A Hidden Fire

“Well,” he mused, “we might be able to do more than that. I’m meeting with the girl and her grandmother tomorrow night.”

“What? On a Friday?”

“I’m going out later.” He shrugged. “Don’t fret, old man.”

Caspar raised his eyebrows. “A divergence from routine, Gio? What is the world coming to?”

Shaking his head, he rose and walked toward the door.

“See if you can prod some of Livia’s day people tomorrow over the phone.”

“Of course.” Caspar paused for a moment. “Is it worth it, Gio? The books? This obsession? All these years?”

“What do you hold in your hands, my son?”

“A book.”

“No, you hold knowledge. Knowledge sought for centuries. Knowledge that some have died for. Knowledge that some have killed for.”

“Why would anyone kill for a book?”

“It is not a book.” The slap rung in his ears. “What is it?”

“Knowledge.”

“And knowledge is power. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

Giovanni paused in the doorway, letting his wet hair drip in his eyes as he pushed back the memory, the driving need to discover pulsing in his quiet veins. “You ask me that every time I find something new.”

“And you never really answer me.”

“Yes, I do,” he murmured. “You just don’t like the answer.”

He slept late the next day, not rising until the sun was low in the sky. Though he preferred more pleasant and leisurely meals, the oblivious human woman he had fed from the night before had sated his physical hungers for the week and allowed him to retain the genteel manners he had carefully cultivated for the previous three hundred years.

Giovanni dressed thoughtfully, choosing casual clothing that was more likely to set the De Novo women at ease and detract from his inhuman complexion. Though the slight current that ran under his skin allowed him to adjust its surface temperature, nothing could diminish the almost luminescent paleness.

“Ah,” Caspar exclaimed when he walked into the kitchen. “The grey is a good choice. Makes you look much less demon-of-the-night.”

“Please, Caspar,” he implored. “A date with a live woman. Soon.”

Caspar chuckled and looked up from the newspaper. “I’m meeting a friend tonight, as a matter of fact. I was just looking at what movies are opening this weekend. I’m looking for something horribly gory.”

“I’ll never understand your affinity for those pictures.”

“And I’ll never understand your affinity for professional wrestling, so we’re even.”

Giovanni rolled his eyes. “Goodnight, Caspar.”

The lights of downtown twinkled, and he could see streams of children already weaving through the neighborhood in their costumes. It was Halloween night, and with Dia de los Muertos falling on Sunday, the whole weekend would be devoted to the macabre, grotesque and mysterious. He drove through the streets, amused by the teenagers and students in their elaborate costumes, enjoying the sense of revelry in the crowded bars and clubs of the Montrose district.

He pulled into the parking lot across from the art center and immediately heard the music of mariachis fill the air. Houston’s Mexican-American community was an integral part of the cultural scene, and he was happy to have an excuse to participate in the odd festival celebrating the dead. He saw children with elaborate face painting and a few adults, as well. The smells of earthy spices and sugar filled the air, and he scanned the crowd for Beatrice and her grandmother.

“Giovanni!” Isadora’s clear voice called from a nearby booth selling tamales. He walked over to the older woman but his eyes were drawn to Beatrice standing behind her, holding a drink and a small paper plate with two tamales on it.

“Dr. Vecchio, how are you tonight?” It was the first time he had seen her with her hair down. It fell long and perfectly straight down her back, with a few errant pieces slipping over her ear. He held himself back from touching it; though he could admit to himself he wanted to.

“B, I’m sure you can call him Giovanni. You’re not at work, after all.”

He turned to Isadora. “Ladies, you’re both looking lovely this evening.” He smiled at Isadora, who was wearing a vivid green dress. “And of course, Beatrice, feel free to call me Giovanni.”

She was dressed in black again, but this time, she wore a wide collared shirt that showed off her graceful neck and collar bones and another trim skirt that fell to her knees. He was strangely pleased to see that her combat boots were back, and she had switched her ruby piercing out for a tiny silver stud.

“Giovanni, huh? No nickname?” Beatrice asked. She frowned a little before she continued. “That must have been quite a chore to spell in kindergarten.”

He smiled and watched her offer her grandmother the drink, but she made no move to unwrap the tamales she had bought.

“Oh, I’ve been called many things over the years, but all the men in my family are named Giovanni.”

“Really? Is that traditional?”

“What is your name?”

“Whatever I want it to be.”

“Why?”

“Because I am superior to mortals.”

He blinked to clear the unexpected flash, wondering why the memories of his father had been so near in his mind in the past few weeks. “For us, yes.”

Beatrice gestured to the line of food vendors. “I’m sorry we didn’t wait for you. We ate earlier, but there are plenty of things to choose from. Please help yourself; we can wait.”

He shook his head, “No, I’ve eaten as well, thank you. Shall we go to look at the art?”

“Ofrendas, Mariposa. Ofrendas first,” Isadora said with a smile as she took Giovanni’s arm and steered them toward a small building.

“Do you know much about Dia de los Muertos?” Beatrice asked as they walked.

He shook his head. “Not much. I haven’t spent a great deal of time in Latin America.” He knew plenty, of course, but he preferred to hear her explanation.

“It’s not usually celebrated until November second, but the art center hosts a family fair on Halloween so parents have an option other than trick-or-treating for the kids.” Beatrice smiled at a pair of small children in skeleton costumes with flowers in their hair as they rushed past on the way to the carnival games.

He observed their small, retreating forms. “It certainly seems popular.”

“It is. It used to be just Mexican families, but now a lot of people like the tradition.”

“And the ofrendas?”

Beatrice smiled. “Just little offerings for the dead. Things they liked during their life, you know?”

They walked inside the small building to see a makeshift altar set up and decorated with marigolds, crosses, and cheerful skeletons. Small candles flickered among them. Sugar skulls were mixed with small toys and placed in front of children’s pictures; bottles of tequila, mugs of chocolate, and small plates of food were propped in front of the pictures of adults.

The small room was decorated elaborately, and the walls were lined with pieces of art celebrating the holiday. The flickering lights of saint candles lit the room as they sputtered in their brightly painted votives, and he could smell incense burning.

“The art is a mix of professional and student,” Beatrice murmured, withdrawing two framed photographs from