“I see you’re reading a book about vampires in Venice,” she said, her green eyes set in skin the color of soft parchment. She smiled pleasantly through vermilion lips.
Shocked that a woman half his age would bother to talk to him, he looked up at her, thinking she perhaps spoke to someone else. Her eyes, however, were fixed on him. “Yes, I’ve recently become interested in this stuff. You too?”
“Oh, yes, very much so.”
Her voice had a timbre that appealed to him. Very pleasant. Mesmerizing.
“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a chair across the table from him.
“That’s a beautiful book.” She sat.
“Yes, thanks. It’s a bit shopworn, but it’s eighteenth century.”
“It’s one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re a book lover.”
“Yes, I have hundreds of them.”
A beggar approached them, holding out a ball cap. Brigham tried to shoo him away, but he persisted. They ignored him, but he didn’t leave until the waiter came out and threatened to call the police.
“How annoying,” she said.
“I know. I hate them, but it’s the price you pay for sitting at an outside table in Campo Santa Margherita. At least they’re harmless.”
She smiled.
“By the way, I’m Brigham Stone.” He held out his hand.
She took his hand. “I’m Gloria. Pleased to meet you.”
“Glad to meet you, Gloria. Can I get you a glass of wine, or something?”
“Wine would be great. White.”
He ordered a glass.
She nodded toward the book. “Anything of interest?”
“Too early to tell. I just got it,” he said, thumbing through the pages.
The waiter handed her a glass of wine, and she tasted it, peering over the glass at Brigham. “How did you get interested in such things?”
He wasn’t sure what he should tell her. “Long story. You’ll think I’m nuts.”
She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. Give it a try.”
Reckoning that he had nothing to lose, he told her all about the bodies in the canals, the men going through walls, and how his buddy Mauro had determined that there were shroud eaters or vampires walking the streets of Venice.
“That’s fascinating,” she said. “Do you live in Venice?”
“Yes, I’ve been here for a few years. How ’bout you?”
“I’m staying here for a couple of months.”
“What brings you to La Serenissima?” he asked, holding up his glass to the waiter for more.
Gloria hesitated, swirled the wine around in her glass, then said, “There’s a club here I like to go to.”
“A club? You mean like a nightclub?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“Where is it? I know of only one club in Venice.”
She was silent for too long.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”
“No,” she said, “I brought it up. I want to talk about it.”
Several people sat at the table next to them, laughing and talking loudly. And then the waiter turned up the music. They couldn’t talk without yelling.
“Is there a quieter place near here?” she asked.
“Yes, let’s go across the campo.”
The osteria across the square contained fewer people, and played smooth jazzy music.
“Much better,” she said.
The waitress lit the tall candle stationed in the middle of the small wooden table. They ordered a bottle of prosecco.
“You were going to tell me about the club you go to,” Brigham said.
“Right. Well, I don’t know where to start.”
Brigham smiled. “Oh, it’s that sort of place.”
“No, no, it’s not what you think. It’s a private club. An underground club.”
“Sounds fascinating. And what sort of things go on at this underground club?”
The waitress delivered the bottle of prosecco in a bucket of ice, popped the cork, and poured them each a glass.
“Salute,” Brigham said, and they clinked glasses.
Gloria sipped her prosecco while gazing at one of the Venetian chandeliers near the bar. The candlelight shone in her eyes, and one could see that the vermilion of her lips was natural; she wore no lipstick.
“These chandeliers are beautiful,” she said.
“Yes, Murano glass. They take some getting used to, as they walk a tightrope between gaudy and beautiful, but I’ve come to appreciate them. So tell me more about this club.”
“Do you know what a sanguinarian is?” Gloria asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“A sanguinarian is a person who thinks they need the blood of other people to survive.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen these people on YouTube. They think they’re vampires.”
“Some people believe that, but most just find the lifestyle interesting and exciting. As for me, I’m not a vampire.”
“Good to know.” Brigham took a sip of prosecco. “Do these people drink blood?”
“Yes, some of them.”
“Do you?”
“Sometimes. Small amounts.”
“Wow. Do you like the taste of blood?”
“No… yes… it’s hard to explain.”
“Where do you get the blood?”
“There are people at the club who are donors. They provide the blood in small quantities, but they don’t drink it. Some people drink their own blood, but most sanguinarians don’t. There’s no benefit to it.”
“How do you get the blood? You cut the person, use a syringe or an IV or something like that?”
“Usually a needle connected to a very thin plastic tube. The blood is collected in a test tube or small vial. Much like the way a nurse takes a blood sample.”
He shivered. “Doesn’t sound too appetizing to me. I prefer the symbolic drinking of red wine.” He took a drink to get the imaginary taste of blood out of his mouth. “And this club is right here in Venice?”
“Yes.” She filled her glass, sipped the prosecco, then paused. Finally, she said, “Would you like to come to the club with me?”
“Oh, I don’t know… I was never the adventurous type. Isn’t it pretty much a closed society?”
“Yes, it’s quite private, and the meeting is held in a secret location, but we welcome people who are seriously interested in knowing something about the culture. People we trust.”
He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. This was too much of a coincidence. The dead, crucified, and blood-drained bodies showing up in the canals, and now this woman, drinker of blood, attractive, young, willing to just walk up and talk to him and then invite him to a secret vampire club. He couldn’t pass this up. “When is the next meeting?”
“Tonight.”
He thought for a moment. “Now this isn’t some kind of nudie club or girlie show, is it? My wife would have a bird.”
She laughed. “No. There are likely to be some strange costumes, but many of the people dress normally. You wouldn’t know that they were into such things if you saw them on the street.”
“All right. I’m not sure what I’ll tell my wife, but I don’t want there to be any pre-version going on.”
“Only what I told you, mostly fully clothed.”
“Mostly?”
She smiled. “I can’t promise some people won’t shed an article of clothing or two.”
“What’s the dress code?”
“Come as you are. Meet me in front of this place at eight o’clock.”
XII
“Judgeth me not, brother, for the very fact that I’m sitting here and not giving Miss Gloria what for is a testament to my moral strength and integrity.”
Pink Jesus said nothing.
A number of paintings in various stages of completion sat on easels around the studio, including Pink Jesus. The wea
ther had turned cold again, and the space heater did little to warm the room. He rigged a pitcher of martinis and sat on the sofa studying the paintings, chewing an olive and sipping the herbal juniper distillate, hoping to improve the art-making process. Pink Jesus eyed him with judgment and suspicion.
“And who are you to judge me anyway? I created you.”
“I’m not judging you,” Pink Jesus said.
Brigham jumped. He was not expecting to hear anyone else, and he couldn’t tell where the voice came from. Was someone in the studio? “Who’s there?” he called.
“It was me,” said Pink Jesus.
Brigham moved nearer to the painting. It looked the same as always. “Hello?”
“You keep talking to me, so I thought it was high time I answered.”
Brigham stepped back. “Okay, well, I was just talkin’. I didn’t really expect an answer.”
“I know, but it’s time someone talked to you.”
“About what?”
“About what you’re getting yourself into. I know you talked to that woman, and I know what you plan to do.”
He moved back toward the painting. “And how the fuck do you know that?”
“I have connections.”
“Connections?” Brigham chuckled. “I think you have connections to the gin in my brain. A painting can’t talk, not even one I did.”
“You’re about to step into a world you don’t want to be part of.”
He sat on the sofa. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m wondering that myself, but I feel compelled to say something.”
“All right, then,” Brigham said, leaning back, crossing his legs, and holding a fresh martini. “Let’s go ahead and have ourselves a conversation.”
“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”
“Nope.”
“I do, and I know you’re not cut out for it.”
“Let’s say you do know what I’m getting into. How do you know I ain’t cut out for it?”
“Because it involves blood, wild behavior, insanity, and… death.”
“Sounds like me,” Brigham said, sipping his drink.
“And what about the woman?”
“What about her?”
“You’re married.”
“That’s right. She’s just leading me into this little vampire world of hers. I ain’t gonna put my dick skinners on her.”
“How do you know? She cut a fine form, did she not?”
Brigham gazed at Pink Jesus while savoring his drink, giving himself time to think. “Indeed,” he said finally.
“How are you going to keep from getting yourself into trouble?”
“I see beautiful women all day long, and I don’t put my paws on ’em. I am a civilized human being. A man of culture and refinement.”
“Oh, but this is different.”
“How so?”
“Don’t do it, I warn you.”
“Aw, bullshit. What could happen?”
“Do you know what darkness is?”
Sunlight filtered through a dirty window to illuminate Pink Jesus’s face, causing it to glow hideously.
“You know I do. I wade through it every day.”
“No, you don’t know what true darkness is. But soon you will find it, or it will find you. Either way, if you take this path you will be certain to collide with it.”
Brigham rose from the sofa and approached the talking canvas. “Care to elaborate?”
No answer.
“Don’t go quiet on me now.”
Silence.
“Son of a bitch.”
He put on his coat and left the studio. It was snowing heavily, although the sun still streamed through breaks in the clouds. As he closed the door behind him, thunder punctuated the cold.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?”
“I’m watching the finale of Grande Fratello.” She handed him a pan she had been drying. “Here, put this in the cabinet.”
He did as instructed and then turned back to her. “I’m going to make a pot of coffee. Want some tea?”
Rose dried her hands and sat at the kitchen table. “Sure, thanks.”
“That show goes until after midnight, doesn’t it?” He put the kettle on the stove and got two mugs from a cupboard and set them on the table.
“Yeah, probably. What are you doing?”
“I think I’ll go out and get some air. Maybe explore a part of the city I’m not familiar with.”
“Just don’t fall into a canal. And don’t be too late.”
“You can watch that show any time, can’t you?”
“Yeah, it’s on the Internet.”
“Then come with me.”
“No, it’s too cold. I want to just stay here and watch the show.”
BRIGHAM FOUND GLORIA SITTING at a table outside the café as planned. Her hair, lit from behind by an unseen light, glowed about her head like a shining crown of holiness. A candle highlighted her pale skin and glinted in her eyes. The weather had cleared, the air was cool, and the breeze smelled like the sea.
“There you are,” she said, smiling.
“Not late, am I?”
“No, right on time. Prosecco?”
A bottle of prosecco on ice, along with two glasses, sat in the middle of the table. He poured them each a glass.
“Should we have something to eat?” he asked.
“No, there’ll be stuff to eat there.”
Discreetly studying her, Pink Jesus’s warning rang in his mind. Her outfit, not sexy in style or cut, nevertheless, was sexy, revealing her form pressing against the fabric as if struggling to escape.
“So how long does the party last?”
“Usually a couple of hours, but there’s sometimes an after-party.”
“I won’t have time for that, but I should be able to stay a couple of hours.”
“That’s fine. Just tell me when you want to leave.”
A short time later they approached a large door. Gloria made a call on her cell, the door buzzed, and they entered a courtyard. A thick tangle of dead vines covered the walls. No other doors were evident.
“Follow me,” she said. “Step only where I step.”
Near a thick wall of vines, Gloria stepped on a stone, causing a door, otherwise obscured by the vines, to open enough for them to enter. Through the door they crossed a room lined with columns, where they came to another door. Hearing a noise above his head, Brigham looked up in time to see a small opening in the ceiling snap shut. The latch on the door clanked, and they entered a gloomy hallway that led to a room occupied by a dozen people.
The “party” had started. The guests, many of whom wore Venetian masks, milled about holding cocktails and talking quietly while eighteenth-century music played faintly in the background. A long table in the center of the room held several bottles of prosecco as well as trays of small sandwiches and other food.
“Here,” Gloria said, “let me introduce you to my friends.” She led Brigham to a group standing in a corner drinking wine and eating small sandwiches. Some looked like anyone you would find in the street, dressed in jeans, a nice shirt, and a sport coat. A few, however, appeared more exotic. Goth. Masked. One man wore a long black coat, white shirt with the collar turned up, and had his head shaved on one side, with the other side long and hanging over one eye. His shoes were white and black patent leather.
“Buona sera,” Gloria said.
Some responded with a “sera” and a faint smile, while others just stood staring at Brigham. His tired blue jeans, wrinkled linen shirt, and charcoal-gray sport coat off the rack at Macy’s contrasted violently with Gloria, who looked like a heavenly queen come to earth with flaxen hair, her figure barely restrained by sheer fabric.
Gloria introduced him. Most greeted him with a reasonable amount of pleasantness, though the glare of one or two of the weirdos made it clear that they didn’t want him there.
This was the cocktail hour, as no one was sucking blood, or
doing anything that would cause anyone to bleed. As they chatted, the music changed to Gregorian Chant, and the lights went down, leaving the room lit only by candles.
Several people wearing masks and bathrobes entered, reclined on sofas and divans, and opened their robes to reveal naked bodies, male and female.
“The donors,” Gloria whispered.
A young woman inserted a needle connected to a small vial by a thin plastic tube into the arm of each donor.
Brigham cringed.
The other guests then went to a donor, sometimes two or three to the same one, and took turns sampling the blood from the vials.
“Are you going to drink blood?” he asked Gloria.
The music droned on, and the candles sent long, dark specters flickering up the walls.
“Yes, shortly. I prefer to wait a few minutes.”
“Which donor will you use?”
She nodded toward an attractive young woman. “That one.”
“Oh, you prefer the blood of women?” Brigham asked. The idea excited him.
“Yes,” she said, “does that bother you?”
He smiled. “No, to the contrary. There’s something intriguing about it.”
“Good. Are you interested in having some blood?” she whispered.
“Oh, no, I just want to watch.”
“That’s fine. Most people don’t take part the first time. Do you mind if I go over now?”
“No, I don’t. Please, go ahead.”
“Stay here. I’ll be back shortly.”
He sat in a large leather chair and took in the strange and wonderful scene. Some of the guests kissed and caressed the donors while others took their blood.
Gloria kissed her donor, took blood from the vial, and pressed her hands between the woman’s legs. The donor put her head back and moaned. They continued this exchange for several minutes. As Gloria returned, a spot of blood dotted one of her breasts, now slightly exposed.
“You spilled some,” he said, looking at the drop glistening on the curved mass of flesh.
“Here,” she said, “you have it.” Whereupon she opened her blouse and pushed her breast and the blood to his mouth.
He tasted the salty sweetness of it. The breasts affected him more, as the one was against his mouth, and the mass of the other pressed against his cheek. As wonderful as this was, he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t come here to be seduced or to drink blood. He pulled back.
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 9