by C. D. Gorri
Mila drew back and made herself still once more, watching the bewigged tradesmen, ragged beggars, and ostentatious nobles in curtained sedan chairs cross the small square. Dorian was gone. The girl was gone. All that remained were frustrating questions and brutal doubts.
Should she follow them? Should she track Dorian? Would he return to Piazza San Marco expecting her to be back there, waiting for him? She had never had to ask these questions before. In all the vastness of her experience, she had no precedent to guide her because Dorian had never abandoned her.
“A pretty lady ought never frown so fiercely.”
Mila made sure she jerked slightly at the sound of the man’s voice. She knew that was what mortals did when startled, whereas her own natural instinct would have been to either freeze up or lash out in attack. She pursed her lips and looked up at him obliquely through her lace veil. The man was grinning roguishly, but his gaze was anxiously jumping from point to point in the square.
“Who are you to judge my frowns, signor?” Mila retorted mildly. She turned to walk away, even though she did not know where she would walk to without Dorian. With astonishing agility and quickness, the mortal man slid in front of her to block her way. He was entirely focused upon her now, and Mila regretted drawing his attention.
He doffed his tricorn hat and swept her an extravagant bow. She spared him a quick, appraising look. He was extraordinarily tall, with broad shoulders that sat evenly beneath a weather-stained buff leather coat. The rest of his habiliments were equally as worn and world-weary, from his cracked and scuffed boots, to the pilled wool of his pantaloons, the threadbare appearance of his shirt, and his carelessly tied, limp neck cloth.
In fact, by way of dismissal, she was about to make a pointed comment about the man’s colossal impertinence in accosting her when she noticed hanging from his waist a sword in a scabbard of such exquisite tooling and workmanship that she couldn’t help but stare.
“Rather long, isn’t it?” the man whispered conspiratorially, boldly winking at her.
Mila flicked her gaze up to him, drawing back as his face was far too close to her veil. His face was entirely too handsome, with its sharp lines, straight nose, and eyes that expressed far too much of his thoughts for his own good.
His thoughts in that moment were clearly divided. He wanted to move on from her and continue his search, but, his manly pride would not permit a woman not to respond to his flirtation. It took real effort for Mila to hold in her sigh. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tasted of the mortal pleasure of sex. It was simply that she hadn’t found it to be pleasurable. It was nothing compared to drinking blood. As a result, she had no desire to engage in frivolous mortal dalliances.
“Have you need of me?” Just because she didn’t care to indulge in the flesh didn’t mean she would waste an opportunity to sharpen her wits.
The man looked her over with frank admiration. “I have a very great need of you, signora,” he said.
“Then I pity you, for you are doomed to disappointment.”
“I am not in the habit of being disappointed.”
“They say that one should embrace new experiences.”
“Aye, but it is best to share new experiences with a friend.”
“I am not your friend, signor.”
“No, but you could be.”
Mila drew in a deep breath, committing the man’s scent to memory. The ubiquitous leather that all men sported was present, but there was also cloves, smoke, and the tang of steel. The world around her swayed back and forth for a moment, and she stopped breathing, scared of being dizzied further by his scent. It took a moment or two for her to remember to lift and lower her chest in a simulacrum of breathing.
The man was too close, and he compounded it by stepping closer, fully closing the distance between them. Too close. Too close. He was too close and too interested. He was going to see how pale she was under her veil. Not only her cheeks, but the exposed skin of her neck and chest would be white as the snows of Russia. The black lace wouldn’t obscure enough. The dark blues and greens of her silk gown would show her skin in stark relief.
She turned sharply from him, only to find his hand upon her arm, retaining her. She considered the possibility of snapping his neck before another heartbeat of his could pass. But she remembered they were in public, and it was daylight. Her strength was but a fraction of what it was at night. A full snap of his neck was not a certainty, and anything less would leave her vulnerable to his retaliation.
“What do you truly want of me, signor?” Mila asked, struggling to remain soft, docile, and weak in his grip when every fiber of her being was screaming for her to end his imposition.
The man’s smirk faded, and a shade of something more thoughtful and curious fell over his features. It was as if the cocky grin had been a mirage, blurry and best seen at a distance. This incisive, intelligent expression was infinitely more natural to him, and it was absolutely more dangerous to her.
“I want...a name.” His voice was quiet but firm.
“Why?”
“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know why?”
“Yes.”
He let out a surprised chuckle. “I didn’t expect you to agree with me.”
“No doubt you were ready to reply to my objection with some statement of being irresistibly drawn to me.”
Now, he laughed, the sound like snapping flames off crackling wood. “You make me out to be the worst kind of rake.”
“I do nothing of the kind. You have named yourself as such without my help.”
“See? This is exactly why I must know your name. I must be able to find you again. I could not bear to let such wit slip through my fingers.” He toyed with the edge of her veil, his expression growing serious once more. “Nor such beauty.”
Mila batted his hand away from her veil, concentrating on keeping her strength in check and making the gesture soft, almost timid.
“If I give you a name, will you allow me to be on my way?” It was well past the time she should have either fed from this mortal or terminated their interview.
“Gladly, signora.” Yet his actions belied his words as she felt his hand at her waist, the warmth of his mortal skin penetrating past silk, linen, and whalebone.
“Then, you may call me ‘Snegurochka.’”
He looked at her incredulously. Mila permitted herself a small smile as she took advantage of his hesitation and stepped out of his reach.
“It means ‘Snow Maiden,’” she added. “And, like the snow itself, I melt away, and it will be as if I had never existed.”
Even as she fled from the square with quick, silent steps, she could hear the man calling after her, “I am Gavin! Gavin Girard! Remember me!”
And, strangely enough, she found that she could not forget.
*.*.*.*
The thirst was burning in her throat by the time Mila had found her way back to Palazzo Fanti. It didn’t help that the sun had set, relinquishing the skies to the darkness that both brought the return of her full vampiric strength but also intensified every need and desire―including the thirst.
“Goodness!” Lady Abberley exclaimed as Mila reached the top of the grand stairs in the entry hall. “Where have you been? You’ll barely have time to change, child. You certainly can’t go hunting dressed like that.”
Mila paused and turned to Lady Abberley, making sure her ladyship saw the deliberate way she looked her up and down. It was impossible for a vampire to turn pale, but the telltale quiver in the woman’s nostrils was enough. Perhaps it was childish to drive home the point by suddenly smiling widely, revealing her fangs in a barely-concealed display of dominance, but Mila was past caring.
She skirted the grand salon on the piano nobile, disdaining the others who sought to indulge in grandiosity by lounging about in the most prestigious room on the most prestigious floor in the palazzo. To her way of thinking, it was bizarre and fruitless the way they pursued mortal symbols of status. Why hold ont
o what you had so gladly relinquished when accepting the Favor? Was this existence, with all its power and beauty, not enough?
Gavin Girard’s handsome face flashed before her mind’s eye, his expression full of mortal purpose and confusion. Limited as he was by weak mortality, he was still fully engaged in every moment, bent on chasing every opportunity for everything. Mila suddenly realized that through him, she understood for the first time what being ‘alive’ could truly mean.
Was that what Dorian had seen in the girl?
Dorian.
She had to find him.
The clicks and taps of her shoes echoed through the corridor as she hurried along, breathing deeply to try to catch Dorian’s scent, since she had no idea which room had been assigned to him―or, to herself for that matter. She smelled the perpetual damp buried deep in the red and green marble floor tiles, the ashy scent of the ancient oak doors, and the egg and plaster from the paint on the walls. But there was no trace of Dorian’s distinctive mix of cool pine and sweet earth.
“You look lost, mi tesoro.”
There was no need to moderate the swiftness of her reaction in this abode. Mila spun so quickly that her skirts twisted tightly around her before unfurling and swishing out. Signor Fanti, the peacock brocade cloak and hood still hiding his face, stood in front of her, his hands open in a sign of friendship.
She curtsied tensely. “I am looking for Dorian.”
Signor Fanti abruptly folded his hands together, as if retracting his gesture of openness. “I have not seen him since he left with you earlier.”
The sound of insult was heavy in his voice, but there was no denying the reality of Dorian’s insult to their host.
“The others grow thirsty,” Fanti continued. “We await Dorian so that I may release the hunt.”
It was unthinkable for the coven leader not to be present to accept the gift of using the host vampire’s territory for hunting. To disregard the courtesy due to the host bordered on sedition and insurrection, both of which would only lead to needless bloodshed.
“Will you accept my company as a small measure of the apology owed?” Mila cringed inwardly at how she was undermining Dorian’s dominance by offering herself to Fanti despite Dorian’s earlier hinted prohibition. Yet there was no other choice in order to repair the breach and keep peace between Fanti’s coven and her own.
The inane, gravelly giggle that emanated from the recesses of Fanti’s hood filled her with revulsion and dread. With the speed of a striking snake, he snatched her hand and pressed it to his stark cold lips.
“It would be a pleasure just this side of il paradiso to escort you on your first night’s hunt in my city.” Fanti, still holding onto her hand, gave her a courtly bow. “Allow me to dress for going out, cara. I shall meet you at the entrance in a quarter of an hour.”
Mila forced a smile and curtsied again. Once more, she thought of the mortal man, Gavin. She hoped she would not cross paths with him tonight during the hunt. She found that she did not like the idea of him dying, as he surely would if she met him at the height of her blood lust.
If her heart could beat, it would have fluttered with a strange sadness that had no place in her world. For the first time, Mila realized the true consequences of one, brutal fact: that for every night she walked the earth, one man must die.
Chapter Seven
It felt as if days and nights had passed since Sophia met the strange man from her visions. The way he held her, captivated her, she felt as if she had known him throughout her existence. His lips upon her skin, his hands on her shoulders; she sighed at the delightful warmth between her legs. How could he know her, though? How would that be possible? It couldn’t be. She had lived in Venice for most of her adult life. Prior to this, she escaped from the mountainous terrain where her mother, father, and grandparents had been captured and accused of the devil’s work. She has not known him then.
Shoving the thoughts away, Sophia bent down to blow out the wick of her candle when she heard a voice yell in the streets outside her wall.
“Eight bodies, madam, eight! How many more may float up to our shore?” The voice was her landlady’s. “My residents would not do such a dishonor to our noble Doge!”
Sophia’s brows rose in surprise. Eight dead bodies? Floating? She listened further.
“Yes,” came another voice, then it faded slightly and Sophia stepped closer to the wall, pressing her ear against the cold stone. For a fleeting moment, she was reminded of the ocean as storms broke against the shore. “Apparently, there was no evidence of wounds or otherwise but the bodies…” the voice softened and Sophia gritted her teeth.
Speak up, she mentally whispered to the woman talking.
“The bodies were completely drained of blood!”
Sophia gasped and took a step back, then covered her lips with her fingers. Drained? No evidence of wounds? Who, or what, would do such a thing? She stood in place for a moment and let her gaze move to the floor. She thought of the man the other night, the ship that arrived carrying an apparent plague, and now the floating corpses.
She shook her head and straightened herself, then opened the door. She stepped out into the sun's rays, as well as the morning chill. As she closed her door, she heard the women gossiping once more. Pressing her back to the wall, she slowly moved toward them, the voices becoming louder with each step. She felt like a wife who would peek in on the mistress mending the broken heart of her husband. She rolled her eyes at herself and casually peered around the corner.
She gasped and pulled back, eyes wide. Two women from her church―well, former church. Signora Long Nose and Signora Bad Wig were two of the town’s gossips. It was no surprise to Sophia they were here discussing whatever might have occurred, but she’d had no idea the women knew her landlady.
“Their bodies showed no signs of violence, but the surgeon who examined them said they did not drown.” Distaste echoed in Signora Long Nose’s voice.
“Then how did they die?” the landlady asked.
“No one knows, but as I said earlier, their bodies were drained of blood,” Signora Long Nose said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Signora Bad Wig added. “I think, and this is only my speculation, ladies, that the ship that brought the newcomers to our land brought some type of plague with it.”
“No,” the landlady argued. “A plague that drains the body of blood? It cannot be.”
Sophia’s heart struck hard in her chest and she pressed her hand upon it, as if to hold the quickness of the beat to keep it from jumping free.
My vision, the man on the ship, the newcomers to our land, the captain… She paused mid-thought and leaned against her outer wall, closing her eyes. She thought of the man who had her held against the alley. She gasped and her eyes shot open with alarm.
The man held himself against me, touched my face, my neck, kissed so close to my lips. She pushed off the wall and made her way out onto the main streets of Venice. She came to an immediate stop during her thoughts. She shook her head and her brows furrowed. Yet I am fine. Someone bumped into her and startled her from her thoughts.
“Watch yer’self!”
“Apologies!” she called back and continued to walk. She needed to talk to someone she trusted. She needed to find Gavin. She brought herself to a jog as she crossed over a bridge, then quickly turned down the path toward the Arsenale. She hoped Gavin was there. She needed to see him, immediately.
Not natural…
She’s the devil…
He has found her…
She has no idea....
Sophia gritted her teeth as faint whispers floated around her.
Could it be witchcraft? Possibly, but who would dare to perform such an act? She thought of the clerk from the Doge’s palace. It was possible he knew, but if he did, would he have sought an audience with her by now?
She grabbed the door to the Arsenale and pulled it open and yelled for Gavin.
“Signorina Sophia,” called one of the m
en inside. He made his way toward her in a quickness. “What has happened? What is your fright?”
She shook her head. “I thank you for the concern, but where is Gavin? Something has happened.”
“Sophia?” The faint sound of his call grew louder as Gavin entered the room. He took her by the arms, staring into her eyes. “Are you well? Did evil fall upon you?” His auburn eyes grew wide with concern, fear, a little rage. “Tell me.”
She did not like this closeness he had taken. Her brow furrowed, she took a step back and nodded. “Evil? Absolutely no! And yes, I am fine.” She let out a breath of irritation and explained what had she overheard her landlady and the two Signora’s from church discuss. She shook her head and waved in front of her, as if waving off the possible plague that might descend upon them. Sophia thought of the man she abruptly met; the way he spoke to her as if he had known her. Heat spiked in her body and sex, and she shuddered.
“Sophia? Your face, are you well?” asked one of the men.
She lowered her face and made to smooth her hair back, then nodded. “Yes, I am fine, thank you.” She realized she’d been blushing. “Gavin,” she looked back up to him once more. “What do you make of this?”
He shook his head. “Honestly?” He glanced at the elder hunter next to him, and the man nodded. “Right. We heard of the bodies in the early morning hours. We knew they were drained of blood, but there are no intrusions on the skin. Nothing attacked them physically, and they did not drown.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her gaze. “So you knew?” she asked.
Gavin paced the room for a few moments, falling silent. He did not answer her―not that she needed him to. The answer was obvious. He was a hunter. Of course he’d know. She glanced over to him and he pulled his hands behind his back, then lifted his chin higher in the air, as if about to explain a theory.
“Gavin, what is it? What are you not telling me?” Sophia reached over and took his arm and he immediately stopped walking.
“We believe vampires sailed in on the ship that made port the other morning.”
