The Eternal Ones (19 page)

“How are we going to avoid people we can’t even see?”

“How far can you jump?” Iain asked, pointing to the gap between his building and the one beside it.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not at all,” Iain assured her, his mood lightening. “I promise it’s not as bad as it looks.”

They reached the edge and peered down at the four-foot-wide space between the two roofs.

“You’re dumb as dirt if you think I’m going to jump over that,” Haven said.

Iain planted a kiss on her lips. “I love all these charming Southern expressions you’ve picked up,” he said when he released her. “But please don’t tell me they turned you into a prissy little belle down there. You used to do this sort of thing just for kicks.”

“I did not!” Haven insisted.

“All right, maybe not. But I don’t remember hearing you complain this much. Just try it.”

He took a couple of steps back, sprang forward, and sailed over the gap. Standing on the other side, he held his arms out to Haven. She shook her head in irritation and waved him to one side. Then she held her breath and jumped. A second later, she landed on her feet, completely exhilarated and ready to take another leap.

After crossing the roofs of three more buildings, Haven and Iain came to the end of the row. They scampered down a fire escape and dropped into a small courtyard with an opening to the street. A silver Mercedes picked them up on the corner of University Place and Eighth Street. They ducked inside without attracting the attention of anyone other than two NYU girls who were still fumbling for their phone cameras when Haven and Iain sped away.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER the car turned into the Midtown Tunnel. Racing deep beneath the waters of the East River, they were moving farther and farther away from the island of Manhattan. “You’re taking me to
Queens
?” Haven asked when she saw the signs on the other side of the tunnel.

Iain pretended to pout. “You don’t like Queens? I’ve always thought it was the most romantic borough. Now come over here.” Haven slid across the seat until she was next to him. “That’s better. Untie that,” he said, pointing to the strip of fabric that served as the belt of her sundress.

“Excuse me?” Haven giggled.

“Take it off,” Iain insisted, reaching over and untying the bow. Haven pulled the strip out from beneath her. “Now close your eyes,” he ordered. When Haven complied, he wrapped the fabric around her head until the world went dark. “No peeking,” he ordered, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head. She leaned against his chest, her other senses engaged like never before. When her hand accidentally brushed against his thigh, she left it there, marveling at the fact that she could. No one had ever been
hers
before. She was dying to see how far it would go.

 

THE CAR CAME to a stop, and the driver opened the door. Iain untied the blindfold and helped Haven out of the car. They were standing on a runway with an airplane in front of them.

“Behold the family jet,” Iain said.

Haven couldn’t quite summon a smile. “Are you kidnapping me?” she asked.

Iain didn’t seem to know how to respond. “I was
hoping
you’d come of your own free will.”

“Are we going very far?” Haven asked.

“That depends on how you define
far
.” Iain looked a bit disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm.

“Should I have brought clean underwear?” she joked nervously.

“We brought some for you just in case.” The driver removed two suitcases from the trunk and loaded them onto the plane.

“What about a passport?” Haven asked.

“Don’t worry about
that
,” Iain assured her. “Passports are for the public. I haven’t used one in years.”

 

HAVEN CLIMBED the airplane’s stairs and strapped herself into one of the plush leather seats. It wasn’t until the plane took off that the terror set in. Little more than twelve hours after their very first kiss, she was flying to some unknown destination with a person suspected of murder. Not just in one life, but in two. Everything had happened too fast, Haven thought. She had jumped without looking, and now she was trapped. If something bad were to happen, she’d have no one to blame but herself.

Outside Haven’s window patches of brilliant blue ocean were peeking out from between the clouds. Wherever they were going lay east, across the Atlantic Ocean.

 

“HAVEN.” She felt someone stroking her hair. “We’re almost there.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see,” Iain promised. “What were you dreaming about? You were mumbling in your sleep.”

“It was a dream?” she asked, still struggling to emerge from the haze. “I could have sworn I was talking to someone.”

“Who?” The question was as sharp as a slap.

“I don’t know. A man.” All Haven knew for sure was that the voice hadn’t been Ethan’s. “You can’t be jealous of a dream, can you?”

“Of course not,” Iain said with a smile that wasn’t at all convincing.

 

IT WAS DARk when they landed at an airport that looked the same as any other. Even the car that met them was identical to the one that had dropped them off. Haven slid into the backseat beside Iain and let her head rest on his shoulder. Her eyes closed, and she listened to the hum of the wheels on asphalt, too tired for questions. She’d never felt so exhausted. A car horn roused her briefly. Outside, beneath the moon, a featureless landscape raced past the window.

 

HAVEN WOKE THE NEXT morning in the bedroom of a small but perfectly decorated apartment, with old wide-planked wooden floors, bookshelves lined with ancient, leather-bound volumes, and antique furniture that might have been rescued from a ramshackle villa. The white linen nightgown she was wearing was just the sort of thing she would have purchased herself had they sold such things in Snope City stores. But she’d never seen the garment before and couldn’t recall putting it on.

Iain was sitting by a pair of open doors that led out to a sun-washed balcony, reading a book. The blue-faced demon on its cover held a wheel in its claws.

“Where am I?” Haven asked, though she already knew.

Iain closed the book and smiled mischievously. “Why don’t you see for yourself?” he said, gesturing to the open doors.

The apartment looked out over a long, oval piazza with three fountains in the center. On the ground floors of the ancient buildings that circled the piazza, cafés catered to foreigners. Haven watched from the balcony as three wild blond children splashed around in one of the fountains while their frustrated parents consulted a map. Constance and Ethan had met in the very same spot ninety years earlier. Aside from the tourists in their sneakers and shorts, nothing had changed. Haven half expected to see a woman’s hat tumble across the piazza.

“It’s the Piazza Navona,” she whispered, looking up at Iain, who had come to stand beside her on the balcony. “Does this apartment belong to you?”

“It does. Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“I was fifteen when I came here, and it was the first place that felt like home. My mother was living in Tuscany at the time, and I ran away from her villa. I hopped on a train to Rome, thinking I would find a way back to my friends in New York. But when I got here, I didn’t want to leave. Of course, a couple of days later, one of my mother’s friends spotted me at the Ritz and had her bodyguard pick me up. But as soon as I was eighteen, I bought this apartment. Now I come here whenever I can.”

“Why did you run away?”

“It’s not important. Let me show you something.” He put one arm around her shoulders and traced the outline of the piazza with a finger. “Do you see the peculiar shape of the piazza? Does it remind you of anything?”

“I don’t know,” Haven admitted. The heat radiating from his hand on her shoulder made it difficult to concentrate.

“It’s the shape of a racetrack. Do you know why? It’s because the piazza was built on top of a stadium where the Romans came to watch the games. There were horse races here, and sometimes they would flood the arena for naval battles. Now it’s just an echo of what it used to be two thousand years ago. But most of the buildings you’re looking at were built with the stones from the stadium. It’s all still here. In Rome, the past changes shape, but it never goes away. Every era leaves its mark. The whole city is the same. You can see thousands of years of history in one tiny church.”

“It’s like us,” Haven whispered.

“Exactly. Though some of us are even older than Rome. Would you like to take a walk? Will you let me show you around?”

“Can you help me check my e-mail first? Or my messages? I’m pretty sure my cell phone won’t work in Italy.”

Iain smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Damn. My phone. I knew there was something I forgot to bring. Don’t worry, we’ll figure something out first thing tomorrow. For now, let’s just enjoy our first day together in almost a hundred years.”

 

AS THEY STROLLED through the streets, Haven’s hand tucked into his, Iain brought the ancient city to life for her. He described the lush gardens and luxurious baths that once surrounded the squat, round temple known as the Pantheon, and with an eyewitness’s attention to detail, he told her of the bloody battles that had taken place at the Colosseum. With Iain as a guide, the forum became more than a jumble of ruins. Ancient marketplaces bustled with life and pagan temples echoed with the mysterious sounds of forgotten rites. He seemed to know every street and alley in the city. It was clear that he belonged there. The Italian women they passed stared at Iain as if a god had materialized on the streets of Rome, and Haven could tell from the way their eyes swept over her that they wondered how any mortal could have claimed him.

With the golden light of late afternoon gilding Rome’s trees, they walked to the top of the Aventine Hill and watched the river below. A tour group caught them kissing in the garden of a monastery, and the pair ran laughing into a piazza across from a medieval church. As Haven stood back to admire the building’s tall bell tower, Iain vanished beneath its portico. She found him leaning against the church’s wall, beside a giant image carved into marble, which appeared to be centuries older than the building that surrounded it. The round, flat sculpture featured the bearded face of an anonymous god with empty eyes and a gaping mouth.

“It’s la Bocca della Verità,” Iain explained. “The mouth of truth. They say if you tell a lie while your hand is in the statue’s mouth, it will bite it off. Care to try?”

“No thanks,” said Haven. There was something about the image that she found unsettling. It was as if a great black void lay behind the face. She feared what her fingers might brush against inside of the toothless cavity.

“Then I’ll go first,” Iain said, thrusting his fingers between the statue’s lips. “Anything you want to ask while my hand is at stake?”

There was. But the questions that came to Haven’s lips would have destroyed a perfect day. And there was always a chance that they came with answers Haven wouldn’t want to know. The truth, she’d discovered, dwelled in dark, hidden places, and sometimes it was better not to force it into the light.

“No,” she told Iain, and it was true as soon as she said it. The other women—the models in the pictures and the girl who’d loved Ethan—took their cue and vanished along with Jeremy Johns from Haven’s thoughts.

“See, that’s what I’ve always loved about you. You’re so sweet—and so naive.” He laughed even louder when Haven punched him on the arm.

 

AS SOON AS the sun went down, the Romans came out, strolling through the streets with no aim but to see and be seen. Teenagers traveled in wild packs, young couples carried their infants on their hips, while old ladies conjured youth with leather miniskirts and heels. Not far from Iain’s apartment, Haven and Iain slipped out of the crowd and into a tiny restaurant. There were no windows and no door—just rectangular holes cut in the side of an old building. The guests sat at one long, rustic wooden table, and the only light came from a hundred flickering candles. In the center of the floor, an ancient mosaic showed a god driving a chariot, his fingers clenching the wrist of a terrified maiden. As they were guided to their seats, Haven was careful to step over the image.

“Have we been here before?” Haven whispered once they were seated. “That mosaic . . .”

“Do you recognize it?”

Haven nodded. There was something about the image that both terrified and thrilled her.

“I thought you might,” Iain said. He took her hand and began to trace the lines on her palm as if reading a story that was written on her skin. “There was another one like it in a villa on the island of Crete. The man who owned the house was rich and powerful. Some people called him a magician, though that wasn’t exactly true. But his neighbors knew enough to avoid him whenever they could. They used to say that their minds went cloudy in his presence. Businesses would fail after they made him a client. Families were torn apart if he paid them a visit.