A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (11 page)

Finding no price on the book, he approached the man at the desk.

“Excuse me.”

The man finished typing something, then looked up. “Sì?”

He showed the man the book. “
Quanto costa
?” 

The man gestured toward the book. “The price is in the back.”

“I looked. I didn’t see one.”

The man snatched the book from Brigham’s hands and opened it to the back page. He grunted, then checked the front pages. No price there either. He set the book down, shuffled through the papers on his desk, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, retrieved a ledger from the chaos.

The bell on the door tinkled as another customer came in. The man ignored the new patron and slid his fingers down a column of titles, stopped, then ran his finger across the page to an adjacent column. He punched numbers into a calculator. “
Duecento
,” he said.

Brigham’s heart skipped a beat. Two hundred for a book. Rose, though a book lover herself, would be… critical… of such a purchase. “
Grazie
,” he said, turning to return the book to the shelf.

“
Aspetti
. Wait. For you, one fifty.”

Brigham slowly paged through the book.

The bell on the door tinkled again as the other customer left.

“I could probably lie my way out of a hundred,” Brigham said, “but my wife would shoot me if she found out I spent a hundred and fifty euros on a book. She doesn’t share our enthusiasm for these things.”

The man smiled. “You are American. You let your wife tell you what to do.”

“She doesn’t tell me what to do. She makes strong suggestions and encourages me to do the right thing. Anyway, I’ve seen your women at work. You do the same.”

The man nodded and made a circular motion with his hand, the meaning of which Brigham could never decipher. “
Va bene. Cento
. One hundred. Cash.”

AT A CAFÉ IN CAMPO SANTA MARGHERITA, Brigham sipped wine and leafed through the book. Why was it in English? Why not Italian or Latin?

An attractive young woman of perhaps twenty-five walked past him and sat down a couple of tables over. She glanced over at him several times. Her sandy, shoulder-length hair coarsely framed her delicate features. The mass of her more interesting features pressed against the thin material of her long dress. He mustered the will to ignore her and to study the book.

The woman seemed to be interested in what he was doing. Their eyes met; they each made a faint smile and looked away. After a few moments she approached his table.

“I see you’re reading a book about vampires in Venice,” she said, her green eyes set in skin the color of soft parchment. She smiled pleasantly through vermilion lips.

Shocked that a woman half his age would bother to talk to him, he looked up at her, thinking she perhaps spoke to someone else. Her eyes, however, were fixed on him. “Yes, I’ve recently become interested in this stuff. You too?”

“Oh, yes, very much so.”

Her voice had a timbre that appealed to him. Very pleasant. Mesmerizing.

“Have a seat,” he said, indicating a chair across the table from him.

“That’s a beautiful book.” She sat.

“Yes, thanks. It’s a bit shopworn, but it’s eighteenth century.”

“It’s one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re a book lover.”

“Yes, I have hundreds of them.”

A beggar approached them, holding out a ball cap. Brigham tried to shoo him away, but he persisted. They ignored him, but he didn’t leave until the waiter came out and threatened to call the police.

“How annoying,” she said.

“I know. I hate them, but it’s the price you pay for sitting at an outside table in Campo Santa Margherita. At least they’re harmless.”

She smiled.

“By the way, I’m Brigham Stone.” He held out his hand.

She took his hand. “I’m Gloria. Pleased to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you, Gloria. Can I get you a glass of wine, or something?”

“Wine would be great. White.”

He ordered a glass.

She nodded toward the book. “Anything of interest?”

“Too early to tell. I just got it,” he said, thumbing through the pages.

The waiter handed her a glass of wine, and she tasted it, peering over the glass at Brigham. “How did you get interested in such things?”

He wasn’t sure what he should tell her. “Long story. You’ll think I’m nuts.”

She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. Give it a try.”

Reckoning that he had nothing to lose, he told her all about the bodies in the canals, the men going through walls, and how his buddy Mauro had determined that there were shroud eaters or vampires walking the streets of Venice.

“That’s fascinating,” she said. “Do you live in Venice?”

“Yes, I’ve been here for a few years. How ’bout you?”

“I’m staying here for a couple of months.”

“What brings you to
La Serenissima
?” he asked, holding up his glass to the waiter for more.

Gloria hesitated, swirled the wine around in her glass, then said, “There’s a club here I like to go to.”

“A club? You mean like a nightclub?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Where is it? I know of only one club in Venice.”

She was silent for too long.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”

“No,” she said, “I brought it up. I want to talk about it.”

Several people sat at the table next to them, laughing and talking loudly. And then the waiter turned up the music. They couldn’t talk without yelling.

“Is there a quieter place near here?” she asked.

“Yes, let’s go across the campo.”

The osteria across the square contained fewer people, and played smooth jazzy music.

“Much better,” she said.

The waitress lit the tall candle stationed in the middle of the small wooden table. They ordered a bottle of prosecco.

“You were going to tell me about the club you go to,” Brigham said.

“Right. Well, I don’t know where to start.”

Brigham smiled. “Oh, it’s that sort of place.”

“No, no, it’s not what you think. It’s a private club. An underground club.”

“Sounds fascinating. And what sort of things go on at this underground club?”

The waitress delivered the bottle of prosecco in a bucket of ice, popped the cork, and poured them each a glass.

“
Salute
,” Brigham said, and they clinked glasses.

Gloria sipped her prosecco while gazing at one of the Venetian chandeliers near the bar. The candlelight shone in her eyes, and one could see that the vermilion of her lips was natural; she wore no lipstick.

“These chandeliers are beautiful,” she said.

“Yes, Murano glass. They take some getting used to, as they walk a tightrope between gaudy and beautiful, but I’ve come to appreciate them. So tell me more about this club.”

“Do you know what a sanguinarian is?” Gloria asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“A sanguinarian is a person who thinks they need the blood of other people to survive.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen these people on YouTube. They think they’re vampires.” 

“Some people believe that, but most just find the lifestyle interesting and exciting. As for me, I’m not a vampire.”

“Good to know.” Brigham took a sip of prosecco. “Do these people drink blood?”

“Yes, some of them.”

“Do you?”

“Sometimes. Small amounts.”

“Wow. Do you like the taste of blood?”

“No… yes… it’s hard to explain.”

“Where do you get the blood?”

“There are people at the club who are donors. They provide the blood in small quantities, but they don’t drink it. Some people drink their own blood, but most sanguinarians don’t. There’s no benefit to it.”

“How do you get the blood? You cut the person, use a syringe or an IV or something like that?”

“Usually a needle connected to a very thin plastic tube. The blood is collected in a test tube or small vial. Much like the way a nurse takes a blood sample.”

He shivered. “Doesn’t sound too appetizing to me. I prefer the symbolic drinking of red wine.” He took a drink to get the imaginary taste of blood out of his mouth. “And this club is right here in Venice?”

“Yes.” She filled her glass, sipped the prosecco, then paused. Finally, she said, “Would you like to come to the club with me?”

“Oh, I don’t know… I was never the adventurous type. Isn’t it pretty much a closed society?” 

“Yes, it’s quite private, and the meeting is held in a secret location, but we welcome people who are seriously interested in knowing something about the culture. People we trust.”

He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. This was too much of a coincidence. The dead, crucified, and blood-drained bodies showing up in the canals, and now this woman, drinker of blood, attractive, young, willing to just walk up and talk to him and then invite him to a secret vampire club. He couldn’t pass this up. “When is the next meeting?”

“Tonight.”

He thought for a moment. “Now this isn’t some kind of nudie club or girlie show, is it? My wife would have a bird.” 

She laughed. “No. There are likely to be some strange costumes, but many of the people dress normally. You wouldn’t know that they were into such things if you saw them on the street.”

“All right. I’m not sure what I’ll tell my wife, but I don’t want there to be any pre-version going on.” 

“Only what I told you, mostly fully clothed.”

“Mostly?”

She smiled. “I can’t promise some people won’t shed an article of clothing or two.”

“What’s the dress code?”

“
Come as you are. Meet me in front of this place at eight o’clock.”

XII

“J
udgeth me not, brother, for the very fact that I’m sitting here and not giving Miss Gloria what for is a testament to my moral strength and integrity.”

Pink Jesus said nothing.

A number of paintings in various stages of completion sat on easels around the studio, including Pink Jesus. The weather had turned cold again, and the space heater did little to warm the room. He rigged a pitcher of martinis and sat on the sofa studying the paintings, chewing an olive and sipping the herbal juniper distillate, hoping to improve the art-making process. Pink Jesus eyed him with judgment and suspicion.

“And who are you to judge me anyway? I created you.”

“I’m not judging you,” Pink Jesus said.

Brigham jumped. He was not expecting to hear anyone else, and he couldn’t tell where the voice came from. Was someone in the studio? “Who’s there?” he called.

“It was me,” said Pink Jesus.

Brigham moved nearer to the painting. It looked the same as always. “Hello?”

“You keep talking to me, so I thought it was high time I answered.”

Brigham stepped back. “Okay, well, I was just talkin’. I didn’t really expect an answer.”

“I know, but it’s time someone talked to you.”

“About what?”

“About what you’re getting yourself into. I know you talked to that woman, and I know what you plan to do.”

He moved back toward the painting. “And how the fuck do you know that?”

“I have connections.”

“Connections?” Brigham chuckled. “I think you have connections to the gin in my brain. A painting can’t talk, not even one I did.”

“You’re about to step into a world you don’t want to be part of.”

He sat on the sofa. “What’s it to you?”

“I’m wondering that myself, but I feel compelled to say something.”

“All right, then,” Brigham said, leaning back, crossing his legs, and holding a fresh martini. “Let’s go ahead and have ourselves a conversation.”

“Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“Nope.” 

“I do, and I know you’re not cut out for it.”

“Let’s say you do know what I’m getting into. How do you know I ain’t cut out for it?”

“Because it involves blood, wild behavior, insanity, and… death.”

“Sounds like me,” Brigham said, sipping his drink.

“And what about the woman?”

“What about her?”

“You’re married.”

“That’s right. She’s just leading me into this little vampire world of hers. I ain’t gonna put my dick skinners on her.”

“How do you know? She cut a fine form, did she not?”

Brigham gazed at Pink Jesus while savoring his drink, giving himself time to think. “Indeed,” he said finally.

“How are you going to keep from getting yourself into trouble?”

“I see beautiful women all day long, and I don’t put my paws on ’em. I am a civilized human being. A man of culture and refinement.”

“Oh, but this is different.”

“How so?”

“Don’t do it, I warn you.”

“Aw, bullshit. What could happen?”

“Do you know what darkness is?”

Sunlight filtered through a dirty window to illuminate Pink Jesus’s face, causing it to glow hideously.

“You know I do. I wade through it every day.”

“No, you don’t know what true darkness is. But soon you will find it, or it will find you. Either way, if you take this path you will be certain to collide with it.”

Brigham rose from the sofa and approached the talking canvas. “Care to elaborate?”

No answer.

“Don’t go quiet on me now.”

Silence.

“Son of a bitch.”

He put on his coat and left the studio. It was snowing heavily, although the sun still streamed through breaks in the clouds. As he closed the door behind him, thunder punctuated the cold.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?”

“I’m watching the finale of
Grande Fratello
.” She handed him a pan she had been drying. “Here, put this in the cabinet.”

He did as instructed and then turned back to her. “I’m going to make a pot of coffee. Want some tea?”