Masks (8 page)

“If it makes you feel any better, it wouldn’t have worked anyway,” Bezio said, watching his face. “I don’t know about the court in Cathay, but it doesn’t matter because you’d never make it that far. But the ones in Cairo and Delhi are said to be worse than here.”

“Worse?” Mircea really didn’t see how that was possible.

“I hear they don’t even have a city like Venice.”

“Then what do they do with people like us?”

Bezio shrugged. “Don’t know. But if I was going to guess—” He sliced a finger over his throat.

Mircea stared up at the moon, rising over the buildings on the other side of the canal. “Then we really are stuck here.”

He wanted to go back, but he couldn’t go back. The world he had left didn’t exist anymore. Yet, it seemed, he couldn’t go forward, either.

So what else was there?

“Life?” Bezio said, when he asked. “Good wine, good friends, a reason to get up every day and not kill yourself?”

“A reason not to die.”

“Yes.”

“What about a reason to live?”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

Mircea stared up at the moon, pale and beautiful, reflecting silvery light into the grubby canal. And making even the old bridge and floating trash look beautiful. “No.”

“You want too much, that’s your problem,” Bezio told him, and drank wine.

“Well, I like to look at this as an opportunity,” Jerome said.

“Of course you do.”

“Why not? I’ve seen some pretty amazing things already. Like tonight.” He grinned. “You should have been there, Bezio.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t. It could have blown up in your face!”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Jerome said. “Some senators put a stop to it. Including a woman . . .”

“A woman senator,” Bezio shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”

“She was beautiful,” Jerome said dreamily.

“They all are, son. It’s called glamourie.”

“And you’re an old cynic.”

“I didn’t say I blame them. If they have the power to spare—”

Jerome laughed. “Oh, she had it.” He caught Mircea’s eye. “Scary, huh?”

Mircea didn’t answer. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like, having power like that. He’d found it unsettling, just that brief exposure.

Not that he was ever likely to experience it again.

“Don’t worry,” Bezio said, echoing his thoughts. “That’s the closest to a senator any of us is ever going to get!”

One of these days, he was going to learn not to listen to Bezio, Mircea thought grimly, two days later. Of course, Jerome had been wrong, too. Because the woman on the chaise wasn’t strictly beautiful.

There were fine lines beside the otherwise lovely eyes, the beginnings of crow’s feet concealed beneath a line of kohl. The nose was also slightly overlarge, the forehead was too low for fashion, and the lips and chin were unremarkable. Likewise her hair, which was dark brown or black—hard to tell in the low light—and unbound, falling over the edge of the chaise almost to the floor.

It was the complete opposite of the elaborate hairstyles currently in fashion in Venice, where women often wore more jewels in their curled, teased, and dyed tresses than on their bodies. She didn’t wear jewels anywhere else, either. The smooth, olive skin was draped in some kind of shimmering silk, but it was so diaphanous it might have been merely a glittering cloud, caressing full breasts, dark nipples, a small waist, and long, shapely legs.

And a couple of glittering, jewel-like bands that slid over her body, under the robe, twining around a supple arm, or draping over a taut thigh.

In the low light of the ballroom, Mircea could almost convince himself they were merely oddly-made jewelry. Until bright eyes gleamed at him like dark diamonds, and a small ribbon of a tongue licked out, tasting the air. Scenting him.

His throat went strangely dry.

By Venetian standards, the woman seated on the daybed nearest to hers was far more attractive, with the high forehead, blond tresses, and milk white complexion so coveted by the local ladies. So, for that matter, were several of the other women—attendants, he assumed—who were scattered about the room on chairs and chaises, all of them lovely, all of them finely dressed. And none of them holding his attention for more than a few seconds.

It was impossible to look anywhere else when the senator was in the room.

Mircea didn’t know why, just as he didn’t know what he was doing here. This was an assignment for Paulo. Or for Danieli, Paulo’s swarthier counterpart. Someone else, in any case.

And yet he’d been sent instead.

It seemed like damned poor judgment on someone’s part.

And then her chin went up expectantly.

Mircea waited, but she didn’t get up. He assumed they would go somewhere, to the bedroom he’d yet to see or a private boudoir. Or at the very least that everyone else would be sent away.

But nobody moved.

The silence stretched for a long moment.

He glanced around. Servants came and went, refilling wineglasses, stoking up the fire in a huge marble fireplace, renewing the oil in lamps that swung here and there on thin golden chains, giving an exotic touch to the otherwise standard Venetian ballroom. Add in the cluster of female attendants or friends that were lounging on divans and nearby chaises and there had to be twenty people in here.

Some were ignoring him, talking among themselves or sewing or reading, but a number were not. In fact, a few of the women were openly staring. She couldn’t expect . . .

But clearly, she did.

His jaw tightened.

And then his hand went to the lacings on his doublet.

Coming from a culture in which even the men were expected to stay decently covered up, Mircea had never acclimatized to the casual Venetian attitude toward nudity. He reminded himself that the workmen here often stripped down in summer, completely if they could get away with it, in order to save their few clothes from wear. He’d seen some shortly after he arrived repairing the façade of a church, yet wearing so little he’d been surprised that the carved stone effigies beneath them hadn’t been gaping in shock.

But Mircea had.

And while he had somewhat accustomed himself to seeing workmen in such ways, even while women walked about underneath the scaffolding, or sold bread or baked apples to those same men on their breaks, he had never gotten used to it.

It was even worse now that it was him on display.

By the time he was down to those infernal hosen, he was sweating, his body reacting to stress the way Jerome’s had to the idea of no air. It was reacting in other ways, too. One of which sprang loose from the damned hosen already half hard, even before he finished stripping them down his legs.

Face burning, he tried to control his body’s response, but it didn’t help. He didn’t feel any power being exerted on him the way that Martina had. But then, there was no need. The large space with him at the center, the ring of watching women and a few men, the fact that he was the only one nude in the room—it made him feel as awkward as a boy.

And like when he was a boy, concentrating on the problem only made it grow worse.

He finally accepted the truth, jerked the last of the delicate things off his feet, and stood up, stomach clenching.

To see his client reading a letter a servant had brought her.

It threw him. To the point that he didn’t know what to do except stand there, feet planted, hands at his sides. And try to act as if nothing unusual was happening despite the problem jutting proudly out in front of him.

It didn’t work. He didn’t know how Paulo would have handled this. Perhaps he would have enjoyed the attention. Showing off his well-maintained body to an appreciative audience, like a living version of the priceless statues that lined the stairs coming up. Maybe he would have posed and preened. Maybe he would have flirted.

Mircea was wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

It didn’t help that the breeze off a balcony ensured that he felt every inch of his nudity. Cool tendrils slid across his skin, ruffling his hair, furling his nipples, and causing his wayward member to bob excitedly. And a couple of servant girls by the door to giggle and begin whispering things to each other behind their hands that they thought he couldn’t hear.

Or maybe they didn’t care. Their mistress certainly didn’t seem to. After what felt like an age but was probably only a few long moments, she looked up. And appeared faintly surprised to see him there.

Her eyes moved over his body, but if there was so much as a spark of interest, Mircea couldn’t see it. But after giving the letter to a servant, she finally turned her attention to him. “Very well.”

Again, Mircea waited. Again, she did not get up. And slowly, incredulously, he realized that she wasn’t going to.

He felt his hands curl into fists at his sides.

Was she
trying
to humiliate him?

He thought about walking out and damn the consequences. Martina would make him pay, and pay dearly, for insulting one of the godlike senators, he had no doubt of that. But it might be worth it to wipe that look of faint amusement off the woman’s face.

Of course, there were other ways to do that,
he thought fiercely, and started toward her.

Only to have her hold up a hand. “No. From there.”

Mircea stopped abruptly. “From . . . here?” He was at least ten feet away. His eyes moved automatically downward, and then back up. Making the point that, well-endowed or not, “from here” was not a viable option.

One of her ladies laughed.

His client did not. “Pleasure yourself,” she instructed, and lay lazily back against the chaise, preparing to watch.

Mircea just stood there, thrown off balance again. Badly. And it didn’t help when someone closed the doors to the balcony, apparently deciding that the night breeze was making the room uncomfortable.

And inadvertently made it more so for Mircea.

Glass, so dear at home that it was reserved for religious icons or church windows, was manufactured here. And was so affordable that it was everywhere, swinging from ladies’ waists in the form of small mirrors, hanging from the ceiling in cesendelli, the delicate lamps copied from the Byzantines, or even taking the place of wood panels in the balcony doors. Which afterward offered a view despite being closed.

But at night, it wasn’t of the dark canal and street outside, but of the comparatively brightly lit interior.

And the naked vampire standing in a puddle of lamplight.

Mircea stared blankly at the image reflected back at him, and didn’t recognize himself. Gone were the heavy robes of court, the armor of the battlefield, even the fripperies of Venice. Gone were all the outward trappings of the man he’d known, the person he’d been. And in his place . . .

Was a decadent member of Venice’s oldest profession, naked expect for the black half-mask he wore.

He hadn’t taken it off, because he’d forgotten he had it on. Masks were common when going out in Venice, especially on formal occasions. And this one was just a scrap of stiffened linen, covered with a little paint. 

But the effect on his appearance was astonishing.

He wasn’t a person anymore, with a name, an identity. He was a body, polished to a high sheen and bought at a heavy price. And expected to give a good show for the money.

It should have made him furious. It should have made him violent. Instead, it just left him bewildered.

Who was he, anymore?

Who was he without the power? Who was he without the name? He didn’t know; wasn’t sure he’d ever known.

From the time he was born, he’d been trained to be one thing: his father’s heir. To put the needs of family before his own, to endure hardship uncomplaining, to set an example before the people of the strength and stoicism of their leaders. Everything in his life had been designed to mold him to think a certain way, to be a credit to his house, to act as expected. And he’d done that.

He’d done that right up until his treacherous nobles shoved hot pokers in his eyes and buried him alive.

That man had died. This one lived. But, he realized, he didn’t know this one.

He’d spent almost two years as a vampire, one on the run, one here in the supposed sanctuary of Venice, trying to scrape up a living. But he’d never really faced the fact that anything had changed. He’d been acting like a prince in exile, someone temporarily down on his luck, who would be back to claim his throne any day now.

But he wouldn’t be back. Couldn’t go back. This was who he was now.

And he didn’t know this person.

He had never really even looked at this person, turning his face away in disgust, hearing the words of the old stories echoing in his ears: cursed, damned, evil,
monster
. But he looked now. For the first time, he looked.

Not at the man, but at the vampire.

And saw gleaming dark hair falling onto hard shoulders. Eyes that glittered dangerously behind the mask’s almond-shaped openings. Skin that glowed golden bright, highlighted by sweat and darkened by shadow where flesh became muscle: the curve of his chest, the ladder of his ribs, the indentation of his naval.

The proud jut of his manhood as his fist curled around it.

He stood there for a moment, head swimming. Completely unable to connect the polished, nude courtesan holding his throbbing member with the man he knew. But this time, he didn’t turn away.

Instead, he watched the muscles in his arm bunch and release. Watched his hand glide down the length of his thickness, from the creamy flesh to the rosy head, pausing to caress it softly before sliding back up. Watched as he completed a simple movement that nonetheless broke the laws of his church, of his homeland, even of the dissolute city in which he now lived, which equated self-pleasure with the crime of sodomy.

Watched what he had never actually seen, because such things were considered shameful and hidden away.

But it didn’t look shameful. It looked strangely beautiful. And even more so when he made the first, tentative thrust.

He’d never before noticed the way his whole body joined in the motion. How it started with tension in his calves and thighs, moved up to tighten his buttocks and back, and then rippled outward as he completed the movement. How each isolated action blended with the one before as he fell into a rhythm, melding into a sinuous wave, an erotic dance—

Performed for the pleasure of a group of strangers, some harsh voice from his other life reminded him.

Yes, he thought vaguely, but didn’t stop. Even though, this time, there were no bonds to restrict his movements, nothing to keep him from turning around and leaving. Or from finishing quickly and technically completing his assignment, while rendering his audience frustrated and unsatisfied.

And yet, perversely, he found that he didn’t want to.

It felt like there was something in the air tonight, heavy and languid. Like the soft sound of rain starting up outside. Like the flowering vine growing on the balcony, perfuming the darkness. Like the light from the lamps that left the corners of the room in shadow, but fell warm and honey thick across his skin.

It slowed his movements, made them languid, too.

Made him pause to slide his hands up his torso, enjoying the feel of hard muscle and smooth skin and rigid nipples before moving back down. Made him arch his back, gliding his hands over the tense muscles of his buttocks, then smoothing around to the front. And following the deep V of muscles to the heavy globes hanging between his thighs. Made him linger on their heat and velvet softness for a long moment before resuming his former occupation.

He searched his emotions again, looking for the smallest suggestion of influence. Of any sign that he was being controlled by the woman watching from the chaise. But there was none.

She had paid to be entertained, not to perform herself.

No, this was all on him.

Whoever he was.

He could change his name, he suddenly realized, speeding up. He could become anyone, he could do . . . well, not anything, but a great deal more than he had. The human laws didn’t apply to him anymore. The human restrictions and prejudices had been left behind with his life. Along with the expectations and duties and heavy mantle of authority that had passed to him too soon.

Because he wasn’t that man anymore. He’d been so busy contemplating all he’d lost, that he’d utterly failed to see what he’d gained. Freedom of a sort he’d never known, could never have known in life.