Bittersweet memories of the two women who had meant everything to him kept him company the whole way back to his house. He had noticed those introspective moments were more frequent now that his friend had found bliss in his unexpected marriage. Once back home, he went straight to his private apartments on the third floor. He hadn’t thought to tell the enforcer about them since they were accessible solely through an internal set of stairs known only to him, Pietro, and the maid, Pietro’s wife, Marta, who was the only woman allowed there.
Walking toward his master bedroom, he entered his office first, a room with only one purpose: to commemorate Eloisa and Cherry. He didn’t have any other use for the antique rococo desk if not sitting behind it and spending hours looking at the opposite wall. He raised his eyes to look at the two paintings dominating the space. He had painted the oil portraits himself over the span of several decades and under the tutelage of four different artists he had hired to teach him the technique. The two images weren’t a perfect depiction of Eloisa and Cherry, but they were the best his memory could muster. At least, for Cherry he still had a daguerreotype he kept in his safe. Eloisa’s oil portrait, a piece she had commissioned to give him as a gift, had been destroyed in a fire. He would have given away all his considerable fortune to have that painting back.
The phone on his desk rang. Alexander saw it was Samuel’s private line calling, then automatically checked the time. He had seen the angel not even an hour ago. “Yes?”
“I called your colleague, but she isn’t answering her phone. I have a few leads you might be interested in pursuing. They are upper echelon and members of several clubs you belong to.” Samuel paused. “It will be easier for Alexander Drako to persuade them to share any info they might have."
The fallen angel was persona-non-grata in several Roman paranormal establishments. His broken wings were a sight people wanted to avoid, and he could only glamour his appearance before humans who saw a cripple when interacting with him.
“Anything to help.” Alexander opened the hidden drawer under the top of the desk and removed a piece of paper and a pen. Samuel told him the names of the people he needed to meet. “I know all the clubs they belong to, but it will be several hours before any of those people show their ugly faces outside of their houses.”
“I figured that out, that’s why I called you ahead of time so you could plan your outings today accordingly.”
“At least there is enough time for a shower.” Alexander opened his laptop to search for the best route between clubs.
“And please, you must include Ravenna in this.”
“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll call her as soon as I hang up. I’ll start from the clubs farther away from my house in an hour. Sometimes, I have breakfast at the one on the Appian Way, so it won’t look strange if I arrive unfashionably early.” Rich and affluent paranormals were stuck in the times when royalty was proud of being societal parasites. For the rest of the world, it was two thousand fourteen, but for the upper echelon—as Samuel liked to call those paranormals who unfortunately led them—it was still the era of kings, nobles, and plebeians.
“Ravenna lives nearby. I’ll give you her address as well.”
Turning on his cell phone, Alexander memorized both her phone number and her address as Samuel gave them to him. Then he headed toward the shower to soothe his muscles. The lack of sleep from the night before wasn’t a problem. He was used to functioning solely on power naps, espresso, tea, and a few meals when he remembered to eat. Like any immortal, half an hour under the sun and he was good to go. He didn’t need much more to be alert and operative, but he felt tense at the idea of having to face a bunch of people he didn’t like in the company of a woman who clearly detested him. Maybe he could go out of his way to make her feel uncomfortable too. He could always mention what he would like to do with her. Silk ties had made an appearance in the detailed scenes he had been creating in his mind since the moment he met her.
He let the water run until it scorched his skin, then sat on the built-in reclining bench and breathed in and out the hot vapors mixed with the eucalyptus oils being sprayed into the shower stall. He took his time to relax, mentally preparing to spend the day in unpleasant business. He conjured the enforcer inside the shower, languidly lying on the tiled bench, her long, black hair trailing down toward the floor, her dark eyes semi-closed, her pink lips parted in a moan, the strand of pearls between her breasts, and her arms, one over her head, the other resting just under her belly button, her legs united and following the contour of the bench as a modern-day siren. The tension in his body increased and he sighed, but he didn’t let go of the image.
Several minutes later, he stepped back into his master bedroom and chose his ensemble for the day: the lightest hue of blue for his shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, custom-made charcoal gray leather shoes, and a pair of sleek sunglasses resting on his blond hair. He drank a cup of espresso as he passed through the kitchen on the first floor, thanked Marta, who told him he looked handsome, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
“Tell Pietro not to wait for me. I’ll be back late tonight.” He grabbed a croissant Marta had just taken out of the oven and headed down to the garage.
****
Ravenna sipped from the stemmed glass of red she had poured for herself. Once the water filled the tub and she had selected the salts for her bath, she realized something was still missing from the picture. The fact it was morning didn’t detract from her need for wine.
Now, her head above the hot water, her reader safely strapped on the bath tray she had bought from some airplane catalogue or another—she travelled so much for her job memories were blurred or maybe the wine was already effecting her. She wasn’t a drinker, but once in a while she indulged her palate with expensive reds.
Knowingly or not—it didn’t matter—Samuel had dumped a world of grief on her. She’d been wrong twice when she thought she knew why the angel had assigned her to that job. Her abilities and Drako’s friendship to Samuel hadn’t had any weight in the liaison’s decision to call her. The dead boy, Sigmund Stross, of the famous Stross family, one of the most influential among the immortal community, had been one of Tommaso’s closest friends. She had never met the boy—at the time of Tommaso’s death, they had been estranged—but she knew of Sigmund and his accolade. She had never wanted to meet Sigmund, even though he had written to her asking to talk after Tommaso committed suicide. At first, she had wanted to lay the blame of her brother’s death on Sigmund. Later, she deduced Tommaso had been murdered. She hadn’t seen her brother for several decades and just as they had reconciled, she lost him in such a senseless way. She felt guilty and angry at the whole world for her loss. She had met Karl soon after and the handsomely dark immortal seemed to pull her from her darkness at just the right time.
She wished she had been nicer to her fiancé earlier, but what was done was done. When Karl—the man she had been exclusive with for the better part of sixty years—had leaned over to kiss her, she had seen someone else before her eyes. She had seen Alexander Drako and almost said his name out loud. Hence the need for her most expensive red in the middle of the morning.
Soft steps resonated through the kitchen. Karl must have come back. She wasn’t happy at the idea of having to confront him again, but she understood one talk wasn’t enough for him. With a sigh, she put the red on the bath tray next to her reader, open to the same page for the last forty-five minutes, and pushed the tray on its rail to the other side of the tub. Careful not to spill water everywhere, she reached for the terry robe she had hung on the wall hook.
By habit, she kept her body angled so she could see the door and caught a glimpse of a dark, scurrying shadow. Senses on full alert, she exited the tub as she let go of the robe. In complete silence, the figure covered in black came running into the bathroom and pushed her against the edge of the tub. Her knees buckled and she steadied herself by grabbing the hook over her head, but the hook couldn’t hold her weight and pulled out
of the wall. As she fell backward, she still tried to defend herself from her assailant’s blows by raising her arms before him. She stopped an upper jab, but a kick hit her in her chest, making her lose control of her body. She hit her head against the back wall as she sank into the tub, water splashing over the edge and splattering like shattered glass on the floor. The assailant’s hands were at her throat and she was pushed down until her face was under water.
While still fighting to free herself, she slowed her breathing and regulated her heartbeats so she wouldn’t need air for at least half an hour. Her assailant was paranormal. She wouldn’t have had any problem fighting off a man, but this one had strength that rivaled hers, therefore he couldn’t be human and knew he wouldn’t kill her by just keeping her head under water. She thrashed, bucked, and kicked, and felt the man release his hold. One of his hands left her throat and she pushed herself up with the intention of head-butting him, when she felt a stabbing prick on her hipbone.
The man suddenly let her go and she was back in the tub, her legs dangling over the ceramic edge, dizziness possessing her at an alarming rate. Her eyes went down to her right hip, where a thin rivulet of blood marred the water, but her vision was blurred. In a last effort, she propelled herself out of the tub to unbalance the man.
****
On his way to the club on the Appian Way, Alexander called Ravenna several times, but she never answered. He informed Samuel he had done his best, then kept driving to the club where he had his breakfast and waited for anyone on the angel’s list to show up. As he had anticipated, the first to arrive had been one of the most powerful men in the paranormal scene, Lucius Seneca Quintilius, one of the few werewolves who had business with the Immortal Council, the Vampire Nation, and the rest of the paranormal tribes. The Were Nation tended to be secluded from the other species, but Quintilius managed to make everybody happy by sharing a good portion of his fortune with the rest of the paranormals. He also had dealings within the human realm. In almost three thousand years, he had accumulated so much he could afford to be magnanimous.
“I heard you had quite the eventful night.” Quintilius had made a beeline toward Alexander as soon as he stepped inside the club’s breakfast nook and saw him.
Alexander pulled a chair out for the massive werewolf. “Not as fun as you think it was.” He had counted on the rumor mill to work for him. It made asking difficult questions easier.
“My nephew told me otherwise.” Quintilius took the chair, opened the last buttons on the jacket of his suit, then sat and raised his hand to let the hovering waiter know he was ready to order. “What are you having?” He gave Alexander’s plate a mildly interested look.
“Fresh fruit.” He brought his fork to his mouth and ate a small cube of watermelon.
“The usual for me.” He dismissed the waiter with a flick of his fingers. “So, I heard the Stross boy committed suicide. Is it true?”
Alexander nodded.
Quintilius shook his head. “I don’t understand this immortal fixation with death.”
“Me neither.” Alexander put down the fork and sipped from his glass of sparkling water. “The Immortal Death is so difficult to acquire it takes true determination to go after it.”
Quintilius’s eyes lit in interest. “Yes, I heard the potion takes some skill to be put together.”
Alexander wetted his lips with another sip from his glass. “The ingredients are not what you would find in your spice rack.”
Meanwhile, two waiters had arrived with the werewolf’s breakfast. Soon, every space on the table had been filled with plates of cold meats, boiled eggs, fish, purple figs, and a whole loaf of bread. “Its production must be a dangerous, but lucrative business.” He gestured for Alexander to take a bite of anything he wanted from his smorgasbord, and Alexander politely declined. Showing impeccable manners, Quintilius took fork and knife, cut a piece of thin prosciutto, and paired it with a slice of bread and a plump fig. He closed his eyes as the morsel disappeared inside his mouth, then reopened them a moment later to look intently at Alexander. “It could also be political.”
Alexander made a hmm sound, as if he were pondering that idea, and sipped the rest of the water. He dabbed his lips with the white linen napkin, then folded and placed it on the table by his half-finished fruit salad. “Well, I’m sure the Council will look into that.”
Quintilius tilted his head, a small smile showing around his white canines. “You know what they say, never leave any stone unturned.” He took a piece of bread and dipped it in the honey bowl. “Or, as I say, never fail to look for the ones who have the most to gain in any situation.”
Alexander kept the conversation going a few minutes longer, then looked at his Rolex and excused himself. He had already heard what he needed and there wasn’t any need to visit the other clubs. Quintilius’s words had been both a tip and a warning. The werewolf never engaged in idle chat.
On his way back to the valet stand, he called Samuel and reported the conversation he had just had. The morning had been very productive so far and he still had a full day ahead. The sun was shining bright in the blue, cloudless sky; the temperature was perfect, and a gentle breeze ruffled his blond curls. With any luck, the whole mess would be entirely in the hands of the Council from now on, and he would be exonerated from the investigation given his usefulness had reached its limit. When the young, pimpled valet drove his car to the club’s entry, Alexander tipped the boy handsomely.
From the car, he automatically called Marcus to invite him to a tennis match, only to remember at the fourth ring his friend was sleeping in his wife’s tender embrace. Next, he tried to reach Ophelia, who answered immediately, but only to wish him several scenarios of violent deaths in excruciating details. He understood she was nursing a hangover even though he couldn’t remember her drinking that much the night before. It must have happened after she had left his party.
Alexander felt restless. He was awake, dressed, and with nothing to do on such a splendid day. The thought that he was done with the investigation came back, and with it the knowledge that his dealing with the enforcer had also come to an end, and without thinking, he called her. The call went to the answering machine right away. He exited the club and drove along the Appian Way for fifteen minutes, breathing in the pine-scented air and enjoying the sight of the secular trees and the Roman ruins framing the road. Then he turned right, parked on a private street, and searched on his phone for Ravenna Del Sarto’s address. She was only a few minutes away from his current location, and he thought it would be a good idea to stop by and ask her if she wanted to grab a bite for lunch so they could talk about his conversation with the werewolf. He had been miffed by the way she had left Samuel’s office earlier that morning. If her abrupt departure had been caused by his behavior, he felt the need to apologize to her before parting ways. The ongoing movie playing in his mind, with Ravenna Del Sarto starring mostly naked in it, had nothing to do with his actions.
After giving himself all the explanations he needed for wanting to see the enforcer, Alexander reached her home three minutes later. He parked at the corner of her building, a few meters from a big pine tree that, although majestic and giving plenty of shade, would also cover his beloved Mercedes in pine needles and scented resin almost impossible to remove from its bodywork. Once he raised the top and secured the car, he walked to the staircase leading to the main entrance. He looked up at the façade of the building and found it suited Ravenna perfectly. The two-story house was simple, but elegant. From the subtle decoration over the door and windows, he deduced it had been built soon after World War I. The two narrow balconies jutting out from the arched, central windows dominating the façade were filled with terracotta pots full of white roses.
Feeling more excited than he had been to see a woman in a long time and surprised by it, Alexander climbed the steps, but hesitated before ringing the doorbell. He shook his head and inwardly laughed at his reaction. When he went to push his finger into the doorbe
ll button, he realized the door was ajar. He pushed it open, but didn’t pass the doorstep.
“Miss Del Sarto?” Nobody answered. He gave a look inside. Nothing seemed out of place, but somehow she didn’t seem the kind of women who would leave her door open and unattended. He called her name a second time. He thought he heard a scuffle coming from inside the house. Uncertain, he walked a few steps toward the direction of the sound. He passed a modern-looking kitchen where someone had attempted and failed to prepare a meal. The place was untidy and that too didn’t look right given the little he had seen of Ravenna.
A scream pierced the silence and Alexander ran toward the hallway opening to the left of the kitchen. He passed an archway and followed a second scream that led him inside what must have been her bedroom and to the bathroom where she was fighting a black-clad figure.
Chapter Four
For a moment, Ravenna thought she was hallucinating. She was fighting, half-unconscious, when Alexander Drako sprung into her bathroom and attacked her assailant. Utterly confused, she fell to her knees, unable to support her weight anymore. Somehow, she was out of the tub. She couldn’t remember how and when that had happened.
She watched as Drako locked his right arm around the man’s throat and pushed against his windpipe, while at the same time dragging him away from her. The man tried to free himself, but Drako redoubled his effort and pulled him all the way out of the bathroom. Ravenna felt her limbs becoming heavier until it was hard for her to keep her eyelids open. From the corner where she had fallen, she saw the fight become more violent, but Drako used his fists skillfully until he had the attacker on his knees, blood gushing all over his black uniform.
“Where can I find something to tie him up with?” Drako called toward her, but it took her a few seconds before she could understand what he had meant by it. “Miss Del Sarto?”
The Immortal Greek Page 5
