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Prologue
Florence, Italy, 1460
Alessandro Benevoglio was born twice in a bed of silk and velvet and blood, beneath a fresco of the Virgin Mary painted just before his parents’ marriage by an artist he himself would later collect. Once, when his mother brought him to life, squalling and small, their sole heir to a fortune built on wine and trade. He was born again in that same bed six and thirty years later, a man of his own made new by a woman who whispered sin and delights into the shell of his ear. Both times, he’d been dragged out kicking and screaming, the hum of cicadas and the heat of summer calling for him to open his eyes.
The woman had told him of midnight meetings and starlit walks in locations he’d only seen on his father’s maps. She planted promises of the moon on the water and the centuries drifting by on a dark, dark sea.
“He awakes.” The vampire Beornwyn lay in repose beside him, her heavy, dark blue brocade gown not right for summer, but right for the black of her hair and eyes as she gazed upon him, like an artist admiring their work.
Alessandro sat up, memories of an all-consuming fire making his throat tight. “I feel as if I have been dragged to hell.” He groped on the table beside the bed for a goblet of sweet, summer wine. The moment it hit his tongue, he spat. It had gone off, his family’s store, the grapes somehow souring the blend. “I need water.”
“No, my love.” Beornwyn slid from the bed, smile at her lips. “You require something much more divine.”
He could barely swallow, his mouth was so dry. She had promised him strength and power and unending adventure. But all he felt, as he dressed in a fresh doublet and hose, was a thirst that threatened to bring him to his knees.
The villa was dark and still as they left his chambers, though the most curious sounds were louder than ever. A maid whispered in a room high above and a horse in the stables nickered. There was the rustle of leaves, louder than thunder. Alessandro paused in the corridor, realizing the candles in the sconces along the hall had not been lit, yet he could see where the slabs of marble were joined upon the floor and a thin, hairline fissure marred the stone wall to his left.
Beornwyn glided ahead, skirts reeling as she spun before a bare fireplace. “Hurry. It will be morning soon and that is when you must again be abed.”
“Why?” He hurried after her, gaze catching on strange, small details, his stomach tight with hunger and thirst and a need his cultured tongue had no word for.
“You do not wish to find out.”
She said the words in warning, yet they came out as a jest, as she led him through the villa and out into the balmy night. He could smell the city, the herbs used to ward off illnesses and the incense of his family’s chapel, the scent of the stables. As they drew near, the horses began to rile, kicking their stalls, their frightened whinnies cutting through the quiet.
At once, it hit him anew, the terrible hunger, that desperate ache. His mouth watered, gums quickening as the sound of a lone heartbeat surrounded him. He froze, listening, a delicious whoosh of something wet and strong. It sang to him, a strange sensation that had him following it to the stables.
The stableboy stood before the stalls, hay in his dark, sleep-mussed hair as he tried to calm the horses. Alessandro stared at him, such an inconsequential being, someone he’d known only as his cook’s nephew. He couldn’t even recall his name. All he could focus on was the boy’s heartbeat, how it accelerated as he tried to soothe the animals. The horses’ eyes rolled, the whites flashing as Alessandro stepped behind the stableboy.
He moved on instinct, his fingers digging into the boy’s upper arms, his mouth lowering to the tanned, sweat-slicked neck. The stableboy jerked in surprise, but Alessandro bit him, blood flooding his mouth. It tasted not of copper, but something rich and sweet and lush and forbidden. It was the finest of wines and most decadent of feasts. He drank heavily, the boy clawing at his hands, trying to pull free.
Then the boy stopped trying.
Beornwyn placed a hand upon his back and peered at the limp body that slumped to the floor. “Oh, well, I suppose I should have expected you to take your fill from someone close at hand. Now your first lesson, cleaning up your mess.”
Alessandro stared at the boy, the horses all screaming still. He thought he should feel like a monster for taking a life. He’d drunk the boy dry and left him a husk. But the burning was subsiding, and he was beginning to feel fresh and new, all the things Beornwyn had promised when she’d lowered her lips to his neck, her naked body flush against his.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“Burn it to the ground.”
The horses reared as his gaze fell upon each in turn. He knew she meant the stables, horses and boy included. But they were fine beasts, bred and trained well. He unlatched each stall and the animals fled, escaping the confines of his villa through the open gates, down toward the city. They would be seen in a moment. All who knew of him would recognize the sleek black horses and try to return them, hopeful for a reward.
Beornwyn picked up the stableboy’s lantern, which seemed too bright for Alessandro’s new eyes. “Go on. Clean up.”
He opened the glass pane where a lone, fat candle flickered. He glanced once more at the body, then tossed the candle down upon the hay-covered floor. Flames licked at his shoes, catching quickly. He stepped back as the fire spread, burning the boy’s hair and racing up the leg of his homespun breeches.
Beornwyn beamed as someone from the main villa shouted, undoubtably seeing the smoke. “Next time, do try to not eat where you live.”
He nodded and the pair turned away as wood crackled and snapped behind them.
There was no guilt in what he’d done, no regret or fear of punishment. He’d felt an instinct and followed it without thought. Now he was empty of anything that would ruin the splendid high of his first true meal.
He was alive.
He was invincible.
He was a god.
A man ran by them, water sloshing from the bucket he carried, another calling for someone to fetch more. The city of Florence bloomed before them, the fires of his human life burning behind. He could stay there for a spell, learn his new body, his new existence, settle his affairs in the city he’d been born and bred to dwell in. Then the world would be his to conquer and discover, the world would be his to feast upon.
He turned to his lover, his maker, and kissed her delicate knuckles. “Now, la mia creatrice, I do believe I need another drink.”
End of Excerpt
