“Well?” The woman sat forward, her eyes alight with expectation.
“Your brother sends his regards and asks us to report that all has been prepared exactly according to your wishes, madonna.” The elder of the two spoke with the slight accent of his country.
A new fire came into the woman’s eyes. It was the news she had been waiting for, the news that her victory was at hand. She had only to wait for her triumph.
“The boat is prepared and awaiting your embarkation,” the fair giant went on after a pause. “Your brother will join you within three days. In his place he offers you our company, to provide any assistance or service you may desire.”
The woman let her eyes linger over the two immense, muscular bodies before her and smiled appreciatively at her brother’s choice of messengers. She was pleased to see he prized her at her worth, sending the guards he adored most to protect and care for her on the journey like the treasure she was.
“You will do nicely,” she said finally, turning back to her companion. The young man had risen and was moving toward a passageway that led directly to the canal and their waiting boat, but he halted abruptly when she called to him. “Soon, my angel, soon we shall go, but not yet.”
“This delay is stupid,” the young man whined, his hand lingering on his codpiece. “We would be so much safer and more comfortable in the gondola.”
Inexplicably, she had grown fond of the young man, and therefore tried to keep the displeasure out of her voice. “My dearest would not begrudge me my crowning moment of triumph, would he?” she coaxed him, using her hand to move him toward her. As she was cooing at him, the sounds of commotion outside the door filtered into the room. The woman stopped talking and listened with concentration for a moment, then smiled widely.
“At last. This promises to be very diverting.” The young man had just resettled himself alongside her on the divan when the outer door burst open, admitting her Moorish servant, turban askew and very harried, being carried in by two tall men. The servant was trying to speak, blustering something about daggers and orders from the Senate, but the woman silenced him with a nod. When he had departed, so distraught that he forgot to shut the door behind him, she focused her attention on her two unexpected but not unwelcome guests, favoring them each with a devastating smile.
“I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you, Ian,” she said in a voice filled with genuine satisfaction. “Although I am not surprised, I had planned it this way. However, the hour was growing so late that I feared I would have to make do with secondhand reports of your suffering. It will be much better to witness your demise in proprio persona. How nice of you to oblige by calling upon me so opportunely.”
“I fear I shall have to disappoint you, Morgana, for I have no intention of dying just yet, nor have I come to see you.” Ian spoke with deep disdain. “I console myself with the fact that you have grown to expect such unbecoming behavior from me.”
“He used to call me ‘Mora’,” the woman said not to him but to the assembled company at large, “and hang dotingly on every word I said. Though he was clumsy and ill-mannered, I kept him on out of pity. But now look at him. Invading my house, gracelessly challenging my authority.” She shook her head with reproof and addressed Ian specifically. “Yet again you fail to understand. You have indeed come to call on me. And you will indeed meet your end soon. In one way, however, you are correct. You shall not die right away, for I have decided to destroy you before I kill you. What I have planned for you is much more hideous than mere death. And completely unstoppable.”
“The prospect is thrilling, and I would love to hear more,” Ian, followed by Crispin, moved toward the young man, “but we have actually come to arrest your new favorite for the murder of Isabella Bellocchio.”
“No,” Mora shook her head, “that won’t do at all. Another of the little fictions you devise to console yourself for your incompetence, Ian. Your arresting him would be most inconvenient. You see, Angelo and I were just leaving for a journey to Zante.” As she spoke, she made a slight gesture to Jenö and Roric, who stood on either side of the divan. “I hear the climate there is much better than this dreary rain, which I find does nothing for my disposition.”
Ian looked serious. “I would hate to interfere with the improvement of your disposition. By all means, leave at once. It is only Angelo Grifalconi that we want. You are free to go.”
Ian made a move to take Angelo’s arm, but was stopped by a supernatural force that held him immobile. His first irrational thought was that Morgana was indeed in league with the devil and had cast some sort of infernal spell on him, but he soon realized that it was no more than one of the giants gripping his arms from behind. Mustering up all his energy, Ian jammed his elbow back ward into Jenö’s abdomen and received nothing but a grunt and a sore elbow for his pains. The man was made of some sort of metal, he decided with alarm. Turning his head, he saw that the other giant had seized Crispin’s right arm in a similarly disabling fashion, but had allowed his left arm to hang free. Ian said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity had made his brother left-handed.
It was the only advantage they had, and he would have to use it to its utmost. Clearly brute force was not on the side of the Arboretti. They would have to rely upon their wits to free them selves, let alone to take Angelo prisoner. And they would have to do it fast, before Morgana decided it would be diverting to listen as their necks were snapped in two.
“Call off your little toys and let me have Angelo.” Ian’s voice was commanding. “I really do not have time for these games.”
Mora regarded him with unfeigned merriment, both sides of her mouth curved into a smile. “I’d forgotten how diverting you could be, Ian. Describing Jenö and Roric as ‘little.’ Indeed!” She laughed to herself softly. “You must know how it pains me to deny you anything, after what we have been to one another, but Angelo is going nowhere with you.”
Crispin had been studying his brother with astonishment. What could he possibly be thinking? No one knew better than Ian how cunning Mora was, yet he was acting as if he were negotiating with a child. At the moment in his life when he needed to be the most subtle and coy, Ian was coming out with direct orders and proclamations. Maybe the tension had gone to his nerves, Crispin thought with panic. His panic deepened as he watched Ian’s head and left arm jerk slightly. Was his brother going to have some sort of nervous fit, right there, with so many lives hanging in the balance? Acting on instinct, Crispin was about to reach his free arm toward Ian to steady him when, all at once, he understood.
“Morgana, I am surprised at you.” Ian worked to keep the relief out of his voice when he saw that Crispin had gotten his signal, focusing instead on holding Mora’s attention. “What has Grifalconi got that a thousand other men, and at least a hundred dogs, could not offer in equal measure?”
“You are jealous!” Mora closed her eyes to savor the prospect, just long enough to keep her from seeing the slight motion of Crispin’s left hand. “At least you have finally come to know my value, to appreciate what I might have been to you if you had been brave enough.”
“You really know how to drive a point home, doesn’t she, Crispin?” Ian asked, willing his brother to look at him. As their eyes met, Crispin winked and then jammed the dagger he had quietly freed from the waist of his doublet deep into Roric’s left thigh. Roric emitted a groan so loud that it startled everyone, including Jenö, whose grip loosened for split second. That was all it took for Ian to wriggle away, freeing his long sword from its sheath at his side. He moved directly toward the divan, sword drawn and aimed at Angelo’s heart.
“If you come any closer, I am afraid your brother will have to die,” Mora said in a conversational voice, as if passing a polite remark at a party.
Ian stopped where he stood, a hand’s width from where Angelo sat languidly on the divan, and turned to look at his brother. Roric had pinned Cr
ispin’s arms behind him and had pressed a dagger to his neck. While Ian watched, Roric demonstrated the dagger was not just for show by pricking Crispin’s throat ever so slightly, just enough to draw a steady stream of blood.
And then everything blurred. As Ian watched, the luxurious hall became the plains of Sicily, Crispin’s face became Christian’s, the blood dripping down his cloak Christian’s blood. The nightmare was becoming real again, he was in it, but this time he would not let Christian die. This time, he would charge the assassin himself. This time he would drive his sword straight into him. Still in his dreamlike haze, Ian pulled his sword up before him and moved directly toward Roric and Crispin. Crispin watched Ian first with surprise and then horror as he drew closer, his eyes unseeing, completely devoid of emotion or personality. Roric’s dagger dug deeper into Crispin’s neck with every step Ian took toward him.
“Ian!” Crispin called to his brother, desperate to penetrate his horrible daze and pull him back into the present. “Ian!” he gasped again, Roric’s knife piercing deeper into his throat.
Ian neither stopped nor slowed. He kept coming, moving closer with clocklike precision, his expression glacial, his intent clear. Crispin, seeing that his death was on the horizon, had just begged the Deity to be merciful with his soul, when Ian halted.
He was almost close enough to drive his sword into Christian’s assassin when a curtain lifted from his mind, and he found himself standing before Crispin and Roric. Ian looked quizzically at his sword, extended in front of him and ready for battle, then at his brother. Crispin, cloak covered with blood, was regarding him with terror and dread. Even with the haze lifting, it took Ian a moment to realize where he was, and another to grasp what was happening.
Ian’s arm dropped to his side. The full horror of what had almost occurred washed over him in a disabling wave.
“Ian,” Crispin mouthed plaintively, relief warring with worry as he watched the dead look in his brother’s eyes replaced with a deep despair. “Musn’t…give up…Remember…Bianca.”
As Crispin spoke, a clock somewhere in the house struck nine times, breaking through Ian’s lethargy. Sicily and the horrors it held for him receded, allowing his reason to return and with it his determination. He may have failed Christian, but he would not fail Bianca. Or Crispin. Damn it, he would not again stand idly and watch as another of the people dear to him got his throat cut. He was being given a second chance, and he was going to take it.
Ian’s mind whirled, examining—and then discarding—every possible course of action. He knew Mora well enough to know that she was in earnest, and that she would not hesitate to kill Crispin if Ian took another step toward her favorite. He knew equally that surrendering his sword probably would not keep her from having Roric kill Crispin, just for the pleasure of it. And if she had Crispin killed, there was no question but that she would kill him too.
When he heard Mora shift on the divan behind him, Ian’s spine stiffened, preparing himself for her taunts. But instead of mocking, her voice came even and unhurried, as if he had not fallen into a strange stupor, indeed as if nothing at all had happened since she issued her ultimatum.
“I find it excites me to have drawn swords in the house,” Mora said with a playful shudder that brought a smile to Angelo’s lips. “If you care at all for your brother, I suggest you resheath yours. Now.”
In a flash, Ian realized that she and Angelo, still seated behind him, could not have known of his murderous daze or seen what had just happened. That was what gave him the idea.
It was a dangerous plan, but from where he stood, it was the best he could think of. Praying he still knew her well enough to gauge her responses, he took a deep breath and turned to Mora again, working to keep his face a stony mask. “You should know better than to use such threats on me, Mora. You know that since you left me I have been incapable of feeling anything for anyone.”
“It is all your own fault, you know. I tried to teach you how to love, how to sacrifice yourself for others, but you were too selfish. You understood only when it was too late, after you had lost me.” Mora sighed deeply with the memory of her wasted effort. “And yet, I could never help feeling that even once you had ceased to care about others, even then, you harbored a certain fondness for your brother.”
Ian’s heart was beating fast. “No, your destruction of my emotions was complete. I care no more for Crispin than I do for that whore I was betrothed to or some stranger I might meet on a deserted street.” Ian’s tone became confidential. “In fact, I find him tiresome. You can hardly imagine what a trial it has been to put up with him these two years.”
Mora eyed her former lover intently. Even after the transformation her leaving him had wrought, he could not possibly be as completely heartless as he was pretending to be. It was impossible that he felt nothing for his kind and loyal brother. He had to be bluffing. But he was a fool if he thought she would not call him on it.
She spread her hands wide. “If that is the case, why are you hesitating? Why not let Roric kill him?”
“I would rather have the pleasure myself,” was Ian’s cool reply.
“Really?” Mora was momentarily caught off guard. She sat forward on the divan. “How would you do it?”
Ian’s eyes gleamed with an unholy excitement that sent a shiver down Mora’s spine. “I’ve just been considering it. Nothing crass like a simple stab in the heart. That would be too quick, unsatisfying.” Ian shook his head. “No, I was thinking of something slow and personal. I would begin, for example, by cutting through his right arm. It would be painful but not fatal, so he could have the thrill of watching while I did the rest. Then I would take this dagger,” Ian took the small knife from his waistband and held it up, “and use it to cut open his stomach and carve out his bowels. After that, I’d have to see.” Ian casually slipped the dagger back into his waistband, leaving the hilt clearly exposed and ready. “I could do it right here, although with the mess it is bound to make, it might be better to do it outside.”
Mora smiled slowly. Did he really think she would be that easy to deceive, that all he would have to do is persuade her to move Crispin’s execution onto her boat landing outside so he could escape? It was amusing, but also a tad insulting. She had hoped he thought better of her. And she certainly would not let him get away with it. “No, I shouldn’t like to stand outside in the rain, and I wouldn’t want to miss anything. By all means, proceed here. The servants will attend to the mess.”
Much to Mora’s dismay, Ian looked neither surprised nor crestfallen but rather pleased. He bowed deeply to her, then turned his back to the divan and approached his brother.
“Did you hear what I described, fratello mio?” he asked Crispin in his chilliest voice.
Roric was still holding Crispin’s arms behind his back, but on a command from Mora he had moved the knife away from the man’s neck. Crispin merely nodded, watching his brother for some sign that this was a joke, some hint that he was not actually planning to execute him in the grisly manner he had just described. Look though he might, Ian’s face remained an impenetrably stony mask.
But not his eyes. They held Crispin’s locked in a powerful unflinching gaze, even as Ian lifted his sword to sever his brother’s right arm. Crispin held his breath and waited stoically for the pain to follow the blow, steeling himself for it.
It didn’t come. All he felt was something warm and wet spilling onto the back of his neck. He was momentarily fascinated by the fact that he felt no pain from his wound, until he realized that it was not his blood he felt but Roric’s. Ian had brought his blade down on Roric’s shoulder, catching him unawares and causing the giant to loosen his grip on Crispin’s left arm, which was now free to take the dagger Ian had carefully placed within his reach moments earlier. Crispin took a deep breath and grabbed it.
He was overwhelmed with relief but even more with joy. “You don�
�t hate me?” he whispered breathlessly to his older brother, sounding like an insecure schoolboy rather than a man of twenty-nine. Ian made a mental note to spend some time, soon, describing how he had aged ten years in ten seconds when he saw Roric’s knife at Crispin’s throat, but for the time being he simply rolled his eyes at his brother. They had no time to lose, because, though Ian’s back was blocking her view, it was only a matter of seconds before Mora discovered what had happened.
“You take Angelo, and I—” were the only words Ian got out before Roric’s bellow of pain made the situation clear to the observers on the divan. Crispin wriggled free of the bloody giant’s body just before it collapsed to the ground, and was soon heading directly for Angelo. Ian had moved around Roric toward Jenö who, taken off guard, was too surprised to block Ian’s deep thrust at his abdomen. He doubled over with a groan, and Ian used the hilt of his sword to knock him on the head. Jenö teetered once, twice, then fell over sideways, completely unconscious.
Ian looked up in time to see Crispin seize Angelo at dagger point. Mora’s favorite was unarmed and put up little resistance as Crispin prodded him toward the outer door. Ian followed them, pausing only long enough to make sure Roric was truly unconscious and would not unexpectedly rise up behind them. As Ian neared the door, he heard his former mistress clapping behind him, undoubtedly her mocking tribute to his fine performance, which was fine with him, since he had won the day.
It was only when Crispin threw open the door to leave that Ian saw how wrong he was. There, blocking the way, were five giants, each one as large as Jenö, and all in armor.
“You did not really think I would let Angelo go that easily, did you?” Mora called from the couch. “I find I am rather enamored of him. He appreciates the honor of my affections. I am grateful for the diverting show you put on for me, it went exactly as I had planned, but now I am anxious to be on my way.”
Ian and Crispin were not only outnumbered, they were outweighed. They had no choice but to surrender their prisoner and their weapons to the new giants. Angelo strode casually back to the divan as if he had expected exactly this outcome, and resettled himself in the open arms of his mistress.
The Stargazer: The Arboretti Family Saga - Book One Page 37
