Immortality

***
Nine

It was with a heavy heart that he left the carriage in the Piazza di Spagna, where he had arranged to meet Dorian. The morning had not played out as planned; the talk he had been given by Bishop Laverne had been expected, even the audience with Cardinal Jinette, but he had assumed that would be to the tune of a wrist-slap before he slipped off to speak with Carl. Obviously he had been mistaken. The last thing he had expected - even beyond an assignment to deal with a yeti in Tibet or a minotaur in Greece - had been Dracula.

That had caught him completely off guard, to the point where he'd failed to ask Carl if he could translate the book. He might even have questioned Jinette about the alleged existence of his brother had he been in his right mind, though at the time he hadn't decided if he intended to ask or not; it wasn't the case that he didn't trust the Church per se, or even Cardinal Jinette, but before he knew more he did question the wisdom of mentioning Abraham in the Vatican. Even Dorian had warned him against it.

They left the carriage and stepped into the square in the grey early afternoon; Gabriel led the way to the small café in which he'd breakfasted with Dorian that morning, and they stepped inside. There was Dorian, looking serene as ever, sipping from a cup of coffee at his table by the window. The two ofm jom joined him.

"Dorian, this is Carl," Van Helsing introduced. "Carl - Dorian Gray." The two of them shook hands briefly over the coffee pot.

"You're a monk?" Dorian asked, raising his eyebrows inquisitively.

"Just a friar," Carl replied.

"Ah," Dorian said, as if that explained everything.

The two looked at each other across the table and Gabriel watched them, how Dorian was eyeing Carl's slightly dishevelled robes and how Carl seemed to be almost staring into Dorian's face. They were so different, almost opposite ends of the scale, and from the look that the waiters were trying not to give them, Gabriel assumed that he was not alone in making that particular observation.

"So, were you able to translate any of the book?" asked Dorian in a curiously offhand manner, before taking another sip of his coffee.

Carl frowned and glanced at Gabriel. "Book?" he questioned. "What book, exactly?"

"I didn't have chance to ask," he explained to Dorian, who nodded. Then he pulled the book from his coat pocket and handed it over to Carl.

He opened it carefully, flipping slowly through the pages with the fingers of one fingerless-gloved hand. "Well, I can't translate this," he said, closing the book with a flourish.

"Why not?" Gabriel asked.

"What exactly seems to be the problem?" asked Dorian.

"I thought you spoke Latin, Carl."

"I do." He flipped open the book again and pointed at the bold calligraphic lettering. "But this isn't Latin. It *looks* like Latin, like fifteenth century ecclesiastic Latin, I'd say." He narrowed his eyes and squinted oddly at the pages. "But I can assure you that *that* is not Latin. A pseudo-Latin code, perhaps, but not actual Latin."

"Oh," said Dorian.

"Well, this was a waste of time," said Gabriel.

Carl, not quite registering their disappointment, was flipping through the book again, scanning the pages with that same oddly rumpled look on his face. "Fascinating, really," he said. "I might know a man in our languages branch who could help you with it. I'd be fascinated to hear what it says."

"And so would I." Gabriel took off his gloves and rubbed at his eyes. "I don't want anyone else to see this. I don't want you to say a word to anyone. And besides, we have a boat to catch - you can work on it yourself."

He tugged the book from Carl's grasp and tucked it back into his pocket. Carl frowned. When he looked at Dorian, he was also frowning.

"Boat?" he asked, with that same air of nonchalance despite his inquisitive expression. "Are we going somewhere? I thought that this was somewhat the dead end."

"It is." Gabriel shrugged and ignored Carl's questioning gaze. "There's something else I've got to do. There's nothing more I can do for Abraham without more information."

It was galling even to say it, to acknowledge it out loud, but he knew that it was true; there had never been much information - just what Dorian had seen, the book that none of them understood and the address of a woman who was now dead back in Berlin. The trail was cold, and at best it had only ever been tepid. Sad, but true; he'd lost his brother before he'd even found him.

Dorian nodded. "I understand," he said with a sombre expression. "I'll return to Paris and hopefully turn up some more information there. You're leaving soon?"

"In the morning."

Dorian nodded again. It was strange; he almost felt some kind of loss just sitting there looking at him, knowing that they were about to go their separate ways, even though he couldn't even really say that he liked him. At times, perhaps.

All three of them grew quiet as they all then sipped from cups of hot, strong coffee. It was not long after that they left, Carl complaining that he'd left the Vatican so soon for nothing, considering that they weren't leaving 'til the morning. As he stepped into the carriage behind Dorian, Gabriel told Carl to meet him at five the next day. He didn't tell him that had he wanted, they could have left straight away.

***