by Nichole Van
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Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
Other Books by Nichole Van
Author's Note
Reading Group Questions
About the Author
Copyright
To Austenne,
You say you love the dark. But to me you will always be
sunshine, rainbows, unicorns and everything that is purpliciously purrrr-fect.
And to Dave,
You know you are sunshine, rainbows, unicorns and everything that is purpliciously purrrr-fect.
And I’ll never remember which one of us said it first but . . . just don’t die.
she asked
‘you are in love
what does love look like’
to which i replied
‘like everything i’ve ever lost
come back to me.’
—nayyirah waheed, salt.
If anyone else were to kiss me, all they would taste is your name.
― Clementine von Radics
Prologue
Tuscany, Italy
1809
He was slowly devolving into madness.
Lorenzo D’Angelo accepted this.
To be quite honest, he had never expected anything else.
A tragic observation, but nonetheless true.
He was called il Conte del Maldetto—the Damned Earl—for good reason.
Insanity was the family curse.
Lorenzo had spent the entirety of his twenty-nine years knowing he would end his life in a fog of deranged lunacy . . . just as his father and grandfather and every first-born D’Angelo heir for the previous five hundred years.
Like taxes and the resurgence of Napoleon Bonaparte, it seemed inevitable.
Lorenzo simply hadn’t anticipated it happening so soon. His father had managed to hold off the madness until his fortieth year.
Lorenzo doubted he would be so fortunate.
No.
The voices called to him. Constantly swirling, humming, buzzing—bees that vibrated from within, threatening to shake him apart. Even laudanum did little beyond dulling the edge of his visions.
Past. Future.
It all eddied around him in a continuous stream of noise and sight and feeling. Medieval ladies giggling behind filmy veils mingled with uniformed men yelling in German and riding thunderous iron machines.
Such was the curse of the D’Angelos. The supposed ‘gift’ of Sight granted by gypsies to Lorenzo’s ancient forebear, Giovanni D’Angelo, during the height of the Middle Ages.
I zingari. Gypsies.
They had done this. And per Lorenzo’s view, it was high time the gypsies cleaned up the mess they had made.
He rode into their camp late in the afternoon—a semi-circle of covered wagons tucked around a large campfire—all nestled in a wooded, Tuscan valley. Dirty children’s faces peeked out of canvas doorways, while women and men in colorful clothing finished their daily chores.
A grizzled man in a bright embroidered vest walked to the edge of the camp, greeting Lorenzo with a raised hand.
Lorenzo left less than ten minutes later, angrily cursing them all.
It was only as his horse cleared the glen that the vision slammed into him, dancing before his eyes with cruel clarity.
A trail of his ancestors. Men, desperate like himself, making their way to this same camp. Pleading with generation after generation of gypsies to break the curse, to set the D’Angelos free.
And time and again, the answer rang, identical to the words Lorenzo himself had just heard:
“We know nothing of this gift. It is an utter mystery to us. If it came from our people, the knowledge of it has been lost to history. We can do nothing to help you. Go in peace, and may God have mercy on your soul.”
Sagging in his saddle, Lorenzo ran a shuddering hand over his face as the vision faded.
What was to be done? How would the D’Angelo bloodline ever be free?
Replying to his unspoken question, another vision arose. This time looking ahead. Future, not past.
Three small, dark haired boys ran up a grassy hill toward a tall woman with dancing eyes and auburn, curling hair.
Each boy the same height, the same size.
The same age.
Brothers. Triplets.
The boys tackled the woman, laughing as they all tumbled to the ground, tickling and giggling.
Lorenzo sensed the boys’ power. The D’Angelo ‘gift’ flitted between them, but it had morphed and fractured . . . different but balanced among the three brothers.
Lorenzo felt it then, faint but clear.
Hope.
At some future point, the gift would shatter, scattering over three instead of just one.
And that was . . . good . . . wasn’t it?
The fracturing of the gift had to be the D’Angelo’s salvation. Because if it had any other outcome . . .
Then, indeed, God have mercy on them all.
One
Portland, Oregon
August, 2010
Branwell D’Angelo
Do you believe in love at first sight?
The idea that you lock eyes with a stranger across a crowded room and bam!
It hits you.
Connection. Belonging. Familiarity.
That sense of coming home.
Un colpo di fulmine the Italians call it—a lightning strike.
It’s easy to dismiss the notion of insta-love until it happens to you.
Proof is in the pudding. Isn’t that how the saying goes?
Or, in my case, a scone. A lemon-glazed, strawberries-and-cream-filled scone, to be precise.
The scone sat on a pretty porcelain plat in the refrigerated case next to the coffee bar. All innocent-like, alluring, calling.
Just to clarify—the scone was not the object of my love. Simply the catalyst.
I had been back in the USA for only thirty-six hours, and I wanted just two things—an extra-large mocha latte for my jet lag and something decadently American, preferably laden with sugar and carbs.
The Jump-N-Java around the corner from the apartment I shared with my brothers easily provided both.
Those brothers, Dante and Tennyson, had begged me to get them something, too. But Dante already owed me big-time from our trip to Scotland, and Tennyson had some new girl he was gaga o
ver, so I figured he would be out with her before I got home.
As far as I was concerned, my brothers were on their own.
Smacking my lips, I snagged the strawberry-lemon scone out of the refrigerated case with a gloved hand and got my mocha latte with the other. The delicious bit of cream and strawberry heaven was all mine—if and when I found a place to sit down. Jump-N-Java’s location in a kitchy old row house was high on charm but low on available seating.
I threaded through the crowded room and up the stairs to the second floor. I always preferred eating at a small table in the upper back room. Not many customers knew the room existed, making it a blissfully quiet table.
And quiet, for me, was essential. Being who I was. Given my talents—the unusual abilities I had inherited (along with my brothers) from our Italian father.
I ducked into the small room, intent on the table. Only to come to an abrupt stop.
The table in question was already occupied.
A woman sat on one side, bent over a notebook, a crumbled croissant and empty coffee cup at her elbow. Weak morning light filtered in through the large window behind her illuminating her profile in backlit shadows.
My immediate impression was one of circles and curves and sinuous lines. Hourglass figure in a fitted t-shirt over worn capris. Freckles and a round face. A riot of curly red hair spiraling everywhere, tendrils of flame in the sun.
But no circle of a ring on her left hand.
Not sure why I noticed that small detail, but my subconscious deemed it important.
I briefly considered backing out and trying to eat in the noisier lower room. It would be rude to just sit at the table with her. Besides, eyeballing my reflection in the window—shaggy beard, dark hair, long-sleeve plaid shirt—I was more lumberjack-huge than approachable-cuddly at the moment.
But . . .
The space was so quiet; the voices of other customers reduced to a mumbling thrum. No noise from the street below. Besides, the table wasn’t that small.
And there was something about this woman . . .
With a deep breath, I crossed the room and settled in the chair opposite her.
She didn’t seem to notice, keeping her head bent as she tapped her pen against her cheek, scrunched her forehead and idly twirled one of the curls framing her face.
They were gorgeous, those curls. Corkscrew crazy, coiled and ready to launch from her head.
I pulled a straw and fork out of my pocket with gloved fingers—items I had brought from home. I always came prepared.
Nothing ever touched my bare skin without careful planning.
I stuck the straw into my coffee and used the fork to dig into the lemon-strawberry deliciousness. Fruity citrusy heaven exploded in my mouth and only a trace of sound.
My own breathing. The soft hum of voices from downstairs.
Perfection. I dug out another bite.
The rumble of traffic from the street. Muffled sounds.
I was about to go for bite number three when a soft voice stopped me.
“Wait, wait. Don’t move.”
I froze, fork hovered over a particularly decadent piece of strawberry laden gooey-ness.
I lifted my head and encountered the most amazing eyes. Blue-green and wide-set. The smell of lemon-verbena and sunshine drifted over me. That fiery red hair tumbled around the gentle curve of her jaw. Window-light sculpted the arch of her rosebud lips.
Freckles. Freckles everywhere. Stars dotting her skin.
She was . . . stunning. Magnificent. Breathtaking in an unconventional way.
Maybe it was the jet lag, or the sugar and caffeine hitting my system in a knockout one-two punch.
But . . . it jolted me hard. That bolt of lightning.
This girl . . . woman . . .
Something about her tugged at me. A siren call of wedding bells and growing old hand-in-hand.
Then I noticed her t-shirt—The Empurr Strikes Back scrawled underneath Star Wars-themed, anime kittens.
Yep. That sealed the deal.
I was going to fall in love with her. So hard. So fast.
My foolish heart sat up and claimed her as its own, not interested in waiting for trivial details like her name.
“Uhm, I’m sorry.” She was clearly oblivious to the moment I was having. “But I can’t let you eat that.” She motioned toward my scone.
Alarmed, I stared down at my plate, sitting back, instantly looking for . . . what? A hair? Insect?
Granted, part of me hummed in delight that this woman cared enough to say something.
She would be like that, my woman. Thoughtful. Noticing. We were destined to be together. Naturally, she would be concerned about my well-being.
Unfortunately, I was still trying to figure out what the problem might be. My scone looked innocently scrumptious, cream and berries sprawling out.
“Sorry, give me a second.” She lifted a staying finger and then carefully slid my plate to her side of the table, pushing her notebook aside.
She moved my plate into the light. Rotated it to the right. Studied it, cocking her head. And then twisted it to the left. Nodded, curls bouncing.
Pulling out her phone, she proceeded to photograph my partially eaten scone.
Okay.
Not quite sure where I had anticipated this going. But artsy-food-photos was not it.
“So is this some weird passive-aggressive way of getting back at me for sitting at your table uninvited?” I asked and then winced.
Unlike my brothers, Dante and Tennyson, flirting was not my forte.
“What?” She looked up.
“The photos?” I gestured toward my scone. “Payback?”
“Oh. No.” She glanced down at the scone, following my eyes. And then raised her head back to mine. “Sorry. I’m a COSH.”
“COSH?”
“Collector of Spotted Hearts.” She motioned toward my poor, waiting-to-be-eaten scone.
I blinked.
“I mean, not that the hearts are actually spotted like leprosy or something.” She bobbed her head, a soft laugh escaping. “That would be totally gross.”
“Leprosy? Spotted?” The conversation was slipping away from me.
“It’s spotted like spotting something . . . seeing it.” She had the perkiest voice. Light. Lilting.
Ah. “Like found hearts?”
She beamed at me. A pearly-white smile that was slightly lopsided. “Exactly! Unfortunately, Collector of Found Hearts—C-O-F-H—doesn’t work as well as an acronym, so I just go with spotted instead.”
She was a hand-talker, fingers flailing animatedly, gesturing with her phone.
It was endearingly cute.
“Gotcha.” My poor brain was slowly catching up. “So you collect things that are naturally heart-shaped?”
I believed her when she said she collected hearts. Mine was already putty in her hands.
“I take photos of them . . . yeah,” she said.
I looked at my scone. Tilted my head. I supposed if you caught the angle just right, it was somewhat heart-shaped.
“I actually started out physically collecting heart-shaped things—rocks, leaves, bits of trash.” She framed another photo. “But then my grandma told my aunt who passed along to my mom that she thought I had ‘hoarder’ tendencies, which is totally not true. A heart collection does not a hoarder make.”
She waved her free hand in my direction. Snapped another photo. “But as grandma is a huge fan of Hoarders—the TV show, not the people—not that she dislikes them either . . . though, I guess I’ve never asked.”
She continued to take photos as she talked, rotating the plate, pushing it in and out of the light streaming behind.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my family staged this weird kinda ‘heart intervention’ last year trying to get me to channel my heart obsession into something more ‘socially mainstream’—my mom’s words, not mine. Long story, but it basically ended with my mom looking befuddled and me the proud owner of a new
smart phone, so it was a total win-win.”
“Befuddled?” The word slipped out before I could filter myself. “I can’t remember the last time I heard someone use the word befuddled in casual conversation.”
She paused. Aimed those amazing blue-green eyes at me. “Really? That’s a pity. It’s one of many conversationally underutilized words.” She gave a wry lift of her shoulders and then went back to her photography.
I grinned. I was so in love.
Smart with a hint of sass.
She was perfect.
“Maudlin,” I said.
She raised her head, brows drawn down.
And then understanding bloomed, along with another crooked smile.
“Sycophant,” she replied, turning back to her photos.
“Perfunctory.”
“Oh! Good one.” She tapped her chin with her phone. “Resplendent.”
“Balderdash.”
“Yes. Balderdash!”
An uncomfortable silence ensued. Or, at least, it felt uncomfortable to me. I was guessing my heart-collecting, soon-to-be-girlfriend didn’t mind uncomfortable silences. Which, given my track record with women and social skills in general, was probably a good thing.
Overall, I was personally . . . befuddled.
“So . . . heart photos? Isn’t that a little . . . maudlin?” I asked.
She chuckled. A breathy will-o-wisp of sound. “Yeah. The photos were actually a brilliant idea. I started a blog of them this year.” She bent over her phone screen, angling up higher. “When photographing a heart, the trick is to find the shadows. Isn’t that funny?” She shot me another lopsided smile. “It’s the shadows, the dark areas, that illuminate the shape. See?”
She tilted her phone in my direction.
A heart-shaped scone filled the screen, light streaming around it, creating valleys of shadows that clearly delineated the form.
Delineate. Another good word.
“I like how the sliced strawberries are little hearts too,” she said.
So they were.
She turned the phone, admiring her work.
“I’ll let you have this back now.” She slid the plate to my side of the table. “I know my boyfriend can get cranky if I monopolize his food too long.”
