Wild Fire

by Ally Shields

  “We are very serious.” Daron remained calm, unruffled. “While what happens in Europe holds little interest for us, we are committed to preserving our current freedoms on this continent. We had hoped you would join us in strengthening that division of authority.”

  “Are you telling us to stay out of both your countries? To keep our hands off?” Porbius challenged.

  Andreas glanced sideways at Bastian. The elder was watching the exchange with apparent interest. What was he thinking? Porbius was visibly angry, clearly not expecting this turn of events, but Bastian seemed complacent. Had he anticipated their actions, or did they somehow fit into his own agenda?

  “We would welcome your visits, of course, but what interest could you have in our affairs?” Daron smiled and shrugged, radiating congeniality. “Your court is far away, and our ways are foreign to you. You may find us and our issues incomprehensible.” Daron glanced at Andreas, effectively passing the torch.

  Andreas took up the argument, drawing attention to his end of the table. “While we are strengthening our authority in North America, we are supportive of maintaining the status quo in Europe. If the O-Seven would stand as our ally, there would be no one who would dare to raise their hand against either of us.”

  “I fail to see the advantage in this for our council.” Bastian’s keen gaze swept the table but landed on Andreas. “No one has opposed us for centuries, except the witches—and we know how ineffective that has been. Where is this threat you foresee?”

  “Anywhere you try to force your authority on courts that don’t want it,” Bolivar blurted.

  Andreas stilled. Bolivar had gotten off script.

  Porbius’s face flushed, but Bastian laid a restraining hand on his arm. Bastian raised his brows. “Would such a threat include you, Bolivar?”

  “I believe he was speaking theoretically,” Andreas intervened. He hoped Bolivar would keep silent and not make things worse.

  “Was he?” Bastian viewed Bolivar with chilly reserve. “That was not how I interpreted it.”

  “Perhaps he could have chosen his words better, but there is a strong preference for independence in his country as well as mine.” Andreas gave Bolivar a pointed look, inviting him to say something to dig himself out of this hole.

  Bolivar frowned but nodded. “I was merely giving you an example of behavior that breeds discontent.”

  “Discontent? With us? How dare you.” Porbius brushed off Bastian’s hold on his arm. “I refuse to put up with any more of this insult. I will report your disrespect to the council, and you will be dealt with accordingly.”

  He glared at Daron. “You have attempted to waylay us with this group of dissidents, but I will not be deterred from our purpose.” He spun toward Andreas and pointed his finger. Vampiric power began to fill the room, pulsing, expanding. “You have been—”

  “Porbius!” Bastian shot to his feet. “You overstep.”

  Andreas shoved his chair away from the table. Lilith and Russell sprang to his side with their guns drawn. He kept his gaze latched on the elders and willed himself to remain seated. It would be better for everyone if Bastian could contain this.

  The others around the table reacted. Vampiric powers surged; shifters began to morph into animal form. Guards who’d been at the back of the room raced forward, their guns trained on the elders. A protective circle surrounded Daron.

  Bastian ignored the activity and leaned into Porbius’s face. “There is sufficient time to handle this the right way. Let us leave and consider what we have heard. We can return to finish the discussion.” The two elders locked eyes for long seconds. Then Porbius blinked and stepped back.

  “You may be right. Their failure to follow protocol should not be a guide for our behavior. But I have had enough for today. Tomorrow,” he snarled. He pivoted on his heels and strode out the doors, letting them bang behind him.

  Bastian turned back to the table. “You have made a grave mistake. We will return tomorrow night at seven o’clock,” he gestured at Daron and Andreas, “to meet privately with the two of you.” His gaze settled on Andreas. “And your witch, if she is here.”

  “Until tomorrow then.” Andreas spoke mildly, but his head swirled with speculation. What had Porbius been about to reveal? You have been…what? And why did Bastian stop him?

  Bastian’s departing smile at Daron held no humor. “I suggest you rethink the terms of your negotiations before our next meeting.”

  The Toronto prince drew himself to his full height. “Perhaps you should reconsider your response.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A rural scene slowly shimmered into view around her. Ari—Abigail—stood in the middle of a dirt road. She placed a hand over her heart, relieved to see grapevines and fig trees. Sure looked like Italy. It was warm; the sun shone high overhead. About midday. But what day and year? She’d seen similar dirt roads within Andreas’s estate in 21st century Italy.

  She closed her eyes and reached for the link with Andreas. Nothing. Her heart thumped, and she clenched her hands to steady herself. Of course, she felt nothing. If this was 1813, no link existed yet.

  Abigail opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and focused on why she was there. Nothing that resembled a village was evident in either direction, so she arbitrarily chose left and walked up the road carrying her bag. Almost half an hour later, she spied three men working in the vineyards. If the lab’s calculations had been correct, it should be early June. What would they be doing? Pruning? Picking off bugs? Hmm, she should have asked Andreas about local activities at this time of year, but then she was supposed to be an ignorant American, wasn’t she? No one would expect her to know anything.

  She set her bag down and called to the men. “Excuse me.” When no one responded, she tried one of the few words Andreas had been able to teach her in such a short time. “Um, scusi. How far is it to the next village?”

  The men stopped working and one of them walked toward the road. He frowned at her. “You are lost?” He stumbled over the English words, his accent heavy.

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Si. Can you help me?” She stopped, realizing she was talking too loud, as if that would help him to understand. She moderated her voice. “I am looking for a village.” She pointed to her bag. “A place to sleep.” She pantomimed resting her head on her hands.

  He looked at her bag, then smiled. “Inn.”

  “Si, that’s it.” She smiled back, relieved to be understood. “An inn.”

  He pointed in the direction she was headed. He continued talking, probably giving her directions, but Abigail understood very little. She recognized a stray word or two that she’d heard from Andreas or his Italian songs, but beyond that she was lost.

  As far as she could tell, the next village, which she hoped was Fico, was either fifteen minutes, fifteen miles or fifteen days’ walk ahead. She sighed. Or fifteen fields or crossroads. She was pretty sure it was fifteen. At least she was headed in the right direction.

  Would this be a good time to ask the one question she’d rehearsed? What day is this? After all, she wouldn’t see this guy again, so it wouldn’t matter how strange he thought it was that she didn’t know. “Che giorno è oggi?”

  His eyes widened. Did he understand her butchered Italian? Had she gotten the words wrong?

  “Mercoledi.”

  What did that mean? She didn’t know, so she repeated her question.

  He frowned this time. “Mercoledi. Due giugno.”

  Abigail favored him with a big smile. “Grazie.” She still didn’t know what mercoledi was—maybe the day of the week—but Andreas had taught her the month and enough numbers to recognize June 2, exactly what she’d hoped to hear. “Grazie,” she said again. She picked up her bag, and he smiled and waved as she started off.

  When she rounded the next bend, she saw a village ahead with children and dogs playing in the dusty road. No pavement here either. Coupled with the old-fashioned clothes she’d seen, and the date of June 2nd, the l
ab’s calculations must have been close to perfect. If this was the village of Fico, then Casa De Luca would be a short mile or two away. All she needed to do was find Fredrico Valvano, talk him out of the family heirlooms, and return to Riverdale. How hard could that be?

  First she had to find a place to stay.

  In such a small village, the inn wasn’t hard to find. She walked in the door and set down her bag. The fiftyish woman behind the counter gave her the once over.

  “I need a room for several days.” The woman frowned at her, and Abigail brought out her bag of coins and laid a few on the counter. “I can pay in advance.”

  The woman rattled off a string of words in Italian. When Abigail shrugged that she didn’t understand, the woman repeated herself with a variety of dramatic hand gestures.

  “No comprendo.” Oh hell, Abigail thought, that wasn’t Italian, but some other mangled language. Spanish? Spanglish?

  The woman looked at her, then at the coins and stepped to the door. She yelled at someone outside, and a young man of fifteen or sixteen appeared. The innkeeper pointed at Abigail. “Inglese.”

  “No, American,” Abigail said.

  The young man smiled at her. “She means you speak English.”

  “And so do you.” Abigail couldn’t keep from grinning. “My name is Abigail Foster. Can you tell her I need to stay at least a week until my brother Thomas comes to get me? I can pay in advance.”

  “Si. She will like that. I am Torre, Signorina Foster.” He ducked his head to cover his boyish awkwardness and relayed the information to the innkeeper.

  The woman picked up a coin, examined it, then spoke to Torre again.

  “Signora Paglia asks if you are traveling alone.”

  Abigail sighed loudly. “It is a sad story, but yes, until my brother comes I will be alone. The friend I was staying with had to go to France because of a family illness, but I had to be here when Thomas returns. I was told this was a respectable establishment where I would be safe.”

  He relayed her story. Mrs. Paglia continued to act skeptical, but finally smoothed down the front of her dress, counted out nine of the coins, and returned the rest.

  “She says you have a place to stay for a week and two days, including breakfast. If you want to stay longer, you will have to pay more.” He glanced at the bag. “She also says you should put your money away.”

  Abigail gave the woman a grateful smile, then took one of the smaller coins and pressed it into Torre’s palm. “Thank you. Grazie. You have been a great help to me.”

  He blushed. “I am glad, signorina, but I did not earn your money.” He tried to hand it back.

  “You were very helpful, and I want you to have it,” Abigail insisted.

  He ducked his head, mumbled, “Grazie,” and the coin disappeared into his pocket.

  Mrs. Paglia made shooing motions toward Torre and showed Abigail to her room on the second floor. It was a small inn with accommodations for six travelers. Abigail’s room, near the servants’ stairs at the end of the hall, was tiny but clean. She bounced on the edge of the bed. Not much give, but softer than the floor.

  She brushed her hands down the front of the unaccustomed skirt. She’d love to change into jeans right now. The dress was confining, impossible if she got into a fight. Her return to her own life couldn’t come too soon.

  With that in mind, she shoved her bag under the bed and went downstairs. She waved at Mrs. Paglia. The woman frowned and patted her head.

  Abigail stopped, uncertain how to handle this. Apparently her flimsy scarf wasn’t enough to satisfy the woman, and she didn’t want to offend her landlady. The fancy umbrella that Claris had insisted she bring might do the trick. She remembered not to take the stairs two at a time, found the delicate parasol, and returned to the first floor. When she opened the feminine accessory, Mrs. Paglia bent her head in approval.

  Abigail walked down the dusty road, feeling silly carrying the parasol. Once she was out of sight of the inn, she closed it and quickened her step. How boring life must have been for young women if they always had to be so prim and proper. She considered jogging to hasten her trip to the De Luca estate, but the dress was so cumbersome that she settled for a brisk walk.

  The road to the casa wound up a rolling hillside, the property on both sides owned by the estate. If she were observed so far onto private property, she’d have to claim to be lost again.

  She reached the turn to the house without meeting anyone and left the road to enter a grove of fig trees. Using them as cover, she crept closer until the entire house was in view, the gardens and the circular driveway. A gardener appeared to be working near the front of the house. A tall man dressed as a gentleman and a white-haired man in a wheelchair were in the side garden. She was too far away to distinguish any details of their faces, but the occupant of the old-fashioned wheelchair must be Fredrico. If only she had a better view. She strained to see the other man. Could he be Andreas?

  She pulled back out of sight, the thought almost frightening her. She shouldn’t get her hopes up that she’d see him. That wasn’t why she was there. But it would be interesting.

  And a huge complication. He’d be bound to ask a lot of questions. She needed to talk with Fredrico alone.

  The tall man left the garden and walked briskly toward the house. He stopped in front to speak with the gardener, then disappeared inside. Abigail was tempted to approach the garden, but with the gardener and the tall man both on the premises, her chances of reaching Fredrico were slim. Maybe one or both would leave if she waited.

  She took up watch behind bushes that allowed a clear view of the house and drive. In many ways the property was familiar. She’d been there in the modern world only four months ago. Of course, at that time the buildings had been updated, repainted in the 21st century, and the casa roof was bright red tile. The gardens of 1813 were sparse compared to their modern counterpart, but the feel of the estate was the same. Solid, down-to-earth, with a warmth that only Italy could convey with such panache.

  Abigail straightened fifteen minutes later as a middle-aged man in a brown jacket appeared in the garden and wheeled the invalid into the house. There went her chance for today. It was late afternoon, unlikely he’d appear again. She retraced her steps and walked back down the long drive. Waiting for the right opportunity to meet Fredrico might take forever, and she only had a week. Perhaps there was another way. If she could make some local friends… Mrs. Paglia would know how to meet the De Lucas, but she’d be too suspicious of Abigail’s motives. Maybe she could ask Torre.

  She’d reached the main road into town when she heard the jingle of harness behind her. A fancy two-horse carriage approached, driven by a twenty-something man in a sporting coat and hat, with a fashionably dressed woman of a similar age seated beside him. Abigail belatedly remembered her parasol and opened it to protect her face from the dust the horses were kicking up. She moved to the side of the road.

  The team slowed, and the young man spoke to her in Italian.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively. “Scusi, Americano.”

  “Richard, stop the horses! She speaks English.” The young woman delivered her preemptory order in a very British accent.

  He reined in the team, and smiled at Abigail. “I was trying to apologize for the dust,” he said. “But I doubt if you would have understood my poor Italian even if that had been your language.”

  “She doesn’t care about that. “The young woman tossed her bouncy, light brown curls impatiently and tilted her head at Abigail. “Are you staying around here? I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I just arrived. I’m at the inn.”

  The woman’s face lit up, giving her attractive patrician features a rather impish look. “Do allow us to give you a lift. I am Emily Farnsworth from London, and this is my brother Richard. We’ve been visiting my aunt for almost a month, and I am so eager for another woman to talk with in my own language.”

  “Yes, do join us,” Richard urged,
his brown eyes containing the same good humor that appeared to be basic to his sister’s personality. “It is some distance yet to the village.”

  “Thank you. I don’t mind the walk, but I’m thrilled to find someone who understands me.” She followed their lead and introduced herself. “My name is Abigail Foster. I’m from Boston.”

  Richard hopped down and helped her into the back seat of his open carriage. “We’ve been taking a spin in my new phaeton. What do you think of it?”

  Abigail smiled at his enthusiasm. “It’s very nice. I’m glad to be one of its first occupants.”

  Emily scooted sideways in her seat so they could talk. “So what are you doing here? Are you visiting someone?”

  Abigail briefly explained why she was waiting for her brother. “Actually, it’s nice to have a few days to explore the area. Italy is so beautiful.”

  “It is rather pretty, but not very lively. I’ve been to a few parties. Not like in London, of course. They don’t waltz.” Emily pouted. “Do you waltz in America?”

  “Um, I don’t. I’m sure others do.”

  “It’s such a romantic dance, but just a little wicked. At least my mother says so.” Emily grinned. “Anyway, I’ve met several of the locals. There aren’t many eligible gentlemen, except for the vineyard owners.”

  “Vineyard owners?”

  “The landed gentry. The DeLucas are the richest. Watch out, Richard! Don’t run over that big rabbit.”

  “It’s a hare, Em. Haven’t you learned anything while we’ve been here?”

  Abigail clung to her seat while Richard swerved to avoid the scampering creature.

  “Now what was I telling you?” Emily asked. “Oh, yes, the parties.

  Abigail wanted to ask more about Andreas’s family, but Emily didn’t give her a chance.

  “The best thing about the parties is that the men were educated in England. We can converse in English, although the women aren’t particularly pleased about that.” She smiled pertly, revealing a dimple in her left cheek. “They won’t like you either.”