WRITTEN IN BLOOD | The Unnatural Brethren | Preview {Unedited}

La Serenissima

Beyond the Grand Canal's darkened waters, dim torchière lights draw most eyes to the old palazzo. Its once pristine white walls, now tinged in black and green mold, withstand the pass of time.

Thick windowpanes of opaque glass allow little for the prying eye to discern. No more than my body's silhouette remains visible as I stand before the shattered single-mullioned window. A shadow standing still behind the quadriphora, that is all they see.

Through gaps of broken crystal, the sky is clear and stars shine bright in this cold December evening. And as I stare at the tranquil Venetian scenery laid before me, the staggering question pierces my immortal brain.

This question had tortured me all evening with no signs of ever reaching its end. And my thoughts arrived at the same conclusion every time it echoed in my skull, no matter how much I resisted believing it.

As I placed my hand on the window, the coldness of the evening's breeze filtered through my fingers and brought some ease to the unfathomable limbo of uncertainty where my mind dwelled.

The world outside lay on the verge of entering the eighteenth century, and the time's changing tides struck hard against my wretched spirit as I struggled to make sense out of the horror this room beheld.

I found some peace while staring at the passing boats at this late hour and listening to the sounds of the Canal's waters softly crashing against the palazzo's gates in an almost hypnotic cycle, wave after wave.

The green velvet-lined armchair appealed to me more than I thought it ever would; but exhaustion took fast hold of my heart and I needed it –even if the mere notion of sitting on that chair repulsed me beyond description.

As I slipped into the seat, I took one deep breath. The penetrating scent of blood filtered through my nostrils and filled my lungs; the soft lingering perfume of roses and bergamot found its way into my lungs as well.

No matter how much my mind entertained it, the reality remained unavoidable, unchangeable... But certainly, if there had ever been a creature capable of overcoming such tragedies, it was me.

Yes, I am nothing if blood and bones. But I am also, in the Dark, bound to blood.

I am the sublimation of the changing world; the essence of change that cannot change. Perfection assumed in all its flaws. The result of mutation and adaptation.

My body rebels before Mother Nature's selfish designs of corruption and decay. It battles her day after day and beats her every damn time.

The perverseness of my nature has long been described as evil and has endured the pass of time, each period bearing a different name: The Damned, The Undead, Blood Drinker, Shroud Eater and more recently, people refer to me as a Vampire.

Vampire is one term I have learned to appreciate the most because it does not entail a thing related to damnation, evil or the nature of my means for survival. Although linguists would argue its Slavic origin, the word ubyr, meaning witch –but I couldn't give a damn about any linguist's opinion. I care for the meaning the word evokes per se, the one that reverbs inside my preternatural ears whenever it's thought of or pronounced by my prey. And being the devil in question, I would say that is enough to settle the argument.

I am the very core of evil, for all I know. And I do not care one bit, nor do I carry this title as a burden. I am quite happy to have become into this villainous fiend. A devil that prowls in the shadows and feeds from the pits of its victim's hearts, draining the life out of their precious arteries with the sharpest of fangs, like straws plunged into a precious bottle of exquisite red wine...

I pride myself being the unnatural creature that I am because without a doubt, becoming a vampire has been my coup de grâce at beating Death –my old friend, my long-time companion. Death, that persistent whore who lurked behind the street's corner following my footsteps, and offered itself to me with its nasty appeal, only to be rejected again and again.

The shadow of Death latched to my own the day I was born. It threatened me with its pompous lies ever since, and from that day forward I declared my disdain towards it with the spite of my ribaldry.

All men are doomed to the grave from the minute they are thrown into the world, yes. But I am afraid Death took a rather keen interest in me from the start –as you will soon discover.

Christened by the Dark Blood, I remained forever unreachable to the touch of Death's cold and crooked fingers. And therein lied my victory.

Sitting here, by the chimney's hearth, I should have been happy and even ecstatic because of my triumph, but I was not. Instead, I searched within the fire's licking flames for a thread of sanity that would bring peace to the pandemonium that stirred into my life this evening.

Scattered on the Turkish rug, myriad broken pieces of glass tinged in blood reflected the fire's orangish hue. And although it would appear I had the best of companies by my side, the fact remained that I sat in this quiet room alone, with nothing but the prospect of centuries of solitude looming on the horizon.

The damned question came back, it echoed in my skull. Threatening to crush all hopes of my survival, it plunged its ruthless fangs into my wretched heart, over and over again, with no mercy.

I needed an answer, one that could be true and worth my trust. I needed it because my sanity –if not my life—depended on it.

And for this, we must turn to the beginning, to the root of all evil; to the place where that first spark ignited the flame of chaos now threatening to cast its poisonous arrow across my immortal heart.

This is where I will take you.