by Athena Dore
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 Athena Dore
The right of Athena Dore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior permission in writing of the author, except for brief quotations featured in critical reviews, or certain other non-commercial purposes in accordance with copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
~*~
It was night. A figure stood on top of the dome of the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower, looking out over the Italian city of Florence, like a watchman. He was a mere silhouette in the darkness, his wings unfurled and poised, ready for flight. Their menacing, jagged shape gave him the appearance of a gargoyle. However, ominous as he looked, he was very much alive. And he was searching, searching for someone; the woman he loved: Rochelle.
* * *
The morning Italian sun shone down on Rochelle’s shoulders as she stood on the balcony. It was rare for her to be awake this early but she was too excited. She was in Rome! She’d been there a few days now to celebrate her birthday, but the novelty refused to wear off; she still wanted to sing an elated greeting to the passers-by below, like a Disney princess. However, she restrained herself. The real world was a lot less forgiving of those who randomly burst into song in public. Instead, she sighed contentedly, thinking of her time in Rome so far: shopping in all the designer shops; eating gelato on the Spanish Steps; visiting the Trevi Fountain, with its grand, intricate carvings; breathing in the history of the Coliseum and imagining what it must have been like in all its Roman splendour, before the marble had been stolen away. And she loved the people on the street selling their amazing artwork or wares. It felt so… organic.
She smiled contentedly. She really needed this trip. After Roseford, she’d been back in Lower Ferton for six weeks. Roseford. It was a relief that everyone had got away safely and that it hadn’t completely burnt to the ground or collapsed. There was a charred, gaping hole in the back of the abbey, from the ground, right up to the roof, and several rooms wide.
Though her room was still intact, she hadn’t been back to Roseford since that night. Instead, she’d stayed in Lower Ferton. Her whole ordeal had made her hometown seem even more lifeless. Fortunately, however, she did get to see a lot of Xavier.
Ah, Xavier… She sighed, basking in her own happiness. Life was wonderful. The world was wonderful.
Two arms encircled her waist from behind in a gentle embrace. Xavier placed a kiss on her shoulder and buried his face in the curve of her neck. He was completely still except for his deep, regular breathing, which tickled against her skin. It sounded like he had gone back to sleep. She rested her head against his. Yesterday, at the Trevi Fountain, she’d closed her eyes and thrown a coin over her left shoulder into its sparkling waters. She’d wished for a return to Rome, as was the custom, but not just any return to Rome. She’d opened her eyes. She wanted to return with the man standing before her, now reaching out to take her hand. That action alone made her heart leap. The man she was in love with.
“Why are you up so early?” Xavier murmured eventually, bring her back to the present. So, he was still awake.
“We’re in Rome; The Eternal City!” she said, “Can’t you feel the electric atmosphere?”
“I feel tired” said Xavier.
Hmm, thought Rochelle, it wasn’t surprising considering he’d had a restless night.
When he’d sat up during the night, he’d woken her.
“Are you okay?” she’d asked sleepily, wondering whether he was turning.
“I’m fine. Just need some fresh air. Go back to sleep”.
She’d heard the door to the balcony open and close. She’d fallen asleep once more and that was the last she knew until she’d woken up this morning with his arms round her.
The waiter came up to their suite and served them breakfast on the balcony.
Rochelle looked across at Xavier as she cut open a roll. His hair was a little bit ruffled. It made him look cute. But it was also strange seeing him like this, being there with him like this. She’d had breakfast with him before at Roseford, but that had been in a large dining room and being a guest in someone else’s home, she hadn’t felt completely comfortable.
Now, in the more intimate and relaxed setting of the balcony, it felt domestic somehow, almost like they were a married couple. She was even starting to feel a bit less self-conscious about him seeing her wearing a scarf on her head. The whole situation felt like a good kind of strange. She wanted to get used to it.
He picked up an envelope which had been brought up for him with breakfast. It was black, like the one she’d seen at Roseford. His eyes darkened. It was only for a moment but it was definitely there.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Xavier looked surprised.
“Nothing” he said, putting the envelope down, unopened.
Rochelle began to doubt herself. Now she was only eighty percent sure of what she’d seen. He rested his hand on hers and caressed it softly with his thumb. Sixty percent.
“So, we’re off to Florence today” he said, smiling at her. Thirty. And thirty wasn’t sure at all.
“I can’t wait” she said. After being in awe of Michelangelo’s painting on the ceiling of Sistine Chapel and seeing the glossy marble contours of his Pietà in St. Peter’s Basilica, when they had visited the Vatican, she was eager to look at more of his work. Photographs or documentaries really didn’t do justice to the large scale he worked on, or his genius with sculptures.
After breakfast, she went into the bathroom to have a shower while Xavier took his medication. She was squeamish when it came to needles and hated seeing him inject himself.
Eventually, they switched rooms. She heard the running of the shower as she put on her outfit for Florence – a dress with a nice, summery feel. It wasn’t quite summer yet but it was very warm – much, much warmer than England. She twirled in the mirror. It should be illegal to be this happy. And to look this good.
Perhaps Rochelle might have been more concerned if she’d seen Xavier in the bathroom. He gripped the thick basin of the marble sink in both hands and looked at his frosted reflection in the mirror. In the blur, he looked normal. However, the condensation on the glass masked the scowl on his face. His breathing was heavy and vicious. He hung his head. A low growl rumbled through his throat. His biceps flexed and he clenched the sink tighter and tighter. Until it cracked.
When they arrived in Florence, Rochelle wanted to go everywhere and do everything. She was almost as excitable as Mindy. She was all about the Renaissance.
They checked in at their hotel, had lunch and enjoyed the rest of the day looking around some of the galleries, and the shops on the Ponte Vecchio. Rochelle had been looking forward to visiting the Uffizi Gallery and seeing Michelangelo’s David. Once again she was struck by the scale. He was like a 4-metre tall giant.
“Let’s take a picture so we can see the height difference!” she said.
She found someone to take the picture. Xavier stepped reluctantly into the frame. He hated having his picture taken.
<
br /> “You should have smiled” said Rochelle, “You look like a sulking child”.
In the picture, Rochelle looked as happy as she felt. She knew she was going to enjoy Florence – possibly more than Rome.
* * *
They were in the Coliseum. The large, broken arches rose into the grey sky, as though forming the ribcage of a giant skeleton. Crows flew overhead, their dark silhouettes contrasting with the clouds as they circled like vultures.
Xavier turned to Rochelle and kissed her. She put her arms round him. His wings sprouted. He kissed her more ferociously, more savagely, pushing her to the ground.
Then, he pulled away and slashed at her. Blood splashed across his face and seeped from the wound onto the stones beneath her. It trickled down her intestines as he clawed them from her body. He brought the tangled spaghetti jumble of organs to his lips and licked them, savouring the metallic taste of her blood. And then, against her cries, against her protests, he ate her alive.
Xavier jolted awake.
The horror of what he’d just done gripped him. He panicked. How could he?
“Xavier?” asked a voice. It was Rochelle. She was alive. Relief rushed over him. So, it was a dream, a nightmare? Rochelle was alive. Never before had he been so glad something had been just a dream.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing” he said.
Rochelle turned on the lamp and sat up.
“It didn’t seem like ‘nothing’”. She’d woken up to him fidgeting and sighing and tossing and turning. Looking at him now, his forehead was covered with perspiration and his breathing was fast and desperate. There was a troubled look in his eyes.
“I had a nightmare”, he said, “that I… ate you”. It had been so vivid, so real. He could still feel the relish as he shovelled her intestines into his mouth, the satisfying taste of human flesh, the way it slipped over his tongue and slid down his throat.
Rochelle crawled across the bed and knelt beside him. She felt him shudder as she put her arms round him, drawing him into her embrace. He buried his head in her shoulder and put his arms round her, tightly, as though trying to remind himself this was real, that she was real.
“It was just a dream” she said, stroking his hair.
Just a dream. That was the problem. Was this the kind of dream where you were so worried about something bad happening, like messing up a public speech in front of three hundred people, that you had a nightmare about it? Or, was this his subconscious telling him what he really wanted to do to her, his deepest, darkest desires?
Something he didn’t want to happen, or something he desperately did… Trying to decide which it was is what kept him awake at night, his thoughts tumbling over one another, smothered in guilt, until his concerns grew larger and larger, like a snowball rolling down a hill.
* * *
It was finally her birthday. For the past few years, she hadn’t really celebrated the day. She’d just gone to work in the mid-morning, taught her classes and then come home around 11pm. The fact that she was celebrating her birthday in Florence was enchanting in itself, but the fact that she was celebrating it at all was phenomenal.
Xavier had bought her a huge bouquet of flowers where lilies, her favourites, with their gorgeous fragrance featured prominently. She felt the warmth of the sentiment, though good luck getting those through customs on the way back home, she thought.
There was another present for her: a box wrapped in gold with a blue satin bow.
“What’s this?” she asked. She still felt a tiny bit awkward receiving gifts from him, but since it was her birthday, it was acceptable, just for today.
“Open it and you’ll find out” he said.
“A key?” she asked. It was threaded through by a delicate gold chain.
“Of course”, he said dryly, “It’s the key to my heart”.
“What a sentimental fool”.
“Wear it today and see how much of a sentimental fool I am” he said.
They went to the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower. Rochelle was very eager to climb to the top of the dome and look out across Florence.
“Did you know there are four hundred and sixty-three steps to the top?” she asked as they stood outside, in the square of the Piazza del Duomo.
No answer.
She turned to Xavier. He was looking across the Piazza, scrutinising their surroundings.
“Xavier!” she called. He looked down at her, startled.
“What’s the matter?”
“You’re not listening”.
“Sorry” he said.
“If this is boring you, you can go back to the hotel; I don’t mind sight-seeing by myself”. She hadn’t intended to sound so harsh but he’d seemed distracted all day and annoyance accidentally seeped into her tone. Xavier detected it.
“Rochelle, I’m so sorry” he said. He stopped walking. She stopped too and looked up at him. He bowed his head so that his forehead rested on hers. Rochelle was embarrassed; they were in a square full lots of people.
“Xavier” she hissed, trying to pull away, but his arm tightened round her waist, the fingers of his other hand still intertwined with hers where they’d been holding hands. He pouted childishly at her, with puppy-dog eyes. Despite her best efforts, she found herself starting to be won over, and her annoyance start to dissipate.
“Okay, whatever” she said. If her voice sounded brusque now, it was from embarrassment.
He smiled. He tilted his head, so that for a moment, his lips brushed hers. Then, he released her.
The Piazza was so full of tourists she didn’t know where to look. She kept her gaze on the paved ground.
Xavier tugged her hand, pulling her towards the Duomo.
“Come on, let’s go inside”, he said, “But only if you can handle it. I hear there are four hundred and sixty-three steps”.
The view from top was breath-taking. The orange roofs of houses below stretched as far as her eye could see.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes, it is” he agreed.
He was very attentive to her after that. However, so too, it seemed, were the people around her.
“For you, signorina” said a girl of about ten years old once they were outside in the Piazza again. She offered Rochelle a balloon.
“Oh, thank you” said Rochelle.
“For you, signorina” said a skilful street artist as he handed her a drawing of herself. Rochelle looked at Xavier quizzically.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“I don’t know” said Xavier, “It must be the Florentine hospitality”.
However, after she’d received chocolates from the waiter when they stopped for lunch, a cake from the bakery as they’d walked past, a beautiful bracelet from the jewellers and a spontaneous chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ from musicians on the street, she knew Xavier definitely had a hand in this.
“You are too much” she said, but she was happy. It was like she’d cashed in all the coupons for her past celebration-less birthdays and received an extravagant celebration in return.
They were so laden with gifts that he suggested going to drop them off. So, they were taken to their hotel.
“This isn’t where we were staying” she said when they pulled up outside a villa. The early evening sunshine cast a golden glow. Its cream walls looked warm and inviting, contrasting against the cool blue green of the wooden shutters.
“We’ve moved” said Xavier.
Fair enough, thought Rochelle.
They got to the door. It was the same blue green as the shutters.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked.
Open it? She thought and then she remembered the key round her neck. Realisation dawned on her.
“April fools” said Xavier.
Rochelle was confused. So it wasn’t… the key wasn’t… But wait, it wasn’t even April…
“Sorry, wrong one”, smiled Xavier, I meant ‘happy birth
day’”.
Rochelle hugged him. She kind of leapt on him out of nowhere and he was a bit taken a back.
“Thank you” she exclaimed into his shoulder, “It’s amazing”. Nothing she could say could convey how she felt right now. He’d bought her a villa. An actual villa. In Florence. It was just…he was just…wow.
“Xavier…” she murmured, still hugging him. The warmth of the sun oozed over them like honey. She let her feelings radiate from her. She wished she could preserve this day, at this exact time, forever.
They went to dinner in a restaurant a little walk away. It was a small, cosy restaurant which fit the atmosphere, how she was feeling perfectly.
