Burned (Vanessa Pierson series Book 2) (27 page)

It was the end of the dinner hour and restaurants were closing their doors, and the Carnevale crowds on Calle del Mondo Novo had grown noticeably denser. Even as a silent Charles took her arm and began guiding her back in the direction of Hotel Ala, her mind raced with everything they’d spoken of over dinner. She had to contact Chris the moment she got back to her room.

But first she had to make it back. She felt disoriented and a little dizzy, and spooked again. The sights and sounds around her suddenly all seemed foreign and a bit macabre.

As if he heard her thoughts, Charles tightened his grip, and Vanessa felt intensely grateful for his company.

The cool night air stung with the sulfur smell of fireworks. A light breeze also carried the sour reminder of low tide and sewage in the canals. Charles didn’t seem to notice. She held her breath. All around her, people were boisterous—laughing and yelling. A few were obviously intoxicated.

Someone jostled Vanessa roughly from behind, then a man in a plague doctor’s mask almost plowed into Charles, without apology.

But just then a masked, caped figure stepped up to Vanessa, doffed his hat, and made a low bow. Was this a reveler who was drunk or simply carried away by the spirit of the night? Now he was bowing to Charles, too.

But wait—
Khoury?

“David, is that you?” she asked in amazement. “What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He was speaking in a low, hushed, almost theatrical voice and he was pulling them both to a clearing beneath a shop awning. “I’ve decided to celebrate Carnevale with the most beautiful woman in the world. Charles, would you allow me to escort this fair maiden back to her hotel?”

“David, under other circumstances this would undoubtedly be a welcome surprise,” Charles said, picking up the strange intensity that Khoury communicated with his actions, if not his words. “I’m not quite sure of your intentions except that you seem most adamant and I won’t stand in the way of lovers.”

But before Charles would step aside or let go of Vanessa’s arm, he shot her an intense and questioning look that made it clear he would not leave her without her explicit permission.

“I’m in good hands, Charles,” she said, nodding. Whatever Khoury was up to, she trusted him. She also wanted an explanation for his appearance. Its suddenness unsettled her.

“And Charles, I know you have someone of your own waiting for you this evening. I’m sure she will be happy to see you.”

As Vanessa began to follow Khoury, she blew a kiss to Charles and mouthed
Thank you
. Who knew what would happen before they met again.

The last thing she saw before Charles was swallowed up in the crowd was his sweeping, courtly bow.

Vanessa gripped Khoury’s arm hard enough to hurt him and found herself staring into his masked face and dark, glittering eyes. “Now tell me what the hell is going
on
? What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

“Keep moving,” he ordered, his voice low under the ambient noise. “I’m pretty sure someone in this crowd is tracking you.”

She instantly eyed the crowd around them, trying to identify friend or foe. “Who?” she asked breathlessly.

“Sorry, no time to explain,” Khoury said, pulling her along with him almost roughly. “Don’t want to scare you, but if I’m right about this guy, I need him to make his move.”

“What, his
move
? Where is he?” Vanessa scrambled mentally to catch up with the meaning of his words.

“Don’t know. He’s in costume, a black cape, a mask. I lost him.”

“That doesn’t help, Khoury, everyone’s in a cape!”

“It might be Scarface,” Khoury whispered in her ear. “Keep going with this crowd toward the piazza. Even if you don’t see me, I’ll be sticking very close.”

“You’re using me as bait?”

But he was gone; he’d disappeared back into the crowd of revelers.

Her muscles felt as tightly strung as wire, but she didn’t slow or stop. Instead, she followed his directive, walking quickly along with the crowd. At their pace the piazza was roughly fifteen minutes away.

The tall old buildings and awnings pressed in over her head, blocking moonlight. The few streetlamps gave off skirts of illumination and some of the shops had lights glowing. Alleys and lanes branched off the old stone street in various directions from the closest corner. At least Vanessa knew which way she’d come, thanks to her unerring sense of direction. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she hadn’t known which road to take.

Where was Khoury? Was he behind her? Vanessa thought so, but she stopped herself from checking over her shoulder, suddenly paranoid and feeling the effects of the wine in the dizzying crowd.

She turned with most of the crowd onto Salizada San Lio, in the company of devils and angels, aristocrats and beggars, historic villains and saviors. But the majority were villains—at least it seemed that way by the abundance of glowering faces and grotesquely painted masks. Was one of them Scarface?

Passing a shop window filled with antiqued and gilded mirrors, she caught a glimpse of a slender young woman in a blue-and-lavender gown, blond hair falling loose around her pretty face, eyes mysterious behind a sliver of golden mask, and just as she passed from view it dawned on Vanessa that she had seen her reflection.

A cold breeze touched her bare shoulder and she glanced back to see a hobbling, almost comic hunchback of Notre Dame holding hands with a bird-beaked demon, and yet another creepy plague doctor. She felt pinpricks of fear on her skin. She rubbed her arms and increased her pace.

The narrow walkway widened a bit and she breathed in relief. She’d reached Campo de la Guerra—or was this Calle de le Bande?

She stopped in her tracks, confused by directions and frightened by her confusion. She’d gone to the restaurant with a left turn, hadn’t she? She turned right, hearing the distant strains of horns and violins. Were they coming from the square?

Where was her unerring sense of direction now?

A group of English-speaking tourists (Canadians, she guessed) passed her by and she followed. She thought she remembered the stairs that appeared in front of her were part of Campo de la Guerra. That was the darkest part of the walk, and now it loomed ahead.

The crowd seemed to surge and the wave of revelers began to climb the staircase. Vanessa pushed along with them, but she was driven toward the left side and the stone casing. Amid the general crush of people and costumes it took her a moment to realize that either someone had clutched at her arm or she was caught on something. She almost cried out, but she felt the pressure give way and she was released. Again, the crowd carried her forward.

At the crest of the steps, she stumbled off, moving quickly away, relieved to be free of the claustrophobic crowd. She stepped to one side and found herself sheltered by an alcove, but someone grabbed her and pulled her around in a sort of dance. Instinctively she contracted her fingers into claws, pulling roughly away, prepared to attack.

“It’s me,” Khoury said, dipping his head close to hers. “There’s an alley just ahead. Go with the crowd but turn off to the left when you get there. It’s narrow. I’ll be with you.”

And he was gone again before she could argue, weaving through the crowd ahead of her, his blue cape a blur of velvet.

When she reached the alley most of the crowd surged right. For a few seconds she hesitated before the fear generated by Khoury’s warning spurred her forward into the dark, winding alley. No streetlights. No moonlight reaching through the shadows. No illumination from storefronts, because the doorways along this route led almost exclusively to private residences. A group of four costumed revelers brushed
past her and she was relieved to know she wasn’t alone. But almost immediately they turned into a doorway.

She heard footsteps behind her.

She caught her breath glancing back, braced to fight.

A couple moving arm in arm skipped past her, their laughter echoing off the centuries-old stones.

Khoury, where are you?
Was she certain she’d heard his directions correctly?

—

A DOZEN YOUNG
women in brightly hued gauzy costumes danced their way toward Khoury. The men behind them carried torches and temporarily cut off access to side streets. They were part of a street act—one of several dozen roaming Venice’s alleys tonight and performing on bridges and in squares.

When Khoury left Vanessa after directing her to turn down the alley, he’d stayed on Campo de la Guerra so he could watch anyone who followed her. His first view of the caped man outside the restaurant was brief. Khoury thought that the man sensed he’d been seen so he disappeared. Khoury couldn’t say exactly what first drew his attention—certainly not the man’s cheap cape or the macabre mask, both ubiquitous accessories tonight. But something about him had struck Khoury as off
.

Then Vanessa and Charles had exited the restaurant and Khoury had improvised his plan.

And it was feeling like a stupid plan by now.

He’d been fairly certain that he’d spotted the caped man again just minutes ago, so he’d spoken to Vanessa once more. But after she turned down the alley Khoury had failed to spot the man on her trail. And now his
access to the same alley was temporarily blocked.

One of the women was dancing a kind of flamenco solo while the other dancers clapped along and the men raised their torches higher.

Khoury couldn’t wait. He strode toward the alley and the heavyset torchbearer who blocked his path. The man saw him coming and widened his stance. These guys were serious about holding an audience captive, but Khoury was fast. He knocked the torch so it flew, and when the guy stumbled after it, swearing loudly, Khoury made his move.

The alley was dark. He didn’t see Vanessa. He ignored the angry protests from the performers.

He’d let her down, he’d put her in danger.

—

VANESSA HEARD MUSIC
and then heard men yelling, but she couldn’t see around the curves of the winding alley.
Damn you, Khoury.

A few more stragglers were coming up behind her, and, because the alley had narrowed even more, she pressed her body to the wall to let them pass. Why had she let Charles persuade her to wear the dress? The petticoats kept catching between her legs so she almost tripped.

A tall man decorated with peacock feathers turned into a doorway. Another man approached, then turned and darted back the way he had come. A third man stopped to light a cigarette. She glanced around. If Scarface came at her, what could she use to defend herself? A brick? A flowerpot?

A figure came from the opposite direction. He was caped like almost every other man, but it wasn’t Khoury. His mask was flesh-colored.
“Scusi,”
he murmured as he passed her with his painted smile. The hair stood up on her neck. Somehow she knew before she felt the rush of air and the brush of fabric. Her attacker grunted just as his left arm closed around her throat. He yanked her head back, cutting off her oxygen. In seconds he could crush her windpipe.

She dug the fingers of her right hand into his arm and thrust her left elbow back, but she barely connected. He felt big, heavy against her, and he outweighed her, but by fifty pounds or ninety didn’t matter because she couldn’t break his hold. Her throat burned and she
gasped for air. She had only seconds—
get to his eyes or his throat or punch his nose up into his fucking skull!

She flailed desperately for his face, digging her nails into what she thought were his eyes. He grunted sharply and she prayed she’d hurt him.

She pushed, gouging deeper into flesh.

She stomped down on his foot, cursing the light flats she’d worn with the dress. She contracted her thigh instantly, rebounding from the stomp so she could jam her foot back toward his knee. Again, she hit something—

But she was dizzy, spinning. If she lost consciousness, she was dead.

She couldn’t breathe and the world went black.

And then abruptly the weight was gone, lifted away. She stumbled across the alley, gasping for air, and when she turned back she saw Khoury had her attacker in a stranglehold.

Then the man twisted into a half nelson, pulling Khoury forward and down. But Khoury went with the momentum and managed to flip and land with his feet on the ground. He twisted his body, thrusting his elbows violently upward inside his attacker’s arms, and he broke the grip. He slammed his elbow into the man’s throat and then slapped his ears with the flats of his hands.

The man jammed a knee up into Khoury’s groin. He buckled violently, and Vanessa readied herself to get back in the fight, but Khoury was up again and the man was bouncing light on his feet, his hands closed into tight fists, moving in a way that told Vanessa he knew some combination of karate, Krav Maga, and kickboxing. She moved into range, ready to kick and pummel, just as Khoury stepped into the man’s punch to throw a hard right jab. It hit the other man’s jaw with a sickening crack. Khoury drove his left fist into his attacker’s solar plexus.

Vanessa almost heard the wind being knocked out of the man, but then Khoury came up with a left uppercut to the chin. It snapped the man’s head back. He went down.