The Damiano Series (Trilogy; Omnibus [1-3]) by R. A. MacAvoy

Author:R. A. MacAvoy [MacAvoy, R. A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9781497677845
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 1988-01-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

When Gaspare was awakened, his first thought was that the deep, commanding voice belonged to the Holy Father’s pikeman, or some troublesome soldier whose job it was to keep poor souls from cluttering the streets of Avignon. But the hand that reached down to take his was lean, calloused and very familiar, and when Gaspare raised his head…

“By Saint Gabriele, Damiano,” the redhead hissed, “the moon in your eyes made me half frightened of you!” Then as the boy locked his knees in the upright position and freed his hand from the lutenist’s grip, he remembered why he had fallen asleep at the Pope’s Door.

“Oh, Christ, sheep-face. She never came. I will never see my whore of a sister again.”

Damiano let the nickname pass. His wide drunken eyes stared from Gaspare to the swarthy face of the night gate guard, and across the wide avenue to where hundreds of black holes in pale walls revealed the sounds and smells of human sleep. His left hand was twitching like a small animal. Once more he snagged Gaspare.

“If Evienne and Jan are in Avignon, we will find them tonight,” said Damiano with sweeping confidence. “Come, little dear,” he added. “Start walking.”

Gaspare’s offense at being addressed as “little dear” was drowned completely in his amazement at the rest of Damiano’s behavior. He found himself dragged along the wide street, his eyes still grainy from sleep, his long mantle flapping behind.

If the Damiano of the past year had been unaccountable… if the Damiano of the past few weeks had been enough to make Gaspare tread warily… this new Damiano was an Act of God. He strode through the empty streets like the conqueror Alexander, his black eyes flashing, his rather large nose turned arrogant by the force of authority in the shaggy head. Though the night was chill, and Gaspare suffered despite his velvet cloak, the hand that held his was warm—warm like beach sand in the sun.

At the first corner, an abrupt change of direction nearly popped the boy’s arm from its socket. “What are we doing?” he yelled in protest. Half a dozen dogs were set off by the noise. “How are we going to find her this way? I have been up and down these streets every day for a week; she’s not to be found.”

Damiano looked back over his shoulder. “If she’s not here, Gaspare, then we won’t find her. Otherwise we will.”

“How?” demanded the boy, pulling free with great effort.

Damiano smiled mildly enough, though his eyes were still dangerous. “I will feel her presence. I am a witch again, Gaspare. I will know.”

Gaspare felt a sinking in his heart, though he would have thought it impossible for him to get any lower. “Oh, no, Damiano. Not that again.”

The dark eyes flickered with irritation and Damiano raised his hand. For a moment Gaspare believed he was going to hit him, but then from Damiano’s outspread fingers five points of flame sprang up.

Gaspare staggered back.

“Not a Hand of Glory,” whispered Damiano.

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