“You truly outdid yourself, Letizia,” Carina says. “Your little surprise as we walked out of the Church… It was astonishing—simply unheard of! People are talking about it to this day…”
“The… surprise?” I ask, confused.
“Why the butterflies, of course!” Carina adds. “Hundreds of royal blue butterflies appeared in the piazza at the end of the ceremony.”
“It was a beautiful sight to behold!” Fabrizio adds.
I gasp harshly. My heart beats faster, and for a second, I cannot breathe.
“He released them…” I muse. A turmoil of sadness and nostalgia brews in my core.
“What is it, dearest?” Carina whispers. “Are you unwell? She looks terribly pale, Fabrizio.”
“It’s this wretched heat…” I mumble.
“I shall take you to your room, Letizia.” Carina holds my hand and helps me on my feet. “You need to rest.”
Speechless, I nod.
“Fabrizio, will you help me?” Carina asks.
“Of course, dear.” He springs off the chair and takes my arm.
Samyaza’s dark green eyes flash before my mind. He gave up his one chance at redemption… He kept his promise.
“You set them free…” I whisper.
I cannot breathe. My pulse is racing. Carina and Fabrizio’s voices muffle in the distance. I can only hear my heart beating harder and faster.
Everything turns black.
I am out.
There are places where the mind wanders to heal from its wretched wounds. Some places reside in our dreams, and I have had the same dream for the past three months.
In it, I see him—the real him. He’s not a monster, but the fairest of beings, a creature of such beauty that not even the depths of hell could spoil. He is the man that strolls La Serenissima’s callis, the man who roams without a plan, who enjoys getting lost in the core of Venice and then finding his way home.
I see him standing in the courtyard of the old palazzo, the place where I witnessed him unveil from all layers of his mortal guise. I see him bearing the black armor with majestic black wings spread across the garden. The faint smile curls on his lips as I draw near. And with open arms, he welcomes me once more.
I will always be here, Letizia, he whispers. Come back to me.
A gust of cool wind howls in my ear and tangles my hair.
Letizia…
“Letizia! Please, wake up!”
This is no dream. I open my eyes to find a man standing before my bed, which is enough to alarm me. I curl up against the headboard and force my focus enough to make out the traces of the man’s face.
“Letizia, it’s me.”
“Fabrizio?” I frown, looking at the wall clock. “It’s three in the morning! Go back to bed.”
“This cannot wait a minute longer!” With the familiarity only a sibling can have, Fabrizio sits at the foot of the bed.
“Well, this must be serious,” I mumble, forcing myself into my senses. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Carina’s father has fallen gravely ill,” he says in a calmer voice. “We must return to Venice as quickly as possible.”
“Of course, you must,” I say, blinking a few times until my vision is clearer. “I am sorry to hear this… I wish I could join you but I must sing tomorrow at the Bonnemaison’s and I—”
“I understand, dearest.” He pats my hand. “I wonder if you might lend us the carriage to get us as far as—”
“Say nothing else,” I say, pushing away the covers. “I will call the coachman immediately. Please take the carriage all the way to Venice. The coachman will let you know where to change the horses.”
“Thank you, dearest sister.” Fabrizio kisses my hand. “I will leave you now.”
I rise from the bed and pull the bell, calling my servant to speed my dressing. Time is of the essence.
She arrives quickly. I can hear the soft neigh of the horses below my window. Outside my bedroom brews a tumult of hurried footsteps and travel trunks being dragged through the corridor.
Candle in hand, I descend the last steps of the stairway. “Carina!” I meet her at the doorway and hold her in my arms. “Safe travels, beloved sister. May your father’s recovery be swift.”
Carina purses her lips, overtaken by a wave of emotion. She simply nods, holds me in her arms tightly for a few seconds, and then steps into the carriage.
“Brother, I will meet you as soon as I can,” I say, holding him by the shoulders. “Make sure to call my physician, Dr. Wells.” I pause. “He will do everything in his power to restore Signor Garzolo’s health.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Letizia.” He dips his fingers through his hair.
“Go on, now.” I press his hand. “I shall see you soon.”
Fabrizio nods. He walks to the carriage, quickly settling inside. A couple of taps to the ceiling and the carriage pulls away from the driveway. I am compelled to follow the carriage all the way to the gates. And as I stand on the street, I fasten the shawl around my shoulders, clasping my hands before my chest.
Standing by the dimly lit street, I hug my arms to keep myself warm. The month is May, and the heat of the summer day lingers in the wind still, but the chill that runs down my spine is one of fear of finding myself alone again.
Fabrizio and Carina will join her family in Venice, and I will remain in Paris yet another week. Tomorrow, I will sing for a wealthy family, the Bonnemaison’s. The rewards will be such that in my reach will now lay acquiring any large estate in Paris or Rome. But my heart points me to Venice. I might never leave La Serenissima, no matter how many cities I discover in my travels as the great prima donna from la Scuola Veneziana.
The hooves’ clanking grows faint as the carriage diminishes in the distance.
“Ils vous quittent, mademoiselle?” They abandon you? a voice asks.
A man stands a few feet away from me. Is he a lamplighter, ready to change the street’s dying candle? His figure is swallowed by the growing darkness. He raises his hand and removes his hat, and taking a step forward, a beam of moonlight lands on his face revealing the man’s green eyes.
His attire is proper Parisian couture, a three-piece suit in pale blue silk embroidered in gold. Pristine silk stockings, the finest lace ornaments his cravat and peers through his jacket’s cuffs. He is no beggar, but a man acquainted with style and no stranger to luxury. But why would such a man trudge the streets at this late hour?
“I would never dream of abandoning such a fair mademoiselle as are you…” His skin is smooth beneath the shadow of his stubble beard. The twinkle of mischief in his eyes draws me to him.
“I will survive, signore… I am certain.”
He raises his brow with surprise. “Ah, Italian…” He takes a step closer. “You are rather far from your homeland.”
“No more than you, signore. However flawless your French, you yourself are not Parisian.”
He sniggers. “Alas, I am exposed,” shrugging his shoulders. “We are both strangers in a strange land. What shall we do tonight?”
Perplexed by his words, I flinch.
“Do not be alarmed, signorina…” he says under his breath, letting his charming guard down. Raising his hand, he reveals a bottle of wine and gives it a quick twirl. “You look like you might need a drink… Interested?” tilting the bottle towards me.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I snatch the bottle off the stranger’s hand and give it a quick swig.
“Careful there…” He chokes a laugh. “You don’t want to finish the whole thing at once. That would ruin all the fun.”
I cannot help but laugh. “You signore, are a very strange man.”
“I adore such compliments…” The corner of his lips curls in a tantalizing smile. “Come. I know just the place where we can finish this bottle.”
He grabs my hand and pulls before I have a second to consider the impropriety of our behavior. And I let myself be guided by him, by his genuine impulse which I find so r
efreshing and impossible to resist.
“We should not be here,” I whisper, following him through the field into the building’s back lawn.
“And why do you say that, signorina?” he replies with feigned concern.
“Are you being serious?” I raise my gaze. The spire reaches high into the evening sky, the bell towers’ silhouette cast their shadow upon us. “We are in Notre Dame—a cathedral, signore!”
He listens to my words of warning, but they matter little to him. And picking a spot in the lawn’s center, he sits on the grass. A second later, he leans back and lies flat on the earth.
“Oh, you must absolutely do this…” he says. “Come see.” A quick wave of his hand beckons me to mirror his posture.
I bite my lower lip. “All right, then.” Tempted beyond reason, I follow his example and lie beside him. “What is so compelling?”
In silence, his finger points up.
Darkness has long set in, and myriad titillating stars pend from the sky, too many for the human eye to behold. In that instant, a shooting star crosses the heavens.
“Beautiful…” I muse.
“¿Am I? I think so too. Glad you approve,” he teases.
I cannot help choking a laugh. “The stars,” I add, clarifying.
“I know.” He smirks, pleased with his game.
“What were you doing strolling the streets at such a late hour?” I ask, imprudence being one of my flaws.
“I adore taking small promenades in the evenings. The stillness of the hour makes it so much easier to appreciate the city,” he says. “Keeps my mind away from other things…”
“What things would those be?” I need to ask.
“I drowned eight years ago along with my brother,” he whispers, his gaze locks in the sky. “In spite of myself, I survived… My brother did not. Since then, I vowed never to take a single thing for granted.” He takes a swig of wine.
“That is a sad story…” I muse, taking the bottle off his hand.
“Is it?” For the first time, he turns to face me. “I don’t know… Whatever horrors lie in my past… they led me here.”
“You embrace your misfortunes, signore?” I am intrigued.
“With all my heart.” Another charming smile. His fingers glide over mine. A thousand tiny bursts of lightning run beneath my skin and spread to every inch of my body. I want to say something, but as my lips part to speak, he snatches the bottle away.
“My parents drowned… Five years ago. A shipwreck in the English Channel,” I mutter. “My father led a life of debauchery and gambling. My brother and I lost everything when our parents died… I despise my misfortune, signore. I cannot embrace it.”
He purses his lips, wearing a frown. “Here,” he says, heaving a heavy sigh. “You need this more than I do.” The bottle lands in my hand.
The charm of his voice makes me smile. “Do not pity me. In the end, we recovered everything and more, signore—my brother and I.” I pause. Why am I telling him this? I hardly know the man, but I cannot stop myself.
“And how ever did you manage that?” He turns sideways, leaning over his elbow. I do the same until we face each other.
“I am a singer, signore,” I boast with a burst of confidence.
“A singer?” he says, pleasantly surprised.
“Mm-hmm…” I nod. “I am Letizia Leone, prima donna de la—”
“La Scuola Veneziana dell’Opera… Yes.” He hints a smile.
“You have heard of me?” I ask.
“On countless occasions,” he muses. The warmth of his breath lands on my neck.
“You enjoy opera, signore?” I think of nothing else to say.
“Not as much as I should, I’m afraid.” His fingers glide through my hair. “A leaf…” he whispers, showing it to me, caught between his fingers.
There’s something alluring in the softness of his lips, the gentle stare of his deep green eyes… Those eyes remind me of the demon I once loved and lost. What would it be like to feel those lips press against mine? Would the touch of his long and delicate fingers thrill me as much as Samyaza’s once did? I want to know, and eager to discover it, I lean closer.
He wastes no time. His hand quickly smooths over my jawline and pulls me even closer. His other hand glides around my waist and guides me back as his body rolls over mine. The scent of wine emanating from his mouth entices me further to kiss those full lips. But his wishes anticipate mine and now his lips land on my own.
Blinded by the fire of his kiss, I moan. Then it occurs to me. “We cannot do this,” I say with panting breath. “Not here.”
“And why not?” he whispers in my ear with feverish desire.
“This is holy ground…” I close my eyes, giving in to his demands.
“What better place to reach Paradise than through the gates of heaven?” he adds, lowering his body over mine.
I smile. “Did you really just say that?”
Amusement gleams in his stare. “Was it not poetic?” he asks with feigned confusion.
“Absolutely not.” I snigger.
“Well, I thought it was,” he teases.
“And you were wrong.” I cannot help but laugh. It might be the wine, but I am joyful to the brim.
“What would you have me say, then?” he adds, determined to please me.
“You may talk about my beauty,” I begin, “the mystical quality of my fine eyes, or the quick wit behind my decisive nature.”
“All of those amiable qualities,” he says. “But none so much as one in particular that defines you.”
“Which is?”
“The mastery with which you hold your liquor.”
Both of us burst into laughter.
“Who’s there?” A voice calls in the distance.
I cover my mouth, choking my laughter. I haven’t laughed like this in years, not since my parents lived.
He leans close to my ear. “I want you, Letizia Leone,” he whispers.
“And I you,” I answer, holding his hand. “But I have yet to learn your name.”
“My name is Ivan Lockhart,” he replies.
“Dear me, I am so drunk…” I muse. “I might forget your name by morning.”
“Don’t you worry…” A flash of a smile. “I’ll make sure you remember it.”
Also by Silvana G. Sánchez
To find out more about Letizia Leone and Ivan Lockhart, continue the story in Written in Blood, A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren series.
Other works by the author also include:
Call of Blood, A Novel of The Unnatural Brethren
The Unknown, A collection of thirty-one creepy micro poems.
From Silvana G. Sánchez’s
CAST IN BLOOD
Water
There is water on the tiled wood floor. The trail leads to a door. That door is closed. My hand reaches out and pushes it open.
In the corner of the room, partially concealed amidst the shadows, I see him. Damp blond hair, piercing blue eyes that run me through, drenched white shirt sticking to his arched back, water dripping from his fingertips.
Fear as sharp as my damned fangs slushes through my racing heart, tightened throat—pressure clenching my stomach. Shuddering, I step back and stop at the room’s threshold. Never once parting my sight of him, I lean against the door that then shuts behind me.
There is no time to question reality, no time to argue with my reason. The fact is that he’s here and over three hundred years have passed since last we’ve seen each other.
My quivering lips part and utter the name of fear itself.
“Viktor?”
A sardonic smile in reply.
I close my eyes, and like a child, I pray—for the first time in three centuries, I pray to God that my dead brother disappears.
One shallow breath and I open my eyes only to discover that my brother is not gone.
He’s no longer in the chair. He stands but a few feet away from me—skin tight and shrunken to the b
one, the pale luminescence of death as his halo… But he’s no angel.
About the Author
Silvana G. Sánchez weaves the paranormal into historical romance. The possibilities for the unexplained spring the worlds of her creation, including The Unnatural Brethren series and the upcoming saga of the Deveraux Witches.
Her endless fascination for travel and historical research deliver an evocative prose that transports readers centuries back to pristine European landscapes where ancient cities become characters themselves.
She lives in Mexico City with her loving husband Eric, their twins Iker(†) and David, and their adorable ShihTzu puppies: Wookiee and Padme.
When not cutting and healing eyes in her medical practice as an Ophthalmologist, she may be found lurking on Twitter or Facebook. Make sure to stop by, she doesn’t bite—not always, anyway.
For more information:
silvanagsanchez.com
[email protected]
Acknowledgments
The Devil's Song Page 16