Of Blood and Bone (The Minaldi Legacy) Read online

  The girl that disappeared last night, Annica Rossi, will make the third woman in a month’s time. Two are known to be dead, but this one, this Annica Rossi, is just gone. She is only twenty-three and had been walking home from her job at a local bar last night. She is only six years younger than I am.

  I stare at the collage of pictures of her on the television; of her young eyes, her slightly rough appearance, the tattoo on her shoulder and I have a feeling that wherever she is, she isn’t alive. She shouldn’t have been out so late by herself, she should have known better. But she shouldn’t have had to pay for such a small transgression with her life. She was young. Youth are known to make mistakes born of ignorance.

  Something isn’t right in Valetta and I remember Luca’s words.

  There are a few less than beautiful things in Malta.

  That’s one way to put it, I guess.

  I eat the last bite of my breakfast and then venture to my makeshift office. I sort through notes from this week and transfer them into typewritten files. I am very neat and orderly when it comes to research because I have to be. If I’m not, it will all fall apart and I won’t be able to pull it together into something workably intelligent. I’m rather like that in real life, too. Everything has its place, its file, its slot. My thoughts, my feelings, my memories. My emotions are usually filed away in Tupperware-like mental containers.

  I guess it’s why I make a good doctor. I’m very matter of fact and always have been. My mother and father both like to tell me stories of from when I was a kid. I was the same even then. Other girls were crying because there were mean kids on the playground. I was too busy trying to determine what made them that way to let their mean behavior personally affect me. I’m like that to this day. I have a distinct ability to remove myself from any given situation and analyze it.

  I’m compartmentalized.

  Except with Luca.

  I hate the thought that I allow him to get to me, but I have to admit that he does. But truly, even at the same time as I hate it, I know that I like it a little bit too. It means that I am human. I have strong emotions after all, emotions that I’m not able to control or dampen. There for a few years, I was starting to wonder.

  I wrap up my busy work and then wind my hair into a knot at my neck. I need to go into town and mingle with the locals so that I can gather some more initial meeting data. Some friendly conversation will be a nice break from the quiet solitude of my cottage.

  I dress in a pair of snug fitting capri’s, a fitted polo and a pair of wedges. And then I’m out the door.

  The day is beautiful and the sun shines onto my shoulders. I decide it’s the best feeling in the world. I can smell the salt in the air and I know that I will forever associate that smell with this place, with the beautiful Maltese landscapes.

  Even though I hate it, I ride the bus into town and then after I grab a coffee, I walk down to the wharfs, taking my time as I wind through the throngs of people in the marketplace. I know that the crusty old fishermen who frequent the piers will be excellent subjects for research.

  I am not wrong.

  I spend several hours on the faded wooden piers, talking and laughing with the fishermen who linger here. They look rough and cantankerous, but each one of them is willing to chat with me about life in Malta and their love of fishing. It is very apparent that fishing is a way of life for them and they take it very seriously. It is not a hobby for them. It is a way of life. Many of them are retired commercial fishermen and it is in them to the bone.

  As I speak with the last fisherman of the day, Tobias, the conversation suddenly and unexpected takes a turn toward the recent killings. Tobias looks at me with cloudy blue eyes.

  “Miss, you’ll want to make sure that you stay safe, you hear?”

  I nod. “Of course. I always do.”

  He nods back, this stranger who I only met an hour ago. “Be sure that you do. A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be out and about on your own right now. Maybe even during the day. There’s no sense in taking chances.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’m safe in the daylight,” I tell him. “Wolves usually come out at night, don’t they?”

  His gnarled hands cast out his line again and he reels it slowly back in. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment before he speaks.

  “I’m not sure that it is wolves. I know that’s what they’re saying. But I’ve lived here my entire life, for eighty-four years, and I’ve never encountered a wolf here. I’ve fished at every source of water in this area. Streams, rivers and the sea. I’ve been in the woods, on the beach, on the roads. And never once have I seen a wolf or even any signs of a wolf.”

  “Never?” I ask him, raising an eyebrow. “Not even a paw print?”

  He shakes his gray head. “Not even a paw print.”

  Chills roll up my spine at his words and their meaning. If he’s been out and about in the countryside for so long and has never seen a wolf, then odds are, there aren’t any wolves to be seen. The hair rises on the back of my neck as I think of the alternative.

  “You think there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

  My words feel stilted in my mouth and Tobias looks grim as he slowly nods.

  “I guess that’s what it would make him.”

  “Him?” I look at Tobias. “How do you know it’s a him?”

  He shakes his head and then re-casts his line. We both watch it sink into the swirling sea.

  “Because it must be. A woman isn’t violent enough to do what was done to those women.”

  I swallow hard.

  “I heard their throats were ripped out.”

  Tobias nods. “That’s what I hear, as well. A woman wouldn’t do that.”

  I think about that. “Well, women are far less likely, historically speaking, to commit murders of a violent nature. And serial killers are sixty times more likely to be a man than a woman. But there’s always the remote chance that it is a woman.”

  Tobias is shaking his head. “I don’t believe it. My gut says it’s a man. Keep your doors locked, Dr. Talbot.”

  That’s exactly what Luca told me and I know that it is good advice.

  I wish Tobias a good afternoon fishing and I venture from the pier and onto the beach below. I look back over my shoulder and Tobias’ face is grim, which one again causes goose bumps to form on my arms. I wipe them away. This is silly. I’m in broad daylight. I’m fine.

  The sea is active today and the waves that crash against the shore are at least three feet tall, maybe four. I can see several small boats getting tossed about in the current and I am happy that I am standing on dry land. Although my feet are killing me. Three-inch wedges weren’t the best idea. I slip them off and carry them, allowing my aching feet to sink into the damp, cool sand.

  I try to put troubling thoughts out of my head and choose to look for shells along the beach as I walk instead. It’s a mindless and calming activity. I know it is a couple of miles from here to the shore outside of my cottage, but I decide that I can stop at Marianne’s for a late lunch/early dinner.

  I step around stones and seaweed and driftwood that have washed ashore and find myself continually looking at the water. The view is beautiful here, the horizon endless. It is impossible not to put troubling thoughts to bed when the scenery is so beautiful and tranquil.

  And then I see him.

  Walking toward me, strolling quietly, is Luca Minaldi. He’s calm and quiet and an enormous brindle-colored dog is walking slightly ahead of him.

  Luca is dressed in Khaki shorts and a button-up chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The breeze ruffles his dark hair and I can feel the penetrating heat of his gaze even from here.

  Why does it seem that I bump into him everywhere that I go? Marianne said that he seldom leaves his home, yet I’ve seen him everywhere.

  He’s within speaking distance now, so I call out a hello. His dog, an enormous monster of an animal, growls softly. Luca murmurs something to it and it instantly falls silent,
although now it drops back to walk next to Luca’s side, perfectly in sync with his step.

  There’s a hint of smile on Luca’s face, but then it is gone and he waves.

  “That’s quite a guard dog,” I say as I stay a respectable distance away. I glance at it, at its enormous yet aerodynamic body and slightly shaggy fur. “What is it?”

  Luca’s hand rests on the great dog’s back for a mere second and the dog sits at his side, still at attention. “This is Grendel. He’s an Irish Wolfhound.”

  “Ah,” I answer. “I remember hearing bits and pieces about that breed over the years. They’re gentle giants, right?”

  Luca looks doubtful. “Perhaps some are. Grendel was trained to be a guard dog as a pup. It made my mother feel more comfortable to have one. He gravitated toward me, though, and now I have a constant companion.”

  “Nice name,” I reply. “I loved Beowulf when I was in college.”

  “It seemed fitting,” he answers. Looking down at his guard, whose eyes are ever alert and fierce, I have to agree.

  “He does seem like a Grendel,” I nod.

  Luca glances at the notebook in my hands. “Have you been out working?”

  I laugh. “If you can call it that. I’ve been chatting with talkative old fishermen out on the wharf.”

  “Did you get a lot of material for your project?” Luca is polite, although he does seem genuinely interested.

  “Yes, I did,” I answer. “I love the people here in Malta. They are so friendly and easy to read.”

  He smiles now and I suck in my breath. Because he usually seems so dark and commanding, it is a breathtaking difference when he smiles.

  “Most of them, anyway,” I add. Luca looks amused.

  “Not all of them?” And now his dark eyebrow is raised and his bangs are hanging just slightly over his eye. He looks like a fully-clothed underwear model and I swallow.

  “No. Not all of them.”

  He’s amused again and he takes a step closer to me. Grendel stays where Luca told him to stay, evidence of his training.

  “Is there anyone in particular you’re having trouble with?”

  He’s near me now, clearly inside my personal space. I can smell his subtle spicy cologne, something unique to him. I’ve never smelled that scent before. He steps one more step toward me and now I can feel the warmth coming from his body. I swallow hard again.

  “You know there is. I can’t read you.”

  Luca is still now, watching me with his intense gaze. I feel it brushing along my skin as potently as though he were touching me with his fingers.

  “Dr. Talbot, you don’t have enough time to figure me out. It would take all the time in the world. And the last I checked, you only have the summer.”

  He’s so close to me now that my wits are addled, something that very rarely happens. I struggle with my composure, struggle to seem unfazed. As he looks at me though, I feel like he can see my thoughts. He knows the effect he’s having on me. I’m sure of it.

  “Yes,” I confirm. “I’m only here for the summer.”

  His chest is broad. I’m staring at it now since it is eye-level for me. His shirt is tailored and stretches perfectly across his shoulders and I’m staring at him so intently that I startle when he speaks.

  With his head ducked close to mine, he murmurs, “Pity.”

  Then he steps away from me.

  And the intense mood is lifted. The electricity between us is alleviated for the time being, although I know that won’t last long. There is an attraction between us, something dark and fierce and I would be a fool to not acknowledge it. And I’d probably be a fool to give in to it, as well.

  “What time will you be visiting with my mother this evening?”

  He’s polite and casual now and his posture is relaxed. Yes, the charged atmosphere is gone. I can breathe again.

  “I think around 8:00 pm. Will that work for you?”

  He nods. “That will be fine. Please stop by my study afterward. I’d like a report.”

  I nod. “Of course.”

  And he turns and walks away without another word. Grendel walks with him, once again perfectly attuned to his master’s movements. I watch them until they are quite a ways away before I take another step.

  Luca never looks back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Luca

  I feel her watching. Evangeline’s gaze is firmly implanted between my shoulder blades and I fight the urge to turn, to return to her side and continue speaking with her, to continue breathing her in. She smells of fresh air and flowers and I have been taken off guard by the connection that I feel with this woman. I’ve never felt anything like it in my life.

  I wish I wasn’t feeling it now.

  There’s no way I can tell her to stay away from me, that I’m dangerous for her. It would sound ridiculous, like stuff that fiction and legend are made of. I am not Heathcliff and she is not Catherine, although the reasons that separate us are different from those of that fabled pair. Heathcliff was tortured because he could not have his Love. I will be tortured regardless, but I refuse to drag anyone else into it, which might be my single redeeming quality.

  And so I walk away.

  Grendel and I make our way over the damp beach back to Chessarae and as I do, a familiar feeling begins to grow from within me and with it, I feel a heavy weight on my chest. My vision blurs, then focuses and I want to punch a wall as immediate and profound rage explodes inside of me.

  I am surprised, taken aback, aghast.

  It’s back. Already.

  I swallow hard as the light begins to pull away from the corners of my eyes and the blackness threatens to overtake me. It is imminent. I don’t have much time. This onset was sudden, more so than most times.

  I feel the same sense of comfort that I always feel as I pass through my property gates, but it is dimmed this time. Many things are dimmed right now, my emotions are dulled even while some of my senses are heightened. My feet sink into Chessarae soil and I sigh. Chessarae is my refuge. I draw strength from the solitude. It will keep me safe.

  But rather than going into the house, into the stone bricks and mortar that I call home, I quickly follow the trails into the garden that lead me through the English Maze. The flowering bushes are fragrant, but I bear them no mind, even though my sense of smell has been awakened, as if from a long slumber. I can smell everything right now, the lilies, the lavender, the roses.

  I wind my way to the center of the maze and when I reach it, I find myself in a familiar oasis. There is a small bubbling pond here with a fountain, benches and a circle of white marble statues. The twelve Greek Olympians stare at me with lifeless marble eyes. They know the secret that is contained here in this oasis. They have watched me come and go many times before.

  My vision blurs once more and I focus hard on holding off the blackness. It is coming, but I am almost there. My stomach muscles strain as I hold them tensely, my entire body coiled as I fight this internal battle.

  I stride quickly around the pond and approach a large statue of Hades on the other side. That the god of the Underworld guards this particular secret is an irony not lost on me. On his platform base, there is a small bronze plaque. It is very old yet still in pristine condition and I press it firmly, until I hear a click. It slides to the side and reveals a thumb pad. I place my thumb upon it and an infrared reader slides over it, reading my identity. A green light flashes, granting approval to enter.

  Hades stares down at me knowingly as the statue raises slightly, exposing rollers from beneath. It rolls smoothly and noiselessly backward, revealing a hidden staircase below. I can see the marble steps descending into darkness and I step inside with Grendel at my heels.

  There are only two living people in the world who know that this exists. I am one of them.

  I punch at a button on the wall on the way down and simultaneously, lights come on in the tunnel and Hades slides back into place above me. I am hidden from the world now. And that
is the sole purpose of this secret place. I begin to feel a coming sense of relief. I will make it. I am so close.

  One hundred and twenty four marble steps later, we have reached the bottom. This landing leads to a hallway branching off into both directions. One direction leads to underground tunnels that go straight to the house and emerge in my study and in the basement. The other leads in the opposite direction to a small living area. It is soundproof from the world above.

  No one from above would ever guess that this underground fortress is here. It was built by my great-great-grandfather, back when this type of technology was cutting edge; at least, it was cutting edge here in Malta. The ancient Egyptians were utilizing hidden rooms and tunnels and sliding, trick doorways a couple of thousand years ago for their tombs. But then again, ancient Egyptians were ahead of their time in many ways. They created their underground fortresses to protect their dead, to keep them safe from grave-robbers. Mine was created for an entirely different purpose.

  To keep me in.

  I continue down the hall into a luxurious living space and gaze around. Recessed lights provide a soft, ambient glow. We refer to this place as ‘the cave’. And only two living people know of its existence, myself and Adrian.

  It is clean, modern and fully-stocked. Adrian sees to that.

  One wall houses an entire rack of wine. The other consists of shelves and shelves of books and has a couple of leather reading chairs situated in front of it. A third wall is covered in expensive, original art; as well as several television screens. Each of them reflects the center of the English Maze from a different angle as reflected by the hidden cameras there. We always know if someone approaches.

  The fourth wall is different.

  A large bed is pushed against it, secured tightly to the floor so that it cannot be moved.

  Chains protrude from the wall, heavy and metal, winding through the iron headboard. Thick padded handcuffs are attached to the chains and are resting right now on the thick pillows.

  I know that if anyone happened upon this place, they might draw the conclusion that I am a depraved sex fiend, that this is my sex nest and that I bring women here to commit freakish sexual acts upon them.