Venom (22 page)

A
jagged bolt of lightning slashed across the sky.

“We’d better hurry,” Falco said. He dropped his lion mask onto the dock in front of Dubois’s palazzo.

He and Cass followed the street that ran alongside the Grand Canal. A handful of other masked revelers were out in the night, stumbling along the water’s edge in various states of intoxication. Lightning struck again, this time followed by a blast of thunder. Cass looked up. Massive clouds twisted and swirled above their heads.

“Angelo de Gradi,” Cass blurted out. “Are you sure the name means nothing to you?”

“Nothing,” Falco said firmly.

Cass let Falco lead her along the uneven stones. She wanted to believe him. She really did. But some tiny dark piece inside of her kept bringing her back to the almost-imperceptible glance Falco had exchanged with the physician. Could she have imagined it? She didn’t think so. But one thing was certain: if Falco knew de Gradi, he wasn’t going to admit it now.

“You vanished there for a while. Did you find out anything of use?” Cass asked.

“Nothing except that Dubois has more friends than anyone I know. And Mariabella could have known any of them.”

She frowned, feeling a quick pulse of anxiety. “Did you see the man in the falcon mask?”

“I wouldn’t know a falcon mask from a hawk or an eagle,” Falco said. “Why?”

“I danced with him. He knew my name. Said strange things to me.”

Falco turned to look at Cass. “What did he say?”

Cass couldn’t tell Falco what the man had said, how he had insinuated that Luca would be displeased with their relationship. She wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “I don’t remember his exact words,” she said quickly. “You didn’t happen to see Maximus there, did you? The conjurer?”

Falco smirked. “I did not. Perhaps he was in the coatroom, making purses disappear.”

Fat raindrops splattered across the front of Cass’s dress as the skies opened up in a sudden downpour. Cass ducked quickly inside a nearby arched doorway, pressing her body tightly to the stone to protect herself from the drizzle. Falco squeezed into the arch next to her, his longish hair damp and sticking to his face.

“You’re wet,” she said, instinctively pushing a strand of brown away from his left eye.

“Very observant,” he remarked. “I see those private tutors are really paying off.”

Cass poked him in the side with her elbow. Even half soaked, Falco seemed to be radiating heat. Cass wished another lock of hair
would glue itself to his skin so she could touch him again. She felt close to him, yet miles away at the same time. It was as if what she wanted was on the horizon, but kept disappearing like a mirage.

She reminded herself to be careful. Falco might have lied to her. But maybe she’d only imagined the look between him and Angelo. Falco had been just as scared of that macabre collection of bodies as she had.

“It looks like we’re stuck here for a while,” Cass said, trying not to let her eyes wander down to Falco’s chest. His damp chemise was clinging to his body. The drizzle became a deluge, rain pounding the stone street so hard, it drowned out Falco’s response.

Cass leaned in close. “What?”

“I said I know someplace nearby we can go. Until the rain stops.” Falco’s lips were so close to her ear that she felt a puff of warm air with each
p
he spoke.

Cass trembled slightly. She told herself it was from the weather, but she turned to face Falco even though it meant putting the right side of her dress out into the storm. His expression was neutral, but his eyes smiled at her.

“What sort of place?”

“Tommaso’s studio. It’s just a couple of streets over.”

Cass watched the rain come down in sheets. “Tommaso?”

“Vecellio. He’s my master.”

Cass sucked in a deep breath. Tommaso Vecellio was descended from the same bloodline as Titian, one of the most famous Venetian artists of all time. Titian had died before Cass was born, but his influence lingered in churches and private homes all across Venice. “You apprentice with Vecellio? How come you never told me?”

Falco slicked his wet hair back from his face. “You never asked.”

“And it’s okay with him if you take me to his studio?”

“He’s in Padua,” Falco said with a grin. “He won’t even know.”

Her aunt wouldn’t approve—she considered artists to be just a bit above common criminals, and it was highly improper for Cass to be anywhere with Falco alone. Luca would be furious. But she could hardly cling to the side of an archway all night, praying that the rain would stop.

“Let’s go,” she said. She told herself she was excited because of the opportunity to see the artist’s studio, and not because it would give her more time with Falco.

“Follow me.” Falco sprinted across an open area, past the front of a crumbling chapel, and Cass wobbled after him. She paused in the rain to kick off her chopines. Her feet sank an inch down into the mud and mire. So her shoes would be ruined. So what? At this rate her whole outfit would be wrecked beyond repair.

She and Falco crossed over an unfamiliar canal and ducked into a hidden alley. The buildings were so close together, Cass could reach out and touch the smooth walls on both sides of her. They offered some protection from the rainstorm, but not enough. Her dress had been heavy when it was completely dry. Now it felt like it was made of lead.

She struggled to stay close to Falco as he navigated the tangled streets; she was afraid that if he disappeared from her sight, she’d be lost in the maze forever. The two started across another nameless bridge. Long spikes of rain stabbed circular wounds into the surface of the murky canal beneath them. Falco paused on the bridge to consider the view. “Water on water. Beautiful,” he said.

Cass stopped just long enough to try to see things through Falco’s
eyes, the artist’s perspective, but all she saw was rain. Rain that was seeping through her dress to soak her undergarments. She put her hands on Falco’s lower back and pushed. “Keep moving.”

Falco ducked back onto a main path and disappeared through a wooden gate that swung open and closed in the breeze. Cass followed. Beyond the gate were a small courtyard and a winding marble staircase. Falco took the stairs two at a time. At the top, a pair of garishly painted Roman columns flanked a red wooden door.

Cass flinched at the sight of the elaborate bronze door knocker. A gargoyle, but the features looked almost human, like the shrunken head of a screaming old woman. It made Cass think of her aunt. She hoped Agnese was enjoying herself in Abano.

Falco pulled a key from the pocket of his cloak. “Here we are.”

Cass was shivering, and her legs were beginning to itch from the layers of wet satin sticking to them. Falco pushed open the door, and Cass followed him inside into the warm, dark room. She heard Falco strike flint against a tinderbox, and a single steel lantern winked to life. Cass blinked, struggling to adjust her eyes to the gloom.

Falco moved smoothly across the room, lighting a pair of oil lamps that sat on a ledge by a window. Gradually, the studio came into focus. She and Falco stood in a large open room with a high arched ceiling. Each wall was painted a different color: ivory, sky blue, soft gray, and the last a ghastly green color that looked like what the town boys spewed into the canals after a wild night of drinking. Cass ran a hand down the smooth stucco wall and was surprised to find that flecks of gray paint chipped off beneath her fingers. Surely Tommaso Vecellio, relative of Titian, could afford a place more majestic than this.

Her eyes flicked around the rest of the room, taking in the sparse furnishings. The standard artist trappings were there: a stool, an easel (empty, she noted with dismay), and a plum-colored divan for posing. Beneath the window ledge, a long table filled with bowls of powder and mugs of paintbrushes ran the length of the studio. Blank canvases stretched over wooden struts were stacked beneath the table. The rest of the room was bare except for a three-panel privacy screen, a large tin basin, and an aging old trunk.

Cass crossed the room and sat on the edge of the divan. She sighed with relief as the little couch absorbed the weight of her garments. She stroked the velvet cushion, no doubt luxurious at one time, but now wearing thin in places. “So Vecellio really works here?”

“Yes. Just like I told you.” Falco had his head inside the ancient trunk, so his voice sounded muffled. “What’s the matter? Were you expecting something a little…racier?” He emerged from the trunk holding a scrap of cream-colored silk and lace against his chest.

Cass lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. “What is
that
?”

“Model’s costume,” Falco said innocently. “You can’t stay in those wet clothes. You’ll end up like your aunt.”

“I hardly think a damp dress is going to turn me into an invalid,” Cass scoffed. But the wet fabric
was
uncomfortable—she felt weighed down as though by stones.

“Horrible way to go, if you ask me. Your strength withering away over decades. I’d rather be strangled and carved up like Mariabella.” He held the silken garment out in Cass’s direction and nodded toward the paneled privacy screen. “Go on, then. I won’t watch.”

She could feel a hot blush spreading on her cheeks as she accepted
the costume. It was about one third the size of the outfit she had worn to the brothels. “But it’s so small. Surely there must be something”—she stopped herself from saying
more appropriate
and instead said—“warmer?”

Falco gestured toward the trunk with an elaborate flourish. “Be my guest.”

Cass dug through mounds of brightly colored silk and lace, tangles of straps and ribbons, but it looked like Falco had selected the least revealing dress of the bunch. She held up the cream-colored outfit. It had a plunging neckline and a row of buttons up the back that would pull the bodice tight to her chest, but the sleeves were long and flowing and the ruffled skirt would cover part of her legs at least. And it would feel good to be in something dry.

“Fine,” she said, sliding behind the screen and attacking the laces of her bodice. “But if you tell anyone about this—”

“I’m afraid it wouldn’t make for very interesting news in my crowd,” Falco said. “Many of us spend our days with unclothed women.”

“Excuse me?” Cass had managed to free herself from her bodice. She unhooked her skirt and the farthingale beneath it, letting the wet gown and its underlying cage fall to the floor with a splat. Then she started working on the laces of her stays.

“Tommaso loves to paint nudes.”

Cass wondered if Falco had deliberately said the word
nude
just as she slid her damp stays over her head. But no. He couldn’t see her. She hurriedly slid the silken costume up over her legs and torso. “I can’t imagine how a woman could be comfortable just lying around naked while a bunch of boys gawked at her.”

“You should try it. You might like it.” Falco’s teasing voice sounded very close, as if he were seconds from ducking behind the screen to see what was taking so long.

“Almost finished,” she said quickly. She had her arms in the flowing sleeves, and her fingers were struggling to button up the back of the costume. It felt like there were a million little pearls that needed to hook inside a million little slippery silken loops. She managed to do enough to cover up her lower back and then had to quit. She simply couldn’t reach the top buttons by herself. “Promise not to laugh.”

“I promise not to—” Falco’s eyes widened as she emerged from behind the screen, and he almost dropped one of the glasses of wine he was holding. He looked her up and down, murmured something under his breath that she couldn’t make out.

The way he was looking at her made Cass feel like the costume was transparent. “Stop staring,” she demanded. She crossed her arms and pointed at the wine. “Is one of those for me?”

“My apologies, Signorina.” He handed her a glass of crimson liquid without taking his eyes off her. “I always knew you were beautiful, but I think you may have the longest legs of any woman I’ve ever seen. And your skin—exquisite! Turn around.”

Cass wanted to refuse, but felt herself spinning slowly in a circle so that Falco could look at her. She took a sip from her glass and struggled not to cough. The wine, or whatever it was, was bad.

“Magnificent. Let me help with the buttons.” Falco set his glass down on the wooden stool. Before Cass could protest, he was behind her, his fingertips on the small of her back. Cass felt a pearl come loose.

She whirled around, sloshing a bit of wine out of her glass as she slapped his hand. “You undid one,” she accused.

Falco laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” He reached for her but she leaned away. “Come on, I promise I’ll behave.”

“Why should I trust you?”

Falco moved to Cass’s back again and began sliding each pearl through its loop. He leaned in close so that the side of his face brushed against her neck. “Because you want to.”

The wineglass trembled in Cass’s hand. She tightened her grip and took another drink. Every time Falco touched her, it got a little harder to breathe. She wasn’t sure if it was the outfit, or being so close to him. She sipped from her glass nervously. It was empty by the time he reached the last button.