Futile Flame

by Sam Stone

  Mostly I helped young and inexperienced couples who recommended to their friends that they should visit me, promising them ultimate happiness with their new spouse. My skills were advertised and promoted by word of mouth. It was always the men that instigated it, often with the misguided view that they would come away with their wife learning skills that would pleasure them. They each wanted to possess the ultimate virgin-whore. Yes, the wives learned plenty about the art of lovemaking, but never on the first few visits. The men learned instead. I applied the philosophies of the Indian book to teach them love and to encourage respect for their wives.

  My customers were always happy, especially the women. I felt that although my life was much changed, somehow fate had brought me here to help them; to guide these women so that they would not experience the unhappiness that I had suffered. Perhaps it was stupid and misguided, maybe even arrogant of me to think that the universe had some design to make me the saviour of my gender. Yet it was a thought that floated frequently through my mind.

  I devised a new background for myself; naturally my clients were curious. I was Juliet, daughter of a sea captain who had travelled the world. I told them I had been born in India. They believed I had been raised in an exotic world that saw love and passion as the norm. Superstitiously they believed that I held some mystical knowledge that would bring them ultimate happiness. It was certainly true that I was charismatic and I used my vampiric hypnosis to relax them.

  I stopped feeding from my clients because now that I was more legitimate it would be an unnecessary risk. Instead I used passing sailors to sate my hunger. I did try to disguise myself. I’d obtained clothing that matched those worn by the women in the Kama Sutra book. I’d been told that these garments were called ‘saris’. They consisted of a long flowing skirt and cropped top, which was then covered with vibrantly coloured silks. I wrapped the silk around my midriff and wore it pinned like a veil to my head, while my hair fell free over my shoulders. In a way I worried about my new image, though I tried to pretend it made me appear anything other than Lucrezia. An anonymous whore could be forgotten. ‘Indian Juliet’ however, had become distinctive and for a time I was invulnerable because my new persona was so accepted.

  Then, everything changed completely.

  I was taking my normal stroll along the waterfront, a habit I’d retained. The morning was bright but cool. I’d grown used to the sounds and smells there. I secretly loved seeing the whores I’d befriended. The atmosphere was always the same. It was only the faces that changed. I hadn’t forgotten my friends; I regularly sent money and gifts to Margo and Justina but they never knew they came from me. I preferred it that way. It was easier that they thought I’d moved on and forgotten them.

  Along the pier I paused and looked out to sea. A few miles offshore a huge cargo ship was approaching and I hoped it was the one I was waiting for. If so, it would contain a new consignment of silks to make my Indian outfits from and boxes of the Turkish sweets that my clients enjoyed. I stood, breathing in the sea air. The smells of the dock were both vile and endearing all at once. There was an underlying stench of rotting fish guts coming from the fish stalls, where the innards were scraped out, discarded underfoot and left to rot. Every few days the floor was swilled by sea-water, the remains swept into the sea.

  I was hypnotised by the gentle crash of the waves against the hull of the ship as it drew painfully slowly towards the dock. For a moment I became unaware of any movement around me. Then I saw the gypsy. She had luscious flowing long black curls. Her multicoloured skirt and bodice were tightly stretched over a firm and sensuously curved body. She was beautiful. Her dark eyes fell in my direction, but I knew she couldn’t see me; I was still cloaked. She was leaning against the side of a small boat that was upended on the dock, watching the world pass by in much the same way as I was.

  What surprised me was that no one else noticed her. It was as if she too was invisible. A beautiful woman standing on the dock would rarely remain unaccosted for long, even if it was merely the flirty comments of passing sailors. Yet she stood unobserved as people passed by. I was only a few yards away but I edged closer.

  I studied her emerald coloured sash and her scarf, which had tiny coins sewn on to it. The sash was tied around her hips and over a flared purple skirt. The scarf was tied around her raven hair.

  She stared in my direction, her eyes narrowing. I turned and looked behind to see what she was looking at.

  ‘I’m looking at you,’ she said.

  I breathed in sharply.

  ‘You think you can hide from the hidden?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, stepping forward. I must have let my cloaking slip somehow.

  ‘No, you are still hidden to others, but not to me.’

  I scrutinised her beautiful, sharp features. Her eyes were intensely green, not black as I had first thought, and her cheekbones and nose were classically chiselled. She was exotic and stunning to look at.

  ‘You can read my mind?’ I asked.

  She shrugged.

  ‘I have my skills. I know what you are, but you needn’t be afraid. I’m no threat to you.’

  I felt speechless for the first time in years. I could only stare at her as she gazed back at me, her expression curious but warm.

  ‘I’m Miranda,’ she said, smiling. ‘Would you like me to read your palm?’

  I let her lead me away from the docks and out along the road. There stood a barrel-shaped coach with a sturdy grey horse harnessed to it. Miranda patted the horse.

  ‘This is Bellina,’ she told me. ‘She’s a faithful companion, a strong and sturdy animal. She has been with me for many years and adventures.’ I followed Miranda around to the back of the carriage where a set of steps lead up to a doorway. ‘This is my home.’

  Of course I’d heard of the Romany Gypsies and their nomadic lives. As an aristocrat I had been among the privileged few that could afford fortune-tellers, though I had never used one. Perhaps my religious upbringing had always made me wary of the supernatural. Now I knew I had nothing to fear. Miranda could not hurt me. I was fascinated to understand how she knew who and what I was. I followed her into her caravan.

  Inside was bigger than the outside, as if enchanted. It was tidy and compact. At the far end was a bunk covered in furs, silks and cushions. It looked like the most comfortable bed, but also would serve as a couch. Miranda lifted up a table that had been laid flat to the side of wall. As it unfolded, a hinged leg extended to give it support, and with a little adjustment she secured it. It took up half of the space in the caravan. She indicated a stool. I sat numbly opposite her, wondering what she would find when she looked at my palm.

  Miranda held out her hand to me and I gave her mine after a moment’s hesitation. She looked into my face as she touched my skin for the first time, her eyes widening slightly. I wondered what she observed about my skin that caused that reaction. As though reading my mind again, she shrugged.

  ‘You feel smooth and cool. Unique.’

  Her hand felt strange to me also, though I couldn’t understand why. Even so, I didn’t question her further. I was intent on watching her expression as her gaze fell to studying my outstretched hand.

  ‘Curious,’ she said. ‘I can’t read you at all. There are no lines, not as there should be. I will need to consult my cards.’

  She turned away and from behind her she retrieved a beautiful, polished oak box, and opening it quickly withdrew a pack of cards, wrapped up in a blue velvet cloth. She opened the fabric and handed the cards to me.

  ‘Cut them. Shuffle if you know how.’

  ‘Show me how and I will.’

  She quickly shuffled the cards, splitting them with skilled and effortless practice, then placed them in my hand. I mimicked her perfectly. She smiled. Once cut, I placed the cards before her as she indicated.

  She picked them up and, taking cards from the top, began to lay them in a complex pattern before me. Ten in all.

  ‘This ca
rd is you,’ she said, and turned the indicated card over.

  I saw that these were no ordinary playing cards, but were completely distinctive. This card pictured a hooded figure holding a scythe.

  ‘Death,’ she explained. ‘As I thought. But don’t be afraid, it doesn’t predict death; quite the opposite. In your case, it means rebirth.’

  She flipped over the next card. I looked at it long and hard. It showed a crumbling tower. I couldn’t derive any meaning at all from it.

  ‘This represents your current life. It tells me that you are living in a falsely secure world. But soon it must end.’

  Several more cards were turned, and all pointed towards me urgently needing to leave.

  ‘But why?’

  Miranda shrugged, then turned the final card. It showed a man, clothed flamboyantly and holding a wand. Around him stars exploded.

  ‘This is the magician. Usually it represents someone who is persuasive. It can mean you are going to be coerced, maybe conned out of money or jewellery. In its current position it is far more serious. This man is linked to your past. He is evil, corrupt and will stop at nothing to possess you again. Lucrezia, you need to leave Rome. Your brother is coming.’

  Chapter 27 – Lucrezia’s Story

  The Magician

  I sat upright in my bed; the intensity of the dream shook me. Miranda was so vivid in my mind that I really believed I had met her and she had read my fortune. Instinctively I knew that the cards were called Tarot and although I was sure I had never seen them before, I was certain that at some time I must have heard the conversation or read the thoughts of someone who had. Blood gave me many images when I took it. I was sure that the mind of some sailor I’d fed from recently had provided me with the image and name of the gypsy, maybe even the glimpse of her cards. But even as I reasoned this out, my stomach churned at the echo of her warning. As I lay shivering in my bed, I believed for a brief moment that Caesare was coming. Somehow he’d learnt I was alive.

  It was early morning. I decided to go for a walk to clear my head. I found myself at the docks. Walking the path of my dream was a form of exorcism. I saw the upturned boat, but no gypsy woman leaning on it and I smiled at my own silliness. I, an immortal, had been burnt at the stake and survived. How on earth could a dream cause me so much anxiety? For that matter, how could Caesare still hold any fear for me? He couldn’t possibly know of my existence.

  The dock was busy. A new ship had recently arrived. The dock labourers were unloading crates onto a large carriage while several dock urchins were running around their legs offering help for a few coins. I glanced at the boxes as I walked past. The workers didn’t acknowledge me any more than they did the urchins; I was cloaked from their mortal vision. But as I passed by, one of the boxes drew my attention. Pasted on the side was a poster. It looked like the tarot card of the magician in my dream: A man with a wand surrounded by exploding stars.

  My heart thumped. I was deluding myself. The only person in the world I needed to fear was Caesare. He would most certainly have the same strength and power as I did. Was this a premonition that he was coming to Rome and that if I stayed he would find me?

  I hurried away from the dock back towards my house. As I turned the final corner I saw a carriage I didn’t recognise pulling up outside my home. Instinct made me fall back against the wall and I cloaked myself quickly.

  I watched and waited for the occupants to alight. A man stepped down; grey haired and official, leaving the door of the carriage open behind him. He rang the doorbell and my servant, old Federico, answered the door. My keen hearing picked up the exchange.

  ‘My client would like a discreet appointment with Senora Juliet,’ the man said.

  ‘Unfortunately the Senora is not home,’ Federico explained.

  ‘But if you would care to leave a card, the Senora will most certainly send word of when she is available.’

  Another man stepped from the carriage, tall, slender, feline.

  My world stopped. I would have recognised him anywhere. He was my greatest fear realised.

  ‘I will wait for her return,’ Caesare said, his voice strong and clear and he walked into my house before Federico could make any objection.

  ‘Oh no.’ I backed away as the door closed behind him and the other man returned to the carriage.

  Caesare had found me. He knew I was alive. But how?

  I turned and hurried back down the street towards the dock and as far away from my house as I could get. All the time praying that Caesare could not sense me and would not pursue right away. My immediate plan was to stow away on a ship. It would be easy to remain invisible and, to maintain my strength, feed on the sailors as they slept. As I rounded the corner I saw the gypsy caravan from my dream driving full pelt towards me.

  ‘Get inside!’ Miranda yelled as she pulled up before me. ‘He felt your presence and he’s on his way.’

  There was no time to ask any questions. I hurled myself inside the caravan, barely registering that it was identical in every detail to my dream. It could so easily have been a trap set up by my brother, but although I knew it was insane, I trusted Miranda. I heard her click her tongue, flick the reins, and the horse broke into a rapid gallop heading out of Rome and away from Caesare once more.

  The caravan interior felt strange. There was something silent and timeless about it. As I closed the door behind me the air rippled with magic. I was aware of Miranda driving and of the rocking movement of the carriage, but these were like distant events. At the speed with which she drove I should have been tossed around, yet I could walk without difficulty. I tried to sense the world outside, but finding I could not, I sat down on the bunk and waited for answers.

  The bunk was as comfortable as it looked. I lay and dozed fitfully for an hour or so until I felt the caravan slow and come to a halt. After a moment, the door opened and Miranda entered.

  She smiled at me wickedly.

  ‘I’ll light a fire and we’ll rest here tonight,’ she said.

  ‘But it’s only morning. Shouldn’t we keep driving?’ As I spoke I looked beyond her and saw the twilight framed by the doorway.

  ‘You’re a witch!’ I gasped.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she laughed. Then she turned and walked outside.

  It took me a moment to come to terms with what seemed to be the sudden change of time of day. The atmosphere in the caravan had altered. The hollow noiseless feeling was gone with the opening of the door. Eventually I stood and stepped down from the cabin and out into a barren clearing off a main highway.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked as I watched her positioning sticks and kindling for a fire.

  ‘A long way from Rome.’

  I stared around me. The terrain was distinctly different. A few miles away I saw a vineyard of red grapes. The land on which it stood stretched beyond my view but I suspected we were many miles away from Rome, more distance than we could possibly have travelled in the space of one day.

  ‘You’re safe. Your brother cannot find you while you are with me.’

  I scrutinised Miranda. She was an enigma I had no way of understanding quickly.

  ‘I didn’t dream meeting you, did I?’

  Miranda laughed easily again. ‘The caravan protects me. A by-product of having visited it is that memories of me become confused and vague. Most people forget completely; but then, you are not most people are you?’

  ‘You know what I am?’

  Miranda nodded.

  ‘And yet you saved me. Why?’

  ‘My palm path predicted it,’ she answered, glancing down at her own hand. ‘I have no choice but to follow my destiny if I am to return to my past.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her words confused me. She merely shrugged in response.

  ‘Bring out the stools,’ she ordered once the fire was burning vibrantly.

  Obeying, I fetched them from the caravan, placing them beside the fire as she unhooked a bag that hung from the side of the
door. It contained pans and she began to prepare food while singing hypnotically. She was the most fascinating creature I had ever met.

  ‘I can teach you many things,’ she told me as she handed me a bowl of stew. ‘Most importantly right now is how to hide from him. He knows you are alive.’

  ‘How did he find me?’

  Miranda gazed into the flames of the fire for a long time watching . She watched them dance. Curious, I looked too. I wanted to see what she saw.

  ‘It was a chance remark from a Count he knows. The man told him of the miracle you had worked on his relationship with his new wife.’

  ‘I suppose rumour would reach him; referral was how I obtained my clients after all. I should have remained anonymous.’

  ‘No. You are a healer by nature. It was instinct for you to use what knowledge you had in order to help others.’

  I looked at Miranda, expecting sarcasm in her eyes. Her expression was serious and sincere.

  ‘I’m a blood sucking monster. I’ve killed people. Aren’t you afraid?’ I asked finally.

  ‘No. You will not kill me.’

  I didn’t ask her how she knew, yet I was certain at that moment that she was right. She was the last person in the world I would ever want to destroy.

  Chapter 28 – Lucrezia’s Story

  Miranda

  Miranda was a Romany witch. She knew all the secrets of herbs. Her knowledge of plants and their healing properties was endless, and in me she had an excellent pupil. My vampiric mind was able to retain information, and with my natural logic I questioned her incessantly about her knowledge of immortality. Regardless of that we travelled for months before I asked her about the pentagram symbol.