He fell asleep in the chair. He woke when Charles returned with his clothes. He felt much better, and a look in the mirror told him that his color was nearly back to normal.
“Time to go, lad,” Charles said.
Brigham took his clothes. “Is there an orientation or something?”
Charles smiled. “No, you will know what to do by instinct.”
“There are more than one of us in Venice. Do we have territories?”
“No. We know our own kind, and there is no rivalry. Now get dressed. You are free to go.”
“I thought I was to be part of a collection. In-house, as you called it.”
Charles nodded. “Yes, normally. At the moment, however, I have reason to let you return to your life. We will consider the alternative another time.”
BRIGHAM WENT TO THE APARTMENT to see whether there was any sign of Rose and to take care of the dogs; it was time for their breakfast. A call to the police was fruitless. they hadn’t heard or found anything, not that they were working on the case anyway. He fed the dogs, then took them with him to his studio. He needed to get some work done and at the same time try to figure out how to find Rose.
At the studio he made a pot of coffee. His reflection in the mirror was normal, although a bit raggedy. He looked into his own eyes, saying, “What are you going to do? How are you going to find Rose? What are you going to do when the hunger comes? Will there be a hunger? Are you going to be able to kill someone and devour them?”
He considered the morality of it. Killing, in and of itself, wasn’t the problem. There are plenty of reasons to kill, but there has to be justification. For example, the administration of justice, or for survival. But to do it all up close, with his victim’s breath warm in his face as they died, was a different thing. Should make for an interesting night.
Pink Jesus stared out silently from the canvas. After half an hour he said, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Brigham, sitting at an easel painting, looked up. “Have I ever told you that you should take that act on the road?”
“I think you did, once.”
“It’s still a good idea.” He went back to painting.
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Yes, I know what I look like. And I’m sure you know why.” He scratched paint onto the canvas.
Pink Jesus didn’t respond.
“What have I done? My obsession with growing old and dying has turned into a nightmare. After what I saw at Charles’s house, I don’t want to think of the possible places or states in which Rose could be. My wife has vanished, and I’ve been turned into a parasite, the full nature and extent of which I haven’t yet come to understand. When added to my drunkenness and the other material flaws in my personality, I’m at what might rightly be called a low point in my life, which now, it seems, will last forever. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“So you intend to sit there and paint?”
He drew a big circle with diluted red paint, which dripped the length of the canvas. “What else can I do?”
“Go find your wife.”
“Sure, I would love to. Any ideas on her whereabouts, Mr. Oracle?”
“Look in your book.”
“What book?”
Pink Jesus didn’t answer and remained quiet the rest of the day.
PINK JESUS, OF COURSE, meant the book with the secret writing, so Brigham sat down to study it. He read the writing between the lines of text. It was plain enough. No apparent hidden meanings. The map showing the vampire club was also clear, although it was not clear why it was included in the book except that there must be a connection between the club and the shroud eaters.
He focused on the letters SMV. What could they mean? The letters S and M together often stood for Santa Maria, leaving the V as the mystery letter. The name of a church? He got his map and went down the list of churches. Lots of Santa Marias, but nothing with a V. Could have been closed or demolished during the French occupation in the early 1800s. He went through the list again. Then there it was. Santa Maria della Misericordia, formerly Santa Maria Valverde. Of course. He should have remembered that. A beautiful little church attached to an old abbey, now used as a warehouse, like many churches that were closed during Napoleon’s rule. It was all starting to come together. The vampire club and an out-of-the-way, deserted church. No doubt related, but how did they relate to Rose?
The only things he hadn’t deciphered from the book were some random marks spread all through it and some numbers appearing with them. He should ask Mauro. And they certainly needed to take a look at Santa Maria Valverde.
XVIII
The next morning Mr. Todd called to tell him that Giorgio had decided to represent him. “Your cut is sixty percent.”
“Sixty percent? The thieving cocksucker. Tell him it’s eighty-twenty.”
Mr. Todd laughed. “Sixty percent is the standard. No one gets eighty percent, not even well-established artists.”
Brigham contemplated this for a moment. “All right, goddammit. How do we get this ball rolling?”
“I’ll have him fax you the agreement, you sign it, and you’re in business.”
“Great. I just wish my wife was here to share the moment.”
“What do you mean? What’s happened to your wife?”
He told him.
“Brigham, I’m sorry. I had no idea. You want to put this off until things get resolved?”
“No, she would want me to do it. It’s what I’ve been working for for years.”
“All right, I’ll get the papers to you today.”
AS NIGHT FELL, Brigham began to feel sick: weak, skin clammy, body drained of energy. He shivered. Must be what it feels like to need blood. Charles said instinct would tell him what to do. His entire body began to ache. He had to take action. He called Charles. No answer. Now that it was after dark, maybe he should go out and test this instinct. Brigham had no idea what to do, but Charles said he would know. But he didn’t.
He didn’t wish to do what he was about to do in Venice, but he had little choice. He wandered the streets looking for a victim. He thought of going to the mainland, to Mestre, for one of the whores who prance about there at gas stations, but that would be too much trouble and take too long–whatever joy he was about to sow in the world tonight would be sown in Venice. Thus it came to be that Brigham Stone, Esquire, having been turned into a blood-sucking gut-eating ghoul, walked the streets of Venice at night hunting human flesh in the cool mist that curled through the city.
No doubt he could catch a victim but then what? Maybe he should call Charles again. Maybe it would come by instinct. While this was going through his mind, his phone rang.
“Where are you, lad?” Charles asked.
Brigham told him.
“What are you doing?”
“I have a bit of an urge, as you might know, and I intend to satisfy it.”
“I see. I was perhaps a bit hasty sending you out. Come on over here, and we will take care of your urge in a more civilized manner.”
AS BRIGHAM WALKED TOWARD the bridge leading to Charles’s house, a figure strode quickly toward him: a man, disfigured, bent over at the hip so much that his torso was parallel to the ground, his legs disproportionately long, wearing a leather hat with a wide brim and long pointy boots. He approached Brigham and tilted his narrow, angular face upward, his eyes meeting Brigham’s.
“Brigham Stone?” he asked in a clear, articulate voice.
The look and sound of the man took Brigham by surprise. With his deformity, his scant beard, and a mouth filled with small, pointy, yellowish-brown teeth shooting in all directions, Brigham had expected a raspy, high-pitched voice. He blinked for a moment, then said, “Yes?”
The man smiled faintly with thin red lips. “I know what has happened to you. You are in danger, and I want to help.”
There was no doubt that Brigham was in a state of bona fide difficulty bordering on distress, but he didn’t feel in
danger. And how would this person know? And in what way would this misshapen manifestation of humanity be able to help? “Might a brother inquire as to who you might be?”
“My name is Tiberio. I’ve been sent to help you.”
Brigham ran his fingers through his hair. “You’ve been sent? By whom?”
“Let’s just say that I know you have seen some things of late that were… out of the ordinary.”
“Won’t deny that.”
“For example, people going through walls.”
“Yes, but—”
The man waved his hand. “I know what you went through, and I know what you are going through now. I know Charles practically kidnapped you and forced you to become what you are against your will.”
“How am I in danger?” Brigham asked.
“Charles is a danger to you.”
Tiberio led Brigham to the small square where he had seen the man going through the wall with a bloody sack. Brigham expressed concern as to the reason for visiting this place. Tiberio explained that the wall through which he saw the man pass was a doorway to the fifteenth century. This, and other centuries through other doors, was where Charles got his victims.
“I heard that the police didn’t think the bodies in the canals were from this century,” Brigham said.
“Yes,” said Tiberio, “that was in the papers.”
“I figured that would be a good way to get away with killing people but didn’t think it was true. How could it be?”
“It’s true.”
“So Charles passes through time to get his victims?”
“That’s right. And brings them back here.”
Brigham stroked his chin, staring into the distance.
“Have you heard of any missing persons from around here turning up in the canals?” Tiberio asked.
“No.”
“Then where do you think the bodies came from?”
“I figured they came from some third-world shithole where they don’t really keep a head count.”
“You’re close. When we go through you’ll see that old Venice does resemble the third world.”
“Wait, we’re goin’ through the wall?”
The man gave a nasty, pointy-toothed grin. “That’s the point of my visit. Follow me.”
Brigham’s eyes grew large. “Wait a minute.”
“Yes?” Tiberio said, pushing his hat back on his head.
“I’ve seen a lot of people go through walls. I’ve done it myself with Charles and with Gloria, but a door actually opened, and we always ended up in a room or chamber of horrors. They didn’t go to different times.”
“How do you know they didn’t go to different times?”
Brigham scratched his forehead. “I guess I don’t.”
The man smiled. “That’s right. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t, but you might not know.”
“Hmm. Well, how do I know you weren’t sent by Charles to drag me off to some pit?”
“Where were you going just now?”
Brigham blinked. “Yes, right. Why didn’t Charles mention all this before?”
“Maybe he wanted you to get caught.”
“But he called me to come over.”
“Maybe he changed his mind. Now, let’s go.”
They stepped into the wall. Brigham found himself on the same street in what clearly was a different time. Smoke floated through the city, and shabbily dressed people went about laborious tasks, such as washing clothes in wooden tubs, or carving stone, the ring of the hammer and chisel echoing through the air. A stench emanated from the canals and streets, the result of them being used as open sewers and the means of garbage disposal.
“What year is this?” Brigham asked.
“1485.”
“Looks like fucking India.”
Tiberio laughed. “It’s probably a bit more rustic than you’re used to.”
“That’s a good way to put it. I had no idea people lived in such filth and squalor. At the same time, though, it’s beautiful.”
Gondolas rowed by men dressed in brightly colored silk outfits glided over the water, and large wooden sailing ships docked at piers along the larger canals. People hurried about doing their business, and many vendors sold things in the streets. It reminded Brigham of the Renaissance fair they had every year in his hometown.
“So,” Brigham asked, “I just walk up to these portals and go to some year?”
“Yes.”
“How am I able to do it?”
“Because of your transformation.”
“Fascinating.”
Tiberio nodded.
“But I’m not really dressed for this,” Brigham said. “Maybe we should get out of here.”
Tiberio frowned. “Right, forgot about that. Wait here, I need to get something from that shop. Won’t be a minute.”
Tiberio came back with a satchel and motioned for Brigham to follow him back to the portal. “Always remember to dress appropriately for the time and bring a little money.”
“How do I know the time? And there are other portals?”
“The old book you have contains a map indicating where the portals are and what year they go to.”
“How did you know… never mind. Where do I get the money?”
“There is a coin and stamp shop near Campo Manin.”
“Yes, I know it.”
“Go there. The man knows about our needs.”
They arrived back at the gate. “Now, go through,” Tiberio said. Brigham went through, returning to the present, but Tiberio didn’t follow. The satchel landed on the street next to him.
Brigham called for him. No response. Tiberio looked like he belonged there anyway. He examined the contents of the satchel. It contained a crossbow, five arrows, and a message: “Don’t let Charles see this, and don’t tell him you have it. You will know what to do with it when the time is right.”
He dropped the satchel off at his studio and continued on his way to meet Charles.
BY THE TIME BRIGHAM REACHED Charles’s house, his condition had worsened. This is what it felt like to crave blood? Yet the thought of drinking blood, let alone killing someone to get it, revolted him. This would be a great moment of self-discovery. How would he feel killing someone? Or would it be necessary to actually kill them? Would he be able to kill? Maybe he could just take some blood, borrowing it, like a cup of sugar. In his condition, however, the question was moot. Surely, he had to do it. He was reaching the point where his agony was so great that he might kill to stop it. Moral question? It was more than arguable that he was no longer human and therefore not subject to considerations of morality. He had been liberated from death and from morality—a regular fucking bonanza.
Charles greeted him with a warm smile, a hug, and a kiss on each cheek. He led Brigham into the living room, where Samantha sat sipping wine. They exchanged pleasantries, then he and Charles got to the purpose of his visit: to satiate Brigham’s ungodly needs without running the streets all amok and animal-like, killing the innocent, if indeed there be any in Venice. The desire he now felt exceeded anything he had ever felt for alcohol or sex, either of which could make a brother insane.
Charles brought him into a room where on a table lay a young woman, nude, hogtied, and gagged. Charles indicated to Brigham to go ahead. He stood there, not knowing what to do. Using a large knife, Charles split her open from her crotch to her sternum. So much for just taking a bit of blood and leaving them alive.
Brigham vomited at the smell and the sight of the blood. No instincts took over. The desire to devour this creature, the desire he expected to overpower him didn’t materialize. To the contrary, the warm blood and tender flesh steaming in the cool air, heart still beating, repulsed him. He recoiled, overcome by nausea, not desire.
“Dear boy,” Charles said. “Eat, drink.” He motioned with his hand toward the table.
“I can’t,” Brigham cried.
Charles’s face grew dark. “You can! You must!”
/> The girl’s grisly open carcass laid waiting for him.
“It’s disgusting,” Brigham said, turning his head to vomit.
“You wanted immortality and now you have it. But here is the price.”
“You may recall that I tried to escape. I refused the price as too high.”
“This girl has been sacrificed so that you may live. You are a god in that way. Now drink!”
Brigham backed away from the table, though too weak and sick to resist strongly. Charles motioned to a couple of men standing in the shadows; they took hold of Brigham and held his face to the carcass. He struggled weakly, kicking his feet and flailing his arms, and soon lost consciousness.
HE WOKE TO THE SOUND of dripping water and the smell of damp, steamy air in a cavernous Roman bath, where several people lounged nude. Among them was Deborah, the wonderful writer, and Augusto, the exquisite conductor.
Brigham lay on a mat on the floor, covered only by a large white towel.
He propped himself up on one elbow.
“We meet again,” Deborah said.
Brigham nodded.
“Come in. You’ll feel better. The first time with Charles is always a… revelation.”
He waded into the hot, blue-green water, submersing himself to his chest, and sat on a tiled ledge. A fog floated above the pool, and lights just under the surface gave their faces with a ghastly hue.
Augusto glanced at Brigham, gave a faint smile, then looked away. Brigham waved his arms over the surface, watching the vapor disperse in their wake, then dunked his head under to clear his hair and face of any blood. “Where are we?” He combed back his hair with his hands.
“This is Charles’s Roman bath,” Deborah said. “One of the little perks of being part of his collection.”
“So, you two—”
“Yes,” she said.
Augusto continued to ignore him.
“But why?”
A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) Page 18