by Sky Winters
At this, the expressions of the three men softened, as though they were reminded of something through Salvatore’s words.
One of the men stepped forward, an elderly but distinguished-looking man with a neatly trimmed silver beard and thick, silver hair styled in elegant, swept-back waves.
“Hello, young man,” said the man, extending his hand, “I’ve heard good things about you. Many good things. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Mr. Romano. This gentleman to my right is Mr. D’Augustino, and the gentleman to my left is Mr. Moretti.”
The two other men gave Vincent a small nod, and as Vincent returned the gesture, he couldn’t help but notice that the man to Mr. Romano’s left was missing a hand. Vincent took his eyes away from the missing limb as soon has he noticed it.
“Everyone! Could I have your attention for just a moment,” called out the gallery owner, taking a position in front of the glass doors leading to the main gallery hall. The elders turned away from Vincent and towards the owner.
I suppose that’s the end of that conversation, thought Vincent.
“First, I would like to welcome most sincerely our honored guests this evening. It’s my pleasure to bring to connoisseurs such as yourselves the latest, and most interesting art from some of the city’s hottest talent. Please, enjoy yourselves, and if you have any questions, or if something catches your eye, please let myself or anyone one of my attendants know. With that, please, have a wonderful evening, and enjoy the art.”
With that, the doors to the gallery opened.
Chapter 5
“Um, well,” said Simone, stammering, and unsure of her next words, “this piece is, according to the artist, both a commentary and deconstruction of Western iconography and seeks to reformulate the position of colonialism in the, um, current context of postmodern narrative destruction.”
The two suited men looked at her with the serious eyes and furrowed brows of men who didn’t understand what they had just heard but wanted to look like they did.
“It’s beautiful,” said the first man, stepping around the sculpture which seemed to be a pillar comprised of junk food wrappings from the Hispanic food section of a typical New York bodega. He reached out to touch it with careful fingertips, but his hand was swatted away by the other man.
“Are you crazy?” asked the second man, his voice sharp, scolding tone, “you can’t just touch the art! Is this your first time out?”
The alabaster skin of the first man broke out in a deep, red blush.
“I’m sorry,” said the second man, “I can’t take him anywhere.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” said Simone, who was just relieved that her improvised explanation of the art wasn’t called out.
“What did you say the artist was asking for this?”
“I would have to confirm that with him, but I think the asking price was seventy-five-hundred.” Even though Simone knew the price, her mind couldn’t accept the numbers even as her mouth sounded them out.
The first man looked at the second while weaving his arm around his.
“I need to have it; it’s magnificent,” said the first, his eyes wide with juvenile pleading.
The second gave a sigh.
“Fine, but this is your piece for the night, so you may as well stop looking once we buy it.”
“Deal!” said the first man, a wide, playful smile breaking out across his face.
The second man shook his head and turned his attention back to Simone.
“Could you confirm the price with the artist? And we would love to have a few words with him before we, well, sign on the dotted line.”
“Yes, of course,” Simone replied, a sense of relief washing over her. She knew that if she managed to move this piece she’d be scoring the necessary brownie points with Corbin for the night, and maybe the week. “His name’s Eduardo; let me go find him for you.”
“Wonderful; we’ll be waiting right here.”
Simone walked off, leaving the two men to bicker amongst one another in sharp whispers.
As she made her way through the crowd, dodging the bustling servers and taking care not to bump into and of the clientele, Simone couldn’t help but notice there was something off about these men. They were obviously rich, most seemed foreign, but they were different somehow from the wealthy dilettante types that were usually the guests of events like these. Their mannerisms were animated and expressive, their clothes were stylish, if not flashy, but they seemed to be from another time. And they all had the same pale, porcelain skin.
Simone scanned the crowd with frantic eyes. There was no shortage of artists making the rounds, and while they all seemed to have the same look as Eduardo, none of them were him. She left the main hall and searched the other rooms of the expansive gallery, but found no sign of him.
That full-of-himself fucker better not be off with some art groupie¸ she thought to herself as she weaved through the knots of people in the crowd. She needed to find him; she didn’t want to risk having the patrons that she currently had on the hook coming to their senses and deciding that spending nearly ten thousand dollars on a pile of literal garbage wasn’t the wisest use of their money.
Her stomach tightening into hot coils, and about to give up hope, she spotted Amanda’s blond bun; she was surrounded by a group of artists and clientele, and they all seemed to be laughing at a joke she was telling. Simone hated breaking into groups, but her anxiety pushed her to get her friend’s attention. Standing on the other side of the room across from where Amanda was standing, she made an over-the-head wave. After a second or two of this, she caught Amanda’s attention, who broke from her group and came over to Simone.
“What’s the deal, girl? I was charming the pants off of those idiots; I almost got that old guy to drop twenty-k on that laundry basket full of crumpled-up kids’ drawings.”
“Have you seen Eduardo? You know?”
“Who?”
“The Argentinian guy- you know, the one who makes the giant trash art.”
“Uh, have you seen what we’re selling tonight?” asked Amanda, gesturing to the dozens of pieces on display, “you’re going to have to be a little more specific than ‘trash art.’”
“Ugh, you know! That trash art!” she said, stabbing her finger in the direction of Eduardo’s piece, avoiding eye contact with the two men she was speaking to, who were looking at her with impatient eyes.
“Oh,” Amanda said, “I remember that guy; he tried to get me to ditch the show and go to Coney Island with him or some shit.”
She thought for a moment.
“Hm. He’s either having a cigarette, banging one of the gallery skanks –probably Joanne, I have no idea where she is either- or up in the supply room, uh, resupplying, if you get what I’m saying,” she said, tapping her nostril and winking.
“Jesus,” said Simone. “I’m gonna look around a little more then go check upstairs. Please, please, please text me if you see him. And can you say something to these guys? I need them to, like, stay interested until I get back.”
“Don’t worry girl, I got you.”
“Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you,” said Simone, walking way while still facing Amanda.
I’m going to kill that fucker, she thought, throwing herself back into the crowd and continuing her search.
Vincent took a sip of his scotch, looking at the brown liquid with frustration, wishing he could slip a blood capsule into the glass but knowing such things were forbidden in public. He leaned back into the bar, watching the vampires and artists mingle, the gallery workers dart here and there, and the willowy hangers-on sip their champagne through expressions of vague boredom. Mr. Moretti stayed with Vincent, asking him to join him for a drink at the bar while the other two elders perused the art.
“Vincent,” said Mr. Moretti, the sleeve of his missing hand arm tucked into the wide lapels of his coal-black suit jacket, “I know you’re a smart young man, and I don’t want to waste any more time than necessary with why yo
u and I are talking. So let’s get right to it.”
Vincent turned his body away from the crowd, giving the elder his full attention.
“Do you know how this happened?” Mr. Moretti asked, slipping his arm out of his suit jacket and pulling the sleeve back just enough to expose the smooth stump where his hand once was.
“Yes,” said Vincent, looking at the stump, but making sure not to let his eyes linger, “one of the Irish did that.”
“One of the Irish,” said Mr. Moretti, his voice trailing off. “Yes, one of the Irish, in an act of open aggression against our people.”
Vincent said nothing.
“It’s no secret that tensions between us and the Irish have been escalating over the last few months. Not a secret at all. Talk of ‘open war.’” He nodded, thinking over the words he had just spoken. “And I think it would be for the best- get it all out and in the open, rather than the back-alley confrontations and rogue attacks by the types who would jeopardize peace to settle personal scores,” he looked again at his sleeve, and shook his head.”
“So enough of this vague talk. We’ve been watching you, Vincent. We’ve noticed that you have a cool head, and aren’t driven by passions of the moment. You can lead, you can fight. There’s going to be war. And probably not just with the Irish. And when it happens, we’ll win. And when we win, this nonsense of slinking in back alleys and drinking fresh blood once a year will be gone, a memory.”
Vincent thought of these words. He knew that in the over a hundred years since the rules of the society were agreed upon, the open war had yet to happen. A few clashes happened here and there, but a declared state of hostilities was something that would’ve been unthinkable when Vincent was turned.
“Is this really a risk we want to take, Signore Moretti? War would risk the fate of our society; we could be banished from the city, if not destroyed outright,” Vincent kept his voice even, not wanting to betray the conflict that was rolling through his mind.
“It is a risk that will be worth it. Think about it: The Italian society on top, where it should be. No Irish upstarts thinking they have an equal say. And we can be true hunters once again- no more of this “auction” nonsense. Us vampires can rule the night from the shadows, as we’ve done for thousands of years.”
He threw back the rest of his Grappa and set the glass on the white, smooth surface of the bar behind him with a thin, glassy clink.
“But enough talk, for now, my boy. I would very much like to show you something if you would be so kind as to indulge an old man.”
“Of course, Signore Moretti; what would you like to show me?”
Mr. Moretti pushed himself off of the bar with a grunt and gestured to Vincent to follow him.
“Not here,” he said, “but something that I think you should see. It’s upstairs, in one of the private rooms. But bear with me, I’m not as quick on the stairs as I once was.”
Vincent was uncertain and hesitant but followed Mr. Moretti through the crowd.
Fuck-fuck-fuck!, thought Simone as she poked her head into the men’s bathroom, risking potential embarrassment to see if Eduardo was there.
Where the fuck is this guy; surely getting laid in a broom closet can’t be more important than actually selling this shitty art.
She’d checked everywhere: the bathrooms, the back alley, and even put her ear to the supply closets to hear if she could make out panting in between Spanish dirty talk. But nothing. The only place that remained to be checked out was the lounge upstairs. It had been reserved by the clientele with strict rules not to enter, but Simone figured that all would be forgiven if it was in the name of selling art.
She ducked into the stairwell, looking down at the alley entrance door and hoping against hope that Eduardo would step in from his cigarette break. Her mind went back to the sight of the strange liquid against the wall outside, but she forgot about it as soon as she remembered that she was on a mission. Though she frequently had to wear heels for nights like tonight, she never really figured out how to walk in them as naturally as Amanda could, so her steps up the stairs were quick but careful.
She reached the second floor and stepped into the hallway- an area that was secluded, in contrast to the open rooms and glass walls of the main gallery floor. Simone spotted the double doors of the private room and, her anxiety at bursting in uninvited getting the better of her made the decision to double-check the other rooms on the floor before making a possibly major faux pas.
Mr. Moretti brought Vincent to the front stairwell and beckoned him to continue following. With a heave and a grunt, he began making his way up the stairs.
“We’re a proud people, you know,” he said as he ascended. But we thought that coming to the new world would make us different somehow, as though we could elevate ourselves above our nature. Foolishness.”
Vincent said nothing but found himself growing worried at the direction the conversation was taking.
“Feeding once a year?” asked Mr. Moretti, as they reached the second floor. “It’s unnatural. It’s foolish. It’s an insult.”
He opened the door that led to the second floor, and together they stepped through into the low lights of the long, black-walled hallway.
“And taking these damn pills. I can’t do it any longer. I’ve been denying myself for nearly a century, and it’s over.”
They moved to the doors of the private room, and Vincent, looking off down the hallway, thought that he saw one of the doors of another room open and shut.
Someone down there? he thought as Mr. Moretti clasped his wizened hand around the door handle of the private room.
“Signore Moretti, what’s in this room?”
“The future,” he said, as he pulled the door open and stepped inside.
Vincent followed. His eyes widened in horror the moment he entered.
Simone sighed as she finished checking the last office. No one; not a soul. She determined that either Eduardo was hanging out with the VIPs, or he ditched out on his own showing.
Nowhere else but the private room. Eduardo, you fucker.
She wasn’t looking forward to crashing whatever kind of secret, rich guy party they were having in there. She thought back to the last big art showing they had with some nouveau riche startup guys who turned the private room into their own personal coke den. And, of course, it’s the low-rung girls like her who get stuck with clean-up duty.
Simone approached the door with apprehension and took a deep breath before wrapping her hand around the black, polished handle, the material cool to the touch.
Maybe just a crack, she thought. I can take a peek, see if he’s there, and if not I’ll just take a check for the piece.
She steeled herself, turned the handle, and looked into the room.
What she saw was beyond imagining.
The room was lit with nothing but candlelight, and inside was a dozen of the men from downstairs. The stood around the table in the middle of the room, which was draped in a strange cloth, and set up like an altar. And on the table, his eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest, was Eduardo.
The door was only open a crack, and none of the men seemed to notice her.
Shut the fucking door, Simone! she thought. But she kept watching.
She couldn’t tell if Eduardo was dead, or just unconscious, but something seemed different about him. Simone searched his features, and realized soon what it was- even in the low light of the candles she could see that his skin, instead of is tone olive tone, was a sickly white, and on his neck were twin trails of red.
It was blood.
Simone continued to watch. The men spoke in low, hushed tones, and what they were saying, exactly, she couldn’t make out. One of the older men from downstairs stood at Eduardo’s head. Simone watching him as his talked, watching his gesticulations, and noticed that he only had one hand.
What the hell are they doing?
The man with one hand leaned towards Eduardo, waving his hand over his face a
nd continuing to murmur strange, foreign words that she was still unable to understand. He said one final phrase, which was repeated in unison by the other men in the room. Transfixed, she continued to watch.
Vincent stood in the circle, his eyes fixed on the now-pallid body of the artist. Out of the corners of his eyes, he watched the other elders, led by Mr. Moretti, recite the Latin phrases. He knew that the ritual was one of the most sacred, Old World practices amongst his kind, but instead of instilling him with a sense of pride and belonging, it filled him with an almost palpable feeling of revulsion. Anthony and Chaz were part of the group, and though he attempted to gain their attention with his eyes, they were just as deep into the thing as the rest of the circle.
This is trouble, he thought, as Mr. Moretti made one final wave of his hand over the young artist’s face.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
Vincent had only heard of the ritual through bits and pieces he read here and there, but he knew what was next. And as he looked over the body of the artist, he, despite himself, feel nothing but a deep pity for him, for Vincent knew what was next.
“Nunc, ergo surge,” said Mr. Moretti in low, almost inhuman tones.
Eduardo’s eyes then flashed open, and he was within seconds gripped with a keen sense of awareness that he was somewhere that he didn’t want to be.
“What the fuck?” he said, his voice gripped with panic as he shook on the table, his limbs frozen in place, held by some strange, invisible force.
Vincent took his eyes from the young man and watched as Mr. Moretti, removed an item from the table. It was something with an ornate, pearl handle and covered at one end by a red, satin cloth.
“Nos sanguinem,” said Mr. Moretti, his voice raising to horrible pitch as he slipped the red silk from the thing, revealing a polished blade that was long, wide, and sharp, and reflected on its surface the dim orange of the candlelight.
“What the fuck, what the fuck,” continued the artist, his wild, frantic eyes on the blade above him.
Mr. Moretti tilted the blade, holding it over the artist’s chest and pointing in downwards.
