Inamorata by Megan Chance

Author:Megan Chance [Megan Chance]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Fantasy, Historical
ISBN: 9781477823033
Google: Xym0ngEACAAJ
Amazon: B00H8UTBNC
Publisher: Amazon Pub
Published: 2014-07-08T04:00:00+00:00

ODILÉ

The singer’s body had been taken away. Antonio’s silent efficiency asked no questions, and I’d said only that the man had suffered from a heart condition, which was true—my leeching of his creative vitality had stopped his heart. I regretted it—such a loss of control was not ever what I liked, and it was only further evidence that I could no longer delay. And now two days had passed. I told Antonio to ready the gondola, and pressed my hands to my stomach as if I could press away the pain, and with it, my fear. The monster churned, struggling to emerge. There was no more time.

“Padrona, there is a man here to see you. Signor Balbi.”

I jerked around, startled at my maid, Maria’s, voice. Impatiently I said, “Balbi? I don’t know who that is. Get his card and send him away.”

“He is the police.”

“The police?”

She nodded vigorously. I was surprised, and then annoyed and then curious enough that my pain eased. I could not think what the police would want with me, though I was not the least bit trepidatious. What reason had I to fear mortal police? “I see. Very well. Show him in.”

Mr. Balbi was a tall man with graying hair and an equally gray Vandyke beard. I had the impression of robust fastidiousness, discerning perception, and not a little vanity. His hair was well oiled, his beard immaculately trimmed. He wore black, which reminded me of the old days in Venice, when the nobility had worn only that color, and I had the sense that he’d deliberately dressed to suggest it. His watch chain—only one and unadorned with any kind of charm—was his only decoration.

“Madame León,” he said as he strode toward me—he spoke immaculate French, though with that Venetian accent, that mangling of consonants. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Alberto Balbi, of the police department. Thank you for seeing me.”

I took the card he offered, barely glancing at it before I put it on the table. “How can I help you, Inspector?”

“A trifling matter, really,” he said with a very pleasant smile. “Last night, we found a body floating in the Rio Orseolo. A man by the name of Giovanni Santo.”

He looked at me as if he expected a reaction. I had none to give him. The name was unknown to me. “And?”

The inspector frowned. “Giovanni Santo was last seen with you, madame.”

My hunger roiled. I could not help the catch of my breath. The Inspector heard it too, I realized. And took it for some admission.

“It is true, then?”

I tried to smile. “True? I’m afraid I don’t recognize his name, so I could not tell you.”

“No? He was a peasant. A street singer.”

This time, I had to sit down. “Pardon me, Inspector, but I am not at my best this morning.”

“Ah. I hope you are not ill.”

“No. A . . . chronic condition, I’m afraid.”

“A chronic condition?” His dark eyes narrowed. “No other reason? You were not hurt? Not beaten?”

I realized suddenly what he was truly asking, and I gave him a cold look.

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