A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) by Michael E. Henderson Page A

in Venice,” she said, her green eyes set in skin the color of soft parchment. She smiled pleasantly through vermilion lips.
    Shocked that a woman half his age would bother to talk to him, he looked up at her, thinking she perhaps spoke to someone else. Her eyes, however, were fixed on him. “Yes, I’ve recently become interested in this stuff. You too?”
    “Oh, yes, very much so.”
    Her voice had a timbre that appealed to him. Very pleasant. Mesmerizing.
    “Have a seat,” he said, indicating a chair across the table from him.
    “That’s a beautiful book.” She sat.
    “Yes, thanks. It’s a bit shopworn, but it’s eighteenth century.”
    “It’s one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
    “You’re a book lover.”
    “Yes, I have hundreds of them.”
    A beggar approached them, holding out a ball cap. Brigham tried to shoo him away, but he persisted. They ignored him, but he didn’t leave until the waiter came out and threatened to call the police.
    “How annoying,” she said.
    “I know. I hate them, but it’s the price you pay for sitting at an outside table in Campo Santa Margherita. At least they’re harmless.”
    She smiled.
    “By the way, I’m Brigham Stone.” He held out his hand.
    She took his hand. “I’m Gloria. Pleased to meet you.”
    “Glad to meet you, Gloria. Can I get you a glass of wine, or something?”
    “Wine would be great. White.”
    He ordered a glass.
    She nodded toward the book. “Anything of interest?”
    “Too early to tell. I just got it,” he said, thumbing through the pages.
    The waiter handed her a glass of wine, and she tasted it, peering over the glass at Brigham. “How did you get interested in such things?”
    He wasn’t sure what he should tell her. “Long story. You’ll think I’m nuts.”
    She laughed. “Oh, I don’t think so. Give it a try.”
    Reckoning that he had nothing to lose, he told her all about the bodies in the canals, the men going through walls, and how his buddy Mauro had determined that there were shroud eaters or vampires walking the streets of Venice.
    “That’s fascinating,” she said. “Do you live in Venice?”
    “Yes, I’ve been here for a few years. How ’bout you?”
    “I’m staying here for a couple of months.”
    “What brings you to La Serenissima ?” he asked, holding up his glass to the waiter for more.
    Gloria hesitated, swirled the wine around in her glass, then said, “There’s a club here I like to go to.”
    “A club? You mean like a nightclub?”
    “Yes, something like that.”
    “Where is it? I know of only one club in Venice.”
    She was silent for too long.
    “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business.”
    “No,” she said, “I brought it up. I want to talk about it.”
    Several people sat at the table next to them, laughing and talking loudly. And then the waiter turned up the music. They couldn’t talk without yelling.
    “Is there a quieter place near here?” she asked.
    “Yes, let’s go across the campo.”
    The osteria across the square contained fewer people, and played smooth jazzy music.
    “Much better,” she said.
    The waitress lit the tall candle stationed in the middle of the small wooden table. They ordered a bottle of prosecco.
    “You were going to tell me about the club you go to,” Brigham said.
    “Right. Well, I don’t know where to start.”
    Brigham smiled. “Oh, it’s that sort of place.”
    “No, no, it’s not what you think. It’s a private club. An underground club.”
    “Sounds fascinating. And what sort of things go on at this underground club?”
    The waitress delivered the bottle of prosecco in a bucket of ice, popped the cork, and poured them each a glass.
    “ Salute ,” Brigham said, and they clinked glasses.
    Gloria sipped her prosecco while gazing at one of the Venetian chandeliers near the bar. The candlelight shone in her eyes, and one could see that the vermilion of her lips was natural; she wore