Ancient Inheritance. Rita Vetere
ANCIENT INHERITANCE
RITA VETERE
LYRICAL PRESS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
For my mother, Nora
Acknowledgements
Ancient Inheritance is clearly a work of fiction. The artifact around which it revolves, the Spear of Longinus, and the legends that surround it, have formed the subject matter of a great many articles and books, some of which are listed in the bibliography below.
The bayou town of Marécage Noir, Louisiana, is completely fictional. I’ve also taken a few liberties with places in both New York city and Rome, Italy, to suit the plot.
Special thanks are due to Frank and Renee Rocco and everyone at Lyrical Press Inc., especially Emma Porter and Pam Skochinski . Thanks also to Renee Rocco for the great cover art.
To Nancy Kilpatrick, Paul Murphy, Denise Rago, Giovanna Sgro and the many other friends who provided me with support, honesty and humor, thank you.
Prologue
Rome, Italy – Present Day
Giorgio worked quickly, but meticulously, in his frescoed office on the top floor of the centuries-old bank, going over last-minute paperwork from one of the many stacks of documents covering his elaborate mahogany desk.
Disgruntled, he pulled the next pile towards him. The deal was an important one, and the Spanish clients were scheduled to sign up at commencement of business next week. Still, if his assistant had not come down with the flu, the tedious task of proofing the voluminous documents would have fallen to her, and he would be at home now preparing to enjoy a fine seafood dinner on this Good Friday holiday.
He alone occupied the ancient building and the silence of the place, usually such a hub of activity, unnerved him. The vaulted ceiling and stone walls amplified even the slightest sound. The din of traffic from the street below reminded him there were other places he’d rather be. Shaking off the solitary feeling that had come over him, he returned his attention to the documents.
A rush of air from the open window behind him sent papers fluttering about in disarray. Annoyed, he turned around just in time to see a dark blur streak toward him, a cloud of black particles spinning and churning in the moving air. It was the last thing he saw. He slammed back into his leather chair once, and it was over.
Sammael was in. In spirit form, he was quick as lightning, as the banker had just learned in a fatal lesson. The entry had been straightforward, without physical damage to his host as sometimes happened. He sat in the chair for a moment, acquainting himself with his new body, bringing it under control, while he looked around the office through the banker’s eyes.
He was more or less trapped in the physical plane now, bound by corporeal limitations for as long as he remained in the body, but he had business to conduct on earth and needed to remain inconspicuous. Besides, he would not have to suffer such restrictions for much longer. Even the powers of Lucifer himself would be no match for his own once he got his hands on what he had come for.
Moving to the oversized gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall, he fingered the lapel of the fine Italian suit, studying his reflection. The banker kept himself fit. He admired his new tall, brawny build. Not bad. He combed his fingers through the dark, neatly trimmed hair to give it a less formal look. Faded blue eyes stared back at him—a pleasant surprise, contrasting as they did with the Mediterranean complexion. Sammael thought the overall look was sensuous, mysterious. Just his style. Not bad at all.
Sammael spent the next few minutes rummaging through the man’s desk and cabinets. He found a security box containing a passport, which he pocketed, and a copy of a Last Will and Testament, which he unceremoniously tossed aside, chuckling. In the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he located a kid-skin wallet containing credit cards and a wad of cash. Grabbing the man’s cellphone from the desk, Sammael strode briskly out of the office and exited the building.
Chapter 1
New York City – Present Day
Catherine Caldwell concentrated on applying a rich shade of ochre paint to the damaged portion of an eighteenth century oil portrait using deft, tiny strokes. As she worked, a picture of last night’s lovemaking flitted across her mind, distracting her. Tiny butterflies fluttered against her stomach as she remembered the way Matthew looked, naked above her on the large cast-iron framed bed, both of them surrounded by soft white cotton sheets, the pleasing sensation of his tongue on her nipple, her hands tangled in the waves of his thick, blond hair as he entered her.
“Catherine.”
Startled, she looked up to see her boss, Henry Rathburn of Rathburn and Sons, standing in the doorway, and felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. It’s not as if he can read my mind.
He walked around to her side of the easel to inspect her handiwork. “You’ve made good progress with this. Mr. Robinson was just on the phone. He was hoping to have the restoration done in time for his mother’s seventy-fifth birthday next week.”
“Oh, it’ll be ready,” she told him. “I’ve only got these two small areas left to work on,” she said, pointing with her brush to a spot on the subject’s forearm and another above the right eyebrow.
“You’ve done a good job of it,” Rathburn said. “He’ll be pleased. I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but Robinson’s a friend of mine.”
Catherine smiled. “Thanks,” she said, inwardly beaming. Her boss was not a man who was prone to handing out compliments unnecessarily.
Rathburn checked his watch. “Remind me to speak to you tomorrow about the oil landscape that came in today. I’d like you to start on it next.”
“Sure, I’ll be happy to,” she told him.
He raised a hand in acknowledgment as he turned and left her to her work.
After he was gone, she finished in-painting the area she’d begun, a portion of the subject’s silk dress, then started her clean up. As she washed out her brushes, Catherine’s thoughts returned to Matthew. He was far and away the best lover she’d ever had. Not that there had been that many, three had gone before him. But none of them had even come close to understanding her like Matthew did. And lovemaking aside, there were so many other things about Matthew that endeared him to her, his understated sense of humor and quick wit, for instance. He could always find a way to make her laugh, even on her worst day. And he was considerate of others in a way that made Cat think that his own life had not always been easy. It was nothing he’d ever voiced, just a sense she had. She was happy when she was with him, lonely for him when she wasn’t.
She had a decision to make, and soon. Tomorrow was her birthday, and she was convinced Matthew was going to ask her to marry him. As of this moment, she had not made up her mind what her answer would be.
What’s wrong with me? I love him. Why not just say yes?
She tried telling herself that the reason for her hesitation in committing to Matthew was she cherished her independence and was reluctant to hand over her power to someone else. But that wasn’t completely true. She did enjoy her freedom, but Matthew, in the more than two years they had dated, had never infringed upon it, and had always respected her boundaries.
The real reason for her indecision, she knew, was the voice, or more precisely, the absence of the voice, which