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They lay tangled in the white sheets of Master’s grand four-post bed, the decorative pillows sewn with little gold beads to give shape to fish and cranes and jungle cats, strewn across the floor and the burgundy damask kicked down to their ankles. The sun shone from between the linen curtains, casting Riccardo in a panel of light so his dark hair seemed to shine bronze.
Amadeo had all but dragged him to bed last night, unable to handle the quiet of his Master’s chamber. He had only been gone for a night and already Amadeo cursed him for his absence through bitter tears.
But Riccardo’s company made it easier. He soothed Amadeo with a gentle hand in his hair, assured him again and again that Master always returned, would never abandon them but it was ultimately the wine he brought that soothed Amadeo enough to crawl into bed where they lay now, Riccardo curled on his side with his hand beneath his chin, still asleep.
Amadeo stared at him, unable to fathom why his Master had painted him a dozen times but never Riccardo. Perhaps because he’d never seen him like this, never knew how the morning sun could create a halo of his curls, didn’t realize the golden pattern in the damask brought out the brassy gleam in his cheeks or how his freckles seemed as finely woven into his face as the beads in the pillows.
Amadeo brought his finger to the bridge of Riccardo’s nose, delicately tracing the space between freckles as if mapping constellations. He was older than Amadeo, had already developed a square jaw, and little hairs grew on his chin but his features, his small nose, round cheeks, his full lips — which Amadeo knew he could pull into the kindest smile — still gave him the appearance of a boy.
His hands were the same, square and strong, but with long, delicate fingers and trimmed nails. Amadeo ran his fingers over these now, over the curve of his cuticles, the little calluses from the paintbrush, even the pink scar on the back of his hand which he must’ve received before coming to their Master. Amadeo circled it with his finger.
How could he make even a scar seem beautiful?
Riccardo’s brows knitted and he inhaled deeply. Then, as if realizing where he was, he started up.
“It’s still early,” Amadeo said, holding his hand, and Riccardo, sighing, fell back against the pillow.
“I’ve drank too much.”
“You!” Amadeo huffed a laugh. “You drank half of what I did!”
“Less than that, I hope,” Riccardo said, stretching. “I would have to be a madman to try and keep up with you. You’d make a competition of it and have us both sick.”
“Oh, what an idea!” Amadeo said. “But for another day. I want to go to the tavern today. I want you to win back the pouch of gold I lost. Master will beat me raw if he returns to find I gambled it away.”
“Amadeo,” Riccardo laughed through mock exasperation. “Are you anything but a glutton for punishment?”
“But, of course! Hasn’t Bianca told you?” Amadeo climbed onto Riccardo, straddling him and leaning in so close their noses touched. “I’m the finest lover in Venice too.”
Armand woke with a soft gasp.
He heard the patter of rats’ feet, the scraping of their teeth against the rotting bodies just beyond the cell bars. They were crawling over him, his Riccardo. Even in this darkness, Armand could make out the curve of his neck, his curls, the damp sockets where his eyes used to be. His vampire senses spared him nothing.
He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled to his other side. He could bear the sound and the rancid smell but not the sight of him. Let the vermin devour him if only to spare him the sight.
When he opened his eyes, he was facing the stone wall. A single rat sat hunched in the corner, its whiskers twitching as it gnawed at something Armand could not make out.
Drool pooled under his tongue and clumsily Armand rose, scampering for it, but the rat streaked across the cell, through the iron bars, beyond his reach. Armand fell back on his heels, panting, even that short exertion of energy pushing him to exhaustion. He turned and crawled back to the corner to curl up, perhaps to fall back into merciful sleep, but he stopped dead as he laid eyes on what the rat had been gnawing.
It was a hand, torn just above the wrist so he could see the gleam of the bone. The nails were overgrown, cuticles bitten raw, long fingers curled into a claw, but Armand knew it was his. There was that thin scar.
He found himself reaching for it, brushing his fingertips over the scar. It was stiff and cold as the iron bars. Just a husk of bone and festering meat. No blood. Nothing of him remained.
Abruptly, as if suddenly unable to withstand the sight, the hollow weight against his skin, he grasped the severed limb and flung it through the bars. He heard its soft thud on the stone but refused to turn to see where it landed.
Hot tears rolled down his cheek, blood tears — Riccardo’s blood.
Armand clenched his teeth. His hands began to tremble. He might’ve relapsed back into that panic that left him screaming, beating his head against the walls, clawing his face, but he hadn’t the energy for it. Already the trembling was subsiding and he slumped back to the dirt floor.
Still, the tears ran from him.
That Riccardo died so he could live — live like this! It was too awful, too shameful. He wanted to die. He wanted nothing but to die. If God would only grant him the power to refuse his next victim, to let himself starve!
Yet even as he thought this, he was wiping his cheeks to lick the bloody tears from his fingers.