of golden hair spread across a marble floor, sightless blue eyes, a gaping red wound on a white throat. “Well, I know it.”
“Yet you are still willing to bargain with the devil?”
Marc swallowed down the bitter dregs of the ale. “I must. I have come a long way to see this through, Nicolai. There were vows made, and I must fulfill them. It has been far too long.”
“As I thought. You have always been a stubborn mule, ever since I met you in that filthy brothel in Germany.”
Marc laughed. “But you needn’t be a part of it any longer. I have no wish to be the ruin of the few friends I possess. It is my quarrel alone, after all.” Even as he said the words, though, Marc knew he could not lose Nicolai’s help; knew he had to keep it by any means possible. Nicolai had saved his life in that brothel, and Marc had saved his in return, threefold. He needed his friend at his back now, when it mattered more than ever.
Nicolai grinned, back to his merry Arlechino self. “And what else would I do to amuse myself in these dull days? The troupe does not move on to Mantua until after Carnival and Lent, when merriment will be wanted again. Until then, my meagre skills are at your disposal, Il leone.” Something swift and dark flashed deep in Nicolai’s eyes, quickly veiled by another laugh. “I doubt most of Venice would agree it is your quarrel alone, though. I think they would beg leave to share it.”
Before Marc could question him, the tavern door opened, admitting a rush of cold air and pale sunlight—and Julietta Bassano’s maidservant. The girl strolled over to the counter, her striped skirts and fringed shawl swaying.
“Signora Bassano’s maid,” Marc muttered. “I believe her name is Bianca.”
“Ah.” Nicolai nodded sagely. “A lady’s greatest confidante is often her maid. And this one just seems full of—knowledge.” Without another word, Nicolai slid out from behind the table and crossed the room to Bianca’s side. In no time at all, flirtatious giggles echoed through the dusty air, like unfurled streamers of bright ribbon.
Marc dropped a few coins beside the empty goblets and took his own leave. Nicolai would be occupied for quite a while to come.
Outside the tavern the day was cold, but the early morning fog had burned away leaving pale, yellow-gray sunlight to light up the dark waters and pastel houses. Marc drew his short cape closer about him and melted into the crowds hurrying along the fondamento. With his cap pulled low, no one recognised him as Il leone and he was free to wander where he would.
Strangely, his feet desired nothing more than to return to Julietta Bassano’s blue door. To lose himself amid the sweet, soft scents of her shop, to watch the tall, elegant lady as she moved behind the counter, proffering up violets on her fair skin. She was truly a glorious mystery, one he looked forward to unravelling one silken skein at a time.
But not yet. Even as he half turned towards her campi, he knew it was far too soon. He told her he would return in two days; two days for her to think of him, for her wary intrigue to deepen into the first blooming of need and desire. Two days for him to think of her, as well, to think of all he longed to obtain from her. Two very long days.
In the meantime, he had important work to do. He stepped forward to summon a passing gondola.
Julietta sat straight up in bed, gasping for air. Her skin felt cold, icy cold, despite the fire still smouldering in the grate and the thick coverlets piled atop her. She shivered and ran her hands over her face, shaking her head hard to rid it of the mist of dreams. It didn’t work—she still felt as if someone was watching her, staring into her very soul until all her secrets lay bare.
She leaned over to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a flickering red-orange glow into every corner of the small chamber. There were no soulsnatching demons there, of course; she was alone, as always. Only stacks of books on every table and chair, a few pieces of clothing strewn about in black-and-white streamers, a half-drunk glass of wine.
“Just a dream,” she whispered. Not even a dream she could remember. Only bright, flashing fragments of movement and colour remained. And a pair of searing turquoise-blue eyes.
Julietta tossed back the bedclothes and swung her legs to the floor, wincing as her bare feet touched the cold wooden planks. Her fur-trimmed dressing gown was tossed at the foot of the bed, but she ignored it, crossing over to the window in only her thin linen chemise. The cold was good. It shocked her into a waking reality where no dreams could touch her.
The moon, a glistening, silvery-yellow crescent, hung high in the glossy black sky. ’Twas hours until daylight, then. Hours until sunlight and work could distract her. Everything always seemed closer, more suffocating in the night. The past, the future, all inescapable.
But Venice belonged to the mysteries of night, to darkness and deep waters and shadowed doorways that promised so much. It made the night so tempting, ever beckoning her forth from the careful construction of her safe lies. “Come to us,” the waters whispered. “Come to us, belong to us, as you know you do, and we will show you delights you could not even dream of. We will give you all you desire, all you seek, if you will just surrender.”
Surrender. The one thing she could never do. Julietta Bassano was born to stand solitary, to fight always against who she was, who she feared to be. Yet on nights like this one…
On nights like this, Eros and Thanatos, love and death, entwined in the narrow calli of the city, and she had such sharp, sweet longings. She loved Venice, because she and the city were one in the night, neither of them ever what they seemed to be.
Julietta leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the deserted campi below and remembering the man who had visited her shop that morning. Il leone. Marc Antonio Velazquez. By whatever name he went, he was dangerous. She knew that the instant he touched her hand, and her flesh came alive at the stroke of his.
Shrugging the heavy braid of her hair back from her shoulder, Julietta reached out to push open the window. She closed her eyes as the cold night air washed over her face and throat, along the curve of her breasts bared by the low neck of the chemise and, for one moment, she imagined it was his hand on her skin. His callused sailor’s touch sliding roughly over her shoulder, tracing a crooked line of fire lower, ever lower, his breath cool and sweet, making her shiver in sweet anticipation…
Madre de dio! Julietta’s eyes flew open, and she found herself alone, staring down at the emptiness of the campi. From a distance, echoing, she heard laughter and music from some merry gathering, but no turquoise-eyed sorcerer watched her. No caresses reached out for her.
Dangerous, indeed. Once, long ago, when she was young and foolish, she had thought her husband handsome and charming, had fancied herself in love with him like a maiden and a knight in a poem. She had craved his kisses, worshipped his voice and touch and glance. That had shattered in an unfathomable rush of hellish violence that killed the girl she had been for ever.
After Giovanni died and she came to start a new life in Venice, Julietta took a couple of lovers, gentle, unassuming, discreet men whose kisses were pleasant and sweet, but did not move her to the dizzying heights she felt when first with Giovanni. Neither did they ever cast her into black despair.
Marc Antonio Velazquez could do that. She sensed it, knew it. There was something hidden about him, concealed behind his good looks and fine clothes, his polished manners. Only one cloaked soul could recognise another. He was a complication she did not need. Her life was good now. Settled. Safe.
