Vampire - Deep Midnight Part 3

"Good!" She smiled and started away. Then she paused, coming back. "Don't let it bother you if people whisper about you today. They whisper about me all the time, and I've survived!"

Before Jordan could say more, Tiff had walked back to her friend. Jordan was surprised to realize that she felt much better after her conversation with the very blunt woman. She smiled, starting out of the hotel again. She mused over the woman's rea.s.surance without really having to wonder why people would whisper about Tiff. Surely, it had something to do with her lifestyle.

Outside the hotel, vendors displayed their goods. The usual T-shirts were for sale, as were dolls and masks by the hundreds. By day, many people were in street clothes, as she was, but even by sunlight, many people were costumed. Walking in broad daylight, Jordan saw the masked and elaborately dressed strollers for what they were-revelers enjoying the beauty and make-believe of the immense party which was Venice at Carnevale. The air was cool, the day was bright, the sky was blue. Crossing the bridge outside the Danieli, she paused, looking down the ca.n.a.l to the Bridge of Sighs, connecting the Doge's Palace and the old prisoners to the new, where many a poor man had pa.s.sed to his imprisonment, or his doom. That had been the past. This morning, a gondolier with a young couple in his sleek black gondola was singing an Italian love song. As he then came through the ca.n.a.l and glanced up at Jordan, he broke into English verse. "When the moon hits your eye like a big piece of pie, that's amore!" He winked. Jordan lifted a brow with a half smile and waved to the happy couple.

The gondolier stopped rowing, drifting slowly as he pa.s.sed beneath her. "Buon giomo, signorina!" he called to her. "Care for a ride?"

"You have pa.s.sengers!" she told him.

"Ah, but they are in love. I am alone."

"Ah, well, such is life," she teased. "Your gondola is occupied."

"Then you must ride another time. I'm Sal. Salvatore D'Onofrio. The best. The most fun, the most handsome."

"And the most modest!" she supplied.

He grinned and shrugged. "No, not the most modest. But you look for me, some other time, eh?"

"If I decide on a gondola ride, I will definitely look for you," she promised.

The girl in the back of the gondola, huddled to a young man who couldn't be much more than twenty, called out to Jordan, her accent French. "He is the best!"

Jordan laughed. "Thanks! Enjoy!"

As the gondola drifted beneath the bridge, Jordan moved on.

St. Mark's Square was crowded with people. Pa.s.sing the entrance to the basilica, Jordan looked over the heads of the ever-moving horde to see that a costume parade was going on by the makeshift bandstand at the opposite end of the Square. A rock band was playing, and a jester was introducing the contestants in English and Italian, throwing in a few words of French here and there. Those in the most fetching and extravagant costumes posed at the columns around the Square for tourists who snapped endless photos. With their masks, most of the elaborately dressed people were wholly anonymous-it was impossible to tell a person's nationality, color, or even s.e.x.

Anonymous . .. there is the key, she thought. It's so easy to come here, don a mask, slip into the crowd, and ...

The thought brought back a strange sense of unease. In truth, she wouldn't know anyone she had seen at the ball last night. Except for the contessa, of course. They had met face to face. But the others who had been there ... they might be in the Square with her now, and she would not know.

She walked through the crowd, suddenly anxious to reach the streets beyond the Square where she would not be quite so tightly packed in by the throngs. An excellent Napoleon- followed by his court-was at her side. He stopped, bowed low, and indicated that she should precede them. She thanked him quickly and walked on by.

Pa.s.sing by a plate gla.s.s window that displayed mannequins in various costumes, she suddenly went dead still, staring into gla.s.s.

For a moment.. .

No. It was just a mannequin. This one with a male form, with a short cut, sable brown wig. For a moment, she thought she had seen Steven's face on the mannequin. Serious hazel eyes, lean features, firm chin. But she was looking at a plastic mold, expressionless features. No hat and no mask adorned the dummy; it was just a well-painted figure in the typical cape. Still, her heart raced, and she mistrusted her own judgment more than ever.

Maybe Jared was right. Steven had been dead only a year. He had died chasing down deadly game players. Cultists-with a yen for murder, for sacrifices to their cruel beliefs.

She studied the mannequin again, forcing herself to think logically.

Yes, she could see why she'd had the momentary vision.

The lean features were similar to Steven's. The eyes had been painted hazel; the hair was his color as well. The size was about right.

A surge of sorrow swept through her. A year wasn't such a long time.

He had come suddenly into her life, and she had found herself suddenly responding. He had been charming, intelligent, impressive . .. n.o.ble.

He shouldn't have been a cop, she thought. He had been too trusting. He had hated violence, but had come on the force in homicide-a man who had believed in rehabilitation, who was completely against the death penalty, and was determined that suspects must be taken alive.

Taking suspects alive had cost him his own life.

She had known what had happened when she heard the sirens in the night, when she looked out her door and saw the cop car, and the officer coming down her walk. She had known what he did; she shouldn't have been shocked. That hadn't stopped her from being horrified, devastated. She had gone through the stages of grief: denial, anger, pain. But she had remained sane.

She had come to the stage of acceptance. She hadn't lost her reason or her mind in any way.

Maybe she had, she mocked herself, if she was seeing his face in the features of a store-window dummy.

Steven was gone. She still felt the sorrow, but she was living her life. He had died under cruel circ.u.mstances, and she would be a fool to forget that horrible things did happen.

A breeze whispered. Soft, cool, beautiful. She forced the past to the back of her mind. She loved Italy, adored Venice, and was not going to let the contessa ruin that simple fact.

She looked away and kept walking. She was not to blame in this. If it had all been a charade, it had been a deplorable one. Jared had no right to be so callous, and she had every right to be furious.

Beyond the Square, she came to streets filled with cafes and shops. Glancing through the window of a restaurant specializing in fish, she noted that many people had doffed their masks for the singular pleasure of eating. They all looked so... normal. A chubby little businessman had his cape thrown over his shoulder while his dottore mask lay on the chair by his side. A half moon mask and a large plumed hat lay on the table by the side of his companion, an equally chubby woman with a charming laugh that rang all the way to the streets. Americans, Jordan thought. Vacationers, like herself, loving this fantasy.

Looking into the restaurant had made her smile. Yet even as she watched, smiling back at the woman who had seen her, she felt an eerie feeling creep up her spine.

Stop! she commanded herself.

But the feeling persisted.

And it had nothing to do with memories of Steven. She had been smiling at a plump and friendly looking American woman when the strange sensation began a trek along her spine.

She felt again that she was being watched.

Whispers seemed to sweep by her, s.n.a.t.c.hes spoken in the wind, there and then gone.

Whispers, swift, staccato, like an evil, raspy breeze, just touching her ears, her nape. For a moment, the street seemed to go dark. Reflected in the gla.s.s of the restaurant window, darkness seemed to descend, like huge wings sweeping over the daylight.

The woman seated inside the restaurant was still laughing. The darkness disappeared as swiftly as if it had flown away on wings of light. And still ...

That feeling.

Something... someone. . . right beside her. A cold, fetid, whisper of menace ...

Jordan swung around, feeling as if bony fingers of sheer ice touched upon her shoulder.

Gino Meroni did not at all dislike his work.

Years ago, when he was a boy, his parents had immigrated to America. He went to high school in New York City, but had neither the money nor the inclination to go any further with his schooling. By the time he was eighteen, his mother and father were still producing more offspring, and so he found himself on his own, trying to make a go of it. He was expected to work, to help with the family, but he couldn't stand the crying of babies, and his mother's prayers and insistence on church every Sunday, or the sorrowful darkness in her eyes each time she warned him that he was running with the wrong crowd. He liked his friends.

They knew the cheapest bars. And where to get money when they were broke. They knew which subway routes were poorly policed. They were excellent at removing the burdens of purses, briefcases, and backpacks from those who were surely weary of carrying them. Once, when plying his trade along Fifth Avenue late at night, he made the mistake of mugging an undercover officer.

He did a stint in jail. He called home. His father refused to bail him out. He never went to prison; his attorney managed to plea bargain a sentence of time served and community service. Community service led him to work in Central Park, a fine place to master the art of surprise and attack.

One night, the thump on the head he gave to an old geezer who had picked up the wrong prost.i.tute killed the man. He didn't know it at first; he read about it in the paper the next morning. He wasn't afraid of being caught; he had learned to wear gloves, to strike, and to run. He hadn't been seen. The branch with which he had killed the fellow lay on the walk by him and bore no prints. The prost.i.tute, who had lain screaming and begging for her life, hadn't seen his face or heard him speak. She had run faster than Gino had after he attacked the old man.

His lack of fear at being caught was somewhat surprising to him. More so was his total lack of remorse. The guy had been old. The whack on the head he had bestowed on him had merely put the geezer out of any future misery.

But that wasn't it. Gino had liked the look of fear on the guy's face. He had liked the feel of wielding the broken branch with so much power that it shuddered in his hands as it struck gray hair, flesh, and bone.

Robbing the unwary, however, wasn't enough. He had to get work-a day job. The only work he could find where he wasn't asked too many questions was nonunion, back- breaking labor at the docks. There, the bosses liked to use men who didn't have references.

They didn't believe in bonuses. Overtime was overlooked. He had a strong, burly build.

When he worked, he worked hard. His English was perfect, unaccented, though he could slip into the role of a struggling new immigrant when he found it necessary or convenient.

In a bar one night, he met a stranger who gave him some veiled hints on how to improve his income.

He agreed to meet the stranger again.

The man opened up a new world to him.

First, there were the drugs. What a difference they made after a long day of hard labor.

Gino was a good-looking man. The stranger provided not just drugs, but women as well.

They liked him. They liked the accent he could affect at will. Every night, when he chose, there was something. Some sweet reward.

He knew, of course, that nothing in life was free. He expected to be asked favors in return. They were usually easy. Because of his work habits by day, he was trusted. His powerful friends asked only that certain shipments at certain times go by without inspection, that certain crates be guarded and never opened. He was more than happy to oblige. He had a new car, a decent apartment. There were days when he stayed in some of the finest hotels despite his own pleasant lodgings. So little to pay, so much to be gained.

Then, late one summer afternoon, when he was about to call it quits for the day, two inspectors arrived at the docks. The Star of Sheba, registered to a Middle Eastern country, was about to leave port. There were a number of crates aboard that had been slipped onto the ship illegally. They were important; that had been emphasized to Gino. Crewmen, suspecting something was up, mysteriously disappeared. Gino found himself alone with the two men from the government.

One of them had put down a crowbar. Gino decided to use it. He stowed the two dead men behind the crates. The Star of Sheba sailed as planned. But the bodies were found, and this time, he had forgotten to get rid of the crowbar, and there were those who had seen him with the government men. The good thing was that the crates reached their destination undisturbed. The bad was that Gino was arrested and charged with murder. His friends, naturally, provided him with an attorney, an extremely attractive woman.

When he tried to flirt with her and make light of his situation, he found out that she was very intelligent. Sharp as a tack, hard as a nail. He was immediately put in his place as she explained the gravity of the situation.

Jail was bad, his attorney told him. Prison was much worse. There were lots of guys in there much bigger than he was. All those things he had done to others could be done to him. And looking over the physical evidence... well, she could plea bargain, but he might find himself being a pincushion and more for men who were truly the dregs of society. As they talked, he came to realize that the best thing to do was what she suggested: escape and leave the country. She had a place in Italy; he could go back to his real home. He had come from Bari; her home was in Venice. No matter. There was plenty he could do for her. False papers could be arranged, and the actual escape seemed of little difficulty for his powerful friends. The idea appealed to him far more than being b.u.g.g.e.red by a bunch of apes. Filthy, toothless, animals, hardly human.

They arranged the escape for a day he was scheduled to be transferred to another facility. The driver of his car was apparently with his friends; the police escort was stopped by another police car. His escort simply disappeared; he never asked how.

At a hotel outside the airport he was given new clothing and a pa.s.sport with a new ident.i.ty. He reached Venice via Paris. At first, he had little to do; very little to do. He was warned that he must lie low, that he needn't seek income in any other way than his work for his friends. For a few years, he wasn't sure what his real worth was-he worked for an important woman, but he was a delivery man, a courier, and captain of the launch. His employer had been away for many years; she was just now reestablishing herself in her family home, yet she was very often gone: a woman of her stature and means had many social obligations in other countries.

Nor were women such as she bound by the rules of others.

In time, he discovered what his true talents were to be for his employer.

He didn't mind.

He didn't dislike his work. He didn't mind the cold, the sharp breeze that blew around him, nor the rocking of the boat in winter. The ... messiness of his work didn't bother him, either. Thinking in American terms, his was a job right up his own alley.

Then he made a sudden realization, and he was afraid.

His employer was wonderful. But she wasn't to be crossed.

In the middle of his work, filling and weighting the barrels he would sink to the bottom of the Adriatic Sea, he was suddenly very aware of a cold breeze.

He dumped all the barrels he had filled, frantically looking around, counting, piecing together, counting again.

Ice filled him, colder than the sea.

He was missing a piece of cargo.

CHAPTER 2.

Nothing.

Still standing in front of the restaurant, Jordan turned around slowly once again, puzzling over the strange sounds of whispering and the impression of winged shadows that had teased her senses. Scanning the street around her, she hoped for a moment to see if the outgoing and bra.s.sy Tiff had perhaps followed her route, and was watching her, ready to approach her again.

But as she looked around, there was no one in the busy street who appeared to be the least interested in her. Groups of people laughed and joked together. She heard bits of different languages-English, Italian, German, French-but she didn't feel even the faintest hint of a cold breeze touching her nape or hissing in her ear.

Then, suddenly, she heard her name called.

"Jordan! Jordan!" She spun in the opposite direction as her name was repeated in a loud and friendly summons. Lynn Mallory, an American artist working at the Venetian shop where she had acquired her costume the evening before, was hailing her from the door of the shop. Jordan hadn't realized that she had walked quite so far, that she was right across from the Arte della Anna Maria, named for the impressive Venetian woman who had formed the co-op store for rising and talented young entrepreneurs.

"Lynn!" she called back, starting over, then ducking back as the same Napoleon and his courtiers came rollicking along. Once again, Napoleon stopped, bowing low to her. "Oh, wait, wait! Please, wait!" someone pleaded. A camera flashed. Napoleon smiled regally, then swept his arm again. Jordan hurried by, and he moved on with appropriate hauteur and arrogance.

"Jordan!" Lynn said, greeting her typically with a kiss on both cheeks. Her eyes were merry and bright. "Where is your costume? In true style, you know, you should dress even to wander through the streets."

"I'm afraid I was in a far more casual mood this morning," Jordan said lightly. Lynn was about Jordan's age with close cropped dark hair and smoky gray eyes. Jordan, speaking such poor Italian, had found a bond with the American girl the moment she stepped into the shop for the first time two days ago. Lynn's mother was an Italian-American who had taught her daughter her native language as a child; as an adult, Lynn admitted, she simply loved all things Italian. A semester of college in Florence had convinced her that she wanted to spend a few years, at the least, living in Italy. Anna Maria's co-op had been the perfect place for her to sell her creations-wooden marionettes dressed in detailed and exquisite costumes.

"Ah," Lynn murmured, eyes clouded with concern as she watched Jordan.

Jordan grimaced. "So you heard-"

"Some of our customers attended the ball." Lynn pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her jacket, shook one out, lit up, inhaled deeply, and exhaled a long plume of smoke. "It's been busy ... my first cigarette in hours." She grimaced. "We still smoke everywhere, here in Italy, not like the States. But you can't light up in the shop, not with so many people and things, costumes, fabric, paint, and art! We could burn a hole in a costume, you know? Or go up like a tinderbox." Lynn was speaking casually, but she studied Jordan all the while. "You're okay now?"

"I'm fine. But the contessa's concept of fun is macabre. It was very real," Jordan said.

She realized she sounded defensive. "Yes, well, the contessa would have entertainment that included the best special effects." Lynn brightened suddenly. "Well, you needn't fear when you attend our ball." She grinned, seeing the confusion in Jordan's eyes. "Tonight, the artist's ball-naturally, most of us will be in attendance. Friday night is Anna Maria's Venetian Waltz. We have a palazzo as well, you know. Rented for the occasion, not owned by any of us, unfortunately.

But we won't scare you half to death. We entertain with music, tarot card readers, jesters ... a pleasure palace, but no monsters."