Page 28 of Just for a Taste

T he ballroom was massive, saturated in creams and lace, more magnificent than I could have painted. The floor was made of inlaid marble tile, with fine details embossed in gold leaf. The expansive walls were painted with ornate floral murals and draped in satin curtains. A colossal crystal chandelier bloomed overhead, filling the room with warm, brilliant candlelight. Long tables covered in hors d’oeuvres flanked the sides of the room in the distance, each surrounded by small crowds. Placed perfectly to take advantage of the acoustics was a full orchestra, complete with a grand piano, barely audible over the countless voices.

Just as majestic as the ballroom itself were the people who filled it. The vampires and beniamini looked straight out of a historical drama, with the women wearing billowing hourglass ball gowns over hidden corsets. Now surrounded by all these stiff collars and petticoats, my own skirts felt normal. The men were dressed a bit more modernly—from the 1800s, as opposed to the 1500s—and wore long waistcoats over frilled shirts with cravats. A colony of top hats perched on hangers at the entrance.

All the conversations and laughter that had filled the air quieted. As innumerable eyes fell on me, everyone’s voices hushed into whispers. I had never felt so naked.

I shut my eyes tightly and focused on the now-audible music. A song had just begun, presumably marking my entrance, and by now it was blossoming into an elegant piece. I recognized it as Rachmaninoff, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini , Opus 43, Variation 18. I could tell it was him because of the wide chords and the use of “Dies Irae.”

My stomach flipped and swirled with an inscrutable wash of feelings that mirrored the swell of the orchestra. I opened my eyes. These feelings were more overwhelming than all those eyes on me were. It was only when the murmur of voices grew louder and returned to their previous volume that I remembered none of these people knew the significance of this piece.

Keeping a watchful gaze on me, the crowd returned to their former conversations.

I had broken out into a cold sweat. The sharp sting on my wrist made me realize I was digging my nails into it. Instinctively, I searched the room for Zeno. In any other situation, finding him would have been easy, but here, I was surrounded by vampiric nobility. Rather than attempt to distinguish my would-be savior from others by appearance alone, I tried to look for someone who had an unusual air to him—someone who carried himself with a dreamy yet intense air, who gestured broadly but was visibly closed off. Most importantly, someone who was probably failing to hide how desperately they wanted the occasion to be over.

I found someone who fit the description near the center of the room, but once he broke away from his present conversation, sifted through other nobility, and sauntered toward me, the discrepancy became clear. The person approaching me had an alien air of confidence and charm; he was comfortable in this situation. And while he had the same jawline, nose, and brow, his frame was broader than Zeno’s, and there was a vulpine glint in his eye.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Signorina Bowling,” the vampire said once he was within earshot. I could smell his deep, musky cologne. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“From who?” I failed to conceal my incredulousness.

The man tossed his head back and let out a melodic laugh. “Why, from everyone, signorina! Who wouldn’t be enchanted by the unusual American who managed to become the beniamina of our dear Zeno? I think I’ve heard your lineage and history a dozen times over!”

I bit my tongue when he said Zeno’s name. My silence elicited yet another chuckle from him.

Finally, I asked, “And you are?”

His smooth veneer cracked for a brief moment. I noticed a scar that ran from his right nostril down his chin.

“Ah, I suppose it isn’t fair that I know so much of you, yet you don’t even know my name. I am Barone de’ Medici, Zeno’s older cousin.”

Without warning, he stepped toward me and grabbed my chin. How I had spent so long in Italy without encountering il bacetto —the air kisses Italians used as a familiar greeting—was an oddity, to be sure, but I certainly wasn’t expecting it.

Even with little experience, I knew Barone de’ Medici’s kisses were atypically . . . intimate. He turned my face from one side to the other, and his lips slightly grazed my cheeks, touching me so lightly I was almost convinced it was an illusion. I had to bury my fists in my dress to avoid the urge to push him away.

When he pulled back, Barone de’ Medici was looking past me with a devilish grin.

“Don’t touch her,” a familiar voice snapped.

Behind me, Zeno was glaring at his cousin so fiercely, it was a wonder the other vampire wasn’t ablaze. Instead, he was utterly dripping with mirth.

The baron ran his hand along my chin to my shoulder, all the way down my arm to my fingertips, where his own lingered. “What’s all this hostility for? I’m just greeting your beniamina , dear cousin!”

Zeno gritted his teeth and lowered his voice to a growl. “Words would have sufficed.”

“I’m sorry, Zeno. I didn’t realize I needed your permission for a simple greeting.” The baron’s fingers slid between my own. His other hand hovered near my waist. “Should I beg you to dance with Signorina Cora as well?”

In a rapid movement, Zeno smacked away his cousin’s hands and grasped me by the wrist. “No need, Basilio,” Zeno spat as he dragged me past his cousin. “There are more pertinent people for her to speak with.”

The baron threw back his head to guffaw and called over his shoulder, “You wound me, dear cousin!”

So that was the Basilio Zeno had described to me—the one he spoke of with genuine hurt, the one who had somehow betrayed their friendship in his youth. I looked back, but the swarm of people had already engulfed him.

We wove through the crowd, spinning and turning around couples and small circles of conversation. I only picked up brief snippets of each, but I heard my name and Zeno’s countless times. Now and then I saw Basilio’s head bobbing over the crowd, circling us yet never growing nearer. I got the sense I was staring back at a stallion on a carousel—one that wouldn’t end anytime soon.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” I asked, feeling dazed.

“Away from that asshole,” was his bitter reply. “Beyond that, I don’t care.”

As we wound through a particularly compact group and his grip on me tightened, my wrist began to ache. Once we cleared them, I pulled back my wrist. “Well, I do.”

The anger vanished from Zeno’s face, and he quickly composed himself. “You’re correct. This ceremony has its raison d’être, and I shouldn’t forget that.”

It was astonishing how instantaneously he could shed all visible emotion. I held my arm in my hand and wondered if I should pair this observation with admiration or apprehension.

Zeno took my hand now, more gently. “Allow me to introduce you to a few opportune individuals.”

As soon as he spoke those words, there was another shift in Zeno. The man I had studied and painted for so many months now transformed into something entirely different. I watched as his movements became more fluid, his gait was lighter. Even the way his eyes raked across the crowd was different.

A stranger appeared before me, a short vampire in his sixties with coiffed, creamy-white hair and wide, scarlet eyes. His name eluded me entirely—I was too distracted by the alien smile on Zeno’s face, the exaggerated Florentine accent and broad hand gestures. They spoke of the weather and wine, and the stranger’s latest trips.

“Oh, dear, how impolite of me! I have yet to introduce my beniamino . Why, we just had our ritus sanguinous the other month. Why didn’t you attend?”

Looming behind the stranger was a beautiful man—a boy, really. The Spaniard must have been in his early twenties at most, with the last remnants of baby fat still rounding what would soon become a sharp jawline and a thin frame that had yet to fill out entirely. Despite his youthfulness, his eyes were devoid of anything but weariness.

“My apologies, Barone Sforza!” Zeno let out a practiced laugh. “I did not realize that my invitation was for yet another ritus sanguinous . How many have you had now?”

The other vampire mirrored his mirth. “Pah, just three! And I promise, this was the last. Regardless, this is Rafael.”

“Of what family?” Zeno countered.

“He is from the Borgia family. Second-born.”

“I see!” Zeno spoke with a voice so genial, I hesitated to believe it was him speaking. “They are stockbrokers, correct? If memory serves, I believe the eldest Contessa Visconti has a beniamino from the family as well.”

“Yes, Rafael’s younger brother. I had hoped to make a deal with the family for him, but this creature is lovely enough!” Sforza slapped the back of the boy in a gesture I knew was meant to register as playful but filled me with dread. The Spaniard was limp and expressionless. It was unusual but not unheard of, I knew, for some vampires to have multiple beniamini , or even to share them, mostly because of the practical need for multiple donors. With the way Barone Sforza’s hand lingered along Rafael’s lower back, I felt his intentions were more pederastic than pragmatic.

How many years, I wondered, had Rafael prepared to be a beniamino ? What did life look like for him? And what had happened to Sforza’s previous two?

Could it happen to me?

As I stared at his hand, my stomach turning, Sforza’s rambling faded into the background. It wasn’t until someone said my name that the conversation came back into focus.

“Signorina Bowling has made for quite the stimulating interlocutor,” Zeno said. “In fact, she’s gormandized the entirety of my library. Why, I fear the poor thing will become ennuied!”

“Dear Medici, if you came to my estate more often, you would know that I have quite a grand library myself! Perchance our librarians can get in contact and share inventories? Oh, and you must attend my Christmas party!”

Zeno clasped his hands together in faux jubilance. “What a brilliant idea!”

While Rafael and I stared at one another in silence, Zeno managed to pivot the conversation elsewhere and then end it entirely.

“Thank you again, Barone Sforza. I would love to speak with you longer, but I can’t be rude to my other guests. My people will be in contact with you next week regarding that proposition of yours with the library.”

Barone Sforza said his own parting words and gave me a bow before Zeno introduced me to more names. I knew many from my studies—Medici, Sforza, Visconti, and countless other ancient families. Zeno’s conversations echoed that initial one with Barone Sforza, with nearly identical greetings and repeated small talk.

When possible, I stood on the sidelines. I had shown up to a masquerade without a mask or a script. Occasionally, I would be asked a few simple questions, such as what my family did (“Nothing”), how I could tolerate such a remote abbey (“Quite well, thank you”), and what my accomplishments were (“I have very few”). Zeno would help me dodge invites while collecting literary inventory. As often as I could, I snuck off to the hors d’oeuvres table to try and eat a cube of cheese or a small sweet, but I wasn’t able to swallow anything with such anxiety.

The butterflies in my stomach proliferated by the minute as stressors piled up. There was the ritus sanguinous , of course, persistent in the back of my mind, plus the fact that I was not at the abbey and was instead thrust into this bizarre environment, straight out of a historical drama. And finally, there was the familiar face that lingered in the periphery of my vision, a fox waiting for a moment to strike.

Basilio finally cornered me at the table with a macaron in my mouth. To my horror, Zeno was off talking with some Visconti nobleman.

“Hello again.”

I mumbled a hello, crumbs jetting from my mouth. I wiped my lips roughly with a handkerchief.

“Careful,” was his smooth response. “You don’t want to ruin your makeup.”

“Oh.” As anticipated, the handkerchief was covered in a thin layer of vermillion.

“It’s a shame Zeno absconded with you so, signorina,” Basilio stated, broadening his shoulders. “I meant to speak with you further.”

I tightened my lips into a line. “About?”

“Zeno, of course. You managed to bring him out of the shadows, and I wanted to thank you for that. We did, actually.”

“We?”

“Yes, myself and my guest, as it were. What a pity she’s running behind.” He gave an exaggerated sigh, then widened his eyes as he looked past me. “Ah, speak of the devil!”