Free Written in the Blood by Stephen Lloyd Jones Page B

asked, she placed everything for which they’d worked in jeopardy, Leah managed to prise them open, and tried to block out the sight of that yawning white chasm beneath her feet.
    Luca Sultés watched her with eyes laced with violet. Unblinking.
    Like a snake, she thought. Beautiful, yet cold-blooded.
    ‘Who knows about this?’ he asked. ‘Who knows you were coming to see us?’
    She forced herself to maintain eye contact. ‘No one.’
    ‘The tanács— ’
    ‘The tanács would have a fit if they knew.’
    ‘More than that, I suspect.’
    He began to laugh. A hearty, warming sound, as rich with humanity as any she had heard. Luca Sultés laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.
    Later, after he had led her out of the chamber and poured her a glass of wine that she drained in almost one swallow, Leah returned to her place at the table. She had imagined she wouldn’t be hungry after his test, but when the serving staff reappeared and served the main course, she discovered she was ravenous.
    She studied Luca Sultés surreptitiously as she ate, and although she knew he was aware of her attention, she found herself unable to abandon her examination. Taking another sip from her wine, Leah asked, ‘So where do we go from here?’
    ‘Tomorrow I’m taking you on a trip.’
    ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘To meet someone.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘You’ll find out. Someone better qualified than me to decide if what you ask is possible.’
    ‘And tonight?’
    ‘Tonight you stay here. As my guest.’
    She stared at him across the table. ‘If I refuse?’
    He returned her gaze. ‘That wouldn’t be safe.’
    ‘It wouldn’t be safe to refuse, or it wouldn’t be safe to leave?’
    ‘Take your pick.’
    ‘You want me to stay in the same house as your father? Someone who was threatening to kill me an hour ago? And that’s safe?’
    ‘You surprised him. He doesn’t like surprises. I’ll talk to him.’
    ‘I don’t have any of my things.’
    ‘They’ve already been collected from your hotel.’
    ‘A little presumptuous.’
    ‘You like to fence, don’t you?’ he replied, brow creasing with irritation.
    ‘I like to make my own decisions.’
    ‘Make one, then.’
    ‘OK.’ She took a breath, blew it out through her cheeks. ‘I’m going to have some more wine.’
    After dessert, after two sweet glasses of Tokaji, Leah, exhausted by the evening’s events, blood still singing in her veins from her experience in the sun room, was ready to retire.
    The woman who had helped to serve dinner appeared to convey her to her room. Luca Sultés wished her a restful sleep, before turning away to the window at his back. She glanced at her host once as she passed through the double doors into the hallway beyond. Eyes narrowed, he was staring out at the night-swathed mountains, as if searching the darkness. She wondered what he saw.
    Leah followed the maid up two winding staircases to the top of the house, arriving in another long hall. The walls here were hung with paintings. Those closest to her were watercolours, their subjects elusive and light, ethereal brushstrokes that seemed to celebrate all that was beautiful and pure. But as she progressed further along the hall the paintings, and their subjects, grew darker. Watery pastels evolved into savagely vivid oils. Scenes that appeared transcendental regressed into baroque depictions of violence and war: dramatic contrasts of darkness and light as practised by Giovanni Baglione, Caravaggio and others.
    At the far end of the hall, isolated from the other works and lit by a single wall spot, hung a painting that reminded Leah of something she had once seen in a Toronto art gallery: Massacre of the Innocents , by Rubens.
    It made her stomach tighten to look at what it depicted. Against a background of classical columns, a group of soldiers tore into a crowd of semi-clothed civilians. Swords were plunged into breasts; throats were slashed open; babies were dashed against stone