“Yes, and it’s for that reason that I waited until today’s gathering to apprise you of it,” Michalas said, glancing at Victoria and then back at Ilias. “There’s no urgency, nothing to indicate any connection to the undead or any other nonhuman threat.”
The older man nodded his head in agreement. Ilias was well over fifty, perhaps approaching sixty, and had watery yet wise eyes that crinkled at the corners, matching the furrows on his forehead. When he was deep in thought, as now, he pinched the end of his sharp nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Vero, not vampires. But something unpleasant, to be sure. It could be as simple as the leftovers from a butcher shop—some of the Oriental pilgrims have unusual eating habits. This was two weeks ago? Has the pile grown?”
Michalas smiled ruefully. “I confess, I didn’t deem it important enough to check on it again. With the city preparing for Carnivale, and all of the tourists arriving for the festivities, I’ve been busy in the more populous areas.”
“Where did you find this?”
“In the Esquiline,” Michalas said. “I saw no undead in the area, but there were some about. I could sense them.”
“The Esquiline. That’s near the Villa Palombara,” Ilias said, his pale blue eyes suddenly sharp. Sometimes they appeared rheumy, but that affect seemed to disappear when something of interest presented itself.
Victoria looked at both of the men, natives of Rome, and waited for an explanation. Having lived her first twenty years in England, she was at a disadvantage in this city, the home and birthplace of the Venators. Nevertheless, despite the fact that she was a woman, and much younger than either of them, they were respectful and forthcoming with whatever information she needed. She was the Gardella.
“The Villa Palombara has been empty for a hundred and forty years, since its marchese disappeared under unusual circumstances. He was an alchemist, and had quite a popular salon with others of his inclination—trying to find the way to transmute any metal to gold, that process which, of course, is believed to be the source of immortality.”
Victoria felt that it would be in poor taste to mention that one could easily achieve immortality by having a vampire turn one undead. Of course, there was the disadvantage of being damned for all eternity and being relegated to drinking human blood if one was turned. Instead, she said, “Perhaps we could go tonight and see if anything has changed. As well, I’m not familiar with that part of the city and would like to see it with someone who knows it well.”
“That would be a pleasure,” Michalas said with a genuine smile. “I would enjoy hunting with you.”
They were interrupted from their conversation, which had taken place in one of the alcoves adjoining the fountain chamber, by a handsome man with red-gold hair. His arms were heavily muscled, a feature that Zavier tended to display by wearing unfashionable shirts with the sleeves cut off, much as he might have on the farm his father and brothers worked back in Scotland. It made him look slightly barbaric, and Victoria felt mildly embarrassed at all of his exposed skin.
“Come, ye gabblers—Wayren is gathering us in the Gallery. Victoria, ’tis good to see your bonny face again. Ilias, Michalas, come along with ye.”
“Zavier.” She turned toward him, smiling. “I knew you wouldn’t miss our celebration today! I can only imagine how delighted you’ll be to see Aunt Eustacia’s new portrait unveiled in the Gallery.”
Though his brawny physique bespoke great strength, his blue eyes were kind and his smile warm, particularly when he was in Victoria’s presence—a fact that had not been lost on her. He’d left Rome just after Aunt Eustacia died to investigate rumors of vampire activity in Aberdeen. Wayren, with the use of the well-trained pigeons that clustered around Santo Quirinus, had learned that Zavier was on his way back to Rome, but she hadn’t been certain he’d be there in time for the portrait unveiling, a bittersweet tradition that honored each Venator after his or her death. But she should have known Zavier wouldn’t have missed the honor to the oldest Venator.
Somehow, as he ushered her out of the alcove, he managed to place himself between her and Michalas and Ilias, drawing her back to walk behind them. “And you ken that I have been attemptin’ to wheedle out of Wayren whether the painting of Eustacia is one of her in her younger years or as we ken her.”
Victoria slipped her hand into the tiny crook of his arm, aware of the unusual fact that her fingers were touching a man’s bare skin. He’d been the first of the Venators to befriend her when Aunt Eustacia brought her to the Consilium for the first time. Not that the rest of them had been standoffish or looked down on her for being a woman—only Max had done that, and only until he’d seen her at her most vulnerable moment—for they were all well aware of the power and skill her aunt had wielded, and thus they held no prejudice against the female gender.
“She hasn’t told me either,” she replied, glancing at him.
“Well, soon enough. Tell me, when will ye be having your vis bulla replaced, and be able to go out on the hunt?”
“I have already done so, Zavier. Whilst you were gone back to Scotland.”
“Och! And I meant to be there for it,” he said, a gleam of humor in his cornflower eyes. “I would have offered to hold your hand.”
Victoria couldn’t stay the blush—and, truly, it was mortifying for her, a Venator, to blush over something like this!—and she looked away.
Despite the fact that every Venator wore his vis bulla somewhere on his body, pierced through the skin so that it became one with the being of the person, Victoria had not relished the thought of being surrounded by a group of men whilst her belly was bared and her navel poked. And along with that resolution, she’d also made it a point not to consider where Zavier—or any other Venator—wore his. She felt it was a private thing.
“Well, you were not, and Kritanu and Wayren were the only ones there. Just as I preferred.”
Zavier chuckled. “Ye canna blame a man for tryin’ his best.”
Victoria changed the subject as they wandered past the fountain and through the alcove that led to the Gallery where portraits of all of the Venators through the years were hung. “Did you dispatch the vampires in Aberdeen?”
“Indeed I did. Five of the demmed leeches were living beneath the construction of the new Music Hall, coming out at night to feed on the locals. I never heard of any undead that far north before; I thought Scotland was too cold and rough for them.”