A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (30 page)

They collected the parts of the woman, put them in a garbage bag, and took it out to find an appropriate place for its disposal.

LATE THE NEXT NIGHT, Brigham, Gloria, and Mr. Todd sat quietly drinking—Brigham, gin, and the other two, wine—all lost in their own thoughts. Mr. Todd would be leaving for London in the morning, so they decided a calm evening at home would be best. This being the hour of Brigham’s need, he hooked himself to Gloria’s vein, although not sure whether he should mix wine with gin.

“After our conversation last night,” Mr. Todd said, “I talked to a friend of mine who knows a lot about vampires and has studied the shroud eaters of Venice. He told me that there are indeed ways to reverse it.”

Brigham took the tube from his mouth. “Oh?”

“Yes. There is an elixir of ancient origin in Venice that may do the trick.”

“In Venice?” Brigham asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Todd said. “It’s called scorpion oil.”

Brigham’s eyes widened.

“The story is that the druggists would drown a hundred scorpions—”

“I know the story,” Brigham said, waving his hand. “ I happen to have some.”

“You have scorpion oil?” Mr. Todd asked. “How did you get it?”

“Long story, but my friend Mauro told me it was used to kill vampires, not cure them.”

“There are two stories about everything in Venice,” Gloria said.

“Maybe both are true,” Brigham said.

“How can they both be true?” Mr. Todd asked.

“Like just about anything,” Brigham said. “A small amount of it may be good for you, but too much will kill you.”

They were all silent for a moment, then Gloria said, “I know someone who may be able to help us.”

XXIV

Rose hadn’t seen Charles since dinner the first night. Breakfast and lunch were always served in her room, or on a veranda outside her room in nice weather. She had done as Charles had suggested and made a list–an extensive list–of clothing she would require. Blue jeans, tennis shoes, slacks in black, dark blue, gray, white, tan, and dark green, a collection of skirts in various colors, and several blouses and pairs of shoes to go with them. She also requested three business suits with skirts (she hated pant suits), although she didn’t anticipate having a need for them, along with all necessary sundry items. She rounded the wardrobe out with a few formal dresses, and dressy outfits for less formal occasions.

It occurred to her that if she were indeed in the eighteenth century, there might be occasion for her to go out, or to be seen in public where she would need to be dressed accordingly. So, she had them bring her a reasonable collection of clothing from the era. To what extent she would cooperate in such events, she didn’t know, but she might be able to turn them to her advantage. If she were going to cause trouble for Charles, there was no reason not to look good doing it.

Lastly, in the event she was able to develop a plan of escape, she would need to have a disguise. Clothes of the era that would allow her to blend in, rather than stand out as a noble. Fortunately, the Venetians had taken care of this for her. She would need only
bauta
and
moretta
masks, a three-cornered hat, a long black dress, and a shawl. All women of the upper and middle classes wore such outfits when going out. So, this she ordered as well.

One morning the woman arrived as usual with breakfast. Rose had spoken kindly to her to gain her trust and out of sympathy and respect for her plight of being a servant in that era, but she had never asked her name. Today, she would.

The woman placed the tray on the small table and prepared to leave, saying, “Prego, signora.”

“Aspetta,” Rose said. “Wait.”

“Signora?”

“What is your name?”

The woman gazed at the floor.

Rose touched her arm. “Please, you can tell me.”

“Giovanna,” the woman said in a low voice.

“That’s a beautiful name. I’m sorry I haven’t asked you before.”

The woman stood quietly.

“Do you live in this house?”

“Sì.”

“Has Charles told you anything about me?”

“I’m not to discuss it.”

“You know I have a family?”

Giovanna did not reply.

“I would like to get back to them.”

Silence.

“You can help me.”

Giovanna met Rose’s eyes with her own dark, intelligent eyes. Eyes with a touch of rebelliousness. “No, signora, there is nothing I can do. Now, may I please go? They will wonder.”

“Yes, you may go. You and I will speak again.”

Giovanna rushed from the room, closing the door behind her.

BRIGHAM, GLORIA, AND MAURO crept hesitantly down a long, narrow street toward a large wooden door set in a Gothic arch. The light behind them cast tall shadows that slid along the pavement and up the wall as they moved. Across the door’s weathered, greenish-blue stain snaked red spray-paint graffiti. A huge bronze knocker hung in the center of the door, to which was tied a bundle of weeds, feathers, and bones.

“This is it,” Gloria whispered.

“How do you know this woman?” Brigham asked.

Mauro looked around apprehensively, checking each corner for danger.

“She helped me with some… spiritual matters.”

“What is she?” Brigham asked. “A witch?”

“Something like that.” 

A rat scampered past them out of the darkness, disappearing into other darkness.

“
Andiamo
,” Mauro said. “Let’s go.”

“Did you bring the scorpion oil?” Brigham asked him.

“Yeah, I got it. Now, somebody knock on the door.”

Gloria lifted the knocker three times, each time letting it fall hard. The heavy pounding of metal against metal reverberated through the house. After a short time, the latch clunked and the door creaked open.

A woman no more than four feet tall smiled at them through a nearly toothless mouth set in a pleasant cherub face wrinkled with age and framed in white hair. She greeted Gloria with fond recognition and a kiss on each cheek. She bade them come in.

They entered a large room around which sat small groupings of furniture and several sleeping cats, a few lying on tables, others on beds. Great oriental rugs covered the ancient terrazzo floor. In spite of its size, the room felt warm and comfortable, and smelled of incense. Small lamps provided a cozy dim light and a faint haze hung in the air. A young Chinese woman served a tray of tea and small cakes, and they all sat around a low coffee table.

The old woman motioned toward the tray. “Prego.” She spoke mainly Venetian, so Mauro translated.

“Please, help yourselves. Gloria told me your story. You are the shroud eater?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Brigham.

Her look caused him to blink. “Yes.”

“I’ve never seen one before. You look a bit worn, but otherwise seem normal. We’ve been told stories that they’re horrible creatures.”

“We are horrible creatures,” Brigham said. “But we appear normal. That is the true danger.”

She nodded. “I may be able to help you. Did you bring the oil?”

Mauro handed her the vial. She held it up to the light, opened it, and smelled it.

“Yes,” she said, “this is scorpion oil. They used it to heal wounds, but it was known to have other, more mysterious properties.”

She sipped her tea. Brigham, not given to the drinking of tea, munched on one of the little cakes. A cat walked slowly across his feet.

“We have heard two stories,” Brigham said. “That the oil kills shroud eaters and that it can cure them.”

The woman put her cup and saucer on the table with a clatter and nodded. “It has both properties. It can kill a vampire or shroud eater. Combined with other treatments, though, it can cure them. Make them human again.”

“What other treatments?” Brigham asked.

A cat that had been sleeping on a nearby table stood up lazily and arched its back, stretching.

“After you drink the oil, you have to drink the still-warm blood of a newly slaughtered lamb,” the woman said.

Gloria winced. “Somewhat biblical, is it not?”

“Yeah,” Brigham said. “Certainly has a familiar ring to it. A bit cliché, don’t you think?”

The old woman held up her hand. “I see you are not believers, but do not laugh at that which you do not understand. Everywhere you turn in the Bible, the Lord is requiring the sacrifice of the blood of a lamb to atone for and cleanse people of sins and to purify the soul. This is why our Savior Jesus Christ is called the Lamb of God. His blood washed away the sins of the world. For you, this is what needs to be done. You drink the oil, then drink the blood of the lamb, and this curse will be lifted from you.”

“
Va bene
,” Mauro said. “Good. We understand. He doesn’t mean any disrespect.”

The old woman bowed her head.

“How do we get started?” Mauro asked.

“I will arrange for the lamb,” the witch said, “then I’ll notify you when you are to come.”

BRIGHAM SAT IN HIS STUDIO ALONE, drinking a martini and talking to Pink Jesus.

“We have ourselves a dilemma,” Brigham said.

“
We
?”

“The royal we. It seems that we have the technology to return us back to our old self.” He retrieved an olive from the glass and started chewing.

“So? What’s the dilemma?”

“I’m not sure that’s what I want to do.”

“Haven’t you learned anything?”

Brigham leaned back, crossed his legs, and spit an olive pit across the room. “What should I have learned?”

“You have been immortal for only a short time, yet you have caused the suffering of many innocent people.”

Brigham stuck out his bottom lip in a thoughtful pout.

“You yourself have done little other than suffer.”

Brigham slurped his drink.

“You have a hole in your side, and you have slipped into a funk of drinking and killing, punctuated by short bouts of painting.”

“Where were you when I was looking for a wife?”

“Speaking of wives, where is yours?”

Brigham slurped his drink again, louder this time. “Now you’re getting mean.”

“You need mean. All these friends of yours are nothing but enablers.”

“No, they’re trying to help me.”

“Has either of them told you to straighten yourself out?”

Brigham thought for a minute but found no response. He spit another pit across the room.

“What do you think Rose would have told you?”

He shuddered. “Scares me to think of it.”

“Weren’t you happy before?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Are you happy now?”

Brigham sat quietly for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I’m not.”

“Your witness.”

“And what am I supposed to do about Rose?”

Pink Jesus didn’t answer. 

“Look what we have here.” He turned to see Charles standing in the doorway with two large men, who looked strong and brutal and not particularly wise.

Fear and panic came over Brigham, his mouth became dry, and his heart beat as if someone were trying to kick his way out of his chest.

“Charles,” he said in a raspy whisper.

“I’ve come to have a little chat about the matter of a stick I found through my wife’s eye.”

“What are you talking about? A stick through Samantha’s eye?”

Charles smiled and indicated for Brigham to sit in one of the large chairs. He sat on the sofa, and his goons stood behind Brigham. “Oh, don’t play stupid. I know what happened, and I know who did it.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

A goon struck Brigham in the head with his fist, knocking him from the chair to his knees. Charles nodded toward Brigham, and the man picked him up and planted him back in the chair.

“Don’t fuck with me, son,” Charles said.

“If you know everything, then why slap me around? Why not just do whatever it is you’re gonna do?”

Charles held up a hand. “We’re getting to that. First, though, maybe you could tell me why you’re running around Venice searching tombs. And by the way, you don’t look good. You eating right?”

“I was looking for my wife, and no,” Brigham said, trying to straighten his hair. “I’m not really taking care of myself. Probably could use a haircut and a shave and drink about a liter less gin every day.”

Charles smiled briefly, then furrowed his brow. “You still think I had something to do with Rose’s disappearance?”

“Yes, but that’s not why we were at Santa Maria Valverde.”

“Pray tell.”

Brigham explained about the book, why he ended up where he found Samantha, and why they had to dispatch her. He was right sorry things turned out the way they did, but it had to be done. She had attacked him, and all he was trying to do was see if she was still alive and in need of help.

Charles leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and crossed his legs. He didn’t seem to be as irate about his wife as Brigham had expected.

“Have you wine in this place?” Charles asked.

“Of course,” Brigham said, nodding toward the other side of the room. “In the cabinet.”

“Get it. I’ll have red.”

Brigham got up, poured the wine, and handed it to Charles. He offered some to the goons, but they declined, remaining stoic behind Brigham’s chair. He sat back down.

Charles sipped the wine and surveyed the room. “You’re quite busy,” Charles said. “What are you working on?”

“I’m preparing for a show.”

“Oh, you have a show. That’s quaint. And these paintings are for the show?”

“Yes.”

Charles waved to the other goon, who began to kick easels over and slice canvases with a knife.

Brigham shouted to him and tried to get up to intervene. Charles motioned to the man still standing behind Brigham, who took a spring-loaded nail gun out of his coat pocket, held Brigham’s hand down on the arm of the chair, and popped a nail through it, attaching it firmly to the chair. Brigham shrieked in pain.