by C. D. Gorri
“Sophia,” she whispered while keeping her face neutral, not to give any hint that she was shocked at the man’s suggestion, or at how he had handled Baroli. No one ever talked to the tavern keeper this way. No one.
“Signorina Sophia stepping out for the afternoon. After all, she has had a most trying time.”
Baroli’s head bobbed like a buoy on a windy day, and he couldn’t give his consent fast enough. Sophia needed no further permission.
She quickly turned on her heel to rush from the tavern as fast as her feet would carry her. The coins in her apron bounced against one another, sounding like the tax collector when he came to take money from families.
Chapter Four
Mila stumbled on the shallow marble steps of Palazzo Fanti, and it was only her vampiric speed that kept her from falling over into the vampire in front of her. Though had she fallen, she felt it would not have been her fault, as the sun was still quite high in the sky, even for October.
She had a fleeting recollection of a mortal saying once that he had stubbed his toe quite painfully while tripping in the same way she had. He made a funny grimace to imitate the pain he was describing. His grimace when she had sunk her fangs into his neck had been more authentic.
Yet, this idea of pain was difficult for her. Reason dictated that as a mortal child, she must have experienced the sensation. But, those memories were now no more than strange flashes of fire and straw, burning against the night. She had been eighteen when Dorian turned her, and that had been more than three hundred years ago.
How ironic, then, that this was her first time in the Serene Republic of Venice, La Serenissima the others called it. The others were equally excited and pleased about this visit, as it had been just as long for them. First the disruptions of Great Mortality of the 14th century, and then the knife’s edge danger of the Ottomans had made travel in this part of the world dangerous for everyone, even vampires.
“I heard Signor Fanti was made in the 8th century!” Lady Abberley whispered eagerly to Madame Bellefontaine. Mila smiled indulgently. They were really quite new still, being just barely past their first hundred-year mark.
One had begged the Favor from Dorian when they all had been spending a bit of time in London after the plague of 1666. That had been a good time to hunt. No one questioned dead bodies in the street. Lady Abberley was an aspiring-but-failed royal mistress, and Dorian had felt sorry for her. He had also been more than happy to accept her ‘dowry’ of fifty thousand pounds and her dower estate as a thank you gift.
Madame Bellefontaine had joined them a decade later, though the ‘Madame’ part was a convenience she had adopted after the Favor. Before that, she had been despoiled and betrayed Mademoiselle Bellefontaine, abandoned by her married lover and more than happy to slaughter her entire disapproving family in order to bring Dorian her inheritance.
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Madame Bellefontaine replied, sniffing and curling her lip. “We spin more myths about ourselves than even mortals do.”
Mila admitted she had a point, at least for most of them. In order to spin a myth, there had to be a seed of truth to start from. For herself, she had always simply been Mila, Dorian’s grateful creation. There was nothing else about her that merited grandiloquent paeans.
She bumped into Lady Abberley, who turned and snarled, fangs flashing. Mila blinked slowly, keeping her expression even. The day when a fledgling like Lady Abberley became an actual threat was the day she’d hand a priest the wooden stake she always carried with her and beg him to put an end to her.
“Glad is your arrival, and sad will be your parting!” A deep voice rumbled across the domed ceiling of the foyer. At the top of the stairs stood a figure cloaked in magnificent peacock-colored brocade, only his white hands with their long, spidery fingers visible as he extended them in greeting.
“Glad we are for the welcome and hope that a parting will speed a return!” Dorian replied, finishing the traditional greeting among vampires granting truce and hospitality to each other.
Mila was pleased at the dashing figure Dorian cut, with his smart black cloak, stiff black hat, and grey wool traveling suit with snowy white lace at his throat and cuffs.
Dorian doffed his hat and made a gracious bow to the cloaked figure, who then returned the bow, throwing back his own hood when he straightened.
A small chorus of gasps erupted around Mila. If she hadn’t trained for decades to maintain her composure, she surely would have screamed.
Their host, Signor Fanti, was cruelly and gruesomely disfigured. His skin was a sickly white, with half of his face mottled and pimpled with scars from a long-ago fire. The other half bore the image of a cross burned from brow to chin, leaving a brutal scar of blackened blood.
Signor Fanti giggled, the sound incongruous with his deep voice. “Ah, yes, I am afraid I am rather a pitiable sight, my very dear friends, which is why I prefer to wear this cloak to spare your sensibilities.”
Something about his words struck Mila as not right. Or, perhaps it was something about this entire circumstance that made his comment odd. Whichever, it was worth remembering and considering later.
One did not survive three hundred years without learning to be suspicious of everything and everyone.
Except Dorian, of course.
There always had to be one person you could trust absolutely and completely. That was both the great strength and the great tragedy of most vampires’ existence, because nothing was surer than at some point, for some reason, that one person would betray you.
But not Dorian. Mila was sure of it.
Signor Fanti pulled his hood back up to cover his face. Dorian turned and looked over the coven group assembled behind him. His gaze searched them until he saw Mila in the back, and the cold quirk of his lips warmed a very little bit as he nodded to her. She raised her eyebrows in question. It was not part of established etiquette for him to introduce her or single her out in the first meeting with a coven host. However, knowing him as she did, she knew exactly what he was about, and so, when he extended his hand and beckoned to her, she primly gathered up her skirts and climbed the steps to meet him. It was a small pleasure to deliberately pass close enough to Lady Abberley and Madame Bellefontaine that the drooping black feather in her hat tickled her ladyship’s nose.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Mila gracefully placed her hand in Dorian’s, careful to keep her expression serene. Dorian brought her hand to his lips and kissed it before tucking it through the crook of his arm.
“Most gracious signor,” he said. “Allow me to present Mila, my most cherished little companion.”
Oh, how she loved hearing those words from his lips! Those words conjured warmth, safety, and home. Those words were her talisman against fear and fire. Those words gave her a place in the world that was absolutely certain.
Fanti’s sepulchral grin faltered and flickered for half a blink of an eye. But it was enough. As countless coven hosts had before, he had fallen for Dorian’s trick. A meeting between coven leaders was usually between old, powerful vampires, though on occasion, there was the equally dangerous, hot-headed fledgling feeling proud of his little coup that had placed him in charge. The greeting ceremonies had been prescribed and followed for centuries, designed to avoid conflict. Yet all the politesse in the world cannot change the nature of a hunter, and the nature of a hunter was to compete and establish dominance. Thus, coven leaders had found endless little ways of needling each other during these ceremonies. Peace and truce might be the outward order of the day, but the true order of things was always established by these subtle shows of power. It was all too easy for the predator to become prey if you didn’t constantly fight for your place.
By dangling Mila before Fanti as something Dorian both cherished and possessed, he had effectively dared the other vampire to steal something from him, violating the most basic and ancient tenet of feudal hospitality. Unless Fanti wished for war, he would not dare touch Mila. But the
very fact that he could not have her would drive him mad.
“I am most profoundly honored to make milord’s acquaintance,” Mila said, keeping her voice soft and sweet as she dipped low in her curtsey. She didn’t have to have vampiric senses to know that Fanti was eyeing the dip of her bodice as well.
“You are most welcome and will be more treasured than a white-sailed ship full of spice and pepper,” Fanti replied, nodding. Mila could see his gaze flicking between her and Dorian, trying to gauge exactly the depth and nature of their relationship. The true torture that Dorian loved to inflict upon his hosts was not revealing the fact that he and Mila were not lovers and never had been.
Dorian was her maker, her guardian, and her friend, and she his faithful right hand. It was more than enough, and Mila never hoped or wished for more.
“Well, well, well,” Fanti said, rubbing his hands together. “My servants shall see your people settled, and then, you may make free of my home and my city.”
“Most kind of you,” Dorian said, bowing slightly. Perhaps the tiny smirk was ill-advised, Mila thought, but as his words had been correct, no real offense could be taken.
Her thoughts were lost in the rush of silks, cloaks, and clicking fangs as the rest of their coven rushed up the stairs and greeted Fanti prior to making their way to their chambers. Mila was pulled back from the melee by a cool hand on her arm, and she smiled up at Dorian.
“Shall we let the chickens feather their nests while we go have a bit of fun?” he whispered, allowing a wicked grin to play on his lips.
“Best to leave before they lay any eggs,” she replied, struggling to keep a straight face.
“You’re not too tired? You do not need to feed?”
“Not at all. With every decade, I can go longer and am stronger in the sun.”
“You are truly the best of all my creations.”
“I know.”
“My most modest one, too,” he laughed and took her hand, helping her down the steps and tugging her cloak more closely around her before they slipped out the front door.
The autumn sun was weak, and though three hundred years had given her some resistance to its effects, she suspected it would be another three hundred before she could truly walk in daylight without feeling the sinking slipping of her abilities from full vampiric to almost―but not quite―mortal. At the sight of a passing beggar’s startled expression, she hastily pulled the black lace veil of her wide-brimmed hat down over her face. She had not fed since the night before, and though truly not thirsty in that moment, she knew she appeared preternaturally pale to mortal eyes. The fangs she had learned to hide long ago.
“A magnificent city,” Dorian said as they strolled along. “She was the finest and fiercest port in all the world when I was young. All that came and went in every land seemed to go through Venice.”
“Have you been here before?” Mila asked, lost in wonder at the sinuous, sensuous mix of stone and color that made up both palazzos and more ordinary buildings. She was fascinated by the arched windows and bronze lions that adorned many doors.
“Once, as a very young fledgling. My coven stayed with Fanti.”
“He recognized you from then? Is that why you played our game?”
Dorian laughed, careful to modulate the rich sound to a mortal pitch. “There are few vampires older than Fanti, so it is useless to pretend that age can give you power or standing against him. Cunning is what he both respects and fears.”
Mila drew in a deep breath, carefully separating the scents of salt air, manure, and ash. “Will our game be enough?”
“I would not bring you here if I were not absolutely certain of my ability to protect you.”
“I never doubted you. It is Fanti I doubt.”
“And so you should, moppet. You are growing quite wise.”
“Soon, I shall be as clever as you.”
Dorian chuckled again, and Mila’s heart swelled with pride at having amused him. She was the only one who could rouse him from his frequent black moods or bouts of sad, withdrawn contemplation. She’d witnessed the monster inside him throughout their time together, but he had never lashed out at her. The coven always turned to her to smooth things over with him, and then they despised her for being his favorite. She couldn’t have cared less, so long as Dorian was well and happy. It was the only way she could ever hope to repay the great debt she owed him.
They passed by so many churches that Mila thought morosely there must be one on every corner. They might have been pretty to look at, but the itching, burning sensation under her skin that they triggered kept them ugly and off-limits in her estimation. As they hurried by, she would stop breathing to avoid smelling the incense that tickled her nose but that nothing could relieve. She had seen mortals do something called a sneeze, and she wished very much to sneeze as well, for it looked like it gave much relief and satisfaction. But her attempts at reproducing the action did nothing to alleviate the unpleasant tickle in her nose from holy incense. Therefore, it was easier to stop breathing. It wasn’t as if she needed the air. Breathing was really only good for tracking your prey by scent.
Mila watched as Dorian strode ahead a few paces, his gait strong with his handsome broad shoulders carrying his cloak well. She was proud to have him as her maker, but she suddenly shivered at the thought of carrying the debt of the Favor to someone like Fanti. Dorian came to a footbridge over a narrow canal, and he held his hand out to her, gesturing for her to catch up. In keeping with the endless teasing between them, Mila refused to quicken her steps and proceeded sedately until she reached him.
“What a queer little city this is,” she said. “What is the point of having such a skinny canal that requires such a ridiculously little footbridge?”
“It is uniformly charming,” Dorian said approvingly. “You must appreciate the inconvenience at every turn in Venice to appreciate its beauty.”
“Then, as a city, it is the most stunning I have ever beheld.”
“Rascal moppet! Come.”
All humor left her, and she dug her heels in. Dorian felt the resistance in her arm and turned back.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The water.” She recalled the stories Dorian told her of water melting the skins of her kind, the way it would run in streams like candlewax. She held herself firm.
“So it runs with the tide, there is aught for you to be afraid of. You’ve crossed water before on bridges.”
“The bridge, it is so small.”
“It is large enough. You must trust me.”
Her obedience was as unquestioning as her trust, but that did little to allay her disquiet, and Dorian laughed heartily at her as she took cautious, mincing steps across the bridge. After teasing her about her fear and her fearsome dignity, he brought her around a corner to a nondescript portico. Once through that, she beheld the most incredible sight.
“Piazza San Marco,” Dorian breathed. “Home to the governing Signoria of Venice and the Doge himself.”
Mila barely heard his words. She was too busy allowing the full range of her vampiric senses to take in the breadth and magnificence of the square. It looked as if one building formed three sides of the square, with a graceful portico of columns that ran the length of it, providing shelter from the elements to pedestrians. Pigeons flitted and fluttered about, busy picking up the crumbs and bits of straw from the ground in the center of the square. At the far end stood a giant basilica, but at this distance, it did not affect her, and she was free to admire it solely for its aesthetic qualities. To be quite honest, the dome reminded her of a squat onion, but the other sculptures were vital and full of movement in their poses and lines.
“Are you done gawking, moppet?” Dorian asked, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and tugging her into motion.
“You brought me here to expose me to such sights, did you not? I am simply exposing myself.”
“Wicked little creature. When did you decide to become so cheeky?”
“When did you decide to start noticing that I was?”
Dorian laughed, and Mila permitted herself a smile, though the question sat oddly within her breast.
When did you decide to start noticing?
“Well, I beg you not to expose yourself, as I wish to bring you now to one of the things I wished most to see here in Venice. It’s a curious mortal tradition that I heard has taken root in London and now has shown up here as well.”
“I cannot be clever if you insist on speaking in riddles.” The curiosity was killing her, metaphorically speaking, of course.
“It is a coffee house.”
“That dark bitter drink in little cups?”
“Precisely.”
“And, they come here to drink it?”
“Indeed.”
“But…”
Dorian chuckled and quirked his brow at her.
“Why would they leave their houses to come to a public room to spend two minutes drinking something that tastes so terrible?”
Dorian lowered his voice to a whisper that only her heightened hearing could pick up. Mila raised her black lace fan to hide his face as he lowered his mouth to her ear to speak. Perhaps none of the mortals could read lips here, but a healthy suspicion of everything and everyone had been the key to her and Dorian’s survival more than once.
“It is like making love for them,” he said, restrained laughter in every mocking word. “The two minutes do not matter in the least. It is the ceremony of the arrival, the display of stating their desires, and lingering conversation after that they thirst for. What is the point of finery if it is hidden behind walls at every turn? Mortals crave notoriety and take it in whatever form they can get it―power, sex, politics, wealth. Even coffee.”