Knowing it was one of the worst decisions he had made in years, he knocked four times and waited for the burly bouncer to peep from the small window on the right of the door. The guy immediately recognized him and Peter didn’t need to recite a verse from Ovidius’s Ars Amatoria as everyone else had to gain access to the inner club. Looking straight for Ophelia, he went in, running downstairs to the Roman cellars remodeled like an exotic museum, where beautiful women and men posed like naked statues.
Peter had never understood why mortals and paranormals all acted irrationally when love and affections were involved, but when he found her in one of the most secluded corners of the club, the disappointment was too much to bear. Ophelia was with her shifter friend and they weren’t alone. Two men were engaged in a battle of fanning their feathers for them and Ophelia seemed to greatly enjoy the show. She wore a black mini-dress that hugged her lithe figure and accentuated her runner’s legs. One of the men looked down at her décolleté, and Peter was propelled several steps forward by an invisible force.
As if called by the anger burning him from the inside out, Ophelia looked up, and for a moment their eyes locked. He saw the gasp escaping her mouth, immediately replaced by a shallow smile she directed to one of the two peacocks. Had she left everyone behind and ran to him, he would have forgotten all the resolutions he had sworn by only a few hours earlier. But she made it easier for him to stick to his plan. Without sparing him a second glance, Ophelia left with the man to her right. One of the bouncers opened the black-lacquered door for them that led to the inner section of the inner club—the themed, private alcoves.
Knowing nothing would affect him, Peter didn’t bother with the alcohol and the colored pills offered by scantily clad servers, but wished he could use some of the recreational drugs to help dim the ache. Before he could run like a bull through that door, he turned around and headed upstairs, then out into the street again. His energy already depleted by the reading and the lack of proper nutrition throughout the day, he felt lethargic and at the same time hyper-lucid. Light like a feather, he experienced the most bizarre of feelings as if he were floating above the nocturnal traffic. Everything seemed more vivid than usual. The red of the traffic light pulsed bright. The breeze cut his skin. A car turned the corner too fast and the sound of squealing tires echoed inside his ears and reached his stomach. A baby cried. A pigeon flew too close.
Then he looked at the cobblestone pavement between his boots and thought that Ophelia was somewhere down there. Several images flew through his mind and he screamed in pain. He ran back to the club’s door, and a blink of an eye later, he was striding through the private alcoves’ corridor and knocking down doors. Bouncers soon were on his heels. Screaming and yelling followed. Four people tried to stop him, but he barely registered their presence as he went from door to door. A kick. A peek. Not Ophelia. Next alcove. He left a trail of destruction in his wake as he proceeded toward the end of the corridor. The second door to the last opened before he would pulverize it.
Wide-eyed, Ophelia stared at him standing before her, his leg still bent in midair to kick the door down. He lowered his boot to the marble floor, his chest heaving and his fisted hands shaking. The bouncers closed on them and Ophelia made a sign for them to step back.
Her eyes never leaving Peter, she spoke to the bouncers with a calm voice. “Give us a moment,” she finally said when the men didn’t give any sign they would leave.
Peter didn’t care about anything else but her. They would be alone in a moment in any case. It was up to the bouncers if they wanted to be helped outside or not. She was still dressed. In his addled, yet hyper-functional brain, that piece of information mattered.
Peter moved forward, forcing her to move back inside the alcove.
“Don’t—” She soon regained her stance before him.
He tilted his head to the side and looked behind her at the man sitting on the low bed, his eyes betraying his fear. He too was still dressed. That detail saved the man from being beaten to a pulp. “Out.”
Ophelia looked over her shoulder, and said in her unnervingly calm voice, “Stay.” Then she focused back on Peter. “You better leave.”
“No.”
“Peter, don’t make it worse.” She shut her eyes for a moment, then she shook her head, sadness painted all over her face. “Please, leave. You are hurting me.”
In the span of a breath, Peter came down from the high he had been experiencing. He blinked. The weight of an anvil pressed on his chest, and he saw the tears in Ophelia’s eyes and felt his eyes swelling too.
I love you.
He turned on his heels and left.
The rest of the night passed in a blur for Peter. He walked all over Rome. Eventually, in the early hours of the morning, clouds hanging low and menacing heavy rains, he found his way to a home improvement store and waited for the owner to arrive and open its doors. He bought two cans of white paint and a big, flat brush. He then sulked all the way to Testaccio neighborhood where Ophelia lived. He stopped before her apartment and looked up at her windows, not knowing if he would have felt better to see her looking back at him or not. One glance at his cell phone told him he had enough time to do what he had come to do, take his Jeep he had parked the day before in the next alley, and leave to meet Barnes.
Several minutes later, the flash of the cameras startled him and he turned around, brush dipping white paint over his jeans. The usual horde of journalists was assembling before him. He wasn’t surprised. What better p
lace than the forensic anthropologist’s to gather information when none could be had anywhere else?
“So romantic.” Lena Chiosi, always the first in line, smiled at him her fake smile, then raised her microphone toward him as at the same time signaled to her cameraman to start recording. She waited for her cameraman to give her the okay, then in a louder voice she said, “I’m here with the coroner involved in the discovery of the millennium.” Her smile widened. “Can you tell us more about the vampire’s remains? The entire world is looking for them. We have a right to know.”
Peter inwardly groaned. “I don’t know where they are.”
“Some say a powerful entity that wants to remain anonymous took charge of the case. Is that true?”
“I’m afraid you know more than I do.”
Several more voices asked questions all at once and flashes made Peter shield his eyes with his free hand.
“We know the couple—”
“We heard that—”
“But is it true that—?”
“What is your—?”
Peter wasn’t listening anymore. As if a magnet had reoriented his whole being, he shifted toward Ophelia’s building and looked up at her windows. His heart slammed against his chest and he stopped breathing. She was there, keeping the curtain back with one hand, looking down at him. “I’m sorry.” He saw her reacting at the words he had mouthed for her, then her eyes moved beyond him and widened in alarm. “What—?” He followed her gaze and saw the three angels approaching from the other side of the street. Even without their wings visible, their glow was unmistakable to another paranormal. Meanwhile, the journalists were having the time of their lives, taking pictures of him and at Ophelia’s windows, asking question after question about their relationship, but never forgetting about the couple’s skeletons. The angels slowly insinuated themselves among the crowd, their eyes on Peter, smug smiles on their cold faces.
Peter looked up, but Ophelia was gone. “Shit.”
The Hidden Demon Page 15