soon was asking, pleading, to join her. To be Noantri, too. She had thought, at the time, that it was from love. That he wanted to be everything she was.
“Livia.” The dark voice came to her as though from far away. “Livia. You must begin.” She looked up to see the Pontifex leaning forward in the flickering light. “Time is short.” He smiled a tiny smile, acknowledging the irony in that statement.
“My Lord,” she said. “I may not succeed.”
He shook his head. “You will. You will search until you find the Concordat. If the deadline is near and you haven’t found it yet, you will continue the search and we will see to Jonah Richter.” He sat back again. “Jonah cannot escape this sentence, Livia. It will be far better for him if you are the one to carry it out.”
The Counsellors, the Pontifex, all sat motionless, eyes on Livia in the candlelit gloom. She had been given her instructions and dismissed; she understood that. Still, in a shocking breach of protocol, as though she were not part of the proceedings, but only watching, she heard her own voice whisper, “Is there no other way?”
The Pontifex may have been about to speak, but Cartelli slapped the arm of her chair. The sound rattled like a gunshot. “ What other way? Are you a fool, too? Or”—her eyes narrowed in her wrinkled face—“are you in sympathy with Jonah Richter? Do you, also, believe the time for Unveiling has come?”
Livia shook her head. “No, no. I wish I could say I think so. But I don’t believe it has.”
“Then go. Do as you’ve been told. Or six centuries of peace will be destroyed. The fires will come again. In fear and raging fury we will be hunted, driven out, and we will die. You did not know those times. I did. We did.” She nodded to the Pontifex, to a few of the others. “All this will be repeated, magnified a thousand times, if the world learns once again whom to label ‘vampire.’”
8
The blue eyes that had watched Livia Pietro enter the church now saw her emerge, pale and shaken. She shut the door gently, as though it were fragile, and stood unmoving on the cobblestones until a gust tangled her long black hair. That seemed to wake her: she smoothed her hand over her head and put on her hat. The watcher’s heart leapt. He remembered the feel of her hair, thick and untamed, under his own hand. Her skin, also, supple velvet despite her age. He smiled, understanding now what he hadn’t the first time he touched her: the full and double meaning there. And the scent of her. He stood behind a closed window in a flat across Via Giulia, so what stirred him now must be not real, but remembrance. Still, he caught his breath. Few of the Noantri wore perfume. To senses awakened by the Change, the world offered sights, sounds, and aromas in infinite and startling intricacy. Not the least of these was the scent of one another; few cared to mask or even augment this signature. With this, as with so many of the Community’s customs, his Livia was out of step. She delighted in a range of essences, rare and delicate, each applied with a fine hand—and each acting on him differently but irresistibly. He had tried, so many times and in so many ways, to persuade her of what was clear to him: that her unconcern with Noantri convention proved that what she claimed to want—a comfortable, invisible, assimilated life—was not her real desire.
His Livia. He shook his head. He still thought of her that way. They hadn’t spoken in more than two years, and if he was correct, she’d just been instructed to kill him.
Jonah Richter had known his letter to the Conclave would call them into full battle mode—meaning, first, mind-numbing assemblies and debates. Ultimately, though, they’d have to act. He suspected he knew what form their response would take, and apparently he’d been right. Livia had been Summoned, had gone in looking apprehensive, and come out looking like hell. Maybe he was flattering himself; but if
“Livia.” The dark voice came to her as though from far away. “Livia. You must begin.” She looked up to see the Pontifex leaning forward in the flickering light. “Time is short.” He smiled a tiny smile, acknowledging the irony in that statement.
“My Lord,” she said. “I may not succeed.”
He shook his head. “You will. You will search until you find the Concordat. If the deadline is near and you haven’t found it yet, you will continue the search and we will see to Jonah Richter.” He sat back again. “Jonah cannot escape this sentence, Livia. It will be far better for him if you are the one to carry it out.”
The Counsellors, the Pontifex, all sat motionless, eyes on Livia in the candlelit gloom. She had been given her instructions and dismissed; she understood that. Still, in a shocking breach of protocol, as though she were not part of the proceedings, but only watching, she heard her own voice whisper, “Is there no other way?”
The Pontifex may have been about to speak, but Cartelli slapped the arm of her chair. The sound rattled like a gunshot. “ What other way? Are you a fool, too? Or”—her eyes narrowed in her wrinkled face—“are you in sympathy with Jonah Richter? Do you, also, believe the time for Unveiling has come?”
Livia shook her head. “No, no. I wish I could say I think so. But I don’t believe it has.”
“Then go. Do as you’ve been told. Or six centuries of peace will be destroyed. The fires will come again. In fear and raging fury we will be hunted, driven out, and we will die. You did not know those times. I did. We did.” She nodded to the Pontifex, to a few of the others. “All this will be repeated, magnified a thousand times, if the world learns once again whom to label ‘vampire.’”
8
The blue eyes that had watched Livia Pietro enter the church now saw her emerge, pale and shaken. She shut the door gently, as though it were fragile, and stood unmoving on the cobblestones until a gust tangled her long black hair. That seemed to wake her: she smoothed her hand over her head and put on her hat. The watcher’s heart leapt. He remembered the feel of her hair, thick and untamed, under his own hand. Her skin, also, supple velvet despite her age. He smiled, understanding now what he hadn’t the first time he touched her: the full and double meaning there. And the scent of her. He stood behind a closed window in a flat across Via Giulia, so what stirred him now must be not real, but remembrance. Still, he caught his breath. Few of the Noantri wore perfume. To senses awakened by the Change, the world offered sights, sounds, and aromas in infinite and startling intricacy. Not the least of these was the scent of one another; few cared to mask or even augment this signature. With this, as with so many of the Community’s customs, his Livia was out of step. She delighted in a range of essences, rare and delicate, each applied with a fine hand—and each acting on him differently but irresistibly. He had tried, so many times and in so many ways, to persuade her of what was clear to him: that her unconcern with Noantri convention proved that what she claimed to want—a comfortable, invisible, assimilated life—was not her real desire.
His Livia. He shook his head. He still thought of her that way. They hadn’t spoken in more than two years, and if he was correct, she’d just been instructed to kill him.
Jonah Richter had known his letter to the Conclave would call them into full battle mode—meaning, first, mind-numbing assemblies and debates. Ultimately, though, they’d have to act. He suspected he knew what form their response would take, and apparently he’d been right. Livia had been Summoned, had gone in looking apprehensive, and come out looking like hell. Maybe he was flattering himself; but if
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