Chapter Text
I.
“You have a touch of melodrama in you, Altezza.”
Wind from the gathering storm whistled through the cracks and rent windows of the vacant church, the shadows long and deep from the light of the lantern on the bench at the pew. Lorenzo kept an iron hold on his instinctive fear, willing his fingers away from the silver dagger hidden under his robes. The church had been empty when he had arrived; now a man was leaning against the pulpit, long fingers folded under his chin, his smile amused, much of his aquiline face swallowed by the shadow of a white cowl.
“As do you, signore Giovanni Auditore.” Lorenzo rose warily to his feet. “Showing your presence only at the stroke of midnight.”
“The meeting was for midnight. I prefer to be punctual.” The Duke of Firenze tried not to stare too hard at the faint indents that pointed teeth made on Giovanni’s lower lip as the vampiro spoke. “A strange choice of locations. You are of course aware that the sign of the cross is merely useless symbolism?”
“This building stands in neutral territory,” Lorenzo said coldly, ignoring Giovanni’s patronizing tone. “I had intended to have a friendly conversation.”
Giovanni raised his head as he propped his chin on his right fist, his left hand tapping lightly over crumbling stone, his eyes the disturbing feral orange of a pureblood vampiro. “Do you often have friendly conversations with your cattle?”
“If they were at war with me and my kind, and had the capacity to kill me in my sleep, perhaps I would,” Lorenzo countered, folding his arms. Encouraged by Giovanni’s answering smirk, he added, “If you had thought conversation pointless, why did you agree to meet?”
“Curiosity,” Giovanni returned, his free hand now doodling circles in the dust. “I have a lot of time, as you can imagine, Altezza, and I could not come up with a rational reason why the ruler of Firenze would ask to meet me alone, during the night, outside of his territory. My sons were convinced of foul play.”
“But you?”
“Surely I have no reason to be afraid of one human,” Giovanni drawled, tapping at his chin. “You have a silver dagger at your hip, and outside in the graveyard your men have hidden themselves well, but should I choose to take your life they will not reach you before I break your neck. So. You claim to have business with the Auditore. Speak.”
“The camorra della sera consists of many famigli, and for a little over a century the Auditore and the Borgia have been at war. Alliances shift, and the war has been at a deadlock for the past four decades. Si?”
“Si.” Giovanni said encouragingly, almost insultingly so.
“The Auditore do not create ghouls, instead taking blood from the willing. The Borgia are the opposite, draining their victims to shells and then controlling the husks to do their bidding.”
“We take blood from our bondsmen,” Giovanni corrected, looking a little bored. “Any man or woman from our territories who wish to give, can give.”
“But it is the reason behind your deadlock with the Borgia: the husks do not fear pain or death, compared to your condottieri.”
“I think we have done quite well so far,” Giovanni shrugged, unconcerned, “And the rules of our little famiglia are absolute. Did you call me here to lecture me, Altezza, or do we actually have business?”
“I plan to take over Venezia,” Lorenzo said quietly. “At this point the Doge is a Borgia puppet. His guards are husks; an army of husks that my forces cannot hope to conquer on our own. The Sforza hold Forlì, and as the Borgia control both Roma and Venezia, the main mouths of trade in Italia, you will continue to be crippled, even as we are crippled. With the naval shipyards in Roma and Venice, any trade or association with the rest of the world is controlled by the Borgia, and the remaining freehold towns on the coastline are under constant attack. Soon the non-Borgia territories will be surrounded, you and the other famigli.”
“Not just husks,” Giovanni said thoughtfully. “One of the Borgia is in Venezia. We are not quite clear which. Firenze has ever had an uneasy relationship with Monteriggioni, Altezza. So, respectfully, I must confess that I am not so sure that I should trust you.”
“If one of the Borgia resides in Venezia then we will definitely need your aid.” Lorenzo had not known that: he made a private note to speak to Malik later. The hunter had work to do. “Should you be afraid of a human?”
Giovanni smirked, clearly not taking the bait as Lorenzo threw his own words back at him. “It is no secret that the Medici have been training a pack of hunters for some time, Altezza, and a rather successful pack, at that.”
Lorenzo had hoped not to resort to this. Giovanni narrowed his eyes as the Duke of Firenze unclasped his collar to bare his neck, but he did not move. “You can read the minds of those you bite.”
“Perhaps you do not understand what you are offering, Altezza,” Giovanni said mildly. “Have you heard aught at all about a vampire’s bite? The reason behind the Auditore taking blood indirectly through donation rather than drinking?”
“That it can break a man’s will,” Lorenzo said flatly. “You will find mine made of sterner stuff. I have ruled Firenze since I was twenty years of age, held it despite several incidents from both human conspirators and brushes with your camorra della sera. I am not afraid.”
“I have heard much about you, Duce but ‘foolish’ was not a thought that I entertained in full until now,” Giovanni observed, as Lorenzo took the silver dagger from his belt and tossed it onto the bench, clattering, though he did not move.
“When was the last time that you bit a human?” the young Duke asked softly, trying to sound, God forgive him, inviting, stepping slowly up towards the pulpit, his every move tracked by feral orange.
“Hn.” Giovanni was staring at his neck now, clearly tempted. “Outside of self-defense? I think once. I regretted it afterwards, if I recall. As you may regret this quite soon.”
“Let me decide what I should regret,” Lorenzo retorted, as the vampire chuckled, drawing him close. Cool lips pressed against his flesh briefly, intimately, in the semblance of a kiss, and Lorenzo hissed with pain as fangs sank in. The pain was instantly replaced with a drug-like lassitude, a siren ecstasy that caused him to moan, to go limp in Giovanni’s arms; surrender seemed so easy.
The thought drifted in his mind for a moment before sparking fear, and then answering anger; Lorenzo fought, pushing away the warm, comforting cloud blanketing his mind, focusing on Firenze, on his anger at the casual cruelties of the camorra della sera, on his frustration at Firenze’s constant difficulty in holding their own against vampiric strength even with superior weaponry and training. The freehold humans were a shrinking breed; in Italia, only the Sforza and the Medici held territories anywhere near their early strengths, and even in such desperate climes neither family could trust each other enough to work together-
Abruptly, the fog seemed to clear, and Lorenzo was blinking and dizzy, pushing blindly and weakly at Giovanni’s shoulder as the vampire lapped the wound closed and grinned against his skin.
“You deserve your reputation, Altezza. Not one inch did you give to the bite.”
Lorenzo glared at him, still ineffectively trying to pull away from Giovanni’s grasp. The vampire’s lips were reddened and flecked with blood; as he watched, Giovanni wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then licked the smear clean, catlike and sensual. His flush no longer entirely from his anger, Lorenzo growled, “Let go of me, signore.”
“Call me Giovanni,” Giovanni said, looking pleased, though he did so, stepping back. “You want Venezia because of its network of running water, Altezza. In Venezia you are safe from vampires.”
“You said one of the Borgia was in Venezia.” Lorenzo leant against the pulpit, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The wound at his neck stung lightly, but he fought the urge to touch it.
“One of the Borgia, or, at least, one of the famigli allied to the Borgia. The Barbarigo, perhaps. He is in the outskirts, somewhere, controlling the husks.” Giovanni shrugged. “If he does not stay close, then the husks will go berserk. As I said, we are not sure which of the Borgia or their allies are there, nor have we expended much effort in finding out. Until now, Venezia had never been of interest to the Auditore.”
“Until now?”
“We have not allied with outsider humans before.” Before Lorenzo could react, Giovanni had taken his left wrist delicately but firmly between thumb and forefinger, leaning down, as if to kiss the heavy Medici ring; but at the last moment, turning his hand around instead to brush his lips against the sensitive underside of his wrist.
“I trust that the experience will not prove disappointing. Send for us when you have consolidated your plans, Altezza. In the meantime, you may wish to speak with the Sforza.”
“Negotiations with the Sforza are already under way. I will send an ambassador to your Court in Monteriggioni within the week,” Lorenzo jerked his hand away from Giovanni’s grip, his flush deepening at the vampire’s knowing smirk. “I trust you will treat him with every due courtesy.”
“He will be an honored guest. You have my word that no harm will befall him.” Giovanni inclined his head. “You have planned this quite in advance. Were you so certain that I would acquiesce?”
“I have heard that you are reasonable,” Lorenzo shrugged, taking a deep breath, then walking a little unsteadily back to the bench to retrieve his dagger. “I did not see a logical reason for you to refuse.”
“You are a very curious human,” The vampire purred, all liquid velvet from the pulpit; and yet when Lorenzo straightened from the bench, sheathing his dagger, Giovanni was pressed behind him, arms around his waist, cool breath wafting over the closed wound at his neck, his musk like papyrus, raw earth, and the sharp copper of fresh blood. “I look forward to negotiating again with you in the future, Altezza.”
Lorenzo growled at the brushing kiss over the bite, whirling around, his hand on the hilt of the dagger, but Giovanni was gone; in his place, a cloud of bats rose, screeching and chittering, towards the hole in the ancient roof of the church. Exhaling heavily, Lorenzo sat down on the bench, rubbing the flat of his palm over his eyes, his heart still pounding from the close encounter. Perhaps he truly was mad.
He had managed to calm his breathing and button up his robe when he heard someone seat himself behind him, unobtrusively. “Malik.”
“Altezza.” Malik’s Syrian accent was exotic in Italian, his tone inflectionless. The hunter had lost an arm and his brother in the war against the vampires. Skilled, silent and deadly, Lorenzo had already used him to good effect in clearing Firenze of all remaining nests: the non-camorra vampires were easy pickings to a trained hunter.
“There is apparently a Borgia or Borgia-allied vampire on the outskirts of Venezia. Find out which one.”
“Si, Altezza.” Malik exhaled, irritable. “I should have known that myself. I apologize. I did think it odd that the husks were so well-behaved.”
“The vampires are very good at hiding themselves when they want to be hidden,” Lorenzo said dismissively. “Let us return to Firenze. And find out where Leonardo is. I have an diplomatic assignment for him.”
Malik was the sharpest of the Medici hunters; there was a soft intake of breath. “You would send Leonardo to Monteriggioni?”
“The attempt on his life last week in the heart of Firenze itself was too close. Monteriggioni would be safer-”
“Safer? Monteriggioni is the seat of the Auditore!”
“Giovanni Auditore himself has given me his word that Leonardo would be safe there.” Lorenzo kept his hands clasped in his lap. “You know what the Auditore are like.”
“I have heard of what they are like, but they are vampires,” Malik retorted, unconvinced.
“Which is why Leonardo will not be going alone. Lucy will go with him.” Judging his feet stable enough now, Lorenzo rose, handing the lantern to Malik; the hunter was dressed in dark robes, his only visible weapon the slender silver blade at his hip. “As will half of his assistants. He will continue his work in Monteriggioni.”
“I hope you will not regret your gamble.” Malik said sourly.
“In diplomacy, when you meet an immovable force, you subvert it,” Lorenzo pointed out, as they walked towards the splintered remains of the double door of the church. “And Leonardo is very good at doing so.”
II.
The black eagle with the red bars over its fanned tail rode the updraft over the farmlands, searching for a safe place to roost before sunrise. It was tired, and weary, and disliked the scent of Italia; rich with humans and vampires alike. Beneath him he passed a blackened farm, the once-sprawling house now a tangle of matchsticks, rotting skeletons of livestock partially buried in dying grass.
Robert De Sable was here, somewhere.
Spotting a still-intact barn, the sole remaining seemingly whole structure for miles, the eagle banked, circling downwards slowly until it alighted on the grass, shaking itself out. Talons grew into booted feet and feathers to fingers, and a man stretched out towards the sky, taking one careful step forward, and then another, his balance thrown by the long flight. Robed and cowled in black and red, bracers on both wrists and a carefully wrapped silver blade at his hip, he stumbled into the barn, still trying to reconcile his senses out of an eagle’s focus – which was why he didn’t notice the current occupant of the barn until it was on his shoulders.
Instantly, he snarled and rolled, wrestling with the weight on his back and rearing away from snapping jaws, clawing at heavy wool and then at short hair for a grip. Another vampire! his sense of smell told him, and without thinking, he instantly unsheathed his left blade through the gap in his fist, punching the silver blade deep into his assailant’s shoulder.
The other vampire howled in shock and pain, scrambling back and away. A fledgling, he surmised, fresh from turning, his amber eyes still bloodshot, still crazed from hunger, dressed in a simple white tunic and breeches, barefoot. He reached for his blade, thinking to put the creature out of his misery – with no sire about to teach him, the fledgling would either starve quickly or be killed – and then he paused, sniffing. No human blood scent on the fledgling, only animal. Curious.
“You are a goddamn vampire yourself,” the fledgling hissed, amber eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck do you have silver?”
He blinked. The fledgling could already remember how to speak? “I hunt vampires.”
“That was bloody obvious, unless you have a death wish,” the fledgling was grimacing as he inspected his still smoking wound. Silver was poisonous to their kind, but rest and proper feeding would heal it, if slowly. “I asked why.”
“I am hunting my sire.” He admitted, even more curious now. The fledgling did not look native; his features appeared Middle Eastern, at the very least. “Fledgling-”
“My name is Desmond. Desmond Miles,” the fledgling scowled. “You can kill your sire? I thought vampires couldn’t kill their sires.”
“I can certainly try my best,” he drawled. He had fought his sire before, even if he had been unsuccessful each time in killing him-
“Teach me,” the fledgling said, much to his surprise. “What is your name?”
“I am called Altaïr,” he said warily, “And I have no time to babysit fledglings.”
“You’re not from these parts,” Desmond countered. “Would you even know how to look for whoever it is? But if it’s a vampire you are looking for, I may have a friend who can find out. If you can get me to Firenze, teach me how to control the hunger, I’ll introduce you.”
Altaïr was about to refuse, his eyes narrowed, when he took in the sharpened stake on the hay. Freshly chipped. Frowning, he looked back up at Desmond, who offered him a grim smile. “It’s either that, or you help me stake myself right now. I was working myself up to it when you happened to drop by. Too chicken to get a sunburn. This way seems faster.”
“Many people enjoy being vampires.” Altaïr said slowly.
“Do you?” Desmond shot back bitterly.
Sometimes, watching the glare of the sunlight that filtered through gaps of whatever cellar or abandoned structure he sheltered in after sunrise, Altaïr could almost remember what it felt like to walk in the daylight. Instead of answering, however, he snorted and sat down on a bale of hay, cross-legged. “To Firenze, and then I will take my leave.”
“I said-”
“I cannot teach you how to control the hunger,” Altaïr interrupted flatly. “Either you do, or you do not. Have you eaten at all?”
“Only animals.”
“You will not last on animals.”
“I know,” Desmond snapped, “But I do not trust myself with a person, and hell, what am I supposed to say, walk up to the nearest human and go, ‘Greetings, I am a vampire, do you mind if I take a bite’?”
Altaïr sighed. “Where I came from, and the places I passed through into Italia, the remote towns in particular tend to give freely, if you pay.”
“Italia will be a nice surprise for you then,” Desmond said, sniffing the air absently. “The freehold humans do not take very kindly to vampires; and the territory humans are defended very fiercely. My asshole of a sire dropped me off here to see which party I’d piss off first, I think.”
“I see,” Altaïr said, somewhat taken aback. He had not expected such a problem – perhaps this was the reason why Robert de Sable had finally fled here, to Italia, where surviving long enough to hunt him might be a dilemma. “Can your friend help?”
“I don’t think so. She’s a hunter.”
“Then why-”
“If anyone knows where to find my sire – or yours – it’ll be her.” Desmond closed his eyes. “The last I heard, she moved to Firenze with the rest to work for the Medici. Duke Lorenzo is drawing hunters from everywhere, and paying good money for them.”
“And you want to walk into Firenze – the capital of the Medici’s territory – and look for your friend,” Altaïr said sarcastically.
“She’ll probably know that we’re coming from a mile away. Hopefully she’ll ask questions first and stake later,” Desmond’s lip twitched upwards briefly, and Altaïr restrained the urge to stab his newfound companion a second time. “Hopefully, anyway. The last my sire told me, before leaving me here to fend for myself, was that she’s working for a big-shot vampire hunter now. From Syria. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”
“Must you talk so much?”
“His name is Malik Al-Sayf,” Desmond said, unperturbed, “He’s pretty well known around these parts. Heard he lost his brother and an arm to the vampires. If we meet him it’ll probably be stake first, ask questions later… whoah, whoah, watch the silver!”
Desmond had frozen instantly when Altaïr had pounced on him, the silver blade pressed against his neck. “You are proving to be increasingly annoying, fledgling,” Altaïr growled, his eyes narrowed. “So I trust you will keep your next answer relevant. Tell me what you know about Malik Al-Sayf.”