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Authors: Elizabeth Amber

BOOK: Bastian
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The auctioneer took his place at the lectern, stirring dust motes as he welcomed them and then opened the auction. First on offer was a collection of taxidermists' works. Next, an offering of antiquarian books; then a set of sculptor's tools and several busts; some jewelry. These had been the assets of debtors whose property had been confiscated and sent here to be liquidated.
The origin of the object of interest to Silvia was listed as being from an estate in Rome. She would give much to know how the previous owner might have come by the opal. His proximity to the Forum meant that he might have gone collecting before the serious excavations began there. Treasure hunting in the ruins had in previous decades been the Roman citizens' version of beachcombing. Something done as a lark during a picnic in the Forum on an idle afternoon.
Awaiting the opal, Silvia assessed her competition in the meantime, doing her best not to draw undue attention. Difficult when she was the only female present. However, that could prove to be to her benefit. Many years ago at a similar auction, she'd won an item simply because her competitors were too gentlemanly to bid against her.
Eventually, the auctioneer arrived at the opal. At the mention of it, she sensed an increased awareness ripple over the group. Her anxiety rose. Would the money in her handbag be enough to win it?
“This rare and collectible opal will be offered ‘by candle,' as per the instructions of the seller,” the auctioneer droned.
“And who might that be?” someone called out. Silvia craned her neck to view the man, but he looked to be nothing out of the ordinary.
“The owner prefers to go unnamed,” said the auctioneer. “Now, as I said, we are to proceed ‘by candle.' ” He pointed upward, and Silvia saw that a flat, wide board had been anchored in a horizontal position some five feet or so below the ornate chandelier that hung well above them. As they watched, an agile lad was sent up a ladder to set a single candle upon it and light it.
“The highest bidder at the time the flame goes out will win the item,” the auctioneer clarified as the boy retraced the ladder rungs downward to the floor.
Silvia's confidence escalated. Having attended numerous auctions over the course of her long life, she'd discovered the secret of winning at this sort of sale. In the instant before the candle went out, the rising smoke would reverse its course and begin to descend. That is when she would act.
The shutters on the room's trefoil windows were closed, and an eerie silence reigned in the dim room for a time. Then an agitation set in and a desultory bidding commenced. Encouraged, the auctioneer continued to extol the virtues of the opal.
Above them, the candle's glow and the smoke rising from it were visible, but the candle itself was not, being obscured by the board upon which it sat so that none might see how close it drew to its demise. After another ten minutes elapsed, everyone was sitting up straighter, watching with keen interest. Such an auction usually lasted no more than a sixth of an hour—the time it took a candle to flicker out. Silvia held her breath, eyes narrowed. Any minute now.
All around her, bids came faster and her pulse kept pace.
When she saw the smoke begin to descend, she cast her first and only bid. “One hundred and fifty lira!”
“Two hundred!” another man barked. In the same instant, the candle's light winked out.
“Sold!” The auctioneer's proclamation sent panic skittering down every knob in her spine. Silvia leaped to her feet in distress. She'd traveled all this way and then acted a split second too hastily. A man with spectacles seated across the room had won.
Others were standing now and filing past, moving through the door and beyond to the accountant's desk in the vestibule. There, they would settle their debts and make arrangements for the delivery of items they'd purchased. Anxiously, she made her way toward the man who'd bought the opal. Several other attendees had gathered around him with the same purpose. He quickly informed them he'd been bidding on behalf of another buyer whose identity he would not reveal. When both he and the auctioneer quit the room, the remaining bidders followed them like a flock of black crows intent on pecking more information out of them.
Abruptly, Silvia found herself alone. Seizing the opportunity that presented, she slipped into the adjacent storeroom. If she were quick, she might have time to pilfer the firestone. The shutters had not re-opened and it was difficult to see, but she pushed items this way and that, examining them and hurriedly working her way along the perimeter of the room.
Suddenly, something caught her attention. A flash. Riveted, she craned her neck, squinting. It was one of the opals! Whose, she could not tell until she held it. It had been placed upon a velvet cushion within a small glass case no bigger than a loaf of bread. And this, in turn, was set inside a tall glass cabinet, which stood behind a large secretary. Both case and cabinet were locked. She wedged herself behind a painted screen on one side of the cabinet and quickly picked the lock with a hairpin. Then she snatched up the small glass case from inside. Wrapping it in her skirt to dull the sound, she then knocked one of its glass sides against the desk corner, hard enough to shatter it. The force of its breaking sent the opal sliding out from the open gash onto the floor. Dropping to a crouch, Silvia set the box aside and snatched it up, feeling almost giddy at having secured it, the fifth stone.
It was warm in her hand. Now that she held it, she could intuit its original owner. Licinia. “However did you wind up here?” she murmured, wondering at the circuitous path it might have taken.
The sudden sound of boot heels striking the marble floor came like the staccato cracks of a whip. Silvia jerked around, inadvertently causing the small glass box to tip on its side with a tinkle of broken glass. Had the interloper heard?
There were thin gaps between the slats in the lower part of the painted screen that hid her. Gingerly, she peeked out. Legs were approaching. A man's legs, strong and sturdy as tree trunks, and encased in fine black wool and black boots.
The owner of those legs paused in the middle of the room, positioning himself between her and the exit. Dropping onto a straight-backed, uncomfortable-looking velvet sofa, he sat facing in her direction and crossed the ankle of one polished boot over his opposite knee.
She could see more of him now. His coat was dark and blunt-cut at the back of his thighs. A single-breasted waistcoat with three buttons and a deep V emphasized his broad shoulders. Try as she would, she could not see his face without exposing herself.
Silence reigned between them. She debated whether to remain in hiding until he left or to show herself, nod to him, and simply walk away in hopes he would not question why she'd been hiding. Then he spoke.
“Did you expect it to answer you?” The words were mildly amused. Masculine. Dear and familiar. Bastian.
Damnation.
Since he obviously knew she was here, it was beyond foolish to continue hiding. Slipping the opal into her pocket, she patted the hard comfort of the pistol she'd brought with her. Then she got to her feet and stepped from behind the screen to confront him.
15
O
h, sweet Vesta! It
was
Bastian! Ridiculous joy washed over her to see him again. How many nights had she dreamed of him? Yet, in the flesh he was far more compelling than in her dreams. His jaw was strong and square, and his nose and brows straight. And his lips—the upper one had an edge of masculine steel, but the lower was cut as sensually as a Renaissance statue. Yes, he was handsome, undoubtedly so.
As her hungry eyes devoured him, his seemed to do the same to her. Well, let him look. He would not recognize her in this new host's form. Her eyes flicked to the door. She should go. If he'd guessed she'd taken the opal, he would try to stop her from leaving with it. Without speaking to him, she walked toward the door on shaking legs, expecting at any moment to be waylaid. Relief swamped her when he didn't act to detain her.
She'd drawn even with him. From here, all she could see was his aristocratic profile. She paused, questions swirling in her brain. Why was he here?
His attractive, brooding face slowly turned to contemplate her, silver eyes tangling with the green ones of her host. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”
She gazed at his mouth as he spoke, then blushed. A strange calm settled over her, releasing the tension in her neck and shoulders. Making her want to answer him. She parted her lips, then slapped her fingers over them.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head slowly, side to side.
“No?”
“Don't bother using your spells on me,” she chided, revealing her knowledge of his ElseWorld origins and inadvertently admitting her own. “I only stayed behind to examine the objects on auction as I had no time to study them earlier.”
In a casual, elegant movement tinged with the barely restrained strength that typified him and his brothers, he laid one arm across the back of the chair next to his own, angling his body in her direction. “They've all been purchased and are no longer available for public study,” he informed her. “Or for stealing.”
“And who are you to say?”
He flicked a hand to generally encompass the room. “I'm the owner of this house, as well as other holdings here in Venice and in Rome. The owner of the last lot upon which you bid. And lost. To me.”
“You had a surrogate bid on your behalf?” she asked in dismay. This opal was the one he'd had with him in Monti? That meant there would be no need to return to Rome after all, and tonight might be the last she'd see of him.
He nodded.
“But why bid on your own property?”
He only shrugged, watching her in a disturbing manner, as if he knew something she didn't. Yet surely the reverse was true! He had no idea who she was.
The atmosphere between them had a dangerous edge, and she now had the fifth jewel. Best keep to her original plan and search on for the sixth. If all went well with Pontifex, perhaps . . . No, she would not think that far ahead.
“I'm leaving now. And I'm taking
this
.” She pulled out her pistol so that he could see it. “And your ‘property' with me. Good day, signor.” She made for the door, her steps quickening as she drew ever closer to freedom. Without warning, it slammed shut before her, the force of its swing momentarily ballooning her skirt and swirling tendrils of her hair.
Silvia halted in surprise, then scurried forward to yank at the brass handle. It was locked! Though she hadn't heard him move, she suddenly felt him warm her back. Her pistol was summarily removed from her hand and tossed away to land with a clatter in some distant corner among other items on auction. And just as quickly, the opal left her pocket in his hand and was quickly dropped into the pocket of his trousers instead.
“Although my youngest brother has the greater talent, I confess that the moving of doors is something I can accomplish on my own when I wish to make the effort.”
“How nice for you,” she managed. Frustrated at having lost the opal, she silently plotted the best way to retrieve it.
His broad hand spread flat over her belly, and she dislodged it by whipping around within his embrace, preferring to square off against any aggression. She gazed at his mouth, then blushed. A strangely satisfied expression crossed his face, as if his touch on her had confirmed something for him.
His hands fit themselves neatly at the turns of her waist, shaping over her from rib to hip, as if he enjoyed the tactile sensation of her. His eyes traced over her cheek, then his fingers followed. “What happened to you?”
She cringed away, momentarily assuming he referred to the scar her father had given her. Remembering that he could only see the bruising of her host's face, she shrugged. “I had an abusive husband.”
“Had?”
She pushed him back and he let her slip away to try the other door in the room, finding it locked as well. “Can I buy the stone from you?” she asked, looking at him over her shoulder.
He folded his arms, regarding her, and a small, weighty silence passed. Though his eyes didn't move, she sensed that he'd just evaluated and memorized her every feature. “Perhaps.”
“For what price?” she asked, turning toward him hopefully.
“For the answer to some questions.”
“Ask them.”
“Where's Michaela?” he demanded.
His words struck her like a blow and she blanched, her stomach somersaulting. Gods! She was in the body of a woman completely unknown to him. How had he guessed she was at all acquainted with Michaela? Belatedly trying to appear guileless, she asked, “Michella, did you say? I'm sorry but I don't know—”
He was at her side before she could finish. Suddenly fierce, he nailed her to the door with one forearm across her throat. She felt hot blood suffuse her face as air was denied her.
“You know her, all right. Your face is an open book. Now, tell me where she is, or I'll make you sorry.”
“Dead,” she admitted, her voice a faint, desperate croak.
For a moment, the pressure on her neck strengthened and she wrapped white-knuckled fingers around his forearm, fearing he would strangle her. Just when spots began to dance before her, he relented, ramming fists on either side of her hard enough to dent the door's paneling.
“Did you kill her?” he gritted.
She put a hand to her bruised throat and coughed. “No! I saw her murdered in Monti that night you were drunk.”
He gave her a single, bone-rattling shake. “Gods damn you for a liar,” he muttered. “I was with Michaela that same night. It was Moonful, and she was very much alive.”
The sound of voices reached her ears from beyond the door. Someone was coming. Silvia made a pitiful attempt to call out for rescue.
But Bastian's muscular arm snaked around her waist, lifting her against him, and his free hand covered her mouth. She was quickly whisked across the room as if she weighed nothing and then taken through a series of corridors and rooms, and carried up a back staircase like a sack of flour.
Finally, they reached another door, and after Bastian took her through it, he let her go in what appeared to be a rather cozy library. He stepped inside with her, then swung the door shut behind him, effectively sequestering them inside. Turning the key in its lock, he made a show of pocketing it. Then he crossed his arms. “Now, speak.”
Her mind worked furiously as she tried to decide what he knew. What she should tell. When she didn't answer swiftly enough to suit him, he took a menacing step toward her and soon had her backed up against a glass bookcase. “Your erstwhile husband may not have managed to throttle you, but I'm this close to finishing the job myself if you don't tell me what happened to Michaela.”
A blend of partial truth and lies seemed her best option, for too many undiluted truths could lead to others she did not want to share. “She was murdered by an Ogre. Not that night in Monti, but another night . . .”
“What Ogre? When? Where?”
“In . . . Florence. A month ago. And I'm not friendly enough with Ogres to tell one from another.”
“You're a poor liar—you should really give it up.” His hand caught at her nape, and his thumb traced the bruises he'd made on her throat. His voice took on a dangerous edge. “Don't make me hurt you to learn the truth.”
“I didn't kill her,” she said earnestly. “I loved her.”
“All right, then,” he said more calmly, seeming to believe that at least. “We have all night to get at the rest of the truth. All week. All month. Take your time. And for every lie you tell, I'll add another day to your detainment.”
She only laughed at his threat, surprising him. “I can leave this room whenever I wish. And when I do, you'll have a dead body on your hands.”
“Do you care to explain that riddle?”
She shrugged. It had been an idle threat. She could only steal from him while in corporeal form—either her host's or her own true one. And if he saw her in true Ephemeral form, it would go a long way toward making her mortal.
His hand dropped and she scuttled away the moment he released her. “Let's make a bargain,” he suggested. “You will stay until you've answered my every question. Then I'll give you this.”
He pulled the opal from his pocket, showing it to her. She eyed it covetously. She would tell him almost any truth in order to have it. But could she trust him?
Bastian watched her green eyes light with interest. Her eyes were beautiful, but they were the wrong color. She was the wrong woman. Or was she? Five months ago, Michaela had departed Rome, taking three other opals and all color with her. Since then, everything around him had been bleak, an existence dressed in hues of drab gray and stark black and white.
But the moment he'd touched this woman downstairs, color had leaped to life again. Her skin was London-pale, her lips peach, her hair a lustrous chestnut, her dress striped in lavender and evergreen. The longer he was in her company, the more the color extended outward from her, even when he wasn't touching her. It had followed them through his house and now painted half of the library around her.
She was standing behind one of his upholstered reading chairs, watching him with a calculating wariness. His gaze went to her hand, where it rested on the chair's back and found the ring she wore. He only hoped she was a widow, for the arrival of color in his world was having its customary effect on his anatomy.
“Your proposition is too open-ended. Instead, I'll give you five answers to five questions,” she bargained. “In exchange, I want the opal and my freedom.”
“Ten questions,” he countered.
“All right.”
He inclined his head. “Done.”
“Swear on your God.”
“I swear,” he told her easily. He went to sit in a chair and then gestured her to sit next to him in the one she currently used as a barrier between them. “Come, let me see your face so that I can better tell truth from lie.”
She accommodated him without argument, seating herself and folding her hands in her lap. He set the opal on the small table between the arms of their chairs. Her acquisitive eyes went to it, then met his.
He sat back, his gaze direct. “What are you, and how do you know Michaela?” She looked so horrified by his opening salvo that he almost wanted to laugh. Almost.
“That's two questions,” she quibbled.
“We'll count it as two, then, just as soon as I have two
truthful
answers from you.”
“Very well. I'm an Ephemeral,” she admitted bluntly, as if she hoped to shock him. “As was Michaela.”
A short gust of laughter left him at this fantastic lie. Ephemerals were only creatures of myth. “A mythological scavenger? I don't think so.”
She folded her arms. “That's an offensive term.”
“Bodysnatcher, then?”
“Also offensive, as you well know. And that was your third question.”
Her annoyance went a long way toward persuading him. Was it possible she didn't lie? After all, his own family could conjure Shimmerskins from mist. Was the existence of an Ephemeral really such a strange concept by comparison? “Ephemerals are created by Gods,” he mused.
“Is that a question? Or—”
“I'll rephrase. Which God created you? And I expect a full answer, one that persuades me the myth is real,” he said.
A pause, then she gave him her quiet admission. “Vesta.” When he only eyed her skeptically, her lips tightened and she leaned toward him, willing him to believe her. “Do you think Michaela or I asked for this life? We didn't. It was thrust upon us when we were girls, centuries ago in ancient times when women had no power. You wondered at there being twelve Vestals instead of the six that the philosophers quote. Well, I can solve that riddle for you if it will help convince you. There were indeed six Virgins. But there were also six Companions. We trained side by side, taking our meals together and tending the fire together. All of us devoted to Vesta. And when her temple was violently disbanded, she transformed us all into Ephemerals.”

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