~ Prologue ~
March 19, 1721
The moon hangs low in the west, a soft yellow ball of light, illuminating lush fields flanking foothills and a low mountain fortress. Below the great stone walls, an ancient Roman amphitheatre, long since abandoned, is overgrown with wild grass, providing dinner to a group of lazy sheep. The trees are filled with the trill of song birds and the gentle rustling of fresh spring leaves. The world is slowly coming alive, the Spring Equinox and Easter giving way to the feast of Saint Marcus.
Above, within the walled city, people fill the great Duomo, their voices rising and mixing, bass, tenor, alto and soprano, in exaltation to God and his vessel, Saint Marcus, the blessed martyr who has spared their homes from years of pain. Words of praise drift up to the elaborate gold ceiling, echoing out through the open doors and into the courtyard, where they mix with happy gurgling of a fountain and laughter.
The less pious occupants of Volterra are busy as well, flanking the narrow city streets to watch the rich pageantry of celebrants passing through. Men and women in masque, dressed in costumes of finest velvet and cloth of gold, dazzle the eye. Everywhere there is celebration, for today is the day they have been delivered from evil, their world safe from all harm.
And yet, this is not entirely true. For in a tower, not far from the hymns of praise and spectacle of pageantry, a different type of celebration is unfolding. To the human eye, the people in this sparse tower room are beautiful, their pale skin and luminous hair more glorious than anything on display in the square below. If one were to step closer, the observer would find that their beauty was but a glamour, a false illusion masking death and decay. Stunning faces marred by horrific eyes, scarlet red filled with malevolent glee. Amongst them, simple humans scream and fight, fruitlessly searching for a way out of the round room. With the heavy oak doors sealed shut behind them, they are broken and drained, their last thought the realization that the celebration is all a farce, for the evil never left.
And in the far corner, a young man with hair so blonde that it's almost white stands alone, watching with barely masked horror. His eyes, neither the horrific red of the beautiful ones, nor the familiar hues found in the fleeing humans, are wide in despair. Beautiful and tawny gold, they fill with a great sadness and resignation.
This is all so wrong.
A tall, elegant man in a suit of velvet brocade, the leader of the beautiful ones, is stalking a woman. As she hugs the wall, he claps his hands under his chin, a smile of delight stretching across his ghostly white face. He chose this woman, her face handsome, body stout from years of childbearing. The woman carries herself with wisdom and courage, even in the face of the horror that unfolds around her. She did not run and scream like the others. Instead, the woman presses her back to the wall, her hands flat against the jagged stone, searching for an egress or a way to escape.
"Come, little mother," the elegant man coos, his smile gentle and pleading. "Do not be afraid. Come, celebrate with us. You are wise, and you do not cower. Let me taste you, and maybe you will be deemed worthy enough to become one of us."
She continues to move slowly around the perimeter of the room, watching as the other beautiful ones sate their thirst. Three traveling merchants, having been lured here with the promise of free food, lay piled on the floor like discarded dolls, their bodies drained and broken. She knows she is meant to join that pile.
The man steps closer, and then, as if in a blur of smoke and vapor he is upon her and his hand
is wrapped around her wrist. At the touch of his hand, a flurry of visions spool through the woman's mind. The walls of the city, her family, the horse that threw her husband and broke his neck. This is her life, flashing before her, and she resigns herself to her death.
As quickly as they appeared, the visions were gone – everything was gone. She sees nothing, no memories, no images, just black. And then the words came forth, spoken in a voice so flat, so hollow; no one would have believed she was the one to speak.
"Within a canopy of green, six months past Saint Marcus Day, Irish servant will bend English oak to make a vow of strongest stone. In the enigma year, purest gold embraces ruby red as the libertines suffer their fate. Regina Vampira, one woman to guide all."
All activity in the room stops. The beautiful ones all watch their master, whose free hand hovers just above her throat.
"What did you say?" he hisses. His hesitation and the cold wind at her back are the signs she had been waiting for.
"Regina Vampira," the woman whispered, and then tipped backwards out of the open tower window.
The blonde man with the tawny gold eyes runs to the window, but it is too late. The woman was dead of shock before she hit the cobblestones below.