Page 3 of Venice

“The werewolves that killed your brother were caught and are paying for what they did, yes?” Her voice is so soft and kind, but it makes me angrier.

“No, they’re not paying for shit. They get to live while he doesn’t. They took the life of a ten-year-old boy. Every single werewolf deserves to die for what they’ve done.”

Iphi nods, and her blue eyes remain soft and caring. “I understand how you feel, but condemning an entire species for the evil of two . . . If we did that, all of humankind would be erased.”

“Maybe they should be,” I growled.

Iphi cocked her head. “You and your parents? Me? Sophia? Everyone else you know and love?”

“You’re Signum, Iphi. Supernatural. A witch. I know you’re trying to help, but you can’t possibly understand what it’s like to live in this world, especially in Distant Edge, as a human.”

“Distant Edge was built for us, for the Signum,” she says. “But humans are welcome there too, and you’ve lived there your entire life.”

“Only because my parents were given free housing as part of the Human Homesteading Covenant. They despise Signum.” I look down at my hands to hide my embarrassment. It’s not fair to say this to Iphi. She’s never been anything but kind to me.

“And how do you feel about us?” she asks softly.

“I was raised to hate your kind. I’m sorry to say this to you, but it’s true.” I pick up a glass of water and sip it to avoid looking at her.

“You know, Diva,” she says. “Family can be chosen. Just because we’re born into a certain line of people, it doesn’t mean they’re always right for us.”

“I was adopted,” I grumble. “My adopted parents are all I have. My birth parents never wanted me, so what chance do I have to find complete strangers who will?”

Chapter Three

Luca

We arrive early to find a packed theatre. No surprise, we haven’t had a traveling circus in Venezia for years. The décor of red and gold glimmers in the low light of the many chandeliers, and we follow our usher to the box we’ve reserved on an upper tier.

Scantily clad contortionists litter the stage and aisles. I recognize a few. It looks like they hired some of our local performers to flesh out the large space. From what I’ve read, CAD has been performing in smaller dinner theater spaces and nightclubs.

The performers interact with the crowd by snagging items from patrons like hats or sequenced bags and then balancing them atop a foot while standing on their hands. The audience is already in love, and I can’t blame them. The atmosphere is electric.

My packmates and I take our seats and order drinks. The private boxes afford such luxuries, and we spare no expense.

“How will we recognize her if she’s done up in makeup or wearing a mask?” asks Emilio.

“We’ll recognize her.” I remove my Ermenegildo Zenga black trench coat and place it on an empty seat near me. “She’ll be the small one with long white hair.”

“It doesn’t matter if we recognize her during the performance anyway,” says Marcello. “We’ll sniff her out after the show.”

Emilio rubs his chin as the lights dim, and the curtain falls for the performers to reset the stage. People find their seats, and a hush descends over the theater a moment before the lights darken even more, and the music swells.

The curtain rises to acrobats and jugglers filling the stage, most wearing little clothing, and several wearing nothing at all. There are murmurs of appreciation throughout the auditorium, and the audience claps loudly. Performers spin and flip over each other in the air while several in the group spin hoops and even fire.

I look over the balcony to see people already perched on the edge of their seats. I sit back in mine. It’s not that I don’t like, or even appreciate shows, but that’s not why I’m here, and I need to remain focused. After the opening act leaves the stage, each of the CAD performers emerge for their solo acts.

“They’re very good,” says Emilio as a blond woman with ringlets spins down red fabric.

Marcello nods his agreement, but I say nothing. Of course they’re good. They’re a traveling circus; they have to be good. But I hold my tongue to let my mates enjoy the show.

After the Chinese pole dancer, a muscled Asian man, exits the stage, the lights change. They sparkle and dance with reds and yellows as a trapeze is lowered from the ceiling. Perched on the trapeze is the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen.

Her hair glows a bright white as if flooded with celestial light. The sparkle in her eyes is otherworldly. My mates, who flank me, both gasp. The trapeze spins in the air on its way down, and the woman, clad in pale pink translucent gossamer, moves from sitting to standing in an instant. The crowd is so quiet you could hear a manacle drop.

The music takes on an ethereal quality, like a fairy dance, and the woman on the apparatus shifts as if she’s flying. Move after death-defying move is performed with grace and ease. She spins and twists, climbs the trapeze ropes and poses, then slides down them to catch herself on the bar by the backs of her heels.

She hangs there for a long time, her knees bent, spinning in a mesmerizing circle. Her loose white hair fans out to form a halo around her head, and her outfit floats about her silently. She awakens something in me. Something deep and old. Something that has been lost and buried forever.

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