SciFi and Fantasy Stories
 Printer Version
    

'In the Shadow of Death p4'


 
 

WritingsProfileFavoritesArtwork
Click For MoreDocument 18 out of 48 by Sandra Leigh Wagner.

SciFi and Fantasy Stories: In the Shadow of Death p4

Chapter 5: and heads will roll... Alia deals with the matters brought forth at a court which leads her to hunt down a brutal murderer in the streets of Venice.
Chapter 6: Shattered Glass
Alia deals with the fall out from Valencia's act of kindness. A few firsts in store for her.
Chapter 7: Either Angel of Death or Histories, I haven't decided yet. A little bit of history (and they what REALLY happened) and a deadly kiss!

    Main Category:   Horror  
    Sub-categories:   Dark, Gothic     Fights, Duels     Ghosts, Ghouls, Apparitions     Other Mythical Creatures & Assorted Monsters     Vampires      Magic and Sorcery  

Tag As FavoriteComment  Add Bookmark

 
 

5   and heads will roll
      
      I prowled the streets and rooftops around the university for three days. I knew actually entering the university would do me no good. My prey knew me, and it was not known if he could see me even invisible as Persephone’s friends could, so I took no chance. Casseadorus prowled within for me, as I did without. Niccolo had been ‘encouraged’ to send some of his less valuable girls out to troll for work in the vicinity of San Marco Square, near the library and along the Grand Canal. I listened for one of them to scream.
      Long before matins I saw a shadow creep out from the Basilica de San Marco into a side street, moving furtively as if wishing to not be seen. I followed. I was not disappointed. The cowled individual approached one of the women and the two of them walked together down a nearby alley past the Palazzo Ducale. They were not out of my sight a whole second before I heard the muffled outcry as she began to struggle.
      Invisible, I turned the corner, saw the knife gleaming darkly between bodies. He held her back against the wall with her mouth covered with one hand and with his other, stabbed her. There was no real conflict. The body it had taken was a large man, thickly muscled. He lay her down on the ground and began to cut her open before she was even dead. He no longer had to fear her cries would alert the neighbors. She lay there gasping for air like a dying fish. I had to admire his technique. He had put the knife where it would do him the most good, cutting her windpipe deep within the chest.
      The girl herself I was not concerned with. She would have been eaten by someone before much time had passed anyway. She was no longer pretty. I alerted Vittorio with a thought and took my time approaching.
      Once, he paused, looked up and around him as if he had sensed me somehow. His face was covered in blood, the girl’s heart in his hand. His cowl fell back, revealing the neatly tonsured head of a monk. I froze, and after a moment he turned back to his messy dinner. A breath later I felt a shadow brush my cheek and press at my back, as if urging me forward and I took it as permission to kill.
      I crept forward, sliding blade free inch by inch in deathly silence, but somehow… unnaturally, he noticed me. He turned as I raised my blade and scowled, parried the blow with his carving knife. It did not seem possible, that such a small, ill made weapon could face the weight and strength of my own Persian blades and not shatter. When the blade flashed again and bit into my arm I realized why. It was not steel. I do not know what it was, but it was not… real. Not as I know real. It was a thing of spirit, like the being I hunted. I had wondered how a monk could come into possession of a dagger that was clearly not made for table. The wound was cold, and wisps of smoke, like fog off the canal on a cool morning, rose from it.
      Battle was short and intense. I did not let him cut me again. Instead, I altered my blood and cut myself on my own blades. I moved faster than his stolen body could manage, making thin slices in several places and then stood back to let my blood work. At first, he merely slowed down, but then stopped moving altogether. I could see the frustration and anger in his eyes. Never once did I even attempt to put myself in his sandals, to think how I would feel had I been so easily captured beyond trying to anticipate an opponent’s next move. Not then. Now I can easily imagine the torment, but then I have since been tainted by Her. But that comes later, …patience. For now, do not make the mistake of confusing Understanding with Sympathy. I am as amoral as I ever was.
      At this time, Vittorio and Persephone stepped out of the shadows along the wall. I may have imagined it, but I could have sworn I saw her shudder ever so slightly. She studied the creature, and its eyes grew wide in fear. She circled him like a wolf circling its prey, examining all angles. She spoke in that hurried, unintelligible whisper, conferring with the chill that followed her. Then she began drawing in the air around him with the steel claw on her finger, leaving frosty green and blue glyphs glowing in its wake. When they were completed, at a word from her they began to spin around him, generating a cold and acrid wind in the small alleyway.
      Persephone raised her hand to me and I came to it, never once questioning that her will in this matter was His. As I approached, she ran her fingers, palm up, from my bodice and up my throat. When she reached my chin the claw stopped and pierced the flesh just inside the jawbone on the underside, drew forth a drop of blood and imbuing me with… something. I cannot explain it, then or now, but it was like ice in the veins. Ice that burned with a pulse of power.
      “Alia,” she breathed. I felt the power surge with that. For her to use a name was rare, for names carried power for her. “Through the heart, if you please. And do not withdraw until the body falls.”
      Obediently, I stepped up to the body, still held rigid by the force of my poisonous blood and slid my weapon cleanly into its heart. The glyphs altered their course around me, and I could feel their chill power as they brushed my hands where I entered the field. My hands and sword began to glow and the being began to ooze out of the very pores of the monk. I could feel it trying to get to me, to steal my body or wreak its vengeance on it; but I was protected by the power Persephone had put into me.
      She stepped up beside me and reached into the vortex, whispering all the while. The shadow recoiled away from her, clawing madly at the far side of the barrier, desperate to find an escape where none was possible. Then she began turning her hand in the air as if winding a thread around it. Slowly, with a horrendous, shrill howl, the thing began to reel towards her, pulled around her hand as if it were only so much wool upon a spindle.
      As she pulled her hand out of the glyphed region, the glyphs followed, spinning now around her fist and the unfortunate spirit it held. This she put into a glass jar she pulled from within the folds of her gown and sealed with yet another glyph. I could only hear the faintest shrill from within the glass. The body began to slump in front of me and I withdrew my blade, letting it fall. As I wiped the blood upon his habit, I felt the eerie power I had been granted begin to ebb away.
      I looked down at the body, a sad, pathetic lump of flesh, its habit, hands and face stained with blood. “What do you wish done, Ostad?” I asked. “This man was of the church… it will… cause problems.”
      “I will deal with the matter,” said Casseadorus, coming up the alley from the other direction.
      I turned; frustrated I had not heard his approach, or notice he too had followed. The world continued to spin, even after I had stopped. When the spinning began to change axis, I could feel all my strength running like water out through my bare feet. I had no control, my body was melting away.
      Vittorio looked at Persephone who was gazing at her new prize, tapping the glass and grinning in its light. She glanced where I lay on the cobbles, swiftly losing perception. “Ah, my apologies, maestro,” she purred. “But the protection I granted her will leave her weak now that it has faded. That is the price of things.” She moved over to me, bent to stroke my cheek. “Sleep now, pretty kitty.” She said other things, but those were the last words I clearly heard.
      
      I awoke in the center of Vittorio’s bed a fortnight later feeling as strong and vital as ever. I stretched, feeling refreshed and revitalized and surprised to discover how much time had passed. I was wearing only my black and purple-tasseled bodice and my ‘harem’ pants as you know them. My hair was not bound, though it had been when I fought the monk, and lay darkly across my body. I left it down, put on my veil, a broad belt and left the room in search of the Master or someone to torment.
      When I danced into the small audience chamber, Vittorio and Casseadorus were playing chess while Persephone hovered near. She giggled into the shadows by the window from whence she watched the night traffic on the Grand Canal. “Sleek black - lean muscle - deadly beauty - cavorts in moonlight like a goddess of death,” she breathed in an odd cadence, as if reciting some form of ancient poetry. “Death walks the night once more, as promised, Lord of Shadow. And feeling kittenish,” she added with a smile.
      Both men looked up as I entered, and I felt a subtle shift in His manner. It is difficult to explain how I knew what He felt without giving the impression that He was an obviously emotional man. He was not. Laughter and rage one could glean freely from Him if the mood was on Him. But for Him to show that He cared about something was another matter. Unless of course, it was in His interests for that to be known or appear to be so. Vittorio had long reaching plans for these isles; almost everything He did was for a carefully calculated reason.
      He turned back to His chess game and took His move, said nothing to me, but I could tell in my deepest heart that He had been worried, and was now relieved. I stopped dancing and forced myself to stride sedately forward to observe the game.
      Persephone pouted. “I like it when she dances.”
      Vittorio did not hesitate or even look up, though He did not really have to. He could see me from every shadow in the room. He waved His arm towards me. “Alia, dance.”
      I needed no second word. As I have said, dancing is kin to killing. I began to move in slow, sinuous circles, following the cadence of no drum when one became audible. It was followed by a pipe and a timbrel. No musician was seen, but Persephone was whispering and moving her hands ever so slight. I have no doubt she coaxed some of her captive spirits to play for me. They were good, better than the breathers that played for court, but that may simply have been a matter of preferring what was being played. These ghosts played to my soul, the kind of music to which I was trained to dance.
      Many hours later, a guest was brought to the chamber. I started to fade from view when he was announced, but a thought from Vittorio stopped me. I, however, continued to dance. When the man walked into the room he stepped up to the chess table and bowed deeply. As he straightened, he caught sight of me twisting mid-lead, hair flying wildly behind where the Master sat with His chess partner. He stood there several minutes with his mouth slack, eyes following my every sinuous move.
      I could feel His amusement as I mesmerized the man without effort, as well as my own reaction to the knowledge. Finally He called to me, “Alia!” and held up His hand to me. I was kneeling by His side in the next heartbeat and Persephone turned back to watching the river with a silent pout. “You may dance later. I need his attention.”
      At this the man seemed to remember his purpose and manners and bowed again. “Please forgive my rudeness, Principe,” he said in badly accented Italian. “But I was so taken by this glorious nymph as to be powerless to speak or break the spell.” I noticed then that he took a slight breath before each sentence, but not otherwise. It is a subtle, but distinct indicator that the person before you needs breath only for speaking. He was tall and thin, dark of hair and fair of skin, and his mode of dress was foreign. “I had heard rumors of the beauty of Venetian women, but that is apparently all they were: rumors. These are not women,” he breathed, raising his hand to indicate both Persephone and myself. “These are goddesses!”
      Vittorio laughed, pausing to stroke my hair. “Be careful, Don Alphonso. You may find Venetian women more than you are used to. Besides, neither of these two is Venetian.”
      Don Alphonso took the cue that neither was to be touched and promptly returned to business. “Please forgive my tardiness in this affair, but Maestro Aldo stricken by a terrible apoplexy and lost the use of his left arm. His sons finished them under his direction… which naturally took longer. But I promise you, they bear the Aldo mark and are far superior to anything of their kind.”
      I lifted my head in interest as he gestured to the man behind him, who brought forth a case of a kind that is only used to bear swords. Vittorio smiled.
      The Spaniard turned as he spoke and opened the case. “These are not common in Espańa, but the Maestro was able to get a Moorish swordman to test them for him. He promises they are perfectly balanced for their kind and far better than native blades.” He chuckled as he turned back, a shamsir, what you now call a scimitar, balanced across his arm hilt first. “So good in fact, the man was willing to trade his horse for them.”
      Vittorio stood, drew the blade from its sheath. The Spaniard and his man stepped back out of the way to allow Him room. He tested its weight and balance, edge and craftsmanship. And then He tossed it to me. “Test it,” He said, retaking His seat across the small game table from Casseadorus.
      I caught it and rose, balanced it across the back of my hands. It was made in the Persian style, long and slender, and wickedly curved. The balance was perfect and the edge unparalleled. The hilt was a natural fit in my palm. They were damascene steel, with the last eight inches of the blade inlaid with silver and the mark of the Toledo sword maker, the best of his century.
      Crossing to the servant holding the box, I took the second, matching blade I had seen within it and moved to the center of the room. The musicians began to play again, a different melody, more suited to the kind of dancing I was about to perform. I turned slowly, arching the blades around my body in sinuous curves. A step, a turn, twist and slice, I let them sing through the air as I danced. They were perfect.
      My joy at holding something so exquisite brought tears to my eyes and rapture from deep within. I danced with them as one would a lover. Soon I was moving so fast they were but a blurred veil of silver surrounding me and never once did I cut so much as a single hair even though it flew wildly about me. Thick shadow figures began to rise up and enter the space in the room where I danced, forms that became more than solid and bore shadow arms in hostile stance. I did not think, I reacted. I dodged and spun and ‘killed’ these shadow mannequins as if they had been real. Some of them, in fact, were more than real, provided more resistance to the edge of the shamsir than a body would have. When one of them lunged forth in a real breastplate from the hallway, the weapons tore through the heavy metal like parchment. There was a distinctive sound like the ripping of fabric and then the plate clattered to the marble and the shadows shrank back.
      The music stopped and I stood there in the center of the room, weapons en guarde, a fine sheen of blood covering my body. Before you ask… no, vampires do not sweat. Perspiration is one of those human concerns like breathing, done to keep the body from overheating. But when we exert ourselves in certain ways …it can happen. Passion is the cause. Always. It does not matter the passion: fury or lust; we simply lose control, and our bodies do what they must to regain that control. The sheen can weaken us if we ignore it, or bring us back to awareness of ourselves. The sensation itself is nearly sexual in nature; akin, I am told, to the calming euphoria after reaching sexual peak in humans. It is our body’s way of preserving itself. Simply put, I was in ecstasy.
      On trembling limbs I crossed to Vittorio’s chair and collapsed at His feet. Flipping the shamsirs into the air as I fell to my knees, I caught them by the blade just below the hilt and offered them to Him with head bowed as I had when first presented to Him.
      I waited a long moment for a response.
      No one in the room, human or otherwise breathed, though I could smell arousal on the blooded servant by the door.
      Then I felt Him lean forward in His chair and set His hands over the hilts briefly, then over my hands. His touch was light, but charged with the power to make me fly or melt upon command. His voice was soft. “I accept your gift, Jânevar. Now accept mine.” He called me that often, a Persian pet name I loved to hear. Simply: Little Animal.
      I looked up at Him. If I had possessed a heart, it would have stopped beating. I had no words with which to thank Him, not in His tongue or mine. But my eyes told Him everything. He sat back smiling and I felt a presence approaching behind me. I swiveled into a crouch to see the Spaniard approach with the sheaths in hand, offering them forth throat first. His eyes were filled with his admiration and the pure blend of desire and fear my display had brought forth in him.
      I stood, still a little unsteady. I must have ignored the sheen too long and lost too much, or exerted myself too soon after my weakening. I slid the weapons into their leathern homes and accepted these from the man.
      He bowed to me as if I were a queen rather than a slave. “Were Master Aldo or his sons to see what I have just witnessed… they would be struck blind. For I do not think anywhere has there ever been a blend of perfections as those blades in your expert hands. Were you to grant me a single kiss…”
      “You would die,” I rumbled, “in agony.”
      He sighed, “I would die a happy man.”
      “Don Alfonso. Would you care for a game of chess?” Vittorio interrupted. He could be tactful and diplomatic when it pleased Him, but there was a possessiveness in His voice, a low warning the Don picked up on immediately.
      He turned away almost rudely and began to apologize to Vittorio. “As I said, hypnotic creature. Please, forgive. I cannot help myself… beauty and grace combined with blade skill… a tragic combination for me, who loves both. I would love a game. Perhaps it might keep me out of trouble?” he laughed hopefully.
       “Perhaps. You will honor me by partaking of my hospitality today, yes?”
      The Don was greatly pleased, but cast a hesitant glance my way. “I would be honored, Principe, but... I do not wish to abuse your courtesy.”
      Vittorio gave a deep chuckle full of hidden meanings, “I shall make certain she poses no more temptation.” He stood, relinquishing His seat to the man, gestured for him to take it. “If you will excuse me, I have things to attend to before dawn. Please, my home is yours, and one of my blooded will be sent to attend your every need. If you desire, ask and it shall be provided. I shall see you tomorrow eve.”
      “Again, I thank you.”
      Vittorio gestured for Persephone and me to accompany Him. He paused in the doorway, turned back to the two chess players. “Don Alfonso,” He warned with a smile, “watch out for his bishops. Casseadorus is known for unexpected strategies.”
      Laughter followed us out into the hall. It was only by strength of will that I was able to manage. Before another breath passed we were in His workroom and I found myself on my knees in its center, relishing the cold embrace of the shadows still surrounding me.
      Vittorio turned to Persephone even as He opened a vein with His nail. “You said she was whole,” He said in a low voice.
      Most of the conversation began to fade in and out immediately as the whole of my focus became the smell of His blood in the air. I heard her whisper of “…just hunger. It has been a fortnight after all. …And the dancing…” That last I noticed because of the passion with which she said it, not unlike that of the Spaniard, both of which were mysteries to me at that time. Then His blood was in my mouth and nothing else existed.
      
      
      The Spaniard left the next evening with the payment for the swords carried in three chests by six blooded men. I asked Ostad, through the magic that allowed me to pass my thoughts to Him, why He had given me such an extravagant gift. He simply laughed, fingered a length of my pitch black hair, holding it to the flickering light and marveling at its resistance. Because, little animal, He told my mind, I am more than pleased with your service and willingness to sacrifice yourself to my cause.
      Because of the incident with the ghost killer? I asked, doubt in my voice.
      Do you know how long it takes to forge a Toledo sword? I shook my head. I ordered those two and a half years ago. You have served me well and without undue question. I would have my blade, slave or otherwise, armed with the best. Are you displeased with my gift?
      I bowed instantly, my head as low as His grip on my hair allowed. “Never, Master!” I exclaimed aloud in Persian. As this drew the attention of the few in the chamber, I collected myself and returned to thinking. You just… have never doted upon me like this before. I am …unaccustomed to reward. I follow you out of love and devotion.
      He chuckled, And addiction, He added.
      I could not deny it. An addiction I would not be freed of, even were a cure offered to me on a plate of gold. It is not a bad thing… to be addicted to one’s god?
      At this His face darkened and He gestured for Antillius to approach. “The Catholic Church and the Followers of Islam are hell bent on proving that it is,” He said darkly. “If neither faith is checked, they will destroy Europe in the name of their gods.”
      “Which,” said Casseadorus as he approached with Antillius, “if I interpret the original texts correctly, is the same entity. And the methods of their following not that much different.” He added in a tone of disdain, “We never had the cults of Hera and Juno bent on wiping each other out over religious differences.”
      Vittorio gave a soft laugh, His mood rising as His old friend approached. “Hera and Aphrodite… yes,” He added.
      “Ah, Troy,” the monk mused wistfully. “But that was about so much more than religion. As all wars are. In the end, they concern only one thing in essence: Land.”
      “One could argue that point to be ‘control’,” offered Antillius.
      The conversation turned to philosophy and then back to the matters in the East and the rumors of a crusade, and so the night wore on.
      Nearer dawn, Vittorio took me down to the vast chambers below the palazzo, to the level just below the dungeons where no sane man attempting to escape would run. There, he kept a hareem of women in a very Eastern tradition; lovely young ladies of all walks of life and nationality. Most of them were untainted by his blood, uninteresting staples which would be weeded through and replaced frequently as they were overfed from. A handful were kept in a separate set of chambers, each within their own apartments and appointed according to their culture. These women were blooded, carefully cultivated and tended, regularly fed just enough to keep them young and beautiful.
      Have I ever explained what happens to a human when you feed them from the veins of one of the Blood? They become a little like us, they live, but they are touched by death. Fed often enough, they become addicted to the person who feeds them, addicted to the rush of strength and the opening of the senses that it grants them. For some, it is a stronger drug than opium, and the older their Vampire master, the more potent the drug and its effects. They, being touched by death, become immune to it. Granted, they can be killed, and easily; though the blood grants them strength beyond that of mortal men and the ability to resist the call of death. However, if they are ever left for a significant period of time without the source of their eternity… they will eventually fall once more under Death’s ever watchful eye… the stronger their master’s blood, the swifter that fall.
      Vittorio had collected twelve women over His lifetime who had exceptional flavor, as well as wit and skills to capture His attentions. Though I doubt any one of them ever captured His heart. If one of them should die, He would have mourned them as He did the day He drank the last of His stores of Falernian wine. That is to say, He would occasionally find Himself of a mind for the taste of them and remember their flavor, missing them slightly, then seek out a new favorite. Granted, if they were killed He would rage at their destruction, and revenge Himself of their destroyer, for only He had the right to drink them dry. Even I was not allowed to touch them, though only I knew the way in, I and the slave who attended their every need and he was a mute who could neither read nor write.
      But I digress. This night I awaited Him outside the inner chambers, watching the others flit nervously about, keeping an eye on me as they would have a panther loose in their midst. He had taken one of the peasant girls in with Him, and, naturally, He returned alone. He strode through the hareem well sated, and I delighted in fading from view as I followed Him out.
      Upon reaching the corridor to His private rooms, Cassandra was seen drifting towards us, absently winding up the skein of silk trailing out in front of her. She passed Vittorio without notice, though He paused to glance at her briefly, then moved into the room when she did not stop. As I started to pass her as well, her fingers seemed to snag on a red part of the thread, as if there were a knot in the perfectly smooth line. Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm, leaned and pulled until our heads were together and hissed: “Lock your door today.” She released and moved on without missing her stride and passed deeper into the shadows at the end of the corridor leaving me in confusion. …I always locked the doors.
      I entered the room and closed it behind me, stared at the door blankly as I turned the key in the lock as I did every morning. She had said it as if it were not a regular occurrence, so she must have meant me to do something I never did. Staring, I noticed metal brackets on the walls to either side of the heavy oak door. They were old and rarely used, not, perhaps, since the invention of imbedded locking mechanisms and the installation of a new, modern door. I searched for a bar.
      Ostad sat, His back to me, at His desk writing a letter. He did not look up or hesitate, but informed me that there was one on the rafter beam above my head. He did not seem surprised or concerned by my search as I scaled to the beam to retrieve it. The bar was a stout length of lignum vitae, a type of wood often referred to as ironwood. I could not have broken this bar even if I so desired it, though I am more speed than strength.
      He rose from His letter writing as I came down and placed the bar upon the door, never once asked what I was about. I started to follow Him into the inner chamber when my eyes fell upon the bottle of ink. On impulse, I took it and carried it to the outer door, setting it precariously on the end of the bar. I do not know why I did this, but it felt imperative.

6        shattered glass
      
      The sun had not been up more than six hours. There was a sleepy heat upon the palazzo in spite of the comfortable darkness within the inner chamber. A heat which no doubt made the human servants dull and sluggish. It had no effect upon me, save to give me some indication of time, coupled with the oppressive weight of the sun almost directly overhead. It took me a second to realize why I knew these things. Breaking glass. I heard the dull thump of something banging on the front door again and rose in the blink of an eye, armed and invisible. I crept out the door into the workroom, closing it behind me and crouched in the shadows watching the door shudder again. The vial of ink lay shattered on the floor, its contents spreading like a blood stain.
      The heavy oak jumped, the hinges screaming, but the ironwood bar held stubbornly. In the end, it was the wall and the door itself that gave. The brackets on the far side pulled free, made opening more difficult, and then the door itself splintered beneath the weight of two meaty fists.
      An arm in the clothing of a peasant reached in and lifted the bar, shoved the door open. The man entered cautiously, cursed as he slipped in the ink. He was dirty and unkempt, smelled of sweat and manure and the earth… and blood. There was human blood on his hands. I waited. He seemed cautious now, unconcerned with what might come up behind him from the open hallway but wary of what lay before him. He was looking for something. He tore through the papers on the desk, ripping open the newly finished letter and throwing it to the floor almost as immediately, looking for something else to vandalize.
      I circled him, keeping my distance, as I studied him. He was strong, corded muscles rippling beneath the fabric of his cambric shirt. There was blood on his arm where a long slice in his sleeve was, though no continued bleeding or sign of weakness in the limb. The blood was acrid, earthy, almost like cardamom. He was not human. He was not dead, not of the Blood, I could tell that by the sweat and grime upon his body. His scent was wrong, sent the hackles up on the back of my neck.
      It was only by chance that I had retired in my current state. Chance or perhaps Cassandra’s warning. I had removed only my belt and left my hair braided, something I always took down at day. I caressed the hilt of the new Toledan shamsirs and prepared to christen them. I placed myself behind him, between him and the door to Vittorio’s inner sanctum and lunged for the back of the neck.
      He turned at the last possible moment, as if he had sensed me somehow. The blade missed and he snarled in my direction, looking for me as if he could not see me, but knew I was there anyway. He struck out blindly with his fist and the battle began. Truth be known, it should have been over then and there.
      I poisoned my blood, for pain, crossed my swords in front of me and drew them across my arms, healing the long slices once the blades were dark with blood. He lunged for where he thought I was and missed, caught both my swords across the chest: deep gashes that ripped a bellow of pain from his throat. And that was my mistake. As the pain exploded throughout his body, he curled into himself and I stepped back to delight in his suffering. His voice began to change, to hollow out and deepen. His hunched back bulged, his shirt began to tear at the poorly stitched seams under and around the arms. His ragged trousers split further as they were forced to bend in ways the cloth was unaccustomed.
      I reacted. I knew he was not human, yet not of the Blood and that he was changing before me. Into what I was not going to grant him the chance to discover. I moved to behead him. As the sword fell I found its descent interrupted by a great hairy hand as he turned and caught it. His yellow eyes glowed and glared straight at me, boring into mine as if he could see! Startled, I was caught unawares by the other taloned hand which raked my midsection and threw me against the far wall.
      Blood flowed liberally before I was able to stop it and begin the healing. Its eyes followed me in a changed face, one that was more canine than human, yet clearly neither. I dropped all pretence at invisibility. It was clear I could not hide from those eyes. I leaped in and we tangled. I managed to lead with my swords and cut deep into the long arms that swiped for me; arms that reminded me of the Baron’s, but with dark grey and silver hair in tangled patches all over it. It howled with pain, but healed immediately.
      We danced thus for nearly an hour, and nothing I did seemed to slow it. The pain I caused it only seemed to madden it, and its fury seemed to make it stronger. Pain seemed to drive it, whereas the wounds it gave me only weakened me with the efforts to stem the bleeding and heal. I had been fed recently and well, but the battle took more from me than war with any of the Blood could have. Wounds done to me by its claws and fangs seemed to want to bleed and took extra effort to close and burned with a cold fire. The heat seemed to affect him only minimally, caused him to breathe heavily, but it did not slow him down. No, he was nearly as fast as I was with his hands, though his body was not so swift.
      My hunger grew with every missed dodge and I began to slow. He grinned, showing every yellow tooth in his wide, jagged maw, and leapt. His lunge caught me before I could move out of the way and pinned me to the desk with such force I felt my spine snap. He was on my chest, all his weight pinning me down. He leered at me, his hot breath on my face, drool dripping from his fangs onto my cheek, then locked his mouth on my throat. It seemed hopeless, I was nearly completely drained, locked in a death grip that shortly would sever my head by an opponent that seemed to have an inexhaustible reserve.
      Then I remember the cheetahs… and the animal in me took over. I spent the last of my strength, the last of my blood, to heal my back. I curled my legs up and around his chest before he was aware of the danger and began to exert the last of my strength to crush the life from him. Human he may not have been, but he breathed.
      In a panic, he released my throat to bite at my legs giving me the opportunity I needed. I ignored the pain as he ripped at my leg, there was precious little blood to be spilled now, and sank my fangs into his hairy neck. I did not care what part I bit, I did not hit anything vital at first, I had to fish for that. My tooth sliced open the artery and I began to drink. He reacted to that too, thrashing now, as my grip on him grew tighter. I managed to get my arms free and pulled him closer into my deadly embrace.
      There was something about his blood… hot and spicy, thicker than Vittorio’s… and it enflamed me. My loss of control was complete, but wholly unlike that first taste of His blood in this very chamber. It was pure, liquid fire. An uncontrollable rage seized me, not the usual lust and hunger, a need to kill, to end the pain. Every nerve ending, every hair was alive and bristling with agony. And there was strength in that pain.
      I sucked down enough to revive me before he threw me off, backed away to regard me with more caution and less triumph. He seemed to grow even larger, twice the size of a large man and dropped to all fours. His front end was higher than his back, built more like the hyena than the wolf and his shoulders were broad. His head nearly reached my chin, and his hands retained their elongated but vaguely humanlike fingers. More of his clothing fell away as it was strained beyond its endurance as we stood staring. He breathed heavily, yellow eyes gleaming in the darkness.
      My whole body was trembling in what he must have taken as a sign of weakening. He could not have been more wrong. I was trembling in anticipation, craving another dose of uncontrolled power, coiled like a cat waiting to pounce. He licked my blood from his lips, sneering at the bitter taste of me. I made a small attempt to control that blood, to draw him to my will, but I was grossly inexperienced with it. Still, he leapt for me, and we collided, rolling on the Persian carpet in a tangle of fur and silk, claws and fangs, neither of us able to get a lock on the other. He took a chunk out of my shoulder as he bit and I pulled free. I managed to bite his arm, taking no more than a mouthful of blood before he ripped that too free, clawing me across my face.
      Someone passed in the hall, investigating the noise. A terrified scream echoed down the hall swiftly as they fled.
      My strength beginning to wane once more and I redoubled my efforts to take from his veins what I needed. He seemed to sense this and worked more to keep me from biting him again than injuring me. My situation became desperate. Once he defeated me, Vittorio would be his next target.
      With a move swifter than I had ever managed, I rolled us, swept up one of my fallen shamsirs and buried it to my fist in his chest.
      He froze, and for a moment, I thought he was reacting to it as we react to the stake, but he turned a stunned gaze to me and crumbled. His whole body began to shudder, then convulse as he withered into the man who had barged in, though gaunt and haggard. He seemed to be in a great deal of pain, as if he were burning up from inside.
      With his dying breath, he seized my arm, pulling me close. “Return our son,” he choked. “Our blood is our blood, our right. We leave yours, you leave ours. Old pact. Broken means war. War you will not win. There will be others. …unless… you return… our son….” With that he died.
      I bent to drink from his veins, desperate to replenish myself before another could come, but he seemed to dry up within seconds. I pulled back, the taste of his boiling blood still numb on my tongue and watched in horror as the body blackened from the sword-wound out where my blade remained within him. I removed it quickly, and the damage stopped, but the body was already a charred lump of barely recognizable flesh. Only by the grey, fleshy lumps that were his lower legs could one tell it had once been a man.
      I stood, staggering, and placed my back to Ostad’s door. It took all my concentration to hold back the blood from the many gaping wounds, as I could not afford to heal them, all I could do to fight off the sun and remain awake. Without means of getting blood to my left arm, it hung uselessly at my side. What strength I had left I had to save, to by Ostad time till nightfall, when he could protect himself.
      As I stood there, sword in my working arm, braced against the inner door and waited for sunset, I began to notice a peculiar taste in my mouth. As I fought the weight of the sun trying to force me back to a semblance of death even from without the thick palazzo walls, I began to feel a strange tightening in my open belly. My chest wanted to heave and quiver, to draw air into it that it did not need, and there was a tingling in my fingertips. Over and over in my head I ran the image of another one getting past me into Vittorio’s bedchamber to help me fight off the sun, and the strange sensations grew. Finally, as I yielded to the urge to take a breath, I happened to smell the air and recognized the scent of panic and fear. And it was coming from me.
      For the first time in my life I knew the taste of fear. In those remaining hours of daylight, I became acquainted with panic and terror as I waited for another to come to slay me. It was not fear for my own death, my own destruction. Not one single thought concerned myself. No, what I feared was what would happen after they took my life. My terror was for His destruction. I knew I was all that stood between another of these monsters and Ostad. I also knew I could not take another one, not tonight. Fresh and fed I might have been able to, armed with new knowledge, new tactics. I knew now what did not work. But I also knew that would only get me so far. Eventually, I would fall.
      
      At twilight I felt Him stir. Within half an hour I felt Him call to me, beckoning me to His side. By force of will alone I left my post, opened that door and staggered into His chamber. He was not up yet, His body barely moved upon the bed, but His powers were far from dimmed. I found myself gathered in arms of shadows and carried to the bed. There was an anger burning in Him as He surveyed the damage. I was told to feed and heal while He took from my mind the details of the fight and the death.
      Ah, I would have brought myself willingly to the brink of death a million times if I knew that each time would grant me that almost tender embrace! But I knew better.
      When He was able to rise, He went immediately into the Hareem with me shadowing His every footstep. He selected three girls which He pulled into an private inner chamber and, to my surprise, bid me follow. There, He took them onto the ancient bed that dominated the room and fed. They were willing at first, apparently being no stranger to this room or its purpose. But when He drank the first girl to her death, the other two panicked. He held them where He desired by swathing them in shadows and by the time He had turned to the second course, the third had devolved into tears and merely lay there whimpering. All the while I stood there watching, wondering why I was within this room at all. Then He stood, feeling much refreshed after having fed me what I would need to heal.
      He was old, as I have said. He did not need to dine so often as the rest of us, though He could. I have known Him to go a week without the taste of a human and still not need to kill His meal. Though I have also known Him to kill twenty men to fill Himself after a particularly draining battle. The blood of His twelve favorites sustained Him even longer, as their blood was thicker, more potent. I had often dwelled upon the idea that He would be better served by feeding upon the Blood, but He avoided the blood of His own kind with a fervor akin to paranoia. There was a reason for this, of that I was sure. Perhaps some prophesy by Cassandra….
      But this night He again surprised me, by calling me to the bed. I drifted over. He lay in their midst, two of the girls dead beside Him, their souls fleeing. The third lay near, a darkened bruise swelling upon her throat where He had tasted of her. She still breathed, though shallowly. Her doe-like eyes rolled towards me, terror mixed with a strange arousal. Vittorio inclined His head towards her with a faint smile. “Eat,” He said. “You will need her strength.”
      I crept upon the bed like a cat stalking prey it knew was already helpless. I confess, I mouthed her skin first, seeking the scent and taste of Him before I drank. I felt her hands drift to my back but not to push me away. She clung to me, desperately. I felt aroused by the act. I had fed from women before, and never experienced this. It was intriguing. I felt Him move my hair aside, to gaze at her face as I took her soul.
      Human souls are different from that of our kind. They do not grant the same powerful high, but they have a unique euphoria of their own. It is like consuming light. It burns coolly, then seems to elevate you as if it were trying to float away and take you with it. Eventually, it settles and pervades your body leaving behind a lightness and remarkable strength which lingers for a few hours. It gives you the feeling that you could tear steel like paper. Granted, I still preferred the taste of the vampire soul, but this would do in a pinch. Then suddenly I found myself wondering what that creature’s soul would have tasted like.
      “You would not have been able to handle the soul of a Fenrii, Jânevar,” He said softly in the darkness.
      I let go of the girl’s body and turned to face Him in the dimness. “Fenrii, Ostad? Is that was that thing was?”
      “Si,” He said, and reached out to take my hand.
      Before I was able to assimilate the sensations within at that gesture I found myself in a room I had never seen. The chamber itself was round, with many door leading off. The dark grey walls of dank stone were covered by tapestries at every inch and hanging cloths draped from the ceiling amid lamps filled with perfumed oils which lend a decidedly Eastern feel to the room. It was far more richly appointed than the Hareem beyond; perhaps because of the women who lived here.
      Some were lounging on the cushions scattered throughout the room, one was playing the deep pool and fountain in the center and others came out of their private rooms when the others squealed with delight and came over to Him. He smiled indulgently and led me further into the room. They gave Him room and looked at me with a mixture of interest, intense jealously and disgust. Some felt a glimmer of pity at my attire, which showed, even if my body no longer did, the intensity of my encounter with the Fenrii.
      He left me standing there and dropped down upon a cushioned mattress that overlooked the pool. Several small cats and a tiny dog scamper off in fear of Him, though one or two of the cats crept back in curiosity.
      The women and I stood there several minutes assessing each other. Neither group knowing what was expected of us. They could tell I was not like them. I was like their Master. They were of all nationalities, and wore their native costumes, some of which were horribly outdated. There was even an Indian woman who appeared to be the youngest of them by the way the others treated her. Finally, He spoke and they stopped circling me to listen.
      “Illyana,” He growled to a pale willowy woman with blond braids that hung to the floor who was reaching out to touch me. She pulled her hand back and gazed at Him attentively. “This is Alia, my bodyguard. Today, as you can see, she has tangled with a Fenrii intent on destroying me. I wish you to make her presentable again. There are clothes yonder, new made for her,” He nodded towards a bundle that materialized out of shadow. “Clean her, groom her, dress her. I want her visible at court this evening.”
      Their attitudes changed instantly, and they began removing the remains of my tattered clothing and chattering all at once. I was bathed in the pool, and the Indian woman applied henna to my hair, complaining that she could not seem to make it shine, though she had tried everything. To which Vittorio chuckled to himself as he watched. The oriental girl rubbed my skin with an oil fragranced with lotus blossoms and it was during this massage that He spoke again, “Yi,” He warned. “Do not get too friendly.”
      She bowed and became more impersonal, finishing the job quickly before passing me to the others to be dressed.
      They chattered while they worked, about the Fenrii mostly, wanting me to tell them what had happened. Illyana was the most impressed. She knew the Fenrii well. It was she who gave me the most information on them. It seems that causing them pain only gives them strength. Their whole existence is pain. They are born, or cursed to what they are, at the mercy of the moons and the rages that boiled within. Pain could make them change, or rage… but mostly it was Pain. The change itself was pain, so long as it remained in that monstrous form, even the hairs upon its body caused them pain. Different stimuli brought different kinds of pain so they were not helplessly insensitive or unable to tell the difference between a breeze and a hand brushing past their fur, or a sword across their gut.
      As men they were as men, though tougher and stronger than most. Those who had any survival instincts at all tended to be meek, peaceful men, seeking to avoid conflicts or situations that might cause them enough pain to lose control. Once they changed they were vulnerable only to silver. I asked if they could be poisoned, but Illyana had no experience with poisoning them, so could not tell me. I kept that in mind for later, should I need to tangle with one again.
      Mahdu, the Indian girl, spoke of tigers that walked like men in her homeland, but she had never seen one, nor met anyone who had. And Yi talked about kitsune, but they were very different than Fenriis, less vulnerable to pain and forced change. In the end, it was an interesting and enlightening hour. I had not been pampered like this since my arrival in Venice. I understood why. Too much of this would make me soft. But I relished it while it lasted. I remember wondering if this was what it felt like to be a princess. At that time I did not remember who I had once been, what I once was. That came later.
      Before I relaxed too much, they were done and stood me before him for approval. My hair was combed and oiled, tied up and fell to my hips in three heavy braids intertwined with silver and purple ribbons. My feet and palms were hennaed, and Mahdu had marked my brow and the tops of my feet in very Persian designs. She had also placed a silver tikka in my hair that ran from the base of my braids down the part to dangle the amethyst lotus pendant as the centerpiece to the design. Nor was that the only jewelry they gave me. There was a necklace of hammered silver and a handflower: a triangular shaped piece in silver links that connected between a bracelet and a ring. I was aware they were most likely hand-me-downs, things they were tired of and perhaps, through their generosity they might earn something new, by that did not dampen the gift for me, who owned nothing. Nothing but the two finest swords in the world.
      The clothes were new. I had seen the silk they were made from come off the boat from India not a week or so before. Their style was the same as I had been wearing, choli and pantaloons, but they were exquisitely trimmed and embroidered. There was a new belt, heavy with silver bells and tassels. Over this they placed the Persian robe I had been received at court in, a robe I had kept carefully and rarely wore. My shamsirs were strapped upside down on my back, their handles discreet at the small of my back and easily accessed. They I made to vanish, that no one be warned I was armed.
      During the last hour, Vittorio, I had noticed, had been playing with a piece of cloth; running the small length of black silk through His hands repeatedly while He watched. Now, as they presented me before Him, He rose and crossed to me. He circled me, lifted my hand to examine the handflower, nodding with approval. He fingered the bells at my hips, frowning.
      At this I merely smiled, begged His indulgence a moment and stepped back. I took a few steps to accustom myself to their movement, then began to dance, moving and swaying in such a way that the bells, while they should have rang out clearly, made no sound what so ever. He nodded, satisfied, and then called me back. “Still, something is missing,” He mused.
      I could tell by the light in His eye He knew exactly what. Then He held the cloth up to my face. It was a veil, though it had no ties, no means of holding it in place. He withdrew His hands and it remained. I touched it. It was pure shadow, a living, undulating extension of His power. I bowed low, for the second time in the space of days, deeply grateful for a gift more precious to me than gold. When I raised my head again I was on the dais at His feet in the great hall which was filling swiftly with murmuring courtiers.

      Without needing to be told, I moved to stand to the side of the throne, my arm resting on its back as I surveyed the assembly. Antillius approached, bowed before his sire and then went to the opposite side and whispered his report. Vittorio made no move, but Antillius stepped aside and took up his position.
      No one seemed to know why the violet lantern had been lit, but most showed up within reasonable time. The sudden materialization of Vittorio and His assassin at the throne unsettled some. When Valencia arrived she was diverted from simply joining the crowds and ushered before the dais. She curtseyed low, uncertain of her position. The two ladies in waiting that she had brought with her sank to the floor, their foreheads on their knees.
      I myself was just beginning to piece together what was going on and began to feel a deep dislike for Valencia then. She had nearly destroyed Vittorio through her foolishness. Vittorio let her kneel there for several minutes before He broke the silence.
      “Last court you took into your house a woman and her infant,” He intoned.
      She risked a glance up at him. “Yes, my prince,” her voice quavered.
      “You will have that child brought forth immediately.”
      “My lord!!!” she exclaimed. “Please have some compassion for a mother and her infant! Failing that,” she added, realizing that would not work, “she is of noble Italian birth and I gave her my word that I would protect her from those peasants!”
      “She should have thought of that before she married one of them,” He said darkly. “Produce the child or I shall send Alia to fetch it.”
      Her eyes flitted to me, tried to read my expression beneath my ever shifting veil. I kept my posture lazy, but she could read in my eyes my eagerness to be set the task… or at least that is how she took it. I really could care less. Though I would relish killing the mother should she fight, I detested the thought of lugging a squalling brat halfway across the city from whatever hole she had him hidden. Realizing she had no choice, she turned to her maids and gave them some sign. They left the palazzo immediately and Valencia turned back to Him. When Vittorio gave her no further sign, she dared to ask, “And the reparations to my honor?”
      She stood tall at that point, daring more than anyone else would have and in deeper fear because of it. Vittorio did not laugh, though I knew He was amused as well as annoyed. His dark eyes narrowed as He glared down at her. “You should have thought of that before you made a promise you had no right to make.”
      “Every one of the Blood has the right to take in those denied your magnificence,” she countered, proudly. “You set that up from the beginning. Unless you forbid them succor, even the least of us has the right to patronize them.”
      “And it is up to you to use your intelligence before you do so. I have the right to repeal any patronage should it endanger the city.”
      “How can a child….”
      “Enough,” He said. His voice was low, but He may as well have shouted. She shrank back, melted into the crowd. From the corner of my eye I saw her seek out Cassandra who gave her an apparently unsatisfactory answer. But she then moved among the courtiers to bide her time.
      She is plotting, Ostad, I told Him.
      Let her. It has only harmed her in the past, it will only destroy her in the future. “Alia, dance for me,” He said aloud. In hidden balconies, musicians began to play. Do not threaten any who arrive, He added privately.
      I was thrilled. This was a privilege I was rarely granted. I glided before Him, bowed deeply, then sprang backwards off the dais, performing a walkover not unlike the first night I had spent in this hall. Where my hands touched the marble steps I left my robe in my wake, spilling down the stairs like black and silver water.
      Persephone arrived as I began to dance, cavorting and weaving to the rhythms. She paused not far into the room and stopped, pleased and delighted to watch. I danced near her, around her, tempting and sinuous; making promises she knew I was not allowed to keep. Then I drew my shamsirs from what to the audience must have seemed the air and danced with them. They flew a breath away from her body but she did not move, merely watched me with a broad smile. After a bit I backed away and began to dance nearer the crowd’s edge. Most flinched back in fear, as if I would hit them carelessly. I only spun away, laughing. The music moved faster in response to my body and the swords began to spin so swiftly around me that they were merely a silver blurring dome that hummed magnificently.
       A warning from Him in my mind pulled me back before I could lose myself completely in the dance and waste what I had regained that evening. Do not overdo it.
      I became aware, a half moment later of someone approaching and ended my dance at the base of the throne. I slid my blades home, making them vanish as I did, and strode up the steps, collecting my robe and slipping into it before I reached my place beside Him. When I turned I saw the newest delegation that had arrived. There were three men and two women, all of whom wore the same, masculine peasant garb. The man who led them stopped four feet from the bottom of the steps and stood there, arms crossed over his massive chest and glared up at Vittorio. He was an older man, in his seventies, but still lean of face and muscle. His entourage inclined their heads ever so slightly. The crowd began to whisper, shocked by the daring.
      Vittorio spoke first. “Tybalt,” He said.
      “Vittorio,” the man replied. To my ears there was not enough reverence in his manner, but I held my peace.
      “It was more than two hundred years ago that your people and I came to an understanding. I signed a treaty with your great grandfather. A treaty that has been honored without incident until now.” They shifted slightly, in the manner of men about to receive an apology. How mistaken they were. “Not a month past word reached me that your people have been attacking merchants entering the city.”
      Tybalt bristled, as did one of the men behind him. “They are left alone when they cross the border,” he protested, his voice gravely and deep.
      “But you impede those that would bring commerce to Venice,” He explained softly. “It interferes with overland trade routes.”
      There was much uncomfortable shuffling. “We are not here about…”
      “Stolen goods? Of course you are, Fenrii,” He smiled. “Why else would you have sent one of yours, a mere cub to assassinate me?” A gasp rippled through the crowd. On the left side of the room, Valencia fainted. “He tore through my house, slew half my day staff and attempted to kill my beast,” at which point His hand strayed to my hair. “She killed him deftly.”
      One of the women took half a step, “Impossible! She is vampire! He hunted by day!”
      The man held up his hand and she backed down quickly. Vittorio’s hand stroked my hair as if I were a panther crouched beside Him. “She is very good at killing.”
      The color began to rise in his face, and he looked decidedly uncomfortable. “He was not sent. He came on his own,” he denied.
      “Then there is the matter for which I sent for you. Just over a fortnight ago, one of your people came here to petition for the return of some noblewoman’s whelp.” Their eyes lit up, but the man said nothing. “Which was handled quite messily.” This did not seem news to Tybalt. “He failed to identify himself properly and I threw them both out.” He waited a moment, to let this information settle.
      “By the Treaty of Fang and Claw set down by your forefathers, no Fenrii is to set foot within the boundaries of Venice nor to impede access thereto without observing the strictest codes of conduct and identification. My people have yet to break their end of this treaty while it seems that yours are beginning to forget.”
      Vittorio shifted ever so slightly on the throne, leaning forward just a hair. I knew from experience the impact that would have when seen from below. “Now,” He went on, in a slightly more cooperative tone. “Neither of our people wishes another war. It will serve none and kill many. So, as a gesture of peace, I return to you the child you foolishly attempted to kill me over.” At this point the ladies in waiting returned with the child in arm.
      They turned collectively to see the woman carrying the baby. Even Tybalt unfolded his arms for a moment. The lady set the child in the arms of the woman who had yet to speak and retreated with a bow to the throne. Tybalt turned back to Vittorio. “We thank you for seeing reason.”
      Vittorio cut off anything else he was about to say. “Do not mistake this as yielding to your threats. Far from it,” He said coldly. “Your man failed to identify himself as Fenrii. I was thus under no obligation to heed his suit, though he was wise in coming here with his petition before he attempted force within my territory. I return the child now, only because to do so honors the ancient pact of non-interference. However, the man who attempted to slay me is another matter. He has paid for his crime in silver…” He paused again to let that sink in. The reaction was instant.
      The woman holding the child seemed about to faint with horror, while the other one darkened with rage. Even the two men seemed on the edge of changing, but Tybalt held up his hand, stemming his own feelings and regaining control of his people. “Ursus was a fool!” he snapped to them, only half turning his head to them. “Ursus failed to observe the laws and paid the ultimate price.” He turned back to Vittorio and for the first time inclined his head, but still maintained the manner of monarch to monarch. “We would petition for the return of his body, at least. If there is anything left of it?”
      Vittorio nodded, leaning back again. “What remains will be placed in your boat as we speak. For now, let us reeducate our people on the terms of the pact that it not be forgotten and a war begin that neither of us will be able to end until one side or the other are exterminated and the blood of innocents flood the canals around us. Now, take your kin and go.”
      The entourage began to move out of the hall.
      “And Tybalt,” He said, causing the elder man to turn. “You are getting on in years. Be certain your successor knows what is at stake. Control your people. I will take any further violence upon my roads as an act of war.”
      At this, Tybalt actually bowed, turning his head slightly so that the barest hint of throat was shown, though he never took his eyes from Vittorio. He backed up three steps before turning and striding from the hall with a regal air very out of place with his peasant’s garb. The entire hall gave him greater berth than necessary.
      
      
7 the angel of death
      
      History books will tell you that in the year 1171, a Genoese settlement at Galata was wiped out. They will also tell you that the ruler of Byzantium, Manuel Comnenus, was swift to blame Venice for the attack. And, even though the Genoese themselves protested Venetian innocence, he ordered citizens of the Republic then in Byzantine territory arrested and their wealth and lands seized. History will then inform you that Doge Vitale Michel II immediately set sail with the fleet prepared for war. Enticed to wait for emissaries from Constantinople, he wasted the entire winter until a plague broke out on the ships at which point he ordered the fleet home, bringing the plague with him.
      Historians will tell you that he came home, gathered the general assembly, informed them of what happened and was assassinated by the people as he left. The historians are wrong. Not about the events, not really. But the motivations… they never seem to get that right. Then again, We never let them.
      The truth began over a thousand years before in Rome with a woman named Valeria and a man named Talus. They were vampire siblings whose origins are rumored to extend to the conflict at Troy. Eventually, nearly every power player in Europe were on one side or another of that feud as they spent a vast amount of resources to best one another. Both had several children. The only one that concerned Venice and therefore me, was a man who was in his forties when she created him by the name of Mithras. Mithras had one major weakness. He loved women. And he was soft. He could not bear the thought of a beautiful woman in distress. Any woman for that matter.
      His eye fell upon a young girl who was in considerable distress over her groom to be. She, it seems, wanted nothing more than to become a priestess, anything rather than marry Marcus Talus Osticus. He promised her a life free of such vile things, and a temple in the Sabine hills if such were her desire. They conspired and the eve before her wedding she ran off with Mithras. He made her his child, placing her above such petty concerns as marriage. Eventually, she learned as they all did, that husbands were necessary if one desired to enjoin society and actually own something. But now she had the power to control said husband.
      Talus, naturally, was highly put out. Whether he wanted her for his own childe, or if he merely intended to eat her I never learned, nor do I truly care. Valencia might tell you a different story, but she is not telling this one. I am.
      The problem lies in the fact that Talus most desires that which he has been denied. And so, he has spent a great deal of resources to woo her back to him, especially once she gained personal power. She spent almost two centuries trying to stay ahead of him when she met what she to this day calls “The Roman Contingent”. The great irony is simply that she was the only Roman among them. Persephone had been a Roman slave bought out of Persia. Casseadorus was a Greek. Vittorio… Vittorio was Vittorio, as I said, a Dacian though not like the Carpathians from which He was descended. His sire was not a Carpathian, but an unknown outsider who stole a Carpathian prince. No one knows anything about His sire, and Vittorio takes great pains for that to remain the case. The secrets of magic and blood that He learned stemmed from that fountain, which has since dried up, so to speak. He was the only descendant of that lost line.
      But I have lost the thread. Valencia met a young thing among the graves while in hiding from Talus and quite frankly, tired of running. Persephone brought her to Vittorio for protection and she became quite taken with Him. It is easy to understand why. He is a masterful man, strong and handsome, dusky skin, thick dark curls. For several centuries they were lovers. Then they had a falling out, but still she clung to Him, remained in His court as if afraid to venture away from His protection. She claims she was loathe to leave everything she had built, but there is much more there than she will ever tell.
      Talus, discovered during the incident with Roger of Sicily that Valencia had married the man who was Doge. When the opportunity presented itself, he bade his tool, Manuel, to blame Venice, knowing her husband would sail forth to war over the matter. Whether his intentions were to kidnap Vitale and ransom him for Valencia or just to shame him, no one truly knows.
      The Doge went straight home upon docking, sending messengers to gather the general assembly come morning. Siegfried brought the Captain’s mate from the flagship to Vittorio that night. He had gone to the tavern he frequented when he was in port and smelled disease the moment he walked in, though few of the sailors there were showing signs. Vittorio was displeased with Vitale’s handling of things to begin with. Once the mate explained what had actually transpired He was livid. Then Siegfried spoke up.
      “That is not the worst of it, Vittorio,” he growled. He then hit the man in the back of the head. “Tell him about the rats.”
      Vittorio actually moved in His chair. The man nearly wet himself in terror thinking Vittorio’s rage would be directed at him, but maintained control of himself and obediently relayed what he had seen. During the night while he was on watch, he witnessed several fishermen in small boats doing something to the scuppers. When he called out to them they fled, but he could see other small boats similarly engaged near the other vessels in the fleet. He informed the captain immediately and the scuppers were checked for blockage and damage from the inside, but there seemed nothing wrong with them. He was told they were just fishermen and to leave the matter be. He insisted that something in those boats, other than the men, moved. He swore he had seen a rat fall from the man’s hand into the water when he startled him. That was when the other ships started getting sick.
      “Did Vitale know he had plague on board?” Vittorio asked, His dark eyes narrowed. I could feel the shadows beginning to tremble with His barely contained rage, even my veil responded. I, myself, was aquiver with anticipation. Many might die this night and I was eager for it.
      “Si, Padrone,” he sighed. “We lost nearly the whole fleet to it. The flagship was spared perhaps because the culprits were caught in the act. The Captain warned against returning. Said we should put in at the monastery. Let the plague run its course first… but il Doge insisted.”
      “There are sailors in the taverns who are sickening,” Siegfried snarled.
      “Antillius,” Vittorio snapped. His childe approached instantly and knelt. “See to it that this man and his captain are duly rewarded. Such foresight and wisdom should be put to use.”
      Antillius actually asked Vittorio a question which seemed to surprise Him a little. He almost smiled. “Yes,” He answered. “You may have him.” Antillius rose immediately and thanked his sire, then went to the man and led him out of the chamber. That young man was blooded before midnight and was often seen around the Palazzo after that.
      “Siegfried,” Vittorio went on. “You know who is sick and who is not. I want this plague wiped out before it begins. Put the bodies on a ship and burn it. Alia!”
      I was at His knee in an instant, my hunger obvious. “You will help him, but first…” He smiled, leaning close. “I want Vitale dead. Slowly. I want him to appear to drop dead of the plague he brings on his coattails; to seem to be struck by God himself when he gives his speech tomorrow to the General Assembly.”
      I bowed, kissed His hand. This would take some careful planning. I would need things. Most of what I can do with my blood is simply a matter of desire, but this… this would require ingredients. I left at once to affect my preparations.
      I will not tell you the secrets, they are just that: carefully guarded secrets. I will only tell you that I spent an hour preparing my blood and myself. I found a black gown in an attic chest. It was beautiful and flowing, richly made though simple and beginning to rot. My hair I took down, brushed until it rippled like a blanket of silk thread. This was to be a special kill, and I felt like being seen, making an impact. The man would know he was dying before death came. My veil I left beside my clothes and vanished, heading for the house of the all too mortal Doge.
      Slipping into his house was easy. Messengers were running in and out even at that late hour. I found Vitale in his study pouring over a parchment where he was attempting to write his speech to the assembly. He was in a sweat, though without the acrid tang of illness. I began to approach but was interrupted before I could become visible by the entrance of his annoying wife, ‘Venicia’. Valencia threw herself upon him, tried to convince him to come to bed.
      “I am worried for your health, husband,” she simpered.
      He shrugged her off. “The plague did not affect our ship, my pet. I was protected by God, I think. It was a righteous war. I was justified,” he insisted.
      She seated herself upon his lap and began to distract him. I paced with frustration. “It was, and you were right to call for it. But not all wars go as planned. You were willing to listen to Manuel’s pleas for peace, he was simply a duplicitous bastard who never had any intentions of entertaining the concept. Any more than he believed Venetians were behind the attacks on Galata. It was an excuse, nothing more.”
      “I know that,” he protested. “But will the General Assembly see that? And I cannot write my speech with you on my lap.” She pouted, getting off. He sighed. “I have missed you too, and I promise, I’ll come to bed soon. But I must finish this.”
      She glanced over the parchment, made a few suggestions. “I still think you should have gone straight to Vittorio.”
      “I promise you, I’ll go see him tomorrow night.”
      She glared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. “You should have seen him first,” she insisted.
      “Unprepared? I would have looked like a schoolboy who was just caught throwing rocks at a neighbor’s window. No. I will see no one until I am ready. Now I must think and cannot do that with you standing before me in your dressing gown. Go,” he insisted, trying to shoo her off. “This is man’s work. Nothing for you to worry about.”
      Valencia was irritated by this treatment, and stared at him a long moment, apparently trying to influence him with her blood, but it must have been too long since she had fed him. He insisted and she stormed out.
      Finally alone, he sat down again and buried his face in his hands. After a moment he moved them enough to stare at the speech before him. That was when I faded into view beside him. I made him see what I wanted him to see: wind wiping sinuously through my gown and hair, a faint glow surrounding my not yet solid body and a pair of great, black feathered wings sprouting from my back. I was, in effect, an angel of death.
      He turned, broke into a cold sweat. “No, please,” he said. “I can fix this.”
      I merely smiled sadly at him and glided closer. I touched his cheek with poisoned fingertips, tipped his chin up and kissed him full on the lips. His senses were overwhelmed by the scent of lotus, and the kiss itself was honey sweet. As I slowly pulled back, he tasted his lower lip, swallowing even more of the poison. From the doorway came a scream and the sound of breaking glass. I glanced over to see Valencia standing there, a blood and wine filled goblet broken at her feet. Vitale did not turn from my face, but I smiled at her as I faded from view.
      
      I moved immediately, as she ran forward. She struck blindly, trying to hit what she could not see and yelled at me that it was not his fault. At Vittorio’s behest I slipped close enough to whisper where only she could hear, “Perhaps, perhaps not. But knowingly bringing a plague to Venice was his own foolishness. One He will not forgive.” I confess, I could not resist adding my own two denari. “Checkmate,” I hissed.
      I left her weeping with her head on Vitale’s stunned knee.
      
      I joined the Beast hunting at the docks, made no pretense at hiding from him, though I maintained the illusion of the angel of death. It would not be remiss if seen near where people were dropping like flies and was quite appropriate in those highly religious and superstitious times. And I confess, I was rather enjoying the impact.
      Siegfried raised one bushy eyebrow when he saw me. “Not sure I like you in a dress,” he growled, snapping the man’s neck he had hold of and tossed him onto the cart one of his crewmen was following him around with. “You look too civilized. Not the right coloration for a Valkyrie.”
      “I did not appear thus to please you,” I snapped back, though we both were enjoying the charade.
      He sniffed the air for another diseased soul and stopped, began sniffing towards me. He never touched me, but he got close, snuffling my skin like a hound and curling his nose in response. He held his mouth open slightly as his lip curled, tasting the scent as well. “This is new,” he admitted, regarded me with a wary eye. “What’d ye do to yerself?”
      I shrugged, “Nothing you have to worry about,” beginning even then to concentrate the poison within me to work more quickly. “I doubt you would even notice it.”
      Another drunken sailor rounded the corner looking for a wall to water and I saw him flex his shoulders, preparing to kill him. I sauntered forth, the man staring from Siegfried to me in stunned disbelief. “This gentleman, on the other hand,” I grinned and glided to him. I took his face in hand and kissed him. He was still staring agape as he fell to the pavement stone dead.
      Siegfried only snorted, but I could tell he was impressed. While he desired nothing more than to rend and tear throughout the night, he had to admit that my way was more sound. The rest of the night he spent pointing out to me those that were diseased and picking up the bodies when they dropped dead from my invisible kiss. The people claimed it was the fastest acting plague in history, but you’ll never see that written. No, there is a reason for that.
      Events of the next day were reported to us by Antillius’s new blood. Vitale went to the Assembly as planned, delivered his speech and left. Outside, the populace waylaid him. Some say he ran, seeking sanctuary at the church, but he never made it. That was my doing. He was already suffering from the poison. Even during his speech he huffed and sweated almost uncontrollably. By the time the mob tore his body asunder he was already dead.
      
      
 
 

   © Sandra Leigh Wagner. All rights reserved!

DateNameComment 
10 Jun 200545 Arwen
This is absolutly amazing. I stumbled upon it through when I felt like doing a bunch of random jumps and found one of the pictures of Alia...I decided to read one section a day so as not to take up too much time reading...*laughs and looks at clock* But I've been here all afternoon. I love your characters and writing style. I am very much looking forward to the next part of this, though being a writer myself (though my stuff is far too disjointed to put on elfwood at this point I hope to eventually) I can understand that sometimes certain things have to be put on hold. Anyway, I love this and keep up the good work. ^_^

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "thank you, she IS so darkly evil, isn't she? So amoral. Why do we love people so bad? It helps to have compelling characters (who do most of the writing for me, really). I'd love to see some of your work, and glad she has snared yet another vic... er fan. if you ever decide to let elfwood open you to suggestions on how to connect your dots, let me know."
5 Sep 200545 A Stormy Soul...
Ah... I love it... When will the next be posted? I believe this story might become a bit of an addiction for me...

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "ah, sorry, it is on my old hardrive which is momentarily inacessible. once it is I may return to it, but should finish regent first, as it is the first to be published of the two (its part of a trilogy!) But then I have The Speaker I'm working on in the mean while which I think is shaping up nicely.
Do not worry though, this one HAS to be done soon enough. My publisher's already promised it."
30 Jan 200645 Faëry
Oh, oups, I hadn't seen the older comments were from January 2005... I'll be more careful next time!

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "SO? You think a mere year means anything to the likes of me? I have seen nearly a thousand years pass, and I can assure you... praise never grows old!"
30 Jan 200645 Faëry
Wow... I am speechless... I usually never, ever read anything on my screen, and I seldom print anything but this time... wow. I just couldn't stop, I read the whole seven chapters in a row. This should teach me to get going with my own novel! **Writes it in her agenda** I'm curious about that contest of yours. Where can I find more detail about it? Thanks!

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "I am flattered and immensely pleased. You may also like the first novel Love In Ruins, in which Alia makes a few bit appearances. Available as an ebook at Amazon or softback (large print) at Lulu or Double Dragon Publishing.

as for this contest, what are you talking about? I have a standard request for folk to render or draw or create their own images of my characters (constantly looking for a really good cover) so long as they state the character's origin and let me see it too! But other than that, the only mention I found was the Dream Realm Awards which is an online thing I think."
1 Feb 200645 SilverFang88
Alright now, I figured I would check up on you agai to see if you've gotten around to writing some more... and you haven't. Having computer difficulties I see. Well just know that you have one very story hungry fan here really wanting more. I'll check back in a couple of months...

Good luck and try to stay out of trouble...

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "Actually, I should have something or two by then. I'm working, really I am (and if you slip me your email address, I'll notify you when the new stuff is up). THe chapter is crawling by, but almost ready. THen things should fly (I hope)"
3 Feb 200645 SilverFang88
Alright than, drop me a line when it comes out. I can't wait to see how the few chapters go.

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "I've added you to my update alert list. Will do!"
17 Mar 2006:-) Lynnessa 'Lyndi' Dick
You have another fan, I just found your artwork yesterday, and read all your works on Alia. Would you send me an email as well when the next chapter comes out? (creaters_myst@hotmail.com)
Keep it up, you have real talent! I can't wait until you write more! Actually, I will HAVE to wait, but I don't have to be happy about it...*wanders off to read other stories, grumbling under breath*

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "so sorry, but as I told Silverfang, I don't know when I'll be able to get back to it. Cause I can't work on it, the contest winner's been moved to the Speaker which should be finished SOON"
5 Aug 2007:-) Brittany E. Dueker
This is wonderful. I'm not sure I get the timeline or the historical references (but I blame that on it being 2180 in the morning XD ). I can't wait to read the rest.
*hands you a cookie and wanders away*

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "lol, thanks. It's been a while since I worked on this one. ...might be a while again."
21 Feb 2008:-) Brie TheCheeseGirl O´Reilly
*Tips her hat to you* Another job well done, Sandra.

I’ve decided to refrain from my endless comment of crits just this once, although if you wish I will gladly return and run through these chapters once more.

I thought the addition of the Fenrii was quite interesting. It certainly is an interesting take on that particular strain of lycanthropy - and if it was your original thought bubble I shall tip my hat off to you once more. =o)

The Line of ’checkmate’ was a nice touch as well, especially due to the fact that the story itself is a bit jumbled - not in a confusing way - but in the sense that there are several gaps in the timeline. I thought that the reference back to the ongoing chess match between Vittorio and Valencia helps add a bit of continuity, as does the overall theme of the game of chess.

And even though I said it already - Well done.
*TheCheeseGirl*

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "confused. ’my original thought bubble’? Yes, it was, ... filtered down from the myriad myths as were my vampires. Just my take on them"
22 Feb 2008:-) Brie TheCheeseGirl O´Reilly
Oh no, I meant no offense. I didn’t mean to sound as though I was criticizing you for using someone else’s ideas. In truth it was the very opposite, an attempt to compliment you on the originality. Most of the stories I’ve read use the stereotypical type of lycanthropes - you know, the howling at the full moon furries - but you broke away from that. It’s refreshing.

*TheCheeseGirl*

:-) Sandra Leigh Wagner replies: "ah, ok. Yeah, I had to reread it a little while ago to understand. I don’t know where that came from , I just knew that had to be different. I mean, why else would there be so much rage in them? It sounded good at the time. But this only applies to Werewolves of this world. In other stories they will work differently, as will the vampires. I’m writing one now into chapter 12 of Brother Sun & Sister Moon and I’m liking her a lot. Though she’ll probably only be a walkon. We’ll have to see."
Page: [1] 2 3
Not signed in, Add an anonymous comment to this guestbook...    

 Your Name: Your Mail: