I thought I’d share the first chapter of Blood Art with you, my first paranormal
release.
I loved writing it, and hope you enjoy reading it.
Cheers,
Margot
JustesA Hotel in Paris
A Hotel in Bath
Blood Art
www.mjustes.com
Chapter 1
Florence, Italy 1503
“I am a vampire, Leonardo.”
“I am well aware
of that fact Nikolai, but you have the soul of an artist.”
“I repeat. I am a
vampire. And make no mistake—I have no soul.”
As a course for survival, Nikolai
lost his soul centuries ago, but there was no reason in belaboring the point.
Leonardo da Vinci was entitled to his belief.
Nikolai stood in
the middle of the cavernous room and looked around him. Flickering candles cast
shadows on the walls. A massive wooden desk was shoved against bare brick, one
end piled with old rags coated in deep and rich colors. Leonardo's palette lay
on the floor recklessly abandoned, and paint splashes had spilled onto the
wooden floor, filling the wide cracks between the boards. A stale oil smell
permeated the room; used candles were everywhere, surrounded by mounds of spent
wax. A few books were stacked up on the floor against another wall, one on top
of the other. An old wooden chair pushed against a corner, stained with crimson
paint; the cushion looked like a splash of blood. A tapestry covered the wall
where a makeshift straw bed lay on the floor.
“I repeat. You, my
dear friend, have the soul of an artist. Vampire or not.”
“I collect art,
hence our deep and abiding friendship—all due to your masterful
accomplishments. I have no other such talents. At least, other than being
eternal, ageless, and have an uncanny ability to amass a fortune at every
opportunity. Typical vampire standards; anything I want, when I want, and how I
want. Staying alive for eons does allow one to become complacent. Despite the
danger, eternal existence does permit certain pleasures. And for me, the
building of a sizable art collection is most gratifying, and a venture which I
intend to continue through the ages.” The brusque, low voice was mesmerizing in
its intensity, and hid any emotion, any visible trace of anguish. He simply
stated these facts as if they were nothing, and common.
Nikolai Volkov watched as
Leonardo picked up burned out candles and stray brushes he had left everywhere.
“Nikolai, you
support artists that are being ignored, ridiculed. You redeem us. You recognize
ageless talent. I am egotistical enough to say that in the coming centuries I
will survive through my art.”
“Of that I have no
doubt. Again, that is why I collect your paintings; your drawings alone are
incomparable. I know you will survive. And you will increase my wealth
substantially.” Nikolai turned and looked at the various paintings leaning
against one of the stone walls. In the corner canvases were stacked in no
particular order, and next to them wooden planks.
Leonardo's studio
was plain, utilitarian, and filled with finished and unfinished works of art,
all of which Nikolai coveted and wanted to own. Possess.
“Yes, I am sure I
will survive, but only through my art. You have and will continue to survive
through other means. Ones I do not wish to think about.”
“I have paid
dearly for my survival.” Nikolai touched his cheek, feeling the ridge of the
deep scar on his face. That attack had been particularly brutal. The cut went
all the way to the bone, and not allowed to heal. Lucrezia Borgia told him it
would mar his stunning beauty and further bind him to her, both physically and
emotionally. She was wrong on both counts. He considered the scar his badge of
courage and tenacity.
His surreal
beauty, as she had once described it, now marred by that one scar. A reminder
of torture. A memory not to be forgotten. Vampires do not scar, yet that one
single scar on his body remained, as if an omen of things yet to come.
Centuries of memories all held within that singular ridged cut on his face that
slashed down to his very soul. The one he claimed not to have.
He was tall, over
six-foot-three, with hair black as night. His eyes were as blue as sapphires
and frigid as the Arctic ice. Nikolai was built hard, like Michelangelo's
David, and just as cold.
The lethal
combination fostered first and foremost fear from man and demon alike. And
admiration, from women. All women. He never lacked for company. Yet, they all
left him unsatisfied, and yearning for something he didn’t understand.
“Leonardo, will
you paint a portrait for me?” Nikolai spoke quietly, staring at a painting
stacked against a wall, his back to Leonardo.
“You?”
“No. Not me.”
Nikolai replied, his bleak smile was more of a grimace that did not reach his
eyes. “This will be from memory. My memory.”
“Does she mean
something to you? I assume you are speaking of a woman.”
“Yes, I was. And
yes, she meant something to me.” He ran his finger along the jagged scar.
“Ah, I see. I
gather she was not a pleasant memory.”
“You gather
correctly.”
“I will do it for
you. Tell me everything you know about her. Every single memory. Every
movement. Everything you remember. Give me a perfect description of the
mysterious woman. It will be my gift to you.”
“I do not wish to
keep the painting.” Nikolai visibly shuddered at the thought. “You may do with
it what you will. Burn it in hell for all I care.” His reply was savage.
“I see.” Leonardo
replied thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “Why do you want me to paint it?”
“To exorcise a
demon. One among many.”
“Do you wish to
discuss it, my friend?”
“No. Just paint
the damn thing. You will be well paid.”
“No,” Leonardo
replied vehemently, shaking his hand in the air. “There will be no money
changing hands. I will paint it. I will not burn it; I will sell it. I do have
a payment to demand of you. Once I am done, I expect to hear why I painted it.
That is my demand. Do you agree?”
“Yes, damn you. I
will agree to your terms. Your absurd demand.”
“Why absurd? She
obviously damaged you. I would have to be an idiot not to recognize the
symptoms. And I am not an idiot.”
“Yes, I am fully
aware that you are not an idiot. You should be terrified of me. Yet you are
not. You reason things out. You think. A vampire, even in your century, should
horrify you. Yet, I do not.”
“You terrify me,
all right. Your power. Your strength. Your ability to kill without thought.
Your survival through the centuries. Your knowledge of the past. Yes, you alarm
me, my friend.”
“Alarm…that is a
milksop statement. Leonardo, look at your own drawings. You see what is to
come. What does that say about you? Your work foreshadows the future. It is
there, in your drawings.” Nikolai pointed to a canvas leaning against a wall.
“You are more than an artist; our long discussions have proven that. You are a
genius. A man of re-birth. You, here and now, could be considered demonic. That
is how some would interpret your work.”
“I will ignore
that. It is safer not to discuss people and their survival methods—it might be
misunderstood. Fortunately for me, my work is not well understood. Most
everyone sees a painting or a drawing, nothing more. Perhaps they even think I
am mad. A simple man cannot interpret what I imagine simply by looking at my
work. That is indeed very good for me.” Leonardo sighed. “Now, let us get back
to your description of the woman.”
“Have I touched a
sensitive spot?” The vampire asked, sarcasm dripped from every word.
“Yes.” Leonardo
hissed between his teeth. “Now, give me the damn description.”
“Paint her as you
would a beloved portrait. Make her mysterious. Enigmatic. Serene. Perfectly
poised to attract attention. Paint her as the central and pivotal person in the
scene. In fact blur everything else. Nothing should matter much save her face
and hands. Long, beautiful fingers, elegant hands with perfect skin, relaxed.
Incapable of hard work. Make her look innocent. Wistful.” Nikolai stopped
speaking, and again touched his face along the line of the scar.
“Make the damn
demon, the savage beast…saintly. That will be the joke for centuries to come.
Paint it dark, yet give her light. A shimmer, so that she almost glows. Make
her irresistible. Give her eyes that damn the soul. Eyes that see beyond the
present. Is that enough for you?” Nikolai demanded.
“Yes. Do I have
leave to choose the color of her hair and eyes?” Leonardo asked quietly,
captivated by Nikolai’s mesmerizing voice and the tortured memories he was
reliving.
“I do not care
what color you choose. Dark is what I desire.”
“It shall be done.
You want her to look enigmatic, a mystery through the ages. How is that for
conceit? She will survive centuries, whereas I will die.”
“You, my friend,
will be reborn every time someone looks at your work. But you already know
that. Your art will speak for you for eternity.”
“Let us continue
as we have in the past, Nikolai.” Leonardo preferred to ignore rather than
acknowledge the reality of his existence. “Your life is eternal. You do not age.
Let us leave it at that. Be careful not be recognized, it might endanger you.”
“I am four hundred
years old. Through the centuries of battles, corruption, and betrayal, no one
pays any attention to whether or not I age. Everyone is consumed with their own
survival. I expect that in the future, I shall need to take better care.”
“Take better care,
but live. Even if you cannot be killed, live as you have done in the past.”
Leonardo spoke softly, as if afraid of being overheard.
“I aim to live
better, and I can be killed; one just has to know how. I certainly do not
discuss that aspect of my survival. I am alone, removed from my clan. Solitary,
my lair and art my only comfort. It has been this way for centuries and, make
no mistake, Leonardo—it is a lonely existence. You, my friend are a true master
and you bring me a great deal of pleasure. Someday your work will be priceless.
Look at your drawings. See the things I see in your work. You behold the future
in front of you.”
“Indeed.” Leonardo dismissed Nikolai's
predictions with a wave of his hand. “I may need you again, after I begin the
portrait, of course.” Leonardo spoke absentmindedly, stretching his fingers,
already thinking about the unusual commission.
“Of course, I am
always available to you. How will you explain the mystery woman?” Nikolai's
curiosity got the better of him.
“I will not. There
will be rumors. A model. A mistress. A wife. A requested portrait by a well to
do merchant. I myself will perpetuate
said rumors,” Leonardo replied, a wide smile lining his face.
“Brilliant,
Leonardo. As I have said, your work will be priceless.”
“Do you wish to
change your mind and purchase the portrait?”
“No.” Nikolai
shuddered, turned, and slammed the massive door behind him. He took a deep
breath, a normal human reaction one he'd used so frequently that he no longer
even thought about it. He walked outside and realized that had his heart been
beating, it would have stopped at the mere suggestion that he keep the portrait
of his tormentor and captor. Damn the Borgias. All of them.
Nikolai walked to
his lair and thought about his life, lost in memories of long ago. He heard a
rustle of leaves, a shrill scream, and then silence. His speed was as fast as
the wind, and as quiet as death. He reached a man kneeling over the body of a
woman. She lay on the ground, unconscious, her face bloody and leg twisted
unnaturally, her arms outstretched. The man reached to lift her torn skirt.
Nikolai lost all veneer of civility, his fury reflected in his blood-red eyes
and extended fangs. He showed no mercy.
He grabbed the
man, then effortlessly lifted him off the ground and threw him against a tree.
He heard a crunch but didn't bother to look back. He reached down and tenderly
touched the bruise on the woman's face, her split lip where the man had
obviously hit her with his fist. Nikolai's touch healed her. He straightened
the leg and massaged it. She would have a few bruises, but nothing that would
last more than a few days. He lifted her in his arms and carried her back to Leonardo's.
Leonardo would
help the less fortunate, the few strays Nikolai occasionally brought him. He
always did.
On his way home,
hunger struck. His fangs lengthened, but he would not feed from the vermin he'd
destroyed. He'd lure someone else.
Nikolai once again
pondered his existence. He'd just destroyed a life and felt no remorse. He knew
that if he had not interfered, the woman would have been raped and most likely
killed. He felt nothing for the life he so easily extinguished. The bastard
deserved it.
Alone, Nikolai had
few friends, and he chose not to search for any members of his clan, or any
other vampires. He'd had his suspicions about several people he knew, but
preferred not to bring any attention to his own existence.
His path to
emotional survival and redemption forbid getting involved in battles not of his
own choosing. He searched for his salvation and ultimately some meaning to his
eternal existence. His senseless killing sprees subsided long ago. Finished.
Now he only killed when necessary. To end evil, be it human or otherwise.
Nikolai thought
about his captor and tormentor, and as always waited for her to come after him.
Addicted to his blood, Lucrezia would move heaven and earth to get him back.
She could do nothing else; the addiction was like a disease. He promised
himself next time that she would not survive. He learned a great deal through
the centuries, including how to outlast and outwait a demon. Patience. He had a
great deal of patience for certain things. Eternity will teach you that, if
nothing else.
Long ago, Nikolai
escaped from his torments. He emerged into putrid air contaminated with lost
souls, but he was free. Alone. No longer a captive to be tortured against his
will. No longer raped. No longer beaten. No longer slashed and starved. She
taught him to kill without thought, whether for revenge or retribution. He did
not care; he had killed to gain physical and mental freedom.
The paintings and
sculptures he'd gleaned while still a captive brought him salvation. Those pieces
he took from her as payment for his suffering. She paid a heavy price for the
abuse she gave, and in his mind, she would forever be a living nightmare. Her
name was indelible in his memory: Lucrezia Borgia.
He'd called her
the demon queen of torment, for indeed she knew how to inflict the utmost pain.
The rack became a pleasure in comparison to what else he'd suffered. His limbs
were stretched and pulled, his life's blood spilled, and still that wasn't
enough for her. She'd turned him to keep him forever young, make him hers to
use as she pleased. Lucrezia became
addicted to him, and that was her folly. His doom. Her ultimate mistake.
Once freed from
her rule, and on through the ages, he saw redemption in art and the painters
and sculptors who made a difference in the art world. The geniuses of the
centuries, like Leonardo da Vinci, one among so few.
Nikolai's speed
increased. He was eager to reach his home atop a hill, his fortress built with
massive stones and rocks that allowed for defense, along with an underground
chamber where he could rest in peace, unencumbered by anyone or anything. The
fortress was designed so that any room could be kept pitch black—the windows
tiny, the glass that was there was thick and crinkly. The curtains were made
from heavy brocade that blocked all sunlight and the world outside.
Priceless
tapestries hung on the walls, for warmth that he didn't need, and the pleasure
that he craved. The absolute joy of holding a canvas, or feeling the texture of
a magnificent tapestry, was his salvation in life, offering comfort and
contemplation.
Nikolai longed for
peace and searched for the one woman who would matter, who would end the
unbearable loneliness. In the meantime, he did what he could to make life
better for others. He tried to hide the arrogance, the strength, and all the
other characteristics, everything that comes with being a vampire. Not ashamed
of who and what he was, but age has taught him the old adage that discretion
was indeed the better part of valor.
Through the centuries,
he added to his already enormous art collection, and added to his own power as
a demon.
The instinct of
the vampire to survive was always present and a huge part of his survival, but
he adapted to humanity. His chosen style of solitude served him well. Over
time, he learned not to kill to feed, but allow his victims to survive without
ill effects, and without memories of his presence. He no longer destroyed
unless threatened, but then he had no mercy, his brutality hidden beneath the
veneer of sophistication and age-old wisdom. But the brutality existed when
needed.
His countless
properties were managed by people he trusted and of whom he took great care.
His people were loyal to him beyond question, and from one generation to the
next, they stayed and worked with him, providing a sense of family and
belonging. A ruthless businessman, he was fair and honest in his dealings with
others. Betrayal was not in his vocabulary. No one crossed him; the sheer power
that emanated from his presence, his cold, frigid eyes that appeared to look
through to the deepest and darkest secrets of an adversary, instilled fear in
anyone that he came in contact with.
Through the lonely
centuries he'd had a foreshadowing of a looming battle, one he'd personally
have to fight.
The when, how, and
where wasn't clear as yet, but he knew it was coming.
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