Christmas Bite: A Golden Vampires of Tuscany Novella

by Sharon Hamilton

  “Welcome, Lionel Jett. I am so happy to see you earning your keep. It’s been expensive keeping your brother alive. He has a strong will to live.”

  “As do I,” Lionel challenged him.

  “I can see that.”

  “State your purpose.” Lionel reverted to his warrior frame of mind.

  “To make a trade.”

  “But I have nothing to offer,” Lionel barked.

  “Oh, but you do,” the large man laughed. Gold in his teeth glistened, and a large ring hung from one torn earlobe. A scar slashed across his otherwise smooth and weathered face creating a permanent scowl of his upper lip. His gnarled fingers were adorned with shiny jeweled rings, and his wrists were encrusted in dozens of gold bands, which jingled as he pointed to Lionel’s wrist at Jeb’s mouth.

  Lionel knew this man was mortal, but under the weight of the silver bars, even the strength of both he and his brother combined, if they were both healthy, would be no match for the mortal enemy. It would mean a waiting game of opportunity before he was reduced to flakes and charred bones like that which now surrounded him.

  He was hoping, even incanting a small prayer, to be underestimated. He wondered how much of the night he had left. He wondered if any of his mental messages to Hugh had gotten through. With the silver in place, this would no longer be possible.

  “So name your terms, captor.”

  “You act like you have some say in the matter.” He chuckled while pulling up a stool and stared down at the two of them. “I am Salaman, and I control everything in this place you can see with your eyes. I’ll show you when it’s light. From one horizon, to the other, all mine.”

  Lionel couldn’t help but flinch.

  Salaman continued. “Yes, I know you fear the sun. So perhaps that won’t be possible, but never mind. As I was saying, I am looking for a trade. And you, Lionel Jett, are part of the bargain, not a party to the negotiations. You are a valuable commodity.”

  Lionel could only imagine several parties who might be interested in negotiating for their release. Certainly, the Monteleones would pay handsomely, or he hoped they would. If the price wasn’t too dear.

  “I have spoken to your employer. He is aware you have arrived. He is also aware of the condition of your brother.”

  Jeb began to sit upright, pushing away Lionel’s wrist. His ears were growing back before Lionel’s eyes, his breathing deepened, but his legs were still emaciated and not able to hold his weight. His mind, though, was returning. Lionel could see Jeb was interested in the conversation now, just as much as he was.

  Salaman smiled, revealing his golden canines. His gaze was hungry, as if what he was about to say was so delicious he nearly drooled. He leaned forward, placing his weight on his oversized forearms piled atop his tree stump knees covered in heavy robes.

  “What I want is what has been stolen from me. I have studied your kind for a very long time. I have imprisoned hundreds, enjoyed, well—” He waved over the detritus that rotted around them all. “I have a taste for your kind. But I crave the Golden bloodlines even more. I’ve had difficulty obtaining them.”

  He leaned back on his stool and crossed his arms with a smug tight-lipped smile.

  “He will not give you what you want,” Lionel spat back.

  “Oh, I think he will.”

  “You know he would never sacrifice a Golden for one of us, and I would never stand for it, either.”

  “You’re the bait. The bargain. You have no say.”

  “No, I’m a living being who will fight you till the death. And then what will you have?”

  “So I find another. Eventually, I will find a nice, ripe Golden. Perhaps a virgin? Would he not sacrifice one to save the family? You are an important part of his protection, even his family.”

  Lionel was struck with the realization that some of the confidential information they’d discussed in the Monteleone library was now privy to Salaman. There was a betrayal within the family, and Marcus was unaware of this.

  He could feel Jeb’s thoughts. He was searching the perimeter of the cage, inspecting for some weak spot. Some way out.

  Quiet, brother.

  But I’m nearly thin enough to get through these bars.

  No.

  Their private conversation didn’t appear to faze Salaman in any fashion. That told Lionel that they now had a good weapon to use, once Jeb was fully restored. He reached over and righted first one leg and then the other, squeezing to feel evidence of some healing, and did sense a tiny vibration beginning to build.

  “I understand your desire for a Golden,” Lionel began.

  “Unsullied Golden.”

  “As you say,” Lionel repeated and extended his wrist to Jeb again. “But surely you have a second request, perhaps a compromise.”

  Salaman laughed and stood, kicking the stool to the corner. “Right you are, vampire! But what I haven’t told you is that a virgin Golden female is my second choice.” He waited.

  Lionel was full of dread.

  “I want the book your employer has. I desire to own the book that was destined to become mine. I think you know it. It’s called The Book of Spawn.”

  Chapter 8

  PHOEBE WAS JOINED by several men from Marcus’ protective detail. Her cousin, Paolo, was there to introduce them to her, one by one.

  “Your mother has asked me to acquaint you with some young gentlemen we employ. Marcus and I have decided you should be able to choose your protection.”

  She darted a look to her mother, who remained stoic. Phoebe could tell she’d been crying.

  “My protection? Not—?”

  “Not yet, Daughter,” her father interrupted. He turned his attention to Paolo. “Phoebe and her mother have discussed many options with me for her protection.”

  She held her breath, hoping her father wouldn’t betray much of their personal conversation. She was relieved when he stopped.

  Paolo continued. “As you know, we’ve trained these gentlemen, who were former Special Forces Operators, mostly former SEALs.”

  Phoebe watched as several of the men inhaled, extending their chests out. They were well-built, clean shaven, and none of them gave off any sort of disrespect to her, even accounting for her lack of experience or age. They stared straight ahead. All but one.

  The only man in the lineup who looked at her was the dark vamp she’d seen the day of the wedding, the one who shared the protection of Paolo’s son, Lucius. As soon as their eyes met, he averted his gaze away.

  Phoebe stared longingly at her mother for direction. “How many do I choose? I don’t know how to make the selection. Mother—” She ran to her mother’s side, whispering, “I wasn’t prepared to do this tonight. How am I supposed to do this?”

  “No cause for alarm, Phoebe.” Freya nodded to the line of men and, without asking for input from her husband, said, “Please pick three.”

  Paolo gasped.

  Her husband added, “Wait, Freya. I don’t think Marcus expected—”

  But Paolo whisked her away into the garden room off the kitchen where Phoebe could hear their argument. She examined each of the men, noticing tattoos and scars, the size of their muscled arms, how they nervously swallowed or moved their fingers. Though she was very close as she passed by each of them, none made eye contact. She was fascinated with little variations in their form, the fullness of their lips, the color of their eyes, and their scent. Some wore cologne and others smelled of soap and shave cream. One of them had cut himself doing so. Another had a band aid over his third finger knuckle.

  She wondered if any of them danced, what they looked like when they played a game of catch or rode a bicycle. She wondered if her mother would ever let her kiss one of them, or perhaps two.

  If I had to choose a husband, which one would it be? How could I ever tell? I don’t feel the pulling in my gut or my breath getting heavy. The hairs at the back of my neck and my upper arms don’t stand out. My mouth isn’t parched nor is it overly wet. My he
artbeat isn’t rapid, and I am not sweating. None of the things that happened before are happening now.

  Why?

  As she ended her slow perusal of the line of men, she stood before the large dark vamp who was with her that day at the wedding. Noticing she also didn’t have a physical reaction to his presence, she asked him,

  “And you are Hugh Jett.”

  “Yes, Miss,” he returned softly. He did not meet her gaze.

  “But your brother calls you something else.”

  “Yes, Miss. He often calls me Brother.”

  “Not that,” she said carefully. “He has another first name he calls you. I’ve heard it.”

  Some of the men began to snicker and one coughed into his fist.

  “Yes, Miss. He sometimes calls me—Huge.”

  Now three men stepped out of line and coughed, each taking a second to compose themselves before returning to the column. Hugh’s eyelids were halfway closed, and Phoebe could see he didn’t like being toyed with and was masking being annoyed.

  Her father stepped beside her. “Phoebe, this is no game. We are serious about your welfare.”

  Just as her mother and Paolo returned, Phoebe reached for the hand of the former military man who had the tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm. “I chose you.” Then she walked to Hugh and also took his hand. “And I pick Huge.”

  She turned and surveyed the shocked expression on her mother’s face.

  “Only two. This mortal for daytime, and one for night.”

  ARRANGEMENTS WERE MADE for the two of them to report to the villa tomorrow evening, where Samuel would be given a room on the second floor across from Phoebe’s, since Hugh had quarters he shared with his brother off site. It would also serve as their base of operation.

  They’d be given a tour of the grounds and all the rooms, even the private rooms of the Dominichelli family only servants were allowed in. Preparations were made to go over house security, the necessary vetting of all the household staff, some of their intimate family rules and customs and their upcoming travel plans, including when Phoebe’s two brothers would return home.

  Before they could complete the instructions, Paolo received a call from his brother and had to return home with his men.

  Phoebe didn’t miss the whisper her cousin gave to Hugh, which set his face ashen. As he tore from the room, he neglected to say good-bye.

  She walked behind her parents as they entered the warm kitchen area. Their cook gave Phoebe another bowl of chicken broth, and she was grateful for her kindness.

  “You are better?” her mother asked, sifting her fingers through Phoebe’s long hair and attempting to re-tie her ribbon.

  She nodded. “No more stomach ache. I felt well enough to change my own sheets.”

  “Wonderful.” Freya said as she hugged her. Feeling her forehead, she remarked, “And your fever is down. I think Dr. Luciano was correct in his diagnosis.”

  Phoebe’s father rolled his eyes and then his shoulders.

  “What was all that with Marcus? Did you hear?” Freya asked him.

  “I wasn’t given that information. A family matter. I think it had to do with Hugh’s brother.”

  “That’s Lionel. His name is Lionel,” whispered Phoebe.

  The sound of his name spoken left a pleasant taste in her mouth.

  SHE STAYED UP with her mother, working together on hand top-stitching a quilt that was to be presented to another marrying couple. A wedding band quilt, the pattern was that of many concentric and interloping circles. Phoebe preferred square, more balanced patterns of color, but the design was a tradition in her family and would be displayed proudly for generations to come.

  “So, just to be clear, I am not picking a husband.”

  “Correct. Although you could always change your mind.”

  “I feel nothing for any of them. I don’t even know them.”

  “Friendships between male and female are difficult and sometimes strange. They take years to develop properly sometimes. Best to become friends now, then companions later.”

  “So you had friends? You know they now call them friends with benefits?” Phoebe felt wicked for making her mother throw down her needlework.

  “Honestly, Phoebe. There is a streak in you I’m not pleased to see develop.”

  “But you’ve told me I have to remain strong, to learn to defend myself. I don’t want to leave my future in someone else’s hands, even if it is yours and Father’s. Maybe I’m just beginning to experiment with taking over the reins I’ll have to wield.”

  “I accept your apology,” Freya retorted with a huff.

  Phoebe sighed and squinted to see the edges of fabric she was supposed to follow. Within seconds, her eyes filled with tears.

  Though the effects of the attack and her father’s infusion were gone, the lingering apprehension remained in her chest that the world had tilted three days ago, and her life would forever be altered. New things would be expected of her—things she’d never encountered. And her family support network was also changing. She began to feel it drifting away. Her place safely embedded between her parents, their only daughter and the special one of the family, was somehow being dislodged.

  It was a bit like playing hide-and-seek with the blindfold on. Except this wasn’t a child’s game any longer. There were life and death consequences to winning or losing.

  Over the silence that spread past several minutes, she wondered how it would feel to have a male protector outside her bedroom door. It had always been her father, and now it was going to gradually become some stranger. And both these new protectors were of different species, with backgrounds different than her own. Would they understand her? Or, could she learn from them?

  She told her mother she was tired and retreated upstairs. Before entering her bedroom, she opened the small guest room that would be soon occupied. In the daytime, it had a glorious view of her mother’s gardens and the rolling vineyards beyond. A writing desk stood in front of the window, with one of the hand-made journals her father liked to make and an antique fountain pen with the Dominichelli crest on the side in gold. She fingered the book, loving the smooth texture of the imported paper her father used.

  To her right was the enormous four-poster bed that she’d always coveted, but her mother saved for only special guests.

  “It’s not a proper bed for a young lady, Phoebe,” her mother had said.

  The opulent designs over the headboard and the vines carved in relief along the four heavy columns that held the burgundy tapestry canopy had always been a curiosity to her. Even as a small child, she’d loved to trace the figurines and make up stories of what could have been or what might have happened centuries ago.

  Some nights, she snuck into the room and slept there, returning to her own chamber before daylight. She dreamt she was the queen of a kingdom that adored her.

  Phoebe tore herself away from her childhood fantasies and returned to her room, to the warmth of the well-provisioned fire, the glowing bright white sheets lovingly laid back for her, and the pillows plumped and ready for her head.

  The dirty pile of sheets in the corner was gone, but the shawl was laid across an iron grate and was drying by the fireplace, having been washed by hand.

  As she scanned the room, she noticed the window had been barred shut, and knew this was intentional. Gone would be her nights staring at the stars or dreaming in the moonlight. These were dangerous days ahead. She’d need a good dose of courage, as well as logic, to figure out the maze that was coming upon her. It was a race that didn’t leave her much time to win. Perhaps not nearly enough time.

  She slipped into the covers and fell back on the pillows, waiting. She wanted to remember the tranquility of this night, the way it felt to know what she knew, just before she began her next adventure. It was the calm before the storm.

  Just as she drifted off to sleep, she touched her lips and felt the word spoken into the warm night air as she uttered it.

  “Lionel.”


  Chapter 9

  “EVEN IF HE had it, and he’s claimed he doesn’t, Marcus would never trade that book for us, brother.” Lionel had paced for an hour after Salaman left. During that time, Jeb had inspected each rung of the silver bars, top to bottom, still looking for a weakness.

  “You’re going to worry yourself to death, Lionel. Stop with the pacing. Rest. Save your strength for some useful mental exercise.”

  “I should have foreseen this, Jeb. I blame myself. And now we have almost no time left. It must be close to dawn. I’ve failed Marcus, Paolo—all of them.”

  “Marcus has resources, brother. And he has friends. Look at me.” He spread his arms to the side, displaying his stub on one side and his outstretched hand on the other. With difficulty, he stood without using the silver bars for balance, which would have caused another burn he didn’t need. He hopped, favoring his left leg, until he could put half his weight on it. “See?”

  “You are far from being able to save us, Jeb. You need more time to heal.”

  “But look at me, Brother. I had given up all hope. I never thought I’d see your face again. Yet here we are. Not like it used to be, but much has changed since you arrived. I can risk feeling hopeful again. You’ve brought that to me.” He lowered his head and wiggled his eyebrows. “I might even hope to find some sardines!”

  “God in Heaven, Jeb. We’re in the middle of the desert. The Sahara Desert.”

  “Hope springs eternal. What I’m saying, Brother, is that you’ve given me hope for a future I’d completely given up on.”

  “Yes, by placing myself on the altar as a sacrificial lamb.”

  “No, not sacrificial. You are the object of desire, brother. You were meant to be desired. If it is your last thought, remember that.”

  Lionel didn’t like the direction of the conversation. “I desire to escape, brother. That is all I desire.”

  “Not that kind of desire, Lionel. I’ve seen her.”