Thank you, everyone, for the fantastic feedback. I haven't yet got around to answer the reviews, but I will do so within the next days most likely. Until then, happy reading with chapter two.


– chapter two –

Alec

"The bus will pick you up in the morning two days from now, at seven o'clock."

The agent scribbles something on a paper with a flourish, then pushes it over the desk. She takes it and scribbles something as well. Then, she smiles.

In the back of the room, the door opens. The little bell over the door tingles softly and a warm breeze sweeps in. From outside, there is a murmur from the people walking by: excited voices, laughter, shouts of the merchants who advertise their goods. It's a perfect summer day.

"May I introduce you? This fine young man will be your guide on Thursday," the agent says. She looks at him. He smiles curtly; they shake hands.

"I'm looking forward to the tour," she says with enthusiasm.

"I'm glad you do," the young man, the guide, replies. He looks down then. "Will she come with you?" he asks, a little frown appearing on his forehead.

She follows his gaze and puts her hand on my hair, smiling fondly. "I would like to bring her, but she might not be interested in the tour . . ." She trails off.

The young man doesn't avert his eyes. They have an odd color. "How old is she?" he queries, his tone rather sharp.

"Seven." She frowns. "Would that be a problem?"

"You shouldn't bring her. The tour isn't for little children."

"Alec," the agent admonishes softly.

There was a tiny moment of hesitation, but, before I could protest that I'm not a little child anymore, Mom says, "Okay, no problem. She can stay in the hotel with my husband."

--

I stare at him. Redemption? What does he have to redeem? I want to ask him about it, want to know what exactly he means by that. But the bus driver's calls tell us it's time to return to the bus; the tour is about to continue.

To what? Doom? Everyone's death? Maybe now that I know about the threat, I can do something to stop it, to rescue everyone from a fatal outcome of this tour. But how?

I don't know yet.

But I'm determined to find a way.

He pushes himself away, elegantly, but not before glaring at me again, silently daring me to not follow his order to stay behind. Well, two can play that game. As soon as he's taken a few steps, I push myself off the wall — and follow him. The bus won't leave.

Not without me.

I anticipate the glare he sends me when I climb into the bus before him. I also anticipate the silence with which he punishes me. I can live with that even though I want to hear him speak again; his voice is a caress. But his silence is the prize I pay for trying to rescue twenty people from their deaths.

The journey continues up to Volterra. The town — famous in this region — rises on a hill in the distance. It's clearly visible in the bright Italian summer day. The walls glisten in the sun, and on top of the towers and roofs, banners fly in the wind. Their red is hypnotizing.

The archway through which we enter the town is dark, causing me to shiver. It's cool when out of the direct sun, and the change in temperature is palpable, even in the bus. For me, at least. I don't know if the other tourists feel what I feel. Then again, they don't know what I know.

The bus winds its way through the town's alleys until it reaches a parking lot a few yards from the main place, the Palazzo dei Priori. I can see it from where I get out of the bus; a stair in an alleyway leads up to it. A large clock tower rises above every other building in the vicinity. It's now close to ten o'clock.

"All right, you can walk around a bit, look into the shops or cafés," the guide says, when everyone is assembled. "We are scheduled to meet in front of the clock tower in half an hour. From there, we will go on a guided tour through the ancient villa of San Pietro which has been remodeled to a museum." The tourists murmur in excitement; then, slowly, little groups of two to four go their own ways. I act as if I belong to one of them, planning to continue on my own as soon as I'm out of sight, but the guide grabs my wrist before I can take a step. "You stay with me for a while," he whispers.

He holds onto me until no one is around anymore. The bus driver, too, has left. I am then dragged over to a corner, hidden deep in shadows where we won't be seen by anyone, not even if people were to look out of their windows.

"What problem do you have with understanding a threat when I clearly tell you there will be one?" he hisses, once again pushing me against a wall. He lets go of me then, and I turn around to face him.

I jut out my chin. "I don't believe there will be any danger," I say, bluffing. I'm very much afraid of what will happen, but I have to know more before I can come up with a plan to rescue everyone.

His nostrils flare and he growls again. This time, I'm certain it's growling. But how does he do that? No human can growl like a dog!

"You don't believe," he finally scoffs.

"No, I don't." His eyes narrow down to tiny slits. "So how about you tell me the truth why you don't want me to continue the tour I booked and paid for?" It was as grandfather used to say: Attack is the best form of defense.

He lifts his hand so fast I don't see the slap coming. His palm collides with my cheek, hard. I cry out, and hot tears spring into my eyes. I'm not entirely sure, but I think I even bit my tongue when my head swiveled around from the force of his slap. I try to blink back the tears and then glare at him, accusingly.

"That wasn't even hard, Felicity," he says. "If I had slapped you with all my power, I would have broken your neck." The way he speaks, so calm and composed — detached, even — makes it hard not to believe him.

"Why?" I whisper. "Why are you doing that?"

"I told you —"

"Yes, and? I still don't understand why you try to . . . protect me when the safety of the other tourists seems to not bother you in the least."

He doesn't answer immediately. But when he does, he's vague again — not what I have aimed for. "What's it up to you anyway?"

It's clearly a rhetorical question, but I nonetheless respond. "You ask me to sit back and allow innocent people to die when I can prevent it?"

I know that he knows that I am being rhetorical, but he replies, "Yes."

"Wha—?"

"Besides, it's not your business."

I huff and cross my arms in front of my chest. "The possible death of innocent people is everyone's business, Alec."

The smile that forms on his lips upon my first words vanishes as soon as I speak his name out loud. The frown he sends my way is . . . frightening. "How do you know my name?" he asks in a sharp tone.

I bite my lip. Should I tell him? Why not? my inner voice queries, in return. Yes, why not?

"I met you some years ago." My eyes are locked with his. "My mom booked a tour like this one. You entered the agency and asked how old the girl at her side was. Mom told you my age, and you asked her to not take me with her on the tour. She complied." There is something there, in his eyes, a flicker of recognition. But he seems to also search for something in my eyes; his stare is penetrating and slightly uncomfortable. "Mom never returned."

"And you are now here because . . ."

"Because I want to find out what happened to Mom nine years ago."

He sighs and closes his eyes, for the first time interrupting the connection of our gazes. "Did she ever return to your family?" he asks. I shake my head. "So it never occurred to you that she could be dead, and thus unable to ever return?" His eyes open again. His look is impassive.

I gulp down the tears; this is not going how I had imagined it to go. "She could have run away with someone else."

"And how did you intend to find her if she had run away with some stranger?"

I shrug, uncomfortable under his scrutinize. "I . . . don't know," I admit quietly.

Silence falls around us, only disrupted by his sudden and noisy sigh. He then puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me, hard. I am shocked, surprised, and trying to fight him off, even though the little voice in my head shouts as loud as possible that this kiss was exactly what I want, that I feel attracted to him. And, really, the voice is right — as usual. But, still, I don't want to rush into something; I have always thought I would get to know a possible boyfriend before kissing him. I try to stop the kiss. But Alec — it feels strange to think of him by his name — seems to have inhuman strength, holding me still. It is he who finally breaks the kiss when I'm about to run out of air.

"Oh my . . ." I mumble, my cheeks flushing.

I feel his lips at my ear. "Just stay out of it. Keep away. Do it for me, Felicity." Then he is gone, just like that.

I stare at the spot he had been in, my fingers running along my lips. I can still remember the feel of his cool but silky lips on mine. He seems such an . . . expert in kissing. I wonder briefly if he has had many girlfriends, but quickly ban the thought; it's none of my business even if he has.

Glancing at my watch, I realize how much time has passed. It's close to half past ten; Alec will meet the other tourists in a few moments in front of the clock tower. And then what? Will he kill them all by himself? Will he wait with the murder until he's in the villa? Besides, how will he, one single person, kill about twenty adults? If he kills one, the other will notice and either run or try to stop him from killing another innocent. So that means he has other people to help him. How many? Twenty? Ten? Though, it doesn't really matter. One person dead is one too much.

I take a deep breath, then hurry on toward the Palazzo dei Priori.

The group is easily discernable. I stay hidden in the shadows, planning on following them. Alec mustn't see me before I can surprise him — with . . . whatever. I realize the faults in my plan — which isn't even a plan, yet — but it's too late to reconsider, because the group sets out. I suppress a curse and quickly follow them, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

The entrance to the villa is accessible from the palazzo. There's nobody there asking for an admission fee, so I keep behind corners, watching, trying to come up with a plan of how to save everyone. But my creativity deserts me. My mind draws a blank.

Alec leads them through a couple of rooms, telling them about the past of the villa, its architectonic specialties, and small stories about the artifacts that are shown in glass cabinets. The majority of the display consists of necklaces or rings, but, every so often, there are paintings, masks or mosaics that widen the range of objects shown. Probably the most eye-catching object is a set of jewels — gold and silver rings, earrings and necklaces, their filigree forms perfected with tiny and larger diamonds. It is amazing. From my hiding point, I'm staring at the cabinet for a long time, not listening to Alec's story behind these jewels.

"We're now entering the heart of the villa," Alec says when he leads everyone out of the jewel room. "The turret has been the villa's inhabitants' holy place, if you so want. There, they held the most spectacular dances and soirées. Please, just down there. You won't be disappointed."

The turret. So, this is it, then? This is the place where Alec plans to kill — murder! — the people? If he were to lock the turret so that no one could escape, then he won't need other people to help him. But, even if he has helpers, I need to hurry.

Silencing my steps as much as possible, I run after the group that has already turned to their left, walking down a hallway. I can hear their excited chatter. They have no idea that they are heading to their doom. I stop briefly behind a pillar and glance around it, but, in the next moment, I stand against the wall in the room I just crossed, Alec pressing his hand against my throat. The pressure isn't enough to cut me off the air supply, but it nonetheless freaks me out. My hands come up and grasp at his wrist, tugging at it to get him to move — but he doesn't budge. I can't move. Also, his skin is cold on mine, now flushed from the running. My eyes are wide, staring at his dark ones. There's only one chance to succeed now: I open my mouth to scream. But once again, he's faster, clamping his other hand over my mouth, muffling any sound. This time, the pressure increases, and I feel how he slowly pushes my head back against the wall. It's not hard enough to break my skull, but I can definitely feel the pain where my head is pressed against the stone.

"You seem to want to die, so why don't I make it easy for you and just break your neck? Then it's over, once and forever," he hisses angrily.

I try to shake my head frantically, try to signal him no. But I still can't move; his hold is unbreakable.

He steps closer until I can feel his breath on my face. "Then why can't you just do as I say and leave?" Had he noticed my attempt to say no? How?

Suddenly, he lets go of me, and I nearly sink onto my knees; my legs feel like jelly. I'm slightly dizzy.

"Get up and leave, now. Or it will be too late."

"It mustn't be," I try, weakly. "You don't have to kill them."

He smiles briefly, sadly. "You have no idea what must and mustn't be." He turns to leave. "Take a taxi and drive back to Cecina. Don't linger." He walks toward the hallway.

"Alec, I can't," I call after him.

He stops, sighs and turns back. "So your choose death over life?"

I shake my head and ball my hands to hide their trembles. "No, I — that's not what I mean."

"What do you mean, then?" I can hear the exasperation which he unsuccessfully tries to hide.

"I don't have enough money with me for a taxi . . ." I reply, meekly.

He rolls his eyes, walks back to me, pushes something into my trousers' pocket, and leaves again. "That should be enough. Keep the rest."

I glance down. It looks like he has put money into my pocket. I take it out, my eyes widening when I even the two bills out. "That's too much!" I say. He has given me a hundred euros! My head shoots up, but Alec is gone. I hurry after where I have last seen him, but the hallway is empty to either side. My eyes fall back down onto the bills. He gave me money to leave, so shouldn't I do as he wishes? He is trying to protect me, after all. But, about the others, he doesn't care; it doesn't bother him that he will kill them. Yet it bothers him that he might kill you. Why? Only because I remind him of someone from his past? Who?

I sigh deeply in frustration. What should I do now? Leave and save myself but live with the memory that I had allowed about twenty innocents be killed when I knew I could have saved them? Or go try and rescue these people's lives, only to maybe end up being killed myself?

The decision is an easy one. I will never live with the thought of people having died because I was too much of a coward to save them.

Now, where is the turret? I try to remember where the others went earlier, but I can't. My mind refuses to work properly. So I have to decide to either go left or right and then hope I chose the right direction. Closing my eyes, I count to five, then quickly turn around my own; when I open my eyes, I'm looking down the hallway. I decide to go in that direction and hurry on.

The hallway crosses another one after a few feet. I groan, at a loss of what to do now. Left or right? Or should I go back and try the other direction? I look around, try to listen for a sound of chatter or screams even. But . . . nothing. Everything is eerily silent.

My feet start moving on their own, leading me to the right. But I don't get far. A showcase catches my eye. It's another one displaying artifacts that glitter beautifully in the light that hangs directly above the showcase. But it's not the objects' beauty that catches my interest. It's the familiarity of one of the necklaces.

Slowly, I step closer, not once taking off my eyes of the jewelry. I gulp down the dread that rises with a vile taste in my throat. But I cannot deny the truth.

The necklace — delicate silver chains, three short pendulums hanging down, each pendulum's end containing a small azure-blue diamond — belonged to my mother.

I lift my hand as if to reach for it, but the glass of the showcase is in my way. For a brief moment, the thought of destroying the glass, taking my mother's wedding gift and then running, crosses my mind. But I'm not a thief. Instead, my memories lead me back nine years ago to the moment when I had last seen Mom. Had she worn the necklace when she went onto the tour? I can't remember. However, if she had, it would explain how this villa-museum came to it — if she really had died like the twenty people were about to be killed.

These thoughts bring me back to the reason why I'm in this place, and I look up, although it hurts me to leave behind my Mom's necklace. But I don't get far; in fact, I only manage to turn around.

"Seems like someone got lost," a tall-grown man with dark brown hair says matter-of-factly.

I freeze.


What will happen to Felicity? Stay tuned to find out! And feedback is love.