Winds of Nightsong. V. J. Banis

      “Ah, that you will have to wait and see.”

      Caroline gave him an encouraging smile.

      She had known Count Cambruzio for several months and had seen quite a lot of him during that time. Each month she stayed on in Venice she kept telling herself that she should leave, but Tonio Cambruzio was excellent company and helped her forget Adam. Tonio had not yet tried to take her to bed, and she wondered about that. Italian men, she’d found, were an impetuous lot and not a bit shy about propositioning a lady.

      He certainly wasn’t homosexual. She knew this merely from the way he looked at her. There was a hunger in his eyes that was unmistakable. Yet, there was something not quite right about him. Behind those dark, smoldering eyes lurked a mystery. Perhaps he was married. That was a distinct possibility, although he’d never mentioned a wife or family in all the times they’d been together.

      Now he glanced at his pocket watch. “Forgive me, Caroline, but I have a rather pressing appointment. Had I known I would run into you I would have cancelled it.”

      “That’s all right, Tonio. I have some things I must do. I’ll see you this evening.”

      He kissed her hand. “I will call for you at eight o’clock. I look forward to it with such pleasure.” There was that sexual glint in his eyes again, she noticed. If he planned to invite her into his bed, she wouldn’t disappoint him, Caroline told herself. She hadn’t had a man since Adam, and Adam had been her first. Now she wanted as many men as it would take to erase him from her mind and heart.

      And that might take a great many, she reminded herself as she watched Tonio saunter across the square, one hand thrust deep into his pants pocket, his hat slanted jauntily down over one eye. She liked the way he moved, so masculine and self-assured. She was already looking forward to the evening.

      Caroline took a long time finishing her Cinzano. There was no need for her to rush anywhere. She thought of doing the shops, but she had done them all and had little interest in buying anything new. Her trunks were full as it was, which accounted for at least part of her reluctance to leave Venice. The chore of packing everything seemed too bothersome.

      She motioned for the bill.

      Perhaps she would stop at the goldsmith’s and buy that bracelet she’d been admiring. It was expensive, but then money was never a problem. Her grandmother saw to that.

      She wasn’t paying much attention to anything when she turned down one of the side streets that bordered a narrow canal. There weren’t many people about and she quickened her step, wanting to reach the shop before it closed for the afternoon siesta.

      “Look out!” a woman yelled as Caroline felt herself being roughly shoved into a doorway. A second later a large slab of masonry crashed down on the very spot where Caroline had been walking.

      “Good God,” Caroline breathed, looking at the shattered stone. “Where did that come from?”

      The woman who’d shoved her was about her own age, no more than twenty-four, with wide serious eyes hiding behind horn-rimmed glasses. “Damn,” she swore. “You could have been killed.”

      Caroline put her hand over her heart to still its pounding. “Thanks to you I wasn’t,” she said, leaning back against the heavy door as she tried to catch her breath.

      The young woman peered upward, scanning the building for signs of further danger. “It wasn’t a part of the cornice,” she said, noting that the ornate edging of the building was completely intact. “It must have rolled off the roof, but I don’t see how, unless someone pushed it over.”

      Caroline was still trembling.

      To her surprise the woman laughed. “Someone isn’t out to kill you, are they?” Her accent was strictly New York, and there was a hardness in her tone that told Caroline the woman was no stranger to danger.

      “Kill me?” Caroline gasped. “Good heavens, no. I’m just an American tourist without an enemy in the world.”

      The woman put out her hand. “I’m Alice Pendergast.”

      “Caroline Nightsong.”

      “The San Francisco Nightsongs?”

      “Yes. Do you know my family?”

      Alice chuckled. “Everyone who reads a newspaper knows the famous Nightsongs.”

      Caroline looked hurt.

      “I’m sorry,” Alice said. “I work for a New York paper. Fashions mostly, but I take an interest in anything newsworthy.” She stepped out of the doorway and inspected the top of the building again. “I think it looks safe enough. Isn’t it odd that no one came out to see what the crash was?”

      Caroline let herself be led away. “I can’t begin to thank you enough for shoving me into that doorway.”

      “Forget it, Caroline.” She laughed again. “Everyone says I’m the pushy type.”

      Caroline groaned at the pun. “A newspaper reporter. Sounds exciting.”

      “As I said, I mostly cover fashions. The newspaper business is still in the Dark Ages when it comes to letting women reporters cover anything but food and clothing. Still, I do a lot of digging on my own and turn the material in to the editor who usually prints it under his own byline. Someday we women will be liberated from this male-oriented world.”

      “I’m not sure I want to be liberated. It’s rather safe to be a woman.”

      “Safe? You mean like back there when someone tried to knock you on the head with a slab of concrete?”

      “I’m certain it was an accident.”

      Alice shrugged. “I don’t believe in accidents like that.”

      “Please, Alice, let’s not talk about it. You’ll have me believing that someone really did try to do me in, as they say in the mystery thrillers.”

      “Sorry. Don’t listen to me. I’m always turning everything into a melodrama. I see sinister things everywhere.” She frowned. “Still, I would like to know how that piece of masonry found its way from the roof to the cobblestones.”

      “I’m sure it wasn’t intended for me.”

      “Yes, I’m sure it wasn’t,” Alice said, trying to sound reassuring. She tugged at Caroline’s arm. “Come on, let’s go over to Luigi’s for a stiff one.”

      “Luigi’s? We can’t. They won’t let two unescorted ladies in.”

      “Stick with me, kiddo. I know every back door in Venice. Come on.”

      Caroline found Alice Pendergast delightful company. She was free and open and said whatever was on her mind. She was pretty enough under her veneer of hardness, which Caroline decided was deliberately applied. Her hair was a soft blonde, her eyes—behind the glasses—were deep, deep blue. She wore no makeup, and her clothes were almost mannish.

      “You’re April Nightsong’s daughter?” Alice said as they settled themselves in Luigi’s at a small table separated from the larger front room by a velvet drape.

      “Yes.”

      “But your real name isn’t Nightsong. It’s something French.” She knit her brows, thinking. “Andrieux. Yes, that’s right, isn’t it?”

      “You have an astonishing memory.”

      “I have a mind like an elephant’s.” She paused. “Your father was killed last year, I read.”

      Caroline nodded as she sipped her drink. “He wasn’t much of a father to me. I was raised by my grandmother.”

      “The Nightsong Chronicles were well publicized. I’d like to meet your grandmother. From what I’ve read, she’s a remarkable woman.”

      “Very