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

no lipstick.
    “These chandeliers are beautiful,” she said.
    “Yes, Murano glass. They take some getting used to, as they walk a tightrope between gaudy and beautiful, but I’ve come to appreciate them. So tell me more about this club.”
    “Do you know what a sanguinarian is?” Gloria asked.
    “No, I don’t.”
    “A sanguinarian is a person who thinks they need the blood of other people to survive.”
    “Oh yeah, I’ve seen these people on YouTube. They think they’re vampires.” 
    “Some people believe that, but most just find the lifestyle interesting and exciting. As for me, I’m not a vampire.”
    “Good to know.” Brigham took a sip of prosecco. “Do these people drink blood?”
    “Yes, some of them.”
    “Do you?”
    “Sometimes. Small amounts.”
    “Wow. Do you like the taste of blood?”
    “No… yes… it’s hard to explain.”
    “Where do you get the blood?”
    “There are people at the club who are donors. They provide the blood in small quantities, but they don’t drink it. Some people drink their own blood, but most sanguinarians don’t. There’s no benefit to it.”
    “How do you get the blood? You cut the person, use a syringe or an IV or something like that?”
    “Usually a needle connected to a very thin plastic tube. The blood is collected in a test tube or small vial. Much like the way a nurse takes a blood sample.”
    He shivered. “Doesn’t sound too appetizing to me. I prefer the symbolic drinking of red wine.” He took a drink to get the imaginary taste of blood out of his mouth. “And this club is right here in Venice?”
    “Yes.” She filled her glass, sipped the prosecco, then paused. Finally, she said, “Would you like to come to the club with me?”
    “Oh, I don’t know… I was never the adventurous type. Isn’t it pretty much a closed society?” 
    “Yes, it’s quite private, and the meeting is held in a secret location, but we welcome people who are seriously interested in knowing something about the culture. People we trust.”
    He leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. This was too much of a coincidence. The dead, crucified, and blood-drained bodies showing up in the canals, and now this woman, drinker of blood, attractive, young, willing to just walk up and talk to him and then invite him to a secret vampire club. He couldn’t pass this up. “When is the next meeting?”
    “Tonight.”
    He thought for a moment. “Now this isn’t some kind of nudie club or girlie show, is it? My wife would have a bird.” 
    She laughed. “No. There are likely to be some strange costumes, but many of the people dress normally. You wouldn’t know that they were into such things if you saw them on the street.”
    “All right. I’m not sure what I’ll tell my wife, but I don’t want there to be any pre-version going on.” 
    “Only what I told you, mostly fully clothed.”
    “Mostly?”
    She smiled. “I can’t promise some people won’t shed an article of clothing or two.”
    “What’s the dress code?”
    “ Come as you are. Meet me in front of this place at eight o’clock.”

 

 
     
     
     
     
     
    XII
     
     
    “J udgeth me not, brother, for the very fact that I’m sitting here and not giving Miss Gloria what for is a testament to my moral strength and integrity.”
    Pink Jesus said nothing.
    A number of paintings in various stages of completion sat on easels around the studio, including Pink Jesus. The weather had turned cold again, and the space heater did little to warm the room. He rigged a pitcher of martinis and sat on the sofa studying the paintings, chewing an olive and sipping the herbal juniper distillate, hoping to improve the art-making process. Pink Jesus eyed him with judgment and suspicion.
    “And who are you to judge me anyway? I created you.”
    “I’m not judging you,” Pink Jesus said.
    Brigham jumped. He was not expecting to hear anyone else, and he couldn’t tell where the voice came from. Was someone