by Brian Lumley
And neither did anyone else…
III
Some fifteen days earlier, about 11:30 p.m. in Sicily:
Mike Milazzo—now a vampire, but once a “made man” who had got above himself in New York and been required to flee home to the Old Country—had been called to attend the brothers Francezci at Le Manse Madonie: not a good omen. Common soldiers were only rarely invited to visit with the Francezcis in their mountain retreat, which normally occurred only when there were questions to be answered; and Mike’s activities had never been less than questionable. Moreover, this was his second visit. He considered his past as his car groaned up and around the precipitous route of stone-walled or metal guardrailed hairpins—the only route of access—to the high plateau.
Mike, a darkly handsome, third-generation Sicilian-American thug, had been caught banging his capo’s slut wife at her Hamptons home. Still the boss’s wife, she was now scarred for life, her mouth slit open so wide she could give blow-jobs to rhinos, and no young Turk (or Italian) was ever likely to find her fuckable again. Only Milazzo’s “made man” status had saved him from similar treatment. Oh he’d been badly beaten, but at least they hadn’t rearranged or enhanced his features.
And so he’d come back here: back “home” to an uncle also in the Mob, who had reduced him to a soldier in charge of collections and corrections in Palermo. But just like most dicks, when Mike’s was hard it had no conscience, no memory, and absolutely no respect for the usual conventions. By all means take advantage of those you prey upon—which is simply the nature of the work, “the business”—but do not fuck their virgin daughters! Men can be coerced into paying for your so-called “protection,” but only as long as they, and their families, are protected.
Mike’s uncle had been bombarded, overwhelmed by complaints. Moreover, despite that Mike was paid a decent percentage of the produce of his rounds, he was not above “skimming” the take, to such a degree that his uncle’s profits were much reduced. Also, Mike found himself accused of dealing drugs within a neighbouring boss’s territory, and his use and abuse of this same capo’s young prostitutes had made him more than a mere nuisance; badly beaten high-price girls do not attract high-roller customers.
No more than a year in the Old Country—and no sooner established, albeit shakily—and already Mike Milazzo had become a problem. He had seemed ungovernable, quite beyond the control of his uncle; so that finally the elder Milazzo had asked the advice of the Francezcis, who despite their apparent youth were his “Godfathers” in everything but name.
Their response had been quick in coming—they would “talk” to the wayward young thug—but they had demanded carte-blanche in his handling, in whatever advice or punishment they found it necessary to hand out. Wholly sick of his nephew’s often threatening behaviour even towards his superiors—which included the elderly capo himself!—Vito Milazzo had agreed readily enough. Frankly, he didn’t give a damn what the Francezcis did to Mike; Mike was already dead where his uncle was concerned. A man offers a helping hand to the undeserving, no account, illegitimate son of a brother long gone the way of all flesh in America, and this jumped-up bastard should immediately take advantage, start muscling in around the territories, crapping all over his benefactor’s business and generally fucking him over at every opportunity? No, Mike deserved whatever he had coming—but not from his uncle. No way! Forget about it! Family values, and all that shit. But, as Vito’s cousins in America would probably have it: “What are you gonna do?”
All of which had occasioned Mike’s first visit to the Francezci citadel in the Madonie mountains, which was something he would never forget; though from the brothers’ point of view it might appear that it was already forgotten. Hence this second summons, or so Mike suspected, but only in part correctly.
Now, driving his car up the winding mountain road, fearful and apprehensive in the knowledge of his most recent misdemeanours, as his headlights lit up the luminous arrow warning signs at the hairpin bends, Mike once again remembered in detail that first visit. And vampire that he now was, still he shivered uncontrollably…
Then too the time had been approaching midnight. The Francezcis had this complaint apparently, this photophobia: an aversion to light, especially sunlight. They saw no one and were seen by no one during daylight hours. Chauffeur-driven in their black limo—whose specially tinted windows were opaque to the glances of curious passers-by—their presence might be suspected or even observed by night in Palermo, Bagheria, or some other town more local to their place in the mountains. For there in comparative privacy, in secluded rooms or on the reserved balconies of some of the island’s finest restaurants, the brothers would hand out advice, share invaluable intelligence, and discuss business concerns with Sicily’s top Mob bosses…but never in daylight.
There were of course excellent reasons why they restricted such outings, meetings, and conversations to the dead of night, one of which the arrogant, overly self-assured, quick-tempered Mike Milazzo—as he had been then—had been about to discover for himself…
In the courtyard of Le Manse Madonie, Mike had been met by two Francezci henchmen who had frisked him rather sloppily. One of them, who stank of too much costly aftershave, had taken his automatic. Then they’d ushered him inside the ancient, mazy old mansion, and left him in a dimly lit, marble-floored room whose walls were decked with rich tapestries and gilt-framed pictures and whose furniture was of mahogany and old but supple leather. The big oval table at which Mike was left seated was of marble, gold-rimmed, with a wonderful mosaic of multi-hued marble chips so arranged as to display a two-metre map of Sicily. As for the tapestries and paintings: When Mike’s eyes had grown partly accustomed to the shadowy gloom, he had seen that the former hangings depicted foreign lands—chiefly Romania and the mountains of Transylvania—while the pictures were mainly portraits.
Hung sinistrally, anticlockwise, to represent the line of descent of the Francezci family (or at least its twin brothers, for it could only be them) there were at least two dozen of the latter dating from ancient times to the comparatively modern: a thousand or more years of the dynasty’s male offspring. And all of them—apart from their dress, their postures, the artistic styles of the various periods, and the natural aging and darkening of the earlier works—all of them looking amazingly similar if not exactly alike.
After a while, angry at his treatment—that he’d been kept waiting like this, with his nerves on edge in the silence, the solitude of this large room—and as his eyes grew more fully accustomed to the dim lighting, Mike had decided he didn’t much like the way the faces in the portraits seemed to be staring at him. Rising, he had crossed the floor to take a scowling closer look at them. And that was when the Francezcis had appeared.
From their picture on the wall to their physical presence, Mike saw immediately how right he had been. The twins, pale as they were, seemed paradoxically more darkly handsome than Mike himself; and it had been wholly obvious that they were the men in the most recent of the portraits. Indeed, they might easily have sat for all of the paintings! That last had been a fleeting thought…the young thug could scarcely have imagined it as a matter of fact.
Without pause the brothers had then called him back to the table and waited for him to reseat himself before they commenced what he had imagined would be some sort of threatening interrogation or “interview;” but in any case a “frightener.”
And one of the pair had opened with: “Mike Milazzo, as you are known. You know who we are—or if not, you will know soon enough. I’m Francesco Francezci and this is my brother Anthony. Your ill-advised activities, far too many of them, have come to our attention for our consideration. However, before we determine what’s to be done with you, do you have anything to say for yourself? Any excuses you might care to offer by way of explanation? Any redeeming features you think we should know of?”
Looking from one to the other, Mike had suddenly found himself sneering. Why, these guys couldn’t be too many yea
rs older than he himself! And: “Godfathers, you?” he’d snorted, relaxing back into his chair. “I should explain myself—offer ‘excuses’—to you? Oh really?” Ha! Let the old men of the Sicilian Families kow-tow to such as these, but not Mike. Everything he had heard about the brothers—not that he’d heard a lot—what did it all add up to? Nothing much: a bunch of hooey was all! False gods, these guys, and nothing more.
And as the brothers had glanced with raised eyebrows wonderingly, perhaps speculatively at each other, he had continued: “You’re like a pair of rich, spoiled snails, too scared to drag your shells into the light; scared that someone is going to see you, know you for what you really are: a pair of fucking frauds, that’s what! But Dons, Godfathers? Don’t make me laugh! I don’t know how you’ve conned the old Mob guys in Siracusa and Palermo all this time, but you don’t con Mike Milazzo. You two? Why you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours in America! So fuck having this little chat with you guys. Me, I’m out of here!”
Daring, ridiculously bold, but Mike wasn’t just muscle. His senses had been honed by a short lifetime of danger in America; he’d been aware of furtive movement behind him, someone or ones moving closer, and he’d smelled again the expensive aftershave of the Francezci soldier who had lifted his gun from its underarm holster. His harangue had been provocative, insulting, and aggressive…but it had also had a purpose: to put those men behind him off guard, give them the wrong impression, make them think he was stupid, all mouth and no brain.
Well, it was true enough: He sometimes mouthed off, got to breaking balls with the wrong people; but he could also back it up. He had the speed, the strength and the know-how, and it was time he showed these Francezcis just exactly who they were dealing with here. His gun may have been taken, but they had missed the slender, razor-edged knife in the sleeve of his lightweight jacket. Redeeming features? Oh, he would show them some redeeming features!
Mike hadn’t known when exactly the brothers’ men had entered the room, there must be doors other than the one he had come in through. But as a shadow from behind him had darkened almost imperceptibly he had known for sure they were there, known also how to react to their threat. With the smell of aftershave growing stronger, he had slammed back his chair with every ounce of his strength, directly into the knees of both men, and was gladdened to hear at least one bone crack and a sharp yelp of pain. Then, turning as he started to his feet, he’d lashed out at the nearest target with a flat hand whose fingers were stiffened to rock hardness: a slicing blow to the throat.
The man with the popped knee was already down, squirming in agony; the other—the one with the aftershave, who had lifted Mike’s gun—had been sent staggering, clutching at his throat where Mike’s blow had smashed his Adam’s apple. One glance, and Mike had climbed his chair, toppled it, been on the choking man in a second; one hand in his greasy hair while the other patted his jacket, dipped into a pocket and came out clutching his own weapon. And as easily as that he’d rearmed himself.
Then Mike had taken a moment, all of half a second, to aim a kick at the downed man’s throat and put him right out of business, rammed his gun in Mr. Aftershave’s ear and, still clutching a handful of his hair, maneuvered him down to the floor and kneeled behind him, using him as a shield. He hadn’t even required to use his knife and it was all over, or so Mike had reckoned. But he had reckoned without the Francezcis.
They had looked at Mike where his weapon was now pointed at them, and as they rose to their feet their movements were surprisingly smooth, unruffled. They appeared unafraid, even unconcerned! And again Mike had seen them glance at each other speculatively…or perhaps with new-found resolve? And:
“So then,” the one called Anthony had slowly nodded, leaning forward to rest his knuckles on the table. “It would appear you are well capable of looking after yourself.” And smiling in his way—a smile as cold as the face of the moon—he’d continued, “Given time these men will recover, of course, but still you dealt with them in short order and severely. You have small regard, it seems, for your whereabouts and your…situation.” In its way a question, it was delivered with a raised eyebrow.
“These ‘men’ of yours are useless,” Mike had replied. “Boys doing a man’s job—which doesn’t work. This one smells like a woman, and he didn’t even put the safety on my shooter!” Saying which he had returned the muzzle of his automatic to that one’s ear. “As for his ‘recovery:’ if I put a little pressure on this trigger he won’t be recovering, believe me! Not with his brains—if he ever had any—all over your nice shiny floor!”
“Believe you? Oh, we believe you!” Francesco had answered, almost conversationally. “With his brain ruptured, ripped apart by a bullet, he would be very definitely dead. Which is as good a way as any to kill such as him, certainly.”
“In fact,” said Mike, rising and releasing his victim, hurling him onto his side on the marble floor, “I’m surprised these guys have any life left in them at all!” He was frankly puzzled that both of the seriously injured soldiers were indeed showing signs of recovery, not squirming so much as trying to sit up!
“Oh?” Anthony had laughed, moving around the table and that much closer to Mike. “Is that so? But you see, my young friend, they have a great deal of life—well, of sorts—remaining in them even now. They are very tenacious creatures, Mike, even as you yourself would appear to be. But with them it is…it’s a far more recent thing, something in their blood. You might even say they were reborn, recreated with it. While in you it’s pure instinct, the natural skill of the predator.”
“That’s correct,” Francesco had agreed, also moving closer. “And you are very fortunate, for it may even be possible we can find a use for such skills…after all!” That “after all” had sounded oddly ominous, hinting of a brutal fate barely avoided, but Mike had been given little enough time in which to consider or worry about it.
For while speaking to him—unaccountably and without Mike realizing it, yet startling him and shocking him at the last—the Francezcis had somehow contrived to approach him by moving over the floor in a rapid yet deceptively flowing, indeed effortless fashion. Until now, suddenly, they were at point-blank range!
Mike had fallen back a short pace; he tripped on one of the groping figures on the floor and barely managed to maintain his balance. But despite his sudden confusion—the rising tide of unaccustomed anxiety, uncertainty he felt welling deep inside—he had retained sufficient control to continually shift his aim from one Francezci to the other and back again, taking no chances but covering both of them, despite that it seemed they were unarmed.
And it was during one such split-second shift, with his gun in motion, swinging halfway between the brothers, that Anthony had grown bored with the game and acted to end it. As for Mike: He hadn’t even seen the other move—it had happened that fast! But in that single, blurring, unbelievable split-second, Mike’s gun hand had been grasped in slender but vise-like fingers, the safety catch on his automatic had somehow been applied, and the weapon itself had been taken from his fist with such force that he’d felt certain his hand must be broken!
What had happened, Mike wondered? Was something wrong with him? Had he suffered a stroke, passed out or something, if only for a second or so? And what had changed—what was different—about the Francezcis? Their eyes in the gloom were now…what, feral? Yes! Luminous as a cat’s eyes at night, they flared sulphurous yellow in the twins’ vilely grinning faces, like small lamps burning on Mike. And the monstrous looks of the brothers; their features, changing; the way their lips writhed back from scarlet gums—gums that tore as they sprouted terrible teeth!
Or was it possible that these anomalies were simply hallucinations, delirious illusions, symptoms of whatever was wrong with him? Was he still entirely conscious and not nightmaring? And if so, how was it that the men he had so severely injured, indeed crippled, were already rising to their feet!?
By then survival had been uppermost in Mike’s mind, and he ha
d fumbled with his jacket’s sleeve at the cuff, squeezed it, and tried to close his fist on the ugly blade that sprang into view…only to find that his fingers were still numb, unable to obey him. And his knife had clattered to the marble floor.
And finally Mike had felt himself staggering. Incapable of keeping pace with or even comprehending what was happening to him, he might well have lost consciousness, collapsed from the sheer shock of it—had he not been held effortlessly upright by Anthony on one side and Francesco on the other, their slender but amazingly powerful hands like crutches in his armpits. And when one of the brothers—but which one he couldn’t have said—had clapped a handkerchief soaked in some kind of anesthetic over Mike’s nose and gasping mouth, he had been utterly incapable of doing anything about it.
So that darkness had swiftly followed…
IV
Following which time had lost all meaning to Mike. He had felt there were periods—moments, at least—when he was awake, but mainly he had slept; he had slept, nightmared, and dreamed scarlet dreams. The brothers Francezci: their rabid, grinning faces dripping blood!…the biting pain that Mike felt whenever one of them, sometimes both of them, were near…the burning pain in his throat, beneath his jawbone, sometimes in his wrist…the drowning sensation, of swirling into oblivion, spiralling away like a spider down a plug hole.
He had been in a box—no, a coffin, in a cavern—a place that was sometimes lit, more often in darkness…and Mike had sensed something nearby that tossed and seethed and lusted. But lusted for what? Perhaps for him? And he’d felt empty and tired…so very tired. So tired indeed that later he would remember thinking: Is this death? Surely this is how death feels!