Книга - The Vampire’s Protector

The Vampire's Protector
Michele Hauf


OUT OF THE GRAVE . . . AND INTO HER LIFEFor over a century, muscician Nicolo Paganini had rested in peace. Until Summer Santiago’s innocent touch raised him from the grave. Awake in a world suddenly so foreign, he needed Summer’s help. Yet his protector was a vampire…with a deep desire for Nicolo’s blood.Despite the raving attraction between them, the pair had something more dangerous than bloodlust to contend with. The devil had a plan for Nicolo’s eternal life. Should Nicolo play the cursed black violin, his fate would be sealed. But if he resisted Satan’s call, he would lose the woman who had made his life worth living.









She wanted to bite him, to taste his blood and learn if it was as rich and exciting as the man.


But there was a certain danger in that. Summer had no idea what Nicolo was.

What would she impart in Nicolo’s mind if she drank his blood? If he were merely human would she drive him mad?

Couldn’t risk it. He needed her. And she wanted him to trust her.

“Don’t let this happen,” Summer muttered.

But they were only words. Her heart had already made a leap. And while that scared her, she was always one to follow adventures. Even the kind Summer had never pursued before, like the adventures of the heart.


MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries usually populate her stories. And if Michele followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries and creatures she has never seen. Find her on Facebook, Twitter and at www.michelehauf.com (http://www.michelehauf.com).




The Vampire’s Protector

Michele Hauf







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To all the orchestra geeks. You rock!


Contents

Cover (#u6f90fd66-d98b-593a-bc8e-1fbbb47f0f4e)

Introduction (#uee2913e7-873e-57e4-904c-161f44c79dbf)

Title Page (#u5f19bfcc-802a-56b5-a13b-16ccc18bdd25)

About the Author (#ub0e5e840-254b-57fe-8d93-137a085d42ef)

Dedication (#uf804f65a-3dae-5c67-a903-2bc5f419df75)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter 1 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)

Summer Santiago followed the scent of dust and dirt down the hallway of a nineteenth-century brownstone nestled in the middle of the tiny Italian village of Cella Monte. The place had been shuttered up and locked for decades. She’d been told so by the village sindaco—the mayor—who had given her a key after she’d explained she wanted to conduct some historical research. She’d flashed her credentials indicating she was an archaeologist who worked for Rutgers University.

Of course, she had neglected to mention that the research project did not exist. And that she was not an archaeologist. The credentials were a clever forgery. So she’d also touched his neck, with the excuse she was shooing away a bug. But in those seconds of skin-on-skin contact she had used her vampiric persuasion to convince the mayor to cooperate with her and hand over the key.

Persuasion, or the ability to enthrall a mortal, came in handy for her job. As a Retriever for Acquisitions, a division of the greater Council that oversaw the paranormal nations, she tracked down and obtained objects of magical or volatile nature and handed them over to the Archives for storage.

This mission rated a mere two on Summer’s scale. One being easy-peasy, ten heart-thumping challenging. Find and seize a violin that had once belonged to the famed composer and musician Nicolo Paganini. The violin was supposed to possess magical power. Possibly even a curse placed upon it by the devil Himself. The electronic dossier Summer had received for the retrieval had been sketchy at best. What little she knew was that rumors hailing from the nineteenth century told if Paganini were to have played the instrument all hell would have been unleashed.

Apparently, that had never happened, because the world was still relatively the same as it had been in the nineteenth century. It did not abound with creatures from Hell—or Beneath, as Summer and other paranormals referred to that dark and demonic realm. Not to say that demons and other nasties didn’t inhabit the Mortal Realm; they did. But they had insinuated themselves amongst the varied mortal population.

A man who valued all instruments, Paganini had designated in his will this particular violin be destroyed following his death. Good call. But for some reason it had instead been hidden away.

The home where the violin had been last seen, according to the Acquisition’s dossier, had been sitting untouched for over seventy years.

Summer turned the knob on an inner door and opened it wide to a gaping blackness. A chill as cold as winter crept over her skin. A shiver lifted the hairs on her arm. With a thought, she adjusted her body temperature and took a few steps downward into the darkness. Vampires were crafty like that. Able to regulate their body temperature with but a thought. Came in handy during the winter. She hated the cold. If ever a job in a tropical clime were offered in the winter she’d jump at it.

But she did love a good creepy adventure.

As she descended the stairs, the wood steps creaked in protest until her purple Chuck Taylors landed on a dirt floor. Darkness sweatered her, and while her sight was excellent, in the absence of light even vampires needed a bit of help. She tugged out her iPhone from her jeans pocket and turned on the flashlight. The beam fell across the imprints her shoes had left in the thick dust on the stairs behind her.

She was accustomed to decrepit old buildings. She’d grown up with a brother who had liked to explore the darkest, dankest, creepiest of places. And since Johnny had always offered to babysit her when their parents needed the help, Summer had explored right alongside him. Now she was drawn to the unknown and mysterious. And it wasn’t just buildings, but also experiences and people.

Vampires were not inherently evil. It was difficult enough to deal with the fact she’d been born different from all the other vampires—someone who imparted madness into her donors’ psyches every time she pierced them with her fangs. But she was coping. Mostly.

Summer floated her fingers across the gold-and-emerald flocked damask wallpaper as she strode down the dirt-floored hallway. The walls were sheetrocked for some distance. Then the paper ended, as the smooth walls segued into dirt. Or rather—she pressed a palm to the cold, dry surface—limestone.

Were she descending into the catacombs beneath Paris, not much would be different. Just another adventure spook-out with her brother. Except they avoided the touristy Catacombs in the 14th arrondissement and only ventured into the forbidden tunnels frequented by cataphiles.

With a smile in anticipation for whatever delicious surprises awaited in the dark, she wandered forward and downward as the floor slanted. The narrow aisle suddenly turned right and opened into a room stuffed to the ceiling with boxes and crates. She flashed the light beam across an old wicker dressmaker’s dummy. Headless, it was also, sadly, naked. What looked like two chairs from the Louis XV time period, upholstered with pale pink damask, were stacked in one corner with no regard for their value. Every spot on the walls was covered with paintings depicting portraits of men, women and even a few dogs.

“Interesting.” But she wasn’t into art. Or dogs. Especially the werewolf kind. Okay, so she made an exception for her grandfather, Rhys Hawkes, who was half vampire, half werewolf. As well, her uncle Trystan was full werewolf.

The flashlight beam swayed from side to side in the room before her. She was looking for clothing on racks. Nothing. Summer sighed. She always got her hopes up when exploring old storage rooms such as this one. Wasn’t like she’d expected this mission to actually provide the bonus of vintage clothing. She favored a pretty man’s frock coat or jackboots. The dresses and flouncy stuff never interested her. Leather pants or jeans and a T-shirt—as she wore today—were her usual choices.

Tucking the phone into her pants front pocket so the flashlight end beamed out, Summer strode about the tiny open space corralled in the center by all the gathered treasures.

A hobby horse sat to her left. The red leather seat was worn and cracked from frequent use. She tapped the dusty rope mane, thinking how children from the past would be stupefied by today’s young, who would likely run right past the wooden horse and straight for any electronic gadgets. Plant themselves in a chair and look up only when their mothers called for lunch.

She loved her electronics, but was very choosey about who she friended on social media. She did have a Facebook page, but it was strictly for family and very few friends. She didn’t pin pictures on electronic boards, nor did she Tweet about what she had for lunch. Because really? No one needed to know she’d had A positive for lunch yesterday.

And she was feeling a bit peckish. She’d have to make a stop for a snack before she hit the road home for Paris.

Focusing her search, she lifted the cover from a cigar box and peered inside. No silver coins but plenty of rusted straight pins. She put the cover back and spun to sit on a gray velvet divan. A cloud of dust frothed about her, and she quickly stood, having forgotten the perils of such ancient conditions. Waving her hands to clear the dust, she choked and coughed.

Good thing her allergies were only to demons.

Next to her butt print on the divan sat a jewelry box. She pulled it onto the cleared velvet, knowing it wouldn’t contain a violin, but being a slave to curiosity, and flipped up the heavy cover. Inside lay a few diamond necklaces and rings. She wasn’t much for the sparkly stuff, preferring the simple hematite band she wore on her thumb. A gift from her dad, Vaillant, who preferred flashy silver jewelry himself.

“Bet these are worth a new Audi,” she said of the jewels.

Alas, she didn’t need another car. And she was not a thief, and nothing inside this home belonged to her. The items she was sent to retrieve on missions were taken, though. By gift or by force. Whatever means necessary. For reasons humans could never comprehend. The items the Retrievers tracked were deemed dangerous and best hidden away from chance human discovery.

Summer would leave everything in this room as she found it and report the contents to the mayor later. If relatives could be found, the items would be returned to them, and if not, perhaps the village would hold an auction. Or perhaps they’d simply abide the dying wish to keep the place sealed off. Had it been because of the contents of this room? Or because of one particular item? Had the owner been aware of the violin’s volatility?

“We’ll never know,” she muttered, and her gaze scanned for something of interest.

Across the room, between an upended jacquard sofa and a stack of large paintings, there looked like a door. Summer tugged out the phone and as she squeezed between stacks of old crates, the light beam fell over an iron ring on a small door that might suit a hobbit.

“The secret passageway,” she said with glee.

Testing the iron ring with a tug, she saw that the iron frame about the door jiggled. After placing the phone in her mouth to direct the light on to what she was doing, she then grabbed the ring with both hands and pressed one foot against the wall beside the door. With some effort, she was able to ease the entire door out of the frame.

Vampires were like that, too. Pretty damn strong when they needed to be.

Though there was too much stuff stacked around to pull the door out and set it aside, she was able to move it to the left and shove it away from the opening, only to realize the inside was more like a small storage closet that went back only about three feet.

Kneeling and creeping forward, she pushed aside a lightweight metal box that might contain documents. Sliding aside a wooden crate stuffed with porcelain-faced dolls, she spied a familiar object tucked beneath an ell of dusty blue fabric.

“A violin case.”

Her heartbeats pounded. Whenever she found her assigned object she had to suppress a squeal of glee. Too girlie. And really, she took more pleasure in a mental pat on the back for a job well done.

The director of Acquisitions, Ethan Pierce, had assigned her this mission because he knew she was a musician. She could play virtually any instrument placed in her hands, but she didn’t practice or keep up with any particular one. Playing music was such a solitary, static thing. An abandoned hobby of hers. She preferred to be out adventuring and getting her hands dirty. Or, give her a car to take apart and she landed on cloud nine, tools in hand, grease smeared across her cheeks.

Yet she had been a good choice for this mission because she’d take the caution necessary when handling the object, the director had stated.

As well, she could appreciate any style of music, not in the least, classical. What kind of geeky fantasy would it be to actually hold Nicolo Paganini’s violin?

Summer slid a palm over the top of the case. It wasn’t hard plastic like most violin cases nowadays, so she carefully lifted the thin, leather case until she could grasp the handle, which was placed center top, and carried it out into the main room, where she could study it. She set the case on a wooden crate and found that only one leather buckle with brass fixings was still intact. And rust crusted over that one. She could easily force it open, but she didn’t want to damage the leather case or break the strap, so she wiggled carefully at the mechanism until finally the strap slipped from the buckle.

“Nice.” Summer pumped her fist in elation. “This is freaking cool.”

It would be insane not to take a look inside. To keep it closed and simply carry it home to Paris and hand over to the Archives? So long, so good to have known you—for a day?

No. She had to look at it. First, to ensure there actually was a violin inside. Second, to touch the instrument the famed violinist had once owned.

Nicolo Paganini had been a remarkable man, lauded by the masses. Summer would go so far as to label him a rock star for the nineteenth century. Gifted beyond belief. Or had he been cursed? The rumors told that Paganini had sold his soul to the devil to play the violin with such spectacular skill. His contemporaries had accused him of being the devil’s familiar, or even a witch’s son.

Modern-day science told a more truthful story. Paganini had been afflicted with a condition called Marfan’s Syndrome, which hadn’t elongated his fingers (as rumors had whispered) but rather had made his connective tissues so flexible as to allow his fingers to span three octaves across the four violin strings and thus create amazingly complicated compositions. Yet to his contemporaries he had seemed to possess superhuman ability.

But if the mission dossier was correct, this violin had not been played. So the deal with the devil could have never been made. Maybe?

Summer would never know the real story without raising the violinist from the dead and asking him herself. And that certainly would never happen. So she’d verify the instrument was intact, hand it over to the Archives and then on to the next job.

The case top lifted with an ominous creak. Inside lay a violin. A black violin. Its condition startled her. The ebony finish gleamed as if it had just been polished with linseed oil and a soft cloth. And the strings!

“They’re tight,” she said with curiosity and a wrinkle of her brow.

She touched each of them in turn—without actually plucking them to produce a tone—E, A, D, G. The string tension was about right from what she remembered the few times she’d played violin when she’d been younger. So tight, it was as if someone had just finished playing it.

“That’s...impossible.”

This Cella Monte home had been sealed for seventy years. The mayor had told her all things inside had remained untouched. Evident from the dusty clutter she’d seen while making her way down to this room. Yet, a violin left to sit so long would certainly show its age. The wood body would dry and likely crack. The fingerboard might even separate from the neck. And the strings would loosen for sure, requiring careful tuning. After so many decades, surely new strings would be needed.

She lifted the instrument, finding it only slightly heavier than the electric version Domingos LaRoque used when he played for Bitter/Sweet. That vampire played in her brother’s band, which combined electric guitars with cello and violin for some truly kick-ass gothic heavy metal. Summer had once owned a classic wood acoustic violin. It was probably stored away in her parents’ mansion, but she hadn’t thought about it since she’d set it aside as a teenager.

The bow sat nestled next to the violin, so she took that out and studied the bow hairs. They were pristine and off-white and smelled of rosin, but they weren’t thickly coated with the substance. Someone had cared for this lovely prize. Or maybe it had never been played, for the bow hairs were not discolored near either end from repeated use.

Was it really Paganini’s violin? Or simply a family instrument passed down through the ages, of which stories had been concocted about its legacy. And as the generations passed along the tale it had been forgotten which parts of the verbal history about this black violin had been embellished.

Because really? The legend told that on his deathbed Paganini requested this violin be destroyed. It had been tasked to his son to ensure it was done.

Why had it not? And what made Acquisitions believe this particular instrument was the real thing? What was it about this violin that made it a danger to others? Did it possess magic? Had it been magic that had given Paganini his unprecedented skill?

Summer believed in magic. Witchcraft. That was real. Tangible. Explainable. But fantastical bob-bib-be-bo that swirled about a thing with Disney sparkles? Not so much.

She had to remind herself that oftentimes the items she sought appeared innocuous and common.

A stroke of her finger across the violin body glided over the slick, lacquered surface. Did she dare? If she pulled the bow across the strings would the instrument crumble and fall to pieces? Violins actually seemed to improve with age. There were centuries-old Stradivarii that sold for millions at auction. Was this a Strad?

Aiming the flashlight on her cell phone, she checked inside the body of the violin. There wasn’t a paper designating the maker and year, though some writing did show on the curved inner rib. She couldn’t make out what it said. If she had one of those flexible gooseneck tools with a light on the end she could thread it inside the instrument and learn more about it. But even if she could read it, it would likely be in Italian. She spoke and read only French and English.

She checked the case and found nestled in a square of soft fabric a round lump of amber rosin that should rightfully be as hard as glass. Instead it smelled sweet and had the slightest give to it. She ran the bow across it quickly, and the hairs took on the sticky rosin, which was designed to give the hairs good grip.

Something at her ear whispered softly, like a teasing springtime breeze coaxing her to walk outside, enjoy the absence of snow. She really hated the snow. Flowers and the warmth of the sun (albeit felt through sunscreen and protective clothing) made her giddy. She couldn’t get the image out of her brain. And the idea that playing the violin would sound like spring coaxed her forward.

She plucked the E string and...it sounded in tune. More weirdness. A quick pluck of the A, D and G strings found the same.

“Holy crap,” she muttered.

Giddy excitement coaxed her to place the base of the violin against her shoulder and hug it with her chin. Grasping the neck with her left fingers, she—

“No.”

She quickly set the violin back in the case.

“You are not that stupid, Summer. If playing the violin was some means to calling up Beneath or the devil or some dark curse, then I’m not going to risk it.”

Besides, she prided herself on following the rules, or at least, not rocking the boat when it came to her missions. She did her best and did not raise questions. She liked maintaining that militant control while on the job. Because in life? Not so much control. Especially when she bit people for sustenance. She did something to them. They were never the same. And that lack of control required balance in all other aspects of her life.

Holding a hand over the violin, ready to touch it, she flinched when the breezy whisper felt more like a shove into the springtime than a suggestion. Almost as if something wanted her to touch it.

That was creepy. And not in the good way.

“Nope. Not going to play it.”

She inspected the end of the bow, wondering if she should loosen the hairs a few twists because it wasn’t good for it to be kept tightened when not in use. Yet she’d found it in this condition. Obviously, this was some sort of magical violin.

Placing the bow in the case, her wrist suddenly twisted and the bow glided across all four violin strings in rapid succession.

“Oh shit. I did not do that.”

She dropped the bow, but it landed on the strings, and again, drew out a series of notes.

“No, no, no. It’s not me. I didn’t do it!”

She looked around. A weird feeling that someone was watching and would finger her as the culprit crept up her neck. A strange silvery whisper tickled her ear, and she shook her head and slapped at her long blond hair near her ear.

The tones from that weird, accidental bowing of the strings had sounded incredible. As if the violin had been waiting ages, endlessly, ceaselessly, for someone to come and release that sound.

“But not me. Oh no.” She took a step away from the open violin case. Staring hard at the bow, she waited for it to move of its own volition. It didn’t flinch.

Dashing to the case, she slapped the lid down and rebuckled the latch. Then, tucking the case under her arm, she raced down the dark hallway, fleeing toward the cool morning daylight.

For once, she’d creeped herself out. And the last thing she needed was to be accused of playing a violin that would put her in league with the devil Himself.


Chapter 2 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)

La Villetta cemetery; Parma, Italy

“Hexensohn!”

At the sound of the guttural accusation, the man sat up—and banged his forehead on the stone directly above him. He pressed a hand to the flat surface. Solid and cold. He pushed. It didn’t move.

He opened his eyes to...no light. Darkness muffled. And cold, so cold. Sucking in a breath, he couldn’t feel his heartbeats.

But he didn’t panic. The realization that he was trapped inside a container was only a minor distraction. What disturbed him was that he was aware of his thoughts. And that he was thinking. Again. After...

His death.

Sitting up in a panicked lunge, this time his forehead did not connect with stone, but rather, he felt a sludgy resistance as he rose upward and moved through the stone. His body ascended with little effort until his hands and shoulders felt the warmth of sunlight on them. Slapping a hand onto a hard surface, he levered his body up and out until he sat upon a stone monument.

“What in all...?” His shoulder bumped a stone pedestal, and he leaned against it. Not relaxed, by any means, but more getting his bearings. He sat up off the ground a few feet, one leg dangling over the edifice. Columns surrounded the area, and around that, a black wrought iron fence. Had he just risen from a sarcophagus?

Hmm... Looked like a fancy monument to someone long dead. Could it be his own? He had died. The knowledge was instinctive and ingrained. A certain fact. And he recalled that last, painful, gasping breath so clearly. Had it only been just yesterday?

A deep breath took in his surroundings. The air smelled of mildew and jasmine flowers. Birds twittered nearby. And the weird rushing sound of something unfamiliar not far off. Gasping out a breath, he pressed fingertips to his chest and realized his lungs were taking in air. He breathed? But how? He— Wasn’t he dead?

Something had sung to him. Called him. Summoned him with that vile curse hexensohn. It meant witch’s son, and he’d hated it once and already hated it again. Yet accompanying the curse he had felt the music. The pure and rapidly bowed tones from an instrument that had once facilitated his very livelihood.

Glancing about, he took in the close-spaced tombstones and nearby mausoleums. He sat in a cemetery, upon a large tombstone. And that startled him so that he slid off the stone sarcophagus, stood, wobbling as he stepped a few paces, and then turned to study the bust placed upon the pedestal where he had just risen. He narrowed his eyes. The face and hair on the bust looked familiar. Though it wasn’t life-size, perhaps a bit bigger. Had he ever appeared so...regal?

“Not me. Can’t be,” he muttered. “I’m dead. This is a dream. Some means of Hell torture. It has to be. No one comes back from...”

His eyes took in the area. The entire monument he stood within was about ten feet square with eight columns, two supporting each corner of a massive canopy. Wandering to the edge and stepping down onto the narrow strip of loose stones circling the structure, he turned and looked high over the front of the canopy.

And he read the name chiseled into the stone above. “‘Nicolo Paganini.’”

He grasped his throat, marveling at the sound that had come from him. Because... “I could not speak for so long.”

Years before his death he’d lost the ability to speak. It had been miserable, and he’d to rely on his son, Achille, to press an ear to his mouth so he could hear the barely imperceptible sounds he’d made and then interpret to others.

“Achille?” Where was he? How many days had it been since his death? Had his son buried him? How had he come to rise from the grave?

What was happening?

The brimstone bargain? No. He had not fulfilled his portion of that wicked bargain. And yet...the sound of a violin had woken him from his eternal slumber.

He tapped his lower lip in thought and then was surprised at the feel of his skin and—he opened his mouth. He had teeth! All of them, in fact. They had all fallen out in the years before his death.

Looking at his hands, he marveled that the age spots that had once marked his flesh were not there. He pushed fingers up through his hair. It was long and tangled, but it felt soft, not dry from years of sickness. His face, too. The skin was smooth and taut. Had he grown young in his death? Impossible.

Again, the steady heartbeats prompted him to touch his chest. And then he beat a sound fist against his body. When had he ever had such firm, well-developed muscles as he now felt beneath the clothing?

What foul magic was this?

Was he alive? Was this his body or that of some creature? What diabolic magic had been enacted to conjure him from his very grave?

“It can’t be.”

He thought of the devil Himself. That wicked, foul beast. The ruler of Hell, or rather, as the creature had called it, Beneath.

“That bastard wouldn’t. He had made the offer to me so many times. Every time I refused.”

Many a night Himself had set the black violin before Nicolo’s old and decaying body and told him he had been born with supernatural power. Why must he continue to deny his birthright?

Nicolo had always denied that wicked magic. Many times over the decades he had performed, he had steadfastly refused the bargain Himself offered. Because he’d not wanted his son, Achille, to see him as a monster. For he knew that by drawing the bow hairs across the violin strings, he would become evil. A creature like the devil Himself.

Supernatural power or not, he could have never lived with such a selfish choice. Instead he’d used the talent that he’d honed since a young child. And even with death withering his skin and bones, he’d not the urge to accept Himself’s final bargain on his deathbed.

“Pick it up,” the Dark Lord had said of the black violin that gleamed with promise. “Play one song and you shall have it all. Your legacy.”

Never, Nicolo thought.

And yet, is that what had happened now? No, he’d not played the violin. He’d instructed Achille to ensure it was destroyed after his death. So how was he now standing before his final resting place?

Very much alive.

It was a rather fine-looking tomb, if he did say so. Quite a large pediment and a glorious monument to the maestro.

The maestro himself. A man now seemingly unhampered by age and time—even death—and feeling rather as if he was in his twenties again.

How much time had passed? Closing his eyes, Nicolo concentrated on the sounds, moving beyond the birds and weird rushing nearby to that minute rhythm. It wasn’t coming from a window or even a distant concert hall. It was coming from within him. From his very soul.

Did he have a soul now? Should not death have released his soul?

A profound thought.

A few simple notes had woken him. Not even a tune or melody. Bow across strings. Almost accidental, really. Yet those notes had sung to him. Calling him. Luring him. Gesturing with a coaxing finger for him to follow.

Achille must not have destroyed the black violin. Had someone found the instrument? Were they playing it right now? It had literally pulled him up from death. He knew that as he knew his heart beat now.

Nicolo turned about, lost in the odd sensation of being lured and yet feeling as if he’d just been reborn. His eyes fell to a nearby tombstone that detailed Marie Grace’s final rest taking place in 1920.

“1920? But that’s...”

He had died in 1840 after living fifty-eight years. A splendid life. A troubled life. A boisterous and desperate life. But he regretted none of it. For he had lived for his pleasure and had fathered a smart and kind son.

Had so much time passed then? Eighty years? The woman’s tombstone looked old. A corner was chipped, and soot and moss covered half the surface. It could be even later than 1920. Yet the idea of stepping into the world so far into the future was impossible to fathom.

Nicolo stepped forward and gripped the wrought iron fence encircling his tomb. Where must he go? How would he go? And with what means would he survive? And what would he do now that he’d risen from death? Would the violin continue to sing and lure him down the dark and evil path he had literally been born to follow?

The music grew more insistent, and his newly beating heart answered those desperate questions for him. There was only one thing he could do to ensure that bedamned bargain did not claim him. He must find the violin that had called him up from death. And destroy it.

* * *

Sitting in the silver Audi with the windows rolled down, Summer glided her fingers over the leather violin case nestled on the passenger seat. Since discovering the instrument an hour earlier she’d been hearing the silvery whisper intermittently. It wasn’t a voice, more just a sound, a distant note on a violin. So far away that she had to lean forward and tilt her head to hear it, but she wanted to hear it. To answer it.

And that was strange. She likened it to her vampiric persuasion. Had she fallen under some weird thrall when uncovering the violin? If it really had come from the devil Himself any number of malevolent spells or hexes could be attached to the instrument.

The thought gave her a shudder. It took a lot to scare her. Devil’s magic was number one on that very short list. Demons ranked number two.

Her reflection in the rearview mirror showed a tired blonde with dirt smeared across her cheek and dust still cluttered in her hair. She’d driven straight from Paris to Italy and hadn’t slept since two days earlier. She required a few hours shut-eye each night. That’s what she was considering now as the car idled roadside at the edge of Parma.

She rubbed at the dirt on her chin, but didn’t bother when it smeared. She was used to being dirty. In her spare time she liked to work on cars, and getting greasy was part of the fun. Makeup and hair spray? Ugh. Leave the war paint for the girlie girls. Much to her ultrafeminine mother’s annoyance, Summer was a tomboy to the bone.

Probably another reason why the Retriever job fit her like a glove. She didn’t mind the tough work, long hours, travel or the dirt. And she really didn’t mind the creep factor.

Except when said creep factor was accompanied by a violin that played itself. But had it really? Or maybe the unconscious fear of evil she had was putting that freaky scenario in her brain. It could have been that she’d dropped the bow, the bow hairs had slid across the violin strings, and, voilà. A few random notes had sounded. Shouldn’t raise the dead or Beneath.

She hoped.

“Paganini’s violin,” she whispered with awe. “Nice snatch.”

Now to get it to Paris. Without falling asleep. A sip of blood should do the trick to keep her awake, so she’d keep her eyes peeled for a potential donor. Someone nondescript, young, not terribly attractive, but not a vagrant. She preferred mousey and bookish, actually. Though, considering what she did to them, she should probably go after criminals. But then, she argued that changing a criminal would only make him a worse danger to others. A normal person? With hope, they could handle the results of her bite.

There was nothing she could do about it, and she did have to take blood. Bags of blood from a blood bank wouldn’t cut it. A vampire had to drink blood with a heartbeat to survive.

Initially, she hadn’t realized what her bite did to humans. Her father, Vaillant, had been the first to notice. He’d gone along with her those first times when she’d come into her fangs at puberty and had taught her to stalk the shadows and take a donor without killing. Yet, her father had noticed that her donors were different after Summer’s bite. Some struggled with voices about them that they grasped for as if at insects. Others shouted out to nothing but the madness inside them. It seemed a condition that lasted for hours.

Over the years, her family had figured that Summer’s bite was somehow changing her donors. A little or a lot, depending on how large a drink she took from them. A long drink? The donor very possibly went mad. It had frightened her to know she had such an ugly power. And confused her. Why only her? Other vampires did not impart madness with their bites. Nor did her bite seem to affect the paranormal breeds. But she could hardly keep her blood drinking only to paranormals. Humans were so much more abundant.

Fortunately, she had a strong family support system and had learned to control her hunger as much as she could. Which meant taking only a small sip and then hoping the donor would be okay. Just a touch of madness.

It was no way for a vampire to exist. But it was her life.

What she wouldn’t give to be a normal vampire who could take a nice long quaff from a pulsing vein and then walk away, whistling a show tune.

Her job did make avoiding that emotional struggle a little easier. No time for empathy for others or personal-relationship woes. She kept busy. Focused on the prize. And never got involved with distractions such as families who may own the sought-after magical item, or humans who wished to challenge her for the prize, she, as a Retriever, had been assigned to obtain.

Life was basically good. And it would be much better when she dumped this weird, whispering violin.

“I’m going to bring you in to the Archives to be cataloged, tagged and stored. Never to be played,” she said and followed with a sigh. “That’s so wrong. This violin is exquisite.”

Whatever horrible powers it might possess could be counteracted with a witch’s spell, yes?

No. She wouldn’t go there. Dark and dangerous things were best kept under lock and key. And wards. And spells. And any other magical device that could be slapped on to the thing. Better safe than sorry.

She picked up her phone and scrolled to the director’s number, when it suddenly rang. From the director.

“Yes,” Summer answered. “I’ve found the black violin. Got it in the case and sitting next to me right now.”

“Excellent. So you’ll be flying it to Paris today?”

“Uh, you know I drive.” Because, adventurous as she was, soaring up to thirty-thousand-feet altitude in an airplane? Not going to happen. She was a creature of the earth and intended to remain as close to it as possible. It wasn’t that she was afraid of flying, she was merely sensible. “I’m sure I can have it there by tomorrow evening. Monday morning at the latest. I might find a place to pull over and rest because I’ve been driving all night.”

“That’s fine. As long as it’s secure, there is no rush. Go ahead and bring it directly to the Archives for cataloging.”

“Uh... Director Pierce?”

“Yes, Santiago?”

“What is the thing with this violin? I mean, it seems innocuous. It’s just another violin, albeit remarkably well preserved. The strings were even tight—”

“You didn’t play it, did you?”

“What?”

“Don’t play that violin, Santiago. All of Beneath will, quite literally, break loose if anyone should play that violin.”

“Uh...” Gulp. All of Beneath? That covered quite a lot of area. And included its ruler and nemesis, Himself. But really?

“Summer.” The director rarely used her first name, so that set her back in her seat. “Tell me you did not play the violin.”

“I did not play the violin.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but?”

She sighed heavily, and with a glance to the violin case, nodded. “But I did drop the bow, and it slid across the strings. It wasn’t as if it was purposefully played. It made more of a noise than anything.”

“Fuck.”

She had never in her service to Acquisitions heard Ethan Pierce swear. And now Summer noticed her hands shook. What the heck? She hadn’t done anything cataclysmically wrong. She was still alive. A vile nest of demons had not been released from the depths of the storage room where she’d found the violin. The sky was still blue. The earth still circled the sun. The birds were chirping. The...well, really. Everything was cool.

“Summer, Paganini had specifically stated that violin be destroyed. He did so because before his death the devil Himself made him an offer.”

“I know the history.”

“Yes, the history you can read in books and on the internet. But the real history—the one Archives records in the Book of All Spells—details that if Paganini had played one song on the instrument he would have been granted all the power the devil possessed.”

“Yes, but, Director Pierce, Paganini is dead. And like I said, it was just a note or two. Some noise. I did not play the violin. I’m pretty sure the uh...” No one spoke the devil’s name too much. Say it three times? You’ve invited him for lunch. “...the Big Guy hasn’t risen either. Everything is cool.”

“Is it?”

“You know I’m an ace at the smooth, clean mission. Why are you so worried?”

“It may be a precautionary worry. And I certainly hope it is. But what if playing a note or two disturbed the dead Nicolo Paganini? It’s a probability I have to consider due to the nature of the strange magics with which we often encounter.”

Summer let out a burst of laughter. And then she silenced. Director Pierce had not offered equal levity with return laughter. “Really? No. That’s— Why the musician? It was just a note or two.”

“Where was the violinist buried?” She heard clicking on his end, indicating he must be doing a search on the computer. “Parma. Not far from Cella Monte.”

“Yes, I’m just outside Parma now. I pulled over to...” She wouldn’t admit she’d been considering a nap.

“Then you can ensure your little mishap didn’t stir up trouble. You must go to the grave site to check that the musician’s grave is undisturbed.”

“Seriously?”

“Santiago, it is essential. You have either dallied very closely with a wicked bargain, or have, in fact, released a malicious force into the world.”

He had a way of making it sound so devastating that Summer shrank even deeper into the car seat. But then she sat up straight and hit the steering wheel with a fist. “I have done no such thing. Have you ever known me to mess up a mission, Director Pierce?”

“No, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions with this one. But that violin has been forged by Himself. I will hazard no foul-ups regarding any such object. The important thing right now is that you must go to the cemetery. Yes?”

She nodded. “What about the violin?”

“Keep it safe. And unplayed.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can, Santiago. You have served Acquisitions well over the years. I’m sure this little mishap was nothing more than that. An accident.”

“It was. I swear to it. You know I would never lie.”

“I do know that about you. Call me as soon as you’ve confirmed the Paganini grave at the Parma cemetery remains intact.”

“I’m off to do a little grave digging.” Yikes. “Sorry, Director Pierce.”

“Every Retriever faces a life-altering challenge at one point or another in their career. This may be yours.”

Life altering? He was really laying it on thick. “I’m always up for a challenge. Goodbye.”

She slunk back into the seat and closed her eyes. “Good one, Santiago. You may have just unleashed untold evil into the world.”

It always sounded more ominous in the movies. Of course, the movies had a soundtrack that made everything ominous.

“Good thing there’s no soundtrack today,” she muttered.

Had an accidental slip of the bow across the strings disturbed the famed violin maestro in his grave?

Only one way to find out.

“Guess there’s no rest for this wicked violin thief.” She swallowed, wishing she’d found a donor to slake her thirst earlier. “This is going to be a long day.”


Chapter 3 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)

The Villetta cemetery in Parma sat close to the edge of town, nestled near residential areas. On one side of the cemetery stretched gorgeous vast green fields and trees. Summer drove along the road edging a field, feeling as though it were a little oasis within the bustle of the busy world.

It was nearing noon, a lazy time of day that found most inside eating or relaxing before a meal. She wore her sunglasses, and she tinted all the windows in her cars for protection. A vampire could certainly venture out in the daytime, even in the sunlight. But they did burn much easier and faster than most, and direct sunlight could leave nasty sores and burns. So she never went anywhere in the summertime without a sweatshirt jacket and sunglasses. Sunscreen helped a bit, as well.

Though homeschooled by her parents, she’d been allowed to study those subjects that had most appealed to her and had basically designed her own education. Music and mechanics had topped her study list. So what she knew about Nicolo Paganini was that he had been buried in the cemetery only after much struggle to actually allow his body a proper burial. History books told that he’d refused the last rites on his deathbed, so the priest had denied him burial in consecrated ground. His son, Achille, had fought and struggled for years and had finally, after decades and agreeing to donate the remaining bulk of his father’s estate to the Catholic Church, won his father a resting place in Parma.

One could read the details of that weird burial struggle and assume Paganini had refused the last rites because he had been dabbling in the occult and perhaps had even made a deal with the devil, but it was also known that, at the time of refusal, he hadn’t thought he was going to die.

But it didn’t make sense to Summer. If he’d refused to play the violin then he couldn’t have been the devil’s associate, as so many had accused him.

Then again, what did she know? The musician had a sordid and interesting history. Accused of deviltry merely because he had been a prodigy on the violin? Stupid. But not for the time period, she supposed. And if he really had made a deal with the devil that would easily explain his phenomenal talent.

Summer knew people made deals with Himself every single day. And they were real and signed in blood and paid with breath and bone. She’d had a run-in with Himself once. She tried very hard not to ever let that happen again. And she had a built-in warning system thanks to her allergy to demons.

Checking the GPS map on her phone, which she’d attached to a plastic holder on the dashboard, she verified the cemetery wasn’t far off. She’d not once been in Italy before today, but appreciated the quiet afternoon drive. With luck, the cemetery would be as peaceful. And if she had to actually do some grave digging she would be granted privacy.

If she arrived at the graveyard to find that indeed the grave had been disturbed and the body was gone, she’d...

Summer blew out a breath. “I have no earthly idea what I’ll do.”

Her Retriever training had not covered tracking a newly unearthed dead man and returning him to the grave. Though, now she thought about it, all she had to do was rebury him. Right? It made sense. But what about a violin raising hell did make sense? And was it all of Beneath, or was it a metaphorical hell in the form of the man being some kind of demon or hellish being?

“You’re thinking about this too much,” she muttered as she drove by a man wandering along the road’s edge.

The single-lane tarred road was paralleled with grass growing high in the ditches. In need of a mow, but she liked the overgrown nature. A quaint countryside drive. So seeing a man wandering by in a black suit, looking rather dazed, gave her pause. She slowed the vehicle and peered in the rearview mirror. He stared after her, yet continued walking. Dressed in a long black coat, black pants and white shirt, and with long black hair. Was the coat actually a tux? The tails of it went to the back of his knees. His eyes looked like black voids from the distance. He was slim, but not unattractive. Maybe a little dirt on his face and hands?

In that somber suit he looked out of place against the cerulean sky and emerald field. On the other hand, maybe he was coming from a funeral that had just been held at the cemetery?

Or he could be...

“No. Freaking. Way.”

Summer’s heartbeats dropped to her gut, and she slammed the Audi to a halt. Grabbing the cell phone from the dash, she clicked online, thankful that she got Wi-Fi out here. Searching for Paganini brought up a page full of images. Tall, slender and darkly handsome for a nineteenth-century guy. Some caricatures made him look comical with a bent spine and spider-long fingers as he viciously attacked the violin. No actual photographs, though. She supposed photography had been invented a little later.

She shook her head as she gazed at the man walking away in the rearview mirror. “Can’t be. He looks...healthier, if not...normal.”

Shouldn’t a guy risen from the dead look...dead?

Tapping the steering wheel with her thumb, she then rubbed the hematite ring along the leather wheel. She was seeing things she didn’t want to believe. The director had spooked her with his warning about disturbing the dead. “He’s just a local. Wandering home from a funeral. Yeah.”

She shifted into Drive, but didn’t take her foot off the brake pedal.

The cemetery loomed ahead, within shouting distance. Could he really have climbed out of a grave and now be wandering the countryside? The man had been buried—she quickly did the math—around one hundred and seventy-five years ago. Wouldn’t her car freak him out? And the modern paved roads and—hell, everything?

“This is insane. He’s not a dead guy. He just happens to look like Paganini.” She was in Italy. All the guys were darkly handsome, right?

But she had to be sure. She wasn’t going to let this mission get any more messed up than it already was.

Shifting into Reverse, she backed the car down the road. When she paralleled the man, he paused and cautiously stepped back from the car as if it were a vicious bull staring him down. After a few moments of consideration, he leaned forward and peered through the window at her.

She rolled down the window. Grabbing her cell phone and clicking on one of the pictures, she then held it out, to compare images side by side.

“Ah shit. It’s him.”

* * *

Nicolo marveled as the dark glass window in the moving carriage slid downward to allow the driver to speak to him. A female driving a carriage without horses? Such a wonder the world had come to. He could not even be frightened at the strange prospect of allowing a woman such leeway as to drive about unescorted.

She held a small device out toward him and asked, “Is this you?”

What? Him? He leaned forward and saw there was a small painting on the device. Or rather it looked like a sketch. Of him. He’d seen that sketch. Sir Edwin Henry Landseer had done it during a concert when Nicolo had performed at the Royal Opera House in London.

“Yes, me,” he said in French because she had used that language. He spoke Italian and French.

“You are Nicolo Paganini?”

“But of course.” He leaned closer to her, but wasn’t sure about touching the carriage. It gleamed silver. Not a bit of wood to its construction. “How do you know this? What magics do you practice to identify me as such? And what witchery is contained in that box you show me?”

“It’s called the internet and this is a cell phone,” she said with a wave of the object before pulling it back inside.

He understood neither of those words.

She opened the carriage door and got out. The woman was petite and...dressed most strangely. Yet, Nicolo had seen a few women since wandering out from the cemetery. All wore trousers such as a man and close-fitting shirts with sleeves short enough to reveal more than enough arm, and on some, the necklines were so low as to show ample bosom. It had startled him so much he’d initially walked directly into a street lamp. And then a few feminine giggles had reassured him that the modern-day women still possessed a wicked tease comparable to those from his time where their wardrobe was concerned.

“Okay, Monsieur Paganini,” she said. With a shake of her head to spill the untidy long blond locks over one shoulder, she hooked her thumbs at the back of her slender-fitted trousers that hung low, exposing a slice of skin above the waistband, and rocked back and forth a few times on some odd violet shoes. “So uh...this next question is a doozy.”

“Doo-zee. I do not understand that word.”

“It means it’s going to set you off your feet real good.”

He stared down at the bespoke leather shoes he’d been buried in. Treasures to him. For to find a comfortable shoe that had fit his large feet? Not so easy. “Very well then.” He crossed his arms and prepared for the remarkable question to set him off his oversized feet. “Serve me your best.”

Because really? After climbing up from one’s grave, it couldn’t get much worse. Or was that better? He hadn’t yet decided if he should be pleased or worried about his new alive status. He’d been buried for a long time. The world had changed. And he was in a daze from it all.

“Did you just crawl out of a tomb?”

Nicolo’s jaw dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. There was only one explanation to her having such information. “Are you a witch? I know witches exist. How did you portend such a fact?”

“Just answer me. I was on my way to the Parma cemetery to see if you were still safely buried. Uh, but I guess you’re not.”

“I am not. For reasons beyond my knowledge, I have been summoned from death.” He brushed his fingers over the velvet coat he’d been buried in. His son had style, indeed. Though it fit tightly across the shoulders. When being resurrected, he’d gained some muscle. It made the coat cumbersome. “Does everyone know about this strange occurrence of my resurrection?”

“No, just me. And I’d like to keep it that way. You’d better get in the car. We have some things to talk about.”

“Get. In?” He stretched his gaze along the carriage. There were seats for others inside the compact conveyance, but— “No, I am perfectly fine standing outside on this smooth pavement. Such wicked alchemy you’ve concocted to make this vehicle travel without a horse is not something in which I wish to partake. I have avoided the devil’s work all my life. I shall not soon subscribe to such folly in my afterlife. As it is.”

“Your afterlife is because of me, I’m afraid.”

“How so? Did you summon me from the grave? You are a witch!”

She held up both hands, one of which still held the mysterious device containing his image. “Chill, Paganini.”

“I am rather warm in this attire. These are my funeral raiments. I’ve seen people wearing so much less. And you in your odd trousers and shoes. What has become of the gowns the women once wore? Your attire is freakishly masculine.”

She bristled at that statement, but then set back her shoulders, proudly. “I may be a freak, but the clothes are common for women nowadays. The world has changed a lot in a hundred and seventy-five years.”

“One hundred and...” He gaped. Truly, it was well beyond the 1920s in which Mary Grace had been buried.

“Like I said, we need to talk. I suppose I can’t interest you in climbing back into the coffin and letting me bury you again?”

“Are you— That is perfectly ghastly! You are worse than a witch, you—”

“Yes, yes. But since you know witches exist and suspect I am one, I need to set you straight right from the start. Get a load of this.”

She grinned widely, and Nicolo watched her upper incisors descend. They were pointed and sharp and—mercy, he knew what she was. He hated that he had such knowledge of the paranormal creatures that existed in this world. But he did because he’d had far too many conversations with the devil Himself.

And he knew what this woman was. “Vampire?”

She nodded and grinned. Surely the world must be overrun with her sort? For the very first person he should converse with would be a blood-drinking vampire? Perhaps crawling back into his coffin would not be such a terrible idea after all.

No. He was alive. And he wanted to remain that way.

“No,” he said defiantly. “I will not get into that conveyance with you today. Good day, vampire.”

And he strode off down the smoothly paved road, not sure where he was headed, but dearly hoping that his path landed him at the nearest tavern with a kindly serving wench who would take pity on his empty pockets and allow him a drink. Or two. Or many. Drunk seemed to be the only way to handle the day’s events.

Quickening his pace, he tried to ignore the vehicle rolling backward toward him. He had walked a great distance from the cemetery, but he was not tired nor were his muscles taxed. In fact, he felt good. Remarkably good. He couldn’t remember a time during his first life (that’s what he was calling it; how else to term it?) when he’d felt so utterly alive. So vital. So strong.

And he wanted to keep this strength. And figure it out.

The carriage stopped and out jumped the woman. She marched toward him. Petite and very pretty, despite her messy blond hair that seemed to fall in twists down to her elbows, and the terrible clothing that made her resemble a boy. He was surprised at her insistence. And even more surprised when she grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

“Take your hands off the coat,” he insisted. “It is fine velvet.”

“Yeah, yeah, velvet is cheap nowadays, buddy. Get over it. So the fact I’m a vampire didn’t freak you?”

“Freak me? You mean, you expected me to run screaming from you? I know of your sort, blood drinker. Have never met one, but I do have knowledge of the occult.”

“We call it the paranormal. Vamps, witches, werewolves, demons. All that jazz.”

“I’m not sure what creature a jazz is, but I am aware of the others you listed. Demons.” Nicolo stifled a shudder.

“You and me both.” She echoed his shudder.

“But I’ve always thought vampires—” He glanced skyward where the sun beamed brightly. “Aren’t you supposed to lurk in the shadows?”

“We vamps can do sunlight for a bit. But we still keep our heads down. But, as it probably was in your time, most humans are not aware of us.”

“So you are still not a large part of the population?”

“Large enough. But smart enough to walk in the shadows.”

“Yes, shadow creatures. So you are vampire.” So opposite of what he’d expected. Completely un-creature-like, this woman of the enticing blond hair and blue eyes. Save for those vicious fangs. Best not to rile the creature. He could play nice to protect his ass if need be. “I don’t think you should bite me. My blood may be...off.”

“Off?”

“I did just rise from the grave.”

“Right. Don’t worry, buddy. I’m not going to sink in my fangs. You’re a job.”

“A job—”

“So tell me how you’re feeling after a climb out of the grave? I should probably keep an eye on you. For, uh...possible decomposition.”

“Decomposition?”

“Well, yeah.” She gestured her hands through the air in exclamation and blurted out, “You could be a zombie.”

“A—what? I am not familiar with that term, vampire. What year is it, by the by?”

“2016. So you could be a zombie.” She pressed the tiny box a few times, then held it before him to display yet another painting. “Because zombies are dead things that have risen from the grave.”

The image was of a person. Maybe. Whatever it had been, it was decayed and—flesh was falling off its face and it oozed gore.

Nicolo flinched and made a disgusted face. “That is not me.”

“Probably not. Zombies are usually mindless and gross. They have limbs falling off and look like they just rose from the grave. They also eat brains. You’re...hot. So not zombie-like.”

Again she did something with the tiny device, then turned it toward him. “Here’s the mirror app. Take a look.”

He bent to study the reflection in the silvered surface of the device. Indeed, it had changed from showing a painting to a mirror. Marvelous. And diabolical. And yet...

“That is...me? I look...well.” He tapped his teeth again. They were white and not wobbling in their sockets. “Such a marvel.” His nose, long and with a bend at the middle looked like the same nose. His eyes were gray and clear. His hair seemed longer. As did his face look—well, healthier. Such a handsome fellow, eh?

Realizing he was mooning over himself, Nicolo cleared his throat and stood upright. “Did you say it was you who facilitated my rising from the grave?”

“Inadvertently.”

He quirked a brow.

“When I was inspecting my find, the bow slipped across the violin strings. Played a few notes. But I didn’t do it on purpose. It was accidental.”

“You have the black violin?” Nicolo’s heart thumped once, and he winced at the aching remembrance of that vile instrument.

“I do.”

Blowing out a heavy breath, he clutched his hair in frustration. “I asked Achille to destroy that monstrosity! Oh, this is most awful.” He started to stride away, then turned and paced the pavement back up to her. “Do you know what this means?” He slapped a hand over his chest. “That explains why I feel so alive and strong. I feel as though I could run round the world and not pause to catch my breath. And my teeth.” He tapped the perfect teeth in his mouth.

“Oh wow.” She peered at his teeth. “I read you had lost all your teeth before your death.”

“I did lose them! As well as my voice. I could not speak above a whisper for years before my death. And now it is as if I have transformed into a new version of myself when I climbed up out of that coffin. And you are the reason for it!”

He clutched her about the neck and squeezed. She struggled and then kicked and landed her foot successfully at his hip, just missing his groin. Nicolo dropped the vampire and with a shout, stumbled backward into a swath of lush tall grass.

“We women have learned a thing or two about defense since your time,” she said, standing over him. “Let that be a warning. You’re strong, though.” She rubbed her reddened throat. “Kind of weird for a dead guy.”

“I am not dead,” he managed as he fought to free himself from the long grasses tangled about his shoes.

“No, you’re not. But what are you?”

That was the question, indeed. By all the blessed mercies he prayed that foul brimstone bargain had not been enacted.

“Why did you play the violin?” he asked the vampiress. He had best be cautious for another attack. The next time she could use her fangs.

“I didn’t play it,” she said. “I was supposed to find the violin and bring it to Acquisitions, but I figured I’d better open up the case and check to be sure it was inside first. When I did, it was almost as if the violin had a mind of its own. I’m sure it played those notes by itself.”

That did not surprise him. What he knew of the violin was that it was magic most foul. Diabolical, even.

Truly, had she summoned him by enacting that bedamned brimstone bargain? It didn’t seem possible. The condition had been that he should be the one to play the violin. Only then would he be granted immortality and immeasurable supernatural power.

Did he have immortality now? He certainly felt...something. Stronger, and more powerful. Sure. Yet if not immortal, what, indeed, had he become? And how to fix it?

Did he want to fix it? That may imply his going back to the grave, of dying. Again. He rather liked the air today and the soft, sweet grass beneath his shoes. The sky appeared so clear and bluer than ever he could remember. When had he last admired the sky and simply inhaled the crisp summer air?

No matter, he must not rile this woman overmuch in case she might bite and kill him. Perhaps he could play along with her suggestion to keeping an eye on him. Yes, must needs.

A zombie? If he started to decay he would immediately request a second death, because if he turned into something like that thing displayed on her little box then—absolutely not.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“The black violin? It’s uh...” Her eyes wandered along the side of the fancy silver carriage, then snapped back toward him, though she didn’t meet his gaze directly. “...on its way to the Archives for storage.”

“I don’t understand that.” She was lying to him. Moments earlier she had said she had it. “You played it not too long ago. I felt the music. It moved through my veins. And it called out to me.”

“Really?” She stepped before him, admiration sparkling in her pale blue eyes. He recognized that look. So many had looked upon him as a literal idol when he’d been at his prime performing on the stage. “You’re really him. The Paganini.”

“Indeed.” He set back his shoulders and puffed up his chest. Felt good to step back into the acknowledgment of his talents. He was a maestro, and he would resume that status. Because he knew nothing else.

“What is your name, vampire?”

“Summer Santiago.” She offered her hand, and he assumed she wanted him to shake it.

He gripped it and her skin felt warm. Amazing to feel another being’s warmth and life, to be reassured that he, as well, possessed life. Then a flash burst in his brain, and he received a series of images as if a manic dream chased his reality. The vampire was twenty-eight, had always been a vampire, had a vampire brother named Johnny, and vampire parents. Her job title was a Retriever, and that had something to do with finding lost items or magical objects. An image of her lying beneath a steel carriage such as the one they stood before confused him. She wasn’t hurt. It was a place where she enjoyed being, or rather, working.

Summer pulled her hand from his, and the images flickered out like an extinguished candle. Nicolo chugged out a gasp as the blue sky and sweet grass resumed his senses. “What was that?”

“That was a handshake. I’m pretty sure they did it back in your time. Nineteenth century, right?”

“No, those images. I saw...” He tapped his forehead. “You have a brother who is a vampire, and he sings on the stage alongside his wife. Why does she have horns?”

“How do you know that?”

“It came to me when I held your hand. Is the woman demon?”

“No, Kambriel is vampire, but she wears horns as part of her stage costume. So holding my hand gave you images of my life? That’s some kind of cool power.”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t cold. Your reference to things being hot and cold makes little sense to me.”

“Oh, buddy, it’s slang, and you have so much to learn. But of course I don’t think you’ll have much time to gain all that knowledge.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t exist.”

“Is that so? Why? Do you believe I am some unholy beast resurrected from death?”

“Well...are you?”

He hadn’t an answer to that one. And if he thought about it too much, he wouldn’t like the truth. She wanted to put him back in the grave? Never. He was alive, and nothing would change that. And he was strong enough to get one little vampiress off his back.

He shoved her shoulder hard and watched as her body soared through the air a good thirty feet and she landed on the side of the road, tumbling into the grassy ditch.

Nicolo winced. That had to hurt. But he had to protect himself if he wanted to survive this new world.

“So long, vampire Summer. I am off to live my new life.”


Chapter 4 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)

Summer gave the guy a head start. The next town was only a couple kilometers away, and she was in no hurry to slide behind the wheel again for the long drive home. She’d have to take him with her. Couldn’t let some dead guy wander around unsupervised. Especially if he had anything to do with the possibility of Bad Things Happening.

Or even, Bad Things that Had Already Happened.

She sat on the hood of the Audi and slipped on her Ray-Bans. Sunlight beamed over a distant swash of chestnut trees, glittering in white over the leaf canopy. Crickets chirped in the grasses edging the road, and somewhere a cow mooed.

It wasn’t often she heard a cow moo in Paris. She loved these quiet moments out of the city. It served a different sort of adventure. A mental escape. Much as she sought the fast paced, the always moving, the rush and thrill of her job, times like this centered her. Gave her a few moments to appreciate nature. She wasn’t a tree-hugging hippy chick, just a soul who understood she was a part of everything on this planet, as it was a part of her.

So what part of it all had Nicolo Paganini become? He was the furthest thing from a zombie. No body parts falling off. No nasty skin peels or lumbering gait. Hell, the man was good-looking, and she’d noticed the hard muscles beneath the white dress shirt. For some reason he looked fit, beyond what any picture had depicted of his sometimes comically distorted figure in the nineteenth century. According to the history books he’d been tall, gangly and often sickly.

Was it possible he’d been forged differently when rising from the grave? Certainly he must have decayed lying in situ for a hundred and seventy-five years. So he had been renewed. To a marvelous degree. All parts of him were nicely proportioned and muscled. Every bit of him well made.

“But let’s hope he’s not the Beneath-breaking-loose part of the director’s suspicions.”

The musician had seemed innocuous enough. No flashing magic or vicious powers. Though when he’d shoved her away from him, she’d been startled at the force that had landed her far from where she had stood. He had never been that strong in his previous life. No mortal man was, for that matter.

“He is different,” she decided. And that part worried her.

Pulling out her cell phone, she dialed Acquisitions, and the director took her call. “You check out the cemetery?” Ethan Pierce asked.

“I uh, didn’t get that far.”

“I don’t understand. That was part of the mission, Santiago.”

“I found Paganini. Alive. Wandering the roadside.”

The director’s exhale spoke so much more than a curse or a few curt, remanding words.

“I can hardly lure him back to the grave,” she provided. “Unless you need me to do that?” She winced, hoping the answer would not be an affirmative.

“He’s alive. A man from the nineteenth century crawled out of his grave and is now walking the streets of Parma?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure what the protocol is for this. I’ll have to look into it. Does he seem violent, a danger to others?”

“No. Just startled to be in a different time period. It’s like he’s a time traveler flashed forward to the future.”

“Yes, sure. Is he exhibiting any zombie-like tendencies?”

Summer smirked, then winced as she closed her eyes behind the sunglasses. “Define zombie-like.”

“Limbs bluing. Necrosis of the tissue. Parts falling off.”

“Nope. He’s good.”

For now. But she intended to keep a close eye on him for changes. She’d never had to deal with a zombie before, and she did not look forward to starting.

“Keep an eye on him,” the director said. “Do not let him out of your sight. I’ll report back with further instructions.” He clicked off and Summer shoved the phone into her back pocket.

“Keep an eye on him. Sure. No problem.” Not as if she could look away from all that musician numminess, was there?

Twisting at the waist, she could no longer see Paganini’s figure walking along the roadside. He’d put some distance between them. But she’d find him. Shouldn’t be that hard to track a nineteenth-century musician who had just clambered out of his coffin. Had she just thought of him as nummy?

“You need to get laid, Santiago, if the dead guys are starting to look good to you.”

When had she last—? She didn’t even want to think about it.

Paganini had said his blood might be off. Meaning, he probably didn’t know what the heck he was. Either that, or he had been freaked she was a vampire.

Then again, no one ever really wanted to get bitten by a vampire. At least, no one smart.

Thinking of which... Exhaustion clung to her limbs. She needed to drink blood for a burst of renewal until she could steal a few winks for a true refresher.

She hopped off the hood and slid in behind the steering wheel. She suspected Paganini wouldn’t go far because he had to be hungry, too. She had time to find a meal before pursuing the former dead guy.

* * *

The tavern was a welcome respite from the sun’s sweltering heat that had worked up his perspiration during the walk along the black road. Nicolo had removed his coat and folded it over an arm while walking, and now he felt as if he’d walked into a different atmosphere. It was as if a thousand fans blew cool air on him, yet he couldn’t feel the wind of said fans. So refreshing!

No one sat by the long stretch of bar, and the barkeep nodded to him before asking what he wanted.

“Beer?” Nicolo tried. He wasn’t sure what the modern taverns served, but beer had been around for ages. “Have you food, as well?”

“Special is fish-and-chips. Our cook is Irish.” He shrugged and set a glass mug of beer on the bar before Nicolo. “You want that?”

Nicolo nodded. “Yes, please.”

Fish sounded great. But he had no idea what chips were. He would be surprised. The lure of the golden liquid in the glass coaxed him quickly forward. He slid onto a bar stool and tilted back the liquid. Yes, beer. And quite tasty. He downed half in a long swallow.

Looking about, he marveled at the clutter of paintings on the walls. Yet, they weren’t exactly paintings. Done in blacks, grays and whites, they were each framed and depicted people smiling and holding beer mugs. Had they all been composed and painted in this very tavern? Interesting. In the window a sign that said Pull Tabs flashed red light. How was that possible to produce light of such a color with no flames in sight? And overhead, light beamed down from small glass globes. Not in candle form.

“Remarkable.”

He finished the beer and asked for another. “Tell me about that device,” he said to the barkeep and pointed to the framed rectangle above the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar. On it images moved, as if he were witnessing a scene in real life. Men kicked a small white ball across a green field. They wore similar clothing. It must be some sort of sport.

“The TV?” the barkeep asked. “Where are you from anyway?”

Nicolo shrugged. “I’ve...been away from things for a while.”

“One of those hippies who lives in a mountain for ten years?”

He wasn’t sure what a hippie was or why a person would want to live in a mountain, but Nicolo again shrugged and nodded. “Sure.”

“You look it. But the women love the long, messy hair nowadays, eh? That’s the rugby competition. England versus Ireland. The Wolfhounds are givin’ ’em hell. In case you haven’t seen a television for a while, it’s a big screen, digital, HD, all the bells and whistles. I can get a hundred and eighty channels. Pretty fancy, eh?”

Nicolo had no clue what the man had just said, so he instead sipped the beer and nodded subtly. The bells-and-whistles device was like a larger version of the mysterious box Summer kept on her. Must be some sort of knowledge receptacle. Most likely of the devil.

Yet he could not bemoan this incredible chilled atmosphere. He glanced about, tracking the ceiling and noting the barkeep’s odd look. Nicolo shrugged, “Your establishment fascinates me.”

“Sure.” Jabbing a tiny wooden stick into the corner of his mouth, the barkeep reached through an opening in the wall and yelled thanks to an unseen person.

A plate of hot food was set before him, and Nicolo leaned over to inhale the delicious aroma. Yet, hadn’t he ordered fish? Whatever it was on the plate, a long strip of something pale brown, did not resemble fish. And he assumed the thin strips of similar color were the chips? He didn’t want to be rude and ask, so he picked up a chip and tasted it.

A salty crunch ignited Nicolo’s taste buds, and he quickly finished the first. And the second, and another.

“Amazing,” he murmured and finished them all before even trying what would prove to indeed be fish.

“Pace yourself, buddy,” the barkeep said. “We’ve more if you’re that hungry.”

“Thank you. I find it delicious, and yet strange at the same time. May I ask you how a man might find his way to Paris from here?”

He needed to find that violin that Summer had said she’d sent on to Paris.

“You could take the train, rent a car or hop on a plane.”

“Hop on a plane?” Even as he said it, he could only imagine hopping onto something flat. “I don’t understand.”

“An airplane? You really don’t know much, do you? Do you have money?”

Nicolo nodded quickly. He’d figure out some means to recompense before leaving the establishment.

The door behind him creaked, and in wandered two women, chattering loudly. They sat at a table in the dark corner next to a front window, and the barkeep brought them two bottles of wine.

Nicolo turned his attention to them. They wore trousers so short they revealed skin all up to their thighs! And what gorgeous legs that glided a long way down to their feet, which boasted strappy shoes on them. And their shirts were cut so low he saw the crease between their abundant breasts. They must be freezing in this chilly establishment. But when the one winked at him and raised a bottle of wine in a toast, Nicolo’s grin grew.

He recognized an invitation when he saw one.

* * *

The donor had been dozing outside a quiet cottage that looked like something from a Kimball painting. It had gone down quickly. Summer had taken but a few sips. Enthralling him to think good thoughts and fight the inevitable madness, she had then stepped away. She never stayed to see what results would come of her bite. That was asking for emotional heartache. Once she’d drunk too long and had actually witnessed her donor’s descent into madness. He’d beat his forehead against a brick wall. His body had shuddered, and he’d clamped his arms about his chest, crying and wailing. She’d fled, hoping it would be temporary. It had to be, yes?

Her weird ability to change her donors was her dark nemesis.

“Find the dead guy,” she muttered, focusing her thoughts as she got out of the car and walked across the street.

The Sneezing Cow tavern was one of those cozy little hideaways at the edge of town that most tourists passed by for the peeling paint on the outer stucco walls and the general lack of signage stating it did, indeed, serve liquor. But the tiny drunk lemon motif in the window clued Summer that inside she could find limoncello, which was her favorite aperitif. She didn’t do human food, but the occasional refreshment was always welcome.

Summer walked inside the tavern, eyed the dark corner where two women giggled and noted they were draped over a man who sucked in the attention as if with a straw.

She made way to the bar where, after asking, she was promptly served an icy yellow drink. “Grazie,” she said. “He’s not giving you any problems, is he?”

The bartender pushed back his long gray hair and winced. He wobbled his hand before her as he said in Italian, “I’m not sure he’s going to pay.”

She picked out the words pay and not from his Italian. She knew Nicolo wouldn’t, because what man came alive after a hundred and seventy-five years of death with a credit card and bank accounts? Was she going to have to teach him about the world and babysit him until he got his feet on the ground? The prospect didn’t sound as awful as it should, considering her list of things she found attractive in a man had apparently grown longer with the addition of “recently deceased.”

But the women would have to go.

“I got it,” she said and laid enough cash on the counter to cover a good hour’s worth of drink. Bottles, not glasses, she guessed, as another side glance spied one of the brunettes tilting back a dark wine bottle to her lips. “He’s harmless.” She hoped.

With a wink from the bartender, Summer sipped her sour lemon drink, then turned to go corral her new ward. She’d gotten them both into this situation. Now to deal with it.

Paganini acknowledged her with a wide rogue’s grin as he spread out his arms to embrace each woman wedged against him. She had to stop thinking of him as Paganini. Nicolo was his first name. It would help her to idolize him less. And right now, that was easy enough with the sluts he’d found casting her shade.

“Summer, you will join me and my new friends for a drink?”

Thank the goddess she’d had that sip before coming in here. It would make dealing with this easier because she was cool and collected right now. “We should get back on the road,” she said. “I’m sure you’re eager to find your violin.”

“But you already know where it is.”

True. She’d lied to him about it being on its way to Paris. The guy was newly alive. He couldn’t be operating on all pistons yet. Fingers crossed.

Nicolo tilted back a long swallow from the wine bottle, then said, “What’s a little stop along the way to renew my memory of humanity?”

“Why are you talking about violins?” one of the women asked in a drunken slur. A shift of her shoulder lifted her double Ds closer to Nicolo’s grinning face.

Mercy, his taste in women was— She’d cut him some slack. He had only been alive again for a few hours. And in the short trek he’d taken from the coffin to the tavern, Summer guessed the selection of women had not been overwhelmingly vast or varied. They were tourists looking for a good time with a sexy looker.

“I like drummers,” the other woman said as she licked Nicolo’s ear.

“Timpani?” He bristled and gave Summer a wink. “I am a violinist, ladies.”

“Sounds dirty,” the licker said. “You want to violin me?”

Summer rolled her eyes. Enough. She didn’t need this kind of torture.

“I’m parked outside,” she said to Nicolo. “I’ll walk slowly. But I am leaving. Which leaves you to either bone them and walk to Paris on your own—where you’ll find the violin—or hop in and ride shotgun.”

She’d let him figure out what that meant on his own.

Giggles followed in her wake. Summer did not turn around. A guy like him would probably choose the greater of the two evils. Heck, if she were newly risen from the grave she’d probably want to party it up, too. Who could know how much time the man had before he actually did begin to drop body parts and prove her zombie theory correct?

She wouldn’t mind the drive back to Paris alone. Yet she did have an order to keep an eye on the man. And she would. In her manner.

It was misting when she stepped outside. She slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the engine and flicked the windshield wipers on to the delay option. A few minutes to struggle with her ultimatum was all the man should need. She really should be nicer to him. Nicolo was like a newborn in this modern age. Everything must be new to him. Women in pants! Who’da thought? Of course, lust never changed. Sluts in bars!

And was she feeling jealous that he’d chosen such low-class choices for his first act of debauchery as a living man?

A man? What was he, anyway?

“There’s got to be someone who can take a look at him and know. Read his essence. Maybe a witch.” She grabbed her cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. “Verity.”

Verity Van Velde was a powerful witch who had a thing about knowing other people’s souls. Maybe she could touch Nicolo and know what he was? Because if he really was evil incarnate then Summer would have to suck it up and take him out. She would not be responsible for unleashing Beneath on the world.

The passenger door opened and Nicolo, smelling of wine and salty fries, slid inside. His velvet pants were sprinkled with rain droplets. He tested the seat by bouncing up and down, then slid a hand over the dashboard. It must have met his standards because he settled in. “You waited for me? I knew you would.”

“How’s that?” she said as she shifted into gear. She should have started rolling down the street, just to give him the illusion that she didn’t care.

“You like me,” he offered.

“Yes, well, I am your only friend. And please don’t call anyone who drags her tongue down your face a friend.”

“That was pleasant. The women in this age are much more open than I’ve been accustomed to. Yet still very much the same when it comes to lust. And the clothing! You women wear trousers and leave your shirts unbuttoned to reveal so much bosom. Marvelous.”

“I suppose petticoats and corsets were your thing, eh?”

“Those damned corsets did cause some extra effort for a man on a mission.”

“I bet.” She smiled despite herself. “I imagine bras will fascinate you and lead you on a quest of discovery.”

“What is a bra?”

“It’s a modern-day corset.” She wasn’t wearing one, so she wasn’t about to lift her shirt for an example. “Holds up the girls.”

“The girls? Ah, your breasts? Can I take a look?”

“You’re not as smooth as you think you are.”

“I would beg to differ. After I told the one woman that I understood her pain she melted into my arms for a nice snuggle.”

“Her pain?”

He turned on the seat to face her, gesturing casually as he spoke. “When I touched her I got a flash of her life. I did not understand the images of her pouting over a mystery device such as you showed me and crying for days on end, but I knew it was painful for her. So, I worked with it.”

“You got a flash of her life?”

He nodded. “Same as when I touched you.”

“Huh. You never had that ability before? In your previous life?”

“No. Do you think it’s a condition of my new existence?”

“I’m sure it is. But whether or not it’s good, bad or ugly remains to be learned. How about we head west for the French border? If I drive all night we should gain Paris by morning. You can take a nap.”

“I don’t feel tired. But I do wish I’d have brought along that last bottle of wine. Might we stop by another tavern along the way?”

“Depends on how nice you are to me.”

He tilted a genuinely concerned look at her. “I have no reason not to be nice to you, Summer the vampire.”

“True. And I did give you a second chance at life.”

“Yes, well, at what price?”

She glanced at him. The guy tilted his head as if to say “You did this to me.”

And she could undo it. Maybe. No matter, he’d better be nice to her.

“You said you resisted the offer from the Big Guy?” she asked.

“The Big Guy—oh, er, the Dark One?”

Good. He was on board about not speaking Himself’s name too much.

“Of course I resisted. Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. But power is not an easy thing to resist. And playing such an exquisite violin.”

“The not playing was the hardest part. But you know, the black violin that raised me from the grave was not mine?”

“That’s the part where I get confused. I thought your prized violin was on display in a museum.”

“Il Cannone?” Summer knew that was the nickname he’d given his prized violin. It referred to the explosive sound he had been able to produce with the instrument. “It is still around?” he asked.

“As far as I know, it’s still in a museum in Genoa. The Guarnerius?”

“Yes, made by Guiseppe Guarneri. I played that instrument for decades. It was my beloved. But after I fell ill I couldn’t make my fingers move as quickly or hit the right notes. I donated it to the city of Genoa as a means to put that torture out of my life.”

“So how does this other violin come into play? The black one I found?”

“It is the one the devil Him—er, the Dark One offered me. He told me I would be restored to health and could play again. Would have all the powers he possessed. Would become a god walking this mortal realm. He made me that offer many times over my lifetime.”

“Really? And you always refused? That takes a lot of courage and bravery.”

Nicolo shrugged. “I was talented by my own right. I did not need the dark evil. Nor would I ever accept. I did not want my son to see his father become a monster. But the Big Guy—as you call him—did not relent in his temptations.”

“I give you credit for resisting. I had a run-in with him once.”

“Is that so? What great temptations did he offer you?”

“None. I was just a baby. He kidnapped me and used me as bait to get my brother, Johnny, to come to him. He was trying to steal Kambriel’s soul, and Johnny was in love with her. It’s a long story. Suffice it to say, Johnny got me out of there safely. But ever since I’ve had an allergy to demons.”

“How does that affect you?”

“Whenever one is around I start sneezing. It’s weird, but kind of handy when you want to avoid the bastards.”

“I hate demons.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Really?”

“Uh, no.” She smiled at him. “That’s just an expression of agreement. So, I’m sorry. For the bringing-you-back-to-life thing. Because we don’t have any clue now if you’re going to go evil or—” Best not to make assumptions and make him feel worse than he must already. “I gave a witch friend of mine a call. She lives in Paris. I think if she touches you she might be able to tell us what you are. Would you be okay with that?”

“Yes, I suppose. I don’t feel evil. But I do feel as though I have so much to explore and learn now. I want to do it all, Summer. I have been given a new life, and I mustn’t waste any time in diving in.”

“Such as with the sluts back at the bar?”

“Sluts?”

“Women of ill repute. They were looking for a good time. And I had to pay for their wine.”

“I thank you for paying the bill. I ate fish-and-chips.”

“I guessed at the chips. What did you think of that?”

“Exquisite. They were crisp and savory. I have never seen a fish cooked in such a manner, but it was delicious. I want to taste all the food. I want to drink all the wine. And I want to hear music again. How I have missed it.”

“I can help you with that.” Summer tapped her cell phone, which sat in the dashboard holder. She scrolled to the music app. “This might blow your mind.”

“Is that similar to freaking out?”

She chuckled. The guy was sweetly innocent. Something that felt so refreshing in her life right now. “Same idea. This is what music has evolved into since your time.”

She flicked through the various playlists and decided to take the first song that came up. Thanks to her dad’s obsession, she’d grown up listening to a few of the country-music classics. Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” blasted through the car speakers.

Nicolo gaped and eyed her, then touched his ear as he tried to comprehend.

“Pretty cool, huh?”

“That’s—” He turned his head, checking around the inside of the car. “Where is that coming from? What sort of music is that? Is it magic?”

“Better. It’s technology. Let me find some rock and roll. With your background in music I think you might appreciate the head-banging stuff.”

“It comes from your tiny box? Surely that is witchcraft. And that thing is a witchbox.”

“Whatever works for you.” Black Veil Brides blasted through the speakers. “This is called heavy metal. The band actually incorporates a violin in some of their songs.”

Nicolo, while touching his ears intermittently and then touching the dashboard in seek of the source, gradually allowed a huge smile to trace his face. And when his eyes met hers, dancing with delight, Summer felt her heart drop.

The guy was a job. And before said job was over, she may need to kill him.


Chapter 5 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)

The sound—where was it coming from? Nicolo rapped the dashboard of the carriage, then sensed the sound was also coming from somewhere in the door. And the song had changed from one sung by a male vocalist to a female.

“So loud,” he remarked. “Yet her voice, it is tortured. What is this violent yet delicious music?”

“It’s called hard rock or heavy metal,” Summer said. “You like it?”

He met her daring gaze with an unsure nod, which then changed to a more positive shake of his head. “I think I do. What is she singing?”

“Song’s called ‘Welcome to the Gun Show.’ The band is In This Moment. I love her voice. So raw and raunchy. But I know something that will be even more interesting to you.” She turned down the volume using the radio dial.

“Don’t do that! I want to hear this.”

“I’m going to switch songs.”

“But you are moving too fast for me. I like this song. I want to put this into my brain.”

His enjoyment must have given her a kick, for she chuckled at him again. Such a bold woman. He attributed that to her being vampire. Or perhaps the twenty-first-century woman had evolved to a sort of exotically aggressive powerhouse. He liked it.

He liked Summer.

“A little David Garrett might surprise you,” she said. Tapping the witchbox, she said to it, “Play David Garrett’s ‘Paganini Caprice No. 24.’”

“Did you just ask me to—” Nicolo paused when the surprising first notes of the violin caprice carried over the speakers. “Mio Dio! This is my composition! But it is...”

“Given a hard rock edge. It’s awesome, isn’t it?”

Despite the fact he’d never appreciated when someone had attempted to play his compositions—because they could never achieve the perfection he had mastered—Nicolo found himself shaking his head to the dashing allegretto scale. “It’s different, but I do like it. The violinist even manages the harmonics. How were you able to command it to play a specific song? Does this vehicle know every song ever composed?”

Summer laughed. “No, it’s in my, uh...witchbox.” She tapped the tiny device. “More stuff you’ll have to learn about if you want to survive in the twenty-first century.”

“The twenty-first century.” He leaned an elbow on the vehicle door and caught his forehead in hand. “Who would have thought? And I am being conveyed in a horseless vehicle with no fear of running off the road. It is a marvel. And such a smooth ride.”

“Shock absorbers.”

“We had the like in my time. Just those springs were not so smooth as whatever is under your carriage.”

“It’s a car. Ah, I love this part.” She turned up the radio.

And Nicolo closed his eyes to take in the composition. It was well played and even more rapidly than he had once managed. The violinist was an expert. But he could not get beyond the marvel that the music was right there, at the literal touch of the vampire’s fingertip. She could call up any song she wished with her witchbox. A song that summoned many wonderful memories. Life had been beautiful when standing on stage. To be adored and respected had mattered to him. He’d had a lovely son and many lovers.

Could he have that again?

“We’re driving through a town,” Summer informed him.

“Ah.” He opened his eyes. “Keep your eyes open for a tavern.”

“They are usually referred to as bars nowadays. I see a liquor store. With luck, they might still be open.”

After Summer had bought a bottle of wine for Nicolo and explained how money was kept on small plastic cards, he decided he wanted one of those cards. They stood outside the car, and she handed him the wine. He bit the cork out with some difficulty.

He asked after swallowing a good draft, “They issue those plastic cards to everyone?”

“Yes, but you have to pay back the money. It’s not free money. And I’m pretty sure you are penniless.”

“You said my violin was on display in Genoa? If I sold that I would have thousands.”

“More like millions,” she said. “The Guarnerius Paganini is worth a fortune.”

“Just so?” She nodded at him and took a quaff from the bottle. “Then we should drive right to Genoa and demand they hand it over. It is mine, after all.”

“And how are you going to explain who you are? The whole rising-from-the-dead part?”

“I will leave that to you. It seems zombies are common in your modern world. You carry pictures of them in your witchbox.”

“I didn’t take that picture. It was from The Walking Dead. A TV show.”

“I know what a tee-vee is!”

“Good for you. I’ll have to find a music station for you to watch. Until then, I can do this.” She stepped alongside him and held up the device before them. “Smile.”

Nicolo could not figure what she was doing, but he smiled on command. Of course, he was distracted by the sweep of her hair across his neck. She took liberties with their proximity. He liked that, as well. The device clicked and after adjusting it, she turned it to him for inspection. Their images had been captured. Just now. The two of them standing together. It was...

“More than witchcraft,” he said on a tense whisper. “Is this the devil’s magic? Is it you who has come to tempt me this time around and see me play the black violin?”

He backed away from her. Tried to recall the way to hold his fingers to ward off the damned, but making a cross with two fingers was not it, he was sure of that.

“Nicolo, don’t worry. And we vamps are not repelled by the holy unless we’ve been baptized. Which I am not. Anyway, the last thing I want you to do is play that violin. A few accidental notes may have raised you from the dead, but I don’t think it was enough to make you evil. I suspect you actually have to play it to get the power promised to you by Himself. You uh...don’t want that power, do you?”

“The brimstone bargain.” He shook his head. “Never. I swear to it. It is vile. Monstrous. I would become like him. That is the last thing I want. I will not play the black violin, I promise you. But I must know how did you get it to Paris so quickly? If you found it back in Parma?”

“It was in Cella Monte, actually.” She shrugged, and Nicolo sensed a lie would follow. She looked away from him when speaking a mistruth. “We have our ways of making things happen.”

“We? That’s right, you said you worked for some organization that retrieves things.” Apparently they could transport items rather quickly. It surprised him, yet it should not, seeing that the world had changed so drastically. “Why was it decided you needed to locate the violin now?”

“I’m assigned my missions. I fulfill them. I’m always off after some kind of magical device or haunted item. Your violin was just another mission.”

“Not my violin,” he reiterated.

“Right. The devil’s violin. Yikes. I touched it. Do you think it will have some kind of residual effect on me?”

“You are the furthest from a zombie, my lovely blonde cherub.”

“I’m a vampire who sucks blood from people’s necks to survive. Cherub will never be me.”

“Perhaps not. But a vampire named Summer?” He let his eyes stroll across her soft skin and up to those brightly inquisitive blue eyes. There lived a tease in her look that he wanted to entertain. Might his first love affair in this new age be with a vampire? “Just seems a bit too cheery for a creature of the night. You, with blood drooling out the corner of your mouth, and a pair of white cherub wings stuck on your back.”

“Ha! Quite the image. You’ve got a bit of goth to you, I suspect.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’ll get along just fine.”

“Thanks, Brightness. You like that better than cherub? I do. You are bright as summer.” He tapped her witchbox with the neck of the wine bottle. “Now command it to play some of that hard metal. I like the tones and wild scales those guitars produce. How is it that they sound so different than the guitar I once played?”

“They are electric. The sound is amplified. Electricity came about after your time, and it’s a long explanation. Get in the car and I’ll crank the tunes.”

They did so, and the car filled with the raucous tones of the female singer and some strange instruments that he guessed might be guitars, but he’d never heard one so...amplified, as Summer had explained. Amazing. It would serve to distract him from the sudden distrust that had risen when she’d paused after he’d asked about the violin.

She had it still. She must. But where had she put it? And how to find it?

* * *

About two hours east of the Italian/French border Summer stopped the car at a roadside rest stop and got out. She’d had the music on the whole way and not the GPS. Bad idea. She announced, “I’m lost. I don’t recognize this road. I wonder if I took a wrong turn?”

“Why don’t you ask your witchbox?” the violinist said with weighted sarcasm as he got out of the car. “It seems to have everything you need in it.”

“Good idea.” She tugged out her cell phone and asked Siri for directions.

“That is utter madness,” an astonished Nicolo said as he joined her in a stroll along the curbed rest area. “Tell me, is it a tiny witch who lives within that box?”

“No. Not even this day and age could invent something so strange. Are there tiny witches?”

He shrugged. “You’re the one with the fangs.”

“Doesn’t mean I know everything about witches. I’m going to go with no on the tiny witches. But this?” She waggled the phone between them. “It’s just bits and bytes. Of which, I also know little. I only know that all the information I need is contained in here, and it’s also great for finding a good vintage car supply store in a pinch.”

“Vintage. So you do have an interest in the carriages that once conveyed me from city to city?”

“Vintage is like 1950s and ’60s. I own a 1960s Bimmer R65 that I’ve been tinkering on for years.”

“I see. So I must be absolutely ancient to you, eh?”

Summer chuckled. “You are not the oldest of my friends. Trust me on that one.”

“Right. Vampires live very long, as I recall. How old are you again?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“I remember twenty-eight. I was traveling across Europe with il Cannone and Antonia. Such a lovely voice she had.”

“Was she your son’s mother?”

“Indeed. I had no desire to marry, but I was thrilled to become a father. My son, Achille, traveled with me on the concert route, as well.”

“Did you ever play in Paris?”

“A few times. Took me two weeks to travel the same path we now journey. I must have stayed for months following. Couldn’t force myself to get back into that stuffy, wobbly box on wheels. If they would have had that remarkable cold air forced through tiny vents back then. Whew!”

“Right? It’s called air-conditioning. Wait until you learn about the shower and toilets. And computers!”

“Is a shower what I think it is? Because I could use some freshening. I feel as though I’ve gone for almost two centuries without washing.”

“Ha. The dead guy made a joke.”

“No, the dead guy is merely speaking the truth.” He flapped the lapels of his velvet jacket open. “This thing is hot. And...a hundred and seventy-five years old. I need new clothing. But how to obtain clothing and food without money? I require a violin, as well. Then I can play for a living again.”

“I’ve got cash. Don’t worry about it.”

He walked around in front of her to stop her in her tracks. “Summer, a man does not accept money from a woman. Not unless she wishes him in her bed every night after a concert,” he added with the roguish grin.

“Have you ever been a woman’s gigolo?”

“There were a few times when the money did not come in quickly and in such amounts as I had needed. Must needs for hard times. You understand.”

“Yeah, sure. You were a man whore.”

He caught on to her tease and could play along. “I never stood on the streets offering my wares. Yet before my name became known I had to sacrifice for my art. Now where is that violin? You have to have it with you.” He peered over her shoulder at the parked car. “Where did you hide it?” He strode off toward the car.

“I said I sent it to Paris!” But she didn’t believe that lie any more than he obviously did.

Summer spun around and went after him. He pounded on the trunk and ran his fingers along the seam opening.

“It is inside this car,” he said. “I can hear it. There, within this receptacle. It looks like a back boot on a carriage. Open it!”

“You can hear it, too?” For a moment their eyes met, and she saw his wince before it even happened. “I don’t think it’s a good idea that you touch that violin. We can’t know what it will do to you.”

He rapped his chest with both fists and gave her the most incredulous stare. Okay, so they did know what it would do to him. Because it had already done it. It had brought him back from the dead.

“Let me rephrase that,” Summer said, trying for the stall.

“Open it,” he insisted. “Or I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Toss me across the field? Shove me so hard I’ll fly into the next town?”

“I apologize for my quick aggression earlier. I had no idea I was so strong. It is a new strength to me. But I like it. It makes me feel powerful.” He flexed his fingers into a fist. “But I won’t allow you to redirect this conversation. You have the violin.” He rapped the metal trunk hood. “In there. I’m sure of it. I can hear it. It whispers,” he said, feeling it in his veins. The darkness that curdled up his spine whenever he considered his origins and the wicked bargain he’d continually refused in his previous life.





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