Ben said, “So if I’m a vampire who lost… a coin collection, let’s say”—Fabi shot eyes at him, but Ben ignored her—“you’re saying there’s no one like Gio who would track that down?”
Serafina shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. No one with your uncle’s reputation anyway. You could hire someone, but we’re speaking about priceless artifacts, Benjamin. Many of which would only be legends or rumors to human sources.”
“And”—a gruff voice broke into their quiet conversation as Zeno entered the courtyard—“we’re paranoid bastards.” He bent to press a hard kiss to Fina’s mouth. “Are you well this night, my love?”
“Yes, Zeno.”
“Good.”
Ben cleared his throat loudly, and Fabi kicked him. He ignored her.
“So Zeno, why don’t you think—?”
“How would one vampire trust another to retrieve an artifact for him or her without stealing it, eh?” Zeno sat next to Fina while she fussed with the collar of the shirt he’d obviously just tossed on. “Even if you did trust another vampire to find it, that immortal would be a target for the opportunistic ones. There are few vampires like your uncle who have trustworthy reputations and the ability to back up their word with power.”
“But Gio won’t look for anything but books.”
“No, and I understand why. To do what we do”—he put an arm around his wife—“you must love it. You must have passion. Because often the work… It is dull, no? So many hours looking for one tiny clue that could lead you to another clue. Dead ends. Destroyed sources. Your uncle loves beautiful things, but he doesn’t have the passion for art that he has for knowledge. It would be very convenient if we had someone who did.”
Fabi kicked his shin again.
“Ow! Will you stop?”
Fabi just shook her head. “Nino, sometimes your head is full of rocks.”
Chapter Five
Rio Terà dei Assassini, 3806 Venezia
“REALLY?” BEN LOOKED AT THE paper in his hand and the key that looked like it belonged somewhere in the seventeenth century. Then he looked at the seemingly incomprehensible address that had been left at the house in Rome the day before.
His low cursing must have attracted the attention of the young man setting out tables at the small osteria on the Rio Tera dei Assassini.
The young man smiled and called out to him, “Are you looking for something?”
“My friend’s flat,” Ben replied, tugging his messenger bag back up his shoulder and walking toward the waiter, valise in one hand and slip of paper in the other. “This address she gave me… I swear, I’ll end up walking into the canal. I don’t think it exists.”
The young man frowned at the paper when Ben handed it to him. “I don’t recognize this address either. Venice can be difficult. Sometimes the houses aren’t marked. This one…” He craned his neck around the curve of the narrow street. “Yes, you’re right. It should be on the corner next to the canal, but the number isn’t correct.”
“Great.”
“Try to call her, yes?” The helpful young man smiled. “She must have written it down wrong.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Or she doesn’t really want to see you.” The waiter laughed. “Women, no?”
“You have no idea with this one.” Ben tapped his leg and felt the key in his pocket. “I think I’ll go try the one on the end. You’re right. She probably just wrote it down wrong. Thanks.”
“Come back for a drink if you can’t find her,” the waiter said. “Nothing makes us forget them like wine.”
Ben cracked a smile. “No such luck. This one is unforgettable.”
He wandered down the street and waited, but it was dead quiet. The street was hardly wider than an alleyway back in LA. There were no shops and only a couple of quiet restaurants, neither of which looked like it catered to tourists. In the maze of Venice, this tiny street managed to be completely anonymous while only five minutes’ walk from the madness of Piazza San Marco.
“Incredible,” Ben said, leaning out over the canal where gondoliers pushed gawking tourists through the narrow canals. Some sang. Most chatted on their mobile phones.
Ah, Venice.
He had to admit, the note had been a surprise. What was Tenzin doing in Venice? What did this have to do with Alfonso’s tarì? And where the hell did she expect him to go?
He was leaning on the end of the building, watching the gondolas push past when an old man shuffled out of the nearest door. It was a green maintenance door with electrical-shock warning signs screaming in yellow and various outlines blocked out. Apparently that doorway was not a good place to walk your dog.
The stocky old man turned to lock the green door and noticed Ben. He scowled, took a moment to look him up and down, then snorted while nodding.
“Okay,” the man said, giving Ben a “hurry up” hand as he walked across to the opposite door. “What do I expect? Does she tell me anything? Of course she doesn’t.” He stopped and turned to Ben. “Do you have the key or not?”
“I think so?” Ben held up the key and the old man nodded and took it.
“Fine, fine.”
The old man must have been Tenzin’s caretaker. Or… something.
The old man kept grumbling. “‘A friend soon,’ she says. When is soon? Of course soon is three months later. Because I have nothing else to do but wait for her friends.”
“Oh God.” Ben had a depressing flash of insight that the old man could very well be a vision of his future. Fifty years from now, his youth gone, still managing to get pulled into Tenzin’s schemes. “I need to rethink my life.”
The old man opened a heavy wrought iron gate and raised a finger as he squinted at Ben. “Yes. You do. And don’t forget to lock the gate on the way out. The code is written on the wall in the courtyard. Five hundred years old and she can’t remember a gate code. She has to carve it into perfectly good plaster. Bah.” He threw up his hands, let go of the gate just as Ben caught it, and walked away.
“Bye,” Ben called. “Thanks.”
The old man just threw up a tired hand and kept walking.
“Really, really need to rethink my life,” Ben said under his breath as he hoisted his bag higher and walked into the entryway of…
One seriously cool house.
“Holy shit.”
It was a “house” the same way Giovanni’s house in Rome was a house. Just a Venetian version. There were rooms on either side of him, but a wide, open-air hallway led back to a lush green courtyard where an old marble fountain trickled and orange and lemon trees were espaliered along the walls, interspersed with raised beds of herbs and vegetables. Three stories up, arched windows opened over the courtyard, letting in whatever trickle of breeze the sweltering day allowed.
Past the courtyard, a wide entry hall floored in black-and-grey-checked marble led to a private dock with another elaborate wrought iron gate. White marble statues lined the entry, and Moroccan lanterns with brightly colored glass dripped from the ceiling. Ben could hear a gondolier whistling past the gate, but the man paid him no attention as he explored.
“This. Is. The. Coolest,” he said. And a pretty brilliant setup for an air vampire. He kept in the shadows of the entry hall and realized that, except for the courtyard, the whole first floor was light safe. No direct sunlight could get in with the high walls and soaring buildings across the canal. At night the private, open-air courtyard would give Tenzin access to the rooftops of Venice while the canal, though not ideal for an air vampire, provided another exit route.
He wandered up a half flight of stairs off the entryway and saw a carved wooden door cracked open. He peeked his head in and saw a fantastic suite complete with a sitting area and small kitchen. There was a bedroom that faced the corner canals and a bathroom with the biggest tub he’d seen so far in Italy.
“Mine,” he said, pulling the thick velvet drapes back to look out the windows. “So, so mine, Tiny.”
Ben w
andered back to the stairwell and up to the second floor, but the massive arched doors were locked. He poked around the ground floor a little more. It was well maintained, had a surprisingly updated kitchen, but wasn’t anything shocking. Another bedroom and what looked like a utility room of some kind. Laundry facilities and gardening tools mainly. Ben’s suite was the only room with air-conditioning, so he tossed his bags in the wardrobe and collapsed on the bed.
❂
TENZIN landed in the courtyard of the Venice house just after dark to the echo of Louis Armstrong singing “Hello, Dolly!” coming from the hall on the ground floor. The turntable had been dragged out of the utility room and a pile of old records sat on the table next to it. The colored lanterns were lit and the gate to the canal was swung open. A wine bottle was open on the lacquered table, and Ben was lying stretched on the chaise facing the canal, a glass of wine dangling from his fingers as he watched the shadows of the gondolas pass.
She sat across from him and grabbed for his glass of wine, throwing her legs over the round arm of the rattan chair Silvio must have bought recently, probably when she told him to expect guests.
“Does Silvio know you’re playing his records?” she asked as the needle started “Mack the Knife.”
“Me and Silvio”—Ben held up his fingers and crossed the first two—“we’re like this, T.”
Tenzin started laughing at the lazy, half-lidded expression on his face. It wasn’t often Ben let himself become intoxicated. When he did, she had to admit she found it entertaining. She sipped the wine and recognized a familiar vintage.
“I see you discovered my wine,” she said.
“I moved a few cases to my suite.” He sat up and kicked his legs out, grabbing his glass back from her fingers. “I figured you’d want to share. Tenzin, this place is amazing.”
She looked around and nodded. “I like it.”
“No, no, no. You don’t like a house like this.” He waved a hand toward the canal. “This is la dolce vita. This is a house you escape to as often as you can.”
She shrugged. “I come here more often than you might guess. Venice is very peaceful at night.”
“That’s good. I’m glad. I’m glad you come here.” He stared at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, his mouth spread in a lazy smile. “Peaceful places are important.”
She laughed. “You’re drunk.”
He slid off the chaise and scooted over to her, sliding his knees across the polished marble.
“Maybe a little.” He leaned his elbows next to her and leaned his chin on his hands. “Do you mind?”
She mussed his curls, damp from the muggy Venetian air. “Of course not.”
He laid his head on the arm of her chair and closed his eyes. She was a little worried he was going to fall asleep until his ears perked up at the sound of a simple piano melody from the record player.
Ben stood, unfolding his rangy frame with the grace of the slightly buzzed, and held out his hand.
Tenzin shook her head.
“Yes,” he insisted, tugging on her hand until she rose to her feet. “You have to.”
“It’s my house.”
“And it’s Louis singing ‘A Kiss to Build a Dream On.’ On a record player.” He swung her into his arms and began to lead her around the entry hall. “In the most perfect house in Venice. We have to dance.”
She gave up and let him slide one arm around her waist. “What is this?”
“This is… kind of a drunken foxtrot,” he said. “Don’t question it. Just let me lead.”
She laughed when they slid a little too close to the canal steps and Ben swung her back at the last minute. “Just don’t lead us into the water!”
He whispered, “Shhhhh.”
Ben kept them away from the canal. They swayed as the song crackled in the air, the singer’s voice rasping over the smooth trumpet and piano. She felt Ben sigh deeply and pull her closer as the trumpet rose in chorus. He hummed under his breath and continued to spin slowly around the checkerboard floor. Tenzin heard a gondolier outside singing along, his voice raised as he passed the dock and spied them dancing.
“Bacialo!” the gondolier called with a laugh. “Kiss him!”
Before Ben could respond, Tenzin floated up and pressed a fleeting kiss to his open mouth.
“Shhhh,” she whispered. “Don’t spoil it.”
Ben smiled his sweet, lazy grin and turned them in another circle.
It was a crystal moment.
A balmy summer night in Venice, the water lapping quietly at the dock as a beautiful boy danced with her under colored lanterns. A slow turn and whirl that reminded Tenzin she was alive. After everything… she was alive. She tucked the dance into a corner of her mind, next to the scattering of other crystal memories.
A baby’s laughter.
The feeling of stars inside her.
A gentle brush of paint over bare skin.
A familiar face stamped on the boy in front of her.
An unexpected dance on a warm summer night.
The song wound down, and Ben dipped her back until her hair swept the marble. He slowly raised her up and hugged her tight. “Thank you,” he sighed out, “for making me come here.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I needed this.”
“I know.”
“Yeah,” he said, laying his cheek on the top of her head as “Takes Two to Tango” came on the record. “You always seem to, Tiny.”
“That’s because I am very old and wise.”
“And I’m kinda young and stupid sometimes.”
She pulled back and looked up at him. “We all were. Even me.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Don’t believe you.”
Ben started to move her to the music again. The wine must have been wearing off because his movements were just a little tighter, his feet a little faster.
“Where did you learn how to dance?”
“Caspar insisted,” Ben said, spinning her around with ease. “Told me I’d thank him some day.”
“And have you?”
“Many times. Girls love a good dancer.”
“So, are you finally relaxed?”
“That depends.” He pulled her to his chest and tipped her chin up. “Are you going to introduce me to your forger?”
Tenzin smiled. “I knew you’d figure it out.”
❂
A YOUNGER, less grumpy version of Silvio picked them up at the dock at midnight. The young man, whom Tenzin introduced as Claudio, kept the boat’s motor almost silent until they were well away from San Marco. Speeding into utter blackness, Ben tried not to panic and instead enjoyed the whipping wind on his face as the wood-paneled boat crossed the dark lagoon.
“Where are we going?” he shouted.
“Murano.”
“The island of glassblowers?”
“It’s not just glass. But the glass helps. Nobody notices his forges there.”
Forges. Of course. You couldn’t fake medieval coins with a regular art forger, you needed a metalsmith. Someone who could pour the metal and create the dies for the coins. You’d need an engraver too.
“Tenzin?” He switched to Mandarin. “Do you actually have these coins?”
“Of course. I’ve had them for around four hundred years. Took them from the Neapolitan treasury ages ago.”
“So you stole them?”
She shrugged. “Define steal.”
That sounded like a conversation he’d need more wine for. “The manual you took from Perugia. Was it for your forger’s benefit or yours?”
“Mine. Oscar has been doing this for a long time. I just wanted to check his work. Don’t mention the manual to him. He’d be offended.”
“Wouldn’t dare.”
The moon peeked from behind the clouds and lit up the lagoon. Ben tried not to notice how fast they were going since Claudio looked bored. This was clearly a familiar route for the young Venetian.
“The museum,” she said. “Did you g
o like I asked?”
“I did.”
“Several of Oscar’s copies are in there,” Tenzin said.
“So he’s good.”
“He’s the best.”
Ben could see tiny lights in the distance. The flat outline of Murano appeared in the sliver of moonlight. The small collection of islands had become the home of all Venetian glassmakers in the thirteenth century when they were forced off the main island by fears of fire. Since then, Murano had swelled and waned in power. Now it was part of Venice, but Ben knew at one time it had its own government. Even minted its own coinage.
“How old is Oscar?” he asked.
Tenzin shrugged. “Ask Oscar.”
Yeah, that was likely.
“I first heard of him in the seventeenth century,” Tenzin said. “He already had a very good reputation as a metalsmith. Water vampire, of course. Most Venetians are. He designed a piece of jewelry for me around the time I bought my house here. We’ve been… associates since then.”
“So he’s at least five hundred years old.”
“I’d estimate around six. He was young when I met him, but not that young.”
Ben nodded and tucked the information away. Venice in the seventeenth century would have been in decline as an economic and cultural power, but it was still plenty wealthy. Tenzin must have paid someone off handsomely to buy a home in San Marco.
“We’ll go to his workshop tonight so you can meet him. He told me the job is about half done. He’ll need another week at least before we can return the coins to Alfonso.”
“You mean give him the fakes?” He shook his head. “Do you really have the tarì? Or was this whole thing a ruse?”
“Would I lie to you? Of course I have them. How else could Oscar have reproduced them? I like them, and I don’t want to give them back. Why should I when I can hire Oscar to make some very nice fakes for Alfonso? I even found some North African gold to duplicate the originals.”