Eric Lustbader - The Testament

She laughed and with a practiced flick reversed her grip on the knife, holding it against his bare flesh as his hands came up to grasp her. She gave a little cry. Of course, she would never use the blade on him, not really. A nick here and there to draw blood to the surface for its scent and feel was all part of their erotic scenario.

The boat rocked back and forth, whether from a passing vessel or from their rhythmic movements it was impossible to say. The lust built as it always did. He was panting to enter her.

"Tomorrow morning, when you go to the hotel," she said, "don't go in, and don't let them see you."

He paused, taken off guard. "But Signore Muhlmann said-"

"It is not your place to remind me what Signore Muhlmann said."

"He was very specific."

"So am I." She twisted her wrist and her fingers spiraled around him. "What will you do now? You are confronted with a dilemma. You can only follow one set of orders, you can have only one master." She brought him forward, and then to a complete stop. "To whom will you give your loyalty?"

Tiny spasms had begun in his hips as he strived to control himself. "Tell me now, quickly," he panted. His eyes closed, and he bit his lower lip until he broke the skin. "Who will win this war?"

"Is it a war you see, Damon?" Camille smiled. "Ah, that is the Roman in you. Romans have war in their blood, yes, they do, it comes all the way from the time of the Caesars, when you ruled the world." Gripping him all the harder, she tilted her head, regarding him with no little curiosity. "You have to ask yourself, how can I win this war? I am only a woman." She said the last word as if it were a slap in the face.

He looked at her, sweat running into his eyes, burning them. "You know what you are," he said in a voice made ragged by desire full to bursting, "and I know what you are."

"So." Her voice was serious, almost grave. "You have made your choice, have you?"

"To victory," he said.

"To the bitter end," she replied.

His bowed forehead pressed into the fragrant valley between her breasts. All at once, she released him and, with a great shiver, he lost control, ramming all the way into her. While he erupted, she tenderly caressed the back of his neck as if he were a child.

The empty wine bottle stood on its silver tray along with the equally empty glasses. The lights had been extinguished in the room, but the curtains hadn't been drawn and spangles of light roamed the walls and ceiling. The lapping of the water could be clearly heard, as if they were at sea. Then the throaty sound of a boat's engine briefly intruded, Italian spoken as provisions for the hotel's restaurant were off-loaded. Some time later, the lapping returned.

Bravo and Jenny lay in bed, side by side, naked, but not touching. They breathed out the fumes of wine and memories.

All at once, Jenny giggled.

"What?"

"I liked that you were jealous."

"I wasn't jealous," he said shortly.

"No, of course not." She couldn't help herself and another giddy sound escaped her lips.

There ensued a small silence, the nighttime sounds of Venice stealing in again, somehow making them feel safe and protected, as if they were a long way from the rest of the world.

"Why did you like it?" he asked, then.

"Guess."

"I feel like I'm fifteen years old," he said.

Her hand moved, fingers curling around his wrist. "I'm frightened," she said into the darkness.

"Of what?" Her changes of mood were mercurial.

"Of what I feel when I'm near you." She bit her lip; it was unthinkable that she should tell him the origin of that fear.

"It's all right," he said. "I understand."

The problem, Jenny thought, was that he understood only what she had arranged for him to understand. Not that her being sent away by her mother-and why-was a lie. Not at all. It was simply that by telling him that story, she had deliberately led him astray-her fear stemmed from another quarter entirely.

Bravo was comforted, taking her silence as agreement, and this led him to let down his guard. "That photo you saw," he said at length.

"The one of you that your father kept with him. I wondered why-"

"It's not of me." He reached over, plucked the Zippo off the night table, opened it. He held the photo up; the child's face was barely discernable in the night-glimmer, as if the image was not really there or had already become indistinct. But perhaps that was because it was a black and white snap that had been hand colored. "It's of my brother, Junior."

"I didn't know."

"You wouldn't," he said. "Junior's dead."

"Bravo, I'm so sorry."

"It happened a long time ago, when I was fifteen, in fact." He put the case back on the Zippo, returned it to the night table. "One winter we were out ice skating. Junior was only twelve then. A group of older boys and girls skated onto the ice and I spotted a girl I had seen a couple of times before. I liked her, but had never had the courage to go up to her. You know how that is."

"Yes," she whispered. "I do."

"I saw her glance over at me and at once I started to go into a couple of double axels. Of course, I was showing off, but I thought I might never get the chance again, and ice skating was one of the things I did really well. While I was performing for her, Junior must have gotten bored-anyway, he skated off. He went farther than he should have and fell through a thin patch of ice." There had been an eerie, evil report, the flat sound of a rifle shot or the sky cracked open. It pierced the clear dry air, pierced, too, his eardrums, a terrible noise he could neither forget nor speak about. At that moment he had realized that life was as thin as an eggshell. "He never surfaced. I pulled my skates off and plunged in. Honestly, I don't know what happened next-the water was so cold I was in shock. But the boys had come over and they pulled me out. I fought them until I was black and blue, two of them held my arms while a third sat on my chest and said, 'Don't be stupid, kid' over and over like it was a nursery rhyme. Still…"

Beside him, she stirred, as if the tragedy had made her heart beat so fast she couldn't stay still.

"I relive that moment over and over," he said, "and I can't help thinking that if they hadn't pulled me out I could have saved him."

"You know that's not true." She rose on one elbow, stared down at him, her eyes spangled. "Bravo, you know it's not. You said yourself that you were in shock. And your brother had his skates on-the weight must have pulled him straight down. There was no chance."

"No chance, right…" His voice died away into the lapping of the water against the side of the hotel.

"Oh, Bravo," she whispered, "this is how you lost your faith, isn't it?"

"He was my younger brother. I was supposed to take care of him."

She shook her head. "You were only fifteen."

"Old enough."

"Old enough for what?"

"It all seems so stupid and self-centered now. I was never going to win over a girl older than I was by three years."

"How could you know that then? Your hormones were running wild."

He stared up at her. "Do you believe that? Really?"

"Yes." She put her hand on his chest, then she drew back, abruptly breathless at the fierceness of his racing heart. "Really."

Gradually the night enfolded them, and though the spangles continued their mysterious journey across the walls and ceiling, they slept, entwined.

The pale morning light woke them, or perhaps it was the musical sounds of the boatmen's raised voices, ringing like church bells over the water. Looking out the window, Bravo could see that the canal was full of activity-boats, ferries and the like, the daily traffic of the medieval city. Sky and lagoon knitted into one seamless whole, the water everywhere, moving, endless.