All the Stars Look Down: A Duo of Christmas Romances

by Elizabeth Hunter

  “Please, Fina,” Beatrice said. “We’re staying until the Epiphany and we’d love it if you would join us.” She paused. “And while I know you won’t officially be working, there is a possibility that I’ll be able to search the Vatican Library for more information regarding the Mission letters. I’d love to have your help.”

  Fina tried to stop the color she could feel rising in her cheeks. “The Vatican library?” Where Zeno Ferrara worked?

  Surely, Beatrice didn’t intend…

  “I wrote to my friend Zeno before we came,” Beatrice said. “And I think he might have an idea who the priest in Rome was. I’m sure we’d be allowed to visit the library.”

  Giovanni frowned. “You wrote to Zeno?”

  “Of course,” Beatrice said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  They exchanged a look that Fina couldn’t interpret because her mind was racing.

  Beatrice continued. “You two have exchanged letters, haven’t you? About some of the collection here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I… Yes, Signore Ferrara and I have corresponded. He’s been very helpful.”

  “Excellent! I’m sure he’d enjoy meeting a colleague with so many of the same interests. Zeno is passionate about preservation.”

  There went her stomach. This was ridiculous. She was not a schoolgirl. “Passionate?”

  “Oh yes,” Giovanni said, smiling at his wife. “Zeno is a man of very strong passions. About books and… history. And terrorizing his assistants.”

  “Ignore him,” Beatrice said. “Zeno’s lovely. He worked in the Italian resistance during World War II, did you know that? When he was still a priest. I believe he’s from Naples originally. I think he was quite the problem child within the church.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  Rome for Christmas? Taking Enzo to see the lights and music of the great city. Sharing lodging and meals—best not to think about that one—with her employers, who were quite obviously trying to make her a friend.

  Seeing the Vatican Library.

  Possibly meeting the man—the vampire—who’d been the subject of so many flights of imagination.

  ‘A man of very strong passions,’ Giovanni had said.

  Oh, Nonna, she thought. You didn’t teach me anything about this.

  What would her Nonna say? A quiet family Christmas with her son or the mysteries of the Vatican library and a holiday with vampires?

  She knew exactly what Nonna would say.

  “Pack your red underthings. Red is good luck.”

  “I’ll go,” Fina said, watching Enzo erupt with joy. “We’ll go. Thank you for the invitation.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Vatican City, Italy

  Zeno Ferrara erupted from the table. “You are an idiot. A brainless, directionless idiot! Has the collar cut off all the circulation to your head?”

  The young priest paled and stepped back. “But Brother Zeno—”

  “And I am not your brother anymore!” He raked his hands through the hair that hung in his eyes. He needed a haircut. Again. But if these stupid young priests didn’t stop misfiling his documents, he was never going to leave the archives.

  The young human took another step back.

  “Are you going to bite me?” he whispered.

  Zeno’s head turned to the vaulted ceiling of his workroom. “Father God,” he shouted, “save me from imbeciles before it comes to murder.”

  He heard the footsteps behind him and spun in a blur.

  “Please stop scaring the young ones, Zeno.” Arturo Leon raised a lazy eyebrow as he entered the room. “It’s getting harder and harder to find you assistants.”

  That prompted a flurry of arguments in Latin between the two men. Old arguments they’d had for decades, with a few new digs thrown in. Zeno barely noticed when the young priest who’d lost the box of eighteenth-century correspondence slipped out of the room.

  “I never thought I’d say this, my friend, but I believe you need a holiday.” Arturo sat down at the table and crossed his legs, examining the odd assortment of papers, inks, quills, pens, magnifying loupes, and different artificial lights that decorated the center of the table. Zeno zipped around the rows of bookshelves, looking for the box he’d set out the night before. The box that had been misfiled somewhere within the cavernous room Zeno considered his own.

  He finally stopped the blur of movement, appearing before the old priest with a grey document box in his hands. A box that looked exactly like the thousands of others that filled the room. A single string of numbers on the front was the only identifier.

  “It may be in here.” Zeno set it down on the table. “And I don’t have time for a holiday.”

  “You do realize how odd that sounds coming from someone who is immortal.”

  “Yes, yes. But Vecchio and Beatrice will be here in an hour. And while three hours would have been more than enough time for me to go through the letters from California and find the ones they are looking for, now I cannot even find the box. Because of idiots with more devotion than brains!”

  “Careful, Zeno. And why are we allowing Vecchio into the archives? He’s a known thief.”

  “That all depends on how you define thief. He’s a scholar. A respected one. His other skills are secondary, and it’s not like you haven’t used them in the past.”

  Arturo sniffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Zeno grinned. “Liar. Only one man could have procured that very elusive—and inconvenient—gospel from Ethiopia. How many copies were there?”

  “Only two.”

  “And now both are tucked away in your secret rooms, Arturo. And Vecchio is granted access to mine. I don’t expect any objections.”

  “You presume much, Ferrara.”

  Zeno ignored Arturo, who’d been no more than a baby when Zeno had been turned in 1938. Now, the child had become an old man, a powerful one. In charge of all immortal clergy and laypeople attached to the Catholic Church, Arturo wasn’t a bad sort of human. In fact, Zeno considered him more of a friend than any others of the stuffed Church bureaucracy. The fact that he had to wade through their politics still chafed, even though he’d been doing it for over sixty years.

  But he had more freedom and resources here than anywhere else, and the documents, the letters, were his calling.

  They filled the cavernous room, missives from all over the world, stretching back as long as humans had taken pen to paper or parchment to communicate with others at a distance. He found the letters, procured any with even a passing link to the church, and then he dissected them. The authors, the recipients. Where and when were they written? Who did they mention? Correspondence was his passion.

  The modern blasphemy of e-mail, his bane.

  Mostly, Zeno was left alone, which suited him. He’s been released from his earthly vows ten years after he’d been made immortal, as he’d felt unable to serve the church and remain steadfast in immortality. It was one thing for a human to reform at age thirty-five and take vows to God for the next forty years. Quite another to face an eternity of sacrifice with no end in sight. Zeno decided he could serve God far better if he retained his sanity. And his humor.

  Maybe the young priests didn’t see his humor, but it was there.

  Sometimes.

  The bits of socializing he did were with others of his kind. His life was his work. History was written by the victors, but the letters… letters told the true tale. Zeno Ferrara specialized in the discovery of secrets hidden within the handwritten word.

  He glanced at the letter from Beatrice De Novo, whom he’d met only two years before. He’d known her mate far longer and was enormously pleased that his old friend had found a wife who was so like-minded. Beatrice was a delight, though he’d never cease arguing with her about the sacrilege of electronic communication.

  Thank God computers had no place in his library.

  The letters. Again. His eyes stole back to them. Letters were truth. Not only the word
s written but how they were written. What pace did the pen keep upon the page? Where did the writer hesitate? Where did she rush? Sometimes, he could fancy the pen in his own hand, the letters stretching out across his skin.

  Giovanni and I will be in Rome over Christmas, and I’m really hoping you’ll have some insight to this set of documents. If you have any of the complementary letters or know anything about the writer, we’d be so grateful, Zeno. We’ll be in Perugia before we travel to Rome.

  Perugia. Vecchio had an enormous private library in Citta di Castello, though he’d never visited. The librarian there…

  Serafina Rossi.

  He could see her name written neatly across the bottom of the very professional letters she’d written to Zeno about one matter or another. He always enjoyed answering them because the woman asked excellent questions and after some correspondence, her letters contained a prim wit that intrigued him. The handwriting told him she was young and educated. But it told him nothing of her hair. Or her eyes.

  Which were really none of his business, were they?

  Except he wanted to know. More than one of his acquaintances had mentioned the “unique charms of the Vecchio Library,” and he doubted they were talking about the bookcases or the stained glass.

  What did she look like as she wrote to him? Did she have long hair, tied back as she worked? Was it short, mussed from hands tugging it in concentration? Did she wear glasses?

  He had a weakness for women in glasses.

  Did she curl over her desk as she wrote her very proper responses to him or sit upright with shoulders held carefully?

  Did her lips purse when she wrote his name?

  Her signature vexed him. The neatness of her given name was misleading. It was the sensual dip and swell when she signed Rossi that had caught Zeno’s attention.

  Fina.

  Beatrice had once referred to the librarian as “Fina” in a letter.

  Fina. Shortened form of Serafina, a name drawn from the Biblical “seraphim.” Hebrew in origin. It meant “the burning ones.”

  A fiery name signed with such control.

  Fina.

  What would it look like in her own hand? Would the F’s angled upstroke be pointed like a dagger? Would the downstroke dip and swell beneath the line?

  Zeno felt his lips curve into a smile. Over their two years of correspondence, he had to admit he’d developed a bit of a preoccupation with the woman. She understood passion for work as he did. He would be most intrigued to see Fina sign her first name.

  Perhaps she would accompany Vecchio and Beatrice.

  But probably not. Beatrice had mentioned a child who lived on the property, and it was doubtful that a young woman with a family would want to be away during the Christmas holiday. There were things to celebrate. Gifts to exchange.

  Rubbing the silver-dotted stubble he’d let grow for months, Zeno tried to remember the last time he’d celebrated Christmas. The 1980s? Surely it hadn’t been that long. But then, he rarely took holidays. The few bits of leisure time he indulged in were spent with the two other immortals in Vatican City, playing the hardest, fastest football the three could manage without tearing up the carefully manicured lawns. Both the other vampires were priests and needed the physical challenge as much as he did. He really ought to take up mountain climbing again, but that would take too much time away from work.

  Nobody understood the work.

  He dove back into the box of letters, smiling when he found the one he’d been hunting.

  Mission San Jose, 1798

  My dear Pietro, you cannot imagine this land we have found…

  “You’re here.”

  Giovanni looked up from his notebook to see his old friend, but the vampire was looking past him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Beatrice and Fina following him down the hall. He muffled the smile. It seemed that Beatrice had not been far off in her suspicions. Clever woman.

  “Ferrara.” Giovanni held out his hand, startling the man back to awareness. “So good to see you again. What has it been? Seven years or so?”

  Zeno frowned. “What are you talking about? I received a letter from you in April.”

  “Of course.” He held out a hand for Beatrice’s. “I know you met my lovely wife last year.”

  “Zeno,” Beatrice said. “So good to see you again. I cannot thank you enough for your help with this. Between the four of us, I just know we’re going to track down this manuscript.”

  “The four of us,” Zeno repeated.

  Was Giovanni the only one who noticed the man’s eyes darting to Fina repeatedly? He doubted it, as the woman’s face had taken on more than a bit of color.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said. “I know you’ve corresponded, but Zeno, let me introduce Fina to you. Serafina Rossi, our librarian in Perugia. Fina, this is Zeno Ferrara, former priest, handwriting expert, and terror of the Vatican.”

  “Hello.” Zeno held out his hand and folded both of them around Fina’s palm when they touched. “Ignore her. She married a fire vampire, so she’s clearly not sane. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you, Signora Rossi.”

  “Signorina Rossi,” Fina answered quietly. “Please, call me Fina. And it is a pleasure to meet you, as well, Signore Ferrara.” She looked around the room with a slight smile. “The scope of your work… You have understated it in your letters. It is monumental. Detailed handwriting and historical analysis on so many documents. I cannot imagine such a project. Truly a work for the ages.”

  “Please, you must call me Zeno.” He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. “I have been so impressed with the reports I have heard from Perugia. I understand the collection was completely unorganized when you arrived.”

  Beatrice couldn’t stop the smile no matter how much she bit her lip.

  The two librarians wandered toward the worktable, chattering like old friends, and Giovanni sidled up to his wife.

  “Do you see it?” she asked almost silently, well aware of Zeno’s sharp hearing. No matter, the vampire’s gaze was locked on Fina’s, rapt on every word that left her mouth.

  “I see it.”

  “They’re perfect for each other. I forgot how handsome Zeno is. Nothing like you, but he definitely has the rumpled-professor-sexy going on.”

  “Is that supposed to be flattering?” He tried not to laugh at her. “It’s certainly a face that drew much attention before he joined the church.”

  She gasped a little. “Zeno’s a reformed scoundrel? Exactly what Fina needs! How did I miss this?

  “Perhaps because it is none of your business.”

  “Pfft.” She punched him playfully in the stomach. “Whatever. I’ve got an eternity for whatever business needs doing. This is going to be great.”

  He stopped and put a hand on the small of her back. “She’s human, Tesoro.”

  “So was I.”

  Her eyes told him she knew exactly what he was saying.

  “There are no guarantees of happily ever after here,” Giovanni said.

  She smiled a little ruefully. “That’s life, isn’t it? No guarantees about anything. We make the best of what we have. Every day. And I have a feeling both those two have been putting off really living for too long.”

  How could he not kiss her?

  “Meddler,” he whispered as their lips parted.

  “I know.” She swiftly kissed the corner of his mouth. “Since I don’t have any presents—”

  “You’re getting presents! You just get them in January.”

  “I have to amuse myself somehow.”

  “I’m glad you’re amused.”

  “Gio, what would you have done if I hadn’t wanted to turn?”

  His smile fell. “Come. We should get started. I can hear the priests’ nervous pacing at the thief among their books.”

  Two hours later, they had found all the letters from the young priest in California that Zeno suspected he had in the collection. There might have been more, but there was no way of knowing. Between
him and Beatrice, they’d checked every box of unexamined correspondence from the New World and found three more letters, on top of the seven he’d found before. Combined with the letters from the Roman priest, they constituted a total of twenty-five documents.

  They began sorting by date, the letters from Brother Rafael in California on one side, the ones from Brother Pietro in Rome on another.

  Zeno tried to focus on the letters and not the distracting Fina Rossi.

  When she walked in, he’d known it was her. Zeno didn’t know why or how, he just knew. It wasn’t her thick hair the color of chestnuts or the deep brown eyes, for he hadn’t known she possessed those. Or a set of sensuously full lips. Or a rather stunning figure.

  Perhaps it was the look of quiet excitement on her face. Serafina of the intriguing letters would be quietly excited to visit the famed Vatican Library. Perhaps it was the very professional black briefcase she carried with a hint of whimsy in the red striped lining that peeked from an open pocket.

  Perhaps he simply knew. From her blood. The pulse of which heightened the moment their eyes met. From her scent, which was touched with vanilla and almonds. As if the scent of crumbling paper perfumed her skin.

  Zeno wanted to write his name across that skin. Trail the ink over the soft white of her arm and lose his stained fingers in the fall of her hair.

  His reaction knocked him sideways. Zeno had not wanted a woman like that in a long, long time.

  “What is this manuscript you mentioned, Beatrice?” He had to stop fantasizing about Fina’s skin. This wasn’t the time.

  “Mnrf.” Beatrice took the pencil from her mouth. “I have a client looking for a manuscript detailing wine-cultivation practices in California during the mission period. He’s eccentric. He told me that a priest working at one of the missions had written it, but he had no idea who the priest was or where this manuscript might have gone. I’d put it off for a while until I found a clue in another of the letters in my collection.”

  “The ones that Gio sent to Fina?” He raised his head and winked at the woman, only to see she’d put on reading glasses to look closer.