A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (12 page)

Rose dried her hands and sat at the kitchen table. “Sure, thanks.”

“That show goes until after midnight, doesn’t it?” He put the kettle on the stove and got two mugs from a cupboard and set them on the table.

“Yeah, probably. What are you doing?” 

“I think I’ll go out and get some air. Maybe explore a part of the city I’m not familiar with.” 

“Just don’t fall into a canal. And don’t be too late.”

“You can watch that show any time, can’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s on the Internet.”

“Then come with me.”

“No, it’s too cold. I want to just stay here and watch the show.”

BRIGHAM FOUND GLORIA SITTING at a table outside the café as planned. Her hair, lit from behind by an unseen light, glowed about her head like a shining crown of holiness. A candle highlighted her pale skin and glinted in her eyes. The weather had cleared, the air was cool, and the breeze smelled like the sea.

“There you are,” she said, smiling.

“Not late, am I?”

“No, right on time. Prosecco?”

A bottle of prosecco on ice, along with two glasses, sat in the middle of the table. He poured them each a glass.

“Should we have something to eat?” he asked.

“No, there’ll be stuff to eat there.”

Discreetly studying her, Pink Jesus’s warning rang in his mind. Her outfit, not sexy in style or cut, nevertheless,
was
sexy, revealing her form pressing against the fabric as if struggling to escape.

“So how long does the party last?”

“Usually a couple of hours, but there’s sometimes an after-party.”

“I won’t have time for that, but I should be able to stay a couple of hours.”

“That’s fine. Just tell me when you want to leave.”

A short time later they approached a large door. Gloria made a call on her cell, the door buzzed, and they entered a courtyard. A thick tangle of dead vines covered the walls. No other doors were evident.

“Follow me,” she said. “Step only where I step.”

Near a thick wall of vines, Gloria stepped on a stone, causing a door, otherwise obscured by the vines, to open enough for them to enter. Through the door they crossed a room lined with columns, where they came to another door. Hearing a noise above his head, Brigham looked up in time to see a small opening in the ceiling snap shut. The latch on the door clanked, and they entered a gloomy hallway that led to a room occupied by a dozen people.

The “party” had started. The guests, many of whom wore Venetian masks, milled about holding cocktails and talking quietly while eighteenth-century music played faintly in the background. A long table in the center of the room held several bottles of prosecco as well as trays of small sandwiches and other food.

“Here,” Gloria said, “let me introduce you to my friends.” She led Brigham to a group standing in a corner drinking wine and eating small sandwiches. Some looked like anyone you would find in the street, dressed in jeans, a nice shirt, and a sport coat. A few, however, appeared more exotic. Goth. Masked. One man wore a long black coat, white shirt with the collar turned up, and had his head shaved on one side, with the other side long and hanging over one eye. His shoes were white and black patent leather.

“
Buona sera
,” Gloria said.

Some responded with a “
sera
” and a faint smile, while others just stood staring at Brigham. His tired blue jeans, wrinkled linen shirt, and charcoal-gray sport coat off the rack at Macy’s contrasted violently with Gloria, who looked like a heavenly queen come to earth with flaxen hair, her figure barely restrained by sheer fabric.

Gloria introduced him. Most greeted him with a reasonable amount of pleasantness, though the glare of one or two of the weirdos made it clear that they didn’t want him there.

This was the cocktail hour, as no one was sucking blood, or doing anything that would cause anyone to bleed. As they chatted, the music changed to Gregorian Chant, and the lights went down, leaving the room lit only by candles.

Several people wearing masks and bathrobes entered, reclined on sofas and divans, and opened their robes to reveal naked bodies, male and female.

“The donors,” Gloria whispered.

A young woman inserted a needle connected to a small vial by a thin plastic tube into the arm of each donor.

Brigham cringed.

The other guests then went to a donor, sometimes two or three to the same one, and took turns sampling the blood from the vials.

“Are you going to drink blood?” he asked Gloria.

The music droned on, and the candles sent long, dark specters flickering up the walls.

“Yes, shortly. I prefer to wait a few minutes.”

“Which donor will you use?”

She nodded toward an attractive young woman. “That one.”

“Oh, you prefer the blood of women?” Brigham asked. The idea excited him.

“Yes,” she said, “does that bother you?”

He smiled. “No, to the contrary. There’s something intriguing about it.”

“Good. Are you interested in having some blood?” she whispered.

“Oh, no, I just want to watch.”

“That’s fine. Most people don’t take part the first time. Do you mind if I go over now?”

“No, I don’t. Please, go ahead.”

“Stay here. I’ll be back shortly.”

He sat in a large leather chair and took in the strange and wonderful scene. Some of the guests kissed and caressed the donors while others took their blood.

Gloria kissed her donor, took blood from the vial, and pressed her hands between the woman’s legs. The donor put her head back and moaned. They continued this exchange for several minutes. As Gloria returned, a spot of blood dotted one of her breasts, now slightly exposed.

“You spilled some,” he said, looking at the drop glistening on the curved mass of flesh.

“Here,” she said, “you have it.” Whereupon she opened her blouse and pushed her breast and the blood to his mouth.

He tasted the salty sweetness of it. The breasts affected him more, as the one was against his mouth, and the mass of the other pressed against his cheek. As wonderful as this was, he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t come here to be seduced or to drink blood. He pulled back.

“No, I can’t,” he said harshly. “I can’t.”

She covered herself. “Okay, I understand.”

Candlelight and shadow danced across her face.

“I should probably go,” Brigham said, his voice dry and shaky.

“Okay, I’m sorry if I upset you. Let’s go.”

“No, I don’t want to leave yet. You surprised me, that’s all. Let’s have some wine.”

“All right. You stay here, I’ll get it.”

 She returned with a couple glasses of red wine, and they silently watched the goings on. The interaction between guests and donors had become more…
energetic
, with those taking the blood attaching themselves to a spot at the base of the neck of the donor.

“What are they doing?”

“Some of the sanguinarians take blood from their donor by making a small cut near the clavicle and sucking blood from the wound.”

“Sounds pretty much like a real vampire to me.”

“It helps them play the role, but they’re just people who think they need blood.”

“So, you don’t believe there are real vampires?”

“No. It’s an interesting story, but it’s just a story.”

Strange movement caught his eye. “Are those two in the corner doing it?” he asked.

“You mean having sex?”

“Yeah. Sure looks like it to me.”

“Those two are notorious for getting a little carried away. It’s not really the purpose of the organization, but nobody cares to stop them.”

The couple’s shadow waxed and waned against the wall.

“Why would you?”

“I agree. Rather stimulating, isn’t it?” 

Brigham sipped his wine and continued to watch the couple screwing in the corner. He heard again the words of Pink Jesus: “Don’t do it.” Things were starting to add up to great temptation to which he would submit unless he left right away.

“I think I should go,” he said.

“Okay. Let me say goodbye to our host.”

“I haven’t met the host.”

“You will if you come back, but not tonight.”

They slid into the night through the narrow streets where lamps cast their shadows on crumbling brick and ocher plaster. They passed a young couple engaged in oral sex at the end of a street across the canal, cloaked in darkness as though invisible. Still before midnight, they went to a small bar where a single musician played lonely and sorrowful music on an electric guitar. Young women, dressed in black with silver piercings running the length of their ears, in their lips, and through their tongues, swayed quietly to the rhythm of the music and nodded with understanding. Brigham thought he had seen them at the vampire club but couldn’t be certain. Gloria ordered a white wine, he a martini. This time he would drink whatever the bartender brought. When it came, it was a perfect martini: dry, in a cold glass with good gin and a stuffed olive.

“How’s your drink?” she asked.

“Excellent. This man has been to bartender school.”

She laughed. “What did you think of the club?”

The guitarist finished a song and the girls clapped. A blue light from the bar revealed Gloria’s figure through her dress.

“It was very interesting. I never imagined that such a place existed, particularly in Venice.” 

“Most people are surprised to learn it exists. The first time I went I had been invited by a man. I didn’t really believe it, but when I saw it, I was amazed. It fascinated me. After visiting the club a few times I tasted the blood and liked it.”

“Took a lot of courage,” he said while chewing the last of the olive.

She sipped her wine and nodded. The guitarist returned from a break and began a slow and twangy song in a minor key. One of the girls joined in by shaking and rhythmically striking a tambourine. “And there are other parts of the club I haven’t seen. Some say people are tortured there, or even killed.” Gloria’s body jiggled through the blue X-ray light of the bar as she adjusted herself on the stool.

“Is that right?” Brigham said.

“Yes, but I think it may be an exaggeration.”

“Maybe we’ll seek admission.”

She swallowed hard a mouthful of wine. “I think it’s best to stay away. I get what I need out of the regular part of the club.”

A woman joined the guitarist and began to sing a sad song in French.

“This is about the only place in Venice with live music nearly every night,” he said. “I think these guys are quite good.”

“Not bad. I love the French songs from the fifties and sixties.”

“I never really got into them, but in this environment they’re quite enjoyable. Suits the mood.”

They sat quietly, listening to the music. Then he said, “I never asked you about yourself.”

Gloria laughed and waved her hand in front of her. “Oh, it’s a boring story.”

“I seriously doubt that. I mean, look where you are now and what you’re doing.”

She shrugged. “I guess so.”

Brigham ordered them each another drink. “So tell me about yourself.”

“I hope you can take the excitement of it.”

“Give it a try.”

He leaned back and gestured for her to proceed.

“I grew up in a small town in Michigan, and I work as a librarian in another small town in Michigan.”

“Oh, the Reader’s Digest version. And a librarian. I always suspected you librarians weren’t as boring as you look.”

“Oh, really?”

“That might not have come out right.”

The waitress brought their drinks.

“No, it didn’t, but that’s okay; I know what you mean.”

“Go on, then. Where did you go to school? Are you married? Any kids? How was your childhood? I want the whole thing.”

“You asked for it. Childhood was nothing out the ordinary. My dad worked in a factory, and my mom stayed home. Only child. Relatively happy family life, I suppose. “

A young man carrying a double bass entered the bar.

“Go on. What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“I wanted to be a doctor. When I got old enough to go to college, I realized it was more effort than I was willing to expend, not to mention money. I liked books and reading, so I went into library science at Central Michigan. In college I met a nice young man. Shortly after graduation we got married. It didn’t work out. We were too young.”

“I know the feeling. Any kids?”

“No. It may sound mean, but I’m glad we delayed. I’d be a single mom now. I hope to have some one day, but not now.”

The song ended and the handful of people in the bar clapped. Brigham and Gloria sipped their wine through the applause.

“Okay, “he said. “We’re up to the million-dollar question. How did you get into the vampire thing?”

“A college friend and I spent a long weekend in New York City and crashed with her friend in the Village. One night at a small dinner party, over tapenade, the subject of the vampire books and movies that were all the rage at the time came up. That turned into a discussion of some underground clubs in New York. One of the guys at the party had connections. And we could get in.” She moved her eyebrows up and down.

“You were there in New York talking to a guy you didn’t know, who invited you to an underground vampire club. Weren’t your librarian alarms going off?”

She laughed. “You bet. But my friend talked me into it. So we went.”

“And?”

“And I loved it. It was interesting and exciting. An element of mystery and danger one does not get behind the lending desk in a library in a small town in Michigan. The biggest news there last year was the heist of a couple of crates of pop bottles from behind the party store.”

“How did you hear about the club in Venice?”

“When I got back to Michigan, I learned about a similar club in Detroit. That’s where I met the man who suggested I try the one here.” She sipped her wine. “Now it’s your turn. Tell me about yourself.”

Brigham waved his hands. “Nah, it’s a boring story.”

“Oh no you don’t. That’s my line.”

“Another time. I should be getting home.” He downed the rest of his martini.