Gladly Beyond Read online

  Dante set his phone down and turned around to look at me.

  “Tennyson is coming. He was already on his way when I called. We’ll swap this hunk of metal for his Jeep, which should hopefully hold together better. Why my brothers insist on driving these stupid vintage cars—”

  He stopped himself. Tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Let out a steady breath.

  I’ve always thought you can tell so much about a person by how they handle stressful situations. Do they lash out at those around them? Do they yell?

  Or do they calmly just do what can be done and let the rest go?

  Dante clenched his jaw and then shot me a determined smile.

  “Tenn will be here in about an hour,” he said.

  I nodded. And then motioned toward the bell tower with my chin.

  “You realize that’s San Savino, right?”

  Dante swiveled, peering through the windshield. Grunted.

  We both stared out. It was one of those picture-perfect Tuscan days. Blue sky, a light breeze. Temperature a balmy seventy-five degrees.

  It was still a little trippy to see Dante in his Branwell get-up. Longer hair, more scruff, less tailored clothes. But I would know him as Dante no matter how he dressed or groomed. There was just something elemental that marked him as my man.

  Yep. That’s how far I had come.

  He was mine. And I was going to fight to the death—literally, if necessary—to keep him.

  Corn stalks and grapevines rose on either side of us, lining the road to the abbey just ahead. Typical Italian apartment blocks dotted the edges of the fields . . . stuccoed squares of cream, yellow and orange with terracotta roofs. The Italian version of a suburb.

  My phone vibrated. Stupid me, I looked.

  I will hunt you to the ends of the earth, Claire. Haven’t you learned by now?

  A pause . . . and then . . .

  I ALWAYS win the game.

  My adrenaline spiked. I may have actually whimpered.

  Dante’s head whirled at the sound.

  I angled my phone, finally showing him the texts.

  He stared at the words and then swore. Impressively and at length.

  “I hate us sitting here like damn ducks waiting to be picked off—”

  His voice cut off as he glanced in his driver’s side mirror. Swore again.

  “How did he find us so fast?!”

  I looked out the back window just in time to see a dark haired man in a black leather jacket stop his motorbike behind the VW bus.

  Salvatore.

  “I’m not going to passively sit here.” Dante jerked a chin toward the abbey ahead. “Let’s at least surround ourselves with other people.”

  He opened his door at the same time I did, both of us tearing down the street toward the abbey and its touristy church.

  “Fermatevi!” A male voice shouted.

  “Like hell I’m stopping,” Dante grunted at my side.

  Dante reached out a hand as we ran, wrapping mine in his. Sprinting toward the apparent protection of the walls ahead. If nothing else, there was some modicum of safety in numbers. Witnesses.

  I might end up dead, but at least my killer wouldn’t get away with it, right?

  The huge walls of the old abbey loomed larger.

  My lungs burned. Feet pounding the pavement. Caro and Ethan had run like this, trying to escape, but it had been futile in the end . . .

  No! I mercilessly pushed the thought aside. This wouldn’t happen again—

  He would not win this time.

  I risked a glance back. Salvatore was chasing us on foot. I didn’t stop to wonder why he hadn’t jumped back on his bike.

  As we ran, Dante dialed a number, phone to his ear.

  “Pronto? Pronto?!” he said. “Ho un’emergenza . . .”

  He rattled away in Italian, voice sharp and edged.

  We reached the gravel parking lot, slowing as a large group of Germans exited the abbey churchyard, making their way back to the tour bus.

  “The police are on their way.” Dante panted, pocketing his phone. “The emergency operator said to wait in front of the church.”

  Salvatore had reached the parking lot too. Threading our way through the people, we dashed up a long flight of medieval stairs covered in an aged barrel vault. The stairs opened into a small piazza, an ancient church directly ahead.

  People milled around the piazza, taking photos. My chest heaved, lungs searing. Was this to be our life then? Hunted? Haunted?

  Dante tugged me across the tiny piazza, stopping before the church entrance. I whirled us around and grabbed my own phone from my pocket.

  If something was going to go down, I intended to have video evidence.

  I trained my phone on the stairs leading up from the parking lot and hit record. Dante wrapped a protective arm around my waist, pulling me tight against him with one hand.

  We both tensed. Waiting. Compulsively looking for Salvatore’s dark head to pop-up the stairs.

  I glanced down at the video I was recording and nearly dropped my phone.

  Bloody hell.

  I had forgotten to select the rear-facing camera. Instead, I was taking video of myself. And, by extension, the church behind me.

  Dante heard my gasp. Glanced down in alarm.

  I pointed at the video still recording.

  A knight leaned against the stone facade. Literally a knight in shining armor. Breastplate. Broadsword. Helmet raised.

  Staring straight at us.

  “Madonna mia! What the hell next?” Dante asked.

  “Who is he?”

  “English. Late fourteenth century,” Dante said. I stared at him him. “What? I’m an encyclopedia when it comes to historical clothing.”

  “True.” I dared a glance at the wall behind us. No knight. “I’m ignoring the ghost knight.” I tapped my phone screen and swiveled the video to front facing. Trying to hold the camera steady despite my shaking fingers.

  People were filtering out of the courtyard. In the distance, I could hear the bee-doo bee-doo of sirens.

  We waited another breath. Two.

  No Salvatore.

  Where was the man—

  “Claire! Woman!”

  A voice sailed up the entrance stairs and into the church courtyard where we stood.

  An all-too familiar voice.

  How did he know where I was?!

  Dante’s arm clenched around me.

  Pierce Whitman’s brown head popped up the stairs, grin friendly.

  “Pierce.” My mind whirled, trying to piece the puzzle together. “What are you doing here?”

  He stopped at the top of the staircase. Taking me in, obviously videoing. Dante with his arm cuddled protectively around me.

  Why was he here?

  “I was here doing some research on the battle and saw you guys go tearing past.” Pierce kept walking toward us. “It seemed like something was up.”

  My heart was trying to beat out of my chest.

  “Is everything okay with you and D’Angelo?” Pierce paused, eyes narrowing. “I saw the Colonel pull into the car park, by the way. He looked a little frazzled. What gives?”

  Wow. And I thought my heart had been beating fast just ten seconds before?

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, echoing up the barrel vault. Involuntarily, I took a step back, still videoing. Dante released my waist and held his arm out, protecting me.

  The police sirens sounded closer and closer. Bee-doo. Bee-doo. Would they get here in time?

  This was not happening. Not to us. Not again.

  Pierce frowned. “Claire? You’ve gone white as a ghost. What’s up?” He moved toward us.

  “Stay back.” Dante barked. “Just stay away.”

  “What the hell?!”

  “Claire? That you, darlin’?” The Colonel’s voice drifted into the courtyard.

  I took another step back, Dante edging in front, shielding me with his body. Always my personal bodyguard.
r />   I peeked around his elbow, ensuring my camera captured any action.

  Pierce stared at us both, some unidentifiable emotion on his face.

  Bee-doo. Bee-doo.

  The Colonel’s bushy head popped up the stairs. Salvatore’s dark one right behind.

  Reflexively, I jumped back.

  “Claire!” the Colonel shouted. “Be carefu—”

  Too late.

  The world swirled around me.

  Too late. I fear I am too late.

  Please . . . I simply must find him.

  Thirty-Seven

  Elizabeth stared across the spent battlefield.

  The smell of blood and smoke. Scorched earth, tattered banners, bloating horses. Flies swarming in droves. A simmering cauldron of death, festering under the boiling summer sun.

  The desolate aftermath of war.

  “You mustn’t be here, niece. We must retreat.” A hand tugged at her elbow.

  Elizabeth turned to Uncle Richard at her side. His face haggard. He had already spent hours searching the dead for Hawkwood’s fallen.

  “Edward isn’t among the living or the dead, Uncle. You and I both know Sir Henry. Out of spite, he has hindered those who would look for Edward. ’Tis a sin before God to leave a noble knight like Sir Edward to die like a common pikeman.”

  She wiped a hand across her eyes and then picked up her skirts, moving to step over another fallen soldier who was not her Edward.

  Uncle Richard held her fast. “He is not yours, child. Not Edward. Not now—”

  “Silence! I will not hear such th-things. He must still lie upon the battlefield. There is no other place he could be—”

  Her voice broke as she wrenched her arm out of her uncle’s grasp, darting away.

  She would find him. Edward.

  He was hers. Her heart. Her soul.

  No matter what her father and Hawkwood demanded. No matter that she must wed Sir Henry and leave Italy and Edward behind, returning to London.

  She would find Edward first. Ensure he was cared for, tended to . . .

  The thought of him still lying in this hot sun, wounded . . . surely boiling from the inside out in the heat of his armor . . .

  She could bear anything, any future, if somewhere on the planet Edward yet breathed.

  Men groaned around her.

  “Acqua.”

  “Please help me, Miss”

  “Aiutame, per carità.”

  Elizabeth wiped her cheeks again and again.

  “Elizabeth, come back.” Uncle Richard tried to keep up with her.

  She ignored them all. And instead called to him.

  “Edward. Edward Lancey!”

  Finally, approaching the tall stone wall of the church, she caught a glimpse of a familiar shield. A torn banner fluttering nearby.

  He lay just beyond. A heap of twisted metal, limbs askew at unnatural angles.

  Oh, Edward.

  On a sob, she sank to her knees, touching his beloved cheek. His face was battered and bleeding. Chest rising in shallow pants. He had managed to tug off his helmet and loosen his breastplate.

  She fumbled for the water skin at her waist, pouring a few drops onto his parched lips.

  “Edward, my love,” she hiccupped. “P-please.”

  He opened his eyes. Those dark eyes she adored so well.

  The agony of his smile . . . the welcome in his gaze.

  “Eliza . . . you are here.” His voice a thread of sound. “I-I am so glad you have come. Now I can rest in peace.”

  “No. You will live. Uncle Richard is near. He will send for a pair of Hawkwood’s squires. They will see you safely inside the abbey.”

  She moved to fetch help.

  His hand caught hers.

  “Stay.” No more than a whisper. “I would hear you.”

  She collapsed next to him, unable to resist.

  “Darling, you will be well—”

  “No, dearest love.” His voice rasped.

  “Edward, you will live! I cannot—”

  “Such a touching scene.” A dry voice sounded behind her.

  No! Not now!

  She whirled to her feet. Swallowed.

  “My lord.” She curtsied to Sir Henry Marchall. Favored knight to John Hawkwood. Close friend to her father.

  The man she was betrothed to marry.

  He had changed out of his armor, cleaned himself of the terror of war.

  Left Edward to rot in the sun.

  Sir Henry was a man of little honor.

  “You should not be here, Miss Elizabeth.” Sir Henry rolled his shoulders. A well-known sign of his agitation. “I am deeply troubled by your presence.”

  Elizabeth kept her chin down but her voice betrayed her anger.

  “I have been searching for Sir Edward, as you can see. He is wounded and in need of care.”

  “Yes, indeed. I ken quite clearly what is afoot here.” Another shoulder roll.

  Her head snapped to attention at the slithering snick of a sword being unsheathed.

  She eyed the enormous broadsword Sir Henry held with trepidation.

  “What mean you, my lord? The battle is finished.”

  Sir Henry held her gaze for a moment, a smile tugging on his lips.

  “I will not be made a fool, Elizabeth. You are mine and mine alone.”

  The sword raised.

  “Nooooooooo!” she screamed, hurling herself, chest first, onto Edward.

  Something pierced her back. Her breast. Edward heaved, arching upward.

  The broadsword pinned them together.

  Edward’s brown eyes held hers.

  “—love you—” she gasped with the last air in her lungs.

  One heartbeat.

  Two.

  And then the black void claimed them both.

  Thirty-Eight

  Dante

  Not. Again.

  Damn it all to hell.

  Never. Never. Again.

  I surfaced from the regression, shaking. I kept a firm arm out, praying Claire stayed behind me.

  My eyes swung between Pierce and the Colonel.

  The Colonel. Impassive. Cautious. Drawing near.

  Pierce frozen . . . eyes narrowed. Intent.

  Back and forth. Surely one of them . .

  Pierce rolled his shoulders. Agitated.

  And in that simple motion . . . I knew.

  You! It’s been you all this time.

  My soul finally recognized his.

  Pierce swiveled back and forth between Claire and I, swallowing, shoulders rolling again.

  A gun appeared in his hand, shaking. The damn idiot was going to shoot us out of nerves alone.

  I had been stupidly blind.

  Claire moved a little.

  “Stay behind me, cara mia. Please. We need to break this pattern.”

  Her phone edged into my peripheral vision, still recording. Good.

  Bee-doo. BEE-DOO.

  The police sirens drew closer. Even better.

  “What just happened? Am I hallucinating?” Pierce almost whimpered. “I’ve heard the stories about you.”

  The Colonel approached to my left behind Pierce. Snowy white hair. Icy blue eyes. Apprehensive.

  Funny how you don’t understand the truth until too late.

  Salvatore carefully moved next to the Colonel, coiled and ready to pounce.

  “What did you just do to me?” Pierce backed up pivoting enough to take in the Colonel and Salvatore too, shaking his gun.

  Not good.

  “Calm down, Pierce.” I was going for soothing first. “You don’t want to hurt us. You don’t want to hurt Claire.”

  His eyes narrowed. He stared at her behind me.

  Okay, so maybe mentioning Claire hadn’t been my best idea.

  “She’s mine.” He hissed. “You can’t have her. She’s always been mine—”

  “Excuse me?” That was Claire. I could hear the fear in her voice, but she spoke strongly. “I d-don’t belong to an
yone, least of all you. You threw me away—”

  “You were supposed to get jealous,” he screamed, waving the pistol. “You were supposed to beg me to take you back—”

  “Newsflash, Pierce,” she retorted, moving a foot to my side. “That only works in bad, made-for-TV melodramas—”

  “How could you take up with big, stupid D’Angelo here?” Pierce sneered, aiming the gun back at me. “I’ve watched you, Claire. Walking through town, holding hands with him. Hugging him. Staying in his palazzo—”

  “Wait—how do you know that?” she asked, coming forward even more.

  Stay back, Claire. Stay behind me, I mentally pleaded.

  “He had a tracking device placed in your phone, Claire.” The Colonel edged cautiously closer. “That’s one of the things I’ve been trying to tell you. Why I kept calling this morning. I hired Salvatore here to help keep you safe—”

  “Shut up, old man!”

  The gun trembled more violently in Pierce’s hands.

  The sirens became deafening. BEE-DOO. BEE-DOO.

  Car tires crunched on the gravel in the parking lot. Hurry!

  “Let it go, boy.” The Colonel said to Pierce. “There are witnesses here. Claire is recording this. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  Pierce stared at me. Shot a glance at the Colonel. Fixed on Claire now at my side.

  “You don’t understand, Colonel. I do want to hurt them.”

  We were frozen. A terrible tableau.

  What good was a psychic gift if it couldn’t help you save the one you loved?

  Knowing who someone had been wasn’t the same as knowing what they would do.

  I still believed in free-will. The past didn’t determine my future.

  I would have given everything to have Tennyson’s Sight for just a fraction of a second—

  Tennyson. Of course.

  Of course!

  Duh!

  This time was different than all the others. This life, thanks to our family gift, I knew what had happened. And if things played out like they had, life-after-life, then I understood how this would go down.

  And knowing what could occur allowed me to make a different decision. Tennyson had prepared me for it.

  Everything happened at once.

  “I don’t do D’Angelo sloppy-seconds,” Pierce hissed. “I will win this game!”

  Pierce’s gun tracked, aiming for me.