by Debra Dunbar
Okaaaay. I understood the need for youngsters, especially girls it seemed, to “play house”, to pretend to have their very own domicile with their own things around them, but for most children that was a room in the basement or attic, or a converted garden shed out back, not a cave that dripped cold water on your head.
I didn’t want to point out how very weird this was, so I made appropriate compliments about the horrible spot, and rejoiced when Daniela led us back into the sunshine and down another path, past the giant rhododendrons to a spot where the temperature dropped nearly five degrees, and the sounds of a gurgling brook filled my ears.
“This is our Valle Delle Felici,” Daniela announced. “Unlike the citrus trees, these ferns can’t survive even our mild winters.” She motioned to the fronds that carpeted the ground of the small forest. “They are actually in pots. The gardeners dig them up each fall and take every one of them to the greenhouses until late spring when they are replanted once more.”
I blinked in surprise. “But there are hundreds of them! Every single fern?”
“Every single one. My great-grandfather wanted this to be a cool forest paradise, complete with ferns, and unfortunately the ones he liked the most were from New Zealand and very sensitive to cold.”
“Fortunately he had the money to employ sixteen gardeners and build half a dozen greenhouses,” Irix commented wryly.
“Absolutely! It wouldn’t do to have something so dear to you be lost through an excess of frugality,” Daniela replied. “Whenever we acquire something, whether that be a villa, a piece of artwork, or additions to our gardens, we commit to ensuring they are well taken care of and retain every bit of the beauty that enchanted us and made us want to possess them.”
We rested for a bit, admiring the towering chestnut trees and the stream that cascaded down the forest hillside, creating little waterfalls at each stone-step. Then we climbed the packed-dirt pathway alongside the stream and veered to the left, past a row of small-leaved limes.
“Tiglio selvatico,” I murmured, stroking the bark.
“Yes,” Daniela shot me an appreciative glance. “And because you’re a botanist, you’ll especially love this tree here on our right.”
I frowned at the tree, what appeared to be a redwood surrounded by camphors and ginkgos with their fan-like leaves. There were other redwoods nearby—the size of which I’d only seen in California—but this one was different…odd.
“It’s a Metasequoia,” Daniela announced with a small smile.
I gasped and reached out to touch the tree, marveling at its structure and peculiar genetic make-up. This tree, an extremely rare Dawn Redwood, was from China. It had been thought to be extinct until a tiny grove was found in the mid-nineteen-forties.
“And this plant over here was germinated from one of two seeds found frozen in ice.”
“Silene Stenophylla.” Wow. This was a plant we’d thought lost to history, one only possible through today’s science. I wasn’t even sure the elves, with their talents in the plant kingdom, could have resurrected those seeds and made them grow and flourish.
It made me wonder. Elves such as the ones working in the vineyards in California, had skills that would be much in demand in the human world, but humans had abilities of their own. Their science and technology made things possible that elves couldn’t imagine. Magic was an amazing thing, but seeing this ancient, long-dead plant brought to life made me realize that elves would be very foolish to think themselves the superior race.
“I can’t believe you have this,” I told her, still stroking the bark of the Metasequoia tree. I loved this thing. If I could have magically spirited it home to have for my own, I would have.
As if she sensed my less-than-honest thoughts, Daniela shot me a narrow-eyed glance. “My family adores every living thing in this garden. Although we each have our own preference in regards to our favorites, we would never let any of our treasures go, not for all the money in the world.”
I smiled reassuringly. “I believe you. And trust me, if I had this tree in my garden, I would defend it with my life as well. There are some things that are too precious to risk falling into irreverent hands.”
She smiled serenely. “Exactly. And now, I want to show you some of our newer additions.”
We made our way along the winding pathways through patches of annuals and groves of sweetgum with their buckyball seeds littering the pathway. Daniela pointed out a few of her cousins’ houses visible between the thick stand of trees, then we climbed through a tall bamboo forest to a Zen sand garden with pitted statuary I was sure were not reproductions.
The bamboo forest ended and we strolled past a huge concrete water tank that looked like an industrial-sized pool.
“What’s that?” I pointed, thinking that perhaps the tank was used for irrigation, although this didn’t seem a particularly arid landscape.
“Fish.” Daniela grinned. “Father adores trout and is a bit of a glutton when it comes to them. We stock the tank and the gardeners ensure the fish are fed and the water clean and clear. When father has a craving for trout, which is a pretty frequent occurrence, one of the house servants comes down with a net and takes what we need.”
I was also fond of trout, and it warmed my heart to think that an ill, elderly man had people who cared enough for him that they made sure they had his favorite food freshly available.
“There was a time when he would fish for himself,” she added, her smile fading. “But now…well, at least he still has his appetite even if he seldom leaves the house anymore.”
I felt for her father, unable to do many of the things he loved. It made me wonder how I would age. Would I grow physically weaker, my mind wandering and forgetting? Times like this I wished I knew some elves well enough to ask them about their elderly populations.
“Up this way is our newest addition,” Daniela said, walking backwards as she talked to us. “I added on an extra four acres to our land uphill and am putting in an olive grove. I’ve always wanted one, and Sergio is supervising the installation as his first project in the family holdings.”
There was a clear difference between the older, well-established gardens we’d just toured and the land Daniela had purchased recently. That area was hot, the sun beating down on a sapling-covered landscape. There was an old stone building that must have belonged to the previous owners, now being converted into what appeared to be a tenant house for servants or gardeners. The terraced land was planted with squat, young olive trees, irrigation systems in place. We walked along the rows, sweating profusely as we made our way along the virgin grove. The trees were healthy and obviously well cared for. Daniela meant what she said about taking the best care of their treasures.
We were silent as we headed back down, past Oleanders and monkshood to the rear of the villa.
“Thank you so much for sharing this with us,” I told our host in a hushed, reverential tone. “This truly is one of the most impressive gardens I’ve ever toured.”
She beamed. “Please come around to the side patio and I’ll go in to ask the servants to bring out lunch.”
We walked around the corner of the fifteenth-century Baroque-style home to a huge patio overlooking the top of the citrus grove and the lake beyond. And standing there was an elderly man—an elderly man who was very clearly not a servant.
Chapter 5
Beside him was a young man—tall with sun-streaked hair and a lanky build. The pair turned to us, and I could see the resemblance between them as well as our hostess.
“Papa.” Daniela’s tone was both motherly and respectful…and slightly scolding. “You should be in bed. Sergio, what are you doing letting your grandfather wander around outside like this?”
The boy chuckled. “He wanted to see how the lemons were coming along. There is no stopping him. All I can do is make sure he doesn’t fall over the railing.”
The older man wheezed, leaning on his cane. The other hand was withered and twisted, the skin covered with
scar tissue that appeared to have come from a third-degree burn a very long time ago. A similar band of scar tissue twisted like a streak of lightning down his face, bisecting his dark, glittering eyes and sloping to touch the corner of his lips.
“I’m not going to fall over the railing, boy. And I’m done being in bed.” With an abrupt, jerky twist of his head, he turned those glittering eyes on me and Irix. “Who are these two? Are they reds? Blues? Greens?” His eyes narrowed, his breath catching as though those colors might be a good thing or a bad thing. I wondered if he’d been in some sort of war or conflict and he was reliving those days, remembering the colors of the soldiers’ uniforms.
“No, Papa.” There was a river of pain in Daniela’s two words.
His daughter. I eyed Daniela curiously, wondering how old her father had been when he married her mother, when he’d had her. The guy looked ninety, and she was maybe in her late thirties or early forties? It happened. And maybe this Melancholy, which I’d begun to think might be an Italian euphemism for Alzheimer’s, was aging him prematurely.
“Are they here to kill us?” He demanded. “Or finally let us return home?” There was a note of hope in his voice, as if either prospect would be welcome.
“Amber and Irix are tourists who are renting Villa Sella from Gianna,” she replied. “I brought them here so they could admire the gardens.”
The old man’s eyes narrowed. “They haven’t stolen anything?”
She sighed. “No, Papa. You’d know if they’d stolen anything. Amber is a botanist and has fallen in love with your gardens.”
His chest puffed out and he grinned, the side of his mouth without the scar rising noticeably higher than the other, giving him a charming, lopsided smile. “The Himalayan rhododendrons?”
“Are absolutely stunning, Mr. Sommariva,” I told him. “I only wish I had been here earlier in the summer to see them in bloom.”
“The azaleas, too,” Sergio added. “Although you’d need to come in late April or early May to see them at their prime.”
I could imagine. The shrubs were huge, thriving in the acidic soil here and growing to an unheard-of size. “The fern valley with the waterfall is also lovely. It’s the perfect place to sit with a book and enjoy some cool shade.”
The older man nodded. “Although the gardeners used to complain that we needed to remove the ferns to the greenhouse each winter so that they wouldn’t perish in the frost. They don’t complain anymore. Not since I ate one of them.”
Daniela and her son exchanged a quick panicked look, then laughed awkwardly. I smiled to let them know I hadn’t taken the man seriously. He was charming, but crazy. That was okay. I could do crazy.
The older Mr. Sommariva spun around, surprisingly agile in spite of his age and the cane. “Amber, let me show you my artwork. Daniela, have you shown this nice couple the artwork? You can’t steal anything though. Thieves will be eaten.”
I snorted. It was like the Trespassers Will Be Shot signs back home. All this obsession with cannibalism made me wonder if the patriarch of this family had gone through a time of starvation. Probably not. Daniela had said this royal-sized villa had been in their family for hundreds of years. That didn’t mesh well with the poor-and-starving theory.
He was just crazy. And charming.
“And please call me Eduardo,” he said as he extended his elbow toward me.
I took his arm, casting Irix a quick grin over my shoulder. He winked and followed us, Daniela trailing behind, the whole time trying to coax her father into retiring back to his room. The man, who honestly did not seem to need that cane, led us back around the rear of the villa and in through a huge set of French doors. The first thing I saw upon entering the house was a pair of asses. And not of the equine persuasion.
It was the rear-view of an enormous statue, placed on a pedestal at the height so that two gorgeous marble posteriors were right at my eye-level. One was clearly female from the gentle slope and the soft curves of waist and back. The other male, with the sort of tight, round ass-cheeks that made me drool. Muscular legs. Muscular back. Muscular shoulders.
And, holy shit, that ass. Whoever the sculptor had been, he clearly knew what a man’s ideal body was supposed to look like in minute, gorgeous detail.
I was so turned on. And I couldn’t help but look back at Irix, because he had an ass like that, and I’d enjoyed many an hour ogling it, many a night smacking my hands down on that that tight flesh and gripping tight, holding on as he drove himself into me.
“Nice, huh?” The old man grinned and winked. “Venus has got the best butt ever. My wife had a rear end like that.”
“And I’m out of here before I hear more about my grandmother than I ever wanted,” Sergio said.
“Join us for lunch in a bit,” Daniela told her son as he headed back outside.
Meanwhile, the elder Mr. Sommariva was still sighing over the back end of the sculpture in front of us. “Yes, Sophia had an amazing figure. A woman’s posterior is one of the most beautiful sights in the world.”
Irix made a hum noise in agreement, and I turned again to look at Venus’s ass. It was okay. Nothing to write home about, but I was seldom attracted to women. There had been a few exceptions, and staring at the gentle curves of the sculpture made me think of Kai, and wish that we were still an item.
Polyamory. That’s what Irix had called it. We sex demons, even me as a half-demon/half-elf, had human one-night-stands whose energy fueled us. Then we had those we loved, who touched our heart and soul as well as inspired devotion within our bodies. Then there were those, like Irix, that were as the very air we breathed and essential to our continued existence.
Didn’t mean that I didn’t suffer when those I loved made other choices that meant we could no longer share passion together. But Kai and I were still friends, and there was always a chance we’d be together in that way again sometime. And if not…well, at least we still could love each other platonically.
“Mars has quite the fine ass, too,” Irix mentioned.
Daniela’s father stiffened, shooting my demon lover a suspicious glance. “Yes. I guess. If you like that sort of thing.”
“Oh, I do like that sort of thing.”
Irix was so wicked at times. It made me love him even more. “Reminds me of Harkel’s ass,” I told him.
He pursed his lips and tilted his head. “Harkel’s ass is not as round, but I do see the similarities.”
Eduardo made a disgusted noise and led us around to the front of the artwork where I couldn’t help but snicker.
“Okay, now I’m thinking this doesn’t look like Harkel at all.” I pointed at what was now eye-level on the sculpture.
Irix nodded. “Harkel would be hanging far below that fig leaf. It’s entirely inadequate to cover his manhood. As beautifully as the sculptor portrayed Mars’s ass, I’m afraid he sold the god quite short when it came to his genitals.”
The old man sputtered. “It’s neoclassicism. The artist wasn’t about to indulge in vulgar exaggeration of sexual organs.”
“I’m on board with that,” I commented. “But why cover up something so beautiful with a leaf? No matter the size, I have no doubt that what’s under that contrived modesty piece is more than adequate and worthy of our admiration.”
Eduardo puffed up his chest and sent me a smoldering glance. “You are so right. I protested the need for the leaf, even though I wanted an accurate depiction of body size. This was a remarkable artist, and unfortunately we came to an impasse on this issue. I loved the statue, and compromised on the fig leaf as it was commonplace in sculpture at the time.”
It was, and I felt a bit guilty for teasing this man so. He clearly wasn’t a prude, although he might possibly have some homophobic tendencies. And it was a gorgeous sculpture, even with the fig leaf slapped over poor Mars’s penis.
The room was far more than just one sculpture, although the Mars/Venus piece took center stage in the middle, lit to strategic advantage by the row of Fr
ench doors and huge glass transoms that transformed the entire rear of the room into one large-paned window. Lining the top of the walls, around the ceiling was a frieze that had me staring openmouthed. It looked to be from the Napoleonic era in the early nineteenth century, still neoclassical in theme showing the advance of Alexander the Great and all of his military might.
“That’s a whole lot of stallions,” I commented. “Didn’t Alexander the Great believe in using mares in his army? Or geldings?”
Eduardo snorted. “There is no use for geldings. If someone cannot properly ride a stallion, then they should walk. Although I have had many mares who were equally spirited and deserving of being immortalized in artwork.” He looked at the frieze with a critical eye. “I never noticed the gender of the horses before. If I had, I would have told the artist to put mares in his work. Perhaps even a likeness of my Strilliana, who was my very favorite horse when I was but a boy.”
He still had my hand tightly tucked against his body in the crook of his arm, so I squeezed his bicep in agreement. “I had a favorite mare from when I was young too, although I rode lots of geldings and stallions as well. We didn’t have much money, so my brother Wyatt and I would sneak over to the neighbor’s farm and ride their horses bareback. I’m sure they knew, but they turned a blind eye to our activities. I fell in love with a sweet dapple gray named Meredith. She’s still in the pasture next to my mom’s house, although she’s not sound and can no longer be ridden. When I’m home, I go over with a pocket full of carrots and she comes running.”
“A loyal horse is a wonderful treasure,” he commented sadly. “If only they didn’t die.”
Yeah. Horses. Humans, friends and family. His words conjured up the bleak fears I’d had since finding out I wasn’t human. My brother, Nyalla, my mother, and all of my human friends, would die long before me. And that would be far worse than losing a beloved horse or dog.
