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  Quartetto

  Copyright © 2009 A.J. Llewellyn

  & Stephani Hecht

  ISBN: 978-1-55487-295-4

  Cover art by Martine Jardin

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by eXtasy Books

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  Quartetto

  By

  A.J. Llewellyn &

  Stephani Hecht

  Dedication

  AJ: To Herve for always being my inspiration and to My Stephani for saying, Yes.

  Stephani: To AJ for asking in the first place and to my buddy, Ava March. Thanks for joining me on the dark side.

  Chapter One

  Isola del Lazzaretto Nuovo. August 27, 1576

  She couldn’t breathe. She coughed, but no sound came out. She gagged as the strange feeling of something lodging in her throat forced open her swollen eyes. She found herself staring up into the face of a huge, beaked bird. Its cruel, enormous beak dipped down to her. Wait…no, not a bird. She was looking up into the mask of a pizzicamorti, a gravedigger.

  His black, waxy clothing smelled strongly of Juniper berries. She knew well the scent of the protective herbs packed into the hooked beak now inches from her face. His red-gloved fingers poked at her teeth as he packed more dirt into her open mouth.

  Her eyes burned at the bright daylight. She gagged on the dirt, could feel it trickling into her throat, could not stop herself from swallowing it. She couldn’t stop it from falling into her ears and eyes as the pizzicamorti grunted in his haste to get the job done. She tried to move her head, to avoid more punishment. Tears rolled out of her eyes and into her ears. Her blocked nose left her choking, her scream silent as he knelt right on her chest and forced her jaw open even wider, trying to stuff a brick down her throat.

  Caprice’s body tried to fight this terrible thing he was doing to her, but she couldn’t feel her hands. One came free from beneath her body and she clawed at him like a small, frightened animal.

  The pizzicamorti stopped. Brick in hand, his beaked head came close to hers again. His beady brown eyes blinked. When the gravedigger realized she was alive, he ran off, screaming, tossing the brick aside, his trademark ankle bells ringing in his wake.

  She sat up now, spluttering bloody globules of dirt from her mouth and onto her lap. Her hands covered in blood, her fingers started to shake in front of her face.

  He swept into view then, right in front of her, the midnight cape she’d come to both fear and adore swirling about his feet. Her savior gave her a small smile and whispered only one word.

  “Caprice.”

  “My teeth,” she cried.

  Philippe-Auguste ignored her, picking her up effortlessly. She wept in his arms, pain shooting through her body. He was swift to get her away as she bounced in his embrace, aware she was barefoot, her dress bloody and torn. She felt such acute pain in her legs that it left her feeling delirious…she could smell death. Her eyes adjusted to the light and she knew now though she was near death, it was not her own she could smell. She twisted in his arms, horrified by what she saw.

  “Don’t look!” he implored.

  But how could she not? He’d lifted her out of a grave beside many other bodies. So many of them buried in a single hole where she’d lain with men, women, children, all victims of the plague. Oh yes, she knew exactly where she was, but she didn’t know how she’d wound up on quarantine island.

  She heard voices. Somebody screamed. She continued to choke, her head and arms limp as he ran with her past the sanatorium, voices shouting after them.

  My God, what was she doing here? Frantically, her gaze darted about. She heard the warning bells at the feet of several pizzicamorti. There were dead bodies everywhere. She cried afresh at the swollen bodies of babies, the bleeding mouths on the sightless faces lying piled up on the ground like wilted, fallen trees.

  Everywhere she looked, she saw death. She saw familiar faces. Her beloved teacher, Titian’s body lay on a pallet. What would they do with the greatest artist who ever lived?

  Would he, too, be destined for a grave lying anonymously among the victims of the plague?

  She held onto her lover whose assured strides carried them away from the stench of decay.

  “I have her!” Philippe-Auguste called out and she felt his only hesitant step. Her feet burned her. Inexplicably, pain erupted from them when a second set of arms tried to help and she knew now they were on a boat.

  Philippe-Auguste sat in the bow, holding her in his arms. She felt him move, felt something cold at her lips.

  “Drink, my love, but do not swallow.”

  She did as told, spitting out the cool liquid several times. She was aware of her ragged breathing. He looked down at her, worry and grief etched in his handsome face.

  “We are close, my love, be strong.”

  “Where?” Her voice sounded strange, as if drugged. She felt she was drifting in and out of her body. Everything felt distorted. She resisted his tight embrace and he held her closer still. Her hand fell to the side of the boat and her fingers touched icy waves.

  Philippe-Auguste glanced down again, pulling her arm back to safety. His worried gaze moved ahead once more. “How long?” he asked.

  “A few minutes,” came the response and Caprice drifted toward sleep once more.

  “Caprice!”

  Her eyes opened, her vision blurry as her gaze connected with Philippe-Auguste.

  “If you sleep, you will die. And if you die, I die. Stay awake, my love, we are so close.”

  She couldn’t stay awake. She wanted to die. How had she come here? Where were Marcello and Massimo? She remembered the fight. Marcello. Was he all right? “Marcello,” she said aloud, her voice sounding thick to her own ears.

  “We will find him.”

  Philippe-Auguste wouldn’t look at her and she wondered if he was dead.

  “We’re here.” His voice grim, his face retained that worried expression. He was a tall slim man, deceptively strong. His long gray hair fell across his face as he picked her up again.

  “Philippe-Auguste, where are we?” she mumbled into his shoulder.

  “Sant’ Erasmo. We are safe.”

  His French accent never failed to arouse her, or to assure her of his courage. He was unlike any man she had ever met. She could feel his heartbeat against her cheek and she loved him for finding her. She could still smell death. The dirt was still in her eyes and mouth and Philippe-Auguste ran across the damp embankment with her. She could hear his court boots squelching in the mud.

  “No…this way,” he said to himself.

  Her head lolled against his chest and he almost dropped her. Her head snapped back and she caught a glimpse of her beloved Venice in the distance with its church bell towers hovering below gathering rain clouds. Would she eve
r go home again?

  They arrived at an old building.

  “It’s a church,” he whispered and she almost laughed.

  He set her down on her feet and the pain was excruciating. She fell immediately and hit her head on the ground. He quickly gathered her in his arms and threw her over his shoulder.

  Upside down, she could see the boat that had brought them to the island, in the far distance, and she wondered what price he’d paid to save her.

  Philippe-Auguste unlatched the door at last and took her inside. She sighed with relief to be in the dark, the light coming in patches only. He settled her on a sofa, stiff and uncomfortable. It smelled musty, but she didn’t care.

  He began to undress her. Even in her compromised state, the mere touch of his skin on hers inflamed her. His eyes ignited and their gazes met. His lips pressed against her throat for an all-too-brief moment.

  “My love, your ankles are broken,” he said. “I will bind them.”

  He left her for what seemed like an eternity and when he returned, he held a bucket in his hands.

  She tried to raise herself on one elbow to watch what he was doing.

  “It’s a paste,” he said. “I’m going to make a cast. I saw this done in Paris. Eggs, animal fat and flour.”

  “Where did you find it all?” she asked, amazed once again at his ingenuity. There was nothing Philippe-Auguste couldn’t do.

  “I raided the farmhouse next door,” he told her and she lay there, letting him tend to her. She felt the gentle way he worked on her feet, letting out a sob only once at the searing pain.

  Philippe-Auguste raised troubled eyes to her. “You were wearing those damned chopines, weren’t you?” he demanded. “Twelve inches of hell. I keep telling you they’re dangerous. Didn’t I say one day you’d get hurt?”

  “They’re the fashion,” she said weakly.

  He grunted.

  “I jumped,” she gasped, remembering now the smoky, burning building.

  “You won’t be wearing them again for a while,” he said. “Stay there.”

  She couldn’t have left the sofa even to crawl. She felt as if every last bone in her body was broken. She remembered the jump. Oh…the lagoon. She hit the water with her feet.

  And then what? Why can’t I remember?

  Philippe-Auguste was back. He held her head up with one arm, holding a golden cup to her lips.

  “Wine,” he whispered and she wondered if it was holy wine and if this indeed was a cardinal sin.

  He used strips of her torn dress to bathe her bleeding mouth and nose, to dab dirt from her eyes. At last, Philippe-Auguste smiled at her.

  “And now I think it’s time you ate.”

  He bent his head to her and her senses all snapped into focus. She grabbed her lover’s head, her canine teeth elongating. She felt her spirit sighing peacefully. She still had her teeth. She found her favorite spot on his neck and attacked him.

  From outside, unbelievably, she heard the roar of voices as Philippe-Auguste’s heartbeat pounded in her head.

  “Vampiro! Vampiro!”

  Chapter Two

  Despite the threat, they remained where they were until Philippe-Auguste withdrew his neck from her grasping lips. She lay back against the sofa, panting. How far we’ve come. She relaxed at last. We have learned to live with the constant threat of fear.

  “Let me check,” he whispered, but already the voices splintered, receded in the distance. He peered out of the corner of a lace-covered window. “We should be fine. They won’t suspect us here.” He grinned at her. “They may come back. We will need to be very quiet.”

  He returned to her. She gazed up at him and in that moment, she felt his blood, his heartbeat racing through her, body and soul. She moved her hand toward his trousers, to his cock. He was hard.

  “Caprice, you are bold.”

  “Bold, am I?” She laughed then. “Oh, my love, the spirit is strong, but the flesh, I’m afraid will not cooperate.”

  His eyes burnished, his own teeth protruding in his desire for her. Her hands reached up to him. He knelt beside her and her tongue moved to his neck. She licked her bite wounds clean and his hand rubbed her belly. He was the loveliest man in the whole, wide world.

  “I want to check on things…see what you got us into.”

  She clung to him. “No, don’t leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving you, mon amant, but the devil, as you know, my love, is in the details.” He put his hand to her head and stood. “Get some rest.”

  She allowed herself to lie back, shivering a little, but he soon returned with a thick woolen blanket that smelled of lavender. She found herself drifting…

  * * * *

  Six months earlier

  She entered the salon and laughed when she saw all the pretty women in their lavish gowns and sparkling jewels. She greeted her friend, Geovanna, who accompanied her consort. Geovanna, her haircut very short in the fashion of certain courtesans, also wore a man’s outfit. Her consort, a middle-aged, wealthy wine merchant named Baldovino, favored anal sex, but paid Geovanna to dress like a man, thereby avoiding the stigma of homosexuality. It was the accepted custom, flaunted more in Venice than other parts of Italy. Geovanna was not conventionally beautiful and did not wear makeup in her role. She wore hose and a leather doublet like aristocratic men. Her clothes spoke of money, slashes in her leather vest revealing brilliant colors of silk underneath, Oh yes, there was no doubt of her role, like all the other courtesans of polite society.

  It seemed to Caprice that Geovanna, who at twenty-three was two years younger than Caprice, now looked much, much older. She, also, did not look very happy. “Is everything all right?” she asked her friend.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Geovanna assured her, and Caprice turned her attention to the rest of the crowd. A few of the women wore masks, as was the custom so you couldn’t always tell the courtesans from the noblewomen. Caprice’s gaze fell on a woman wearing a yellow veil, denoting her courtesan status, giving herself away as a newcomer. Nobody in Venice followed the accepted rules of conduct. Nobody.

  Polisena Pecorina, the famed gentildonna of Venice, stood in the center of the room in a stunning gown of purple and burgundy lace and satin, several strands of pearls heaving on her impressive bosom. She sang a lovely song Caprice did not recognize, to the accompaniment of several violini. She was as lovely as Massimo had promised.

  Caprice, who took her position as a cortigana onesta, an honest courtesan with great pride, squeezed past the men and women gazing in rapt attention at the woman who was both a poet and singer.

  She tossed back her long, auburn curls and gave her best smile to La Pecorina, whom she hoped to befriend. As a gentildonna, the singer was a slight social step above Caprice, but both women had the distinction of never sleeping with men for money.

  No, if they knew my true secret, they would laugh. Caprice was certain of that. She scanned the packed room for the Visconti twins and felt a ripple of pleasure at the sight of Marcello.

  She had expected Massimo, his brother, but few could tell the twenty-eight-year-old Visconti twins apart. She could. Marcello’s nose had a slight bend midway, thanks to a brief and ill-advised flirtation with boxing. She was pleased to find Marcello, for he was much easier to cajole into her plans than Massimo.

  He caught her gaze and his sensitive, handsome face lit up. His long dark hair gleamed and he smiled at her, making room for her beside him on a long, red velvet chaise.

  An attendant handed Caprice a small glass dish and she accepted it eagerly, taking an appreciative sniff at the contents as her tiny dessert fork speared a black cherry macerated in Tyrian wine.

  Marcello watched her out of the corner of his eye and she felt his urge to laugh. Yes, she adored her food. The attendant held a gilded tray toward her and she accepted a glass of malvasia, sipping the fragrant white wine with satisfaction.

  Her feet ached in her new wooden chopines. She much preferred the cork, but these w
ere so pretty with their ribbons and bows. She tried, surreptitiously, to stretch her arches under her long, heavy brocade gown as she took in the inhabitants of the Salon Ridotto. A gambling room required all those who gambled to wear masks when they played, but here, in the music room, masks were not necessary. Caprice guessed that Massimo was at one of the tables, and as the singer’s dainty, rippling song concluded, the audience applauded.

  Caprice put her lips to Marcello’s ear. “Come model for me.” She noticed his hesitation. “Please,” she whispered, not wanting to wait through additional musical entertainments.

  “Why not?” He shrugged. “I’m not winning today anyway.”

  He followed her out and Caprice detected the wonderful smell of baking tarts.

  “You’re incorrigible,” Marcello said with a laugh. They paused at a long table on which stood a dizzying array of food.

  “Let’s go,” she said, afraid of losing the light.

  They ran down the steps to the heavy wooden front door, laughing and chattering as they spilled onto the small side street of Cannaregio, the second largest of Venice’s six sestieri, or districts.

  Marcello held her back and Caprice found her laughter dying on her lips. She followed his gaze and gulped. A heavily caped doctor emerged from a tall, thin house opposite them. He smelled strongly of juniper, the herbs most favored to protect healthcare workers. The plague was fast becoming a disease that was taking everybody, not just the poor.

  “Isn’t that Giardino, the baker’s house?” Marcello asked her as the doctor averted his gaze from them and hurried away to the high end of the cobblestone street.

  “I…I think so,” she replied, thinking of the baker’s beautiful wife and their handsome, sturdy little boys.

  Marcello caught Caprice’s hand in his and they ran all the way to her home on Piazza San Marco. Her feet screamed in retribution, but as they neared the piazza, she smiled at the old Carlessi sisters sewing lace in wooden chairs lined up in the sun. The speed with which they worked suggested they had a new consignment from the palace, which heartened Caprice. She adored the old ladies and their chattering only increased as she and Marcello arrived.