I once envisioned a girl with twilight in her eyes and stardust in her hair. She carried the weight of the world with her with each step she took. In the communal garden of the second story atelier, roses bloomed though it was near September. No one else had lived in the tiny block of flats for seven years and this suited the girl just fine. Where once yellowing patches of dried grass lay now green grass grew, a tall hedge encircled the garden and kept prying eyes out. When the moon lay heavy in the night sky I saw her bare feet treading upon the grass. On her knees, she'd fall and bring her palms to the damp earth. Stardust would flutter from strands of her hair and fall to the ground where she wept.

In her heart, she carried the weight of the world for she was a vampire with remorse. Her fourteenth victim lay buried beneath perfect strands of emerald. She never let the roses die for now they were his crown. When she closed her eyes she saw his eyes, bright green, brighter than the grass, brighter than chartreuse set ablaze.

My lover once told me that we die only to be reborn, yet I never felt this un-life as a second chance. He whispered in my ear as we sat on the rooftop watching Venice slumber. He spoke about the riches of becoming a vampire, but I have always felt a pauper.

In my thoughts, I am taken to the Bone Garden where my last victim lay. Somewhere between a haze of memory and the feel of a dream, I find myself on all fours, my knees wet with dew. I rake my fingers between the blades of grass and pull. Fistfuls come out and stain my hands. I bring them to my face, breathe them in. Beneath me, he rests.

***

Dante reached for me when I extended my hand in greeting. When his lips brushed across my knuckle, I felt my loins burn. His lips left a soft scent on my hand; it rose up to greet me, part sugary, part spicy, gloriously delicious. Both the woman and the vampire in me woke. I stole my hand away and covered the divine scent with my other hand.

'Enhanced,' he said. 'I am humbled to be in your presence.'

His voice was a deep purr, the sort you'd take to bed with you not to be meaning to talk business.

Dante Vitali was named after his great, great, great grandfather Dante Alighieri. Like his grandfather, the younger Dante was also a lover of art. Preferring paintings and sculptures over poetry. It was this that brought him from his home in Milan to Venice where I had been living the last decade. When he asked for a sculpture made of marble, a replica of himself, I thought him vain.

'It appears you have traveled all this way for me to say no,' I said.

Bright green eyes looked at me with confusion. I felt myself drowning. I had not been this taken by a man since Lucio, and I parted ways. For a moment I barely heard his words. 'Signorina, your work is the talk of Italy. If it is money ...'

'No' I said sharply, cutting him off.

'Signorina, if I have offended ...' Dante looked hurt. He kept a respectful distance from me, but I saw him flown deeply. 'My humble apologies.'

'Forgive me, signore,' I softened my tone and clasped my hands. 'It is not the money. I am sure you have enough to pay whatever I asked for.'

With his finely tailored suit, polished shoes, and exquisite manners I was certain he could pay any sum I dreamed of. No one came to me if they could not. But I never painted or sculpted anything to resemble one of my clients or anyone alive. I did not believe people should try to replicate themselves. Once you passed on your likeness to something else, it took a piece of you with it. Art could suck you dry, like us vampires do.

'No? Why then?'

He took a step closer and shook his head. In that sliver of time, that honey-spice aroma came to me like an enormous wave, wanting to pull me into its glorious depths. I drew in a breath and filled every inch of my insides with his sent. I began to hunger like I have never hungered before. There was a pain in my belly that was growing quickly. It spread to my limbs and threatened to leak out of my ears. I felt a beating in my chest, a throbbing in my temples. Glorious, oh glorious blood!

Before I began to pant like a mad dog, I replied. 'I do not create to flatter buyer's ego.'

I felt myself salivate. Though I felt hunger before, it was never like this. I should not have agreed to meet him in my workshop alone. After my last human kill, I'd promised myself I would only feast upon the criminals that littered the streets, yet my mind was shrieking. He will taste divine! Unlike that of anyone else. Smell it! His blood! It is like vintage wine, the sort that not even you could afford even if you ever were to come across something that gave off that aroma. He is perfect. Feast!

I looked up at him for one brief moment before pivoting to head to my liquor table. The powerful scent of chartreuse would override the glorious scent of him. I grabbed two liqueur glasses and filled them. I handed one to him wordlessly before I downed mine.

'I am not a narcissist' I heard him say.

I refilled my glass before he even began sipping his. I rose the glass to my lips and drew in a breath ... spicy ... sweet. I noticed his eyes were the same shade as my drink.

'Reconsider.'

I tipped my glass back and downed my second drink. In a very unladylike manner, I grabbed the bottle by the neck and began walking towards the belly of my work-area, leaving Dante to stare after me.

'I beg of you' His voice carried to me. It perched on my shoulder like a dove.

The woman in me begged for him. The vampire in me raged. Logic was for the strong and I was weak. In a foolish second, everything I ever honored about my art was thrown out the window. 'Take off your clothes,' I told him. 'We will begin now before I regret this.'

And regret it I did.

Dante's body lay life-less on my bed. His head was arched back. His bare chest and back were covered in scratch marks. Between us, the bottle of chartreuse lay. Traces of a white powder he called cocaine lay in a thin white line across my bare stomach. Upon his neck were two puncture wounds. I had drunk till his heart had stopped.

My body felt foreign. My eyes were heavy from intoxication. My wrists burned from where he pinned me down. Oh, these violent delights! I sat up and wept. Blood tears fell over Dante's chest. Upon the floor lay sketches of him I'd planned on using to make the statue.

I buried Dante in the garden. His bones left there for all eternity. The sketches were hidden away in a locked trunk. I had killed thirteen people before and thought that it had just been bad luck. But fourteen, it seems, is just as unlucky a number as thirteen.

Under the veil of the night, I traveled by land and by sea to get to Florence. Lucio's castle loomed before me in all its greatness. The last time I had seen it was years ago when I found out he had taken Calista on as his lover. 'There is room for three', I remember both him and her saying, but my soul could not take it. I had loved Lucio strongly enough to know that I would rather be alone.

Torches led the way up the path, each one dotting my steps. Herculean trees branched out above me creating a leafy umbrella. To the untrained eye, we were polite society that sheltered their own like the trees over-head. Our prince was a mysterious man to the mortals of Florence, an eccentric sort that preferred to keep himself to himself. If they knew that we were a clan of vampires they would be coming for us with pitchforks and crucifixes, trying to burn us all with fire and holy water.

The garden spread before me, and I thought about my own Bone Garden where Dante lay. Death is a rebirth, my prince often said. Soon I would see him, and it filled me with both sorrow and joy.

I lowered my hood and drew my black velvet cape around my shoulders. Behind me, a flutter of butterflies rose from the garden and took to the trees.

***

I once dreamed of a girl with blood on her hands and a heavy heart. A lover's whisper echoing in her ear that death is but a rebirth, but my heart knew better now. There are things that I adore and things that I don't. speaking of which ... there are others ...

And as the last domino falls...