This Cella Monte home had been sealed for seventy years. The mayor had told her all things inside had remained untouched. Evident from the dusty clutter she’d seen while making her way down to this room. Yet, a violin left to sit so long would certainly show its age. The wood body would dry and likely crack. The fingerboard might even separate from the neck. And the strings would loosen for sure, requiring careful tuning. After so many decades, surely new strings would be needed.
She lifted the instrument, finding it only slightly heavier than the electric version Domingos LaRoque used when he played for Bitter/Sweet. That vampire played in her brother’s band, which combined electric guitars with cello and violin for some truly kick-ass gothic heavy metal. Summer had once owned a classic wood acoustic violin. It was probably stored away in her parents’ mansion, but she hadn’t thought about it since she’d set it aside as a teenager.
The bow sat nestled next to the violin, so she took that out and studied the bow hairs. They were pristine and off-white and smelled of rosin, but they weren’t thickly coated with the substance. Someone had cared for this lovely prize. Or maybe it had never been played, for the bow hairs were not discolored near either end from repeated use.
Was it really Paganini’s violin? Or simply a family instrument passed down through the ages, of which stories had been concocted about its legacy. And as the generations passed along the tale it had been forgotten which parts of the verbal history about this black violin had been embellished.
Because really? The legend told that on his deathbed Paganini requested this violin be destroyed. It had been tasked to his son to ensure it was done.
Why had it not? And what made Acquisitions believe this particular instrument was the real thing? What was it about this violin that made it a danger to others? Did it possess magic? Had it been magic that had given Paganini his unprecedented skill?
Summer believed in magic. Witchcraft. That was real. Tangible. Explainable. But fantastical bob-bib-be-bo that swirled about a thing with Disney sparkles? Not so much.
She had to remind herself that oftentimes the items she sought appeared innocuous and common.
A stroke of her finger across the violin body glided over the slick, lacquered surface. Did she dare? If she pulled the bow across the strings would the instrument crumble and fall to pieces? Violins actually seemed to improve with age. There were centuries-old Stradivarii that sold for millions at auction. Was this a Strad?
Aiming the flashlight on her cell phone, she checked inside the body of the violin. There wasn’t a paper designating the maker and year, though some writing did show on the curved inner rib. She couldn’t make out what it said. If she had one of those flexible gooseneck tools with a light on the end she could thread it inside the instrument and learn more about it. But even if she could read it, it would likely be in Italian. She spoke and read only French and English.
She checked the case and found nestled in a square of soft fabric a round lump of amber rosin that should rightfully be as hard as glass. Instead it smelled sweet and had the slightest give to it. She ran the bow across it quickly, and the hairs took on the sticky rosin, which was designed to give the hairs good grip.
Something at her ear whispered softly, like a teasing springtime breeze coaxing her to walk outside, enjoy the absence of snow. She really hated the snow. Flowers and the warmth of the sun (albeit felt through sunscreen and protective clothing) made her giddy. She couldn’t get the image out of her brain. And the idea that playing the violin would sound like spring coaxed her forward.
She plucked the E string and...it sounded in tune. More weirdness. A quick pluck of the A, D and G strings found the same.
“Holy crap,” she muttered.
Giddy excitement coaxed her to place the base of the violin against her shoulder and hug it with her chin. Grasping the neck with her left fingers, she—
“No.”
She quickly set the violin back in the case.
“You are not that stupid, Summer. If playing the violin was some means to calling up Beneath or the devil or some dark curse, then I’m not going to risk it.”
Besides, she prided herself on following the rules, or at least, not rocking the boat when it came to her missions. She did her best and did not raise questions. She liked maintaining that militant control while on the job. Because in life? Not so much control. Especially when she bit people for sustenance. She did something to them. They were never the same. And that lack of control required balance in all other aspects of her life.
Holding a hand over the violin, ready to touch it, she flinched when the breezy whisper felt more like a shove into the springtime than a suggestion. Almost as if something wanted her to touch it.
That was creepy. And not in the good way.
“Nope. Not going to play it.”
She inspected the end of the bow, wondering if she should loosen the hairs a few twists because it wasn’t good for it to be kept tightened when not in use. Yet she’d found it in this condition. Obviously, this was some sort of magical violin.
Placing the bow in the case, her wrist suddenly twisted and the bow glided across all four violin strings in rapid succession.
“Oh shit. I did not do that.”
She dropped the bow, but it landed on the strings, and again, drew out a series of notes.
“No, no, no. It’s not me. I didn’t do it!”
She looked around. A weird feeling that someone was watching and would finger her as the culprit crept up her neck. A strange silvery whisper tickled her ear, and she shook her head and slapped at her long blond hair near her ear.
The tones from that weird, accidental bowing of the strings had sounded incredible. As if the violin had been waiting ages, endlessly, ceaselessly, for someone to come and release that sound.
“But not me. Oh no.” She took a step away from the open violin case. Staring hard at the bow, she waited for it to move of its own volition. It didn’t flinch.
Dashing to the case, she slapped the lid down and rebuckled the latch. Then, tucking the case under her arm, she raced down the dark hallway, fleeing toward the cool morning daylight.
For once, she’d creeped herself out. And the last thing she needed was to be accused of playing a violin that would put her in league with the devil Himself.
Chapter 2 (#u221af7d0-0de6-5385-baf8-290a41e727d3)
La Villetta cemetery; Parma, Italy
“Hexensohn!”
At the sound of the guttural accusation, the man sat up—and banged his forehead on the stone directly above him. He pressed a hand to the flat surface. Solid and cold. He pushed. It didn’t move.
He opened his eyes to...no light. Darkness muffled. And cold, so cold. Sucking in a breath, he couldn’t feel his heartbeats.
But he didn’t panic. The realization that he was trapped inside a container was only a minor distraction. What disturbed him was that he was aware of his thoughts. And that he was thinking. Again. After...
His death.
Sitting up in a panicked lunge, this time his forehead did not connect with stone, but rather, he felt a sludgy resistance as he rose upward and moved through the stone. His body ascended with little effort until his hands and shoulders felt the warmth of sunlight on them. Slapping a hand onto a hard surface, he levered his body up and out until he sat upon a stone monument.
“What in all...?” His shoulder bumped a stone pedestal, and he leaned against it. Not relaxed, by any means, but more getting his bearings. He sat up off the ground a few feet, one leg dangling over the edifice. Columns surrounded the area, and around that, a black wrought iron fence. Had he just risen from a sarcophagus?
Hmm... Looked like a fancy monument to someone long dead. Could it be his own? He had died. The knowledge was instinctive and ingrained. A certain fact. And he recalled that last, painful, gasping breath so clearly. Had it only been just yesterday?
A deep breath took in his surroundings. The air smelled of mildew and jasmine flowers. Birds twittered nearby. And the weird rushing sound of something unfamiliar not far off. Gasping out a breath, he pressed fingertips to his chest and realized his lungs were taking in air. He breathed? But how? He— Wasn’t he dead?
Something had sung to him. Called him. Summoned him with that vile curse hexensohn. It meant witch’s son, and he’d hated it once and already hated it again. Yet accompanying the curse he had felt the music. The pure and rapidly bowed tones from an instrument that had once facilitated his very livelihood.
Glancing about, he took in the close-spaced tombstones and nearby mausoleums. He sat in a cemetery, upon a large tombstone. And that startled him so that he slid off the stone sarcophagus, stood, wobbling as he stepped a few paces, and then turned to study the bust placed upon the pedestal where he had just risen. He narrowed his eyes. The face and hair on the bust looked familiar. Though it wasn’t life-size, perhaps a bit bigger. Had he ever appeared so...regal?
“Not me. Can’t be,” he muttered. “I’m dead. This is a dream. Some means of Hell torture. It has to be. No one comes back from...”
His eyes took in the area. The entire monument he stood within was about ten feet square with eight columns, two supporting each corner of a massive canopy. Wandering to the edge and stepping down onto the narrow strip of loose stones circling the structure, he turned and looked high over the front of the canopy.
And he read the name chiseled into the stone above. “‘Nicolo Paganini.’”
He grasped his throat, marveling at the sound that had come from him. Because... “I could not speak for so long.”
Years before his death he’d lost the ability to speak. It had been miserable, and he’d to rely on his son, Achille, to press an ear to his mouth so he could hear the barely imperceptible sounds he’d made and then interpret to others.
