Of Saints and Shadows (1994) Page 10

  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.

  He stomped up behind the shrimp, expecting him to turn around any moment. But he didn’t! He kept ignoring Richie like he wasn’t there. He was dead.

  “Vietnamese gook cocksucker!” Richie screamed, and reached for Sheng’s head . . . and the next thing he knew, his own forehead was bouncing off the hard wooden bar.

  Richie slid to the floor and lay there for a moment. His vision wavered, black spots in front of his eyes. He scanned the crowd: the bimbos and the dancing fags, MTV on screens you couldn’t see through the smoke, drinks tipped back. And here came his worst nightmare, gliding over to him as if floating. A goddamn gook who could whup his ass.

  Shi-er Zhi Sheng leaned over the fallen man and whispered in his ear, “Wrong again, friend Richard,” then dragged a long fingernail across the man’s cheek, cutting deeply. The blood began to flow.

  Richie’s vision began to waver again, yet he could see the crowd part for Sheng, the men especially keeping a respectful distance. The dancing resumed as Richie watched, hatred growing and raging, as the man disappeared among the bodies. He wanted to stand up, to call back the dirty fighter, have a fair chance at taking him apart, piece by piece.

  Of course, he didn’t dare.

  Over an hour later the blood had crusted over on his head and the crowd had dissipated. He knocked back the sixth and last shot he’d had since he’d lifted himself up off the floor. It would be dawn soon, and Venice’s only all-night club would be closed. It was only open this week because of the upcoming carnival.

  He slid off his stool, paused for a moment to steady himself, and headed out the door, wrapping his coat around him.

  It was cold. They said Italy was always warm, but that was tourist bullshit. It was just as cold in Venice as it was anywhere in New York during the winter. And even though the sun would be up soon, it was still black as sin outside. It’s always darkest . . . whatever. He couldn’t see a damn thing, could barely read the names of the small alleys he stumbled down. And the mist didn’t help any. It swirled all around in the dark, clouding what few lights there were and making it impossible to see to the next corner.

  “Actuallyly, it wasn’t a fairfair gamegame,” came the voice, drifting out of the mist from everywhere and nowhere.

  “How could a foolfool like youyou have guessed the Yun-LingLing range, separating Tibetbet and Sze-Chuen?”

  Richie spun around, and around, like a dog chasing its tail. He wasn’t listening to the words, only the voice. He’d never been very smart.

  “But thenthen,” the voice came again. “You were neverver supposed to guessguess correctlyly.”

  And the wet mist swirled around his head.

  It had teeth.

  “Everyone’s here this year,” Alex said, her eyes communicating her disbelief. “Shit, I just saw Genghis and he’s the oldest I’ve ever met.”

  “There are older,” Sheng said quietly, turning his face away from his lover’s so that she would not see the concern there.

  “I know that. I’m not an infant.”

  “I’m not suggesting that you are. What I’m saying is that there are older members of our race here, in Venice, right now.” He turned to look at her, and though he tried to hide his feelings, she could easily see how disturbed he was.

  Alex went to him, a tall statuesque naked black woman comforting a short, thin, apparently aging Asian—a strange sight to be sure, though no mortal eyes could see in this darkened basement that to them was bright as day. They lay down together on the soft mattress, next to the stone wall. Outside of that wall a canal flowed. Though they had nothing to fear from it, the proximity of the water made them shiver, cold in a way no chill wind could ever make them.

  “Why?” Alex asked, hoping he had an answer. “Why are they all coming this year?”

  “It’s Karl.”

  “Karl wasn’t that old, they couldn’t all have known him!”

  “No,” Sheng said, finally looking, really looking at her. Finally addressing the concerns they both felt. “They’re here because they’re scared, just like we’re scared. I wouldn’t be surprised if Aurelius showed up, and maybe one or two—maybe a dozen others we’ve never even heard of. They’re afraid because of what happened to Von Reinman, and to Barbarossa and to Franco.”

  “They’re still not sure about Franco,” Alex insisted.

  “You get the point.”

  They were quiet agai
n, lying together, mourning the loss of their father, friend, and mentor, Karl Von Reinman, whose death they witnessed through their mind’s eye, and whose killers they had recognized unmistakably.

  Shi-er Zhi Sheng broke the silence. “How deeply must that traitor Octavian have affected Karl for him to think he could survive in the sun?”

  “But he did survive, for a time,” Alex reminded him.

  “Testimony to his strength and age, but he should have stayed in the house.” Sheng shook his head.

  “He would have died along with Una,” Alexandra said with feeling. “What good would have come of that?”

  “He died anyway!”

  “But at least he died trying to escape,” Alex said.

  “Bullshit,” Sheng snapped. “He died pulling a fool stunt because Octavian filled him with lies and that load of drivel about a ‘moral code for our kind’ or some such. If Karl had stayed in the house, he might have had a chance. But Octavian had him believing he could survive outside. Dammit! We should have killed Peter when we had the chance. Almost a hundred years later and he’s still causing problems.”

  “It’s not Peter’s fault and you know it,” Alex said, getting annoyed. “You’re projecting your anger at Karl’s death onto him. If you want to blame any of our kind,” she growled, becoming angry now, “blame Cody October. I’ll bet his pulling that renegade shit was what centered the Vatican’s attention on us again. If it weren’t for him, Von Reinman would still be alive today, Barbarossa would still be alive.”

  She was crying now, and Sheng wiped the bloody pinkish tears from her eyes with his lingers, pushing the hair away from her face and kissing her forehead. Alex lay her head on Sheng’s chest.

  “This is the first time”—she sniffled—“since Karl brought me to this life that I’ve cried. I didn’t think I could do that anymore . . . didn’t think we could do that.”