Blood Ties

Chapter 20

December

When the gondoliers talked amongst themselves, they did not talk of them. It was a superstition, better suited to peasant farmers than to modern, metropolitan men. No, they had never seen the long dark shape of a dead man moving below them in the water. Or glistening, near the bank of the canal.

When the Order of Bones had finished their poking and questioning of Lazaro, and he had given his viva, ironically named, none had offered him haven or sustenance. It was to be expected, Lazaro realised, given both Carlo's previous behaviour and the philosophy that the order seemed to espouse. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he had walked from the auditorium and onto the darkened streets of Venice. If one of the affossatore thought of a use for him, they would find him again easily enough.

He had considered returning home, to his parents' house, but the prospect of returning to that room, with the curtains drawn in perpetuity, filled him with a sense of horror worse than the uncertainty of his future in Venice. The only good or wholesome thing to enter that room had been his sister, and she was unlikely to return.The University Ca'Foscari's library faced onto the grand canal. Lazaro bobbed just below the palace's facade, staring up at the lights that remained in the windows. Swimming was much easier than he imagined, his body lacking the buoyancy of a breathing man's, but light enough to be supported by the water. And it was a good way to keep out of sight. In the days, he lurked, undisturbed, in one of Venice's many ancient waterfront properties. The basement of the house had flooded, and so he hid there, desolate, his corpse-body oblivious to the cold that seeped into his bones. He didn't hurt anymore. That was something. Unless you counted the gnawing of his empty stomach. Sometimes he managed to catch a rat, but they seemed to warm his mouth and little more.Groping in the dark water, Lazaro found a cornice of the facade, and hauled himself out, canal water sluicing from his funeral suit. His fingers slipped a little, the skin sloughing from them in the cold, and he pressed himself against the wall more firmly.Books, Lazaro reminded himself. He was just here for books. Closing his eyes, he felt for the next ledge in the facade. Whatever vampiric magic now powered his body afforded him enough strength to pull himself the rest of the way up the side of the building.Necessity, and fear of water damage, had put the bulk of the collection on the top floor. Long reading tables lined the rooms, the books hidden behind carved wooden screens. Lazaro waited a moment, watching for any sign of the attendants before he slid back the catch on the window and squeezed himself through. He flopped down the last few feet, landing wetly on the tiled marble floor. The impact knocked a little canal water from his lungs and he began to cough. An affectation, Carlo had said, but it felt no less real than it had in life.

Lazaro froze. The student, who had been sleeping face down on a pile of notes, hands covered with ink spots, rocked back in his chair. There was something off about his face, something strange. Lazaro frowned. Of course. The man wasn't Family. He'd seen other non-family members about the city, of course, but he'd kept his distance. Close up, the divergence was striking."Who-" the student scrambled back, snatching up his notebook. "-what are you?"Lazaro looked down at himself, his funeral suit stained with water and silt, his skin swollen and wrinkled, his hair clinging slimily to his shoulders. "I-" he said, giving his chest an experimental thump. "I'm Lazaro. I was sick for a very long time."The young man's eyes went to the door at the far end of the hall, and he took another step back.Lazaro frowned. Clearly he was getting the etiquette all wrong. "Please stay," he said, holding out his hands in what he hoped was a friendly gesture. "I promise I won't murder and eat you."The student looked less than convinced. "You want to murder and eat me?""I said I wouldn't," said Lazaro, a little exasperated. "Just... stay for a bit?" He edged sideways, interposing himself between the young man and the door."What do you want from me?" The man's hands were shaking, his face pale."You're a student here?" said Lazaro.The man with the ink-stained hands nodded slowly. "History," he said, eyes darting."Really?" Lazaro broke into a grin. "How interesting. You-" he gave a small cough. "-you have to recommend me some books."The student looked baffled. "Some books?""On history," said Lazaro. "My education was a little one-sided, you see." His education in medicine, occult theory and the physical sciences had been nothing short of phenomenal, but Carlo had expressed little interest in instructing him in anything else. "I'm looking to improve it. Widen it. What was your name?""Pietro." The man swallowed, and stared wide-eyed past Lazaro. Was he thinking of shouting for help? "Pietro Bosco.""Bosco." Lazaro repeated the name, its syllables alien on his lips. Definitely not family, then. He reached out and tapped the textbook that lay open on the reading table. "What about this one?""Well," Pietro hesitated. "That's about the secession of the city-states in the late-""No." Lazaro interrupted him. Was that rude, to an outsider? Carlo would certainly have punished him for it. "I need something less specific.""There's the H.G. Wells," Pietro offered, gesturing to the middle shelf behind him. "Outline of History."Lazaro nodded. He was reasonably sure a copy of the book existed in his father's library, not that he would ever have been allowed to take it. "Care to offer a summary?""Oh, well, I can't really-""You only know one area of history?""It's not that-" Pietro licked his lips. "It's just, well. There's a lot of history. A big world, you know. More than I could easily cover in one lesson."Lazaro thought for a moment. "Oh."Extended tuition, Lazaro realized, was impractical. He couldn't leave Pietro here. His new body was too obvious, too monstrous to be rationalized away. Eventually, the kid would talk, and Lazaro doubted that any of his elders would be understanding about it. No. Lazaro stared at Pietro for a single, long moment."You're going to kill me," said Pietro, his voice hoarse. "Aren't you."Lazaro looked at him a moment. "I'd wipe your memory," he admitted. "But no-one ever thought to teach me that trick.""Please." The young man held out his hands. So that was the gesture. "Please, sir. I won't tell anyone."Lazaro shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's nothing personal."He tried to run. Of course he did. Lazaro lurched forward, catching himself on the back of the young man's shirt, and Pietro gave a cry, lashing out. The impact of the fist on Lazaro's flesh felt dull, far away, as if it were happening to someone else. Something else. Lazaro grunted and pushed forward, falling with his victim.Pietro's neck snapped more easily than he had imagined it would, and Lazaro felt his fangs, unwelcome, itching at his gums as he pulled himself up. The body was at his feet, still warm, though the light was fading from its eyes. If Carlo was here, he would be required to take notes. Severance at the fifth vertebrae. Death by asphyxiation. Maybe a sketch, of the odd angle of the neck. Lazaro shook his head, feeling a little dizzy, and sat down in the student's chair. Pietro had done nothing to deserve this. Nothing, save study late on a night when Lazaro happened to be visiting. What would he do with the body? Put it in the canal? No, it would be too quickly discovered, and whoever did the autopsy would wonder why he was missing blood. And he would be missing blood. Eventually.

The call of his beast like radio static in his ears, Lazaro pried the notebook from Pietro's dead fingers and opened it at the first empty page. The student's writing was all furious, broad strokes and blotches, as if he had been trying to press his pen through the paper. Frowning at the fingerprint-smudges on the opposite page, Lazaro grabbed the book from the top of the pile on the desk and began to read.

After all, he reasoned, secession of city-states in the late thirteenth century was as good a place to start his education on the outside world as anywhere.