Chapter 2

Looking out at the night from the roof of my apartment I feel the pressure of the lust. Carolyn will satisfy my sick urges soon enough. Until then I will weep for her predecessors: Sophia, Maggie, Anthea, Tonya, Amanda ... The list seems endless, yet none have been forgotten. Like all serial killers I keep my trophies; a small relic of each one, a lock of their shiny black hair stored in a unique gold locket. I have hundreds of them. The last remnants of my love for them are displayed in full view, in glass cases, even though my heart hurts to look at them.

Carolyn’s locket rests against my breast waiting to be filled - like me. Although first, I need to know her. Though this increases my pain, the pleasure of loving her will also intensify the ecstasy of that final moment. Who knows, maybe this time I will be successful.

The night is my time. When the moon is in full bloom and the stars blink down like a million watchful eyes, night is my strength and my weakness. For every night, but one a year, I have chosen to be alone. Anymore and I fear my secret may be exposed.

Unlike most gothic stories the reality is far more sinister. I can go where I please, live how I wish. Nothing can destroy me. (How bizarre to think a stake through the heart could finish one of my kind.) I have so far been able to heal any injury, so why should I not believe I am invulnerable? I have lived for more than four hundred years, and since my turning I have searched for a companion, a soul mate; yet every joining has been a failure. Maybe the fault is mine, maybe I am infertile. I know deep down it is unlikely that this one - Carolyn - will survive, but I have to try. Even if my loneliness fits like a tailor-made suit, I wear it like armour, hoping that one day the war of loneliness will be over.

Carolyn is exactly what I want; the dark hair, soft brown eyes, delicate bones and slender frame. Her youth is an advantage because the life spark is strong but there is another flame within her that drew me. It is the same flame that was in all the others, but is it strong enough?

As always I wonder what drew Lucrezia to me. Did I hold a glint? Or was it something more? Why did I live? Maybe I was lucky all of those years ago despite how I felt. Lucrezia was not my first love, nor was she my last. I can still remember the exquisite pain; the pain of loving intensely for the first time.

I can still remember when my uncle, Giulio Caccini, brought his daughter Francesca to my home in Florence and we sang the beautiful songs from his Le Nuove Musiche in 1602.

‘Gabriele!’

‘Si. I am coming Madre!’

‘Be quick. Your uncle and cousin arrive!’

I walked down the curving stone stairs of the tower that led to my room, full of expectancy. I was thirteen, my beautiful cousin Francesca was fifteen and I adored her. She was the epitome of sophistication in her Medici fashion with her long black hair swirled up in the latest coiffure, though her tall lithe frame was still boyish under the bulk of gown she wore for her court performances. Two years after her debut at the age of thirteen in her father’s musical drama Eurydice, Francesca was in demand as a singer and musician because she played the harpsichord as well as she sang.

My uncle’s visits had become frequent of late. He was very interested in my voice, and took charge of my vocal development. He had wanted to send me to Rome to be made castrati for the sake of my young high voice, but my mother refused.

‘I would like grandchildren from my only child!’ she declared.

‘In future you see Gabriele in my home Giulio. I don’t trust you.’

‘Adriana! How can you suggest that I would harm Gabriele?’

‘You would sacrifice your own mother for your Nuove Musiche!’

I was glad of my mother’s decision to protect my future manhood but my uncle still remained determined to train my voice.

‘Perhaps it will be possible to keep his high range, if he learns control.’

From then on my uncle’s cries from the harpsichord demanded that I sing ‘Legato’ continuously. I was an experiment to him, just as Francesca’s young voice had been. I had no inkling that he, along with his intellectual Florentine friends the Camerata, would later be declared the inventors of melodrama in music and Opera would be born.

Francesca would frequently pitch notes for me, because my uncle wanted my male voice to remain forever a treble. I mimicked my cousin’s tone and pitching to such perfection that at first my uncle did not comprehend that my voice had broken and I was using my falsetto to please him. I was fifteen when he realised the truth and fortunately my voice had developed into a strong and controlled tenor, which thrilled him anyway.

‘You see, Adriana, your son still sings high, but with the voice of a man.’

At fifteen I remained hopelessly in love with Francesca. I smiled at her as she accompanied me on the harpsichord but her eyes swooped down and she flushed at the undiluted love in my gaze. This was the first time I noticed a woman’s blush and it fascinated me. I wanted to know what it meant. As an only child, fatherless - because my mother was widowed soon after my birth, I had few men to speak to.

‘Uncle, why do some women blush?’ I asked tentatively one day when we were alone.

My uncle stopped playing and looked at me, his eyes serious. For a moment I feared I had asked a very inappropriate question.

Slowly a knowing smile crept on his lips and he pushed back his stool and stood. With his arm around my shoulders Uncle Giulio whispered into my ear.

‘Gabriele, it is time you and I went for a visit to a nice little house I know. There you will learn why some women blush and others do not.’

So my uncle took me to a brothel. It was a large house, not a ‘little house’, on the square of S Giovanni with a huge inviting doorway that stood open to the street. Candlelight and music poured out to greet us as we walked up the marble steps. My heart thumped in my chest with fear and excitement as I wondered what I would find inside.

I looked up at the expanse of the double staircase that was the sole furnishing of the entrance, with the exception of tall stained glass windows above the balcony that joined the two staircases halfway. Even so, it was the most elegant reception I had ever seen with its high ceiling, which stretched above the stairs to the top of the house.

‘This is Madame Fontenot,’ my uncle said, nodding to a large breasted woman whose cleavage looked as though it struggled to stay in her over-tight gown.

‘Signor Caccini, how wonderful to see you again. Who is this handsome young man?’

‘My nephew. He needs ... experience, Madame.’

‘But of course. Every young man needs that. I have just the thing for you.’

She led us quickly through an immense parlour where a Florentine gentleman richly attired in a silk doublet and hose sat with a glass of wine as an attractive olive fleshed whore kneeled between his legs. She pressed herself against his chest, her slender hands reached down as she massaged the front of his breeches. I turned away from the heated gaze of the man as he wrapped his podgy hands around her and pulled her to him giving her a loud kiss on her painted cheek. His wet lips left a shiny impression on her face and I wondered how she could fail to raise her hand to wipe away his saliva. Women of all shapes and sizes were on display, wearing little more than thin strips of luxuriously sheer fabric. A petite blonde sat in a corner, her long hair draping over half of her face and I noticed she was covered in thicker fabric than the others. She stood as a tall merchant in a plush gold tunic approached, and I realised that this world my uncle had brought me to was very strange indeed. The left side of her face and body were badly scarred yet this man wanted her none the less; perhaps because she was so disfigured. He pawed her, showering kisses on the rough scars as his face turned ruddy with excitement.

At the first sight of these half dressed females I felt a flush fill my cheeks and I was reminded of my cousin’s embarrassment of a few days before. Curious. Could this mean that she found me as pleasing to the eye? An ache grew in my loins. I was aware of a swelling against my brocade breeches.

Madame Fontenot continued through the parlour and took us into a secluded alcove which was separated from the larger room by a heavy velvet curtain. The alcove was deep, and inside we found a chaise longue draped with a red silk throw trimmed with gold brocade. Beside it was a small round table that held a decanter of wine and two glasses.

‘Gentlemen, please be seated. I will return immediately with my recommendation.’

Swiftly my uncle descended on the wine, pouring two glasses. He held mine out and I scarcely recalled taking it and lifting it to my lips to guzzle it furiously down between my trembling lips.

‘I know all of the women here, Gabriele, and they are young and clean. Do you have a preference?’

‘Slender,’ I whispered.

‘Well, we shall see. Me, I prefer the fuller figure.’

Madame Fontenot returned with a pretty young girl with knowing eyes. She draped herself over me lasciviously; stroking my hair with her brown hands.

‘So fair. Are you not a full blooded Italian boy?’ she purred, sitting on my knee, her tongue slid over my cheek and around my ear.

In disgust I pushed her away and she slid to the floor yelping with pain and fright.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not this one. Innocent.’

‘A virgin? That might be a tall order, Gabriele,’ my uncle sighed.

The girl complained loudly on the floor, unused to rejection. Quickly slipping a gold piece in her hand, my uncle patted her head soothingly and squeezed her breast before sending her away to fetch the Madame.

Several moments of whispered discussion followed between my uncle and the Madame outside the alcove.

‘A virgin? But how will he ... ?’

‘Can you get one Madame?’

‘Maybe. But not tonight, signor ... Perhaps in a few days ...’

My uncle returned and took up the hat he had discarded on the chaise and I stood to join him determined to leave as I came because the atmosphere of the place nauseated me. We raised the curtain and there I saw my first object of sexual desire, carefully filling up the decanter of wine in an empty alcove opposite. Her hair was the same raven black as my cousin’s and she was young and pretty though clearly a servant rather than a courtesan. She looked up nervously realising she was being observed, a pink blush spreading over her cheeks as she turned quickly to scurry away.

‘Her,’ I whispered.

‘She’s just a servant girl,’ gasped Madame. ‘Her hands are chapped. She is not suitable for my patrons ...’

‘Then we will no longer be your patrons Madame,’ my uncle declared with a flourish.

‘Please signor,’ she wheezed, breathing with difficulty as she trailed us to the main entrance. ‘If I do this, no mother will allow their daughter to work in my kitchens. I make promises ... I cannot ...’

At the front reception room my uncle reached out and clasped the handle, which barely groaned as he pressed it down. The door opened.

‘I do not feel I can recommend the Duke’s visitors here anymore Madame ...’ my uncle said as he began to lead me outside.

‘Signor! I have always delivered. Always. Anything my customers need, I find it. I may be able to find a suitable girl for you ... but not the servant.’

‘Gabriele?’ My uncle’s questioning gaze met my determined and stubborn stare.

‘No. I want that one,’ I said as we reached the front door.

We began the decent down the front steps as my uncle crushed his hat back onto his head, the feather fell limp under the weight of his hand.

‘Alright!’ We stopped and turned to the now panting Madame. ‘I can perhaps ... Her mother is sick. I could persuade her for her family’s sake ... but it will cost much more than the usual. This one ... she is betrothed you see?’

‘Arrange it. My nephew must have what he wants.’

I was taken up the marble stairs instead of back to the reception hall and the Madame led me down a long corridor off the main landing into a beautifully gaudy boudoir. The walls were painted with murals depicting naked men and women indulging in what I imagined would become my own extravagance of the evening. My hose and breeches bulged once more as I looked at the pictures, though left alone I had doubts about the forthcoming event. Nervously I wandered around the room, wondering whether to sit on the chaise in the bay window or the luxurious four-poster bed. Beside the bed an ornate screen separated the room and behind it I found a bath tub and dressing area.

The time dragged on as I waited. I drifted into an anxious stupor, sitting on the end of the bed as though anticipating my last day on earth, until a sharp knock on the door brought me back to my surroundings with a jolt.

‘Enter,’ I called, my voice squeaking and high.

A blackamoor carrying a fresh decanter came in. I stared at him somewhat afraid, because I had never seen anyone like this giant with black skin and night-black eyes. Wide-eyed, I watched as he placed the wine on a table beside the bed, bowed and turned, leaving quietly. I filled the glass, sloshing the burgundy liquid over the intricate silver tray, and lifted it to my dry lips trying desperately to dull my nerves.

She entered - with barely a creak of the door - a trembling wreck, washed and groomed, wearing a simple white dress. I put down my glass and stepped awkwardly towards her. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders; long, like a black shiny cloak. As I advanced she shivered, her eyes cast down, not demure but too terrified to meet mine.

‘Come here.’

‘Si, signore.’ Her voice quivered, but she slowly walked towards me. The white dress parted, revealing a slender leg to my eager gaze. Another step exposed a dark triangle between her thighs before she quickly pulled the dress closed. I took her hand, feeling the roughness of her flesh from the hard work of Madame Fontenot’s scullery; perfumed oil had been carefully massaged into her hands to soften the skin. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed beside me and I reached for the glass left haphazardly on the corner of the table. Refilling it, I held it out to her and urged her to drink. She shook her head, glancing up at me briefly to see my frown.

‘I do not drink, signore.’

‘It will make you less afraid ...’

I pushed the expensive crystal into her trembling hands and lifted it until she sipped. Her nose wrinkled at the taste.

‘More,’ I urged, knowing that the strong liquid would calm and relax her. Finally she drained the glass and I quickly replenished it, holding it out to her now more willing hands.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ysabelle, signore.’

‘Ysabelle ... I am Gabriele, not signore.’

I kissed her before she could respond. She was stiff and nervous but I felt her lips part and knew that this at least was not so unfamiliar to her.

‘Who have you been kissing, Ysabelle?’ I teased.

She blushed and the stain on her too-white cheeks was deeper and redder by contrast. I felt the more experienced of the two of us. And having carefully listened to my uncle on the way to Madame Fontenot’s, I knew exactly how to obtain my objective. Confidently I reached for her, my finger tips gently exploring the tips of her breasts through the sheer fabric. Her cheeks flushed redder and excitement gushed into my eyes and ears. I gripped the edges of the robe, pulling her to me for a more lingering kiss.

‘I like it when you blush ... Innocent girls do that so often. Ysabelle, you remind me of my cousin. Now, let’s see what’s under that dress?’