City of Masks and Blood

Chapter 2

Abigail

"Per favore. No!"

A thud echoed down the stone walkways. It was a man's voice. Italian. And something was terribly wrong.

Every bit of me urged me to run, to find the bus stop as quickly as I could, leave this place and never look back. However, the stupid part of me— the one who was brash and curious—overpowered it. My hand dipped into my bag, where art supplies mingled with hair ties and coins, and found my box-cutter. I used it to cut canvas and linen, but it was also a good weapon if need be.

I was light on my feet as I ducked into the shadows, my blade at the ready just in case I had to defend myself.

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, my mind yelled, but I ignored it.

There was the sound of a struggle in the next piazza. It was a square I wasn't familiar with, but it seemed tiny compared to most in the city. As I got closer, I realized that I'd made a terrible mistake not listening to my gut.

There were three men in the middle of the shadowed square. While most piazzas were places people would congregate, this one had no shops, no windows facing the center, just a stone against stone. Like a prison. My side of the square was one of two streets that were connected, the other alley on the opposite end of the piazza. However, in-between the streets, violence irrupted.

Two men were on top of another, throwing punches into his gut. I stepped back, so the light didn't hit me, making me difficult to spot. The victim was older, but I couldn't make out his face since it was covered in blood. However, I could clearly see the faces of the attackers. Something about them was...wrong. Even though they were doing an utterly cruel thing, you could see no sign of emotion in their continence. Their eyes were lifeless pits. Arms moved in robotic motions—up and down—connecting with soft flesh. 

I clutched my exact-o-knife, too afraid to make any movement. One of the attackers pressed a hand over the victim's mouth, muffling his screams to keep from drawing any more attention. Above, a cloud moved away to reveal the light of the moon, which streamed down to fill the small square. One of the men leaned over the groaning victim. I thought he was kissing the gentleman at first and I wrinkled my nose. But it only took a moment for me to see that the attacker had sunken his teeth into the man's neck. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. I felt my stomach drop and I had to press my hand into the stone from falling to my knees. 

What kind of sick joke is this? 

Both men were upon their prey, opening gashes in his neck and wrist. Black liquid pooled underneath them as they drank freely from the man, drop upon drop until it looked like they had splattered a bucket of carmine red paint across their faces.

It was not a joke.