Belladonna (27 page)

The robed figures had all taken seats in the long wooden pews. Cass slid into the very back row, which was empty. Pressing her palms together, she bowed her head so that a casual observer might think she was deep in prayer. She peeked out from beneath the hood of her cloak.

The church was cross-shaped, its high, arched ceiling covered with peeling frescoes. Someone had pushed the main altar back against the wall and dragged a large baptistery carved with angels and roses into the transept—the area where the two arms of the cross intersected. A lone figure in black rose up from the first pew. The lithe form almost seemed to float as it stepped gracefully into the baptistery. Cass didn’t see the ripple of holy water. The baptistery pool was empty. Or was it? The faint light, the smoke—Cass couldn’t trust her vision from the back of the room. She slid to the end of her pew and made her way slowly up the side aisle, keeping her hood pulled low. She ducked into an alcove where she could get a clearer glimpse of the proceedings without being seen.

The pool was indeed empty. If the figure were to be baptized, where was the water? And why not do it on a holy day instead of secretly, in the middle of the night? Cass was struck by the most horrible thought: that she was about to witness the baptism of a vampire. But then the figure loosened the belt of its cloak and flung the garment to the floor of the chapel. Cass barely stifled a gasp.

It was Belladonna. And she was naked except for her silver bracelet and a pendant that hung down between her breasts—a six-petaled flower inscribed inside a circle.

A deep murmur ran through the crowd.

“Witness the power of young blood.” Belladonna turned a slow circle. “As most of you know, I just celebrated the fortieth anniversary of my birth.”

Cass nearly choked.
Fortieth?
Impossible. It was what she had originally thought, but that would make Belladonna almost twice as old as she looked. Cass stared at her, both horrified and fascinated by her nakedness, at her milk-pale skin and soft curves.

Cass’s eyes drifted, coming to land on the tiny stump of middle finger on Belladonna’s left hand. Had Belladonna really reawakened from the dead? What if the story was wrong, and Bella hadn’t been in a deep sleep? What if Belladonna really was a vampire?

A pair of hooded figures—men, clearly, by their broad shoulders and stiff gaits—approached the baptistery. Belladonna’s body relaxed, and for a second Cass thought of what she had seen at the Palazzo della Notte. Her cheeks went hot. Perhaps the Order was just about sex, some noble-class alternative to a brothel.

Belladonna turned to the hooded figures and kissed each of them. One nearly lost his hood as she wrapped her lean arms around his neck. Cass caught a glimpse of high cheekbones and blond hair. It was the butler, Signor Mafei—she would have sworn to it.

The two men at Bella’s sides each raised a silvery chalice in the air.

“Behold,” Belladonna called out, “an offering in the name of the Eternal Rose.” The men tipped the containers, and dark, viscous liquid poured down over Belladonna’s hair, splashing off the angles of her elbows and spattering the marble basin of the baptistery and sending an occasional droplet out toward the floor.

Blood.

Cass could smell it. She instinctively drew back, but the cloaked figures leaned forward as a group, murmuring and moaning, arms outstretched. They were reaching for Belladonna.

No. They were reaching for the blood.

Cass felt as though she might be sick. What was happening? Her vision went momentarily dark. She couldn’t faint—not here. She took a deep breath and the room came back into focus. She stared at the ruby liquid as it spattered off Belladonna’s skin, as the black-robed figures clamored for it. Could it be her own blood the mob was fighting for? Some of it, perhaps. There was too much to have come from a single person—unless someone had been drained completely dry.

As the last drops of blood poured from the chalices onto Belladonna’s bare shoulders, the people grew quiet again. The glistening fluid began to darken and coagulate on her skin, masking half of her face, obscuring one of her breasts as if she were wearing a dress that had been partially torn away by a madman.

Belladonna raised one spattered arm to her face and inhaled deeply. She dragged her wrist across her mouth, licking her lips.

“Divine,” she said. “I can sense the power. Who is it I am tasting?”

“The young Tatiana de Borello,” a man said. Cass recognized Piero’s voice. “Sadly, the humors in her blood were of inferior quality. I saw to it that she passed away just an hour ago.”

Tatiana de Borello. Cass had heard the name before, at Belladonna’s afternoon tea. Tatiana was the young noblewoman one of Bella’s guests had asked about. Cass shivered, remembering how everyone—even Madalena—had seemed hypnotized as Belladonna described the girl’s illness.

Belladonna reached out and touched her fingertips to Piero’s hooded face. “Certainly the blood of someone so young will have
some
beneficial properties.”

She turned back to address the masses. “Devoted followers of the Eternal Rose. We are increasing our efforts and drawing nearer to the creation of an Elixir of Life. Once we have created a pure specimen of the fifth humor, we will be able to produce enough elixir for all of us.”

A ripple of excitement moved through the crowd. Then a man burst out, “From what, exactly, are you creating this magical pure specimen? And what of your sister chapter, your
loyal supporters
in Venice? Will there be no elixir for us?”

Cass knew this voice too. Her heart stopped. Angelo de Gradi.

Belladonna’s face twisted into a frown. “I have been telling you for years, Dottore, that the fifth humor can be procured only from the blood. Not by slicing away at livers or spleens. My own father, who dedicated his life to seeking out the research of those before him, made this clear before his death. His words are inscribed in the Book of the Eternal Rose. Have you never gotten a chance to review its pages?”

Cass sucked in a sharp breath. If someone had stolen the book, Belladonna didn’t yet know it was missing. Could de Gradi have taken it?

“I have, but—”

Belladonna silenced de Gradi with a wave of her hand. “Blood is, as you know,
difficult
to obtain, and sadly there seems to be great variation among our subjects as to its quality.” She narrowed her eyes. “But we will succeed.”

Apparently the Order believed in the fifth humor, and in Florence they were going as far as to steal blood from the living for their research. The parties at Palazzo della Notte suddenly made perfect sense. Attractive men luring lonely and bored women away from their husbands. Drugging them. Drawing off their blood and sending them home weak and confused, marked as victims.

Belladonna gestured to Signor Mafei to help her with her cloak. He draped the garment over her shoulders, and she cinched the belt around her waist. “And yet, Dottore, you still persist in your barbaric methods of trying to extract humors from the tissue of the dead. Wasting time. Wasting blood. What makes you think we here in Florence owe you anything?”

Cass’s head was spinning. Angelo de Gradi hadn’t purchased corpses to study anatomy and improve medical techniques. He had been cutting up bodies to try to create the fifth humor.

“Begging your pardon, Bella, but the dead have always been in good supply, and far more compliant than the living,” de Gradi said. “I should like to observe young Dottor Basso’s
persuasive techniques.
Then again, perhaps there is safety in tradition. Wasn’t the Order almost destroyed from within during your father’s time at the helm?”

Belladonna stared at him coldly. “You would do well to not speak ill of my father, Angelo.”

De Gradi backed slightly away from the baptistery pool. The rest of the Order members still encircled him closely, perhaps hoping there might be a chance to bathe in
his
blood if he kept talking.

“Did not Signor Dubois donate generously to your cause while he was living here in Florence, back when you were just a girl?” de Gradi asked. “Was it not his gold that helped pay for your physicians?”

“Joseph’s money did not go as far as you presume,” she said. “And I no longer need his fortune.” She tugged on her belt again. “One can only imagine what he might squander the elixir on. Imagine, eternal life for Venice’s
finest
courtesans.”

The group tittered, and the tension seemed to ease.

“Bella,” de Gradi said, almost in a playful tone. “Rather than talk of finances, perhaps we should talk of common interests. Does not the Book of the Eternal Rose say it was a Venetian woman from whom your father once isolated a near-perfect specimen of fifth humor?”

Belladonna raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying the women of Florence are inferior to the Venetians?”

“Not at all.” De Gradi bowed. “Your beauty makes such thinking unimaginable. I was merely suggesting that the purest fifth humor may come from a Venetian bloodline. If the good Dottor Basso would share his notes, Signor Dubois and I could continue your research in Venice.”

“I’ll consider your proposal,” Belladonna said, with a wave of her hand. She stepped out of the baptismal pool and spread her arms wide before the crowd. “Brothers and sisters, what is left is yours.”

Cass watched in disbelief as the hordes of robed figures leapt from their seats. They pressed forward, crawling into the baptistery, clawing at the smears of dried blood, even rubbing their faces against the sides of the marble pool. Hoods were falling, and Cass knew that if she got closer, she might be able to identify some of the members writhing around in the baptistery.

But she was revolted, and could not force herself any closer to the blood fest.

Belladonna strode down the center of the church, with Piero and Signor Mafei flanking her. With her, Cass knew, lay additional answers. Discreetly, she ducked out of the alcove and headed down the side aisle, straining to make out what Belladonna was saying.

“It’s disgusting, don’t you think?” Belladonna asked. She paused at the threshold to the entrance hall, gesturing again at the crowd. Cass tucked herself back in the corner of the nave, keeping her hood pulled low. “The way people lose control over a little blood.”

“It’s only natural.” Piero shrugged. “You yourself know the benefits of fresh blood. To what else can we attribute your exquisite youth and beauty?”

“I don’t claw and fight to get at it,” Belladonna pointed out.

Piero’s voice seemed to contain a smile. “That is because you have your faithful shepherds to bring it to you.”

“If the magistrates of Florence were witness to this, the whole Order would be strung up as vampires,” Signor Mafei said.

“Convenient, isn’t it?” Belladonna said. “The Church and their obsessive worry about the undead. A most opportune way to hide our tracks and dispose of our unwanteds. Poor girls. They can’t even defend themselves without admitting to what they think happens at our decadent little
parties.
And their husbands and fathers would likely execute them for those crimes as well.” Belladonna smiled. “
Grazie a Dio
for lust and fear. Without them our work would be much more difficult.”

Signor Mafei opened the church door, and wind rushed in.

Cass realized she was shaking violently. She pressed her body against the wall of the church. Everything was starting to make sense. The Order of the Eternal Rose was using the city’s fear of vampirism as a cover for stealing blood. They were extracting humors from the blood and attempting to create the mythical fifth humor, long rumored to be instrumental in extending human life.

But apparently not all blood worked. It had to possess a certain quality. It had to be the
right
blood.

Angelo de Gradi had suggested that it might have to be Venetian blood.

No wonder Piero had been draining her.

And what if her blood
didn’t
contain the required properties? How much time did she have before the remainder of her blood would be taken forcefully from her? How long before it was Cass, and not Tatiana de Borello, who was being poured over Belladonna’s perfect skin.

Cass stayed crouched in the back corner of the nave for several minutes. The other members of the Order at last began to file out of the church, murmuring to each other as they made their way down the aisle.

The temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees. She gathered the oversized cloak tightly around her as she continued to piece together everything she had heard, as she struggled to believe it. Piero had saved her life. If it weren’t for him . . .

If it weren’t for him, my blood would have been wasted,
she thought. A puddle on the stone doorstep in front of this very church. Clearly it was her blood he had saved from the dogs, not her.

She swallowed back the taste of bile. She thought of the party at Palazzo della Notte where she had first laid eyes on Piero. He wasn’t the one who had lured Hortensa upstairs. Signor Mafei, perhaps? How many other men were doing Belladonna’s evil deeds? How many other women had fallen prey to the scheme, enticed by promises of seduction only to be drugged and bled without their knowledge? Perhaps
all
of the women who found themselves on the drowning platform had been victims of the Order. It was perfectly horrible.

But it was perfect.

Cass realized the church was almost empty. Just a handful of black-robed figures still clustered around the baptismal pool, clawing at the remaining minuscule spots of blood. The wispy smoke from the scarlet candles faded into the gloom. She remembered how the doors had been locked the night of her attack. The last thing she wanted was to end up trapped inside. She rose quickly from her hiding spot, but her legs wobbled beneath her, and she sank back to the floor.