Prologue

Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough. -
George Washington Carver

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Behead one lousy consort and your reputation is assured.

To this day I do not know how I survived the attack. But however I managed it, it had been Ruffina’s head that sprayed blood and merrily bounced down this narrow, rutted stairway over 300 years ago.

I reach out and touch the living stones, yet again asking them for answers. Perhaps I ought to bring Adele Blakesley here. She has an affinity to the stones. To Italy. There is Italian blood in her veins. I know this since I tasted her sweet blood the night I nearly slit her throat.

I am wretchedly gloomy tonight, aren’t I? The moon dances on the Arno, the soft breeze brings me the scent of lemon and jasmine, along with the musty smell of dead loves, and rotted dreams, and I sit here reliving a painful past. Retelling history, to you who have no reason to care.

I hear the sounds of the Court. There is an orchestra playing on the upper terrace. I am already missed. I hear Nicco’s footsteps; he always knows where to find me.

“My Prince, there you are. Why are you sitting on the dirty stones of this unused stairway! Come.” The eternal child smiles into my eyes.

I smile back and take his hand. I let him lead me downwards, not looking back at the ghosts I know share this villa with me. I only wish they would rest in peace rather than haunt my dreams.

You didn’t know vampires had dreams, did you? I do. I relive every mistake, every eventful death and every lonely moment of my too long life. Gloom. Ai.

Nicco does not seem to notice my mood. No, more likely he notes it quite well, but is intent on cheering me. Determined to distract me from the waste of grief and regret which, after all, can change nothing.

How have I gotten here?

I follow Nicco, who is pulling me faster now that we’ve reached the wide marble hallways of the public sections of Villa di Medici. I nod at the few people who see me and try to look my usual aloof self. Rather hard with Nicco tugging me in a most unprincely fashion.

“Boy,” I say. “Dignity.”

Nicco mutters “pfft,” but he does slow down. Then he turns to meet my eyes. His are worried. He knows me too well. He graciously allows me a regal entrance onto the terrace, where the Court is celebrating …something or other. All eyes turn to me. They look for approval, love, gratitude. But there is envy and fear and perhaps well hidden hatred in their eyes too.

I take my seat, dip my head to the orchestra, and they start up again. Slowly couples begin to dance on the flagged patio. It looks romantic in the moonlight, lights strewn in the lemon trees and hidden behind the terracotta pots to cast shadows that flit and tease with the breeze.

How have I gotten here?

I am tired. Weary and worn. Lonely. And trapped.