Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1)

by Silvana G Sánchez

  I moved passed the muddy shore and stepped into the ruins of an old abandoned settlement. Deprived of all life, the stillness of time set its veil over every nook and cranny. I had seen this stillness before, years ago. I recognized it. I had seen it the moment I ventured outside of my bedroom eight years ago and faced what had become of my home after the death of my brother.

  It was the same gray touch on every surface, the touch of death. Through streets infested with high grown grass, I moved further into the core of this village with every certainty that if ghosts truly existed, I would surely find them here. Then again, perhaps ghouls and ghosts did not exist; perhaps only emotions transcended the passing of time. Extreme pain, suffering, and anxiety clung to these walls with sharpened claws... But then, I remembered the specter of what had once been my brother, standing by the hearth at the foot of my bed. “I am so cold,” he had said.

  A sudden chill rushed down my spine. That moment had been real, as real as this forbidden island.

  As I moved into the central piazza, I wanted to avert my eyes; old charred human remains soiled the floor. A heap of logs left in a hurry lay beside shreds of clothing, tattered and long-forgotten, placed in a wicker basket tossed on the cobblestone pavement. This courtyard had been used to incinerate the dead, and without a doubt, dozens who still breathed and lived had unwillingly yielded to the pyre's flames, tossed into their burning final resting place, amidst the chaos and confusion of despair.

  If I looked with all intention, I would soon come across the mass grave sites where thousands had been buried. The very earth where I stood had rekindled itself upon infested rotting corpses dating back to the Roman Empire era; the Plague had been around this part of the world for a long time. In unexpected waves, it came and went. Perhaps it would soon disappear from the face of the earth, but who knew? Evil endures. It has a way of fighting for permanency.

  A sudden rush of anxiety took over me. This island was tinged with sorrow. Every stone exuded anguish and a deep sense of the doom that had perspired long ago, and in spite of so many years, it lingered. It was almost as tangible as the presence I had sensed following me for the last few minutes.

  Standing in the middle of the piazza, I turned around searching for this face, this pale and translucent figure, fixing its empty eyes upon me with its macabre stare.

  Nothing.

  Complete desolation.

  I was beginning to wonder if Scorzo's alleged discovery had been nothing more than a ruse, a way to complete his task and collect his wages and possibly then move on to another scheme.

  A low bank of fog scurried before me with a gust of wind. There. On the other side of the piazza, a dark and sullen figure. Several feet away from me, half-hidden behind one of the arched columns of this small courtyard, it waited. It did not move.

  Dressed in a torn black gown, stained with weeks old mud and dirt, she stood before me. This was no ghost; it was a woman, and her eyes said more than any words she could have spoken. In them, I discovered a keen sense of pain; the kind of sorrow that had been kept for too long, leaving its permanent mark of grief. If I looked close enough, I could distinguish the skin shrunken to the bone with deep straight lines that drew the salty route of so many shed tears.

  Her eyes widened as she noticed my stare, and she attempted to flee.

  “No, wait!” I said in Italian. “I mean you no harm!”

  The woman stopped.

  I took a step closer.

  “Please, you must help me…” How stupid my phrasing was, this woman needed more help than she could ever provide. “I'm looking for someone...”

  “No one but the dead lives here.” Her voice, low and guttural, came from the depths of despair.

  “Be that as it may...” I mused. “Perhaps you might know where I can find him.”

  She shook her head and bit her fingernails.

  “Are you all right?” Of course not. Her mind was clearly disturbed, but I had the sense that it had not always been so. In such a place of devastation and tragedy, how could anyone not fall influenced by its darkness? I myself had been here for less than an hour and already my heart was sinking into profound misery. I could not wait to leave this island... if the boatman had not left already, that was.

  “Gone, gone, gone...” she mumbled.

  “I'm sorry?” I moved closer until I stood before her, enough to appreciate her emaciated figure.

  She wriggled her hand around her wrist; sudden spasms struck her shoulders. Her eyes widened with fear and shock.

  “They took him... but where?”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  The woman turned, and oblivious to my presence, her small blundering footsteps took her away from the piazza. I followed her until she stopped before a field of high grass. I went ahead and stood beside her, then her hand pressed my chest as I attempted to move one step forward. I stopped.

  “The dead... belong with the dead,” she whispered, “not with the living.”

  I frowned. Who was this woman and what did she mean by those strange words?

  Her long bony finger pointed down.

  My gaze followed her signal, only to discover a wide deep ditch, concealed by the growing grass. Amidst heaps of dirt and rocks, I thought I saw... No. Please, no.

  Fearing the inevitable, I took one step back and the entire panoramic became visible to my horrified eyes.

  Concealed between the grass and rocks, fingers emerged from the piles of dirt. A femur, several fractured skulls, part of a rib cage... all human bones. This was a mass grave. And no matter how many years had passed since this grave site was dug, skeletons still crept out of the earth, refusing their fate.

  Old death and decay saturated the air. But then, not all of it was old. A few bodies maintained fresher conditions; pieces of rotting flesh clung to their bones, dried blood tinging their remains. The stench of death filled my lungs, my body rebelled against taking it in, but there was little I could do to avoid it.

  I followed the sight of a leather boot. My curious eyes ran upwards and met the dead man's face: shriveled skin, deep eye sockets tinged in purple and blue, thin lips peeled back, bearing his crooked teeth in the eerie grin of death. Maggots feasted on the giant tear on his neck, through which its broken windpipe lay exposed…

  A sudden shot of bile burst to the back of my tongue, filling my palate with its hideous taste. My body convulsed and next thing I knew, vomit projected from my mouth. I buried my head between my knees as my stomach turned once more. And when that was over, I sat on a rock, while I struggled to regain control.

  The soft breeze cleared away the few remains of fog as the sunset glared in the clearing sky. The melodious ruffling of high grass soothed my fears. For a minute, I closed my eyes and as I opened them once more, her dark brown eyes appeared in my central visual field, widened with concern. Her lips moved, but I heard no sound.

  Her hands reached for my face, cold and although young, the skin, shrunken to the bone.

  “...must leave!”

  I focused on her lips.

  “We must leave before they come!” she said. “Where is your boat?”

  “More wine!” I said, and the glass appeared before me in an instant. And as soon as it did, my trembling hands reached for it.

  Still baffled by what I had seen, my mind immersed in the images of so many bones and the rotting flesh adhered to them. Decomposing bodies, fresh human remains. Never had I expected to come across such a horrendous discovery. A few old bones, perhaps, but not this!

  With all senses hindered, I had somehow managed to remember the way back to shore and fortunately enough, the boatman had kept his promise and waited for me, astonished as he discovered I had brought the woman with me.

  There was not enough wine in the world to make me forget what I had seen and felt while on that accursed island. Nothing would convince me of ever going back...

  “Signore?” she said.

  I had forgotten all about her.

&n
bsp; The woman sat before me, eating from her plate of fish and vegetables with such ferocious appetite, one would think this was her first decent meal in ages.

  “You haven't spoken a word since we came back...” she mused in Italian and then took a bite out of her piece of bread. “Are you all right?”

  “Si, sto bene...” I’m fine, I said. Although in truth I was quite shaken.

  “How long had you been on that island?”

  “Two weeks,” she mumbled, her mouth full.

  “Two weeks?!” I said, my jaw must have dropped. “That place is deserted, how did you manage to survive for that long?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Never mind that. What were you doing there in the first place?”

  “They took him,” she said quite simply.

  “You said that before,” I mused.

  “I found the grave, it was where he told me. The shroud, ripped and drenched in blood, with no body. He was gone.

  “They did it! The island is their lair and refuge. They hunt here in Venice and take their prey there to feed! They drink their blood and drain their bodies dry, leaving nothing but shells of rotting meat. You've seen it yourself!”

  “Wait… Who's 'they'?”

  “They know who I am. They've seen you too. We are in grave danger... You must go back signore, go back from whence you came! They'll kill you if you stay here!”

  “Kill me? What are you talking about?!” I stopped. “Who are you?!”

  Her eyes locked in mine, she took one deep breath and sighed before speaking. “My name is Marietta Mazzilli.”

  “You—you are Marietta Mazzilli?”

  “That is what I said.”

  “Forgive me,” I mused. “Please, go on.”

  “Two weeks ago, a man who called himself Scorzo appeared at my door. He told me he knew where my husband was buried and pointed me to the island.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I found the grave where he told me the body would be. It was open. The shroud torn apart, drenched in blood... But I have told you this already. Someone stole his body. When I turned back, the boat that had brought me to the island was gone.

  “He left me stranded, unable to reach a single creature or call for help. No one dares set a foot on that island... and now I know why!”

  The amount of information she conveyed clouded my senses. This woman was Marietta Mazzilli, Valentina's mother, Master Bianchi's wife!

  “Your husband, are you sure the grave was his?”

  “I know it was!” She ran her fingers through her hair. “I found this necklace in the grave…” She extracted the piece of jewelry from her gown and showed me the golden cross and chain. “The necklace I gave him on our wedding day.”

  As soon as I acknowledged it, she closed her hand once more and slipped it into her pocket.

  My mind whirled with a thousand questions, racing and tumbling one upon the other. Why did Marietta say we were in danger? Where was Master Bianchi? Who were 'they', these men who wanted to kill us?

  “I must find Rinaldo,” she mused, determined. “And you… You must leave Venezia.”

  “Those men you talk about, have you seen them commit these unspeakable crimes? They should be punished; you must come forward to the appropriate authorities!”

  “They are not men.”

  My blood froze. “What are you saying?”

  “Sartie mangiatori,” she said.

  “Shroud eaters?” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

  “They used to be men, long ago. But now, they are creatures that belong to darkness. They kill and feed off human blood... You must leave, signore. I would have left months ago, if not for my Rinaldo. If he is dead, I want his body. I need to give him peace in holy ground.”

  “And what if he's not dead?” I mused, skeptical of my following words. “What if he's part of this group, these Shroud Eaters?”

  “Then I better find him,” she whispered, “so I can kill him myself.”

  A chilling wave spread through my body at the sound of those words.

  Marietta finished her wine and rose from the table with haste.

  “You have been warned, signore... Leave Venice at once!”

  With that said, she moved away from the table and disappeared in the crowded street.

  That night I did not sleep. Haunting faces lurked in the shadows of my bedroom, or so I thought. Marietta Mazzilli's story made my skin crawl with fear, but I had to admit there was a certain air of insanity about the way she spoke; the demeanor behind her every word seemed off. I could not trust the woman, and she was obviously unfit to care for Valentina.

  The next morning, concealing the heavy emotional cost of my trip to Poveglia came as an impossible feat. I stared at the blood orange on the plate before me and all I saw was a rotting piece of flesh, festering, with worms and all kinds of tiny living creatures feeding off the remains of what had once been human.

  “You haven't been yourself ever since you returned from Poveglia,” she mused.

  “Nonsense...” I mumbled.

  “What came out of it?” she said. “Did you find him, Master Bianchi?”

  “I did not. It was all a lie.”

  “I knew it,” she said. “That lawyer, Scorzo, came by early in the afternoon, collected his fee and disappeared so fast... I knew something was wrong. He seemed so nervous... said something about leaving Venice. Thank Heavens you returned safe and sound.”

  “Yes,” I mused.

  I could not think of sharing with her even an impression of what had perspired back in Poveglia, for fear of causing her unease. It was unnecessary to burden her mind with such horrors.

  “Our masks arrived yesterday... for the Ball?”

  “Wonderful,” I said with a monotonous voice.

  “You've barely eaten a thing, are you sure you're all right?”

  “I am,” I replied, annoyed by her insistence.

  “I know what you need.” A teasing smile.

  “Oh, do you?” I said. “And what would that be?”

  15

  A Face in the Crowd

  Thunderclaps rumbled in the evening sky. The first drops of rain poured as we moved down the street. Amidst the hurried throngs attempting to flee the imminent rainstorm, we scurried, following their same pursuits.

  “It's going to be one heavy storm, we should go back,” I said.

  “No. We can't! Besides, you said you would come.”

  “When did I ever agree to die from a cold?” Loud thunder muffled my voice.

  “No one has ever died from a cold, Ivan!”

  “Perhaps not a cold, then. Maybe something even worse...” Shroud Eaters, for instance.

  I turned around and studied each face in my vicinity. Every man and woman nearby seemed perfectly normal; but what did a Sartie Mangiatore look like? I had no idea.

  “Hist!” She stood by a theater’s doorway. “Do you hear that?”

  A faint melody rose from the building's entrails. Violins and violoncellos, a hint of a harpsichord's tune—the orchestral prelude of an impending symphony.

  “Come on!” She rushed me inside.

  A deep sense of relief filled my chest as I slipped into the chair in our private box, near the stage. Alisa had chosen a privileged spot in the theater. How had she managed to obtain such exclusive seats? The question reverberated in my skull a couple of times before I dismissed it. Whatever the answer, it made no difference. We were here.

  She locked the doors behind her and moved towards me. Enticingly dressed in a dark blue and gold brocade gown, locks of pitch-black hair framed her pale face. The trail of fragrant roses and bergamot engulfed me as she slid into the chair, next to me.

  Thoughts of the most perverted nature crossed my mind. Here, in the theater's comforting darkness, concealed by the confines of our private balcony, I could envision her wearing nothing more than the sapphire choker she proudly displayed tonight... One kiss, one sealing moment of blissful eter
nity would be enough.

  I lowered my gaze, away from her tempting image, and focused on the theater's proscenium.

  A round of applause rose from the crowd. The curtain drew back. Letizia Leone's figure stood at the center of the stage.

  “Opera,” I whispered in her ear as I clapped.

  She smiled with her eyes. “Letizia Leone,” she replied.

  Though I appreciated opera enough to sit through it, the truth was I found myself vastly more entertained by other Art forms.

  The Commedia dell'Arte's stunts and performances, for instance. Their improvised plots required great wit and creative talent, for which I much admired its leading actors' histrionic abilities.

  Perhaps I enjoyed it so much because unlike anything else, it resonated with my life.

  Pantalone, the old greedy merchant, reminded me of Father; no matter how great his wealth, money was his endless obsession. Arlecchino, the devious servant, mischievous and a frequent friend of trouble, that was me. Columbina, the prettiest fair-hearted woman who excelled at avoiding being conquered by old relentless hearts, could be no other than Alisa. And if I had to choose someone to take the part of Il Capitano, pompous and boastful, flaunting his better days of glory, it would have to be Pritchard. In spite of his overt braggadocio, deep inside, Il Capitano was no more than a coward. However weak his character, he was still claimed as a favorite amongst the crowds.

  But Columbina and Arlecchino had a way of always ending up together.

  I reached for the evening's program, only to discover this was Cavalli's Giasone. Sitting through the three acts meant no torture to me. But the thought of remaining here, so close to her, along with the impossibility of pursuing my dark desires... that was torture enough.

  As the prelude began, silence reigned in the theater.

  The harmonic melodies were insufficient to distract my mind from its forbidden fantasies. I clasped my hands together, hoping to avoid their curious exploring without my consent.