The Vampire's Protector (3 page)

“That's fine. As long as it's secure, there is no rush. Go ahead and bring it directly to the Archives for cataloging.”

“Uh... Director Pierce?”

“Yes, Santiago?”

“What is the thing with this violin? I mean, it seems innocuous. It's just another violin, albeit remarkably well preserved. The strings were even tight—”

“You didn't play it, did you?”

“What?”

“Don't play that violin, Santiago. All of Beneath will, quite literally, break loose if anyone should play that violin.”

“Uh...” Gulp.
All
of Beneath? That covered quite a lot of area. And included its ruler and nemesis, Himself. But
really
?

“Summer.” The director rarely used her first name, so that set her back in her seat. “Tell me you did not play the violin.”

“I did not play the violin.”

“I'm sensing there's a
but
?”

She sighed heavily, and with a glance to the violin case, nodded. “But I did drop the bow, and it slid across the strings. It wasn't as if it was purposefully played. It made more of a noise than anything.”

“Fuck.”

She had never in her service to Acquisitions heard Ethan Pierce swear. And now Summer noticed her hands shook. What the heck? She hadn't done anything cataclysmically wrong. She was still alive. A vile nest of demons had not been released from the depths of the storage room where she'd found the violin. The sky was still blue. The earth still circled the sun. The birds were chirping. The...well, really. Everything was cool.

“Summer, Paganini had specifically stated that violin be destroyed. He did so because before his death the devil Himself made him an offer.”

“I know the history.”

“Yes, the history you can read in books and on the internet. But the real history—the one Archives records in the
Book of All Spells
—details that if Paganini had played one song on the instrument he would have been granted all the power the devil possessed.”

“Yes, but, Director Pierce, Paganini is dead. And like I said, it was just a note or two. Some noise. I did not play the violin. I'm pretty sure the uh...” No one spoke the devil's name too much. Say it three times? You've invited him for lunch. “...the Big Guy hasn't risen either. Everything is cool.”

“Is it?”

“You know I'm an ace at the smooth, clean mission. Why are you so worried?”

“It may be a precautionary worry. And I certainly hope it is. But what if playing a note or two disturbed the dead Nicolo Paganini? It's a probability I have to consider due to the nature of the strange magics with which we often encounter.”

Summer let out a burst of laughter. And then she silenced. Director Pierce had not offered equal levity with return laughter. “Really? No. That's— Why the musician? It was just a note or two.”

“Where was the violinist buried?” She heard clicking on his end, indicating he must be doing a search on the computer. “Parma. Not far from Cella Monte.”

“Yes, I'm just outside Parma now. I pulled over to...” She wouldn't admit she'd been considering a nap.

“Then you can ensure your little mishap didn't stir up trouble. You must go to the grave site to check that the musician's grave is undisturbed.”

“Seriously?”

“Santiago, it is essential. You have either dallied very closely with a wicked bargain, or have, in fact, released a malicious force into the world.”

He had a way of making it sound so devastating that Summer shrank even deeper into the car seat. But then she sat up straight and hit the steering wheel with a fist. “I have done no such thing. Have you ever known me to mess up a mission, Director Pierce?”

“No, and I don't want to jump to conclusions with this one. But that violin has been forged by Himself. I will hazard no foul-ups regarding any such object. The important thing right now is that you must go to the cemetery. Yes?”

She nodded. “What about the violin?”

“Keep it safe. And unplayed.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can, Santiago. You have served Acquisitions well over the years. I'm sure this little mishap was nothing more than that. An accident.”

“It was. I swear to it. You know I would never lie.”

“I do know that about you. Call me as soon as you've confirmed the Paganini grave at the Parma cemetery remains intact.”

“I'm off to do a little grave digging.” Yikes. “Sorry, Director Pierce.”

“Every Retriever faces a life-altering challenge at one point or another in their career. This may be yours.”

Life altering? He was really laying it on thick. “I'm always up for a challenge. Goodbye.”

She slunk back into the seat and closed her eyes. “Good one, Santiago. You may have just unleashed untold evil into the world.”

It always sounded more ominous in the movies. Of course, the movies had a soundtrack that made everything ominous.

“Good thing there's no soundtrack today,” she muttered.

Had an accidental slip of the bow across the strings disturbed the famed violin maestro in his grave?

Only one way to find out.

“Guess there's no rest for this wicked violin thief.” She swallowed, wishing she'd found a donor to slake her thirst earlier. “This is going to be a long day.”

Chapter 3

T
he Villetta cemetery in Parma sat close to the edge of town, nestled near residential areas. On one side of the cemetery stretched gorgeous vast green fields and trees. Summer drove along the road edging a field, feeling as though it were a little oasis within the bustle of the busy world.

It was nearing noon, a lazy time of day that found most inside eating or relaxing before a meal. She wore her sunglasses, and she tinted all the windows in her cars for protection. A vampire could certainly venture out in the daytime, even in the sunlight. But they did burn much easier and faster than most, and direct sunlight could leave nasty sores and burns. So she never went anywhere in the summertime without a sweatshirt jacket and sunglasses. Sunscreen helped a bit, as well.

Though homeschooled by her parents, she'd been allowed to study those subjects that had most appealed to her and had basically designed her own education. Music and mechanics had topped her study list. So what she knew about Nicolo Paganini was that he had been buried in the cemetery only after much struggle to actually allow his body a proper burial. History books told that he'd refused the last rites on his deathbed, so the priest had denied him burial in consecrated ground. His son, Achille, had fought and struggled for years and had finally, after decades and agreeing to donate the remaining bulk of his father's estate to the Catholic Church, won his father a resting place in Parma.

One could read the details of that weird burial struggle and assume Paganini had refused the last rites because he had been dabbling in the occult and perhaps had even made a deal with the devil, but it was also known that, at the time of refusal, he hadn't thought he was going to die.

But it didn't make sense to Summer. If he'd refused to play the violin then he couldn't have been the devil's associate, as so many had accused him.

Then again, what did she know? The musician had a sordid and interesting history. Accused of deviltry merely because he had been a prodigy on the violin? Stupid. But not for the time period, she supposed. And if he really had made a deal with the devil that would easily explain his phenomenal talent.

Summer knew people made deals with Himself every single day. And they were real and signed in blood and paid with breath and bone. She'd had a run-in with Himself once. She tried very hard not to ever let that happen again. And she had a built-in warning system thanks to her allergy to demons.

Checking the GPS map on her phone, which she'd attached to a plastic holder on the dashboard, she verified the cemetery wasn't far off. She'd not once been in Italy before today, but appreciated the quiet afternoon drive. With luck, the cemetery would be as peaceful. And if she had to actually do some grave digging she would be granted privacy.

If she arrived at the graveyard to find that indeed the grave had been disturbed and the body was gone, she'd...

Summer blew out a breath. “I have no earthly idea what I'll do.”

Her Retriever training had not covered tracking a newly unearthed dead man and returning him to the grave. Though, now she thought about it, all she had to do was rebury him. Right? It made sense. But what about a violin raising hell did make sense? And was it all of Beneath, or was it a metaphorical hell in the form of the man being some kind of demon or hellish being?

“You're thinking about this too much,” she muttered as she drove by a man wandering along the road's edge.

The single-lane tarred road was paralleled with grass growing high in the ditches. In need of a mow, but she liked the overgrown nature. A quaint countryside drive. So seeing a man wandering by in a black suit, looking rather dazed, gave her pause. She slowed the vehicle and peered in the rearview mirror. He stared after her, yet continued walking. Dressed in a long black coat, black pants and white shirt, and with long black hair. Was the coat actually a tux? The tails of it went to the back of his knees. His eyes looked like black voids from the distance. He was slim, but not unattractive. Maybe a little dirt on his face and hands?

In that somber suit he looked out of place against the cerulean sky and emerald field. On the other hand, maybe he was coming from a funeral that had just been held at the cemetery?

Or he could be...

“No. Freaking. Way.”

Summer's heartbeats dropped to her gut, and she slammed the Audi to a halt. Grabbing the cell phone from the dash, she clicked online, thankful that she got Wi-Fi out here. Searching for Paganini brought up a page full of images. Tall, slender and darkly handsome for a nineteenth-century guy. Some caricatures made him look comical with a bent spine and spider-long fingers as he viciously attacked the violin. No actual photographs, though. She supposed photography had been invented a little later.

She shook her head as she gazed at the man walking away in the rearview mirror. “Can't be. He looks...healthier, if not...normal.”

Shouldn't a guy risen from the dead look...dead?

Tapping the steering wheel with her thumb, she then rubbed the hematite ring along the leather wheel. She was seeing things she didn't want to believe. The director had spooked her with his warning about disturbing the dead. “He's just a local. Wandering home from a funeral. Yeah.”

She shifted into Drive, but didn't take her foot off the brake pedal.

The cemetery loomed ahead, within shouting distance. Could he really have climbed out of a grave and now be wandering the countryside? The man had been buried—she quickly did the math—around one hundred and seventy-five years ago. Wouldn't her car freak him out? And the modern paved roads and—hell, everything?

“This is insane. He's not a dead guy. He just happens to look like Paganini.” She was in Italy. All the guys were darkly handsome, right?

But she had to be sure. She wasn't going to let this mission get any more messed up than it already was.

Shifting into Reverse, she backed the car down the road. When she paralleled the man, he paused and cautiously stepped back from the car as if it were a vicious bull staring him down. After a few moments of consideration, he leaned forward and peered through the window at her.

She rolled down the window. Grabbing her cell phone and clicking on one of the pictures, she then held it out, to compare images side by side.

“Ah shit. It's him.”

* * *

Nicolo marveled as the dark glass window in the moving carriage slid downward to allow the driver to speak to him. A female driving a carriage without horses? Such a wonder the world had come to. He could not even be frightened at the strange prospect of allowing a woman such leeway as to drive about unescorted.

She held a small device out toward him and asked, “Is this you?”

What? Him? He leaned forward and saw there was a small painting on the device. Or rather it looked like a sketch. Of him. He'd seen that sketch. Sir Edwin Henry Landseer had done it during a concert when Nicolo had performed at the Royal Opera House in London.

“Yes, me,” he said in French because she had used that language. He spoke Italian and French.

“You are Nicolo Paganini?”

“But of course.” He leaned closer to her, but wasn't sure about touching the carriage. It gleamed silver. Not a bit of wood to its construction. “How do you know this? What magics do you practice to identify me as such? And what witchery is contained in that box you show me?”

“It's called the internet and this is a cell phone,” she said with a wave of the object before pulling it back inside.

He understood neither of those words.

She opened the carriage door and got out. The woman was petite and...dressed most strangely. Yet, Nicolo had seen a few women since wandering out from the cemetery. All wore trousers such as a man and close-fitting shirts with sleeves short enough to reveal more than enough arm, and on some, the necklines were so low as to show ample bosom. It had startled him so much he'd initially walked directly into a street lamp. And then a few feminine giggles had reassured him that the modern-day women still possessed a wicked tease comparable to those from his time where their wardrobe was concerned.

“Okay, Monsieur Paganini,” she said. With a shake of her head to spill the untidy long blond locks over one shoulder, she hooked her thumbs at the back of her slender-fitted trousers that hung low, exposing a slice of skin above the waistband, and rocked back and forth a few times on some odd violet shoes. “So uh...this next question is a doozy.”

“Doo-zee. I do not understand that word.”

“It means it's going to set you off your feet real good.”

He stared down at the bespoke leather shoes he'd been buried in. Treasures to him. For to find a comfortable shoe that had fit his large feet? Not so easy. “Very well then.” He crossed his arms and prepared for the remarkable question to set him off his oversized feet. “Serve me your best.”

Because really? After climbing up from one's grave, it couldn't get much worse. Or was that better? He hadn't yet decided if he should be pleased or worried about his new
alive
status. He'd been buried for a long time. The world had changed. And he was in a daze from it all.

“Did you just crawl out of a tomb?”

Nicolo's jaw dropped open. And then he snapped it shut. There was only one explanation to her having such information. “Are you a witch? I know witches exist. How did you portend such a fact?”

“Just answer me. I was on my way to the Parma cemetery to see if you were still safely buried. Uh, but I guess you're not.”

“I am not. For reasons beyond my knowledge, I have been summoned from death.” He brushed his fingers over the velvet coat he'd been buried in. His son had style, indeed. Though it fit tightly across the shoulders. When being resurrected, he'd gained some muscle. It made the coat cumbersome. “Does everyone know about this strange occurrence of my resurrection?”

“No, just me. And I'd like to keep it that way. You'd better get in the car. We have some things to talk about.”

“Get. In?” He stretched his gaze along the carriage. There were seats for others inside the compact conveyance, but— “No, I am perfectly fine standing outside on this smooth pavement. Such wicked alchemy you've concocted to make this vehicle travel without a horse is not something in which I wish to partake. I have avoided the devil's work all my life. I shall not soon subscribe to such folly in my afterlife. As it is.”

“Your afterlife is because of me, I'm afraid.”

“How so? Did
you
summon me from the grave? You
are
a witch!”

She held up both hands, one of which still held the mysterious device containing his image. “Chill, Paganini.”

“I am rather warm in this attire. These are my funeral raiments. I've seen people wearing so much less. And you in your odd trousers and shoes. What has become of the gowns the women once wore? Your attire is freakishly masculine.”

She bristled at that statement, but then set back her shoulders, proudly. “I may be a freak, but the clothes are common for women nowadays. The world has changed a lot in a hundred and seventy-five years.”

“One hundred and...” He gaped. Truly, it was well beyond the 1920s in which Mary Grace had been buried.

“Like I said, we need to talk. I suppose I can't interest you in climbing back into the coffin and letting me bury you again?”

“Are you— That is perfectly ghastly! You are worse than a witch, you—”

“Yes, yes. But since you know witches exist and suspect I am one, I need to set you straight right from the start. Get a load of this.”

She grinned widely, and Nicolo watched her upper incisors descend. They were pointed and sharp and—mercy, he knew what she was. He hated that he had such knowledge of the paranormal creatures that existed in this world. But he did because he'd had far too many conversations with the devil Himself.

And he knew what this woman was. “Vampire?”

She nodded and grinned. Surely the world must be overrun with her sort? For the very first person he should converse with would be a blood-drinking vampire? Perhaps crawling back into his coffin would not be such a terrible idea after all.

No. He was alive. And he wanted to remain that way.

“No,” he said defiantly. “I will not get into that conveyance with you today. Good day, vampire.”

And he strode off down the smoothly paved road, not sure where he was headed, but dearly hoping that his path landed him at the nearest tavern with a kindly serving wench who would take pity on his empty pockets and allow him a drink. Or two. Or many. Drunk seemed to be the only way to handle the day's events.

Quickening his pace, he tried to ignore the vehicle rolling backward toward him. He had walked a great distance from the cemetery, but he was not tired nor were his muscles taxed. In fact, he felt good. Remarkably good. He couldn't remember a time during his first life (that's what he was calling it; how else to term it?) when he'd felt so utterly alive. So vital. So strong.

And he wanted to keep this strength. And figure it out.

The carriage stopped and out jumped the woman. She marched toward him. Petite and very pretty, despite her messy blond hair that seemed to fall in twists down to her elbows, and the terrible clothing that made her resemble a boy. He was surprised at her insistence. And even more surprised when she grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

“Take your hands off the coat,” he insisted. “It is fine velvet.”

“Yeah, yeah, velvet is cheap nowadays, buddy. Get over it. So the fact I'm a vampire didn't freak you?”

“Freak me? You mean, you expected me to run screaming from you? I know of your sort, blood drinker. Have never met one, but I do have knowledge of the occult.”

“We call it the paranormal. Vamps, witches, werewolves, demons. All that jazz.”

“I'm not sure what creature a jazz is, but I am aware of the others you listed. Demons.” Nicolo stifled a shudder.