by Nichole Van
“Why would you assume vampires—if they were real—would be more Twilight than Nosferatu?”
“Gotta side with Dante here, sis.” Branwell nodded. “Given your track record with men, any vampire you meet is bound to be a pale-faced, creepy loser.”
“Maybe.” Chiara poked a finger at her brothers. “But dating a hot vampire . . . that’s some bragging rights.”
She did have a point. I held up a hand and we high-fived.
Branwell shook his head, a grin threatening. “Vampires aside, Chucky makes me question everything I’ve ever been told about us and our family curse.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Family lore states that, toward the end of the thirteenth century, Giovanni D’Angelo requested our family gift from gypsies. The gypsies in question were reluctant but took his money and granted the gift anyway.”
“Yeah. That’s old news,” Chiara said.
“We also know from family journals that later gypsies claimed to know nothing about the power used to grant our ‘gift’ in the first place. That the knowledge was lost to history.”
Another beat.
“So . . . ?” Dante trailed off.
Branwell tapped his fingers on the table. Shrugged. “What if everything everyone has always assumed about our GUTs is just plain . . . wrong?”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Shock jolted my spine.
Chiara whistled. Low and impressed.
“Did not see that coming,” she said. “But . . . you’re right. All these years, we’ve run with the assumption that our family gift was a gypsy-born version of Second Sight—”
“But if it’s not . . .” Dante scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Wow. That opens an enormous can of worms, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Branwell agreed. “What we call a gift could actually be a legitimate curse or—”
“Or something else entirely.” Chiara’s eyes had gone wide. “Actual family written records start in the early 1600s. Everything before then is just oral tradition. We can trace back to Giovanni and even earlier through gravestones—the D’Angelos were always wealthy enough to have their own family chapels and crypts—but beyond that, I’m not sure how much hard evidence we have of their actual lives. In all truth, our family predilection could have started earlier or later than Giovanni’s era. Family lore aside, there’s no concrete reason to think gypsies were ever involved.”
“It could be part of our DNA from the beginning, for example,” Branwell said.
“Or somehow related to this demonic-Chucky thing.”
“Maybe an ancestor was into the occult.”
I sank back in my chair, mind reeling. Branwell shot me a concerned look. I sent back a weak I’m good smile.
He needed to stop with this sweet caring routine. It made my heart want things.
“Now do you understand why I was reluctant to mention Chucky. It changes the game and gives us even more stuff to worry about.” Branwell tugged on his shirt sleeves, his right arm bulging from the bandage.
Chiara pursed her lips. “Yes and no. Knowledge and understanding are a huge part of knowing how to react. Forewarned is forearmed and all that. Besides, I’m betting you’ve already researched this, Bran.”
He gave a casual half-nod. “Some. Not that I’ve found any answers. Every culture has different ideas about demonic creatures. Unlike other Western traditions, Italian folklore believes witches have a demon familiar, not the more common black cat or raven.”
“A demon that does the witch’s bidding? So like a pet demon?”
Branwell nodded.
Just like Branwell to have studied it all. He’d always been the smart one.
“That’s certainly . . . intriguing.” Dante folded his arms.
Chiara snorted. “Bran must have insulted a witch at some point.”
“Ha-ha.” Branwell propped his right foot over his left knee. “Theories about demons are plentiful. It’s merely a question of what to trust.”
“I would start with the Catholic church. Find a reliable priest,” Chiara said to no one in particular. “People who are supposedly armed to fight demons and know a thing or two about exorcism.”
“Way ahead of you, Chiara,” Branwell said. “There are a couple of local Catholic groups who specialize in demon exorcisms and other occult practices. They all have euphemistic names like the ‘Society of Seekers for Truth and Harmony’ or the ‘Brotherhood of Man and Progress’.”
Branwell ran a gloved hand over his beard again and met my eyes across the table, giving an apologetic smile.
“I’m sorry, Lucy,” he said to me. “You landed yourself in the middle of our family drama. None of this is helping us find Grace.”
And there went that caring concern again. My heart thumped, a painful rhythm lodged in my throat.
I rested my elbows on the table. “There isn’t much more we can do but wait on Inspector Paola’s investigation and the police forensics.”
“Not true.” Chiara sat up. “Let me work my magic and see if I can get Branwell’s bare fingers on the items the police took from Grace’s room. That could provide some clues.”
Chiara did have the most eclectic group of friends. Investigators and private detectives valued her research skills, so she had the right contacts.
“For our part, I say we visit the Knight-Snow museum first thing tomorrow morning.” Branwell gestured to me and him. “Track down Dr. Roberto Moretti and ask him some hard questions.”
“I like that idea,” I nodded. “I’m also interested to learn more about Gruncle Jack. If Professor Ross is a suspect, maybe there are clues in my family’s history that might shed some light on his obsession with us. And what, if any, involvement he might have had with Grace’s disappearance.”
“Good plan.” Dante rapped the table with his knuckles.
“Yeah, but be careful,” Chiara chimed in. “Just don’t die.”
The brothers laughed at the old joke, but all things considered, I was more than happy to lift a glass to that plan.
Seventeen
Portland, Oregon
Six years earlier
Branwell
Have you always had a pillow fetish?” Lucy slowly spun in a circle, taking in my room. Particularly the row of pillows nestled into brackets along one wall. “Or do you just consider bed pillows to be underutilized in interior decoration?”
I smiled, sitting back in my desk chair. She was in perfect Lucy form today. Forest green form-fitting blazer over a t-shirt showing stick-people running (zombies hate fast food), red hair wild and free tumbling down her back.
She continued to study the pillows lining the wall. Not tidy throw pillows, mind you. But fluffy king-size bed pillows in colorful cases. Bold stripes, solids, even polka dots.
“They’re sound pillows,” I said after a moment.
She turned, fixing me with her vivid blue-green eyes, tilted her head, rolled a hand. Go on.
“I had nightmares as a kid, so my mom made me a special pillowcase. It featured her singing ‘Hush Little Baby’ in a loop. From there, things just sorta . . . expanded.” I waved a hand indicating the entire wall. “I choose a different one for sleeping depending on my mood.”
“So what sounds are they?”
I pointed a finger, indicating the pillows in order. “Waves, white noise, forest sounds, rain, bacon sizzling—”
“Wait—what? Bacon?”
“Yep. Popping on the stove. Best sound ever.”
Lucy laughed. Bright. Heart-stoppingly carefree.
Fortunately, the topic veered off from there before Lucy could ask me about the teacup of broken toothpicks on my dresser.
My noise sticks.
Most of which held the sound of her laughter.
Eighteen
Prato, Italy
2016
Lucy
I’m so sorry, but Dr. Moretti is not in yet,” the young woman behind the reference desk
said in passable English.
We had arrived at the Museo dei Antichi Etruschi right as it opened, hoping to catch Professor Ross. Perched atop a low hill and flanked by cypress trees, the Medici-era-villa-turned-museum made a striking impression with a columned portico and sweeping exterior staircase.
Now if Roberto Moretti would just show up. My heart sank. Could one simple thing go our way? We needed answers about Grace, and Professor Ross might have some. But we had to actually find the man first.
The previous evening had been a blur. After dinner, I had spent hours on the phone with my mom, my sister, another sister, then a third sister ending with two brothers . . . basically my entire family.
On a positive note, the authorities had finally reached Jeff and Jen on their African safari. Jeff called me right before I fell asleep. He and Jen were frantically making their way to Johannesburg and from there back to Italy, thought it would still take them at least a day to get home.
For my part, I awoke with a deeper sense of calm, Coping Mode Lucy more firmly in place. Dante hadn’t seen Grace which meant she was out there, waiting to be found. We would find her. Period.
At breakfast, Chiara caught me up to speed, as Dante had already caught his plane to Boston. She had learned that the police were talking with a moving crew who had been in the area around the time of Grace’s disappearance. Given the tightness of old stairwells, Italians often used a ladder-esque mechanical lift to move bulky furniture out windows. There had been a ladder crew just two palazzos down that morning. Maybe they had something to do with Grace’s disappearance? Or had at least seen something?
After Chiara left for work, I had called Inspector Paola and reported in before leaving the D’Angelo palazzo. Paola was all business. Her parting shot being, “Please remain in the area, do not involve yourself in the investigation and allow the police to do their job.”
Sooooo, about that . . . was it wrong if I simply pretended I hadn’t heard that last part?
Visiting the museum where Roberto Moretti worked was hardly ‘involving’ myself, per my view. And if Roberto and I chatted as acquaintances . . . that was just neighborly friendliness, right?
Granted, the man in question had to actually show up first. Where had he been that night, if he wasn’t with his mother? What did he know about Grace’s disappearance?
“Do you know when Dr. Moretti will be in? We had an appointment with him.” Branwell smiled through the lie. One of those heart-stopping smiles the D’Angelo brothers specialized in. Honey-warm. Oozing charm.
Wow.
Good thing he didn’t do that too often. It was fairly lethal.
The young woman—Francesca, according to her name tag—brightened and returned Branwell’s charm, measure for measure.
Not that I could blame her. He had trimmed up his beard this morning, wearing it tighter to his face—less lumberjack-bushy and more business-suave. Added to that, he had on a sleek designer suit and crisp, white shirt, open at the throat. No tie. He looked a lot like his twin, to be honest.
As I had never really hung out with Business Professional Branwell, this was a first for me. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, Business Professional Branwell was sexy as hell.
A fact that did not escape Francesca’s notice.
“We expect Dr. Moretti to arrive at any time.” Francesca smiled again, leaning toward Branwell. Total invitation.
I wanted to nickname her ‘Desperate Hussy,’ but hitting on Branwell D’Angelo hardly made anyone desperate. Optimistic, perhaps. But not desperate.
Francesca flicked a glance at me and then focused back on Branwell. The dismissive tilt of her head making it clear she didn’t consider me competition.
Sheesh.
I didn’t look that bad this morning. Granted, my hair and the Tuscan humidity had this dysfunctional on-again, off-again relationship. Some days they cordially agreed to disagree and, other days, my hair tried to frizz its way off my head.
Today was an off-again day.
But I had chosen to match Branwell’s more polished attire, so I figured my teal, silk blouse tucked into a retro, high-waisted pencil skirt with kicky heels compensated for my frizzy hair.
Not that I would ever reach the same standard as Francesca. She had that Italian woman thing down—perfectly sculpted dark bob, flawless make-up, petite body wrapped in sleek couture.
I kinda really hated her.
Insecure jealousy wasn’t my go-to MO, but Branwell brought it out.
“My colleague, Alessio, will replace me in a while. If you are still here, I will tell him that you are waiting to see Dr. Moretti,” Francesca was saying, angling even more toward Branwell. “I have to step out for some business before lunch, but I will be back later . . .” Her voice drifted off into hint, hint.
“Thank you”—Branwell finally glanced at her name tag—“Francesca. I appreciate it. We’ll look around the museum and touch bases in a bit.”
Wait? Did Branwell wink at her?
The solitary espresso I had this morning would not be enough to counteract watching Branwell flirt with a gorgeous woman. That would require something much stronger, preferably spiked.
Had I ever seen Branwell flirt, come to think of it? He most certainly had never flirted with me, not that I ever expected him to.
Unbidden, the image of Branwell’s hazel eyes gazing at me in adoration rocketed across my brain, detonating with the accuracy of a precision missile strike.
A thousand other images crowded behind. Branwell smiling while reaching for my hand. Laughing and tucking a stray curl behind my ear. Bending his enormous body closer, closer, eyes fixed on my mouth—
Stop! Just stop!
Longing swamped me. My heart raced.
You’re worth this heartache, Gracie Pie, every last drop, I thought, even though this situation has negated at least three years of therapy.
How could I still be so gone on this man?
Branwell remained blissfully unaware of my stupid running-amok hormones. A small mercy that.
I gave Francesca a weak smile of my own and followed Branwell into the museum proper.
Straight ahead, a large glass plaque gave an overview of the Etruscans—an advanced, Hellenic civilization in central Italy which had flourished alongside ancient Athens and Sparta around 500 B.C. The plaque explained that, though the Etruscans were eventually assimilated by the Romans, their legacy lived on in many Tuscan cities, like Volterra which still had city walls and gates from that era.
Interesting.
Moving past the plaque, I scanned the museum. Glass cases stood against the large pillars supporting the barrel vaulted ceiling, artifacts behind the glass neatly labeled in both Italian and English. Accent lighting flooded up from the floor and down from nooks above, supplementing the natural light from several large windows. Security cameras were mounted in each corner, silently observing the space.
The museum ran the length of the old building, moving through pedimented doorways into four separate rooms. Midway through the first room, a door in the left-hand wall read Soltanto per il Personale which I took to mean ‘Staff Only.’
All in all, the museum was impressive. Jack Knight-Snow had certainly been prolific in his excavations, as most of the items in the museum came from his archaeological digs.
“So now what?” I murmured to Branwell as we stopped in front of a glass case that held a large, rust-colored pot.
“We wait.” His voice a low whisper. “Maybe Roberto will show up.”
Branwell and I inspected the ghirarium, according to the card next to the object—a terracotta pot used to breed table-ready dormice, an Etruscan delicacy.
Sign me up.
“And if Roberto doesn’t show?” I murmured. Just the thought . . . my alarm spiked. We had to talk to Professor Ross. I needed to find my Gracie.
“Then we move on to Plan B.”
“We have a Plan B?”
Branwell angled his head, shooting me a comforting duh look.
Excellent. We had a Plan B.
We wandered among items with Latin names, like fibula (not the bones in the lower leg, turns out, but a golden brooch). There was pottery, gold jewelry, funerary urns, religious sculptures and several bronze mirrors with scenes etched into them.
I paused in front of a small, terracotta pot with a wide rim, reading the English description. Called a sella caccatoia, it was a training potty for Etruscan toddlers. Nice.
Still no Professor Ross.
“Care to share this Plan B?” I finally asked.
Branwell tucked a protective hand under my elbow, warm breath tickling my ear. “I would love to share my Plan B, but as it is slightly . . . irregular, I would prefer to keep your state of plausible deniability for as long as possible.”
I was torn between feeling alarmed at his plan or charmed by his thoughtfulness.
“That’s . . . comforting?” It came out a question.
Branwell just chuckled and tugged me along with him.
Another case held a collection of larger etched bronze boxes labeled Praenestine cistae—the ancient equivalent of a makeup case. One in particular depicted a scene of Narcissus (a mythological figure who was apparently Etruscan in origin) gazing at himself in adoration, with an inscription warning its owner to beware the vanity of being lost in one’s reflection.
The wall to the right of the second room sported large panels of back-lit glass with images and writing in both Italian and English. A sign above it all clarified things.
John Alexander Frederick Knight-Snow, 6th Baron Knight.
1789 - 1818
Wow. He had only been twenty-nine when he died. So young to have accomplished so much.
The left most panel was taken up with an old charcoal drawing of a man in Regency era clothing.
Gruncle Jack, I assumed.
He looked every inch a nobleman with darkish hair swept to one side. Cutaway coat buttoned with tails hanging behind. Tasseled boots. Lighter breeches clinging to his legs. Top hat and gloves held in his right hand. A polished walking stick in his left. Despite the intervening years, he bore a passing resemblance to my own brothers.