. more than this .

Prologue


She stood there, a solitary figure dressed in black standing before the river’s edge. Soft black curls silouhetted her face as tiny specks of crimson marred her pale, white skin. To the passerby she appeared to be another lost soul in the Windy City, perhaps ready to end her life because of a sudden break-up with a lover, or die of a chemical imbalance that has finally found no cure. But she was none of these and she knew it.

Lekiare absently wiped the tears from her eyes and glanced about her. He had told her to wait here, a place mirroring one so long ago where they had first made their farewells. And here she stood, balancing on an emotional pendulum, waiting to see whether she would have to face heartbreak or absolution.

Surely there was more than this, Lekiare thought. Santino had promised this reunion though not for the reasons she had hoped. There was no doubt in her mind that he cared for her, but inside she feared what he would have to say. It was like waiting for the sharp-edged knife to pierce her fragile heart and twist what little stability she had left in her soul. Yet she needed him and no amount of pain could keep her from gazing into his dark eyes and recognizing the lover of so many years. Time itself could stop, the world could end, but her love would not, which was why this meeting meant so much to Lekiare and why it scared her.

And then she saw him strolling languidly towards her in the falling snow. Like Lekiare his clothes were dark, contrasting sharply with the white powder that dusted the ground. His black hair raged in the wind yet instead of looking disshelved he appeared to be a silent beauty praised and adored by the howling weather. He was a god and yet he wasn’t.

Santino smiled at her as he approached and she felt herself grow weak. She closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath. When she opened them again he stood in front of her, and she knew then that there was no turning back as his hand came up to caress her blood-stained cheek.

“The world is changing except for you.”

“I know,” she whispered meekly.

“You cannot remain like this. Gather your strength, Lorena, and forget the past or it will drag you down with it!” he said as he tried to hold her close to him, but she pushed him back and turned from his penetrating gaze.

“And what if I can’t! Wouldn’t it be easier to die! My God exists and maybe He’ll take me. I’ve lost too much because of that child you protected, loved even more than me. This is my chance, Santino. I can end it now! He exists, the veil proves it.”

“What Lestat brought back should have no bearing on the life you can still have. Besides I only have you now...” He whispered the last part and Lekiare wondered what he meant. Then she started to laugh uncontrollably.

“Marius’ brat has left you again hasn’t he! That’s why you come to me now. You need someone to keep you grounded and to love you like he did. Well I did Santino. But...”

“I loved you both.”

“No, just him....” she cried softly as she began to remember.


--1


(500 yrs ago more or less)

Lorena remembered the breezy afternoons outside the palazzo. Tonio would sit beside her on the tiny stone steps and they would watch the citizens and commoners pass them by with out a glance. Each was too involved in their own world to notice the brother and sister entertaining themselves with commentaries of those they saw. Tonio would point out playfully the old woman crouching by the church entrance with his chubby little hand. Those flowers she carries are from a lover who left her for a courtesan, he would say and Lorena would blush, her cheeks turning into a bright pink.

“And why did he leave her?” she had asked shyly.

“Because she could sing and put up with his terrible sonnets!” he would exclaim gleefully and jump up from the step grabbing Lorena in the process. Then they would twirl each other around until their stomachs churned and their faces flushed in fatigue. Afterwards when they had rested Lorena would scamper over to the old woman and buy one of her slightly withered flowers, pecking the woman’s cheek gently before returning to the entrance of the palazzo.

Those were the few brief moments in her life that Lorena treasured the most, before her father had sent her off to school abroad. At times she wondered if she would ever have such innocent memories again. Times had changed and she was nineteen. Responsibilities and appearances mattered now, and a simple gesture of kindness to a commoner or a playful interlude with Tonio could destroy her father’s reputation as well as her own. Everything was of significance in Venetian society, and as her carriage neared San Marco Lorena’s nostalgia increased.

There were of course other things she should look forward to. Leaning back against the soft, velvet cushions Lorena stuck her hand out of the carriage; the soft breeze danced through her slender fingers, caressing her skin with cool kisses. She closed her green eyes and smiled as she breathed in the sweet smelling air, imagining herself back in the gardens of her youth surrounded by terra cotta and willows. And she would be standing in the middle of her mother’s favorite garden, accepting a white rose from Tonio’s hand and then sitting on the humid grass with him until evening as they recounted tales of the great Greek gods and goddesses.

What would it be like to be back?

Lorena’s father planned to present her at the Contarini’s ball. This was certain. And the thrill of dancing all night long with Venice’s own distinguished sons would bring honor to her and her family. Father always said that the de Milano’s must make a good impression. It was up to her brothers and Lorena to keep the family’s standing in society as high as possible, but their rank was not as important as the excitement that began to build in her heart.

The stars began to glow brighter in the waning light and she thought of the balls, sighing as she pictured the jeweled masks and the vivid costumes in silk and velvet. Tomorrow night she would join the festivities of Carnevale for the first time, and like them she hoped to shine with the same radiance as her mother; walk up the sandstone steps, through Istrian arches, and into the crowded courtyard with her gown of the finest blue silk, holding her ebony mask outlined with small diamonds and sapphires precariously in her right hand while her left hand rested firmly around Tonio’s arm.

”Lorena!” Carmela snapped suddenly and she drew her hand back into the warm confines of the carriage. Tapping her lap lightly with an embroidered fan, Lorena sighed knowing that her day-dream had been disrupted so cruelly by the woman sitting next to her. Not even in a moving contraption such as this was she safe from her nursemaid’s disapproving gaze. She found herself trapped once more in the rules of her society, ensuring that every action made was acceptable even when she was still a while away from the palazzo. Lorena nodded to Carmela in resignation and kept her hands folded neatly in her lap as a young proper girl should.

”Carmela,” she began instead excitedly, trying to avoid any tiny discretion since even daydreaming wasn’t allowed, “Will papa be hosting a ball this year? I’m sure Antonio and Guliano will enjoy meeting the beautiful girls premiering that night. Tonio tells me that Guliano hopes to dance with that pretty Russian girl, Federika.”

”You father won’t approve!” she said irritably.

”Because she’s foreign?” Lorena asked though she already knew the answer and it saddened her.

”Because she isn’t Venetian, child!”

Lorena lowered her head and stared at her folded hands. Poor Guliano, she thought suddenly. Tonio said in his letter that their older brother loved the girl very much. She was so perfect in every way. Her dowry was large and her family was very well respected in Venetian society. Her father had even been written into the Golden Book. Federika was very pretty herself, auburn curls and all. But Lorena’s father wanted Italian blood, pure and strong, running through his grandchildren’s veins. And Federika was not Italian. Lorena sighed and leaned her head back against the cushions. Sometimes her father could be so unfair…

”Lorena” Carmela warned again and she glanced out of the carriage window. The palazzo was coming into view from above the horizon. Lorena grinned as they came up to the front entrance leading into the palazzo’s courtyard where her father was sure to be standing, and she rested her fingers lazily on the window sill ready to push open the door the minute she saw him. But when the carriage stopped and the horses were reigned she noticed that the man with the neatly trimmed mustache and silver insignia of the Case Grandi had failed to appear. In his place stood a man resting carelessly against the palazzo door. He wore a light brown coat with ruffles at the sleeves. It matched the color of his fine hair which he wore long and wavy, almost tangled. But the thing that startled Lorena the most was his stare. He looked at her as if he were reading her very soul just by glancing into her eyes.

“Lady de Milano,” he whispered softly in an English accent. “Your father the Count has asked me to greet you since urgent business has kept him from doing so himself. I hope you don’t mind.”

He walked up to the carriage and gracefully opened the side door, offering his hand for her to use. Lorena accepted it rather shyly and nearly gasped when she saw how pale his skin was, almost as if it were made out of marble. The gentleman noticed her reaction and replied gaily, “As you know, lady, Londoners do not get much sun.”

“So I see...and you Signore are?”

“But of course!” he exclaimed embarrassed. “How rude of me not to present myself. I am Kyle Manderley of Wiltshire, but you my lady may call me Kyle. I am here on business and your father was kind enough to host me during my stay here in Venice.”

“My father is kind,” Lorena said as they walked into the palazzo. She had to admit she was intrigued by this stranger. Something in his manner puzzled her because of the way he spoke and acted so elegantly yet at the same time Kyle’s appearance made him seem unearthly. Lorena found herself strangely drawn to him.

The following is an incomplete spec based on the Vampire Chronicles. The series as well as the characters of Anne Rice are copyright to her. They aren't mine. All original characters are mine. Copyright © 2000 Yasmín E. Voglewede. All Rights Reserved