by AJ Llewellyn
“I have to go,” Philippe-Auguste said as he moved away.
What? Go? That was the last thing he wanted. Despair swept through Marcello and he found himself reaching out for the Frenchman. “Stay, please,” he begged.
“I’m sorry. I don’t like leaving things half-finished anymore than you do.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against Marcello’s lips. “I will be back, I promise you.”
Then the Frenchman left so fast, Marcello barely saw him. Stunned, he blinked his eyes to make sure they were functioning properly. It was almost as if he had vanished into thin air. Rushing from the parlor, he discovered that the front door was open.
“Philippe-Auguste!” he yelled as he ran out onto the cobbled streets only to find them deserted and eerily quiet.
In the short time he’d been inside with the Frenchman, the night seemed to have grown much darker and the air colder. Marcello let a shiver that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature. It felt as if someone was watching him from the shadows—stalking him.
There was a scurrying sound off to his right, between two houses. It sounded as if something with huge claws was running on the hard ground. It was too loud to be a rat or some other vermin. Marcello’s heart thumped hard in his chest as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
“Philippe-Auguste, is that you?” he called. He wished he had a weapon handy, but all he had were his fists, which suddenly seemed so inadequate. He waited for an answering reply, but all that came were more clacking sounds followed by a loud hiss that seemed to go on forever.
Marcello spun around, trying to determine where it came from, but it seemed to surround him. He wanted to run, but he didn’t know what way to go. Even the short distance to the house seemed daunting, as he wasn’t for sure that his stalker was there, waiting to pounce. “Who’s out there? Show yourself!” he demanded with much more bravado than he really felt.
There was a rush of air as something jumped on his back and took him down to the ground.
Chapter Six
Marcello’s head hit the stone street so hard that his vision got dark around the edges. Shaking it off, he struggled to get up, only to find that he could not fight the iron grip of his attacker. Blood ran into his eyes from a cut on his forehead, making it even more difficult to see. Blinking frantically, he cleared it up enough to look at his attacker.
It was a man with long, blond hair and black eyes that seemed to glow with evil malice. He was wearing all black, just like Philippe-Auguste, right down to the cape. Marcello tried to twist his body to throw the man off him, but he couldn’t move enough to even do that.
“Be still,” the man hissed, showing a pair of long, white fangs.
“What are you?” Marcello stared in horror at the creature on top of him. It was a creature because no man he knew had teeth or strength like this.
“I am the thing nightmares come from.” He bared his fangs even more and bent over Marcello’s neck.
Marcello tried to punch him, but the monster easily dodged his blows. Striking quickly, he sank his fangs deep into Marcello’s throat. A deep burning pain made him yell out. Soon the scream became a gurgled moan as the blond man continued to rip at his throat.
“No wonder Philippe-Auguste chose you.” The man licked his blood-stained lips. “You do taste so sweet.”
When he struck again, Marcello tried to yell for help, but nothing came out. Lungs screamed for air as he tried to suck it into his body, but nothing could get by the ruined flesh. His hands fell uselessly to his sides as his entire body went limp.
So this is how I’m going to die. Who will care for Massimo now? Will Philippe-Auguste ever know what became of me? Will Caprice ever know how much I truly loved her? How I wished I could hold her in my arms one last time.
He felt a cool wrist pressed to his lips, the skin wet from something.
“Drink,” his attacker urged.
Drink? If he could have, Marcello would have given a hysterical laugh. He couldn’t breathe, much less drink. Yet, as soon as the coppery, salty taste hit his lips, he found his tongue flicking out to lap up the liquid. Some distant part of him knew he was swallowing blood and yet he couldn’t have pulled away, even if the creature hadn’t injured him.
“That’s it,” the man cooed. “Drink. Then you will belong to me and not Philippe-Auguste. I can’t wait to see how he reacts when he finds out his newest love is now my pet.”
A sharp, burning pain hit Marcello’s stomach like a punch. He tried to curl up against the agony, but the man kept him in a firm hold. Wave after wave of intense hurt went though him until tears built up in his eyes. The entire time, the blond kept his wrist firmly against Marcello’s lips.
“I know it hurts, and I’m sorry,” the man soothed, in a tone that didn’t sound sorry at all. No, it sounded almost excited as if Marcello’s agony was an aphrodisiac. “But when it’s over you will be more invincible…more powerful than any mere mortal. You should be thanking me.”
Yes, I’ll get around to that once I am through vomiting from the pain, Marcello thought frantically.
A group of young men came ambling down the street, their loud drunken voices carrying through the night. The man jerked his head up with a gasp. “This is most unwelcome,” he spat as he sprang to his feet.
Marcello immediately rolled up into a tight ball as his stomach clenched into another painful spasm. The ache slowly spread out until his whole body felt as if it were on fire. He was barely conscious when the man leaned down and whispered, “This is far from over. You make sure you tell Philippe-Auguste that.”
The man left Marcello alone in his anguish. The group of drunkards wasn’t any help. They just passed him by, too caught up in the bawdy song to pay attention to anything else. Weakly, he tried to crawl to the door of his house. Halfway there, he had to give up as another burst of pain went through him. Everything grew hazy as he finally gave into blessed unconsciousness.
Marcello didn’t know how long he lay on the street until he woke up to Massimo shaking him by the shoulders. “Marcello! What is wrong with you?” His brother’s voice sounded frantic with concern. “Wake up, please.”
“Vampire,” Marcello whispered, not even opening his eyes. He didn’t have the strength needed for the task. “A vampire did this to me.” Now that the word came from his lips, everything made sense to Marcello, even though the idea was pure madness.
“You are crazy with fever,” Massimo said as he scooped Marcello up and started to carry him to the house.
“The vampire ripped my throat out.” Marcello’s head lolled against his brother’s chest.
“It was just a dream,” Massimo soothed in a soft voice Marcello never imagined him capable. “There isn’t even a scratch on you.”
“Yes, he bit me,” Marcello frowned, but whatever retort Massimo may have had was lost on him as he slipped into another deep slumber.
The next time he woke was to a cool, soft hand touching his head. Opening his eyes, he found it was Caprice, her eyes swollen from crying and her nose red. Her normal snapping brown eyes were bleak with despair and her hair hung around her pale face in complete disarray. Marcello realized he was in Caprice’s bed and was stripped of all his clothes—his only covering, a thin blanket. The pain was still there, in addition to an overwhelming thirst.
“Caprice, we shouldn’t be here,” Massimo’s voice carried from somewhere in the room. “Marcello would never forgive himself if you caught the plague because of him.”
“Hush,” Caprice spat, her look venomous. “If you leave, then who will care for him? You told me yourself that you couldn’t find a doctor to come as they are already overwhelmed with so many people falling ill.”
“I’ll take care of him,” Massimo replied in such a broken tone it tugged at Marcello’s heart.
“Yes, you will,” Caprice conceded as she wet a cloth and ran it over Marcello’s fevered brow. “And I will stay to help you. Now, stop fighting me on this and grab
me a fresh bowl of water.”
“I love you, Caprice,” Marcello breathed.
“I love you.” She smoothed a hand over Marcello’s hair. “I love both of you. We will face this together.”
Marcello wanted to tell them that it wasn’t the plague making him sick. When the male had attacked him, he’d infected Marcello with something much worse than a simple disease. No, now he was cursed. Closing is eyes, he could hear the blood rushing through Caprice’s voluptuous body. The thirst grew as he imagined how it would be if he had his own fangs. How it would feel to use them as he pinned Caprice down and screwed her as he bit her and drank. He just knew she would taste so sweet. “Vampiro,” he moaned.
“Shh…” Caprice stoked his cheek. “You’re just dreaming again. There is no such thing as vampires.”
As Marcello drifted off again, he knew that she was wrong. There were such things as vampires and he was becoming one of them.
* * * *
Philippe-Auguste watched Caprice’s house for two days, waiting for Massimo to leave. Marcello would be dead by morning if he could not tend to him. He must complete his transformation. He closed his eyes, remembering the taste and scent of the man he now knew he loved. He saw shadows in the top floor of the house, knew this was Caprice’s bedroom and that both she and Massimo never left his side.
He was enraged that Thais should have followed him here and attempted to take Marcello for his own. He was sorry now to have beaten him at Punto Banco, but he had been in luck. The blond Greek prince had not been so lucky.
It was bad enough the man was hiring puttane out of the castalletto, the municipal brothel, and killing them. Now his tastes had strayed to the soul houses and the poor women recovering from their lives in the castalletto. He, obviously, found it amusing to kill former puttane. This was bad enough…but to attempt to seduce Marcello…this was unacceptable.
Thais would pay for this ill-advised game of chance.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug hard enough into his palms to make them bleed. There was something else Massimo prized and that was a good bet. He hated to do it, but he needed to lure Massimo out of the house. Soon.
Philippe-Auguste walked briskly along the canal, enjoying the scent of cinnamon from the bakery, past the crumbling archways of the entrance of the magnificent palazzo owned by the courtesan, Emporia. He was charmed by the flower-strewn water fountain in the courtyard and passed through, glimpsing her splendid library through an open balcony door. Though she prided her great literary collection on money she earned writing sonnets, everybody in Venice knew she was a courtesan. She lived like royalty and, as her servant opened the front door, an astonishing piece wrought from iron and inches-thick poplar wood, he was struck once again by the sheer sensuality of every item in her house.
As he waited in the marble-floored foyer, his gaze flew to the high ceilings, which reflected the light from numerous stained glass windows. Wood panels depicting scenes of rural life lined the walls, illuminated by Murano glass chandeliers.
The curtains were all made of the finest velvet, banded in gold brocade. He reached out a hand, felt the rich thickness and was reminded again of Marcello’s soft skin.
“Come, you must see my new treasure.”
Philippe-Auguste glanced up the sweeping staircase to see his hostess extending a hand to him.
She really was a beautiful woman in her silk gown the color of champagne. Her hair, piled high and decorated with Baroque crystals was in itself another thing of exquisite beauty.
“You take my breath away,” he said with humble sincerity.
Emporia inclined her head, accepting his compliment and beckoned her long, beautiful fingers to him.
He took her hand and mounted the stairs, knowing he could easily afford to keep her, yet felt no inclination to sample the earthly charms of his captivating hostess.
“Look. Isn’t it precious?”
He moved across the salon where she held her nightly entertainments. He stood before the astonishing gothic altarpiece and his first thought was, how and where did she get this? He allowed the stunning workmanship of the easily ten feet by six feet piece to wash over him for a moment. Then he gave his attention to the detail. The Byzantine painting was, he suspected, enamel. It depicted Mary, mother of Jesus with her infant son on her lap. The frame, almost a foot wide wrought from gold and silver, was encrusted with thousands of jewels and pearls.
He finally stepped back. His fingers longed to feel the smoothness of the pearls, just as his heart longed for possession of the piece.
She was waiting, her chest heaving with excitement. He didn’t disappoint her.
“I put it at Constantinople, maybe five hundred years old.” He did not add, Stolen, I am sure, though the words hovered just on the tip of his tongue.
Emporia clasped her hands to her chest, jumping up and down daintily. “Yes, Constantinople. A gift from my…benefactor.”
“He must be truly besotted.” Philippe-Auguste gave her his most charming smile, revising his opinion on being able to afford to keep such a woman. For a moment, the joy of knowing Caprice would require no more than a constant supply of paint as well as a constant supply of cock, dazzled him and he remembered the urgency of his call. “I wish you to help me on a matter of…the heart.”
“Oh, yes?” Emporia was a great believer in love, he knew, and he was about to explain his problem when she pulled a cord beside her. The servant who’d opened the front door to him now stood beside his employer.
“Is the mortarolo ready?” she asked. On the servant’s nod, her almond eyes showed her pleasure. “In that case, two slices please, Peron, and I think we’ll take some Prosecco.”
The servant disappeared and Emporia led the way to the sofa near the window overlooking the canal.
Philippe-Auguste started to speak, but she held her hand up and they sat in companionable silence until the servant, Peron, returned with an elaborate tray. It held thick slices of the pie Philippe-Auguste had come to relish. Layered with meats, eggs and several cheeses and studded with slices of bacon, he inhaled the scent of the still-warm spices. He detected nutmeg, pepper and cloves.
He approved heartily when he saw the spidery hand-written label on the sparkling white wine. Conegliano. It was an excellent year for the hilly vine. He almost forgot his anxiety in the moment he took his first sip. Ah…he was certain by the lack of acidity that the grapes came from the Valdobbiadene hills. His toes curled in near-orgasmic pleasure inside his boots. Philippe-Auguste took three famished bites of the flaky, divine mortarolo before mentioning his quest.
“I am finding myself in a quandary,” he said in a confessional tone. He had prepared his speech and quickly topped up Emporia’s glass before continuing. “I want to visit, just briefly with Caprice, but Massimo does monopolize her. Is there any chance you can lure him here this evening?”
She started to protest, but he cut her off, delicately with the one thing guaranteed to earn her compliance. He produced a leather pouch filled with coins. She opened it and he saw her glee, and her undisguised greed.
“What is it that you want me to do exactly?”
“Organize a small game of chance. He favors Punto Banco.”
“It does not favor him,” she countered. “He frequently loses.”
He handed her a second pouch. “Which is why you are going to give him this stake.”
She opened it up and her eyes widened. “There must be fifty gold zecchino in here.” She glanced at him in wonder. “She means so much to you—Caprice?”
“Yes,” he said, feeling the truth pulling at his heart and his loins. He loved them all. Massimo would take time, but after tonight, would be on his side. Marcello had easily won his heart, losing as he had the night they met over a competitive round of Punto Banco. Marcello, unlike his twin, knew when to stop throwing the dice and, after three consecutive losses, had walked away from the game.
Massimo had the fever of the game and for a mome
nt, Philippe-Auguste regretted encouraging his run of bad luck. In the end, he would tame Massimo, he would seduce and keep him sated with his cock.
Emporia closed the pouches in her hand. “I will do it. I will send a message to Francesco to bring his card table here. And then I will send a message to Massimo, letting him know he is invited.” She leaned over Philippe-Auguste so that he was now staring straight down her décolleté. “If we were ever to join forces, we would have such riches.”
He stared into her upturned face and she sensed his hidden danger. In that moment, he could tell. Outwardly, he remained playful, capturing a fallen tendril of her lush, dark hair in his fingers, but he glimpsed her sudden uncertainty.
Emporia set about making her plans. “Music, do you think? My friend, Emilio, has developed a wonderful new form of song. They call it the madrigal. Quite uplifting.”
Philippe-Auguste smiled. “You should read your poetry. I am particularly fond of the sonnets you have written about your stay at the Ca’Balbi.”
Her eyes widened, then she threw herself at his feet. “You know these poems? You remember them?”
How he wished now he’d spent more time listening to the drivel she’d recited at so many salons. He searched frantically in his memory banks and produced one line that would convince her of his sincerity. “I have but one option, to turn inward on my soul, for my heart in balance remembers what my mind can still not fully appreciate,” he recited.
She mouthed the words along with him and her face shone.
“More than anything,” he said, determined to bring some truth to this encounter, “I am impressed by your way with words. I am impressed by your writing, by your published works at a time when most women in your country can neither read, nor write.”
She looked like she was going to faint from the compliment. Emporia rose and laid a hand on his cheek. “I hope Caprice appreciates your artistic soul,” she murmured and rang the bell for Peron.