T/W: I wouldn't say Domenico's relationships are exactly... healthy.

FFFan1664: Thanks so much for another review. I always appreciate hearing what you think. I do recommend reading this story along with Ragnall and Astraea. I wouldn't say the order in which you read it is horribly necessary right now... but I think the series as a whole will make a lot more sense if you do. I definitely don't plan for these chapters to be anywhere near the length of the chapters in the main stories. These are just brief snippets from the perspectives of people that are significant, but not known well to Addison and as a result may get a bit... neglected in the main story.

Chapter Two: The Wolf on the Church Steps

I can't forgive you. Even if I could,
You wouldn't pardon me for seeing through you.
And yet I cannot cure myself of love
For what I thought you were before I knew you.

- Wendy Cope, "Defining the Problem"

If you'd like a neutral account on Domenico Michele, you won't find it here. That is someone else's tale to tell. A cataloguing of events, a telling of facts – the only lies in this tale will be told by the players themselves. To understand the man, you must understand his meanings. And though disagreeable he may be, it's safe to say, you can see over time why he may have felt justified in his actions later on.

Once a dock boy, in love with a woman born of higher means.

Then a fishmonger, in the place of Petruccio who had disappeared one night and never returned to Venice. Truly dead to the world, that man was.

From fishmonger to merchant.

From merchant to—

Well...

He woke one night in the dark of a cellar, deep in the bowels of House Michele.

And a thirst overcame him unlike any he'd ever known.

She moved quickly, and with grace. He'd know that flash of copper anywhere.

Domenico had not seen her in months.

Those months had felt like years.

And he did not know why he was here.

She had gone from him. Sent him away. Cast him out.

She had married Maso Michele and entered a life of lavish isolation, pampered by the man who had taken Venice and run all the good men out.

Her bright eyes looked down on him, and Domenico gave a moan of pain. And then she brought her beautiful pale wrist to her lips and bit into her silky flesh.

Domenico let out a cry of horror, and flinched away. His voice echoed through the cellar he was in, and it came back at him in a violent display. His ears rang and then there was a wrist pressed to his lips. The sweetest softest wrist he'd ever known, one he thought, surely, he would never press his lips to again.

And then there was nectar.

Sweet, succulent, iron-laced nectar and he drank. He drank and he let himself go into the sensation of her life blood coating his throat. He held onto her and she sighed into him, and let out her own delicate little moan.

A door slammed open—

Carlotta made a panicked sound and pulled away, but Domenico was stronger now – stronger than he had ever been – he held her to him and still he drank.

Then a figure came, a shadow in Domenico's periphery, but he could not turn away from the temptation Carlotta presented.

"What have you done!" a voice shouted.

It shot straight through Domenico's eardrums and struck his brain. He gasped and wheezed, curling in on himself and dragging her wrist with him. Even in agony, he drank. A man ripped Carlotta away. Her wrist left his mouth. And Domenico's eyes swam – his ears rang – with the assault on his senses. He succumbed to a bout of tremors – body wracked with pain.

He turned on his side - curled into a ball. He pressed his face into the floor to hide from the commotion, but the floor gave way with a crunch and crumble.

The door slammed again, and Carlotta was gone, along with the man who'd come to take her.

Venice, 1080 C.E.

As the old man lay dying, grey in his sickbed, Domenico leaned over to examine his ring.

A solid red ruby inlaid in heavy Lydian gold.

Domenico narrowed his eyes and slid the bobble from the man's finger.

He would not wake, and none would come.

They waited downstairs in mourning, and Domenico, in this decade, had taken the role of their most venerable Father Michele.

He pocketed the ring and held his hand to the man's face, plugging his nose and covering his mouth, until his struggling heart finally stuttered out.

Then Domenico withdrew his hand, made the sign of the cross, dipped his hands in a bowl of clean water and shook them out, wetting the floor.

Giovanni met him in the pews.

Domenico had finished his sermon for the morning. He'd included the dead man in his mass, and the family had prayed for him in dignity and silence.

Incense stayed in his nose for days after he burned it. Now, he sat in the shadows of the empty church, thinking.

"Father," Giovanni said.

"My son," Domenico replied, though he did not look at the boy. His eyes were on the alter, and his fingers were twirling the ring he'd lifted off the dead man.

"His Serenity is calling for you," Giovanni said lowly.

Domenico arched an eyebrow, unable to shake his flat mood. "Is he, indeed?"

Giovanni worked his jaw and nodded, eyes flitting down to the space between him and his sire.

Domenico rose silent and dutiful.

He turned to exit the pew, but not before bringing a hand to his son's shoulder.

"You depart for Cyprus?" he asked.

The boy – who stood as tall as Domenico himself and had walked the earth for some seventy years – did not look a day over 25.

"I do," he said.

Domenico squeezed his shoulder and nodded. "Find me when you return," he said. "Maso's sons have been restless of late, and they'll consider you easy prey."

Giovanni nodded. "I know," he said. "I'll be sure to find you before I report to him."

Domenico bit the inside of his cheek, and ducked his head in a quiet parting, before he made his way out into the light.

Domenico hopped off the bow of his boat, and onto the dock, leaving the hired man to see to the vessel, not bothering to help him. He adjusted his cloak where it rested on his shoulders, and the silver broach that held it secure. He slid the old man's ruby off his finger, tucking into his pocket, and strode through the open doors of the Palazzo Ducal, ignoring the servants who held them.

His boots were supple and new. They made no sound as he vaulted the steps of Maso Michele's house.

Maso's man met him in the entry and gave a low bow.

"Father Michele," the man greeted.

Domenico offered him only his bored consideration. The man was a weasel, but he had Maso's ear.

"An audience with His Serenity," he said, staring down his nose at the man.

The servant rose from his bow and nodded, clicking is heels together in a sign of respect before turning his back on the superior manjasang.

He disappeared through the doors and closed them behind him as he announced Domenico's arrival to the man who had climbed his way through the aristocracy of Venice and named himself Doge.

The doors creaked open again, and Maso's manservant reappeared.

"He will see you."

Domenico licked the back of his teeth and held back a smirk. He unclasped his cloak and made his way to the doors, dumping the article into the servant's hands.

"You're tunic is disheveled," he said over his shoulder, as he passed through the doors, and kicked them shut with a slam.

"Must you torment the servants, my son?" Maso asked with an air of exasperation.

Domenico regarded him tiredly but didn't deign to respond.

Maso was seated in a great high-backed chair on a platform at the far end of the room. Beside him sat Carlotta. Domenico let his eyes drift over her without seeing. Maso leaned back in his chair, for all the world a self-appointed king.

"The slaver is dead," Domenico said. "I've seen to it as you requested."

Maso let out a soft laugh. "I owe you my thanks, child."

Domenico bit down on his tongue and offered his father a clipped nod.

"I would ask that you send me to Ravenna," Domenico said. "I'd be of use there."

"No—"Carlotta's voice was clear as glass and it showered him with a million little cuts that no one could see.

Domenico shuddered and resisted the urge to press his palm to his chest where he felt as though he were bleeding. He turned his face.

"Will you not greet your mother, my boy?" Maso asked, a vein of steel in his tone, though he knew what he was doing. Maso enjoyed this little game of his. He enjoyed flaunting Carlotta before him.

Domenico couldn't look. He never looked.

"Look at your mother, and greet her, boy," Maso said, his voice low with the command.

Domenico swallowed and pinpricks rolled over his skin as he bit back a horrible mix of rage and envy.

He looked at her as the head of his family commanded. And she was—

A sharp sensation ricocheted through him.

Her eyes swam with emotion. Her nails curled into the arms of her throne.

Her hair was still copper – though it was foreign – otherworldly now where once it had been beautiful.

"Domenico—" she whispered.

He stared at her, hard eyed, and hard edged, with his tongue between his teeth and the memory of her blood on his lips.

She hadn't known then what she knew now. And he had been defenseless.

Maso had turned her. And she had realized her mistake far too late. And in her fear – in her temptation – the loneliness of a life with only Maso and his army of vicious, lecherous kin, was too daunting a prospect.

So, she ran away to find him. And on seeing him, could not let him live and die as a human. In this knowledge, she did an unforgiveable thing.

But his chest ached for knowing her, and wanting her, and loving her still.

"Your mother has addressed you, boy," Maso said boredly, biting into the corner of his thumb nail.

"Mother," Domenico said tersely.

Her eyes shuttered and she pitched forward, it was noticeable to everyone in the room.

"Hello, fish," called a voice from behind him.

Domenico turned and saw Maso's daughter skipping into the room. Lucia was technically his sister by marriage now.

She was a vicious, covetous little brat. But she loved Domenico and took every chance to be with him.

"Sister," he said diplomatically, though his eyes had deadened and become flat.

"I cannot send you to Ravenna," Maso said, finally addressing his request.

Domenico whirled back around to face him. 'Why ever not?" he asked.

Maso's lip curled with warning. "Did I ask for your questions?"

Domenico fell silent, though he jutted his chin, and his tongue felt heavy and thick in his mouth as though it were full of other words for the man ahead of him.

Maso's eyes flitted over him, before drifting over to his precious daughter. "Lucia, darling," he said and held out a hand. "Come to me and tell me your tales."

Lucia beamed at him and continued her skipping game.

Domenico had learned many years after his own change that turning a child of her age was considered obscene, but it was done among the warlords who roamed these lands. And Maso had been one such creature for a long time. Lucia was his little bird. And she liked to sit on his lap and tell him the secrets she'd heard in her wanderings.

Carlotta tensed as Lucia approached them.

On more than one occasion, Lucia had outed her.

Carlotta, who once had been so adamant about staying in Venice, was now a flight risk who yearned to get out. Lucia cupped her hand around her mouth, as she whispered in her father's ear, and Maso listened with a level of intent he rarely gave Domenico or Domenico's mother.

"When will they come?" Maso asked and pulled away to look down at his little bird – his darling Lucia.

She frowned at him and let her eyes drift to Domenico and Carlotta.

"It's alright, darling, let them hear."

"Just a week's time, father," she said. "First, they rest in Rome."

Maso's eyes lit up at this knowledge. He offered Lucia a startling grin and she grinned malevolently back at him. His eyebrows lifted into his hair line, and he turned to Domenico with a smile.

"It seems you will get your wish after all, young Domenico," Maso said with delight. "I fear Ravenna will have to wait for now. Rome awaits you. You'll escort our guests here to meet me, in one week's time."

"You cannot go."

Carlotta grabbed him from the shadows and pulled him into an alcove. Domenico let her take him and press him against the wall.

"I am your maker, and I forbid it."

Domenico narrowed his eyes. "That's not how this works, Carlotta, and you know it."

"He is not in charge of you!" she hissed and gripped Domenico a little tighter. "I am—"

"He is in charge of you," Domenico pushed back, crowding toward the entrance of the alcove, forcing her into the light. "Therefore, he commands me."

But Carlotta was stronger now than she had been as a human and more stubborn too, if it could be believed. She pushed back, with a petulant noise. She shoved him and bared her teeth. And Domenico growled. He gripped her by the arms and dragged her back into the shadows, he pushed her forcefully against the wall and held her in place.

"What do you want from me?" he asked and bared his teeth at her in warning.

"I want you," she whispered. "I've only ever wanted you."

"There was a time you did not—"

"I was young and foolish, I didn't know then what I know now."

"He has commanded my leave—"

"Because you requested it!"

She let out a cry of anguish and held onto his tunic with desperate fists. Domenico gripped her arms tighter and shook her, feeling the pressure in his chest release with the act.

"He cares little for what I want or what I request," Domenico said. "And you know it. I go because Lucia told him to send me, and I know not what awaits me there, or who I am meeting. And then I will return to be a son to you, mother."

He turned his face and spat at the ground. He curled his lip and released her, with a final shove.

Lucia gave a sob.

"I am not your mother," she moaned miserably.

"You are," he hissed. "You made me. You gave me your blood. You defiled—"

"I didn't know," she trembled and sank to the ground, her face red with streaks of blood fueled tears. And Domenico felt his stomach roll with sickness and spite.

God help him, but he wanted to hold her. He wanted to go to her.

He wanted to scoop her up and run away still, even after everything.

"Carlotta," his voice cracked.

She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes and held back a sob but it escaped her still, a low miserable sound of someone who could not die, but was suffering terribly.

Domenico, as though propelled by some other force more powerful than he, went to her then. He crouched before her and scooped her into his arms and cradled her as though she were the babe and he the maker. As though he were the man and she, his wife. As though they were human and not these vapid, horrible creatures. As though Maso Michele hadn't robbed them both of their lives.

"I'm sorry," he murmured and pressed a kiss to her hair.

"I love you," she cried.

Domenico sighed and rocked back on his heels, letting his back fall against the wall, he held her in his lap. His throat constricted and his eyes stung with grief.

He couldn't say it back.

She curled into him more tightly, and let him rock her. "I love you, and I'm not your mother. I don't care what they say."

Domenico closed his eyes. He buried his face in her hair. They stayed that way in the darkness for too short a time.

And he hated her. "I love you," he said while Carlotta cried.

He hated that it was true.

Domenico sat on the church steps as evening fell.

On the horizon, ships were anchoring for the night while others sailed out to get ahead of the rush of the morning.

He watched the lagoon, and thought... not of Carlotta as he might have expected. Nor did he think of the slaver he had killed, or his coming trip to Rome.

No. For some reason he could not quite explain, Domenico's mind was turning over the layout of Venice.

His thoughts were a map. And he found them recalling every stronghold Maso kept within the city proper. Taking stock of allies and enemies. Weak points and places of easy turnover.

Domenico contemplated the impossible.

But this was nothing new. He'd contemplated the impossible for about as long as he'd been on this side of death. And, if he were being truthful, since even before, when Maso had taken his city and started fucking Carlotta in Domenico's stead.

He glanced down the road to where Maso's sons were gathered, readying themselves for their journey away, and no doubt keeping an eye on him.

They were not a subtle bunch, the Micheles, unlike Domenico himself.

They'd never had a need to be.

Some of Maso's sons were as old as history. And Maso was older than history itself.

They'd played this game for as long as humans roamed the earth.

Subtlety was for lesser creatures. And Venice was theirs.

There was no reason to hide.

If you lived in Venice, you lived in a vampire stronghold.

Even the humans were not naïve to the nature of their rulers.

A shadow moved in the corner of his eye and Domenico was quick to turn its way.

A man with coal dark eyes, and a wry smile, slowly lowered himself onto the steps a little ways away.

Domenico gave him a once over but did not let his appraisal show.

The man carried himself like a lurcher, half pitched forward and doubled over as though he were in pain. But his shoulders were broad and his back was strong beneath the fabric of his shirt, and Domenico did not think he should be bent over in this way.

Had he come from inside the church?

Domenico didn't let his eyes flicker back to the doors behind him. He should have sensed the man if he'd been hidden away in those empty halls of god.

And yet... where else would he have come from. Two steps above Domenico, perched on the church steps, quiet as death and lingering too long.

Domenico narrowed his eyes.

He could smell another creature from a mile away. And he knew every creature who lived in this lagoon. It was his job and duty as a member of House Michele to know everything that happened within the borders of the Republic. Perhaps Maso liked to torment him and Carlotta, but only because Maso had seen Domenico as a man of particular value. Carlotta had robbed him of the child he had groomed.

He had been saving Domenico's siring for later.

But that is not how these matters unfolded.

Domenico was a loathsome favorite. A valuable fool. Turned by the woman he'd once wished to marry, and caught in the undertow of her affairs – the wrong sire, the wrong bloodline, the wrong twists of fate and now forever stuck between Maso's favor and Maso's disdain.

In both of his lives, Domenico was a man born post-greatness.

He'd missed it all by a day and by a century.

And this man on the church steps was quiet as the grave. He seemed to have been born in the shadows at Domenico's back, and followed him, half-human into the light of day.

"I see the salt merchants prosper still in La Serenissima," the man observed. His voice was affable and smooth. It was peculiar.

Domenico had heard his like before.

A voice from many places, and an accent from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

If it had not been obvious, for the fact that he had gone unnoticed in the shadows of the church, this would have been his tell.

Domenico pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth as he considered this foreign manjasang.

"They do," he said and turned his face to regard his son's ship as it left the harbor, white sails stark in the setting sunlight, whipping violently in the wind. He glanced back at the newcomer.

"I'm afraid I haven't seen you here before, my child," Domenico said, bringing a hand up to his collar, and reminding himself of his priestly role.

The man's smile was wan, and his eyes lit up with humor.

Domenico did not show whether this fazed him. He did not wonder how old this other creature was, or how he viewed him.

A foreign tramp of a vampire in the Michele holdfast was hardly a threat to him.

The man cleared his throat and deliberately averted his gaze, showing Domenico the allotted respect.

"I arrived just days ago," the man said. He looked to the horizon and the boat Maso's sons were preparing near the docks for their coming trip to Rome. "I've heard tell that Venice is the place to be for our kind. I thought to see it for myself."

Domenico's eyes flickered but he nodded. He had no reason to suspect the man, but for the fact that he did.

"And your name?" he asked.

The man on the church steps, just above him, met his eyes and struck him still. Domenico did not falter, but only just barely did he keep from flinching back. He felt as though his spine would suddenly bend beneath the weight of the newcomer's gaze. Domenico curled his hand into a fist, and held himself steady under the force of it.

"My maker called me Gabriel," he said.

"And from where do you hail, Signore Gabriel?"

"Near Piedmont, Father," he said amiably. His demeanor, unchanged from the moment he lowered himself onto his step.

Domenico raised his eyebrows in alarm. "You're a far way from home, Gabriel of Piedmont."

Gabriel twisted his lips and gave a slight nod, though his eyes sparked with amusement. "You can't imagine one of our kind, past a certain age, can stay in the same place forever."

Domenico glanced around them from the church at their backs and the lagoon below, to the roughshod cobblestones, weathered by salt and sea and the heavy tread of man and creature.

The problem was he could imagine it. Domenico could very easily see a creature of their particular disposition staying in one place forever. They had been here first, why on earth should they have to go? Venice had never been negotiable. A part of him from birth, Domenico could never leave his home. Salt flowed through his veins more so than Carlotta's treacherous blood. And it was salt that had kept him alive long after his creature make had taken root inside of him, and turned him into something new.

Domenico had countless brothers. And almost as many sisters.

They occupied Venice like Venice was a hive.

Domenico's home was no longer his to live in, but still he stayed.

He stayed because he was told to. He stayed because there was nowhere else to go.

He stayed because of Carlotta. She held in her a piece of his immortal soul.

And he ached for her. There was a sickly sanguine quality to his love for her now after a century of being her son, after he had been her lover. After he had been a man who wanted to marry her.

He was sick for her. And she for him.

And his siblings crawled all over Venice. The city was more creature than human.

When he boarded the boat for Rome, he was not alone.

Maso had stronger, far more loyal, sons than Domenico.

Domenico had the task.

They had been charged with seeing to its completion.

Domenico was little more than the vessel meant to carry the message to its destination.

There was a family in Rome.

"Visitors," Maso said, though he had said it with a chuckle as though there was more of a story to be told there, and Domenico would not hear it from his father.

They had arrived just some weeks prior. They stayed in an ancient domicile at the base of the Aventine Hill.

They sought audience with the Pope.

Maso also had the Pope's ear, but... this other figure... seemed to be up to something that unsettled his father. And Maso was convinced their next stop would be on venetian waters.

"Best to get ahead of it then," Maso had said. "Extend to them a most open invitation and be sure to mention my name."