The Visitant: A Venetian Ghost Story (27 page)

I was in the receiving hall when he grabbed my arm.

“Are you afraid of me, Elena? Afraid of
me
?”

“Take it off.” I felt near tears.

“It’s just a mask.” He tore the mask off, throwing it to the floor, where it skidded across the speckled stone. “There, it’s off. Better?” He looked stricken, forlorn, alone in a way that I couldn’t stand to see, as if he saw only futility where once before he’d seen hope, and I knew I’d done that. I was to blame.

But without the mask, I saw no tricks in him, no secrets and no lies. Only concern and distress, as if he hoped to call back what had been lost and was afraid he could not. I felt that too, this desperate wish to unsee what I’d seen, to be innocent again, and when he leaned close—no force at all, ready to be stopped, allowing me to stop him if I would—my elbow bowed to let him in, my hand against him no barrier at all. I said, “I’m sorry. That was stupid. You frightened me.”

“I’ve never known a woman to have that reaction before.” His eyes were sad; the tease had no weight. “Usually they’re intrigued.”

“I know. I know. It’s just . . . the police . . . and Samuel . . .”

“What happened? What did they say?”

“They think Samuel murdered your aunt,” I said. “It doesn’t help that he doesn’t remember.”

Nero stepped back, stunned. “But . . . you told them about his epilepsy?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t make any difference. Giulia told them about how he tried to strangle me, and . . . well, you can see how it must be. I think he even believes it too.”

“What do you mean?”

“He knows Laura’s spirit can make him do whatever she wants—how can he not believe that perhaps he followed your aunt to the bridge? Did Laura hate her mother enough to want her dead?”

“A ghost made Samuel push my aunt into the rio?” Nero took my arms, caressing, soothing, reassuring. “You’re trying to make sense of things that don’t make sense, Elena. This house could make you believe anything. When I have you far away from here, you’ll realize how absurd you were to think it.” He laughed lightly. “You almost had me believing it too, I’ll admit. But then I saw that seizure, and . . . it is the simplest explanation.”

I felt confused, assaulted on all sides. I did not want to believe this of Samuel, just as I did not want to believe the suspicions of Nero that flitted like moths in my head, panicking against the light, drawing back into darkness where it was safe, where I did not have to ask, where I did not have to think. How was it that I was so caught between the two of them? How was it that I could not look at either and know the truth?

You’ve never been good at that, have you?
I thought of Joshua Lockwood’s intense blue eyes, the kisses that fooled me, the desire that said only what I wanted it to say.

I took Nero’s face hard between my hands. “You were with me all night, weren’t you? You never left the bed.”

His hands came to my wrists as if he meant to pull me away, but his fingers only wrapped around, holding me in place. He was frowning. “You think I killed her?”

I swallowed hard. “Tell me where you were.”

He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, I saw only a deep, endless well of grief and misery. “I was with you. I never left the bed.”

My relief was dizzying, though how that could be, I didn’t know, because I had never really believed this of him. I had heard Madame Basilio in the courtyard as he came inside. She was still alive when he came to me, and then he had stayed. The other questions burned on my tongue, but I could not bring myself to ask them.

I dropped my hands, and buried my face in his chest, wrapping my arms around him. I felt his hesitation, but then his arms came around me too. His voice was deep, rumbling against my ear as he said, “What is it you want me to say, Elena?”

“I hardly know you and yet I feel I know you all too well. I couldn’t bear it if I was wrong.”

“You’re not wrong,” he said. “I love you.”

I made myself say, “There are things . . . questions I have—”

“I would bare my soul to you if you asked it.”

Wasn’t that proof enough that he could not be the man I was afraid he was? I tightened my hold on him. I pressed my mouth against his shirt.

“Ask it,” he said—the barest whisper. I heard the suffering within it. His hand was in my hair, dislodging pins. I heard them fall to the floor, skittering like roaches. “I’ll tell you anything you want, so long as you promise to love me after.”

What else mattered? He was here and he loved me, and I loved him. I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know.

He kissed me, and it was ravenous and hard, as if he could not take me deeply enough. I tasted the fear and misery within it. We were right next to the door, anyone could come in, but I stopped caring the moment Nero’s hands pulled up my skirts, sliding up my thighs. He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him and his hand was between us, undoing my drawers and his trousers, and then we were crashing against each other like waves upon the rocks, battering and tempestuous, and we were falling to the floor, rough and heedless of whether we hurt one another, even worse, as if that hurting was necessary, as if it could somehow make everything right. My head and my hips cracked against the floor as he ground himself into me; I dug my nails into his back, through his shirt, feeling a piercing satisfaction at his grunts of pain, and then we were both gasping, crying out, shudders of completion, spent and throbbing.

It had taken two minutes, perhaps three, and it was the most devastating pleasure I had ever known, and the most wrenching. My heart ached, and I wanted to cry, but instead I ran my fingers through his hair and listened to his breathing fall into a steady rhythm again as his fingers clutched my thigh convulsively.

I heard voices in the courtyard, some words muffled, others carrying in that strangely twisting way of Venice, and I realized they were taking Madame Basilio’s body away. Nero froze as if he realized it too, and then he was pulling himself from me, rising, buttoning his trousers with an expression of such tormented sorrow that I wanted to pull him down again, to make him forget whatever it was that caused that look with my mouth and my hands.

And then I thought:
What makes him look that way?

Was his aunt’s body in the courtyard not enough cause? His whole family was gone now, only himself left, and every one of the others a victim of tragedy. I told myself it didn’t matter how much of that tragedy was his fault.

He reached for me, pulling me to my feet, to him, burying his face in my throat, kissing the bruises there with what sounded like a sob, and when he drew away, sorrow had given way to bleakness, to a purpose I didn’t understand and felt in my bones was wrong and wrong and wrong.

Nothing could be undone, I reminded myself. It was all past. It didn’t matter.

But then a sudden frigid blast of preternatural cold made me shiver, and with it the wafting scent of vanilla and canal water, telling me that I was lying to myself. It did matter. I felt the peril of her, and her determination, and dread filled my lungs until I was drowning in it, and I knew: she was going to force me to understand, whether I wanted to or not.

Chapter 33

I heard the step on the stair just as Nero did, and Samuel came inside, looking inestimably weary. He shuddered, gaze dodging to the corners of the room, and I knew he felt her there, just as I did. Watching, waiting. Expectant. I thought of what had just happened between Nero and me, and I felt guilty and embarrassed, and then I noted the way Samuel glanced at us, and I wondered if he saw it too. But all he said was, “They’re taking your aunt’s body to the coroner.”

Nero nodded and started for the door. “I should go—”

Samuel stopped him. “There’s no need. Da Cola and Pasqualigo will be here any moment, and I need to speak with the both of you first.”

“Why?” I asked in alarm. “What happened?”

He said nothing, but went down the hall toward the sala. When he reached the mask, he bent to pick it up. “What’s this?”

“Pulcinello,” Nero said shortly.

Samuel fingered it wistfully. “Carnivale? I’ve read about it. I suppose I’ll never see it now.”

“Why do you say that?” Nero sounded as wary as I felt. There was something in Samuel that discomfited, something else wrong.

Samuel gestured for us to follow him. When we reached the sala, he went to the balcony doors, staring out at the lights glimmering in the snowy twilight. He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “They’re arresting me. I’ll need to telegraph New York. Could you send someone to the office for me, Nero? It might be closed so late, but . . .”

“Yes, of course.” Nero’s voice was a rough whisper.

“Arresting you?” I repeated. “But . . . how can they do this? You didn’t kill her.”

“She was strangled,” he said. “And as I have a reputation for such things, I seem the most obvious choice, don’t you think?”

“Strangled? They said she slipped off the bridge, or was pushed . . .”

“That isn’t how she died. They were saving that bit of news for after you left. They had me targeted from the start, once they spoke to Father Pietro, and he told them what happened at the exorcism. And then of course, they saw your bruises.”

I collapsed onto the settee. “You would not have done this. Not of your own accord. Her ghost—”

“Perhaps,” Samuel said. “It does seem that strangulation is the order of the day here, doesn’t it? Madame Basilio, you, me. Laura.”

I looked up.

Nero had gone still where he stood.

Samuel turned to me. “It seems clear that one of us has done this. Either him or me. Which would you prefer it to be, Elena? Tell me so I can fall on my sword for you.”

I was horrified. “Samuel, no.”

“I don’t mind it so much. What have I to go home to? A fiancée who will likely hate me within the year? Seizures that won’t go away, whatever I do? I suppose I can look forward to imbecility by the time I’m fifty. Or complete madness. Having got a taste of it lately, I can say it’s . . . bearable. Especially if you don’t remember.”

“What are you talking about?” Nero asked tightly.

“I’m talking about murder,” Samuel said. “Your aunt’s, yes, but Laura’s too.”

“Laura slipped and fell.”

“No, that’s the story you tell everyone. Keep it straight, Nero, will you? It’s your aunt who slipped and fell. Supposedly. Laura jumped into a canal dyed red. Isn’t that it?”

Her presence gathered strength; I thought I saw her at the corner of my vision, that floating shroud, a wisp of movement, but when I turned to look it was gone. The air grew icy. A cold shiver went down my spine.

Nero had gone white. “Yes. She jumped.”

“Samuel,” I said, wanting to stop him, afraid to stop him.

He ignored me. “Did you know you meant to do it from the start? When you left for Milan, meaning to kill her lover, did you mean to come here after too? Or was it just a whim?”

“I didn’t come here from Milan.” Nero’s voice was rough. “I went to meet you in Paris. You know that. You were with me when I got the telegram about her death.”

“I think you’ve forgotten,” Samuel said. “You brought
The Nunnery Tales
from here. Do you remember? You told me you’d gone to get it, as you were so close.”

They were both so tense it seemed a strong breath might crack them. My heart pounded. My dread was overwhelming, the only thing I could feel. I could not bear to look at either of them; I could not bear to look away.

Samuel prodded, “Did your aunt know you meant to kill her? Or was that just a whim too?”

Nero said nothing, but I saw the trapped look in his eyes.

“You weren’t so careful to keep from making marks on her throat this time. Or perhaps you didn’t bother with Laura either, and it was only that the eels and the crabs ate them away. They didn’t find her for two days. Long enough for that, I think. How lucky for you.”

“Samuel,” I managed. “His aunt . . . he didn’t—”

I broke off when I saw Nero’s expression. The closed eyes, the swallow—everything in him spoke of something past cure, irretrievable. I could not breathe. “Nero. No. Please. Say something. Deny it. Please.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, beseeching, plaintive. “You know already, Elena.”

“The question is, can she bear it?” Samuel asked. “I’ll take the blame for Madame Basilio, all Elena has to do is say the word. I’ll give her a life with you if that’s what she wants. But you’ll tell us the truth now. You’ll tell her what she needs to hear.”

I made a sound, a whimper; I felt everything falling away. And Laura’s spirit seemed to gain strength with my every pain, gathering it to herself, letting it coalesce and grow into something horrible, something mean. I felt her vindictiveness and her anger. “Nero, please don’t.”

He ignored me. “It was my aunt’s fault. If she had let Laura marry Polani, none of it would have happened. But no, I had to bear these . . . these letters full of hate and . . . and bitterness. As if it were my fault. I’m not the one who betrayed her. I loved her. I never stopped. Even when . . .” He took a deep breath.

“Even when you killed her,” Samuel provided.

Still that pleading gaze. I felt all of Nero reaching for me, begging me to understand. He said, “She could not stop nattering about Laura’s ghost. I never thought anything of it—who could believe it? Then Giulia wrote me to say that my aunt thought Laura might be speaking through Samuel. Aunt Valeria believed his illness made him susceptible. She was doing things to make him worse so the spirit could gain hold.”

“Giulia wrote you?” My voice did not sound like my own.

“It was a warning,” he said, looking sick and sad. “She told me to stay away. You can thank past affections. She was my first. She was always a bit . . . maternal after. But when I realized that my aunt was hurting Samuel for this . . . obsession . . . of hers, I had to come. I couldn’t leave him to her, could I? Could I, Elena?”

I could not answer his pleading glance. I felt numb.

The loneliness in his eyes . . . the heartache . . . and all the time her glee growing, the cold taking on an acid, unsavory edge. I felt her urging him on.
Now, yes, now.

He went on, “It was a mistake to return. I only settled my aunt’s suspicions more firmly. She’d heard Laura shouting that night. I thought no one knew I was there, but Aunt Valeria heard me in my bedroom getting that cursed book. And then the exorcism confirmed what she thought she knew already. You said Laura’s nickname for me.
Lasagnone.
She used to call me her pretty lazy boy. Aunt Valeria told me she was going to Padre Pietro with her accusations early in the morning. All I had to do was wait for her to go.”

“But . . . but you were with me,” I said.

“You were exhausted,” he said in a pained voice, heavy with contrition. “I made sure of it.”

He’d lied to me. The realization was a blow, but what was worse was knowing how well I’d believed him, how certain I’d been that he was telling me the truth about not leaving my bed—the one thing that had given me the strength to repel the rest, to ignore it. The thing that had given me the will to save him. “All your protestations. The church. All of that searching at the market and . . . and you knew. It was all a lie.”

“It was. I’m sorry. If you only knew how sorry I am . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Elena, please. I never lied to you about what kind of man I was. I told you—”

“You told me about a man you killed in a duel. You said you were jealous. That you had a temper. Not that you’d murdered Laura.”

“It wasn’t like that. Not really—”

“No? You didn’t put your hands around her throat? You didn’t push her into the canal?”

He came to me, falling to his knees before me. “It was an accident. I never meant to . . . I meant only to talk to her. But she goaded me. She hated me. My aunt made sure of it. It caught me by surprise. I went to tell her I would still marry her, but . . . I couldn’t reason with her.” He reached for my hands.

I recoiled sharply, and his expression changed, just that fast, from fear and desperation to anger. Laura’s spirit wavered like reflections behind him, gathering force.

“You said you loved me,” he accused. “Only a few minutes ago you said it. And you knew the truth then. I saw it in your eyes.”

“I wanted to pretend.” My vision blurred with tears. “I wanted to believe you.”

“Elena, please.” He grabbed my hands, yanking me to him.

Samuel cried, “Don’t touch her!” at the same moment cold air blasted through the room, so frigid and strong that our breaths turned immediately to frost. Nero started, jerking around to look, and his eyes went wide. I smelled her perfume, canal water and algae; I felt her anger as a force, that wall of air shifting as if the river of light on the ceiling and the walls had come between us. Colder than anything I’d ever felt. It seemed to freeze me from the inside out. Then the dim lamplight went red. Red as the walls in the receiving court with their bloody shadows. Red as a canal colored scarlet from a dyer’s vat.

Samuel was there, beside us, but he was no longer himself. His brown eyes had gone to black, and she was in them. I saw her rage and her hate and the pure gleam of vengeance in her eyes, and Nero gasped. “Laura.”

Samuel wrenched him away from me, spinning him, forcing him across the room, up against the wall.

“Samuel, no!” I cried, but when I rose I felt thrown back as if a giant hand had slapped me. The scene seemed to grow dim before me, as if she’d doused the light. I saw Samuel slamming Nero, once and again, the same way he’d slammed me. I heard the thud of his skull against the wall.

Again I tried to go to them. Again, that force pressing me back. I fought it, desperate to get there—Samuel was going to kill him; no, it was Laura. Laura was going to kill him, but it would be blood on Samuel’s hands, a horror he would have to live with, and I could not bear that, even now, after everything.

Nero gained hold, pushing Samuel away, his foot behind Samuel’s bad knee, jerking, and Samuel fell to the ground, scrambled up, grabbing Nero’s arm, and they grappled, up again, but this time it was Nero who had Samuel against the wall. Nero with his hands around Samuel’s throat, squeezing, Samuel prying at his hands, just as he had at the exorcism, just as terrible, wheezing and gasping, and I felt her fury and her resistance, fighting him, hating him, all her strength gone to that battle, none left for me, none to keep me from racing toward them, none to keep me back.

I grabbed the knife from my pocket, the Basilio blade, without thinking, wanting only to end it. I came up beside Nero and pressed the blade to his throat.

He froze.

I said quietly, “Let him go.”

He didn’t drop his hands. Samuel pried at Nero’s fingers, which hadn’t eased.

I heard footsteps. They seemed to come from far away. I heard the quick knock on the door; I heard it open. Da Cola and Pasqualigo. I heard them come into the room and stop as they took in the scene. “Signor,” one of them said, appeasing, and then a stream of Venetian that Nero did not seem to hear.

“You don’t want to do this, Nero,” I pleaded. “I won’t let you do this. Please, Nero. You wanted me to save you. Let me.”

I don’t know what I meant by the words. I don’t know if I meant to try. I don’t know if it was forgiveness or redemption I was offering, or something else. I said them because he had wanted it so badly. I wanted only to make him stop.

And he did. He dropped his hands from Samuel’s throat, and Samuel fell to his knees, gasping. But before I could lower the knife, Nero’s hands curled around mine on the hilt, holding it in place. He looked at me, that endless depth of pain in his eyes, a pain that I felt with every part of me.

“I killed my aunt,” he said loudly, for the police who stood in the doorway. “Samuel had nothing to do with it.” And then, to me, a whisper, mine alone, “I love you, Elena. But you can’t save me.”

Samuel cried, “No!”

Nero twisted the knife in my hands, plunging the blade into his throat just as he’d once shown me it could be done, a quick twist and blood spurting everywhere, blinding, warm as it coursed over my hand. I heard a gurgling rasp, a short cry of such relief it staggered, and he collapsed against me, a last grasp at my hips before he fell helplessly to the ground, a pool of blood spreading at my feet, over the floor. I stared in horror and disbelief, frozen in place in the moment before I realized what had happened, what he had done.

Then I fell to my knees beside him, heedless of the blood, gathering him in my arms, whispering, “No, no, no.” Over and over again, because there were no other words; I could think of nothing else to say, not even when the light died in his eyes and he was gone, and I felt her all around us, a release of grief and pain and anger like ice shattering, and along with that a sense of satisfaction that I could not bear, that made me hate her. She had her vengeance, and I could not forgive her for it, nor could I forgive my part in it. I had not wanted it this way.

I buried my face in his chest, blood sticky on his shirt, on my skin, and my heart simply broke.

Samuel’s hand was on my shoulder, cupping, gently pulling. “Let him go, Elena,” he said softly, voice raw from choking, heavy with grief. “Let him go.”

I did. I let him go. I went, bloody and bereft, into Samuel’s arms, and I let him comfort me as the police took Nero away. I cried into his shirt and streaked us both with Nero’s blood, until there were no tears left, until there was nothing left at all.