Page 74 of Fratelli: Eternal Bloodlines

Never in his mortal life had he adored a woman so deeply.

Never in his afterlife had he craved a woman so completely.

“Resist,” he said with a deep sigh.

The Draca retreated. The strangling ceased. Tristan could breathe. After a moment of stabilizing, he could stand. He went to his feet and returned to the sink, drinking and rinsing from the faucet. Something had come over him.

Since his mortal death, he had never felt the light of love and hope. He truly believed that all was dead in him forever. When his Draca went feral and on the hunt for the Guardian, he tried to put it under control so that Lucio’s plans for Dolly’s escape could be done. He won that war but lost the battle. When freed from the Draca twice as it went on the attack, he was drawn to her. First the kiss, then the bite, both an act of desperation to have her. He mated with her. The one thing Phoenix warned him never to do. He should have listened to the Draca andresisted.

Vatican, Rome - Italia

April 21, 1958 (Death of Padre Santiago)

Theil malvagiowalked the streets of the Vatican. A name whispered about him since the vampire Lucio took him. In Italian, the name meant “the wicked one”. It was rare he got a chance at the liberty to do as he pleased, hunt as he pleased. And though his soul was damned, he found comfort along the emptycobblestone streets and residents. With a half-moon glowering above him, the night agreed with his prowl.

As a vampire new to his skills, he learned quickly and adapted better in the darkness. The morning sun was the only real threat to him. He had no idea how Lucio could stand it, and he could only endure minutes uncovered.

In the homes behind their crucifixion-barred doors, people retreated. Tristan had to admit that initially, he did not take well to his curse. He had no formal training and lost control of his Draca often. He terrorized and devoured those who once came to him for penance and absolution. In his depression, he had given up on the Draca more than once.

A shadow moved out of sight.

It happened so fast he would have missed it if the shadow movement weren’t so close. It was to his right. The air smelled of malevolence. Of predatory dark energy. It smelled like him. When Tristan turned to pursue, the shadows came for him in a flash. A grapefruit-sized hole was punched through his chest. His belly exploded in gut-ripping pain. Then Tristan was grabbed by a dark stranger’s hand at the throat and thrown nearly a mile down the street. Tristan folded into himself and stopped his slide over the dank road. He recovered. He was up and flying.

The attacker swept in again. Someone met him with such ferocity and mastery that he nearly ripped him to shreds this time. Dropping in a bloody heap to the ground, Tristan had to heal for several minutes before he could look up.

A slow walk of the assassin began, his footfalls echoed and rebounded in the night. The smoke became a man. Darkly dressed in a long cloak with his head covered under a large hood, Tristan worried that Lucio had caught up with him.

When Tristan’s vision was restored, he looked up into a face he didn’t know. The vampire lowered his hood. He was tall,strongly built, with hair fiery red as if its texture carried the flaming heat of the sun. He had piercing green eyes, and a face chiseled to perfection. The vampire stared down at him with the face of an angel.

Then came the extended hand of mercy.

Tristan summoned his strength and accepted the help to stand.

“Chi sei?” Tristan asked.

“Speak English,” demanded the vampire, who towered over him.

“Who are you? What… are you?” Tristan asked, now fully healed. He knew who the brothers were. He’d seen Don Vittorio. This one he’d never met.

“Consiglieri. Like you,” the vampire replied with his left brow arched. “Walk with me, priest.”

Tristan frowned. He’d escaped Lucio twice. This was his third and final time. The time he would not return. He had planned to scale the top ofCappella Redemptoris Materwith a large can of oil.He’d sit in the tower of the bells. And then he’d wait for the sun. When his body began to overheat from the exposure, he’d use the oil and a match to end it all. He’d let his death happen for all, as a stark warning to those who turn from God.

Tristan thought of fleeing, outrunning the stranger, and hiding until dawn. Nothing would prevent his suicide.

“You can kill yourself when we are done, baby vampire. I’ll do it for you if you wish. Now walk with me,” said Phoenix.

Confused, but a bit mystified by the dark angel, he obeyed. Phoenix walked with power and grace. His hood over his head, his strides long and powerful. He cut corners in a swift motion that Tristan tried to mirror. Everything about his prowess was commanding and confident.

They slipped between the alleys of buildings and homes inside of the Vatican and then down steps to a door. It was adoor he had never seen before, and he’d spent most of his adult life in the chapels. Though it was locked, Phoenix blasted it open without a touch. Stunned, Tristan looked at his hands and wondered if he would one day have the same power.

“So, you are Lucio’s new pet? One he can’t tame?” Phoenix asked.

“I’m no one’s pet,” Tristan replied.

“Well then, you’re just a misbehaving slave. You are the third one he has tried to convert. Your death means nothing to him and will give you no salvation. Darkness awake, or darkness asleep, is still darkness,” said Phoenix.

“I have lost my way. I was a holy man,” Tristan said.

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