City of Masks and Blood

Chapter 5

Matteo

I parked the motorboat on the grand canal where I'd stolen it. What'd started out as a Venetian joy-ride took a turn for the worse. At least the vessel didn't end up at the bottom of the lagoon. I hoped the owners hadn't noticed their boat was missing for a few hours. That—and the wooden bullet lodged deep in the metal siding.

At least the ache in my head had disappeared. That was a relief. A poor Scottish student in San Marco would wake with a massive hangover. That, and two 'bug bites' would appear in the crux of his arm. His blood had tasted like Jäger and stale socks.

I secured the vessel with knotted ropes before sauntering down the dock. I tried to throw off a confident air. If I'd learned one thing in all my years, it was how to look like I belonged. Especially when I was up to no good. A few gondoliers sat on a bench, smoking, and shit-talking their clientele. I tipped my head.

"Bona note," I said. Goodnight. The only greeting I used anymore, no matter the language.

They eyed me with suspicion. Perhaps my Venetian accent had grown rusty. But they returned the greeting all the same as I stepped from the docks to the streets.  I gazed at the hotel above, spotlights illuminated the facade. It was a building from a distant memory. A Lord's manor transformed into a five-star hotel. The Lord was a prick, so I found great pleasure staying in his rooms years after his bones turned to dust. I entered the building with a shit-eating grin.

Chandeliers and fake renaissance-style decor filled the hotel. I bristled at the anachronisms. Tacky. Most of the paintings looked like prints made in China. I climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, where I'd find our rooms. They'd cost me a pretty penny to book, with the Conclave and Carnival of Venice falling on the same week. But it was a proper hiding place for a nest of vampires.

When the doors swung open, the screech of a violin bombarded my ears. It sounded like a dying cat. I grit my teeth, thankful I'd fed before returning. I decided to trade one annoyance for another. I plucked the cigarette from my ear and lit it, letting the smoke fill the entryway as I entered the grand room.

It was a sorry sight.

Claude, a man fifty years my junior, was learning violin. I don't know why he'd chosen this trip to start, but the sound made my skin crawl. I fought the urge to throw the instrument into the canal. Claude had always been the type to wax nostalgic. He wore a long coat and loose fitting cotton shirt, his golden locks tied back with a ribbon—looking like he'd stepped straight from the French Revolution. The man struggled as he played, the view of the canal at his back. Standing next to him was a male vampire—a tan-skinned stranger—who attempted to teach him and correct his mistakes.