by Nichole Van
My heart nearly stuttered to a stop.
“Gattara,” I said.
It took her a second.
“Cat lady?”
I nodded and turned away, pulling myself together.
I touched the cloth arm of a club chair.
A loud thump. A man cursing in Italian about having to move stupid American furniture.
I moved on to the next chair. “Tell me about Cat Lady and Professor Ross.”
She shrugged and gave up on the panino, reaching for the bag of grapes. Her hair teetered precariously. “There’s not much to tell. They live above us. Cat Lady is obsessed with cats, fancy shoes and going to mass, precisely in that order. Professor Ross is obsessed with this palazzo and Jeff.”
I blinked, sorting through what she had just said.
“Professor Ross is obsessed with—”
“My brother, Jeff, and this palazzo. Yep. It’s a long story.”
She offered no further explanation, merely swirled a couple grapes in her hand. I wasn’t the only one who liked to tease.
I gave a go on hand roll.
“Professor Ross is one of the curators of the Etruscan museum south of town,” she said.
“The one inside the Medici villa?”
“I think so. The museum houses Etruscan artifacts unearthed by an English nobleman, John Knight-Snow—”
“A relation?”
“Uh-huh. John Knight-Snow was my great-great whatever uncle. He died around 1820, I think.” Lucy leaned forward and pinched off a tiny bite of lemon cake. “Ours is the only branch of the family left, descended through his younger brother. John Knight-Snow was the eighth Baron Knight—”
“Baron Knight?” I snorted. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“Isn’t that like naming a pet pig Bacon Pork?” It was a shameless attempt to get her to smile again.
It worked a little too well.
Lucy giggled.
Her laugh was puppies and rainbows—glitter-bomb sunshine all over my day.
I nearly closed my eyes at the pain of the sound.
How I had missed her.
“I know, right?” She continued to laugh. “My ancestors were an imaginative lot. Just think, we were knights before becoming barons.”
I grinned. “Your illustrious ancestors went by the title Sir Knight?”
“Two hundred years of Sir Knights.” She nodded, chortling. And then sobered. As if she could only escape the weight of Grace’s disappearance for moments at a time.
She shook herself, hair wobbling again, two stray curls popping free.
“Your great-whatever uncle was an archaeologist?” I prompted, bringing her back.
She took in a deep breath. “Yes. He excavated several sites here in Tuscany. Apparently, Professor Ross is some sort of expert in all things John Knight-Snow, Baron Knight.”
“Okay.” Still trying to follow her. “But it seems almost impossibly random that Professor Ross—the Baron Knight Obsessed—and Jeff, descendant of Baron Knight, would end up as neighbors. Can I say that?”
“Yes, until I mention that John Knight-Snow lived in this building.”
“Ah.” All the puzzle pieces slid into place. “Professor Ross chose to live here because his favorite research topic did.”
“Exactly. And then Jeff jumps at the chance to work in this part of Italy because he’s heard all the family legends about crazy Gruncle Jack—”
“Gruncle?”
“Great-uncle . . . Gruncle. It’s an easy way of referring to Jack. Anyway, Jeff looked up Gruncle Jack’s lodging, found there was an apartment for rent in the building and snapped it up. Jeff and Jen moved in and became good friends with the upstairs neighbors, Professor Ross and his Cat Lady mom. Which, can I just say, it’s weird for an educated, professional, thirty-something guy to still be living with his mom—”
Lucy broke off. Probably stopped by the droll expression on my face.
“You mean like I do?” I asked.
It was true. I currently lived in an apartment with my nonna, my father’s mother. My mom and Chiara lived in the apartment above us.
Lucy winced. “I had forgotten about that. Though I gotta say, it’s not weird with you guys, for some reason.”
“Because it’s a conscious choice? Not a necessity?”
“Something like that. Or maybe the fact that you obviously love each other and like spending time together.”
That was also true. “So Jeff, being good friends with the upstairs neighbors, left a spare house key with them?”
“Exactly.”
“I’d like to meet Cat Lady and Professor Ross,” I said. “I need to learn their voices.”
“I’ll make sure you get a chance to chat with them. I don’t know how much help they’ll be, to be honest. From what I understand, they were gone for the night. Off on a spiritual retreat of some sort.”
“They have an alibi?”
“Yeah. Cat Lady loves her religion, remember.”
Bing, bing.
“Do you mind?” She lifted up the phone. “My family.”
“No prob. I’ll keep listening to the room.”
Lucy bent over her phone, finally popping grapes into her mouth. After a few minutes, she moved on to a slice of lemon cake, breaking off mouse-size bits as she texted. My chest eased, knowing she had relaxed enough to truly eat.
As she ate, I listened my way through fabrics, curtains and other soft surfaces of the room. Finding nothing helpful out of the textiles, I moved onto the wood surfaces—windows, trim, furniture. I came up empty handed, nothing out of the ordinary.
What next?
I studied the gilt mantelpiece, noting a deep nick out of the finish on the left hand side. It was exactly the kind of damage I instinctively looked for. A clear indication of a moment of change.
Something had struck the mantel there. But when? Had an intruder made the mark? Or was it something much earlier?
The mantel was a genuine antique—as an art appraiser, I could tell the real deal from a later reproduction—and appeared to have been in the room for at least a hundred years, as it leaned with the floor and had slight overpaint at the bottom from the wall behind.
I knew the chances of the change having anything to do with Grace’s disappearance were slim, but the mantel seemed safe enough. The paint was a soft, matte chalk and more worn than glossy. Not shiny. And even the smallest clue could be of help.
Tentatively, I raised my hand and touched the mark.
Sound bombarded me.
The clang of metal hitting wood, bouncing and then striking tile.
Harsh breathing.
The clatter of a door being opened.
“My lord? Is everything all right?”
“Get out!” A man’s voice. British. Deep. Ragged. “Damn her to hell and back. How could she do this?”
“My lord?”
“I said, get out!”
Glass shattering.
The hiss of a fire flaring and popping.
The smell of woodsmoke and brandy.
Instantly, I jerked my hand away.
The smell of woodsmoke and brandy?
What—?!
I sniffed the air.
Nothing. Simply a hint of lavender air freshener.
But I could have sworn I had distinctly smelled woodsmoke and brandy.
That was . . . weird.
Was it just my imagination? Or was my GUT morphing again? Pushing into new territory and bleeding into one more sense?
My heartbeat sped up.
“Branwell? You okay?” Lucy’s voice cut in. “Did you find something?”
I glanced back at her, still tucked on the couch. Phone in hand. Red hair dangerously askew. Her darling freckled face etched with wide-eyed anxiety.
I stared at her for a moment. And then glanced down at my hand. The thin white scars pronounced and strained.
“Nothing related to Grace.” I turned back to the mantel. “I’m good. �
�
I shook my head.
Grace or no, something was up here. And I was no coward.
I touched the mantel again.
The sounds came again, stronger, harder. Almost lunging to get to me.
The clang of metal hitting wood, bouncing and then striking tile.
Harsh breathing.
The clatter of a door being opened.
“My lord? Is everything all right?”
“Get out!” A man’s voice. Definitely British. Upper class. “Damn her to hell and back. How could she do this?”
“My lord?”
Glass shattering.
The hiss of a fire flaring and popping.
The smell of woodsmoke and brandy. A thread of sweat.
Weeping. Guttural. Savage.
“Arrrrrggghh!!”
So much anguish. A heart breaking with grief.
“My lord? Are you hurt?” Concern. Fear.
“I told you to get out.”
“Duly noted, my lord.”
“How could she do this, Tims? She promised!”
“I know, sir. It’s a terrible turn of events. ’Tis the talk of the village.”
The clink of heavy crystal. The slosh of liquid.
In a high falsetto,“‘I’ll be yours,’ she said. ‘You are my future.’ How could she—”
A gasping sob. Cloth moving.
“Get out, Tims. Leave the glass be.”
The thump of boots walking across a wood floor. The scrape of metal across stone.
“This damn thing.” The slap of something solid against the palm of a hand. “I should have listened. I should never—”
Silence.
The room darkened. A shadow of fire licked inside the hearth. The shape of a man appeared. Like smoke. There but not.
Tall. Thin. The suggestion of shirtsleeves, breeches and riding boots.
The scent of night jasmine. The taste of too much brandy.
The man clutched something long and oval with his palm.
“I should have listened,” he muttered, lifting the object, staring at it. A mere breath of . . . something. “Love will draw out the shadow? What idiocy. It is love’s doom. Love’s curse.”
He grabbed the object from the top with his opposite hand.
Blackness swooped in.
The man screamed and screamed and screamed—
The scene abruptly ceased, jarring me back to reality.
I staggered backwards.
One step. Two.
Heart pounding. Hands shaking.
As Dante would say—what the hell?!
I blinked, taking in the bright room. The missing smells of woodsmoke and night jasmine. The taste of brandy gone from my mouth.
That had been . . . surreal.
Had I really seen something too? Not clear images, to be sure, but the definite suggestion of forms. The smells and sense of taste had been strong. As clear as the sounds.
Not to mention the emotional anguish. The sense of loss still pounded. A woman had betrayed the man? Or been lost to him somehow?
But how had I gathered all this through a simple touch? It was so much more than just sound.
Feeling. Smell. Taste. A smidgen of sight. All my senses.
How? And why?
What was up? Why did my GUT decide now to make a huge change—
“Branwell?!” Lucy’s terrified voice. So close. “What happened— ”
I jumped, startled. Staggered back a step.
Everything happened fast.
I stumbled into Lucy, sending her sideways into the end table.
Which, in turn, knocked over the silver metal vase.
I reacted without thought. Pure instinct. I steadied Lucy with one hand and stretched for the vase with my other, reaching before it toppled to the floor.
I caught the silvery metal with my right, bare hand.
Cloth rustling. The clang of tools.
Blackness everywhere. The smell of roses. Musty. Long locked away.
No. No!
Not again.
“No!” I cried out, releasing my hold on the vase. But I was tangled in Lucy, the vase trapped between us, keeping my skin in contact.
Too late.
Always too late.
A thick blackness suddenly shrouded the vase. And out of that darkness, it came at me. Razor sharp. Claw-like.
I twisted, trying to protect myself.
Knife-sharp talons sank into my sleeve, tearing through the cloth. Seeking blood.
Ripping, shredding, pulling me down, down—
I yelled. Sharp.
Something pushed me, batting the vase away. It hit the wall with a metallic thud.
Crap!
Dazed, I stumbled backward, tripping over a chair and tumbling to the floor.
I rolled on to my side, clutching my right hand to my chest. Pain flared up my arm.
The sound of my scream echoed over and over, imprinted into my torn shirt.
Crap, crap, crap!
The burning sensation grew. Stinging. Fiery.
“Branwell!” Lucy’s voice pushed through the din. “No! Branwell! You’re bleeding!”
Eleven
Lucy
Blood.
Branwell was bleeding.
My heart triple-skipped.
Don’t hyperventilate. You’re the calm one, remember?
But, as it turned out, I wasn’t calm when it came to Branwell.
He lay curled on the floor, arms cradled against his chest, hissing in pain. His huge frame rolled into a ball, a horrifyingly-red stain spreading across his shirt.
“Branwell!” I collapsed to my knees, wrapping my arms around his hunched shoulders, forcibly ordering myself not to cry.
What happened? I startled him, true, but the vase . . . it hadn’t appeared normal—
Panic and its close friend, Terror, pounded through my veins.
“Branwell, hon—” I nearly bit off my tongue, stopping the word honey just in time. “Let me see where you’re hurt.” I pulled on his hands.
He uncurled with a grunt and pushed against the flagstone floor with his heels, scooting himself into a sitting position. He raised his left hand to his mouth, tugging at his glove with his teeth. Giving me a clear glimpse of his right arm tucked protectively against his chest.
I gave a choked gasp. Holy crap!
His shirt sleeve was shredded in long strips. Like a lion had swiped him with its claws. Blood seeped through, stark against the white fabric.
Branwell succeeded in pulling off his glove and threw it aside with his teeth. He started unbuttoning his shirt, hand shaking, fumbling . . . nearly frantic. His chest heaved as if he had been running.
“Damn shirt,” he rasped. “Noise. Hearing my scream.”
Oh! Duh!
Whatever had happened had torn the fabric, forcing Branwell to listen to his own cry of pain over and over.
“No, no. Let me,” I said.
I leaned forward and, instead of going for his buttons—’cause, let’s face it, a bare-chested Branwell would annihilate what was left of my romantic self-preservation—I held up a hand, palm out . . . stop.
He froze.
I instantly grabbed the bloody edge of his torn sleeve and ripped it up to the shoulder seam, tearing the shredded lower half entirely away, altering the fabric again and changing its sound. I pealed the bloody fabric of the now detached sleeve off his arm.
Branwell sagged in relief.
“Thanks. I couldn’t manage that one-handed.” He scrubbed his left hand over his face.
His right arm dripped blood onto his jeans, so much blood it was hard to tell how badly he was hurt.
“Your jeans?” I asked, pointing to the blood. It was an alteration, wasn’t it?
Branwell shook his head. “It’s organic and still alive. No sound.”
Ah. Creepy but true.
Noting my concerned face, Branwell pulled his arm closer to his chest.
“It’s just some
scratches. Gimme a sec.” He hissed through clenched teeth.
Yeah. And the day I believed that—
Finally, my panic ebbed, like a switch flipped in my brain. My infamous ability to remain calm took over.
I reverted to clinical work mode, the one I adopted when a client took a tumble down a hill and ended up with a branch poking out of her thigh. (True story.) I had definitely seen some doozies in my time as a wilderness therapist.
I ran across the hall to the kitchen and grabbed a clean blue towel, a bottle of water and a first aid kit from a cupboard. (Certified Red Cross . . . I had given it to Jeff and Jen last Christmas).
As I walked back into the living room, Branwell’s eyes met mine. Haunted. Worried.
I sat down beside him, and holding up a hand for silence again, I ripped the towel in two, altering its noise. I poured water onto one half of the towel and laid the other half across my lap. Prepped, I gently took Branwell’s injured right arm and pulled it onto the dry towel. I dabbed at the blood with the wet half.
He grimaced but let me man-handle him, nodding in appreciation.
“Thank you,” he said again, watching me work.
I blotted at the blood, cleaning one spot. The scratches welled with blood, but pulling on his skin showed that they were superficial. The kind of scrape that bled like crazy but, barring an infection, needed nothing more than some Neosporin and a large band-aid.
No stitches required, thank goodness.
I continued to clean his arm, pouring water onto the rag and blotting away the blood, assessing each wound as I went.
“You’re good at this.” Branwell motioned toward my hands with his chin.
I shrugged. “I do have wilderness first aid training.”
“Really? I didn’t realize Forestry Conservation covered that too.”
Tennyson and I had met in the same major. We both loved the idea of working outdoors in nature. Me because I loved being around growing things. Tennyson because wilderness areas were short on humans and their emotion-laden brains.
“It doesn’t,” I replied, “but being a wilderness therapy guide requires first aid certification and survival skills. I’m no Bear Grylls, but I could probably pull off a tracheotomy.”
“Seriously?” Impressed.
“No. I’m a total liar-liar-pants-on-fire. I can clean scrapes and apply bandages though.”
He gave a rumbly chuckle.
We fell into silence. Me wiping away blood. Him watching. The scrapes started just below his elbow and ended at his wrist.