The Vitruvian Man

By Cate Masters

Monsters come in many guises. No one knows better than Bruno DiCesare, whose ancestor was cursed centuries ago by none other than Leonardo da Vinci, whose experiment to create an actual Vitruvian Man went horribly wrong. The beast within Bruno prevents him from mingling with people – except during Carnevale. The festival provides him ten days of glorious freedom.

Ten days of freedom isn’t enough for Melina Weaver, whose work at the Institute has taken a frightening turn. She’s ordered to experiment on inmates, but she never signed on to create monsters of men. Carnevale might provide more than a temporary escape, especially after she meets Bruno.

Brought together by accident, bound by fate—and magic. Love works its charm over Bruno and Melina, but each one holds a secret. Bruno thinks his secret will drive Melina away. Melina’s afraid Bruno will hate her for what she’s become. He’s become her world, but his world is full of monsters who want to destroy them.

Reviewers have said:
“a spellbinding tale of love, mystery, suspense and intrigue like no other”
“a unique blend of historical facts and paranormal elements that nicely combine in an action-packed romantic story”
“a magical novella that will surely engage the imagination of a reader”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cate Masters
• Release date: Mar 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370479566

Cate Masters

Dog lover. Dreamer. Writer, reader, book hoarder. Multi-published in contemporary to historical, fantasy/dark fantasy to paranormal, award-winning author Cate Masters loves a good story, and sometimes mashes genres. She also writes women’s fiction, fantasy and speculative fiction as C.A. Masterson. Visit her at https://catemasters.wixsite.com/cate-masters---c-a, or her blogs at http://paintingfirewithwords.blogspot.com and http://catemasters.blogspot.com and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Darkness can become a way of life, if one is not careful.

Since the time of The Great Darkness, certain ways have been set in Venice. Certain families have risen to great power and distinction, whether deserved or undeserved depends upon whom you ask in La Serenissima. Predictably, other families—like my own, though family was a generous term in my case—had fallen into shadow and disgrace, heirs like me doomed by the names we carried. It was the leverage with which the few lorded their power over the many.

Those select few strutted and sashayed around me today. Dressed in their finery, complimenting one another on every aspect of their vanity, some looked down their aristocratic noses, some barely hid their disdain behind anemic smiles.

Ever the exception, Elda approached me, oozing warmth and light. Devoid of either, she had other designs in mind, usually of a carnal nature.

Darling. She slipped her gloved hand around my arm. Through a smile that remained constant, she murmured, Do try to look at least a little excited.

Mirth bubbled up despite myself. Excited? They know as well as I that I do not belong. Another thought I kept to myself: that I had no desire to belong.

Yet here I was, perched like a caged bird in their midst, waiting for them to pass judgment, to proclaim me worthy of their praise or of their ire. The cage was ornate enough: gilded, with treasures adorning pedestals, lush tapestries portraying our history in all its fated drama. Wealth, collective or individual, on display to inspire awe. To intimidate.

I preferred the solitude of darkness to their company.

Ridiculous. It is your birth right. She stroked silk-encased fingers across my cheek, and withdrew with a frown when stubble snagged them.

Arguing with her was pointless. One of her enviable skills was to twist conversations in her favor. She practiced the art at every opportunity.

Let me take your mind off your worries.

You misread my mood. I’m bored witless. I’d rather be roaming the streets, the streets where people walked. Somehow none of them ever matched my enthusiasm for making new acquaintances. No one spoke to me for long. They were too busy running away in horror. The main reason I so looked forward to Carnevale, a mere two months away, was so I could mingle with them, rendered anonymous by my costume.

Carnevale was also one of the many reasons I dreaded the outcome of this day. Acceptance into the Council would mean sacrificing free time. Time I could spend in more worthwhile pursuits.

Then allow me to preoccupy you while you wait. She slithered her fingers up my neck.

My bristles rubbed the wrong way. I stayed her hand with mine. No.

A fleeting hurt pinched her mouth tight. Her eyes rounded like a pathetic lamb seeing its mother slaughtered. Then she was her usual self, all mirth and evil.

Fine. I can wait. Because eventually, you will come to me. In an instance, she was at my throat. Begging, she whispered.

I beg no one for anything. Especially sorceresses who presumed I’d carry on with tradition. I never liked to be mistaken for my father, who sacrificed anything—even his only son—to gain a steady foothold on the Council’s slippery slope.

The quirk of Elda’s smile translated to, We shall see. A puff of breath substituted for a laugh, albeit silent.

She’d be the one to see. I’d make her see. If need be, I’d wrap my claws around the nape of her slender neck, force her head to the ground to make her acknowledge, finally, that my father’s paw prints were brutish and crude, much like the male himself.

Somehow, I’d leapt a few generations, DNA-wise. Still afflicted by the curse that ravaged those before me, but less animalistic than expected. Mother hadn’t paid the ultimate price giving birth to me—though she nearly had. She’d had the good sense to flee the lifelong penalty of marriage to Father. Even his name was ironic. Carlo. Meaning ‘man’.

Apparently Mother had misunderstood the Jane Austen quote, Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in your soul. Carlo had no feathers. He had claws. Razor-sharp claws, plus a temper that left hope naked of any covering, whether feathers or fur or skin.

I tried to forgive her for leaving me behind. For leaving my upbringing to Father. Not that Father had followed through. If it hadn’t been for Marco’s father, I quite possibly might have turned feral simply to survive. Mario Roagna gave me a warm bed, an education. One thing he tried to give me that never stuck: ambition. Marco was the closest thing I have to a brother, but I never shared his desire to associate with this ragtag group of imposters, desperate to belong to some society, but hating one another. It was not the life I wanted, not then, and not now. I am here because I thought it would please Father, finally.

Obviously, a foolish thought. Or he would be here.

Mr. Roagna shoved a glass into my hand. So surly. You’re supposed to be celebrating your great triumph.

I downed the liquid in one gulp, and grimaced against the burn traveling down my throat. Is it a triumph? How?

Weariness tampered his smile. Ah, Bruno. Ever the rebel.

I mustered a respectful tone to correct, Realist. If that label singled me out among the group, the flaw evidently rested with the others, not with me.

The atmosphere between us turned awkward. We stood together, but a casual onlooker might view that as a mere coincidence.

He appeared to study the others. If you prefer to get on with it, I could ask they call the meeting to order. A quorum is present.

A quorum, yes, but not the one I most needed to be there. I’d waited too many years for Father to bear witness to my achievement. Then he could no longer deny that I had a place in this world. I would be formally acknowledged as one of the elite.

A thrill for Father. The prospect meant a life of isolation, with only other Council members for company. One of the few places where witches, warlocks and wizards mingled with shapeshifters, elementals and succubi. And even managing not to murder one another.

One thing bound them: fear. All had families, loved ones they wanted to protect.

All I had was my father. Not the best consolation prize.

Well? Mr. Roagna was the essence of patience. Why was he still covering for my father after all these years?

I wiped the scowl from my face. If you don’t mind, I prefer to wait. Because I know this frivolous party was merely a formality. They’d accept me as one of them. They needed a pawn to keep the rank and file in order. They needed me to keep up appearances.

A small part of my soul fluttered, the stirrings of hope. Perhaps they would reject me. Free me.

If you decide otherwise, I’ll be fulfilling my social duties. Starting with the widow Delfina. He departed with a wink.

The weight of too many glances forced me into a wing-backed chair. When I sank into the cushions, I likewise sank into my thoughts, a dark and murky place.

Careful, young pledge. That fabric is irreplaceable. The voice at my ear was hushed but good-natured. Marco knew how to stir me from my moods. Usually.

He rounded my seat and alighted noiseless as a feather upon its twin chair, arranged for such intimate trysts. Over countless years, in these very chairs, as many deals had been broken as pacts had been forged. As many were sweet as were foul as a hellhound’s breath.

Foul as my father’s attitude toward me.

Foul as my demeanor was growing.

A growl low as a purr but empty of warmth vibrated my throat. I had the presence of mind to at least dislodge my claws from the silken arms of the chair. So they like to believe.

If he took any offense, Marco showed no trace. Cheer up. Soon this will be but a memory. He settled deeper.

I straightened taller. Yes, a bad one. In spite of myself, I checked the entryway. And getting worse by the moment.

A twitch in Marco’s eyes gave the only clue that his cheer wavered. He knew my father as well as I. Have faith.

Faith. I nearly spat the word. Yes, the faithful among us are expected to follow their laws. Unfortunately, my faith has never been particularly strong, unfortunately. Except in myself.

Marco’s lips spread in an unmoving smile as he muttered, Careful. He nodded a greeting to someone behind me.

Anger began to spread like venom through my veins. Why? Should they not know of my distress? Not even my father has earned my trust. Even now, he keeps me waiting—keeps them waiting—on the one day of my life when he should have not merely made an appearance, but been here for me.

Truly and earnestly present. For once, he should be aiming his boastful arrogance at me, his sole progeny. His only heir. To what, was the question that the coming proceedings would answer. Acceptance or exile were the only options.

I flung myself from the silken high-back chair and made for the balcony. The one place no one could eavesdrop. Not easily, at least.

The moment after I pressed against the marble rail to inhale the cold air, Marco stood beside me. If nothing else, females will find you suddenly irresistible. Trust me. Appointed several years earlier, he readily took up the role of Council member, mainly for the prestige. And the enthusiastic females.

Seriously, I doubt that. Most tend to shy away from my resting beast face.

He tempered a chuckle with a grunt. So what did you do to piss your father off this time?

Good question. He must have remembered some past infraction and decided to make me pay double.

Or his ego can’t stand the fact that you’ll be considered his equal.

The truth of it stung me. But it’s to his credit. History will take special note. Never before had a DiCesare shared the title of Councilman with his son. But then, never before had a DiCesare survived long enough to see an offspring reach adulthood.

Whatever glib reply Marco readied to deliver was cut off by shouting. The young page dispatched by the Council some twenty minutes earlier burst through the double doors. He hung between them, dramatically suspended there, shoulders hunched to catch his breath.

I was suddenly all tight muscle, ready to pounce on the lad’s pursuer. But the page wasn’t glancing behind, wasn’t skittering like a bug to hide like most prey when danger reared its angry head.

What’s the meaning of this outburst? Council President Tito Borgia pushed through the scattered cliques to glare, then recognized the teen. Well? Did you find him?

From the boy’s hesitance, I deciphered that the news was not good. Father must be carrying on in some bar or worse, and in no shape to attend a formal gathering.

Then the boy’s gaze found mine, and pierced me deeper than any arrow. Tingling prickled down my spine as my hackles spiked.

Others must have read the unspoken, sorrowful apology in the youth’s face. I was suddenly aware of everyone around me, the way each of them breathed, flexed their tense muscles. Whether their scents emitted fear, surprise or pleasure. The latter would mark them as guilty, though my father only had associates in this room, no true friends. Some owed him heavily, and might welcome his demise. Might even help hasten it.

The thought ushered in a vision of Father splayed across some alley, battered and bleeding.

Where is he? I demanded.

The youth drew back with a shake of his head.

I pounded a fist into my palm. I must see him.

What happened next was lost in a blur. I was vaguely aware of Marco holding me back, long enough to cast a protection spell over us. Adrenaline pushed me through the darkness. Marco followed closely. We careened around corners, crashed along narrow alleyways.

At the opening to another crooked calle, near St. Mark’s Square, the sight of my father hit me like a wall. My legs ceased to function. My heart threatened to burst from my chest. My breath came in fitful gasps. Dizziness lightened my head, maybe from the physical exertion, maybe from shock.

I hadn’t believed the courier. He was wrong, I told myself. But there was my father, sprawled in a pool of his own blood. Still as a stone. So beaten and battered, he was nearly unrecognizable. On the shredded lapel of his jacket, the Council pin gleamed even in the dim light.

Even now, I expected him to push himself up to sit, rub the grime from his face and growl, most likely at me.

But no breaths lifted his chest. No fluttering eyelids revealed any life within.

A great shudder made me stumble, and I nearly crumpled in two. Father.

I hardly dared approach, bracing for his roar, his glare… the blame, always mine.

What happened?

Fear reflected in the youth’s glassy eyes. I heard shouting. I followed the noise through the calle. But I was too late. Two men stood over your father. They began to drag his body to the Square, but when they saw me, they ran.

My hackles rose instinctively as I scanned left and right. They may return.

I cast a memory spell. They’ll remember an argument with a stranger, nothing more.

How could they not recall murdering my father so viciously? They’d brutalized him. Stabbed him, too many wounds to count. Overkill in the literal sense. Panic likely took over their senses during the fight.

Being confronted with a beast did that to humans.

And people called us the monsters.

A touch at my shoulder seemed miles away. Bruno. We must move him.

Move him? What if he lashed out? Impossible? Not for Father.

As if reading my thoughts, Marco said, He’s gone, Bruno.

I grasped my hair, claws dug into my scalp.

Bruno. He spoke my name more insistently.

It acted like a whip to my senses. Yes. My scattered wits began to reassemble, the scene coming into terrible clarity. Yes, let’s get him out of here.

In one long stride, I towered over my father. Even in death, he was intimidating. Canine fangs visible in the anemic light, claws extended.

Marco straddled his feet. I’ll get his legs.

I crouched to lift Father’s torso. Despite the heaviness, his body was limp. His head twisted to the side, and weight dragged him from my grasp.

Bastard.

Marco struggled to maintain his hold. He always did enjoy making things difficult for you.

Not anymore. With that realization came a burst of energy. I heaved Father upward, and took the lead as we carried him away.

The Doge’s Palace overlooked St. Mark’s Square, just around the bend. Protection spell or no, I headed in the opposite direction.

My hopes of ever escaping the darkness sank deep inside me. I was a DiCesare. My kind were relegated to the back alleys, the darkest routes, away from people.

Chapter 2

The Council quickly decided the funeral must take place the next day. Beneath the Doge’s Palace, my father rested in a plain pine box, his hideous wounds out of sight for any who might be weak of stomach. Not that the room was filled with mourners. A few begrudging colleagues made an appearance, and a few females intent on seeing for themselves that Carlo DiCesare was truly gone. Duty called the remaining few to attendance.

The service was brief, or seemed so, obscured by a haze of emotion. I was consumed not by grief, but anger. I’d always believed anger was simply part of my DNA, but this was a new type. More intense, more volatile. It banished the droning words of the cleric. It was all I could do to stand there and not slash the wooden box to shreds. Instead, my claws dug into my palm.

All the agonizing days of waiting for some sign of love from him would now remain unfulfilled. Never would he yield that manly clasp of pride, that flush of love that would finally have connected us as father and son. Never would I see the gleam of pride in his eye as the Council conferred membership upon me.

In the end, he could not give me even that much. And was probably laughing at me even now.

With barely a sound, the others moved into position around the altar. I took my place among them. We four pallbearers hoisted the coffin and shuffled in unison to the crematory. Incineration was standard protocol, but in my family’s case, also necessary. The Council could leave nothing to chance. No body meant no remains for outsiders to discover.

And fire was the only means of cleansing all traces of the dark spell my father carried within him. Unattended magic meant trouble.

The cleric opened the heavy metal door, and we slid the coffin inside. The clang as it closed startled me, and echoed in my bones.

Reluctantly, I stepped back. Part of me wished to witness the incineration. To sear the truth into me once and for all that he was gone.

An immeasurable length of time passed. Fittingly, Mario Roagna handed me the urn containing Father’s ashes. The lightness of the vessel surprised me. I carried the urn to the family crypt. Within these dank walls, what appeared to be merely a stone wall in reality held the remains of former Council members. Cleverly hidden from the view of curious mortals, each stone represented another ancestor, leading back to the time of da Vinci, the deranged genius. Also fittingly, the tombs were housed in the former prison of the palace. The DiCesare section was in the last cell, the smallest, owing to the restrictions on my family lineage. The world, apparently, could handle only one of us at a time. That one was now me.

The stone had already been pulled aside. Without hesitation, I set the urn within.

As if of its own accord, the stone moved into place. A bright square glowed around its edges, then cooled. The seal was complete.

My father was truly gone. I was the sole DiCesare in existence.

My body was both light and heavy at once. I wanted to run, to roar my simultaneous relief and devastation, my fury and delight, but I was likewise sealed in place.

The faint ruffle of robes was the signal that the others were dispersing. Some passed me by with a brief touch, meant to comfort. I could give no voice to my responses.

Until Elda’s touch unshackled me. Come away.

Though this place had no sacredness about it, her advances felt a violation. Leave me be. I was too used to the shadows.

Let us buy you a drink. Marco’s voice echoed, seemingly disembodied.

I turned. Only then did I see him standing behind her. Only a lifelong friend could fortify a weary soul. One who knew every secret, understood every pain, who asked only to remain at your side even as you howled.

With a heavy nod, I allowed Elda to lead me out into the night. None of us spoke until we’d settled into a booth at the bar. Marco ordered wine, and pinned me with an unspoken warning when I opened my mouth to change mine to a higher proof alcohol. Drunkenness would not obliterate the truth, and was an unwise pairing with my mood.

After the glasses arrived, Marco raised his. To Carlo DiCesare.

A laugh threatened to strangle me. The bastard. I drained the contents in one long gulp, and held up the empty glass. The server refilled it in an instant.

Marco gave a light shrug. He made history.

As the worst bastard in Venice? To erase the bitter taste in my mouth, I swirled the wine across my palate.

He ignored my bitterness. He lived longer than your grandfather, and his father, and any in your family before that.

Probably out of spite.

Elda’s pout was unconvincing. He’d still be alive if those brutes hadn’t murdered him. The Council will unearth their identities, don’t you worry.

The temptation to empty my glass was strong, but I resisted. Unless one of them did it.

How can you say that?

How could she feign surprise? Father was cunning, but his murder was overdue. Despite Elda’s gaping, I went on. Every male in my family suffers the same shameful death. None of us survives to old age.

You will. Elda practically stamped her foot under the table.

The frivolous fool. She thought she could demand it of me.

The drinks loosened my tongue. It will end with me. I will never sire a child. Never curse any flesh and blood of mine to endure this living nightmare.

She snuggled against me. Oh, is it so bad, really?

I skewered her with a look. How long have you known me?

She slanted her china doll smile up at me, all practiced charm and porcelain coldness. Long enough to know what a dullard you can be.

I slathered amusement across my features and held it there for her benefit, and for that of any onlooker.

Dullard… I’d wager some of the others had harsher names for me. So I’ll fit right in with the rest of the Council.

Yes, you will. A light burned in her eyes. She strained to hold back something.

It killed her when I showed no interest. Much as I hate to break up the party, I need to catch up on some sleep. The truth of it hit me. When I pushed to my feet, weariness weighed on me like a heavy blanket, pulled me down, made me yearn for a warm bed.

You’re leaving? she protested.

Marco shushed her. He’s obviously running on fumes. To me, he said, Let me know if you need anything.

I rose. All right.

He grasped my arm. I mean it.

Finally, I met his gaze. I know you do. Thanks.

Only then did he release me, and relaxed against the booth.

Elda began to follow. Why don’t I—

Stay. My hand at her shoulder blocked her from rising. Please. I’m not fit company. And I really do need to rest.

Lips pursed, she plopped down. Fine.

Darkness had deepened, yet still I kept my head down as I trudged through the shadowed alleyways, away from prying eyes.

***

Before noon the next morning, a note drifted beneath the door and sailed to the table, alighting like a feather. I fetched the sealed parchment, and grunted. The Council was summoning me to a hastily-called meeting.

The flutter in my stomach surprised me. Am I nervous they’d reject me? Or that they’d accept me?

In either case, the sooner the formalities were dispensed with, the better. After a hasty readying to smooth my ruffled fur and make myself somewhat presentable, I rushed to the palace.

Crowds already milled about the main entrance, beneath the statue of Justice oversing all. My faith in Justice vanished long ago. I skirted my path to the rear. It struck me as I climbed the stone steps how little humans understood about Venice. They hailed the palace as magnificent, and rightly so. Artwork and statuary of immeasurable wealth hung on the walls and lined the hallways.

But if they only knew what truly took place within, how many would choose to remain? Tour guides would find themselves out of business, if any were brave enough to venture near. They’d have to alter their practiced speech about how the palace was the center of power, where the Venetian Republic was ruled.

Republic, I snickered to myself as the page opened the tall door for me to pass within the Grand Chamber Council, formerly used by mortal Venetian leaders to cast judgment in the name of Justice. Visitors coo’d and gasped at Tintoretto’s mural filling one full wall, a breathtaking rendering of Paradise.

My business awaited in the opposite direction, figuratively and literally. Centuries ago, the Council constructed a wall to banish earthly considerations from view. The fourteen current members lorded over this chamber, looking down on me. My fate teetered on the fickle tilt of their upturned aristocratic noses.

I bowed and awaited their proclamation.

President Tito Borgia banged the gavel. Bruno DiCesare. You stand before the Council today seeking admission to this esteemed group. Correct?

Yes, your grace. I inwardly cringed at the slip. Tito liked to distance himself from the fact he was descended from Pope Alexander VI.

State your reasons for wishing to be named one of us.

Seriously? I hesitated, which caught the attention of each. I found myself faced with fourteen members who grew more