“Thank you, Isabel. For your help. For everything.”
“You are welcome, my friend. You are both welcome.”
Giovanni and Beatrice fell into a careful rhythm together in Cochamó, as they had from the beginning of their relationship. She explored the valley during the day, accompanied by one of the human family that worked for Gustavo and Isabel running the small tourist lodge. She would come back to the house to eat a quiet meal and read before going to sleep. There was no electricity in the house, but stone fireplaces warmed every room, and running water came from an old tower that stood next to the stable.
They spoke little, and her silence, which usually soothed him, began to tug at him the longer it continued. She would not speak about her time with Lorenzo, and only occasionally would their conversation venture farther than incidental information about the valley or its residents.
Worse than her silence were the weeping dreams she had every night when she finally fell asleep. He sat, silently crouched outside her bedroom door for hours, as she cried and murmured in her sleep and the memories tormented her. Her heart raced, and he could scent her panic throughout the house. As much as he tried to respect her privacy, eventually Giovanni tried to enter her room and wake her, only to find the door locked tight.
By the seventh night, he could no longer take the escalating nightmares.
“Dad…no,” she sobbed. “Gio, don’t…don’t let them—” She broke off and he could hear her cries come through the thick wooden door.
He rose from his knees and pushed his way inside, breaking the lock in one swift shove before he walked to her bed and knelt beside her, anxiously stroking her hair.
“Beatrice,” he said through gritted teeth, “please, wake up. Please—”
Her eyes flickered open and he cupped her face in his hands, brushing the tears away with his thumbs as she stared at him with swollen eyes.
“Tell me what to do,” he whispered desperately. “I cannot…what would you have me do? I will do anything—”
“Don’t let them take me,” she said in a hollow voice.
Giovanni gave a hoarse groan and pulled her into his arms, clutching her to his chest as he rocked her in his arms. She tensed for a moment, but finally heaved a great sigh and let her head rest on his shoulder. He sat on the bed, stroking her hair and rocking her back and forth.
He cradled her as the waning moon streamed through her window. Finally, he reached over to the bedside table and lit a candle. He was wearing only a pair of loose pants, and he felt her tears hot on his chest.
“Do you want to forget?” he asked. “I can make you forget. Maybe everything. Is it better that way?” He ignored the ache in his chest, and waited for her to respond.
“Will you remember?”
He tilted her face toward his, memorizing the silver tracks on her cheeks and her swollen eyes. He locked away the sound of her nightmares in his mind, and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her panic as it stained the air.
“Yes. I will remember everything.”
She nodded, and he finally saw a familiar hint of steel return to her eyes.
“If you can remember, I can remember.”
He bent his head and kissed her softly on the forehead, then on each cheek, and finally laid a soft kiss on her mouth, as if sealing a promise. She made no move to leave his embrace, so he tucked her head under his chin and leaned against the headboard.
“Giovanni?”
“Yes?”
“Tell me your story.”
He closed his eyes and hugged her, letting out a sigh before he began in a low voice.
“My name is Jacopo, and I was seven when my Uncle Giovanni found me…”
Chapter Twenty-four
Cochamó Valley, Chile
August 2004
She listened for hours, wrapped in his warm arms as he told her the tale of a small boy, plucked out of poverty by the friends of a beloved uncle. He had been an indulged child after his early years, fed a steady diet of art, philosophy, religion, and learning in a time of flowering human achievement.
Count Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, after adopting his older brother’s illegitimate son, treated Jacopo more like a cherished younger brother than a bastard. His three friends; Angelo Poliziano, the scholar, Girolamo Benivieni, the poet, and Girolamo Savaranola, the monk; followed suit.
The four surrounded the boy with knowledge and love, each contributing a part to the young man he became, and each unaware of the hovering danger that lurked in the beautiful form of Signore Niccolo Andros, a water vampire of unspeakably ancient power.
“When did you first meet him? Your sire?” she asked as he carried her to his bedroom to escape the first stirrings of dawn. He settled her on top of his large bed, then walked back to her bedroom for blankets, since he slept with none.
“Andros?” he called. “My uncle first met him in Lorenzo’s court in 1484. It was the same visit to Florence when he first met me.”
Giovanni walked back in the bedroom, which was finished in plaster and wood on three walls. The far wall, at the head of the Giovanni’s bed, was hewn granite and the candlelight in the room caused the black flecks in the stone to dance.
“I first met Andros when my uncle visited his villa in Perugia. He had collected an extraordinary library and gave my uncle many rare books and manuscripts to study, though I later learned he had always intended to take them back. Andros’s books are the real treasure, tesoro. My uncle’s books are valuable to me, but Andros’s library was legendary.”