from ~
Stone
of Thieves
As
I give Creek a swift nod and head toward the kitchen, I feel a tap on
my shoulder.
Swiveling
around, I half-expect to see the Italian tour guide. But I find
myself gazing at a man so desperately handsome he steals all breath
from my chest.
His
dark unruly hair frames his cheekbones in random curls, and his face
is all hard angles—smooth and sharp as Venetian cut glass. Eyes
twinkling, he gives me a broad smile filled with enough charm to send
a dozen girls’ hearts into spirals. The second that thought strikes
me, a strange flutter arises in my gut and works its way out to my
limbs in waves. I feel the stone throb against my pocket, harassing
me with whispers that are drowned out by the pulsing sound of blood
rushing to my brain.
Because
something about this man’s eyes mystify me and holds me into place.
Although
he appears in his early 20s at best, somehow there’s a shadow in
his gaze that bears the weight of a very old man. Like the other tour
guides, he’s dressed in period clothing from the Renaissance, an
ivory peasant shirt and pants with brocade detail and black boots. I
have to presume he’s here to help with the tour.
“You want to see
the rest of the palazzo, sì mia amica?”
He
doesn’t wait for an answer, holding out his arm in an oddly
cavalier way, as though he were about to ask me to dance at a ball.
“Here, let me show you the map room. The group will-a join us
soon.”
I
hesitate, grinding my heels into the alabaster floor.
Truth
be told, I’d love some of that pasta in the kitchen because I’m
still starving, even after the bread and cheese we wolfed down from
the nun’s handout earlier. But as I hear the Conté de Bargona
bragging about his blood-red sauce, I can’t help thinking
anything’s better than being near him right now. He did seem to
recognize me—at least as someone who looks spooky-close to his
ancestor. Does that mean he pegs me as his daughter’s bastard
child?
Before
I can entertain the possibilities, the tour guide forcefully whisks
me up several stairs by the time I manage to jerk my elbow away from
him. Glancing over my shoulder, I spot the other docents cleaning up
the blood spill, and I wonder how Creek is doing with rifling through
desks and files. At least this trip to the map room could buy us some
more time. I give the young man a hint of smile.
He
responds by breaking free of my arm and bolting up the steps to the
landing, where I can see a room at the top covered in yellowed,
archaic maps. Flashing that broad smile again, he disappears, and all
of a sudden the landing is filled with a warm, inviting glow.
Curious, I head to the map room and find him standing beside two
French doors that are opened wide to a balcony.
“The
only way to truly know Venezia is by its light,” he says with a
certain triumph in his voice.
He’s
merely a silhouette now, his amazing physique backlit by the subtle
morning sunshine, almost like a phantom.
As
my eyes readjust to the outline of his dark contours, I notice there
are Mardi Gras masks hanging on the walls next to the double doors.
Their hollow, black eyes and faces empty of the warmth of human flesh
spook me a little.
“A-Aren’t we
here to see the maps?” I remind him, cautious about stepping any
further into this room. I turn slightly to glance into the hallway,
my eyes hunting past several doors that have been left ajar.
“Creek,”
I whisper sharply. “Where are you . . .”
No
answer.
Dammit—
Returning
my gaze to my host, I find he’s grabbed two of the masks and he’s
motioning for me to step out onto the balcony.
“Maps only record
the past,” he insists. “Come, let’s see the future.”
I
draw in a breath, rationalizing it won’t hurt to stall for more
time. “OKAY,” I voice too loudly, hoping it might help Creek
detect where I am, “I CAN CHECK OUT THE VIEW WITH YOU FOR A
MINUTE.”
Not
a sound stirs from the hallway.
Only
my echo as it slowly fades away.
With
a sigh, and several excuses in mind to bolt free from this guy as
soon as I hear evidence of Creek, I shrug my shoulders and stroll out
to the balcony to take in the sights.
Before
us is the Grand Canal, its waters a deep murky green with hints of
shimmer from the early sun that’s begun to peek above the elegant
domes and spires. A layer of mist still shrouds the city like a
blanket, making it appear hazy and sepia toned, and every bit as
ancient as its architecture belies.
“Tell
me,” the young man asks, “what do you see, Rubina?”
My
heart skips a beat.
I
haven’t told him my name yet. Much less the Italian version the de
Bargonas gave me at birth—
And
I feel the ruby wobble to match my quickening pulse.
“Um, I see green
water,” I pipe up, extremely antsy now to get back to Creek. The
time for politeness is way over, and as I spin on my heels to go
inside, his hand stops my shoulder with the abruptness of stone. He
holds up a glittering gold mask.
“Un
momento. Just put it on—then tell me what you see.”
He
adjusts a shiny black mask over his face that instantly makes him
look foreboding.
“This
will only take a second,” his accent rolls in an almost musical
tone, “I promise. I simply want you to understand. Everything in
Venezia changes. The light, the masks, the people—nothing is ever
as it seems.”
Annoyed,
I slip the gold mask over my head, only because I calculate Creek
will emerge from the hallway any second now. Interestingly, when I
glance back over the canal, the water has transformed from emerald to
an ethereal amethyst with hints of rose that sparkle over the
currents as the sun ascends more boldly over the city. It’s
beautiful—there’s no doubt about it. But it’s way past time for
me to join Creek.
Just
as I open my mouth to say a swift goodbye, the man grabs my face in
his hands and swallows me in a kiss.
Not
just any kiss—
He
wraps himself around me as though he could pour his spirit like a
searing liquid into my throbbing veins.
And
the fluttering I felt earlier now runs up and down my spine like
wildfire, stinging me with a heat that focuses like a laser on the
stone inside my pocket.
It
takes every ounce of strength I have to break free from him. And the
second I do, I haul off and slap him so hard it knocks that black
mask off his face.
“WHAT
THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!” I cry, reeling, my fists clenched tight.
Out
of the corner of my eye, I spy a wash of red. The bold sun now glows
like an angry ball that pierces the mist of the city, coating the
entire canal the color of blood.
The
young man gazes at me without apology.
“I
only wanted to kiss something beautiful before it dies,” he says.
“Because make no mistake—Vittorio de Bargona will kill you.”
He
steals another kiss before I can gather the wherewithal to shove his
ass back.
“Go
to the gypsies, Rubina,” he whispers, “out in the countryside.
That is, if you want to live.”
In
that moment, he becomes hazy, like the mist that still threads
between the buildings of the city. Then he disappears.
And
all that’s left at my feet is his shiny black mask.
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