Written in Blood: A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One. (The Unnatural Brethren Book 1) Read online

  Written In Blood

  A New Adult Vampire Romance Novella, Part One.

  Silvana G. Sánchez

  Copyright © 2020 by Silvana G. Sánchez.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or undead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Selfpub Designs

  Edited by Julie Cocaigne.

  DEDICATED WITH LOVE TO

  My husband, Eric.

  “When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create

  No trouble in thy breast.

  Remember me, remember me, but ah,

  Forget my fate…”

  Dido’s Lament.

  Dido and Aeneas by Henry Purcell.

  Contents

  Music suggested by the Author

  La Serenissima

  1. The Weaker Brother

  2. The Red Fox

  3. Cruel Mother Nature

  4. The Roads to Pleasure and Perdition

  5. The Grand Tour

  6. The Looking Glass

  7. The Red Devil

  8. Black Feathers

  9. The Secret

  10. The Breath of Life

  11. A Promise in Rome

  12. The Earth Moved

  13. The Gates of Hell

  14. The Island of Death

  15. A Face in the Crowd

  16. The Venetian Grand Ball

  17. The Carnival

  18. The Gift

  Written in Blood, Part Two.

  Also by Silvana G. Sánchez

  About the Author

  Music suggested by the Author

  Spotify Playlist

  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 brightly in this cold December evening. And as I stare at the tranquil Venetian scenery laid before me, the staggering question pierces my immortal brain.

  Relentless, unforgiving… this question has tortured me all evening. And the answer is one my wretched heart resists—no matter how loud it echoes in my skull.

  As I place my hand on the window, the coldness of the evening's breeze filters through my fingers and brings ease to the unfathomable limbo of uncertainty where my mind dwells.

  The world outside stands on the verge of entering the eighteenth century, and the time's changing tides strike hard against my wretched spirit as I struggle to make sense of the horror this room withholds.

  I find some peace staring at the passing boats at this late hour and listening to the Canal's waters softly crashing against the palazzo's gates in a hypnotic cycle, wave after wave.

  The green velvet-lined armchair appeals to me more than I thought it ever would; exhaustion takes fast hold of my heart and I need it—even if the mere notion of sitting on that chair repulses me beyond description.

  As I slip onto the seat, I take one deep breath. The penetrating scent of blood filters through my nostrils and fills my lungs; the soft lingering perfume of roses and bergamot finds its way into my lungs as well.

  No matter how much my mind entertains it, the reality remains unavoidable, unchangeable... But surely, if there has ever been a creature capable of overcoming such a tragedy, it’s me.

  Yes, I am nothing but blood and bones. But I am also, in the Dark, bound by 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 millennia, each period bearing a different name: The Damned, The Undead, Blood Drinker, Shroud Eater, and more recently, people refer to me as Vampire.

  Vampire is a term I have learned to appreciate the most because it does not entail any relation 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 reverberates 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 this villainous fiend, this devil that prowls in the shadows and feeds from the pits of its victims’ hearts. A demon that drains the life out of their precious arteries with the sharpest of fangs, like straws, plunged into a precious bottle of exquisite red wine... but I digress.

  I pride myself on being the unnatural creature that I am because without a doubt, becoming a vampire has been my coup de grâce in beating Death—my old friend, my long-time companion.

  Death’s shadow latched onto my own the day I was born. It has tempted me with its pompous lies ever since. Like a wanton whore, it lurked behind every street’s corner, beckoning me with its nasty appeal, again and again, only to be rejected.

  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 remain forever unreachable to the touch of Death's cold and crooked fingers. Therein lies my victory.

  And as I sit here, by the chimney's hearth, I should be happy and even ecstatic because of my triumph, but I am not. Instead, I search within the hearth's licking flames for a thread of sanity that may bring peace to the pandemonium that broke into my life this evening.

  Scattered on the Turkish rug, myriad pieces of glass tinged in blood reflect the fire's amber hue. And although it would appear I have the best of company before me, the fact remains that I sit in this quiet room alone, with nothing but the prospect of centuries of solitude.

  The damned question is back. It echoes in my skull. Crushing all hopes of my survival, its ruthless fangs plunge into my wretched heart over and over again, with no mercy.

  I need an answer, one that is true and worth my trust. I need it because my sanity—if not my life—depends on it. And to find it, we must turn to the beginning, to the root of all evil, to the place where that first spark of treachery spawned.

  This is where I will take you.

  The Weaker Brother

  Winterbourne, England. 1656.

  “One, two, three! Again!”

  “One, two, three! Again!”

  “One, two—”

  “Ow! That hurt!” Pain pulsed ha
rd on my back from the blow Viktor had given me with the sword’s handle.

  “What is it, Ivan?” Master Bianchi knelt by my side, oblivious to my brother's fiendish scheme.

  I remained silent.

  “It hurts because you're weak!” Viktor said.

  “I am not weak!” I whined. And as I growled, my hands went to his chest and I pushed him. His face lit up with anger as he landed on the ground. His eyes gleamed with astonishment. He had not believed I had it in me to fight back—nor had I.

  Viktor got on his feet and lunged at me like a wild beast. My limbs turned into stone. His weight crushed me and pinned me to the ground within seconds.

  Trapped between a heap of dirt and his body, I couldn’t escape as he grabbed my shirt's collar and pulled me closer to his reddened face.

  “You'll pay for this, Ivan!”

  A smile bloomed on my lips. Viktor was taller and stronger than me but at that moment, I glimpsed the possibility of defeating him. And this chance—no matter how remote—made me happy.

  But then, the weight pressing on my chest lightened as Master Bianchi all but dragged my brother away. Their figures diminished in the distance while Viktor's slithering heels left a trail on the dirt pavement leading to the house.

  I laughed. I laughed so hard it hurt my belly. At nine years old, this had been the highlight of my brief existence.

  For the first time in my life, I had stood up to Viktor. He was thirteen years old. And even though my rebellion had been small and unimportant, it filled my heart with pride after years of tolerating his abuse.

  I was the youngest of eight children. Five of my brothers had died before the age of ten—either from disease or tragedy—thus making Viktor the eldest son. Two years after him came my sister Alisa, and a year after that my brother Anton, but he had died minutes after being born.

  Another year had passed before I sprung into the world.

  Being the eldest son, my parents regarded Viktor's future with nothing but the highest hopes. An advantageous marriage was expected of him since Father was a man of respectable wealth and Viktor a handsome charismatic young man.

  Viktor's strength and quick wit overshadowed the darker side of his personality. He was tall, blond-haired, and had Father's piercing deep-blue eyes.

  Alisa and I took after Mother's looks; both of us had pitch-black hair, large eyes, and a delicate nose. She had blue eyes and finer lips, whereas I inherited Mother's green eyes and fuller lips.

  Our mother was Russian and Father, an English tradesman.

  I would very much like to go into the detailed story of their romance—if indeed, there was one—but I am afraid I know not how they met or why they chose to marry and raise their family on British lands.

  But back to Viktor and his dirt trail.

  I followed my brother's footmarks to our house.

  We lived in a small town a few miles outside of Bristol. Father's business was successful and we wanted for nothing.

  We had a more than suitable home, with vast lands to hunt and play. Servants took care of our every need. Tutors instructed us in geography, arithmetic, and taught us to read and write Latin and Greek upon my father's insistence.

  Mother cared little for our academic instruction.

  “Nothing can prepare you for life. No matter how much you strive for its conquest, it will always strike you in the face” was one of Mother's favorite sayings, and I think she said it often because she knew it drove my father mad.

  And then, of course, there was Master Bianchi, our fencing instructor. The Italian Master Swordsman now shoved my brother back into our house, vociferating harsh Italian words I could only assume were meant to scold him.

  The rose bushes lining the entrance were moist under my fingers. I snapped a pink rosebud and carried it in my hand.

  I stepped inside.

  The muselar's spiraling melody swirled in the air. Alisa practiced as she did every single day. And even though she excelled in the instrument's execution, I had listened to that song for weeks and I wished she would learn it already and move on to another piece.

  I slipped the rosebud over the muselar's cover and watched her play.

  Her musical repertoire was a vast one, though why she obsessed with that particular melody remained a mystery to me.

  “Play something else, Alisa...” Mother said as she headed downstairs. “I beg of you, child!”

  So, Mother had enough of it too, had she?

  The clanking of pots blended with Alisa's scaling melody as Cook quarreled in the kitchen with one of the servants.

  “Come 'ere you stupid girl! You best tell me where you hid that cheese... or else!”

  “What cheese?! I know nothing of no cheese!”

  “What is all that noise?” Mother passed me by quick. “I will not allow such behavior in my house!”

  The soft fabric of her skirt brushed my arm and pulled me away from my distraction. She headed to the kitchen to settle the dispute.

  The harpsichord's cascading notes faded behind me as I approached the parlor, and Master Bianchi's voice filtered into my curious ears. I did not dare enter without Father's permission, so I remained behind the door and peered inside through its crevice.

  “What now, Master Bianchi? I have pressing matters to attend to and must be off to Bristol immediately,” Father said. “Those damned slave traders demand the use of my ships for their detestable dealings… I will not have it! So, if this matter can wait—”

  “This cannot wait, Mr. Lockhart. Viktor must be disciplined! I will not abide such dishonorable conduct. The boy must learn that true courage lies within honesty in battle!”

  Father gave a short laugh of amusement.

  “Nonsense, Master Bianchi,” he argued. “If there is anything lacking in all battles, it is precisely that: honesty. Viktor is smart enough to seize every opportunity. He must take the advantage and win, always win!”

  Father laughed, delighted by Viktor's shrewdness. He moved towards him and patted his head, a forgiving smile on his lips.

  Master Bianchi's head hung low for an instant as he pondered his following words.

  “Then I am afraid I can no longer instruct your children.”

  My eyes widened as I stood still in my lurking spot. Master Bianchi could not leave! This was my fault. Had I kept my hands off of Viktor, none of this would be happening!

  Before I had any time to devise a plan to stop this madness, Master Bianchi opened the door. I took a few steps back as I stared at his towering figure, unable to restrain my astonishment. My lips parted, but no sound came through.

  He closed the door behind him and gazed upon my innocent prying eyes. He knelt before me and held my shoulder. “Heed my warning, Ivan,” he whispered. “Take care of your heart, little one. It is much too pure, and tainted hearts will always claim the advantage over yours. You must sharpen your senses from now on.”

  He patted my back and left.

  My mind went blank, numbed. My young brain could not fathom the extent of this loss. And once again, I turned into stone. But this time, it was not out of fear. It paralyzed me to realize Master Bianchi's absence would change everything. What repercussions it would have on my life remained a mystery.

  The door creaked as it opened once more.

  Viktor came out of the parlor with his chin up and an air of triumph. He passed by my side and pushed me against the wall, and only then did he lay eyes upon me.

  “Tick-tock, little brother,” he taunted. “Tick-tock…”

  Tick-tock.

  Viktor made use of those words to remind me that my days were numbered. Since five of my brothers had perished before reaching ten years of age, what was to make my case any different? This knowledge frightened me enough—without my brother's bothersome hints.

  “Your time is running out, Ivan.” He sneered and went upstairs.

  I believed Viktor's prescient words as if they were Holy Scripture. But far from lowering my spirits, such awareness
instigated my passion for life. It drove me to perilous lengths to experience what the world had to offer to an adventurous boy such as me.

  * * *

  The crackling sounds of crumbling firewood lured me to the kitchen. Mother sat before the oak table, her gaze fixed on Cook without an ounce of expression.

  She was a woman for whom discipline meant the motherly language of love. Detached and calculating, she single-handedly ran the entire household and even took care of Father's business whenever he went abroad on one of his trading expeditions.

  Her analytic green eyes narrowed as she stared at the pantry's wooden door.

  “Master Bianchi left,” I mused. “He's not coming back.” Mother showed no reaction to my words.

  “He did it again, did he?” she mused while opening the pantry's door and looking inside. “Viktor cheated.”

  “Yes. He did.” I grabbed a loaf of bread, warm and soft as it came out of the oven smoking hot. I broke it in half with my small dirty fingers and sunk my nose deep into it before taking a bite.

  Mother said nothing of my bold deed, not a word of reprimand, which seemed odd at the time but I didn't make too much of it.

  “I stood up to him,” I mumbled with my mouth full, proud of my small accomplishment.

  She closed the pantry's door and turned back. Mother locked her eyes into mine, cold and expressionless. “Good,” she said and carried on checking drawers and boxes of food. Cook seemed quite upset at her perusing about in the kitchen; nevertheless, she offered no complaint.