The majority were poetry, written in Catalan, Italian, and French. Karina cherished those twenty-four books all her life, particularly the French romances of Chretien de Troyes. She never tired of the Arthurian legends that introduced King Arthur and his heroic Knights of the Round Table. Her favorite was the story of the Grail.
The death of my parents had felt normal. But the death of my younger sister Marguerite had not. She had withered before me. Her death had affected me more than I realized. Watching her go had made me wary of mortal entanglements. My longevity mesmerized me into inaction: after all, I had time and to spare. Somewhere along the line, I would meet the perfect girl, encounter the perfect situation.
For over a century, this idea had lulled me to sleep. I sought nothing beyond companionship from any man or woman. My soldiers served as employees, with wives and children who knew the art of tending my vineyards.
By early August of 1487, Karina’s pregnancy had begun to show. Not in clothing, though—only when she was nude.
When I undressed her at night, the sight of her mildly distended belly stirred a fierce passion in me, startling in its depth. I had not the wit to recognize my symptoms, so didn’t know what had happened to me at first.
For the last two weeks, I had stroked Karina’s taut baby bump to help her fall asleep. I continued long after her breathing became slow and regular. Gazing at her lying there, the same thought hung in my mind for hours, the way a favorite melody will play in your head: that this wonderful woman carried our child inside her. In two hundred years, my first.
She seemed to glow with life, even when asleep. During both of her pregnancies, Karina had been overwhelmingly beautiful to me.
The sunset service was held in the Chapel of Santa Tecla, located in the garden of Tarragona Cathedral. My men and their families filled twelve pews.
Standing under the great cross-beamed roof, I gazed at Karina while she sang from the hymnal I held. Her hair curled behind one ear in a way that created a tightness in my chest. She kept her eyes on the book, singing, completely mesmerizing me with the warm strength of her soul, the sweet beauty of her face. At that moment I realized I was very much in love with her, soaring, intoxicated.
Since our wedding day, I had never said, “I love you.” The omission pained her acutely, but I knew she did not want me to lie to her. Telling her I loved her when I did not defeated any chance we had as husband and wife. Besides, Karina would have detected my insincerity. And I would have betrayed her.
Watching her sing, I could not imagine a more perfect setting to tell my first love that she was my beloved. The cathedral baked us, overly warm, with diffuse light sifting through the stained glass, reminding me of every service I’d ever attended. Most of the congregation nodded in a stupor while the monks chanted the Latin hymns.
I leaned close, kissed Karina on the cheek, and whispered in her ear, “I love you, Kari, more than anything in the world.”
Her eyes widened, her gaze searching. When I took her hand and kissed her palm, she saw my sincerity. She had achieved a seraphic glow in her pregnancy, but I caught my breath at her beauty when she smiled at me now.
We continued singing throughout the mass, the words coming automatically, smiling at each other, intertwining our fingers on the hymnal, standing apart yet connected by bonds of terrific strength. Karina admitted later it was the longest mass she had ever attended.
It had not been possible for me to see how lonely my existence was before Karina entered my life. True intimacy had become an emotion I instinctively shunned, and I had never experienced romantic love. Karina taught me my soul craved romance. I had been living a half-life before her arrival. The idea that we might never have met, and that I might have continued my bleak existence for several more centuries, filled me with horror. Thanking God, or fate, or the universe, was a daily habit. I knew how incredibly lucky I was to have her.
Karina had become life to me.
When I thought of the unlikely circumstances leading to our marriage, I often wondered if the universe chose her for me, and me for her. Standing in the chapel of Santa Tecla with Karina at my side filled me with a bubbling happiness that threatened to burst out in a delirious shout of joy.
When the congregation spilled into the chapel courtyard, Karina and I made hasty good-byes and climbed into our carriage as quickly as etiquette allowed. Holding hands during the ten minute journey, only the presence of the coachman kept us from making love on the velvet bench.
Once we were in our great bedchamber, we lit three dozen candles on tables and dressers, each of us using a flaming taper. Then we slowly undressed each other. I held her at arm’s length, my hands on her shoulders, my gaze traveling her supple body. I lowered my hand to the bulging curve of her stomach, smoothed a palm over her bellybutton.
Karina made a soft sound.
I knelt in front of her. A basin of scented water lay on the floor next to us. Soaking a linen cloth, I carefully washed her body in the flickering light. We were sideways to a tall mirror. I had purchased the glass in Barcelona from a craftsman known for the exquisite clarity of his products, mirrors that gave the reflection a stunning magnifying effect.
I stood, cupped her breasts roughly and leaned forward to kiss the skin around each nipple. Dripping more scented water on her shoulders, I massaged her before kneeling again.
“Turn around,” I said.
Karina revolved slowly until her curvy bottom faced me. When I began rubbing her legs, I glanced to the right. She watched me in the glass, her lips parted. I dipped the cloth in the water, pressed it against her lower back, and drew it down, using my other hand to part her cheeks. Another small sound came from her.
Dunking the rag into the lavender water, I dragged it below her shoulders, pressing it against her flesh, watching the liquid beads roll down her back, over her smooth bottom, down her legs.
Karina’s breathing became ragged. In the mirror, her mouth remained open, her eyes lidded.
I dropped the cloth into the water and massaged her back, smoothing the perfumed water into her skin. My hands traveled over her ass, squeezing the firm mounds, before sliding along the backs of her legs.
I stood, clasping her to me, my damp hands on her hips. We both watched our reflection. I slid my arms under hers and glided my hands over her breasts, then over the taut surface of her belly, marveling at the smoothness of her.
Lowering my head, I nibbled on her earlobe. My hands strayed lower and I pressed her thighs apart. Two fingers parted her insistently. Her head fell back onto my shoulder as I skimmed slick fingertips over and around her. My other arm curled beneath her belly, clutching her.
“Sweetheart,” she panted, “my legs…I’m going to fall…”
“No you’re not. I would never allow that.”
“Ah, ma chere, that feels so good…” Her knees sagged. I held her close, supporting her, my length pressed between her cheeks.
“Please,” she said, “I want you inside me, I need you…”
I picked her up, set her on the bed. Pushing her onto all fours and pulling apart her legs, I grabbed a handful of her hair and squeezed inside her, thrusting to my length. We groaned together. I began a slow rhythm until she was shaking.
Rolling her over, I stared into her eyes. Planting my hands on either side of her, we continued. I kept my upper body raised so as not to put pressure on her stomach. Sliding a hand over one breast, I squeezed.
“Harder,” she said.
I pulped her breasts roughly, leaned down and kissed her on the lips. She moaned into my mouth. My free hand traveled her body.
“Please press against me, darling.”
Cupping her bottom, I pulled her up, felt her distended stomach curve along me. We made small sounds while we kissed. We floated on a sea of sensation that seemed endless until our mouths broke apart as we began panting.
“Oh—oh—oh—oh—” Karina responded to each thrust and the rising volume of her cries dissolved me fro
m the inside out. My tempo turned jerky.
“Oh, my sweet Karina.” I pulled her hair. “I love you so much.” A shiver began at my scalp and traveled to my toes as delicious spasms convulsed me. I groaned.
“Sebastian…” Karina’s fingernails dragged down my back as her body began to tremble. “Oh God! Oh!”
Chapter 27
Saturday, February 14, 4:44 p.m.
I rose from my reverie with the reluctance of a soldier releasing his sweetheart to return to the front lines.
My cell buzzed. I pulled the phone out of my jacket, glanced at the caller ID.
“Yes, Mr. Preston?”
“I’ve finished the analysis of Spellman’s hard drive. Not enough time to evaluate every file, but there’s remarkably little here. One item is a system-generated report containing columns of numbers with no headings.”
“How many columns?”
“Five. The first two are clearly the time and date, apparently recording an occurrence of whatever the report tracks. Two are the latitude and longitude for Sherman Oaks. The fifth is a string of 21 numbers. We’re working on what that means. And it looks like there’s only one document.”
“Oh?” Good Lord, had Darius left the information he gave me on his hard drive?
“Yeah, but the damn thing’s in code. A good one, too.”
“Will you be able to break it?”
“Yes, of course.”
I wondered if I should order him to transfer all analysis to me. If Preston found the document that detailed the life and times of an LA vampire, would he accept the account as credible?
Whether he would or not, I decided I must allow him to continue. He might discover valuable information that Spellman hadn’t included in the drive he gave to me.
If Darius mentioned names, I had to hope they would be anonymous, and if he talked about being a vampire, I would have to gamble Preston would assume the man was demented.
Who believed in vampires? No one in their right mind. And Preston constructed theories with the deliberation of a scientist.
Of course, he was also a genius, capable of connecting disparate bits of information and formulating a conclusion that, while unbelievable to most, would be logical to him. A potential problem.
“Eyes Only, Mr. Preston, yours, Hamilton’s, and mine.”
“You got it.”
“Anything else?”
“A few pieces of interest.”
“Have you contacted Hamilton?”
“Yeah. He wants you to pick him up at his place.” Hamilton lived a short distance from the BioLaw building.
“That’s fine,” I said. “You sent an inter-office memo stating we had completed production and performance review on our latest tracking device?”
“Do you read all the inter-office crap I send out, Sebastian?”
“You know I do.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Then you know the device has been field tested and is already in use by certain government agencies.”
“Please have one ready for me when we arrive.”
Navigating the Italia through Sherman Oaks, I scowled at the bright scenery, impatient for the onset of night. Time had slowed, as if I traveled at the speed of light while the rest of the world slowed for a construction zone.
On Murietta, I parallel parked in front of a five-story white building that was jammed between a tiny group of homes and a low, two-story complex with an underground parking structure. I trotted down a half-moon of brick steps and dialed Hamilton’s number on the outdoor keypad. The door buzzed five seconds later. Yanking it open, I stepped into the cool lobby and crossed to the elevator, taking it to the third floor.
The building’s oval shape with central courtyard kept it quiet, and my steps rang along the corridor. The door opened as I arrived.
“Come on in,” Hamilton said, heading back inside. He was wearing blue dress slacks and black leather shoes. Smooth muscles stood out on his shoulders, his waist trim. “I’m almost ready.”
I stepped inside and closed the door. The sounds of a radio playing a popular rap song trickled out of the hallway. Stepping past the small table in his foyer, I stood at the threshold of the living room.
Hamilton’s one-bedroom apartment was neat, clean, and looked as if it was merely on a nodding acquaintance with its occupant. No dirty dishes, no magazines, no clothes lying around. Dining table with three chairs, couch, small entertainment system with an old 27” TV. Two overstuffed chairs on opposite ends of a coffee table. A new picture of a woman’s extremely wide backside hung on one wall. I inspected that more closely. Nice shot. The heart shape reminded me of thirty-two girls I had known. Walking back to the foyer, I glanced in the small trashcan next to the table. A crumpled Remington ammunition box lay at the bottom of the gray plastic.
The radio clicked off.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah.” He emerged from the hall, buttoning a light gray shirt. He had a two-day beard that accentuated the thin scar along his jaw. “If I’m not at work, I’m out somewhere with you.”
“What about women?”
“Yeah, a couple. When I can fit them in. Which is not often enough, according to them.”
“It sounds like being a detective doesn’t give you much of a life.”
“No? I like it okay, and I have to do something, don’t I? I’m not rich like you.”
“Would you still be a detective if you were rich?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Never thought about it,” he said.
The answer to this question had preoccupied my thoughts because I had considered offering him fifty million dollars. Straight and honest, he cared about others, held himself to an honorable code of behavior, and possessed joie de vivre. I felt certain he would use the money purposefully, and that he would continue working as a police detective.
But fortune could change a person. If Hamilton decided to drop his career as a homicide investigator, that would be bad for him and bad for Los Angeles.
“You have given me grief over my wealth since our first case together, yet I choose to do what you’re doing,” I said.
“It’s not the same.”
“I won’t deny that—let’s not get into the details,” I said, as he began to argue. “You know what the fuck I’m asking you, don’t give me this shit.”
He smiled at my profane talk. “You really know how to work it, don’t you? Always the perfect angle, perfect timing.”
“May I have an answer to the question?”
He flipped his collar up and wound a blue silk tie around it. “I don’t know. Would I still do this if I was as rich as you? Yeah, why not? So I commute from Beverly Hills and wear suits that cost ten large. Who cares? I love this job.”
“Now can you see this from my perspective?”
“Okay, sort of,” he conceded with bad grace.
“How much money would make you feel comfortable?” I asked him.
“Comfortable? For how long?”
“For the rest of your life.”
He gave me the wary eye while he knotted his tie. “I don’t like to think about those kinds of things. I have a good imagination.”
“You know it would cost me nothing to make you a wealthy man, Steve.”
“Are you offering me that?” He centered his tie. “Right now?”
“If I knew you’d remain an LAPD detective, I’d set up a fifty-million-dollar account in your name right now.”
“Christ Sebastian! Don’t say things like that!”
“You know I could do it with a single phone call.”
“I know! I know…just…Carajo, this is not the time for this shit, man,” he pleaded in Spanish. “We have a case to solve. Leave it alone, okay?”
Most people would recite a number if I asked them how much they wanted. Then they would hold their breath, knowing I could give it to them instantly. I watched Hamilton as he pocketed keys an
d wallet. If I could give him the money now, I would. I could dump all of it into accounts under his name, then have a trustworthy investment banker contact him and tell him he was a rich man.
I was well aware I had to wait until the detective gave his consent.
Hamilton slipped his holster onto his belt at the hip, donned his coat and buttoned the top button. He pressed the nine millimeter flat under the jacket. When he walked past me, he set his palm lightly on my chest for a moment.
“Come on.” His passage brought the clean scents of soap, mint toothpaste, and a hint of cologne. “Let’s see what the big brain has to tell us.”
Connections between people abound. Despite his comparatively short time on earth, Hamilton had become a special man, with priorities that went beyond his own comfort and happiness. Combine that with his personality and who wouldn’t love the guy?
He wasn’t the only person I knew making a difference in the world. Good men and women outnumbered the bad people. Sometimes that was difficult to see when you worked with homicide detectives, tracked killers, and consorted with vampires.
I’m told working on Wall Street offers a similar experience.
Chapter
“There’s not another man in the world who could have made that night as good for a woman’s first time. I was terrified. And then you made me laugh! I had never thought making love could be so fun. I can’t even describe how I felt after, curled against you for the first time, so sleepy and happy I thought I would burst. And since then, it has been one delight after another.”
She sat in her favorite chair, a book of Spanish poetry in her lap. I stood in front of the fireplace, holding a blazing brand and trying to light the cigar I had rolled. Once I had it going, I sat down at her feet and leaned back. She put her hand in my hair.
The night was cool autumn, and the children were in bed.
Ghosts of Atlantis (Immortal Montero Book 3) Page 16