by Zan Safra
I let it rest on my palm. The moonlight makes its metal shine like obsidian. The chips of ruby that decorate it glitter like miniscule stars, two tiny stones set in the eyes of an engraved double-headed dragon, rearing like the charge of a coat-of-arms. A name rings the crest.
DRACULESTI.
My name.
My throat aches. My muscles tingle as the last traces of the strength dissolve. The strength I gain in the presence of the Dead.
I let the medallion slip beneath my mailshirt and open my left fist. The alchemized brass of my hand shines in the moonlight.
I bend and unbend my elbow, listening for the clicks as its gears and pistons expand and contract. I circle my wrist and ripple my fingers, watching the ball joints turn in their sockets. The metallaric automaton arm that reaches from my shoulder to my fingertips moves and sounds as it should, undamaged.
I close my eyes. It’s over. The Da Lucas are safe. The vampire is dead.
This time, I won.
The night seems to thicken, a damp, leaden blanket winding about me like a shroud. My hair prickles on my scalp.
I pull myself to my feet and take my glaive from the ground. All traces of gore are gone, dissolved with the rest of the vourdalak. I press my thumb against the weapon’s base and balance it on my palm as it fragments and compacts itself, segment by segment, until it returns to its spyglass disguise.
I hook it onto my belt and sweep my mantle over my shoulders. I take care to cover my metallaric arm and run across the bridge. It leads onto a lane that crosses three more bridges, each arching over a narrow canal, one lined with moored boats, another with walls of blank brick, another dotted with box gardens trailing frost-killed moonblossoms. The lane narrows into a dark alley. I run into it without slowing, using the ground beneath my feet to guide me, feeling the tilt and smoothness of the stones. They slant inwards to create a channel in the center of the lane, one I can follow easily. I learned that trick long ago, when I first began to wander Venice at night.
A spot of light appears ahead, the shine of a gaslight mounted above the door of a bookseller’s. It illuminates a sign pasted to the brick, a paper notice of a kind I’ve seen a thousand times already, scattered throughout the city, stamped with screaming black ink.
ATTENTION!
By order of the Signoria
All citizens of the Republic are to retire to their residence by the third hour of the night. Delinquents will be subject to immediate arrest.
BE VIGILANT
BE WARY
BEWARE THE FIEND
The haunted silence bears down upon me. I hold my breath, listening. Before the panic and the curfew there was always some sound, even in the dead of night, a sign that someone in the city was still awake and alive. Distant voices echoed, gondolas slipped through the water, automata ran midnight errands. But now I hear nothing, only the faint ticking of my pocket-watch.
I run again. All of Venice knows of the latest murder by now. Boys shouted it in the market square this morning, waving their newspapers over their heads. Ghastly murder in San Polo district…the fiend of Venice claims his twenty-first victim…
I needn’t have heard it from them. I already knew.
I’d seen it.
I pass houses, shops, ateliers. Nearly all of their doors are adorned in some way, strung or studded with charms. A wreath of mummified bat wings hangs from the lintel of a home and chains of dried flowers trail like curtains over windows. A charm-peddler must have passed this way. There’s no other reason anyone would believe such things would be of use.
I run harder. The Signoria and the carabinieri have tried to convince Venice that the murderer is human, a madman but a man nonetheless. I doubt anyone believes them any longer. They know what the fiend must be, but that knowledge alone is useless. No one’s learned anything of how to properly battle the Dead, not even in the ten years since London. All they have is nonsense, superstitions that will place them in even greater danger should the Dead attack again.
None know what I know. But there’s nothing I can do to warn them. No one would pay me any heed. At best they’d call me mad, a lunatic who claimed to know the ways of the Dead. Then they’d learn that I’m Unnatural.
The fear that always crouches at the back of my mind seizes me, sending my heart into my throat. Unnaturals are nothing more than monsters to them, savage beasts, alchemical freaks. They do whatever they want with us. Execute us in the middle of the Piasa. Throw us to the mob to be torn apart. Deliver us to the alchemists at the Academia for—
An explosion crashes through the quiet and sends me stumbling to a halt. A second later comes another, smaller than the first, but nearby.
I look about me, my ears ringing. The echoes of the blast reverberate from an alley leading south.
I hesitate, but only for a heartbeat. I dash down the alley, a short lane with the waters of the lagoon glimmering at its end. The sea wind whips a cloud of smoke into my face as I rush out onto the wharf. I press the sleeve of my mantle over my nose and mouth, blinking away tears.
A hurricane of fire boils atop the waters of the lagoon, spinning from a wreck that burns like a bonfire in the shallows. A tangle of sagging metal drifts in the center of a lake of oil, the ruins of a curved hull jutting from the waves like the ribs of an enormous beast. A pair of melting propellers blaze red in the heat, the only sign that the vessel is an aethership.
I sprint down the nearest pier, past rows of moored gondolas, their black prows curving over me like serpents’ heads. As I reach the pier’s end the remains of the aethership’s hull collapses, crashing down in an explosion of sparks.
The sight of the flames makes me ill. No one can have survived that…
Water churns in the lagoon. A figure breaks the surface, thrashing in the waves.
I wave my arm over my head. “Here!” I scream. “Over here!”
The figure begins to struggle towards me. I unwind a mooring rope and throw it into the water. The figure catches it and drags itself to the pier. Before I can make a move to help her she begins to climb, hand over hand, until she crawls onto the pier and collapses.
She lies there, panting, a curtain of black hair shielding her face. A hooded pilot’s coat covers her, all but for the ragged hem of a skirt and a pair of mismatched boots. Her silver fingernails glint, long and tapered into sharp points.
Unnatural?
I kneel on the boards. The blowing smoke makes me cough out the words. “A-are…are you hurt?”
She says nothing. I ask her the same in Continental. “¿Se lastimó?”
She lies there silently. The seawater pooling around her catches the firelight, casting it over her. The skin of her hands is a pale blue. Two black lines circle her wrists like thread-thin bracelets, just at the base of her hands.
Stitches.
My breath catches in my throat. It…it must be a trick of the light…
But the flickering of the fire changes nothing. Twin lines of black stitches ring her wrists, not bloody, not sewn-up wounds, but carefully, painstakingly done, like the seams of a doll.
I take her by the shoulders, guiding her up to sit. The curtain of black hair parts.
Her skin is as blue as that of her hands. Her face is long and her features are delicate, but somehow too fine, too perfect, like those of a statue. Another chain of stitches circles her neck. Two more cross her cheeks, marching from the corners of her mouth to disappear below her ears. Her eyes are black, utterly black without a single trace of white at their edges, reflecting the fire like pools of ink.
I reel back, onto my feet. The mooring-post strikes my spine. The doll-girl stares at me, black eyes alight.
Run! I scream in my head. Run, get away from here, get away from it…
I know the tales. The histories. The stories, stories of them—
The clang of a church bell bashes through the roar of the fire. Another bell joins it, then a third, a fourth, ringing to
summon the fire brigade.
The fire brigade, and the carabinieri.
The doll-girl gazes at me blankly, like one caught in a daze. A whirl of burning flakes blows past her, weaving among the gondolas as it travels down the wharf. Four lanterns bob into sight at the wharf’s end, held aloft by silhouettes in long coats and black cornered hats, carrying rifles slung over their shoulders.
I’ve time to run. They may not see me at this distance. I can flee and leave the creature to them.
For them to destroy.
Then let them!
I push myself away from the post. Let them have her. She’s no Unnatural. She’s an abomination, worse than any of the Dead…
The lanterns brighten. The carabinieri are coming.
The creature bows her head. Tears fall from beneath the curtain of hair, striking the pooling seawater.
The lanterns near. Firelight glints on the barrels of rifles. They’ll spot us in moments.
My voice sounds small, choked. “Do…do you…speak?”
The creature raises her head. Nearly imperceptibly, she nods.
“Have you a name?”
The voice that leaves her is hardly more than a whisper. “Belle.”
“Stand up.”
She does, staring straight ahead like a sleepwalker. “Come with me,” I say. “Quick.”
She makes no move. I reach for her arm, half expecting her to lash out with her silver claws. I pull her and finally she begins to walk, following me down the pier. I keep to the shadows as I lead her onto the wharf and down the nearest lane. If we keep out of sight we can manage it. It’s not far to the nearest hatchway to the machineworks, the maze of giant devices that churn beneath Venice, stopping the city from sinking into the sea. Only a skeleton crew of machinists will be about at this hour, hardly anyone that might stumble upon us. Once we’re safe I’ll decide what to do…
“I...must…”
Belle stops, pulling me to a halt in the middle of a square. She blinks owlishly, like one coming out of a dream.
Her eyes fly open. She jerks away, covering her mouth in horror. “I left her!”
Her scream echoes about the square. “I left her!”
“No!” I catch hold of her again. “Shut up! They’ll—”
“Let me go!” She twists her arm. “Let—”
“Tu!” a man shouts. “Tu, fía! You, girl!”
I whip about. A lantern burns at the other end of the square. A carabiniere raises a black-gloved hand to point directly at me. “Férmate! Stop there!”
He strides towards us, his voice an irritated bark. “What business do you have here? The curfew’s in place for a reason, you foolish…”
He halts so quickly that his lantern swings back and forth. Amidst the flashing I see a face with heavy brows and a sharp black beard, openmouthed in shock. He stares at Belle, then at me.
My mantle’s come open. My metal arm shines.
His face blanches. “Capitan!” he roars. “Capitan!”
I seize Belle’s arm. “Run!”
She stumbles after me. A shrill whistling follows us as we run down another twisting lane. It turns and leaves us in an empty courtyard. The only way ahead is a pitch-black void beneath a stone archway: the entrance to a sotoportego, a passageway that runs beneath the buildings like a tunnel.
Belle stops short. She shakes her head, taking a step back, but I give her no time to do more. “Run or we die! Now!”
I drag her into the sotoportego. The clammy darkness wraps around us. Streaks of pale light appear on the walls ahead, swaying like slowed lightning. The shine of moonlight upon water.
The sotoportego takes a turn and ends so suddenly that Belle runs into me. The passage stops at a flight of steps that lead to the canal’s edge and disappear beneath its surface. A water-gate.
There is no bridge. There is no way forward. There is nowhere to go.
Lantern glare floods the sotoportego. Three carabinieri round the corner, striding towards us: the man from the square, a younger man with a wispy mustache and blemished skin, and an older man, with a downturned mouth and a battered, crooked nose.
They stop. Time seems to slow as the lantern-bearer lifts it high. The other two unshoulder their rifles and level them at us.
A numbness steals over me, a blankness, as though I’ve been hollowed out, turned to a shell.
No one knows I’ve gone. They won’t know until mistrise, until morning, hours from now. They’ll only find me vanished without a trace. No one will never know what became of me.
The rifle quivers in the young man’s hands. The other man’s mouth tightens into a hard crease.
I close my eyes.
Whish.
Something thin whips through the air. I open my eyes just as a blur of silver darts out of the shadows and smashes into the lantern.
Darkness crashes down. A storm of noise bursts inside the sotoportego. A blow lands. A man screams. A horrible strangled moan follows. Bodies strike the ground. Booted footsteps stagger away, quickening into a clumsy run as a lighter pair of footsteps races after them. The sounds melt into the distance.
I feel for the botanical lantern on my belt. I unhook the tiny device, a brass sphere as long as my thumb, and twist its halves. They separate to reveal the glass globe within. The sprig of shining lucifern ivy inside it brightens, illuminating the sotoportego with a foxfire glow.
Belle stares at the men on the ground. The carabiniere with the broken nose slumps against the wall, spittle dripping from the corner of his mouth. The lantern-bearer lies on his back, the movement of his chest the only sign that he still lives. A livid red welt stripes his throat.
The numbness that holds me slips away. Belle and I run back down the sotoportego, dodging the fallen carabinieri, out into the courtyard. Just as we near the mouth of the lane the youngest carabiniere stumbles out of the shadows, blocking our path.
He staggers towards us, reaching out, his eyes wild, mad with fear. “Help me,” he wheezes. “Help—"
Something long and black lashes out of the shadows and winds around his neck. His eyes bulge. His hands go to his throat, too late. The black cord jerks tight, throws him down onto his back and drags him screaming into the dark.
I stare at the place he was, hardly able to understand what I’ve seen. Someone was there. Someone saved us…
I step back. We’ve a chance to run. The best chance we’ve had yet, but…
I unhook my glaive and start for the mouth of the lane. The slosh of footsteps follows me. I turn to see Belle at my heels and hiss, “Stay back!”
She stares at me through bars of black hair. Her mouth tightens. She shakes her head.
I’ve no reason to argue. I follow the lane, Belle close behind me. A smudge of light appears ahead, bleeding from around a corner. From the same direction comes the noise of a scuffle.
I close my lantern and step around the corner.
A single crooked gas-lamp hangs from a brick wall, revealing two forms: the young carabiniere on his knees, clawing at his throat, and a black figure standing behind him, struggling with the cord wrapped around the carabiniere’s neck.
The carabiniere’s hands fall from his throat. The black figure unwinds the cord and shoves him away. The carabiniere pitches forward and falls onto his face. He lies there, still, but for the rise and fall of his back as he breathes.
The figure steps back, shoulders heaving as he pants for breath. At first all I make out is a long black coat, so threadbare that the gaslight shines through patches of the cloth. The one wearing it seems a young man, tall and rail-thin, with black, uncombed hair that drifts about his head like a cloud.
He lifts his left hand. Thin strips of dark leather lace through his fingers and crisscross the back of his hand, forming a strange, intricate glove. He turns his wrist in a circle, motioning with his fingers. I hear the faint click of reels. The black cord whips from the ground like a snake, spir
aling as it retracts into his sleeve. The same silver blur that shattered the lantern glints at the cord’s end and disappears beneath the cloth.
He twitches his head. Before I can slip back into the shadows he spins about to face us, coat flapping about him like a cape. At first his face seems completely empty, nothing but a black void, but soon my vision adjusts. The void becomes a black mask, gleaming like dark lacquer, hiding all but his mouth, chin and eyes. They shine in the darkness, shockingly bright, yellow as a cat’s.
Unnatural.
I can hardly believe I’m not caught in some dream. Another Unnatural…
His eyes widen. He takes a step back, his breath quickening, hissing through his teeth.
“Wait. Wait!” I hook my glaive back onto my belt and raise my hands, opening them to show I’m carrying nothing else. His gaze flits to my metal left hand. His look of fear flickers, turning to astonishment.
I chance a step forward. “Thank—”
He backs away. Before my eyes he seems to shrink, huddling into himself. He takes another step, out of the light.
“Wait!” Don’t go, please… “Wait, I only…who are you?”
He opens his mouth a sliver. The voice that leaves him is hoarse, dusty, as though he hasn’t spoken in a long, long while.
“Yurei.”
He cocks his head in a birdlike movement, listening to some distant sound. “Go,” he breathes. “More…are coming.”
I don’t want to leave. I want to learn more, I must learn more of him; he’s another Unnatural, another like me—
“Run!” His rasp explodes into a roar, thundering in my aching ears. “Go, now!”
The force of his voice sends both of us reeling. Belle and I wheel about and run. The word he spoke echoes in my head. I recognize it, well enough to know that it isn’t a name at all. I first read the word long ago, in a book of frightening tales from the East, the name of a gruesome spirit feared above all others.
