Masks

  “And do what?” Jerome asked.

  “Whatever I chose.”

  “Yes, until a stronger vampire came along and decided he wanted you. Or wanted you dead. That’s why we live in families—for protection.”

  “I am protected! Martina—”

  “Who you were just talking about leaving,” Jerome reminded him.

  “I was not talking about leaving! I merely said that I could—”

  “And I pointed out that you don’t dare. So how’s that different than being in a family?”

  “It’s not—we are a family! We just don’t have a blood bond—”

  “And don’t you think that’s weird? That she never bound you?”

  “She doesn’t need to!” Paulo said, looking exasperated. “I stay for the same reason we all do, because we want to. We know that this is the best chance we have for a future.”

  “But if she Changed you, wouldn’t that be the same thing?” Jerome asked. “Not everybody is held against their will, you know. I wasn’t. Nobody in my old family was—”

  “Yes, and they proved so loyal to you, didn’t they?”

  “I explained about that!”

  “And I heard more than you thought. You can tell yourself whatever you like, but the fact is, they. Didn’t. Want. You. Martina does.” He glanced at Mircea and then away again. “She isn’t perfect, I know that. But she’s better than most. If you give her a chance—”

  “I wasn’t aware that I had a choice,” Mircea said mildly.

  Paulo flushed. “She’s . . . been a little tense lately. We all have. But when the current spectacle is over—”

  “Speaking of spectacles,” Jerome said, breaking in. And sounding strange.

  Mircea turned to look at the other vampire, who was staring at the crowd on the opposite side of the canal. And then at the guard on the nearby roof, who had just jumped to his feet. And then at the bridge, which had started shaking as if something, some massive thing, was crossing under its covered walkway, with heavy, clomping footsteps that echoed across the quiet night.

  It wasn’t quiet much longer.

  A new noise suddenly tore across the old city. One loud enough and strange enough to have Mircea flinching and Paulo making a very undignified bleat. Which no one heard over what sounded like a trumpet blast straight out of hell.

  And might well be one, Mircea thought, staring in shock at what erupted from the mouth of the bridge a moment later, surrounded by the fire and smoke of a dozen torches. It was a monstrous creature, towering over the surrounding crowd, terrifying even in the glimpses revealed by the flickering light. Like something out of a nightmare: huge and misshapen and bellowing in anger.

  And then stampeding—straight at them.

  Chapter Eight

  “Auugghhh!” Paulo dropped the pretense of elegance and knocked into Mircea, before running straight into the building behind them.

  Mircea grabbed him, which only seemed to make his panic worse. But then Jerome snared his other, wildly flapping arm, and together they started to pull him away, toward the safety of the nearest alley. Only to stop when they realized that it was already full.

  Of members of the Watch.

  They had a few locals in there, too, as if they been in the process of moving them to safer areas. But now they, the locals, and some of the urchin children who always seemed to be about, regardless of the hour, had all frozen. To stare past Mircea in shock.

  He spun around to find that the great creature had stopped in the street, just outside the portico. He couldn’t see it very well, since an expanse of weathered gray hide blocked the entire space between two columns and extended up beyond the roofline. But he could see its breath, great bellows that misted on the cold night air in front of it, like a mythical dragon spewing smoke.

  Mircea stared at the nearest one, as speechless as everyone else.

  Everyone except for Jerome.

  “Elefante,” Jerome said, with every appearance of delight.

  “What the devil is that?” Paulo squawked. And then jerked Jerome back when he started forward, as if to touch it. “Are you mad?”

  “No, I—it won’t hurt you. Well, probably not. I saw one in a menagerie once, when I was a boy.”

  Mircea and Paulo just looked at him.

  “You know,” he prompted. “Like Hannibal had?”

  Mircea vaguely recalled some lessons from childhood, which he had always taken to be myths. Legends. The kind of stories invented to keep bored schoolchildren focused on learning dull history.

  But apparently not.

  He looked at the great creature again. And then he slowly edged to the side of the portico, ignoring Paulo’s frantic whisperings. And looked up.

  And up.

  And up.

  At something with legs like tree trunks and ears like sails and a huge barrel of a body. Gigantic tusks, bigger than those of a great boar, big enough to savage a man with one swipe, gleamed in the torch light. Small eyes set in heavy folds of leathery skin had an alarming amount of intelligence in them, more than Mircea liked, frankly.

  Especially when they suddenly fixed on him.

  And then an elongated nose, bigger than a strong man’s arm swept down before he could move—

  And began to delicately snuffle around his face.

  Mircea froze, unsure what to do with no weapons and with children so close—too close. In the end, he just stood there, while that strange proboscis mushed him in the face and messed about in his hair and sniffed at his clothes. As if finding him as odd as he did it.

  And then it was gone, the great body wading slowly into the sea of vampires, who moved along with it, so quickly and so much in unison that it looked like the whole street was moving.

  And then it was. First the street urchins broke away from the Watch, to run after the fascinating creature, followed quickly by the regular people of Venice. There had been no announcement, and relatively little noise, all things considered. But word had traveled nonetheless, in that strange, uncanny way that it did in cities.

  And suddenly, in the middle of the night, people were everywhere.

  Some were still in their nightclothes, or wrapped in blankets, or putting on enough to be respectable as they emerged from houses on all sides. Others were leaning out of windows and edging onto rooftops, a few dropping to the ground and jostling to find room in what was, after all, a narrow street bordering a canal. Members of the Watch were quickly discovering that humans were not so easily controlled, after all, not when what must have seemed like magic was walking among them.

  It felt a bit like that to Mircea, too, who couldn’t for the life of him imagine where the great beast had come from.

  “Carthage?” Jerome said, when he voiced the question aloud.

  “But how did it get here? Horses aren’t even allowed in the city!”

  It was true, except for the occasional joust in San Marco Square. And for good reason. The streets of Venice, where they existed at all, were narrow and slippery and fronted canals. That’s why the gondolas were so prevalent—there was no simply no room to ride horses. Which would have likely ended up in the water along with their owners had anyone tried it.

  “By boat?” Jerome guessed. “They float cows over for the abattoirs that way.”

  “That,” Mircea said, flinging out an arm, “is not a cow!”

  “Can’t ride a cow,” Jerome agreed, about the time Mircea noticed that the strange creature did, in fact, have a rider.

  He hadn’t seen him before because of the roof of the portico, and because he was frankly not nearly as interesting as his conveyance. Or as his seat, for that matter, which was a covered, gilded creation perched on top of the creature’s back, like a cabin on a ship. It mostly obscured the man inside, except for a skinny, nut-brown arm that emereged at regular intervals, to throw
something at the now cheering crowd.

  Some of it landed at Mircea’s feet.

  He picked it up.

  Candy.

  Well, that explained the children, he thought blankly.

  “What is that?” Paulo demanded, snatching it away from him. And then staring at it blankly.

  “Hey, nougat.” Jerome swiped a couple pieces from off the bricks before the local urchins could. “We could have saved money and just waited around.”

  “What the—what the hell does he think he’s doing?” Paulo demanded.

  “Tossing out candy,” Jerome said, before getting cuffed on the back of the head. His handsome eight-sided hat fell off. He picked it up, looked at it, and promptly began filling it with free candy.

  “Who is he?” Mircea asked, trying to get a glimpse despite the cabin’s deep shadow. But the most he saw was a strange shaped head, a flash of sumptuous robes and the wink of countless jeweled rings. And then the great mount turned its rear to them, and he lost even that much of a view.

  “The consul,” Paulo said darkly. “Who else?”

  “That’s the consul?”

  “Didn’t you see him at the house?”

  “I . . . couldn’t fit on the roof,” Mircea said, as a new clatter sounded on the bridge.

  It looked like the prohibition against four-legged conveyances was being truly shattered tonight. Because the sea of vampires parted as if Moses had arrived. And let through a group of riders on horseback that made Mircea’s skin prickle from their power, even this far away.

  There were five of them, four men and a woman. The woman was on the only white horse, which was possibly why she drew his eyes the most, but he didn’t think so. There was something about her that the soldier in him automatically recognized—an air of command.

  As strange as it seemed, it almost made him wonder if she was the one in charge.

  They stopped halfway between the Rialto Bridge and the portico, and watched, utterly silent, and without even any gestures to make their attitudes plain. And yet Mircea could read the disapproval, the tension, coming off them in waves, as easily as if they had been carrying signs. And, apparently, so could Paulo.

  “All right,” the blond said uneasily. “We need to be going.”

  “Who are they?” Mircea asked, unable to take his eyes off the riders.

  “Senators,” Paulo said, grabbing up his great cheese.

  “Even the woman?” Mircea asked. Women did not rule in Wallachia.

  Paulo rolled his eyes. “Especially the woman.”

  “They don’t look too happy,” Jerome said.

  “Would you be?” Paulo looked from his cheese to the already overstuffed cart, and then just hiked it onto his shoulder. “With the consul swanning around Venice like this? Probably thinks he’s back in old Egypt, receiving the worship of the masses!”

  “He thinks—he is mad?” Mircea asked, looking after the rapidly disappearing spectacle.

  “He’s something like three thousand years old!” Paulo said. “Of course he’s mad! Now help me find a path through this mess.”

  Mircea didn’t move. “Did you say three thousand?”

  “And then some,” Paulo said darkly. “I don’t know exactly, but they say he used to be worshipped as a god in old Egypt, before the legions arrived and civilized the place.”

  “I heard he still lives in a temple out in the desert,” Jerome added. “Built like a fortress. The only time he comes out is for convocation every couple years, when his senators have to try to control him. Only it doesn’t look like that’s going so great this time.”

  “And where did you hear that?” Paulo demanded, searching the crowd for an opening that did not materialize.

  “From some of the servants, when he came by the house. Rumor is there’ll be a coup soon. And since he’s easier to get to at here than anywhere else—”

  “Yes, and servant’s gossip is always to be believed!”

  “If you don’t believe it, why are you trying so hard to get away?” Jerome asked.

  “That’s why!” Paulo said, as a group of armed horsemen thundered over the bridge. Resplendent in gold armor and bright red capes, they looked like something out of old Rome. And acted like it, too, riding straight into the milling crowd. “Senate guards!”

  Mircea didn’t have to ask if that was bad. The Watch, who had been trying and mostly failing to contain the crowd, suddenly looked up. And then scattered, forgetting their duties in favor of saving their asses.

  “Go up!” Mircea said, as the panicked crowd suddenly stormed toward their position, jostling and fighting to get out of the way.

  “The cart!” Paulo said, trying to grab it.

  “Leave the cart!”

  “Do you know how much it’s worth?” the blond asked him wildly, jerking it out of the way of trampling feet. And then flailing at the vamps who got too close and kicked his precious cargo.

  But that wasn’t going to work for long. And Mircea was not going to die to save a bunch of groceries, however dear. Nor was he going to watch Paulo do so.

  He grabbed him by the back of the doublet, looking for a way onto the roof of the colonnade. Which would have been easier if everyone else hadn’t already been heading that way. And then a path opened up as if by a miracle, and he dragged the irate vampire—and his cheese—through it and around the side of the building.

  “Up!” he commanded, pushing him onto a ladder made from a windowsill, a few protruding lumps in the brick wall, and a mass of old vines. And then looked around for Jerome, who hopefully had sense enough to preserve himself instead of the family budget.

  And he did. Mircea caught sight of him in the middle of a pack of street urchins, holding his hat high above his head like a flag. And heading this way.

  “The roof!” Mircea yelled. “The roof!”

  He wasn’t sure the smaller vampire had heard, because just then the senate guards came back, waving burning torches at the crowd, a tactic that worked to scatter vampires and humans alike. People screamed, fire flew, and hooves struck sparks off the brick streets. And Mircea grabbed Jerome and shoved him at the makeshift ladder, along with the nearest children, the rest of whom were already scrambling up like little monkeys.

  They ended up sitting on the edge of the roof, watching the guards clear the street far more effectively than the Watch had done. Vampires and humans evaporated like mist, leaving the consul with his own guards and his elefante, but with no crowd to appreciate them anymore. Soon, the great beast and its occupant turned and left, lumbering back the way they had come, the night’s entertainment at an end.

  Well, most of it.

  “What—” Paulo stared at the growing mound of packages at his feet. They were being deposited by a line of grubby little children, who were waiting for their reward from Jerome—and his sugar-filled hat.

  “You get a handful, and you get one, and—oh, you get two, thank you,” Jerome said, as one enterprising youngster deposited two large packages in front of him.

  “How—” Paulo said, still gaping, when the last little tike had jumped down from the roof, taking off with his well-earned reward.

  “Never underestimate the little guys,” Jerome said, as Paulo sorted through their packages. “The candy’s not there,” he added unnecessarily.

  Paulo, for once, did not complain, too busy ticking things off in his little book. For his part, Mircea watched until the senators turned around and disappeared back over the bridge, following their leader into darkness. And leaving a swirl of power behind them that shivered over his skin, even this far away.

  Chapter Nine

  “Drop it, vampire,” a menacing voice said, as they dragged the packages into the kitchen door an hour or so later.

  Mircea tensed and looked around, half expecting another threat.

  But this tim
e, there was no need. “I was just testing it for you,” Bezio said, looking innocent.

  The cook’s beady eyes fixed on the decanter of dark red wine Bezio held in one beefy hand. “Test this,” she said, snatching it back, and shoving something else into his stomach.

  “Peas?” Bezio said, looking down at the bowl he was now holding. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  “Drink ’em,” she said sarcastically, and pointed at the door.

  “I can’t even shell them inside?” he whined.

  “Do you see any room inside? Especially now?” she demanded, glaring at Paulo’s group, who were trying to fit into the crowded space.

  It wasn’t easy. Servants bustled everywhere, stirring pots over the fire, mixing sauces at the main prep table, shoving past Jerome to chuck carrot peelings into the canal. And placing food on very available surface—including Mircea, who had a basket of something pushed into his hands as he stood there.

  He peered inside.

  More peas.

  “Out, all of you. Go do something useful!” the cook told them, brandishing a spoon menacingly.

  “They are doing something useful. They’re helping me,” Paulo told her, fighting his way through the crush.

  “About time you got back,” she told him. “Mistress wants you at table.”

  “We’ve started already?”

  “About to. I’m dishing up the soup now.”

  “Christ!” He ran up the back stairs.

  “Wait! What do we do with all this stuff?” Jerome called after him.

  A blond head popped back over the railing. “Give everything to cook. She’ll know what to do with it.”

  “And I know what to do with you lot, too,” she said, looking at them evilly.

  Which is how they ended up shelling peas on the rickety bridge out back.

  It was weathered wood, without railings or even posts to sit against. So they emulated the old men who regularly fished off the local bridges, and sat on the edge, dangling their feet over the side. And added pea shells to the stream of garbage flowing away with the tide.