by D B Nielsen
Renauld coughed violently into the starched white gentleman’s handkerchief he produced from his top pocket and, when he withdrew his hand from his mouth, the handkerchief held small spots of blood. He quickly pocketed the offending item and responded gruffly to my father’s question ... and finally I understood the full gravity of the situation.
‘We’ve lately lost contact with our informant, but we managed to confirm that Dr Donnatelli and her crime ring have gone to ground.’ Renauld looked at us dispassionately. ‘Of course, it could be a coincidence but our informant is extremely reliable. Under the circumstances ... well ... we are following up all leads. Any information you have may be useful to us. Exactly how well do you know Dr Donnatelli?’
PILGRIMAGE
CHAPTER SIX
‘I keep telling you, I don’t know any more than you do.’
My tone of exasperation was lost on my audience of one, who blithely ignored me as she carefully went about packing her beloved vintage camera and spare film into her padded camera bag.
‘But Gabriel must have told you something,’ Fi said in a high-pitched whine, turning finally to face me across her bedroom where I stood with my back to her overflowing wardrobe so that I wouldn’t have to look at its messy contents. It made me wince to think of the time and effort that I put into organising it whilst she’d been away in Lyon.
Unmindful of my irritation, she continued to grumble, ‘At least I would have thought he must have told you something more than claiming to have our tickets and itinerary. And I can’t believe we have to travel by train to Venice and then continue the rest of our trip to Rome by plane. Wouldn’t it be far easier and quicker to travel all the way by plane? I mean, it’s not like Gabriel is a vampire and can’t travel during the day when it’s sunlight.’
I didn’t answer her.
Since learning of New Scotland Yard’s interest in Isabella Donnatelli, I had barely eaten, couldn’t get interested in my books about the history of angels or on supernatural and ancient weapons, and just sat and stared at my engagement ring. The only good news was that my parents had finally approved the trip to Rome – realising that it was far better that Fi and I were in Gabriel’s company as ITB had dealings with presidents, diplomats and nobility the world over, and could provide significantly better security than anything on offer by Sir William and the Met. Plus, there was the added bonus of both of us being far from London where Isabella was still thought to be in hiding.
‘Seriously. It makes me crazy sometimes. Gabriel’s such a complex person, almost Machiavellian – and don’t tell me I’m using that term in the wrong context or whatever because he is Machiavellian – his entire existence has been caught up in assassinations, conspiracies and intrigue. I guess they’re the standard amusements for Nephilim. Even when we’re working together on the Scroll, I always wonder what he knows that he isn’t telling me ... Hmm ... maybe I should bring my laptop? ... Oh, never mind ... I mean, I trust him more than the other Anakim, of course, but he’s got such a secretive side.’ Fi picked up her camera bag and shouldered it, casting a last glance around her bedroom before heading towards the door. ‘Speaking of secretive, you’ll need to be extremely careful with Elijah. Despite not joining the insurrection – bet you didn’t know I got that word from a book, so don’t tell me I don’t read – he is one of the Grigori, after all.’
I gave a long sigh. Why wouldn’t she just shut up already?
‘I know what I’m doing, Fi. And even if Elijah wasn’t an insurgent – yes, I know where you got that word from; I gave you the book, remember? – I would go so far as to say that he’s more than a match for Semyaza. Honestly, I certainly won’t make the mistake of underestimating him ever again,’ I assured my sister as I followed her out of her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me. ‘And as for Gabriel, you know why he prefers travelling by train rather than flying.’
If she had been facing me, I would probably have seen her roll her eyes at me. As it was, with her back to me, she shook her head as she answered. ‘Why? Because it’s like romantic or something? Or there’s mystery or adventure or whatever?’
I snorted at the irony, thinking of all the crime fiction I had read which featured train travel and murder from the Agatha Christie Golden Age whodunnits to contemporary thrillers by Patricia Highsmith and Paula Hawkins. Definitely not what Gabriel had in mind when planning the journey to Italy for us; especially not if the intention was to keep us safe.
‘No, silly,’ I said to her back, ‘Because he’s a Nephilim ... and sitting in a giant sardine tin at thirty-eight thousand feet isn’t quite his thing.’
At the top of the stairwell Fi paused and, looking over her shoulder, threw back, ‘It isn’t quite my thing either, if he’d cared to ask – well, not unless someone’s willing to pay for a first class seat or, even better, a first class suite for me.’ She let out a long sigh as if to suggest that this was never going to happen. ‘But I can cope with the discomfort of flying monkey class if it means we get to Rome faster.’
‘It’s less than three hours to Rome by air, Fi. There’s practically no point flying first class from here to there,’ I protested.
She shrugged. ‘Well, two-and-a-half hours in a giant flying sardine tin, whatever class, sure beats travelling for almost three days by land and air.’
‘It certainly does if you’re going to be whining the entire journey!’ I muttered under my breath as I followed her down the stairs to where my parents were waiting with Gabriel beside the car.
‘Cow! I heard that! Super hearing, remember?’ Fi threw a lightning-fast glance at me as she trudged out the open front door towards the others. ‘And you better be nice to me because I know how to navigate my way through the woods as I’ve already proven, unlike some people I shan’t care to mention, and you may have need of my super powers.’
I gave a nonchalant shrug, not that she could see it. ‘Really? I seem to remember you couldn’t climb out of a hole and had to be rescued by St. John and me. So much for your super powers.’
‘Not fair! I was injured!’ She turned on her heel and walked backwards with perfect grace as if to prove a point whilst slating me. ‘You can talk – it’s not like you could even climb out of a hole ... that you’d dug for yourself!’
But, despite my desire to defend myself, I never got to respond in kind. Dad, rather impatiently, ushered us along, fearing that we would be late and miss our train with all the traffic returning to London after the Easter long weekend; his paranoia exacerbated by our mother’s lack of concern to be anywhere on time and her characteristic procrastination.
The culprit of Dad’s obsession was unconcernedly chatting to Gabriel beside the chauffeured limousine, wearing another one of her many flamboyant, artistic outfits comprising of bright orange three-quarter cargo pants and Kimono sleeve silk blouse. Next to her, Gabriel – who was one Frenchman would never be caught dead wearing anything off-the-rack – was formally attired in a bespoke, one-of-a-kind suit.
‘Typical.’ I heard Fi mutter as she turned to look directly at the man that, of late, she was calling her employer. ‘That whole subtle, minimalist approach makes women think he’s Christian Grey or something.’
I blinked. Knowing nothing about men’s clothing – except that some guys looked hot in whatever they happened to wear like St. John – I had nothing to say.
Gabriel’s fitted, slim-cut, lightweight Italian wool suit showed off his sculpted physique, and the dark grey colour enhanced his attractive, pale features. To me, he looked just like any other modern man; one of the newest generation of smart, young entrepreneurs who embraced the impeccably-tailored suit as just another status symbol. But his sartorial elegance made my sister simmer – though I wasn’t quite certain whether it was with aggression or something else entirely; maybe something that was more in common with passion. It certainly could have been either.
After all, beside Gabriel, we were positively underdressed. In my mind, we were both outfitted for tra
vel. Like typical tourists, we’d thought of comfort before fashion. Well, at least, I had.
I knew that my pale grey drop waist shift dress with lace trim and my matching ballet flats were pretty boring; blending into obscurity next to the attractive Nephilim. But, at least, I managed to blend in in shades of grey. Unlike Fi – who, on the other hand, sported a tight-fitting designer t-shirt with the logo printed in large gold letters across her chest, a pair of black skinny pants that had a similar function to cling wrap, and high-heeled, ankle boots. I supposed I should have been grateful that she wasn’t wearing a leather catsuit.
She whipped on a pair of dark sunglasses just before reaching the spot where Gabriel and our mother were waiting for us as she greeted them with a collectively vague, ‘Hey’.
Great one, Fi! Anyone would think she wasn’t interested in travelling to Rome!
Making up for her brusqueness, I began with an over-bright smile, ‘Well, we’re ready to go. I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘Bet you can’t wait to see St. John again. He works way too hard. I’m glad you’ll be able to spend some time with him away from the museum. Remember what I told you, though, you must throw a coin into the Trevi Fountain and make a wish,’ Mum said. Her voice held a note of wistfulness.
I seriously had to wean her off those historical romance novels she loved to read. It was more likely that I’d be guarding my wallet and watching out for pickpockets near the Trevi Fountain – that’s if I had intended to visit the Trevi Fountain, which certainly wouldn’t be happening this trip!
‘Oh, to be young and in love,’ my father mocked gently as he overheard her statement whilst handing our two slightly battered Samsonite suitcases – testimonial to our many travels – over to Gabriel’s chauffeur.
This earned a small smack on his arm in reprimand, delivered by Mum as she warned, ‘You just hush. It wasn’t so long ago that you and I were the same. Remember that trip to the Pergamon on the pretext of viewing the Meissner fragment? I distinctly recall that we spent the entire time–’
‘–working hard.’ Dad’s voice held a stern note in warning, as if he was hoping that neither one of his daughters would realise that they were talking about sex. And the topic of our parents and sex – especially when they were our age – wasn’t something he was completely comfortable discussing with us.
‘That’s totally gross, guys! Can we please change the topic?’ Fi said, though I couldn’t tell whether she was disgusted or bored.
‘Yes, let’s change the topic,’ my father grumbled. ‘I didn’t need to know about my parents’ love life and you girls certainly don’t need to know about ours.’
I pretended not to laugh. He had no idea how close we girls were, and Mum had already told us so many anecdotes over the years – some for entertainment, some for female self-defence, some as words of advice or caution, and some ... well, just because ... – so that, coupled with Fi’s experience and what every girl seemed to know from films, books and social media, not to mention confidences with close friends, there wasn’t a lot we didn’t know.
There was an amused expression upon Gabriel’s face at the direction the conversation had taken. He’d remained silent as he lounged against the side of the limousine, his ankles crossed in a relaxed pose, but now he spoke up, ‘I think we must take our leave, mes jeunes filles. The train departs at ten forty-five and we must complete the Customs formalities for you to make the most of your Roman holiday.’
Before my sister could voice her complaints about train travel yet again, I said quickly, ‘St. John predicted I’d be back.’ then realised my mistake; my parents hadn’t known of my trip to Italy with St. John.
Fi’s eyes widened behind her glasses at my gaffe but, in true sisterhood, hastily covered up for me, ‘What? Predicted another train trip? Lol. He’s got plans, I bet. You’ll end up having your honeymoon on a train!’
‘There’s nothing wrong with having a honeymoon on a train, Safie.’ My mother laughed. ‘It can be just as romantic as a cruise.’
‘Exactly! The art of travel is simply lost on you!’ I protested in the spirit of things, thankful that my sister was there to bail me out.
‘Saffron, ma mignonne, there is train travel ... and then there is train travel.’ Gabriel’s silver-grey eyes sparkled with mischief and caprice like the Norse god, Loki, holding some inner joke. ‘You will soon learn the difference.’
And indeed she did ...
Opposite Platform Two at London’s Victoria Station, the svelte, leggy, brunette attendant at the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express check-in lounge greeted Gabriel with a familiarity that demonstrated both their intimate association and his long-standing, preferred method of travel. Later, Gabriel confessed that he was able to perform a simple deception by passing himself off as his own son or grandson, allowing the Anakim to pretend to age for mere mortals who, he observed, preferred the Occam’s Razor principle over the truth.
Within moments, liveried porters approached us to divest Gabriel’s chauffeur of our suitcases. Fi’s jaw dropped as soon as she saw the world of privilege the erudite Anakim was used to – where ancestry and propriety meant everything – as the British Pullman train pulled into the platform about twenty minutes before departure; its gleaming chocolate and cream carriages ready for embarkation.
‘I hope you have packed a suitable dress for this evening in your carry-on luggage as I advised you. Hopefully, this time, you received my text. You can never be overdressed on the Orient-Express. And you will find that dinner on board is a gastronomic feast to delight the senses,’ Gabriel murmured seductively, sharing some private joke as he leant towards my sister who looked about her with a sense of wonder. It was plain to see that she now understood that luxury train travel was one of the finest travel experiences to be had – and she hadn’t even stepped aboard the vintage carriages yet.
I silently thanked my lucky stars that I had worn something halfway decent for the day trip and not my faded jeans – I had the feeling that jeans would have been banned on board the Orient-Express like sneakers were banned at most nightclubs, as I took in the glamorous young couples sporting their designer labels – the type of successful people who drifted restlessly from private jets to private islands and owned polo ponies or race horses – and the stately, older gentlemen sporting their chic child-bride, trophy wives. I still felt underdressed but, at least, I hadn’t embarrassed myself or Gabriel.
And as for Fi, behind her dark glasses, she brazened it out like a supermodel, strutting next to our host as if she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. I figured that her best strategy was to shame everyone else – there were few women on earth who could look as stylish as my twin in a t-shirt and skinny pants.
It was a strange experience to turn heads in public. Even though Mum was famous in name, most people didn’t recognise her when she walked down the street. Hers was an anonymity coupled with celebrity. But it wasn’t a name or even Gabriel’s excessive wealth that attracted the other travellers’ attention to us. It was beauty. The kind of beauty poets wrote about, where Gabriel and Fi walked “in beauty like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry skies”. They were a golden couple.
And, as I walked beside them, merely by association, I attracted a similar fascination. I wasn’t certain whether I liked it or not – but there was no doubting that it brought with it a whole new level of service.
The cabin steward, who attended upon us, fawned over my sister who had managed to charm him, though she appeared not to notice, or maybe she was just feigning indifference, as if she received this kind of attention wherever she went. He was over fifty, tall and lean, and contrived to look much younger in his smart Pullman uniform, complete with spotless white gloves, as if he played tennis regularly to stay fit. With a cheery attitude, he assisted us one at a time up the narrow steps and into the gorgeous, vintage carriage.
The carriage’s opulent interior was lined in burled wood panels, broken only by a row of high w
indows, glowing with reflected gold – and everything was buffed and polished and lustrous so that it mirrored the brightness and beauty of a civilised and refined existence. I felt a little thrill travel through me as I realised that I was in a world unknown to me but one that other people would sacrifice much to experience. We were shown to the coupé at the end of the Pullman carriage; an enclosed plush, four-seat compartment that provided great privacy. And, from all that I observed, I now understood that Gabriel was even more successful than St. John; he held the secrets that were only shared by Midas and Maecenas. And, perhaps, it was also what made him more cynical or pragmatic than St. John.
Fi sighed in deep appreciation as the door closed behind us and she took stock of our travelling arrangements. ‘Okay, I admit it. You were right. There’s train travel and then there’s the Orient-Express.’
Gabriel laughed as he generously responded, ‘Oui, oui, oui. It is, as you said, much slower – I like to think of it as a gentler pace of life – but you may come to appreciate it in the days to come.’
I read between the lines of what Gabriel was telling us. This train trip was for our sakes, allowing us a last glimpse of our small world of freedoms and familiarity, and he confirmed this by adding, ‘This journey and where it will take us will not be easy, but let us try to enjoy the moment. Too soon you will face things, confront truths and demons, that the Anakim had rather you be spared from – this is, perhaps, our last opportunity to allow you beauty and serenity in your life. Enjoy it whilst you can.’
As I slid onto the plush seat nearest the window, I wondered how I could fail to, as I’d never experienced anything quite like this. Sighing, I relaxed back and gazed outside, whilst Fi initially remained standing and leant over me to do the same, as the train departed from the station, providing a montage of images from those envious travellers admiring the Pullman carriages from the opposite platforms to the dizzying blur of industrial factories and sandstone buildings as we picked up speed. But further investigation was delayed as there was a sharp rap on the door with the announcement of the return of the cabin steward.