his face an expression of falseness.
“I’m stationed at the Church of Santa Maria Del Gorla,” he announced loftily, “not fifty miles from your estate. We met at last autumn’s festa della vendemmia—the festival of the grape harvest.”
Raine sneezed. Considering that an adequate reply, he then turned and continued on his way. The man two-stepped alongside him, his words and feet attempting to keep pace.
“As you may know, I attend the vines at the church. I expect to bring my vintage to the harvest festival as always next month. You’ll remember my efforts from previous years perhaps? But of course mine is a modest attempt, ever to be humbled by the lofty wines produced by you and your brothers at Satyr Vineyards. Ah! Such ambrosia!”
Raine never knew how to respond to social blather, so he simply didn’t respond at all. He normally left such niceties as social discourse to Nick and Lyon. Without his brothers to run interference, he was at the mercy of this man and anyone who wished to pass idle conversation with him.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, the bishop seemed able to carry on a conversation for the two of them. “I assume you are here for the lecture? Naturally. Why else? I’ll accompany you, for I, too, am here for the exact same purpose. Not that the phylloxera had assaulted my vines. No, no, nothing of the sort. I assure you my grapes grow healthy and plump and bursting with readiness for the harvest.”
He drew the quickest of breaths, then continued on. “Imagine the coincidence of two men from the same region of Tuscany arriving for the same lecture in Venice on the same afternoon. We might have shared a conveyance and conversation on the journey northward had I known. Perhaps on the return?”
Raine shuddered at the very thought of traveling with this man’s constant chatter. Plus the bishop had an annoying way of eyeing him up and down as though he were famished and Raine were a delectable crostoli cake.
Quickening his stride, he left the bridge behind him, forcing his companion to hike his robes and break into a trot. Impervious to any subtle rebuffs, the bishop buzzed along at his side like some sort of annoying insect.
To his great relief, Raine saw the carved front doors of the lecture hall a short distance ahead.
“The lecture?” he inquired of the first attendant he came upon inside the building.
“Si, signore. You’ll find it upstairs in the theater on the right,” the elderly man told him, pointing upward. “Or is it the left? We have several lectures in session here today. I’ll summon an escort.”
“No need. I’ll find it,” said Raine.
“Si! Si! Signore Satyr and I will find our way,” the bishop assured the man, nudging him aside.
Raine’s long stride took the upward-curving stairs two at a time. The bishop followed in a mincing prance. “You’ll be returning to Tuscany soon I trust? To prepare your submission for the vendemmia festival?”
“I sincerely hope so,” Raine replied truthfully. His home at Castello di Greystone on the Satyr Estate was precisely where he should be now, assisting with the harvest of the family grapevines and attending to the racking and blending of fermented grapes already harvested and crushed in prior years. His work was his life, and he felt out of sorts when not attending to it.
But it was a lucky stroke that he’d happened to come to Venice in search of Feydon’s daughter just in time for this lecture. The phylloxera was of great concern to him and his brothers. Every possible cure for it must be studied and exhausted. In the end he feared that its origins might prove to be not of this world.
Deep in the heart of the Satyr Estate stood a secret that had long been guarded by his family—an aperture that was the only joining point between EarthWorld and another world unknown to Humans. Called ElseWorld, it was home to creatures spawned by gods of a bygone era. Shrouded in mist and foliage, the portal’s rocky entrance lay hidden just through an outer gateway formed by three gnarled trees—the oak, ash, and hawthorn of Faerie lore.
If the phylloxera’s origins were unEarthly, it meant the more malignant creatures of ElseWorld had already somehow infiltrated this world. If he didn’t discover the means by which they’d done so, the pox was certain to eventually reach Satyr lands. The consequences of that could prove devastating.
For it was written that if the vines of the Satyr were ever felled, the gate would fall as well. And if that happened, ElseWorld creatures would spill into EarthWorld, wreaking havoc.
By the time Raine reached the landing, the huffing, puffing bishop lagged half a staircase behind him. Raine tried the first door he came to and stepped inside with the bishop hard on his heels. Both came to an abrupt halt at the sight that met their eyes.
Across the dimly lit theater, a man outfitted in white surgeon’s garb stood before a velvet stage curtain. An air of expectation permeated the well-packed audience that appeared to be largely male. With the man’s brisk tug on a cord, the curtains swung open to reveal two figures on the stage beyond him. He waved an arm in their general direction, announcing in a grandiose voice:
“Gentleman! I bid you behold—the hermaphrodite!”
3
When the curtains opened, all eyes fell on Jordan. She faced the audience for this initial inspection, assuming the semireclining pose Salerno had taught her years ago. Both arms were braced straight behind her, with elbows locked and her hands flat on the table, fingers outward. Her back was arched so the surrounding light caught her chest. Her knees were high and widespread. Salerno wanted the features of her body that were so at odds—breasts and phallus—to be prominently on display.
As always, there were gasps and murmurs.
“Aberration. Monstrosity. La Maschera,” they whispered.
La Maschera—The Mask. It was what Salerno had dubbed her in view of the bauta she wore as a disguise. He felt it lent an air of mystery and intrigue to the novelty of her, his prized exhibit.
Those in the back rows stood for a better look. Goosenecks craned. Avid eyes were eager for a glimpse of her—the human freak show Salerno had promised them all today.
Typically, most of the attendees were medical men, here only in the interest of scientific study. But there were also those who came hoping to be titillated or to gather an amusing anecdote with which to amuse other acquaintances in the days to come.
Inspired by her strangeness, some gawkers in the farthest rows would eventually turn silent and slump in their seats. Their hands, hidden under hats or coats on their laps, would begin busily working at their cocks.
In fact, the show today was exactly the sort of event that would appeal to some of her wilder male friends here in Venice. She dreaded that one day she might gaze into the audience at one of these annual spectacles and find Paulo or Gani in attendance.
Her greatest admirers had come early enough to garner prime seating in the front row as always. They were the ones Jordan privately dubbed the Worshippers, though they referred to their group as LAMAS, an acronym for the La Maschera Admiration Society. Comprised of a half-dozen men and women, they’d come every September for the past five years. They saw her as some sort of mythical goddess and occasionally wrote odes in her honor, which a disinterested Salerno passed on to her. They were an odd but harmless bunch.
After
