Love's Shadow (Brothers Maledetti Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “Handsome, wasn’t he?” Branwell observed, coming to stand beside me, nearly brushing against my arm.

  Heat radiated from him. Or maybe it was just my still over-excited hormones.

  “Yeah. He was.”

  I had grown up knowing Gruncle Jack had excavated a treasure trove of Etruscan artifacts before dying childless. But that was about it. Gruncle Jack’s museum biography filled in the details.

  John Knight-Snow

  Born into the English aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution, John Knight-Snow, Lord Knight, displayed an early love of antiquities and archeology. His father, Richard Knight-Snow, had conducted some minor excavations in Florence while on his Grand Tour. Unfortunately, Richard Knight-Snow died in 1812 in London, leaving his excavations incomplete.

  His son, John Knight-Snow, was determined to complete his father’s excavations. With the end of the Napoleonic Wars making travel safe again, Lord Knight arrived in Florence in 1816. He rapidly discovered a series of Etruscan tombs complete with funerary objects, inscriptions and jewelry, most of which are displayed in this museum.

  In the process of his excavations, Lord Knight uncovered a partial frieze carved with text invoking Hinthial. Lord Knight obsessed on the inscription. Unfortunately, then as now, the Etruscan language is not well-known. The name hinthial could refer to the departed human soul, literally meaning ‘one who is underneath.’ But in other contexts, Hinthial is a Goddess of Love, more akin to the Roman goddess, Venus.

  Consequently, scholars differ on the exact meaning of the text Lord Knight uncovered. Some translate it to mean ‘Hinthial guard our beloved buried prize,’ yet others insist the translation is more accurately, ‘Hinthial protect our beloved from the buried treasure.’ While some scholars postulate that the treasure Hinthial guarded was more metaphorical than literal, Lord Knight was convinced the treasure actually existed. Between 1816 and 1818, he excavated multiple sites in the Prato region, tirelessly working to find more evidence of Hinthial’s treasure.

  At this point, the story of Lord Knight fades into legend. Sometime in late June, 1818, Lord Knight simply disappeared, never to be seen again.

  Local folklore holds that Lord Knight did find Hinthial’s treasure, but in the process, unleashed an evil, malevolent entity that caused Knight’s demise. Other sources maintain that Lord Knight fell in love with an Italian noblewoman and was spurned, shattering his heart and driving him to suicide.

  Despite these more fantastical theories, Lord Knight most likely died of malaria or cholera, both common illnesses at that time. Unsure how to proceed or how to contact next of kin, his servants likely interred his body in one of the many crypts that riddle Tuscany.

  Despite his mysterious and untimely death, Lord Knight’s legacy lives on in the artifacts he excavated and the ancient way of life he uncovered.

  “Interesting.” Branwell grunted beside me. “Your Gruncle Jack packed a lot of living into a few short years. We’ve already discussed it, but he has to be the guy Dante saw.”

  “The one who was all ghosty and transparent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Agreed. But if Gruncle Jack unleashed something ancient—”

  “Like a demon? One of Chucky’s friends?”

  “Exactly like a demon—who knows what effect that would have?”

  With demon thoughts on my mind, we took in the rest of the museum. Naturally, I was drawn to the glittery jewelry and mirrors—brooches and clasps carved into golden animal shapes, rings with crusty jewels. My mom claimed I was half magpie. Of course, Branwell was less enamored by shiny things, keeping every inch of skin far away.

  The mirrors were particularly interesting, looking like modern handheld mirrors, with a circular bronze head on one end and a thin handle on the other. The bronze was polished on one side with an engraving on the opposite. One mirror depicted two men reclining and talking. Another showed a woman sitting at a dressing table, surrounded by attendants fawning over her.

  Vanity really hadn’t changed much over the millennia.

  We covered the entire museum, but there was still no sign of Professor Ross. Eventually, we circled back to the front desk and Francesca, forcing me to watch her give Branwell bedroom eyes as the two of them flirted it out.

  Sheesh.

  We took another tour of the museum, and I made a wish list from the small gift store.

  Then more flirt, flirt, flirt with Francesca.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  After two hours, I was starting to memorize the little plaques next to each artifact and plotting Francesca’s demise. Did she have to shoot seductive looks at Branwell’s lips, as if imagining kissing him? Granted, that could just be me projecting.

  Still no Professor Ross.

  Between that and the flirting, I fought to contain my rising anxiety. Had Professor Ross run off with my Gracie? Was that why he was a no-show? If I gouged out Francesca’s eyes, would anyone notice?

  Branwell and I paused in front of the case of bronze mirrors again. Dimly, I noted that there was a blank space next to a card—a bronze mirror showing Eros or Tages forming Hinthial out of the earth. The Etruscan version of the birth of Venus, I supposed. But the actual mirror was gone.

  Huh. That was an interesting coincidence.

  Branwell studied the missing space with me and then pointed to a scribbled note in Italian to the side of the case.

  “Out for cleaning,” he whispered.

  Mmmm, so maybe not such a coincidence. I was going stir-crazy, seeing mystery where none existed.

  “So . . . Plan B,” he murmured, talking softly out of the corner of his mouth, his mouth barely moving. It was a cool trick. Could he teach me how to do it? We apparently had a ton of spare time right now. Or maybe I was just too fixated on his lips . . .

  “We need to know what Roberto has been up to. If I could get my bare fingers on stuff of his—”

  “Like in his office?”

  “Precisely. Touching his possessions could possibly tell us more than talking to him.”

  “Ahhh.” Everything clicked into place. “That’s why you’ve been flirting so hardcore with Francesca. Office access. Sneaky, Mr. D’Angelo.”

  Branwell gave me a funny look. And then glanced back toward the reception desk.

  A short, wiry guy in a fitted suit coat and slacks had arrived. He ducked behind the desk with Francesca and stashed a rucksack into a drawer. He then proceeded to pin a name tag onto his jacket, all the while chatting and crowding into Francesca’s space. Francesca was clearly his type of catnip.

  “I don’t think I’m going to be the one doing the flirting.” Branwell gave me a tight grin.

  Francesca extricated herself from the guy—her replacement, Alessio, I presumed—and cast Branwell one last longing look before beating a hasty retreat out the door.

  Branwell grinned wider, shooting a pointed glance between me and Alessio.

  Great.

  “I’m a terrible flirt.” I studied Alessio from the corner of my eye.

  Wait. Was Alessio checking me out?

  I turned my head farther in Alessio’s direction, meeting his gaze, giving him a soft smile.

  He raked me up and down and then returned the smile ten-fold.

  Uhmm . . . okay.

  “Looks like you’re doing a fine job to me.” Branwell grunted, annoyance in his tone.

  Branwell and his mood swings. Honestly.

  “Distract him,” Branwell continued, doing that side-talk thing again. How did he do it? “While you’re talking to him, I’m going to take a fact-finding detour.” He glanced meaningfully at the door marked ‘Staff Only’ in Italian.

  My heart sped up. “You want me to flirt with Alessio so he doesn’t see you disappearing to rifle through Professor Ross’ office? Aren’t there security cameras everywhere here?”

  I could feel the small cameras in the corners lasering in on my shoulder blades.

  “There are but if you look closely,
they’re not wired to anything. Typical to have the cameras visible as a deterrent but not actually functional in any way. Bureaucratic Italian cost-saving measures.”

  I snuck a glance at the nearest one. Yep. No wires.

  Mmmm.

  “I’m pretty sure that breaking and entering is just as illegal in Italy as it is in the States.” I pursed my lips.

  “Plausible deniability. But if it makes you feel better, I won’t be picking any locks—”

  “Wait. You can pick a lock?”

  He shrugged.

  What the—?!

  Branwell leaned toward me, warm breath tickling my ear. My eyes threatened to roll back into my head. Did the man have to smell so good? “If everything is on the up-and-up with Roberto, then he has nothing to fear—”

  “Well, except for the invasion of his privacy.”

  “We need answers, Lucy. Grace is gone and Roberto might be our guy.”

  His words hit me with reverberating force.

  Grace is gone . . .

  I swallowed, telling the lump in my throat to settle down. Grace needed me to do this.

  “I’m a really bad flirt, Branwell. I’m sure to mess this up,” I confessed. “First of all, I’m hardly trophy girlfriend material with all my freckles and crazy hair. Then, I say awkward things and don’t filter and get all flustered. I’ll probably end up tripping and falling into Alessio’s arms and, given how tiny he is, I’ll flatten him to the floor.”

  Branwell chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Lucy, you clearly don’t understand men, particularly guys like Alessio over there. You just defined how best to flirt with him.”

  “Mmmm. Excuse me if I put on my skepticals.” I mimed pushing a pair of glasses up my nose.

  Branwell snorted. “Please. You have this sweet, vulnerable vibe down pat. When you chat with anyone—guy or girl—you make them feel interesting and capable. Alessio would be thrilled to catch you if you fall. Trust me. Just be yourself and you’ll do fine.”

  With that parting shot, Branwell walked off. Leaving me with my heart pounding and fluttery and not simply out of nerves.

  Did he really think that about me? That I was sweet?

  Ugh.

  So pathetic.

  Me. Not Branwell.

  Fine. I could do this. For Grace, if nothing else.

  With a smile, I turned and headed back to the reception desk.

  Alessio perked up at my approach. That was encouraging, at least.

  “Ciao,” he said, “Francesca told me you are waiting to see Dr. Moretti. Is that correct?”

  Deep breath.

  I walked past him and leaned an elbow on top of the counter, angling my body toward his. Forcing Alessio to turn toward me, placing his back to the rest of the museum. He was really skinny up close, his jacket hanging off his shoulders. Dark hair long on top and flopping forward.

  “Yes, I have been waiting.” But I let my eyes say I had been waiting for him.

  At least, I hoped they did.

  I must have done something right, because his grin widened and Alessio stood a little taller. Though the standing taller thing could have simply been an attempt to match my own height. No one would ever accuse Alessio of being a large man.

  Behind Alessio, I noted Branwell walk confidently toward the ‘Staff Only’ door, like he had every right to be there.

  “I am so sorry,” Alessio swept a hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Dr. Moretti called to say that he will not be in today. Something came up at a dig site, and he needs to visit there until tomorrow morning.”

  My head canted to the left, processing what Alessio had just said.

  Normally, that wouldn’t ring any alarm bells, but—

  “He will be at the dig site throughout the night?”

  Alessio shrugged. “That is what he said.”

  Nighttime work at an archaeological site? That seemed eccentric. Eccentric enough to set red flags frantically flapping.

  My pulse crawled into the back of my throat. Did this have to do with my Gracie? Did he have her? Was he hurting her?

  Branwell disappeared through the ‘Staff Only’ door.

  “Perhaps it is a matter I could help you with?” Alessio grinned wide. Every line of his tiny body hinting at all the fine ways he would be willing to help me.

  Lovely.

  I could do this . . . keep Alessio distracted until Branwell returned. I had to. My sweet Gracie was depending on me.

  Nineteen

  Branwell

  I pushed through the ‘Staff Only’ door and walked purposefully into the empty hallway. Head high and challenging.

  When somewhere you shouldn’t be, act like you belong and brazen your way through. That was my theory.

  The ‘Staff Only’ door closed behind me. Fortunately, the doors stretching down the right side of the hall had plaques. I turned the handle on the door labeled Dr. Roberto Moretti, Dirretore del Museo. It swung open.

  Honestly, these people needed to improve their security. Locking door handles would be a good start.

  I stepped into Roberto’s office and flipped on the light, shutting the door behind me. Unless Roberto returned, I was good for a few minutes at least.

  Let Lucy work her magic.

  She baffled me sometimes. How could she not understand how attractive she was? Alessio had done an almost comical double-take the second he saw her. I was pretty confident his flirting with Francesca had been for Lucy’s benefit. An immature attempt to make her jealous, prove his manliness.

  Boys.

  I refused to acknowledge the stab of possessiveness that rattled through me at the thought of Lucy cozying up to Alessio.

  Not helping.

  This was about Grace.

  I surveyed the office—a windowless, white box with plastered walls and a florescent light flickering overhead. A modern Ikea desk stood straight ahead. Two chairs faced the desk, while the wall to the left housed three large shelves covered in books and artifacts. A dusty fake ficus tree drooped in the right corner.

  All neat and orderly, if decidedly utilitarian.

  I stepped around and settled into the desk chair.

  A computer flatscreen sat to one side of the desktop, an old-fashioned enormous appointment calendar in the middle and a tidy pile of papers on the other side. Several items rested along the edge of the desk closest to the door—the basic detritus of a conservator’s job. A few photographs of excavations. A pair of fine leather gloves, cracked and old. Cleaning implements and bottles of solution beside an ancient Etruscan mirror, the mirror showed a seated male figure pulling a female figure from the ground. Ah. The mirror depicting Eros and Hinthial that was listed as ‘out for cleaning.’

  I quickly tugged off the glove of my left hand and hovered, assessing what to touch first. I had so little time. The desk calendar in front of me seemed the best choice. Not shiny, so little risk, and the kind of thing that changed on a regular basis as new appointments were added.

  I touched today’s date.

  “What do you want me to say if the police show up?” A woman’s voice in native Italian. Low and urgent.

  Shuffling of papers. The clink of metal.

  “I need time.” A man’s voice. “They suspect me, but there is still research to be done. So much we don’t know about Knight and the events two hundred years ago—”

  “Are you close?”

  “Closer than I have ever been. ‘Love will draw out the shadow.’ I think that’s the key.”

  “Yes, you’ve said that more than once. But assuming you find answers and things go as planned . . . what makes you think you can control it?”

  The scritch-scritch of pen on paper.

  “I have researched that, too. There are ways. People who know.”

  “And the little girl? What about her? Will she be unharmed?”

  A pause.

  “I cannot say—”

  The voices ended.

  My heart had lodged in m
y throat.

  I assumed the male voice to be Roberto, as I was in his office. Who was the woman? What was this ‘research’? Was Grace the little girl they hoped would be unharmed?

  And ‘love will draw out the shadow’? Those were the exact words I had heard Gruncle Jack say in Lucy’s living room. What was the connection there?

  My mind reeled with questions.

  Damn. This was the big drawback to my GUT. I couldn’t see the situation, so I had no idea as to context. Worse, I couldn’t control how much I heard around a change. Sometimes it was more, sometimes less.

  And right now, I needed more.

  Roberto’s calendar looked normal, notes for meetings with various colleagues and preservation groups. But repeatedly, he had an evening appointment with FUP. Most telling, he had a meeting with FUP on the night before Grace disappeared, the night he was supposedly with his mother. FUP . . . were those the initials of a colleague—maybe even the women I had just heard? Another conservation organization? Or something else entirely?

  Frowning, I touched the calendar again, skimming back past the conversation between Roberto and the unknown woman. When I concentrated, I could fast forward sound, like an old-fashioned cassette tape. Back, back I went. Conversations between colleagues. Francesca asking day-to-day questions.

  No mention of Grace by name. No other discussions of this odd ‘research.’

  Only one other exchange stood out.

  “You need to stop attending those meetings, Roberto. People are starting to ask questions. Difficult questions.” A woman’s voice. Native Italian but different from the other woman I had heard. Older.

  A sigh.

  “I know, but there’s no other way. This research is important, and relevant, given the events surrounding Lord Knight’s death—”

  “Important enough to jeopardize your career?”

  “My mother is invested now. She thinks I go for her, to offer her protection. That is what I’ve been telling everyone: I don’t want her to go alone. It is a reasonable answer.”

  “Is it, though? Dr. Carpaccio stopped me last week, wanting to better understand what you were into and, quite honestly, questioning your judgment. You are delving into unearthly things that are best left alone, Roberto.”