Angelus ex Abyssus
This story is a collaboration between Winterstale and Rosmarina. Orginally conceived for the Me and Mr. McCarty contest, we didn't quite make the deadline. But here it is for your reading pleasure anyway!
Beta'd by: Viola Cornuta
Disclaimer: All copyrights, trademarked items, or recognizable characters, plots, etc. mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. No copying or reproduction of this work is permitted without their express written authorization.
-Rosalie-
Certainly, as any human would, I made errors of judgment in my human life, but far worse, I was riddled with self-reverence and arrogance. The simple desires of simple people made little impression on me, so glutted I was in my own grandeur. I lived my life as a glittering charm, well aware the seduction of reflected glory drew others to me, proud to wield that power as I chose. My soul, decayed from years of haughty sin, found the transformative light of Holy Mother's forgiveness just in time.
Steeply sloped tile rooftops and the spires of ages past flew by in a heartbeat, our speed intensifying the sharp night time chill in the January air. For me, there was no other sight but him. I reached with trembling fingers to touch the line of his jaw; I'd never found myself so completely besotted with a face other than my own. He was fierce, powerful, more beautiful than if Baglione had rendered the hard planes of his face or brushed the enticing curves of his full lips. I'd found a dream lover, and he was bearing me toward my end. The beautiful demon's arms were tight, protective, around me as he flew us to purgatory on his enormous black wings. I would do my penance; maybe he would stay with me as a guard or even a companion. The hell I created might be bearable with a dark angel like him at my side.
January in Italy was surprisingly cold; February was absolutely bitter.
Since my father's death the previous November, I felt as if every aspect of my life was turning toward extremes. When I left my family home in Rochester on January 4, 1961, I should have been a study in grief but, in truth, was almost bounding away from our stately brick Queen Anne home with a sense of hope I'd never known. My father, only truly known to me in his gloaming, was gone, finally relieved of his agonizing death from cancer. My fiancé, ultimately revealing his true nature was also gone, shedding me with no more thought than a mislaid silk scarf at the symphony. Being a good daughter made me a poor fiancée; attending to my father with purpose removed my presence, and therefore raison d'etre, from Royce's employ as part of his perfect Rochester royalty picture. Daddy's revelations, spoken to me in wheezes and rasps as I sat beside him, the first time in my life I'd sat in the service of another person, spoke to me so much of his own regret, it became mine and illuminated my own.
Observing the daily decease of my father in tiny increments changed me, called forth an attribute I'd avoided with a slightly manic intensity. I became reflective. All of those hours in a cramped and rigid hospital chair, speaking softly or even holding Daddy's hand in silence, opened a propensity to introspection I'd daresay had never given voice to before.
Divested of his banker's gray and stoic hat, Daddy seemed to need to relive his youth. Some days he would almost feverishly tell me stories of opportunities refused, lesser romances dismissed, the regret pressing on his chest. My father took the road most traveled. He expected, instilled, demanded the same from his children and was terrified it was too late for us as well.
Released from the two men who defined me should have terrified me. I'd spent each of my twenty-four years fulfilling their expectations, offering the only aspect of myself that seemed worthwhile to anyone. I was beautiful. Because of that, my father could offer me to the Kings, they took me as another of their baubles, and Daddy's fortunes climbed. I couldn't find it in my heart to hate Daddy, even after I spent the better part of an afternoon in my bed with curtains drawn, a brokered commodity. Daddy had done the same, giving up his family, even his name, to become something more than working-class Irish in the tenements of Manhattan. He saw in his children the chance to send O'Hallorans back to the city as Hales, washed clean of toiling in laundries and slaughterhouses as his parents had, making us all over in the rebirth possible only in America. How could I hate a man who simply wanted better for his own, just as his parents had done when they packed themselves into steerage with the other fortunate ones and left Cork or Liverpool or Hull for the vast ocean and the country of possibility at the other side?
I found I couldn't offer Royce the same forgiveness. We had been groomed for each other, readied to take our places as the most powerful young couple in Rochester. I took time away from the museum and oversaw Daddy's treatments; but Royce still had social engagements, and soon I discovered my duties to him and the King family did not end because my father was lingering painfully between burning radiation treatments and the mercy of death. I was not his 'darling Lilly'; I was his most favored employee. The final straw came when I booked my trip to Italy without Royce's 'permission'. Our broken engagement even ended my position at the museum. I was told the King family had withdrawn their patronage, thus taking away my position in acquisitions. The curator, never one for niceties where I was concerned, informed me I was merely 'a pretty girl who bought pretty things with the Kings' money'.
The days between Daddy's passing and his funeral barely imprinted on my mind. I felt, for the first time in my life, like a player with a part who had no understanding of her lines. I made the appropriate gestures, steadied my mother, guided my brothers. Only when I found my way to Sacred Heart Cathedral the day before my departure for Rome, did I let the layers slip away, sliding into a darkened pew, and allowing the grief for my father and his shadowy life spill out quietly into my pressed handkerchief. The notion that my father hid his very identity, his own name even, was pressing on my mind in a manner I couldn't begin to comprehend.
As with most things, when I didn't understand, I went to Vera. Her tidy little living room, with it's homey smells and toddler Henry babbling happily, was the only place I was honestly accepted. Vera was the only soul in the world who bothered to know the true me.
"Oh Rosie," she sighed as I finished the story. "Honey, did your father tell you anything about his family? Maybe how to find them?"
"No, just the name and that his parents were a laundress and a laborer in a slaughterhouse. He was more intent on my finding the priest. " I reached down and tousled Henry's thick black curls and smiled wistfully at him. "This might seem… odd, I suppose, but I would like for you to teach me."
"Teach you?"
"All I know of them is Irish and Catholic. Barring taking up work in an abattoir, it's what I know of his people." I laughed ruefully and opened my arms for little Henry, whose chubby hands grasped for me as always. "Is there something I can read? A guide? I feel as though I had a father, finally, and he died, and I need him so very much now, Vera." I pressed my lips to the warm head resting against my heart, cursing silently as tears spilled down my cheeks for the second time that day and whispered my greatest fear to my only real friend. "I don't know who I am anymore if I'm not John Hale's daughter or Royce King's fiancé."
Vera came to Henry and me then, kneeling before me and clasping my hands in hers.
"Rose, you are more than those things and always have been. Don't try to take on anything more than enjoying yourself, doing exactly what you want to do in Italy. I promise, if you just have a little faith in yourself, you'll find your own path, my dear." She gave my hands an affectionate squeeze as her sweet brown eyes twinkled merrily. "And as for reading…" Crossing the room, she pulled a thick volume from the tatty bookshelf and passed it to me. " This one has it all - perfect for a trip to Italy. Romance, intrigue, art, even – yes- a bit of religion."
I turned the thick volume over in my hands, unsure of what to expect and after reading the cover looked back to Vera in confusion.
"The Marble Faun" by Nathaniel Hawthorne.
"Yes, a simple novel. What I'm saying, Rosie, is just go and have fun. Choose what you want every day and you'll find yourself when you least expect it . When you are leading the life you want."
We held hands for a moment over her sweet little son's head, both teary through our smiles.
"I'll send you postcards every day," I promised, sniffling.
"You'd better!"
"And wonderful presents for my little angel." Henry's sweet powder and vanilla scent filled my senses as I kissed his forehead and received a squirming, sticky handed kiss for my trouble.
"And take lots of snapshots, and throw your coins in that fountain and… oh, Rosie – go have a romance and you must write with all of the details!"
We giggled as we did when we were girls over it all, and our talk moved on to more mundane things: the just-passed holidays, Henry's utter perfection, our families. Time melted away as it always did when I was with my best friend. The conversation was so easy, and even the fluid dance of the two of us in the kitchen, working on dinner, chatting, stopping to make a face or steal a little kiss from Henry in his high chair, felt like a balm after months in those hard, upright chairs at the hospital. I caught myself fussing over the sweet little boy, as did she, but neither of us commented; we just smiled, Vera winking at me over the homey golden perfection of chicken pot pie coming from her oven. I sighed, content: soon I would be too full with her wonderful cooking, happy, excited about everything that lay before me – relaxed. God knows, Vera's house was my sanctuary.
Vera's husband Frank drove me home after I'd read my sweet Henry one last story, had one last nuzzle of his warm little cheek and feathery dark eyelashes. Even before Daddy and his illness and the sad, sad admissions of his regrets, this little boy – my little angel baby Henry – had changed my life. Henry showed me I wanted to be more than an ornament; Daddy taught me how to begin.
As Frank turned down St. Paul Street, a group of men staggered in front of the car, causing Frank to brake hard and slide on the icy pavement. Instead of an embarrassed wave or even a called apology, one of the figures approached the car, staggering, obviously quite drunk.
"Rosie, lock your door," Frank instructed quietly. I did, and clutched my gloved hands together nervously. There was something… I knew that figure, the coat, even the man's movements, sauced as he was. I knew him. As his fists fell against the windshield, I screamed – not in fright but fury.
Royce. Belligerent, arrogant, drunken Royce.
"Watch yourself, piss-ant!" he slurred as he pressed his face against the frosted glass in a grotesque mask of rage. One of his cronies descended and sickeningly, the sound of broken glass rang out over the hum of the engine. Frank and I looked to each other, then at the darkened street around us. No police, just a couple exiting the tavern Royce and his gang had just stumbled from. Frank sounded the old Mercury's horn to no avail: there were five of them and they were itching for a fight, surrounding the car like enraged predators.
"Nah, you just sit theyah, Rosie." I'd never heard Frank's voice so dark and full of the Down East Maine of his youth. He was a big man, descended from hearty Irish lobstermen, and would not back down from a few drunks bashing in his beloved '52 Merc.
In one powerfully fluid movement, Frank swung his door open and sent one of Royce's friends – Cal Eastman by the look of him – skidding across the icy street.
"Move on, ya drunk-aads," Frank snarled, rising to his full height. Royce, the fool, actually approached him, swaying against the open car door. He'd been sick with drink, and his coat bore the remnants of it. I covered my face as the stench was carried inside the car with a gust of wind off of the lake. When Royce lunged at Frank awkward and flailing on the slick road, a part of me broke open: rageful, sickened, and absolutely disgusted that I'd ever considered this…
I'd thought of him as my prince?
"Go home, Royce, you're staggering drunk and putting your family to shame," I spat as I threw open my door.
"Rosalie, get in the car," I heard Frank say, his voice full of heavy resignation. I shook my head and strode over to Royce, furious.
"You pay Frank for the headlight Powell Jordan just kicked out and go on home, Royce King!"
"Wh…why it's - … boys come see, it's that Irish whore I almost married!" The thick, wet set of his lips and the clinging sour smell of his vomit almost sickened me.
Frank's hand closed on Royce's collar, lifting him to his toes. His friends, seeing Frank's size and the heavy tire iron that had somehow appeared in his hand, began to back away towards the lights of the bar.
"I said move on, ya rich shitting drunk."
"Go, Royce. You disgust me." I turned and stalked back to the passenger side of the car, full of fury and mortification over his treatment of my Vera's kind husband. Royce was right behind me, snatching me into him by the collar of my red cashmere coat – the coat he had approved from a selection sent over from Sibley's Department Store.
"Watch your mouth you scheming RC piece of trash," he sneered, spraying me with his rank spittle as he pressed his face towards mine. "I can't believe I balled you. You're no better than a downstairs maid, Roooosalie O'Halloran." Royce laughed bitterly at his own approximation of a broad Irish accent. I stared at him, bewildered, so completely confounded at how he had discovered …not the priest… the nurses? I didn't see his hand slicing through the frigid air, aimed for my face. "I wasted years, we wasted a fortune on you trying to clean the filth off you… should have left you on the side of the road with the rest of the rubbish." As 'filth' spewed from his mouth, his palm glanced across my cheekbone, sending white streaks of light across my hastily shut eyes. I heard Frank shouting, using words I'd never truly heard in conversation, and as their voices rose my coat collar gave way under Royce's clawing hand.
Irish whore. Trash. Filth?
Not me.
I marched after them; Frank had closed the tire-iron over Royce's neck to restrain him and their male bestial grunts escalated over each other's in an unintelligible mish-mash.
"I was everything you wanted me to be for six years, you arrogant bastard." My breath came hard between my gritted teeth as I stalked toward him, fists clenched and trembling. "How dare you call me a…wh- trash?"
Royce's head lolled slightly against Frank's shoulder, his own body fidgeting with apparent anger. Something warm, inexplicably, was on my feet, my legs, dripping from the fine wool of my coat.
"There you piece of low-class shit. That's what you're good for."
"Rosie, oh God, honey…just get in the car, let me –"
It came to disgusting, revolting clarity as Frank swung Royce round to face him, his arm pulling away from his body in a lethal arc.
And I saw Henry. No father to speak of. The Kings never stopped until they bent their targets to their will. I knew. They had done it to me.
"Frank, stop." I whispered, then again – louder, with all of the authority and power and self-possession Rosalie Lillian Hale knew was in her. "Stop."
Frank stepped away allowing Royce to slide to the icy street, sputtering and coughing as he clamored for footing, then shot from under him, landing him square on his backside. Before I could consider my actions, what ladylike meant and how I'd been raised, I strode to this man I would have married, never slowing, and kicked him between the legs. I propelled my muscle and tendon and bone with every minute ofevery repressed painful year I'd spent with Royce and his family: misunderstood, dismissed, made over without my consent and ultimately rejected for loyalty to the man who wanted nothing but the best for me.
Frank gaped, but said nothing, instead gently taking my elbow and leading me back to the still-idling car. Silently, he slid my ruined coat from me, deposited it in the trunk and gently wiped at my quaking legs and feet with an old saddle blanket. Before I could make sense of his actions, I was wrapped in his rough woolen coat and passing through Rochester's upper-class enclave.
Mother met us at the door, frantic, having been called by Vera just minutes before inquiring after Frank. There were hushed voices, the rustle of fabric and a reeking odor suddenly replaced by the hiss of a spraying scent. My shoes were removed and my feet placed in a basin of warm water as an ice-filled towel was pressed against my cheekbone, horror dissipating and fresh rage taking its place.
"Frank," I muttered tonelessly. He was before me, worried, having just spoken with Vera and the police. "Frank, thank you." My mind was clearing, the repulsive reality topmost in my memory.
"Rosie, that… oh, Christ, Rosalie be glad you're rid of that one, eh?" He crouched before me, hi gentle brown eyes so much like little Henry's. "That…that ain't no man, huh? That's a monster. Don't think of him again. To… t'... Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he sighed shaking his head. "Ta' hit a woman and then… uh, Rosie. Money an' fine things don't mean much if those that have 'em are no account altogether, eh?"
"No," I replied quietly.
There were statements to be made, reports filled out. I nodded and responded mechanically through it all, only coming fully into the present when our housekeeper Moira leant into my ear.
"Miss Rosalie, I've got the stains and the smell out but you might want a new one all the same. Your lovely pumps were ruined, though."
Moira. Sweet, soft voice, lilting with Ireland.
"It's alright, Moira." I said, suddenly feeling my exhaustion. "Thank you, dear."
-o-
My last evening in Rochester had been nightmarish and revealing. The sight of Royce and knowledge he was capable of such absolute disdain ended any small thread of hope I'd entertained of reconciliation.
I was truly my own now.
When I settled into my seat on the airliner in New York, I took out Vera's Hawthorne, reading myself for the long transatlantic flight. A slip of paper fluttered to my lap, followed by the soft 'chink' of metal.
Rosie,
I hope you discover all you hope for on your wonderful trip – and finally know the girl I see in you.
All of my love and blessings for a safe journey,
Vera
With the note, she had enclosed her own little silver cross, embossed with tiny roses. I knew it had been her grandmother's and passed to Vera. With flooding eyes, I pressed the cool metal to my lips as the plane ascended over New York and sent my dearest friend blessings of my own.
My arrival in Rome was an awakening. Even in the chilly winter air, the city was drawn in soft color: an ancient, yet still living fresco. Delicate grays, peaches, cloud-like blues and gentle wheats and olives greeted me every day. Each morning brought a new decision, a new plan – all my own… what Rosie wanted.
The city softened me with it's eternal glow. The red coat, a keepsake of Royce's attempt to imprint the King way on me, not to mention his revolting attack, was gone. I wrapped myself in tender blue and mild taupe, pearlescent cream, dove gray. Blue, the Romans told me more than once, was the color of heaven. Il colore del cielo, il colore del Madonna!
Madonna. Holy Mother.
I gazed at her for an hour at St. Paul's, gesturing dreamily at the others to move on around me as I stood, transfixed and feeling her loss, her unending sacrifice in the Pieta. To me, the iconic sculpture was not evidence of Michelangelo's hand applied to marble. She loved, gave everything and was transformed. I was never particularly observant at our own church, seeing the Sunday service as another social obligation with Royce or, earlier in life, a place to see and be seen. I was appreciated when I fulfilled expectations, admonished when I was less than perfect, and never considered anything larger than myself. Faith was unimaginable. I was determined. I was well-behaved. I would never trust anything outside of my small, monochrome world.
My father's faith, and particularly this Holy Mother appealed to me. Unconditional love, grace, faith – all were foreign concepts to me. The idea of her and what she represented, unending, infinite, non-judgemental love, stirred me like nothing outside of my own whims and desires ever had. Mary, as Michelangelo saw her, held her hand open, palm up.
Acceptance.
Hail Mary full of Grace…
I began to see myself like a pilgrim in a Caravaggio: stepping from darkness into light, shedding the time-consuming concern with myself and noticing everything else.
The world was so much more than Rochester, a good marriage, even babbling little babies. I'd never given it a whit of consideration, and now I thought about it all the time.
I was more - and nothing. I was stripped of everyday concerns, and it was exhilarating. I learned to play in my mind, finding imagination that entertained me as I took in the Colliseum and wondered what it was like to watch, even to participate before a Caesar. Gray haired men called "Bellissima", kissed my hand, even sang bits of opera to me. Instead of haughty dismissal, I giggled and flirted with them lightheartedly. I sipped a Bellini and considered Hemingway in Harry's Bar, ate a pastry if I chose, napped until ten when my body called for it.
Anything and everything I did was my own decision. I was becoming what I wanted to be, knowing myself and not the vision for me created by others. Not an ornament, not a prize.
Rosalie.
I learned that I loved opera. The thought made me giggle quietly and shake my head at it. Le grandi passioni ... la vita, il rimorso amore, la morte. The climactic highs and lows thrilled me, made me gasp and laugh and cry at the elaborate productions I watched from elegant boxes.
In Venice, I was still laughing to myself over a new production of A Midsummer Night's Dream when I exited Teatro la Fenice, when an ancient Nonni stopped me and placed her withered hand on my cheek.
"Tu, ragazza bella, tu sei innocente con la vita!"
Rosalie Hale, reborn. Known to herself for the first time at twenty-four.
You, beautiful girl, you are innocent with life, she'd said.
-o-
As February flew by, my trip drew to a close and I fought against the heavy dread that made my body sag every time I considered returning to Rochester.
On my final day in Milan, the kind couple who owned the Pensione where I was staying presented me with a pair of antique opera glasses and a ticket to La Scala. I'd spent several evenings with them, discussing events, my reasons for travel, what I had encountered and how my life had changed.
"Rosa, put on a pretty dress and go to La Teatro. Find a handsome man to smile at," Signora Moretti said affectionately, pressing the glasses into my hands.
As the orchestra went through one final progression of scales, a late arriving party across the theatre caught my eye. They took up the largest box just across from me and were so similar in movement and dress they must have been related. I couldn't look upon them as family members, but rather a tribe of some sort. I risked a further glance in their direction as the curtain rose and noticed two large men stationed at the back of the box.
"Hmmm…" I mused, looking at the pale faces illuminated in the stage lights. "Bodyguards?"
The elderly woman beside me caught my appraisal – why was I attracting so many Italian grandmothers? – and tsked me harshly.
"Allontanati, bambino! Non li guardo, sono demoni!"
Demons? Surely I'd misheard – the family name must be similar. Still I was curious.
"Mi perdoni, Signora?" I whispered to her over the overture.
"Shhh…Non li guardo."
She motioned to the stage, and I turned away slowly, like a chastised child. As my eyes moved across the tableau of the family one last time, I noticed the apparent father, or leader…a slight dark-haired man clearly of importance as he was seated in the middle of the others…watching me. He inclined his head slightly to me and smiled in a manner that might be called charming had it been another man who had done so. Something in this Signore Demoni's unabashed appraisal of me caused a rush of clammy fear to ride my spine and I shivered in spite of myself. For the rest of the evening, as Verdi's Don Carlos unfolded before me, my hand went again and again to my neck, toying absentmindedly with Vera's little silver cross.
The sensation of eyes on me never faded, even during the interval when I was certain someone observed me from behind the drawn curtains of the Royal Box. The heavy dread of returning home, the impossible choices Elisabeth and Eboli faced, and the disconcerting attentions of the Royal box's occupants stretched my nerves thin.
Addio Addio, sogno dorato ... illusione! ... Fantasma! ...
Ogni link vincolante me terra è rotto!
Addio, giovinezza, amore! ... Dare da sotto il ceppo,
il mio cuore ha solo un desiderio di sinistra, che è la pace della morte!
Farewell, youth, love. Golden dream.
How could I go home now?
-o-
My last day in Italy was to be in Siena. The next morning I would board a train for Rome and then a plane for New York, but until then, I had one last visit. San Domenico in Siena to visit St. Catherine's Chapel.
Her devotion to the Church, to her calling was absolute. Elisabeth in Don Carlos, devoted to him, welcoming death without her love.
I was devoted... was I? To what or to whom?
The light and peace of the past two months seemed to flow out of me, rather than in, like a river's course changed by an earthquake. I lit candles and prayed in the baptistry for my father, pulled my mantilla lower, gazed more reverently at the image of the Virgin over the altar and the relics of St. Catherine in her little glass case. It felt hollow.
The only sight in St. Catherine's Chapel that rang true to me was the fresco of a beheaded man and the bereft expression on the face of the only figure trained on the headless figure. Her blonde hair was swept away from her face, revealing horrified loss. She clutched at herself, arms crossed over her chest as if trying to console herself in the knowledge she alone would be her only source of comfort after this loss. I couldn't look away from this woman robed in blue, and it filled me with dread.
As I made my way to the door, a slight woman, dressed in the garb of a postulant preparing to enter a religious order, approached me with a tiny prayer card.
"You seem so sad," she whispered and pressed the card into my hand. "Remember the good things, my sister."
The terse old Rosalie smile sprang to my lips first, before I could control it, and I shoved my hand holding the little card into my pocket, turned on my heel and fled from the chapel.
Once in the square outside Santo Domingo, I stopped, my breath coming in small angry gasps. The card was still crumpled in my hand.
"The angels too, who did not keep to their own domain but deserted their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains, in gloom…"
I snorted softly, crumpling the card again, tried to call the image of the Pieta in my mind and failed.
Eternal chains. Home.
I sighed and started for my Pensione.
"Pardon me, miss? Signorina?" The most beautiful voice, an angel's voice, floated from over my shoulder. I turned and was greeted by a woman similar in stature to me but with a flowing auburn hair that could only be described as a lush mane. Her eyes, the most unusual shade of violet, almost hypnotized me.
"Yes?"
"You are a tourist, yes, an art lover? Please permit me to give you an invitation from my employer. He has noted your great beauty,"
"Invitation?" I repeated, dazed.
"Yes, an invitation. My employer enjoys the company of our city's more cosmopolitain visitors from time to time at his villa. His collection of art and antiquities rivals the Uffizi itself."
I knew intellectually I should walk away, yet something about this woman and the engraved card she held toward me held me like a charmed child.
Feeling quite agreeable, I nodded to the stunning violet-eyed woman and smiled lazily.
"Yes, I think... yes, it will be a wonderful conclusion to my visit," I replied, even as I fought my actions mentally, and accepted the invitation from her outstretched hand.
"A driver is waiting just here..."
Maybe this isn't such a good idea... can't...
"Signorina Rosalie, we all are breathless to enjoy your company this evening. I assure you, it will be an amazing experience," she smiled once again and took my arm.
How...?
-o-
I am quite sure the sleek Maserati sedan drove us out of Siena, along the narrow Tuscan roads that wound through the sentinels of cypress and tile-topped villas, just as it seems quite likely my hostess and I spoke at length about art, my favorite cities in Italy, even my appreciation of the Pieta.
I know these things because they make sense, and it seems logical that those events would take up the short automobile trip. However, the only detail I am certain of was her incomparable beauty. In some lifetime I might have hotly envied this woman, but her presence, and everything that comprised it, was the most enchanting sensation I'd ever experienced in my entire life. Each of my senses were seduced to listen, see, smell - yes, even taste the air flavored with her essence. Her hand brushed the sleeve of my coat twice as we chatted, and the sensation was as though someone had wrapped me in the finest duchesse satin, only magnified many times over. As illogical as it might seem, I was certain I would follow this lovely violet-eyed woman anywhere.
The car deposited me inside a monolithic port cochiere, and I followed a couple up the steps to the interior where we joined a group of other tourists. As I began to return to my senses and attempt to question what had brought me here, the villa's interior double doors opened, and a very young, almost childlike pair joined us in the ante room.
"Welcome to our uncle's villa, Villa Volterra," a tiny blonde woman-child greeted quietly. "Mere words cannot express the pleasure we take in greeting a gathering of such esteemed guests. Please, follow my brother to Uncle's salone. There is a display of Mesopotamian... relics...as well as a stunning Caravaggio." She turned so gracefully it seemed she moved on the currants of air, not by her own feet, on the lowly floors where mortals walked. Her brother followed, his movements similar to hers.
The corridor was long, but quite narrow for such a large home and seemed to draw even closer as we approached a set of enormous carved oak doors. I attempted to see the Caragvaggio, or the Baglione opposite but my fellow guests had crowded at the doors, whispering excitedly, even attempting to peek through the tiny crack between the ancient portals. The Mesopotamian items were in impossibly good condition for such ancient silver. They must have been the implements of a dressmaker or tailor - they called to mind the button hole maker and seam ripper Moira used sometimes when making small repairs to our clothing at home.
The other guests began to move into the next room, and I took the opportunity to stand aside and peer up at the Caravaggio. As with many of his later paintings it was a simple, uncluttered composition of a sword-brandishing youth holding the severed head of a man. I shuddered, seeing a beheading for the second time in one day, even rendered by Renaissance masters, was unsettling, especially as the two mannerists seemed to exaggerate the most horrific aspects of the executions. I tried to study the beautiful example of chiaroscuro, appreciate the way Caravaggio lit the youth's marble-like skin to an almost opalescent gleam but found it impossible to even look at another painting. Perhaps I was sated of Caravaggio - maybe the Baglione?
I turned to the opposite wall and was afforded the briefest of visions of the composition: an angel...Michael?...stepping in to save a pouti from a filth covered, cowering demon. This angel stepped forward from the dark surrounding canvas that contained the fiend, his dark curls shot with reflected light that shone off of his perfect alabaster skin and highlighted the full, almost female curve of his mouth. The canvas seemed to move and suddenly a figure so similar to the Baglione's angel stepped in front of me. He was the most impressive man I'd ever seen: the span of his shoulders and broad chest was the embodiment of masculine power coiled just beneath the heavy wool tunic and cape he wore.
Oh... but his face. Utterly heartwrenching, breathtaking, divine... an angel stepping from the darkness.
An angel, reaching out for me.
Moving with a grace that seemed impossible for a man of his stature, he was suddenly closer, out of the shadows and into the single shaft of light in the windowless corridor. As his features clarified, I saw the sweet, angelic grace of little Henry's innocent face looking up at me, reaching, smiling with his gurgling little laugh, but something was off... wrong.
He was bound, locked in profound, unending grief.
Endless... eternal chains.
I stepped toward him, my pulse thundering in my ears and breath shaking my shoulders with shallow gasps. My angel, in a house of demons.
My hand extended to the tender curve of his smooth cheek, brushing at his cool skin, and his agony became mine.
Save him, Rosie, my father's voice echoed in my mind.
"The angels too, who did not keep to their own domain but deserted their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains, in gloom…"
And I will deliver you into the light, my dark angel.
-Emmett-
This castle was my prison.
I travelled its passageways unfettered, from catacombs to ramparts. I held the key to every door; no secret staircase or hidden entrance was closed to me. As trusted key keeper I should have felt command over this space.
Instead, I was its captive.
Whispers of movement murmured throughout the castle like the soft rustle of moth's wings as we prepared. In contrast were the echoed sounds of the aged stone building – the weighted creak of ponderous wooden doors and the metallic rasp and thud of tumblers clicking into place. I strode silently from room to room twisting ancient keys in timeworn locks. It was my task to secure our private quarters from unwanted eyes. We were dining in tonight.
The familiar scent alerted me to her presence.
"Heidi," I greeted her cordially. "Shouldn't you be out gathering our guests?"
"Patience, mi orso." She trailed her fingertips along my arm with the familiarity of a lover. Heidi was… enticing. She had, of course, the ethereal beauty imparted upon all vampires who survived the change. Her mahogany hair was lustrous and full. Her figure was statuesque. Her voice was silky. Beyond that, she indulged in the invention of blue-tinted contact lenses that transformed her crimson eyes to a startling violet. She claimed it was a requirement of her duty to lure humans here for our meals. That she was never without them belied the small conceit.
She tipped her face up to me, and I obliged her with a perfunctory kiss on each cheek before she swept down the passageway towards the outer doors. Casual dalliances aside, she knew better than to expect affection or devotion from me. We were not mated. Heidi's bed was merely an acceptable outlet for the passions and angers hidden under lock and key within me.
I lingered in the private hall, purposely leaving it for last. Twenty-six years human and seventeen more vampire, I was barely more than a child, newborn, to the ageless immortals who surrounded me, as I was reminded by the collection of art and artifact housed here in this, my favorite room.
I wondered through the gallery, loitering. Here was a Roman mosaic in limestone and marble, a terra cotta warrior with his horse, and a tapestry depicting the Battle of Agincourt. There was a map of New World trade routes, an ornate Norse pendant shaped as Thor's hammer, and a stone calendar in Mayan hieroglyphs. Each piece was acquired during the era in which it was created, or so I was told. Before my change and recruitment into the Volturi guard, I cared little for the history of the big, wide world. Now, with an inhuman eternity before me, I found myself drawn to the temporal evidence of humanity the three Volturi Ancients had amassed.
There was even a tray of torture implements that both fascinated and horrified me. Imagine the blood to be got with those. I felt the vague stirrings of thirst in my throat as I thought of it. The desire for human blood was so basic, so instinctual; I often wondered how any could deny the appetite. Yet some spoke quietly of one of us, a Stregoni Benefici, who rose above the mire of endless palace intrigue and bloody banqueting on the cattle Heidi procured for our meals. He had his own coven, they said – some whispered famiglia, a concept I could barely comprehend since my changing – who passed an approximation of human existence, drinking the blood of animals while abstaining from human blood altogether.
Eventually I reached the end of the hall and the last door that needed locking. I delayed to look over one last item. Here was an early copy of Virgil's tenth Eclogue. I read it again, though it was committed to my perfect vampiric memory, and chose as usual to ignore the oft quoted passage Love conquers all. I preferred a line more befitting to my purgatory: Resolved am I... with wild beasts to couch, and bear my doom.
I secured the private hall and continued my silent progress through the castle. My rounds complete, I traced the path our dinner guests would take, pausing before a painting the size of a small window. It was another of my pastimes. As vampire I could stand as still as a statue for hours looking upon this bucolic scene of Tuscany's rolling hillside. The lure of an existence outside the corridors of the nightmare palace had become the stuff of daydream. There was so little reason to hurry. There was so little reason for anything anymore.
The heavy keys that signified my position in the guard were also my handcuffs, a paltry raison d'être. I had no reason to leave. I had no reason to stay. I was a mental prisoner – of Aro's whims and manipulations and my own demoralized apathy.
I felt the gloomy weight of the Caravaggio canvas behind me, as if David was offering the head of Goliath to me himself, and turned. The painter had given the gory head his own features. There were moments I could understand the macabre desire. The pale young man with the bloody sword was luminescent against the murky black of the background and never failed to make me think of Alec, one of Aro's favorites in the guard. Alec's gift was often used to punish wayward vampires. Those whose crimes were severe enough to provoke execution were necessarily handled by the largest of the guard instead. There wasn't much that would kill us, only beheading followed by fire. Felix had a taste for it, which often spared me the duty.
My nostrils flared with an unwelcome scent. Felix.
"Well, well, if it isn't cucciolo di orso." Bear cub. He twisted Heidi's term of affection to goad my temper. "Dawdling again? Come. Aro wishes you at the main door to the banquet hall."
Felix was the only vampire larger than me I'd ever met. Not only that, his physical power and talent for fighting was uncontested. He was Aro's favorite gladiator and executioner, always a step or more ahead of any opponent, and was called often to fight for the amusement of the three Ancients. I'd seen him sizing me up. I think he was tired of easy kills and hoped one day to have me in the ring. Meanwhile, he seemed to delight in entertaining himself at my expense.
Mi orso. My bear. The bitter irony was not lost on me.
-o-
I remembered so very little of my human life – merely flashes, like over-exposed still frames flickering at the end of movie reel. All that remained were individual moments, obscured by the veil of amnesia created by the fire of my turning.
…my hand resting on the gentle swell of a belly…
…clasping a dainty gold cross around a graceful neck…
…waving good-bye to a young woman on shore who cried as she blew kisses…
…a telegram, half crushed in my fist…
The events that lead to my changing were much clearer, though with the passage of time they became distant in a different way. It was as if they were merely facts that held little meaning, as if they had happened to someone else. That Emmett McCarty, that human, flew bombardier position in B-24's for the 376th AEW. When his division was sent after Romanian oil refineries, that Emmett miraculously survived the heavy fire of anti-aircraft artillery just long enough to go down in flames somewhere over the Carpathian Mountains. That Emmett, though bruised and bloodied, survived even then, his chute tangling in the canopy of dense forest.
The blood drew the attention of a bear. Not just any bear – not a 500 pound American black bear that could be found in the hills of Tennessee where that Emmett had grown up, but a massive 1500 pound European brown bear.
Ursus arctos arctos. It batted at my human body once, twice, clawing through gear, skin and muscle. The bear set my mangled limbs swinging from the chute straps that held it suspended. A few more swipes would finally end this hellish existence.
"Thank you, God," I prayed. "Finally I can join my wife, my child." A smile of the truly blessed graced my face.
Unbelievably, the bear turned, disinterested, to amble away.
"No. No, no, NO!"
I would live? After all that, and yet I would live?
"Get back here and finish me, God damn it!" I screamed, kicking and thrashing against the air in desperate futility. The bear eyed me once more with indifference and disappeared behind the tree line.
"Noooo!" I howled. I cursed that bear to the fiery depths of hell. I cursed the bear, and I cursed the God who left me to rot in this earthly existence when he had taken away from me all that I loved, all that was good and pure.
As clear as the memories of my death may be in comparison to those faded glimpses of my human life, both were like looking through murky glass compared to the rigorous and categorically perfect recall we vampires had of every single moment since awakening from the fires of our transformation.
As I'd howled and raged against God for sparing me again, for making me the sole survivor again, I had no reason to believe I was not alone. As it happened, the smell of my spilled blood had drawn more than just the bear.
The soft flutter of moving air had me looking up to find what stirred it. In the shadowy underbrush crouched a figure, a small dark-haired woman with strangely pale skin and unnerving eyes. My skin crawled as she skittered up a tree and snapped the webbing of my chute straps with her bare hands as though she was tearing paper. With a thump I fell into a heap on the forest floor, groaning with the agony of landing on my broken leg. She was not human, of that I was sure. The woman – creature? – dropped lightly to her feet beside me and took my face in her hands. I shuddered as I looked into her blood red eyes. Surely this was a bringer of death come to grant me my wish at last.
I'd begged for death, and she had come to grant it.
Or so I'd thought when the burning began.
The creature who sired me was Bohemian in every sense of the word. In life she'd been a Roma – a Gypsy and a Tinker. In death she was a nomad, wandering Eastern Europe for her hunting grounds. When I woke from my change, hunting humans became as instinctual as breathing had been before it. What Tsuritsa taught me was how to kill without leaving evidence, how to keep to the shadows, how to control my bloodlust and how to masquerade as human.
Tsuritsa, her name meant little light of the dawn. What satire was God playing at?
And they said Felix had a gift of luck. I must have had the devil's own luck myself.
Perhaps eighteen moons had passed since my change when I encountered the bear again. I'd seen many over the course of my wanderings with Tsuritsa, but somehow I knew unerringly this was the same bear that left me dangling in the trees, the bear I had cursed.
A fury overtook me as I leapt upon the beast, tearing at its fur. I could have snapped its neck so easily and been done with it quickly, but I wanted it enraged. I wanted a battle. I wanted bright red smears and splatters of blood against the snow. I could not have an end to the grief that had hardened into my very bones, but perhaps I could exact some measure of revenge.
When it was done, and the last of the bear's warm blood pooled and melted the snow around its carcass, I closed my eyes and tried to revel in the wreckage, hoping to prolong the blissful focus of the frenzy that was retreating all too quickly.
A sound caught my attention, and the last of my euphoria drained away, turning quickly to horror as the lone bear cub shuffled into view, raising its snow-covered snout to sniff. I rent the air with a feral howl as full realization of my sin descended upon me.
In my contemptible and rash vengeance I had stolen the mother from this cub.
My anguish and self-loathing took physical manifestation. The cub, frightened, scampered away into the brush as I fell to my knees, clawing my own face. My nails screeched against the marble of my skin, but I could not mark it, so I scrabbled instead at the rock below, tearing large hunks to hurl against the trees. The split and splinter of centuries old trunks was still not enough.
I bounded towards an outcropping of rock, pummeling into it with my fists until a piece longer than a train car and twice as wide cracked away from the hillside. My knees did not buckle as I lifted the boulder, but the sensation of its weight was gratifying. It was somehow soothing to bear a burden heavier than my grief, if only for a moment.
I was barely conscious of Tsuritsa watching me in amazement as I hefted the great stone to my shoulder before hurtling it through the clear air. The deafening crash and boom as it landed was followed by a rumble and shudder of the earth beneath our feet. The monolithic boulder had cracked in two, and the terrain below it had opened into a wide fissure.
Tsuritsa turned to me then with an unreadable look on her face though her eyes were wide. She pointed once at me and once down the south side of the mountain. "Italia. Volturi."
She pressed me once more in the direction in which she had pointed and nodded her head as if to say 'go on'. I took a step forward, then turned my head to look back at her, but she was already gone.
Alone.
Again.
And so I'd headed south.
-o-
I took my place as sentry and doorman before the ornately carved main doors to the banquet room. When Aro approached, I readied the door to admit him. His features were frozen in time like the rest of us, but his eyes were a milky red, and his pallid skin was thin like the finest paper. He'd walked the earth for more than 3,000 years, and of the three Ancients he seemed perpetually amused.
He stopped before me, holding out his hand. "My dear Emmett, are you well today?"
I bowed my head demurely and placed my palm in his. "Of course, Master." My answer mattered little. Through his touch he would read every thought I'd ever had and know for himself soon enough.
After a moment he released me with a small smile and entered the hall. If my dissatisfaction with this existence were of any concern, I could only assume either the strength for which Aro valued me outweighed it, or it suited his designs. I closed the door behind him and took my place again.
The thrum of approaching heartbeats awakened my thirst. As I opened the heavy wooden door to the banquet hall for Heidi to usher in our guests, the scent of that warm, coursing blood inundated the room. It always affected me the same way – the burn in my throat, the drip of venom, the spring-like coil of anticipation, the zinging thrill of the hunt my nature still expected despite the fact I rarely had the pleasure of a chase anymore. Regardless, the smell and sound and sight of these doomed cattle had whet my appetite.
"Yes, they do look rather juicy," Heidi murmured in tones below the range of human hearing. "Wipe your chin, mi orso, it's quite unbecoming to drool so," she teased before turning to enter the hall.
I had just begun the task of closing us all inside the abattoir when I heard it. Another heartbeat remained in the stonework passageway. My head snapped towards the sound. Instinctively I raised my nose to sniff the air – sweet almond, sunlight in the morning, the bite of ginger, a crisp mountain air after a snow. Delectable. It was literally mouth-watering as the flow of venom increased. I stepped into the passage; the sound and scent led me around the corner.
I stood frozen, arrested by the sight before me.
She had stopped to linger over the Caravaggio, and her head was tipped back enticingly as she studied the canvas. Silken honeyed tresses skimmed down the line of her back, but her neck was decadently exposed – the graceful line of it, the pulse of it provoked me. My greedy mouth dripped with venom.
She looked up as if abruptly realizing she had strayed from the group. The trotting gait of her heartbeat sped to a canter as she felt me staring at her from the shadows. Her scent altered delicately in response to my presence – the tart of a green apple, warm butter, rich black currant.
The fragrance of her blood called to me, commanding and demanding, pulsing and singing under skin so gossamer and fine it must be tasted. A multitude of wicked hungers blossomed within me. No blood or body had so seduced me since being reborn into this existence. My vampiric nature catalogued the details of my prey automatically. Arched eyebrows balanced high cheek bones and ripe lips. A vaguely feline swoop of coal-black lined sooty upper lashes over icy blue eyes. Deliciously heavy breasts and rounded hips were punctuated by a narrow waist. Her limbs were delicate and well-turned. Even without the way her blood beckoned me it was an exquisite package. I was nearly undone by the sultry curve of her calf alone.
And then she looked at me, into me, and spoke. "The angels too, who did not keep to their own domain but deserted their proper dwelling, he has kept in eternal chains, in gloom…" She barely whispered, but I heard every nuanced word. This golden beauty, this angel, could recognize the agony of a soul-less demon like me?
The cadence of her blood, the glow of her skin, the gleam of her eye, she was temptation and redemption rolled into one. Alarm bells rang in my head clanging MineMineMineMineMine as I wrestled desperately with my restraint.
Even newly-made, I had never struggled with my control so completely. I didn't understand it. I didn't know what was happening to me. She took a step forward and instinctively I backed away.
Again.
And again.
It wasn't until I'd backed into the banquet hall that I realized I'd led her straight into the slaughterhouse. No!
My thoughts tumbled over each other in haste. Take her! Save her! Fight! Flee!
To act now would be a gruesome end to us both and not necessarily a quick one; I held tenuously to that rational thought. Under the pressure of our audience, a dozen vampires and twice as many humans, I clung to my routine and marshaled my composure as best I could. With a bow of my head and a sweep of my arm, I ushered her into the lion's den and locked the door behind her as was expected of me.
It was customary for Aro to have first choice. The guard stood patiently awaiting his decision. As his eyes swept the room and landed on me, I realized I had stepped in front of my angel as if to block her from his view. The slight upward curve of one brow showed me my folly, and I stepped aside, struggling to keep any protective or possessive gestures out of my stance. It would accomplish nothing to raise his suspicions.
The light of recognition in his eyes when he looked upon the woman beside me turned my stomach. Aro had undoubtedly already made his choice. He signaled Heidi discreetly, and she glided forward to greet my angel.
"Signorina Rosalie, we are so pleased you could join us tonight. My employer, Signore Aro, would very much like to show you his rare collections. May I escort you to the private gallery?" The ritual was long-standing: upon Aro's signal, Heidi would bait and lure away his favored guest for solitary enjoyment after he entertained himself watching the rest of us feed. The one difference tonight was that I cared to learn her name.
Rosalie.
I didn't watch her go as she followed Heidi from the room, but I was intensely aware of her scent as I plotted my revolt. I would have her yet! Though I had only vague and distasteful assumptions about Aro's inclinations, I knew exactly where she would be taken.
Our dinner theatre had begun; I would have to play my role and bide my time a little longer.
Members of the guard approached the human guests, pairing off in a charade of welcoming conversation that overlaid the ignominious purpose of staking claim to feeding rights. After a moment, Heidi returned alone. I closed and locked the door behind her, removing the final illusion of freedom from our guests, though they hardly noticed. The cattle were already overawed by the otherworldly beauty of my vampire brethren and their luxurious surroundings.
I nodded to my Master, signifying the room was secure.
Aro smiled benevolently down upon the gathering, spreading his hands wide in an imperious gesture. "Buon appatito, my children."
And then the screaming commenced.
I picked at random the nearest unattended human, my thoughts still racing as I dragged my victim towards a darkened corner. I barely registered the scent or appearance of my meal, all my thoughts and senses consumed as they were with the siren call of my fair-haired angel and my schemes.
I risked Aro's wrath, of that I was certain. Yet, if I took her now, while everyone was overcome with bloodlust and the frenzy of feeding, perhaps I could escape with her.
The insignificant struggles and shrieks of the man in my grasp infuriated me as would the buzzing annoyance of a fly. I snapped his neck and bent to drink, my back to the wall and my eyes warily cataloguing each supernatural being in the room. Once my allies, at least in name, now each was an enemy ready to stand between me and my salvation.
I drained the human quickly, gambling on the additional strength and vigor feeding would grant me, as I waited for my moment. As soon as Aro's back was turned, I slipped behind the tapestry, dropping the empty carcass where it would not draw attention. Obscured from the view by the heavy woven scene, my near silent movements were disguised by the din of wailing cries. I felt along the wall for the hidden door and used my keys to exit undetected and lock it behind me once more. It would not stop Felix, who had his own keys; truly any vampire wishing to could crash through the ancient carved oak easily. Perhaps it was merely a foolish holdover from my human existence or my own inflated sense of position as key keeper. But perhaps the defamation of their coveted home would buy me one second's pause. Would it be enough?
I flew down narrow wooden corridors and wider stonework passages towards Aro's chambers, her scent and the thudding sound of her heart growing stronger as I drew close.
Hurry!
I threw open the door, and there she stood.
Her eyes were magnetic. I could focus on nothing but the wildflower blue rings around a black center that dilated in direct proportion to my approach. Every nerve in my body was alight, every sense aligned to the golden angel before me, and I'd crossed the room and tangled my hand into her hair before I even knew what I was doing.
I was seized by something deeper than instinct and stronger than impulse, something more arcane and mysterious than mere lust for body or blood. It was cataclysmic.
Like titans clashing in the heavens, hostile impulses warred within me – to feed? Or to mate?
In either case, it was imperative to drink. There was no moment of deliberation. An unparalleled and rapacious thirst burned every thought from my brain. I yanked her head to the side and struck like a venomous snake.
Agony!
Ecstasy!
Her blood was utterly sublime.
I was swept away. Greif and loss, guilt and shame – her blood baptized me, washed it all away. I lived a thousand years in that moment. It was like waking from a nightmare into a dream.
A metamorphosis within me. Since my transformation from mortal man to eternal waking dead, I had not been so moved – had not been so changed. It was a dreadfully exquisite comprehension. It was instinct, impulse, desire. Beyond that it was a need so deep I would self-destruct if I could not sate it. This was inhuman. Animalistic. Both more feral than biological imperative, more lasting than bride... This was eternal mate.
My swallows kept pace with the rapid beating of her heartbeat. As it slowed, so did I.
I ripped my teeth away from her neck, shaking and trembling with the effort of my restraint, as I let the venom pulse and pool in my mouth, collecting. And when I was certain both that I had enough and that I could not contain it any longer, I bent to her again and let the venom drench the gaping wound.
She was mine!
The words roared inside my head – feral, impassioned, absolute.
My mate!
Mine!
Even as the fire set into her blood, the innocent flower in my clutches began to pray. "Beneath your compassion, We take refuge, O Mother of God: do not despise our petitions in time of trouble: but rescue us from dangers, only pure, only blessed one." She would be my light. She would show me how to live again.
The most minute sound seized my attention - it was merely an echo of an echo from the far end of remote passageway. And yet I knew. Someone was coming!
Felix.
Gently I set her down upon the tile floor of the balcony before the fit of fury overwhelmed me. It was intensified by the ecstasy of the blood of my mate and by the fear that I would lose the mate I had just found. It was the first true fear I'd felt since my change though it was conjoined also with the first true hope. Nothing would take her away from me. They could tear me limb from limb and throw me in the fire, and still my pieces would struggle for her.
Felix turned into the corridor that would lead him to us just as I made my way to the chamber entrance. His smile was both cruel and smug.
"Oh, cucciolo di orso, what have you done?" he taunted. "Aro will be so… displeased. You know how he hates to part with a new toy."
I snarled at him and dropped into a crouch. At the opposite end of the narrow hall he did the same. My eyes darted around the space, looking for something, anything, to give me an advantage over Felix.
"I noticed you had gone before Aro did," he continued. "But I said nothing. I saw the way you stood in front of her. Trying to keep her for yourself."
Felix was spoiling for a fight, but still he adored the sound of his own voice. "I'm surprised you didn't tattle. You're always looking for a way to curry favor." I used his arrogance to my advantage and calculated my attack as he prattled on.
"I wanted to give you time with your little plaything." He crept toward me as he spoke. "Let you damn yourself. Now I won't have to wait for Aro's blessing to get you in the ring." His smile turned particularly vicious then. I'd spent years watching him fight, and I knew his tells. His first strike was imminent. "He sent me after you, you know. He could have sent Jane or Alec, but he sent–"
I didn't wait for him to finish speaking. Mammoth stone pillars flanked the doorway, and I flew upon the first, tearing it from its bearings before he could close the distance between us.
That first column struck him in the chest as I hurled it down the passageway, knocking him back until he lost the distance he had gained. The stonework walls began to quake and crumble around us.
I didn't pause to savor his look of surprise. I ripped away the second column from its post and feinted as if to throw again. When Felix moved aside to counter, I changed course and swung the pillar into the last remaining masonry supports, further crippling the walls.
Felix lost precious time gaping at the stone ramparts that trembled above him while I staggered back into the safety of Aro's room. Huge slabs of stone ceiling fell like an avalanche, decimating the hall and burying Felix beneath the mountainous rubble. It would not stop him, but it would buy us time.
I dove for my angel, lifting her into arms and crossed the balcony to its edge.
For the first time I let myself believe in the words of Virgil: Omnia vincit amor et nos cedamus amori! Love conquers all; let us all yield to love!
Rosalie. My light, my angel, my salvation.
We had only one chance – flee, now, across the rooftops.
.
.
.
A/N: The art can be seen here…
Michelangelo's Pieta http:/en. wikipedia .org/wiki/File:Michelangelo's_Pieta_5450_cropncleaned_edit. jpg
Caravaggio's David with the Head of Goliath http:/en. /wiki/File:Michelangelo_Caravaggio_071. jpg
Baglione's Sacred Love Venus http:/en. wikipedia. org/wiki/File:Baglione . jpg