Of Saints and Shadows (1994) (14 page)

Beauty and pain, the double-edged sword that is life, the sword that led Alexandra Nueva to her death and now rules her unlife, these things are no distraction to her for this sweet moment of drifting.

The couple stops on a short bridge to look south, where, several buildings down, the Bridge of Sighs stretches across this narrow canal. They kiss. And the kiss deepens and the blood pounds first in their hearts and then in their heads and then in their loins.

And the music of the shadows stopped, was overcome really, by this new music that pulsed in the veins of the lovers, misty-eyed to match the misty light rolling through the city in waves. Though she was still mist, Alex felt carnal now, felt a lust that, though not the same, matched the lovers’ in its ferocity.

She had watched them the night before, to no avail. But watching them, hearing and feeling them now, she knew that tonight would be different. They crossed to the other side of the bridge and entered the Hotel Atlantico. Alex knew just where their room was, right on the first floor, the window only six feet from the water. Gondoliers passing by could see right in and would shout to the woman if they saw her in the window, then go on poling through the canal, singing loudly, hollering even louder to warn any other that might be around the next corner, lantern clanking in the dark.

Of course, this time of year the gondoliers were few and far between, and dressed for the cold when they
were
out. And this late at night, there were none. So there was no one to see Alex as she took form again, in answer to the stirring she felt within her, on the ledge outside the lovers’ window. She stood well back in the shadow of an outcropping on the side of the stone building and watched while they . . .

Entered laughing, not out loud but in their hearts, and she could hear them. They smiled at each other, passion in their eyes and barely contained mirth threatening at any moment to burst from lips stretched taut to hold it in. Instead, sounds of contentment came forth from those lips as the lovers fell to the bed, nuzzling and caressing, hands roaming under clothes until the clothes themselves magically disappeared over the side of the bed. The window was open just a crack, but the shades were thrown wide and the lights were on. Half of Venice could have seen them, Alex figured. They didn’t notice, or didn’t care. His head was between her legs and her voice rang out. Then she was on her knees and he was behind her. Alex watched as the young man . . .

Entered her, sliding his penis into her with a slow and steady rhythm—a rhythm that could not disguise from Alex the wilder pumping of their blood, the beating of their hearts, the laboring of their lungs. She could practically smell the blood as it rushed to their loins—as it rushed to
her
sex as well. She felt her wetness and could no longer keep her hands from herself as she watched the couple pleasing each other. In her heat the cold air went unnoticed except by the moon, whose light glinted off her deep purple nipples. The lovers began to shout as they rocked to the music of the night, and Alex could stand it no longer. With one hand she pushed open the window; with the other she brought herself to a wailing orgasm along with the woman in the room. Taking a deep breath, yet still shuddering, she . . .

Entered the room, practically floating to the floor. The man in the room saw her first and was struck dumb. Then the woman opened her eyes and was about to speak when Alex raised a finger to her lips.

“Shhh,” she said.

And what could the two say to this beautiful naked African woman who had appeared from the cold Italian night?

“Let me love you both,” she said, but neither replied. They knew they didn’t have a choice.

After all, they
had
volunteered.

Venice was similar to many other European cities in that visitors to its canals and alleyways came primarily to explore. Certainly shopping and history were also a draw, but it was adventure that was the true attraction.

Of course, in the colder months, the number of visitors to the labyrinthine city decreased dramatically. With one exception. In the days leading up to carnival, people began to flock to Venice again, anticipating one of the largest parties in the world, rivaling Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Carnivale in Rio, and other celebrations around the globe. Each year, beginning the Friday before and lasting until the wee hours of the morning of Ash Wednesday, locals and tourists alike became part of the event, a part of the tradition and the legend. They lost themselves behind masks and costumes.

But this year they weren’t alone. Behind masks and costumes, behind the revelry, the tradition, and the legend, others also hid. Some of these others were human, and some decidedly not. The humans posed as tourists, staying in hotels and inns, shopping during the day, even as their masters slept on in cellars and basements, darkened hotel suites, and luxurious private homes. They weren’t there for carnival. The humans had come for another celebration, masked by the Venetian festival, a gathering of their shadow masters, the Defiant Ones.

Like many such gala events, there was to be a feast.

Yet, if all of the Defiant Ones who attended these events were to feed on the local community, the results would bring immediate attention from the international media, a startling and painful spotlight that no amount of political manipulation could turn away. To avoid such attention, the shadow dwellers flexed a worldwide muscle of conspiracy and control, created a network that brought together, over the course of each year, the humans who attended their gathering in the guise of tourists.

In reality, they were volunteers, there for no other purpose than to serve their masters, their gods. Imagine, if you will, a consensual agreement between humans and their cattle, an idea both ridiculous and sublime. This was the nature of volunteers. More devoted than any cult, only half of them lived to return another year, and those only so that they might proselytize, beginning the cycle anew.

Of course, such an extraordinary operation was impossible to hide, or would have been had it not been for one factor.

Humanity never notices that which it does not wish to see.

Corruption, conspiracy, and death.

Beneath the surface of the revelry of carnival, in the shadows created by the extra light such excitement throws on the city, death lurked, barely acknowledged. Locals and tourists alike felt it, and it bred a cautiousness that was absent the rest of the year. People traveled in large groups and kept off the streets in the early-morning hours. They fought to rise above the feeling waiting there in the shadows; they turned away or closed their eyes if those shadows were momentarily illuminated. They refused to see. This year it was Venice. The year before, New Orleans. Before that, Milan, Rio, so many others.

Venetian authorities, and those of other cities that had experienced the gathering, were forced by circumstance to overlook and often cover up the mass disappearances. To their nervous, yet grateful relief, most of these disappearances were noted only by hotel managers, whose clients never checked out. Only rarely were inquiries made by governments or families of the missing.

For the volunteers, who hoped so deeply that they would die in Venice, carnival was a religious experience, a time of worship, a pilgrimage to Mecca. Oh, to be chosen, to be among those worshipers handpicked to serve the needs of the Defiant Ones . . . but of course, not all of those who turned up missing were volunteers. . . .

“I come all the way to fuckin’ Italy, an’ I can’t get away from the fuckin’ slants,” the burly man said, just a little too loud.

The club itself was very loud, Euro-dance music pouring from the speakers mixed with American R&B. Venetian youth rubbing elbows and other extremities with visitors from around the world. The club was very loud.

And yet this dickhead was talking loud enough for Shi-er Zhi Sheng to hear him even over the noise.

“I’m telling you, Marco,” he insisted to his tablemate, who was obviously a local, “people say there’s a difference. There’s so many different kinds now, y’know. You got your Thai and your Vietnamese. Your Cambodians, Koreans, Filipinos. You got your friggin’ Eskimos and Hawaiians, who are Americans, fer chrissakes. And of course, you got your plain old Japs and Chinks. They’re all friggin’ slants. Lyin’, cheatin’ economic goddamn terrorists, bringin’ the U.S. to ruin. Jesus, and once I thought the blacks and Spics were bad. America would be a paradise if it was just them we had to worry about! No way, man. Ferget about movin’ to the States. Hell, the rest of the family may end up movin’ back here with you.”

The bigot paused for a breath, then his eyes zeroed back in on Sheng, the motivation for this diatribe.

“’Course, if you keep makin’ the same mistakes we did, Italy’ll be crawling with the yella bastahds soon enough. And then where the fuck are we all gonna move to?”

Yes. Shi-er Zhi Sheng heard every word the bigot, whose name was Richie, said. And this was a big mistake on Richie’s part. As a matter of fact, it was, by any standard, the biggest mistake in Richie’s life.

Richie, who didn’t even need a last name, was well over six feet—though Sheng couldn’t tell exactly how tall while the jerk was sitting down—and weighed approximately two hundred and seventy-five pounds. He had definitely lifted weights at one time, and though he wasn’t fat, his muscles had become sheer bulk.

Sheng, on the other hand, was roughly five-foot-five. The hair at his temples was gray and his build was slight. It was all he could do to keep from leaping across the crowded bar and tearing the man’s head from his neck.

It wasn’t just the man’s bigotry and ignorance that spurred him on; he was distraught over the death of his mentor, his blood father. In turn, it wasn’t just the presence of the crowd that held him back. After all, he had others to worry about. Within the space of days there would be thousands of the Defiant Ones gathered here, and he could not be,
would
not be, the cause of their undoing.

And yet he couldn’t just sit here. He had to feed. And after hearing the drivel of this American ox, he knew that he would have to feed on this man. Not for hunger; for pleasure. He wanted this one for no reason other than the joy he would feel at bringing about his death.

The hell with it. Even these Italians have seen a lame Bruce Lee movie on “Kung Fu Theatre,” or whatever they called it in Italy. Either that, or they’d probably seen that foolish old David Carradine TV program. He could have all the fun he wanted, and because he was a “slant,” no one would think to wonder. Alexandra could vent her grief over Karl’s passing in her way, and Sheng would mourn in his.

“Hey, fella!” Sheng shouted, without any trace of accent.

Richie turned around, eyes wide, completely taken aback at being addressed by this, the object of his hostility.

“Richie, right?” Sheng asked, grinning like a fool and sticking out his hand for a shake.

Richie shook, too dumbfounded to respond.

“Since you seem to know everything there is to know about us slants”—he paused—“I’m going to give you a chance to leave this establishment in one piece.”

Richie was still stunned, but now he did grin back. It was a nasty grin, one that took a fierce pleasure in any call to violence.

“You have three guesses to figure out exactly what kind of ‘yella bastahd’ I am. If you have not guessed correctly by then . . . well, in terms with which I am certain you are familiar, I’m gonna beat the living shit out of you.”

The dancers near them stopped moving and a crowd began to gather. Richie could not believe that this little gook had called him out. He didn’t like to start things, but if the scrawny bastard had a death wish, he was more than happy to oblige. He could feel the adrenaline rush that always accompanied the onset of violence—the muscles in his back tensed, he stood to his full height, and a quiver of anticipation ran through him.

“Fuckin’ Jap,” he said softly, still grinning that meal-hungry grin at the man only a foot and a half from him.

His fist whipped through the air in a lightning-fast roundhouse—he’d done this before—and connected solidly with . . .

A beer glass. Which shattered. And if it hadn’t, it might have been broken by the sound of his shrieking.

The guy had brought up his mug to meet Richie’s punch so fast the big man hadn’t even seen it. He had aimed at the guy’s face, but when his fist got there, the Asian’s head had moved. Fast.

“Wrong,” the short man said softly, and now the fighters were drawing a crowd. Though many of them spoke little or no English, the sound of Richie’s wailing as he cradled his bruised and bloody knuckles did not need translation.

“I’m not a Jap. Two more guesses.”

And he smiled. It was the smile that got to Richie.

“
Chink!”
Richie screamed as he flew across the few feet that separated him from his prey, only to belly flop on the wooden floor of the club, knocking the wind out of him.

“No,” Sheng said, sitting calmly back down on one of the barstools. “I am not a ‘Chink.’ One last guess.”

As Richie got up, sucking air back into his lungs, he was more shocked by the Oriental’s balls than by his speed. It took guts to turn your back on a tank like him, no matter how fast you were.

it was humiliating. Not just what the guy’d done to him, but this little peckerhead turning his back on Richie. That just didn’t fuckin’ happen. Never would happen back home, nobody had the stones.