Eternal Night

Prologue

Part I – Hunted

"I ask Persephone, 'How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.' Persephone smiled, 'My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.'"
– Nikita Gill, Conversations with Persephone

February 1763
The Doge's Palace
Venice, Italy

"I am always amazed at how many additional guests they manage to invite with each new season," Antón Bernardini remarked, glancing over at his friend after a brief scan of the crowd. "Is it my imagination, or are there even more persons in attendance than last year?"

"Invite?" his companion echoed with a twist of irony. "I'd wager that at least a third never even received a formal solicitation." The man's bright blue eyes briefly scrutinized the multitude, a single dark brow arching behind his mask barely noticeable. "The lack of breeding alone..."

His comment faded into an after-thought as a stunning redhead in an exquisitely tailored lilac gown passed by. Her décolletage was iced with a gaudy choker necklace that twinkled in the lamplight. The sparkle brought his eyes immediately to the generous swell of her breasts – an obvious ploy – the coy female simpering as she passed by, clearly having noted his attention. But for all her beauty and all that perfume she had evidently bathed herself in, little could mask the stench of a recent debauched encounter – with two separate individuals, if his nose was correct.

It usually was.

When she was out of range, Count Vladislaus Drăculea looked to his friend with an amused grin.

"Where on earth do you suppose they find these people?"

Antón dared a peek at the siren in purple, biting back a laugh.

"And in last year's fashions no less."

The Count coughed once in order to conceal a chuckle of his own.

Their conversation on the surface possessed a kind of snobbery often excused as fashionable for the higher-ranking class, yet there was an exchange of knowing glances and sly smirks that hinted more toward amusement than genuine disapproval.

"How will we ever survive?" Vladislaus teased, adjusting his mask, its appropriation ensuring him anonymity for the evening. "Rubbing elbows with these unwashed, ill-bred cretins. I'd rather feed on sewer rats."

His friend laughed openly that time as he ascended the stairs.

"No you would not!"

Antón was the first to reach the top steps of the Doge's Palace, extending his hand to meet the offered assistance of his wife, Mariella, who had been waiting patiently for him to join her.

"You two are incorrigible," she called out, a playful lilt in her chastisement as she took her husband's arm. When the Count joined them, the pair effortlessly fell into step beside him as they entered the courtyard. "I fear you may be correct, though," Mariella added after a moment of silence as they navigated their way through the crowd. "I don't recall there being so many guests in the years past – at least in my limited experience."

"A price one must pay for a moment's reprieve, I suppose," Bernardini said with a beleaguered sigh, stealing a knowing look at the Count. "Perhaps we should start considering a change of scene for our annual retreat?"

"We've attended carnival for over two hundred and fifty years," Vladislaus reminded him. "It is tradition, and I have no intention of changing that now."