VROLOK

by Nolene-Patricia Dougan

  “Well, have I managed to impress you now?” Cosimo asked.

  “Slightly,” Isabella replied.

  “It would take you several lifetimes to get through these books.”

  “I may have that much time,” Isabella said.

  “You have my permission to use this library,” Cosimo said. There was a faraway look in Isabella‘s eye. “I suspect even if I visit here often I will not see you again.” Cosimo added.

  “You won’t,” Isabella agreed.

  “I suspect that not seeing you again may be a good thing. I think you are a very dangerous woman.” Isabella smiled at Cosimo. He bowed and left her in his ancestor’s library.

  Another fifteen years went by. Isabella visited the library often. She never did see Cosimo again, but had heard recently of his passing. Isabella was sitting in the library a few days after his death when a young girl approached her.

  “Isabella,” she said. Isabella was taken aback that someone had called her by name. No one had spoken her name since Cosimo. She got up to leave. She did not want to talk to this girl. Unfortunately for Isabella the girl was not so easily discouraged and she chased after her. “Please listen to me,” the girl pleaded.

  Isabella turned towards her. “How do you know my name?”

  “If you sit down and talk to me for a few minutes I will tell you.”

  Isabella wanted to know how this girl knew her name, so she sat and listened.

  “My father told me I would find you here.”

  “Your father?”

  “Cosimo, the Grand Duke.”

  “You must be my namesake.”

  “I am,”

  “I was sorry to hear about your father’s death. He was a tolerant man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What did your father tell you about me?”

  “Many things.”

  “What, specifically?” Isabella said, suspecting that she was going to have to kill Cosimo‘s daughter.

  “He told me that you saved his life.”

  Isabella sighed. “If I had of known it would have come back to continually haunt me I would not have bothered.” Cosimo’s daughter looked at Isabella. She was a good woman and would never be able to understand the creature that sat in front of her, but she was determined to ask her something.

  “Only moments before he died told me of you. He was very ill but something made him struggle to his feet and walk to the window to see the festival that was going by. He asked me was I impressed by the festival. I said that I always was and he said he once knew someone who wasn’t. Then he looked at me and smiled. He was remembering you. He said that he knew he could impress you and he told me that he did. He held my face in his hands and said that if I was ever in danger I should come here to his library and look for you. He described you as a woman with dark hair and dark green eyes and he said that even now you would probably be the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “You are not getting to the point,” Isabella rejoined.

  “I am in danger. My husband is going to kill me,” the girl cried.

  “And what has that got to do with me?” Isabella asked.

  “My father told me that you would help me.”

  “That was very presumptuous of your father. I never said or even gave him the impression that I would do any such thing.”

  “You can’t mean that! My father was wrong about many things but he was always a good judge of character. I know you will help me.”

  “You and your father are wrong. I won‘t help you. I am a woman without compassion. I never deceived your father he knew the creature I was.” Isabella got up to leave, but before she did Cosimo’s daughter called out one last thing to her.

  “My father told me that you believed you had no goodness in your heart but he knew you did. He saw it in you.”

  Isabella did not look back again at Cosimo’s daughter and if she had, she would have seen the tears running down her face. She was desperate, and this Vampire was her last hope. Isabella arrived back at the home that Cosimo had given her. As she went through the door, the Medici coat of arms that was carved into the wall beside her caught her eye. She looked at the three feathers. They represented temperance, prudence, and fortitude. Cosimo, she thought, had all these qualities. He was a decent man and she had no doubt that his daughter possessed them as well. Isabella sighed and leaned her forehead against the door. She would help Cosimo’s daughter if she could.

  Isabella went straight to the Cereti Guido. Cosimo’s daughter lived there with her husband, but by the time she got there it was too late.

  Isabella Orsini had returned from her meeting with the Vampire completely disheartened. Her husband had arrived home before her. He came over to her and kissed her on the cheek, Isabella flinched back from his touch.

  “That’s understandable,” Paolo Orsini said to his wife, “but can we not make amends?”

  “Like you made amends with Vittoria’s husband.”

  “I had nothing to do with his death,” Paolo protested.

  “I don’t believe you,” Isabella exclaimed. Paolo stepped back from his wife and spoke with as much sincerity as he could muster.

  “Isabella, you are totally safe. I am not so stupid as to kill a Medici. Sit down and let us have a pleasant dinner together.” Isabella sat reluctantly and the next hour did pass quite pleasantly. Paolo was being uncharacteristically charming and at the end of the dinner he leaned over to kiss his wife. Isabella let him but it was the last thing she ever did. When Paolo was close to her, almost touching her, he signalled to the balcony where four men lowered down a rope and he strangled his wife.

  Isabella entered the house and saw her namesake lying on the floor. For the first time in a long time Isabella actually felt grief. She would personally avenge this young girl’s death. Isabella’s thoughts were interrupted by a young man running into the room in search of Isabella Orsini.

  “My god, no,” the young man cried out, “I am too late!”

  “It appears we were both too late,” Isabella answered.

  “Who are you?” the young man asked.

  “I am acquaintance of her father’s. Who are you?”

  “Troilo Orsini. I loved her,” Troilo blurted out.

  “It appears her husband didn’t.”

  “No, he never did. He has fallen for another woman. All Florence is talking about his conspicuous affair with Vittoria Accoramboni. I only received the news yesterday that she had her husband killed and I immediately rushed here, I knew it was only a matter of time before Isabella would be killed.”

  “Do you know where they are now?”

  “I suspect getting married. Paolo did not know about us. He still kept me in his confidence to a certain extent. I can’t believe he did this! He will regret it.”

  “He will, don’t concern yourself. I will avenge Cosimo’s daughter,” Isabella said. “Do you know where they will go?”

  “Probably Venice. He has friends there.”

  “He’ll be first and then I will settle the score with Vittoria,” Isabella stated.

  “You won’t have to. Paolo changed his will. He has left Vittoria everything. His brother, who would have inherited, will not let her live long.” Isabella got up to leave and Troilo grabbed her hand before she could.

  “Promise you will kill him,” Troilo asked.

  “Don’t worry, listen to the town crier. He will speak of his death soon enough.” Troilo did not know this woman but he knew that she was telling him the truth.

  Isabella went straight to Venice. Paolo was in hiding when Isabella found him, waiting for his new love to come to him, but she never would. Paolo thought that Isabella was a prostitute sent to amuse him while he was waiting for his new wife. He approached Isabella with lascivious intent. However, when he got close to her, something in her eyes unnerved him, a coldness, a determination. He knew then that she was there to kill him. He turned to run but Isabella grabbed his arm before he could escape and struck a
t him until he was on the point of death. Then she leaned towards him and whispered. “Did you think you could get away with killing a Medici? You should have known better.” In one last stroke she killed Paolo Orsini.

  Troilo, as he had been told, listened for the town crier to announce Paolo’s death. He did not have to wait very long. By the time Isabella returned to Florence, she had heard of Vittoria’s death also. She had been stabbed by her dead husband’s brother.

  Isabella never went back to Cosimo’s library. She had felt by letting his daughter die that she had lost the right to visit it.

  Isabella still resided in Florence for the next five years. She slowly returned to her former remorseless self. She soon lost any compassion that she had gained from Lia’s company and influence or from the distraction that Cosimo’s library offered her.

  Isabella was wandering through the streets as she often did; she decided to sit down on the edge of the steps leading up to the Duomo. Behind her the Campinile towered over her head. She remembered the words of Matteo Bandello. He had told her to look around at the city and the wonderful sights it had to offer. For the first time she wanted to see what had inspired so many artists. Isabella looked up at the elegant building in front of her. She stood and ascended the steps to the grand doors of the church. Gold carvings camouflaged the wood. She had been in this city so many years and she had never really looked at them. She rubbed her fingers over smooth figures that were carved into the gold; each picture represented a Bible story. She tried to remember some of them, but could not.

  “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” A voice came from beside her.

  “Is it?” Isabella answered.

  “Of course, it is almost as beautiful as you.”

  Isabella sighed; she was no mood for compliments this evening. Isabella made it clear that she would not be receptive to his advances but the man continued his chattering, unperturbed by Isabella‘s stoic responses.

  “It took Ghiberti twenty-eight years to complete,” he said. “When Michelangelo saw it he stood back and said these gates are fit to be the gates of paradise.”

  Isabella, growing weary of his garrulous manner, turned around to face him with the intention of striking him to keep him quiet. She held back her fists when she saw his smile. There was something in his eyes she recognised. He looked like Lia.

  “What’s your name?” Isabella said and returned his smile, suspecting she knew the answer to her own question.

  “Vincent de‘Bardi.” It was Lia’s son, she thought.

  “What are you holding in your hand?” Isabella asked.

  “A drawing of the Duomo by moonlight.” Isabella smiled again. He was a painter, just like his mother.

  “Another painter—that’s what this city needs.”

  “I am not just another painter; I am a greatest painter in Florence! I have a perfect eye and my sense of dimensions and perspective is brilliant.”

  Isabella laughed out loud. “Your enthusiasm for yourself is overwhelming.”

  “Well, look at my drawing and see for yourself.”

  The light was fading fast so Isabella’s eyesight was starting to become very clear. She could see that the painting was brilliant, the perfect reflection of the exquisite building that stood before them. She was not one, however, to flatter those who flattered themselves.

  “It’s passable, I suppose,” Isabella said with little enthusiasm.

  “Passable? It’s perfect!”

  Isabella smiled. He had his father’s arrogance but his mother’s charm and they were a good combination. Isabella liked him and she was sure Lia would have as well. Isabella could not fault anyone for being conceited; his conceit would only be exceeded by her own.

  “Now,” he began, “do you know what a beautiful woman should have on her arm?”

  “No, what should a beautiful woman have on her arm?”

  “A handsome man.” Isabella laughed again. Vincente stood and pushed out his arm for Isabella to take.

  “May I escort you home? It’s getting dark.” Isabella without hesitation interlocked her arm with his and answered him.

  “You may.” She was quite taken with him. It had been a long time since she had met someone as charming, and flattery always pleased her.

  The pair arrived back at her house, and Isabella invited him in. As they sat talking, just enjoying each other’s company, Isabella for a brief moment almost felt human again, and she liked that feeling.

  “I notice there are no mirrors in this house,” Vincent said. “I always thought a woman like you would look at herself often.”

  “Am I still as beautiful as I was?” Isabella asked.

  “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” Vincente answered.

  “I like to be told that; it’s nice to hear.”

  “You have not even one portrait of yourself in this house.”

  “A portrait?” It was such a simple idea but it was something she had never thought of before. “A portrait. Yes. I could see my own likeness again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing! Would you do it?”

  “I would, gladly.”

  “Could you right now?” Isabella was excited and she had not been excited by anything in over fifty years.

  “I didn’t mean now,” he called after Isabella, who was impetuous as ever and was already running to her room to change.

  “Would you miss the chance to demonstrate your skill?” Isabella shouted back, bursting with enthusiasm. She tore off her clothes and put on a midnight blue velvet dress that she had taken from one of her many victims. She had always wanted to know what she looked like in it, but of course was unable to see it. She desperately wanted to feel beautiful again. She ran to let him see her in the dress. “I want you to paint me like this!”

  Vincente looked at her. She was stunning. Her long black hair was pinned up and her dark green eyes shone from across the room. The velvet dress clung to her voluptuous figure. She was a vision, an excellent muse for any artist.

  He started to work. He worked all through the night and the next day. Isabella left him intermittently to feed and get some rest. Vincente wanted to prove to her what a good artist he really was and he painted a dozen pictures in the following week. When he had finished. Isabella asked him to blow out the candles.

  “You will not be able to see them,” he remarked.

  “Don’t worry, I will see them,” Isabella affirmed.

  As Vincente started to put out the candles around the room the portraits started to become clear to her. She had almost forgotten what she looked like: her black hair, her dark green eyes, and her smooth white skin. For the first time in forty years she once again saw her beautiful face. She was captivated looking at herself. He had captured her beauty perfectly.

  She ran to him, grabbed his face and kissed him. She had not kissed anyone since Nicolae. The young artist returned her kiss and Isabella felt a tingling sensation run through her. She pulled back and looked at him. Could she love him, she wondered? Could she love a mortal? Isabella held him close to her. She knew in her heart that she could not have a relationship with any man but she was enjoying the touch of another for just a brief moment. Then a strange familiar smell touched Isabella; it was a scent she recognised immediately.

  “Vlad,” she whispered. A fear came over her she looked at her new young companion and said to him. “You have to leave now.” He looked bemused. “I have to go away for a few weeks I have business to take care of.” Vincente protested but Isabella touched his lips with her finger to silence him and said. “Don’t worry. I will be back.”

  She left that night with one painting, her wooden chest, some money and several changes of clothing. After a few weeks of travelling, Isabella arrived back at the ancient castle. It was even more dilapidated than when she had left.

  Vlad was sitting on a chair beside the fire. At first she did not recognise him at all. He had grown old. Isabella’s first reaction was to f
eel her own face but her skin still felt smooth and young.

  “Why have you aged?” she asked.

  “I haven’t rested in weeks,” he responded.

  “Is this what happens if we don’t sleep?”

  “If we don’t sleep and or feed.”

  “Why are you not feeding?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why did you come back then?”

  “You told me I’d be back. Surely you are not surprised?”

  “I did not think it would take this long.”

  “I’m not going to stay long,” Isabella quickly responded. She then left him and went up to her old room. The next evening after she had slept she went down to see Katya. She was shocked when she saw her. Katya was so old; she had still been a young girl when Isabella had left.

  “Isabella,” Katya greeted her warmly. “You still look the same as when you left, still so beautiful!” Katya whispered.

  “I’m glad to see you,” answered Isabella.

  “I am glad to see you, too.”

  “Did you ever hear from Nicolae and my son after they left?”

  “Isabella…he never left.”

  “He never left, why? I thought he was determined to go.”

  “His son told him about meeting a beautiful lady. The way Alexei described her she sounded just like you. I tried to make him dismiss it as nonsense but he was sure it was a sign that he should not leave and that he would be closer to you here.”

  “You mean he is still here? Where is he, Katya? I need to see him,” Isabella begged.

  “He’s dying. He is an old man; he has not got much time left.”

  Isabella grabbed Katya and nearly shook the life out of her. “Please, Katya, where is he?”

  “He’s inside!”

  Isabella let go of her friend and Katya fell to the ground. Isabella ran inside. She slowed her pace as she entered the room. There he was lying, slowly dying on the bed in Katya’s room. A handsome, middle-aged man strikingly similar to Isabella’s dying husband sat beside him in the chair. It was Isabella’s son, asleep.