*** Author's Note ***

This tale was originally written for a Wattpad anthology based on the structure of The Decameron. For those of you not familiar, The Decameron is a work of Italian literature where ten young people wait out the black plague in a country villa. To entertain one another, for ten days, they each tell a story to the group. This creates a work of a hundred stories that are often romantic in nature.

While I was contemplating what story I would write for this project, my wife and I were on a vacation to Venice celebrating a milestone anniversary. On our first morning there, we got hopelessly lost. They day had begun pleasantly but grew sweltering. Somehow, I knew that this experience of being lost and nearly sunstroked would be at the center of the story.

Another source of inspiration was solo vacation I took when I was a very young man, much like Crispin. And if Crispin seems particularly foolish or naïve, or if the narrator seems to poke too much fun at his pretentions, it's because I was looking back on my own attitudes at the time, and I couldn't help but see how ridiculous they were in hindsight.

At any rate, the end product is a bit of horror and a bit of romance in an Italian setting. Rather perfect for a new Decameron, I think.

The infernal August heat drove Crispin Nash to the shadows. Rushing through the narrow alleyways, he shied away from the sun and clung to cool, dark walls. The afternoon was taking on an agitated nightmare quality as he wandered lost through the maze of narrow lanes, and his vision pulsed from the headache taking over his skull.

That morning the fog had laid low over the canals, and Crispin basked in the dawn as he drank cappuccino and nibbled at his bombolone. The hotel's patio was separated from the canal by an iron fence. He stared through the bars at the water, grown swampy by long days of sun and little rain. Few things disturbed the stillness. At that early hour, only motorboats with people heading to work came down the canal and the occasional lumbering barge stacked with cartons and packages. The air had been fresh and gave no hint of the broiling day ahead.

The Venice guidebook from the airport bookshop sat on the table barely skimmed. Crispin had little interest in history and museums, no urge to purchase chandeliers or paper-mache masks. His European trip was about "absorbing the atmosphere," as he put it. This was the indistinct term he applied to breaking his rut, seeing the places he had only read about, and seeking romance and adventure. With youthful optimism, he hoped to return home with a patina of worldly wisdom which others would sense and admire.

But secretly, he hoped to never go back to his nine-to-five cubicle. He wished fate would have some fortune to grant him, and he'd be set upon on a more exciting path. Marriage to an innocent but wealthy heiress who would find him irresistible. A job offer from a group of artistic but practical geniuses who needed him to launch their magazine, viral app, or boutique hotel. The patronage by someone older and wiser who could see Crispin's true worth—whatever that may be—and set him up in an atelier to achieve his life's work. Whatever that may be.

His first stop had been London, where he enjoyed himself by wandering in weak rain through the complex chaos of the metropolis. Crispin was supposed to go to Paris next, but dreaming of hot Mediterranean weather, he roamed further south into Italy and the Adriatic Coast.

Here in Venice, he found both the heat and his adventure, if you could call the futile panic rising in his gut adventure. The day had become a miserable death march through tourist crowded streets and bridges while the sun plastered his black shirt to his back and his Doc Martins dragged across the cobblestones. The respite of his hotel seemed forever beyond his reach. The lofty dreams he had over his morning coffee were forgotten. All he wanted now was to crawl into his coffin-sized rented room and let the air-conditioning wash over him. He needed a blast of cold to shed the blistering fever which crawled over his skin. Despite its utter lack of atmosphere, the canned air would be heavenly compared to the heavy miasma sitting on the city.

Venice was proving itself to be an exotic hell—an M.C. Escher labyrinth of spiraling streets, bridges of stairs, and blind alleys. All filled with hordes of grotesque tourists in graphic T-shirts, carrying ubiquitous selfie sticks.

Every time he found a promising route, one he felt was sure to lead back to the hotel, it would take a turn, leading him further from his goal. Or else, it would suddenly come to a dead-end, often blocked by water with the continuation of the path mocking him on the other side of the canal.

Crispin cursed his decision to leave his phone at home. The fear that his vacation would become a slave to Instagram and Tiktok now appeared to be childish. A satellite map might be the only thing that could salvage this wretched day. The guidebook was useless. He wasn't even able to locate the neighborhood he was in on its foldout map. Each person he stopped either was an equally lost tourist or someone who spoke only a spattering of English and gave directions that led him further astray.

Squeezing past a couple with their cameras and fanny packs, Crispin exited a narrow alley and found himself in a disorienting and claustrophobic junction, where five routes met over the inky water of a slender canal. A small church cast the whole space in its shadow. Three of the lanes turned to steps and joined a bridge that crossed the canal, acting as a moat around the church. With the other buildings so close, he felt an unnerving sensation of suddenly finding himself indoors rather than outside. The sky blazed overhead, but instead of breaking the illusion, it only made it more surreal. It reminded him of dreams he had as a child where he was in a forest, but the entire wood was held in his living room.

Crispin contemplated the various paths in front of him. A shadowy corridor next to the church looked promising, but a tall man with long blond sideburns grabbed his arm before he could decide. He spoke in sharp guttural noises, which initially sounded angry but came into focus as German after a second.

"I don't understand," Crispin said. "What do you want?"

"Ah, an American," the blond man said, switching to lightly accented English. He pulled Crispin along with an amicable but unbreakable grip. "You are late. We have been all waiting for you."

"For me?" He didn't know anyone in the whole country—the entire continent. Who could possibly be looking for him?

"We were about to begin the tour without you."

Crispin almost asked, what tour? But he could already see the answer up ahead. The gap between two ancient buildings framed a small circle of people. A man in an elaborate top hat held a sign reading: "Venice in Death Tours."

Each of the young participants standing around the piazza were dressed head to foot in black, much as Crispin was. Except their clothes looked chosen to attend a funeral rather than anything to do with fashion.

Not that his own clothes could be called fashionable. They had all been packed to help project the image of a broody, sensitive, counterculture type of young man. Perhaps not the man Crispin was, but the one he very much wanted to be.

"Bene!" the guide said, seeing them approach. "We were beginning to get worried. I am Antonio, and you are late."

When Blondie released him, Crispin tried not to be too obvious about massaging his arm in front of the onlooking crowd.

The thought of joining them on their cheesy death tour never crossed his mind. But finding himself the center of attention, he felt awkward about simply walking away. As he organized his thoughts to give them an explanation for the misunderstanding, an exceptionally attractive woman turned her black parasol and revealed her face.

Remarkable almond-shaped eyes regarded him. They were not so much brown as the color of polished bronze with flecks of gold flashing from bottomless depths. The woman stood in deep shade, and only a general impression of the black lace dress she wore could be discerned. But the bare skin of her arms and lower legs radiated a warm, captivating glow. Their olive hue was sundrenched and buttery. They demanded to be touched... caressed... kissed...

Crispin's synapsis slowed until his thoughts were a syrupy trickle. "I was lost," were the only words he managed.

"It is very easy to happen to those not familiar with Venice. But no harm done." Antonio handed Crispin a black umbrella similar to those used by the businessmen in London. "Take this. The sun is strong. This will protect you."

The offering seemed to make it official: he was now part of the tour group. His failed explanation had been accepted as an understandable excuse, and Cripsin had no desire to clear it up. If the truth came out, he might never get the chance to meet this beauty. His sole concern was that the real tour customer might arrive and expose him before they got on their way.

The others picked themselves up from their relaxed pose and opened up their parasols and umbrellas. Before Antonio unfurled his, he thrust it out rapier-like and pointed at an alleyway no wider than two men abreast. "Allora," he said before launching into a spiel in an indecipherable, fast Italian. Crispin didn't bother trying to pick apart the guide's words. Instead, he focused his attention wholly on getting closer to the object of his desire.

This proved to be no easy task. Antonio dragged them through narrow lanes where they had to pass single file, and somehow Crispin always found himself near the back of the pack while she was up at the front. When they finally made a stop, the German, whose name turned out to be Wolfgang, appeared at his side and delayed him with small talk. Then just as Crispin was extracting himself, one member of the party addressed the group with a speech in their native language.

This became the pattern. Antonia brought them to a place with dubious historical relevance. The whole city was old, so it was difficult to see anything particularly special about the locations where they paused. They skipped the popular sites like St. Mark's Square, the Doge's palace, and the Rialto in favor of small churches and dusty squares empty of tourists and only a few locals about. And the stories the others told in Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, or other languages Crispin didn't recognize did little to clear things up.

Strangely, whatever tongue was being spoken, the rest of the group seemed to understand. They'd nod and make appreciative sounds and even ask questions in the speaker's own language. Throughout all this, the guide remained relatively mum, adding to the oddness.

The umbrella proved to be a reliable weapon against the heat of the day, and as the tour went on, Crispin grew as adept as the others at angling it to block the sunlight, even anticipating a burst of the solar heat before encountering it, and tilting and twirling the shield seconds before rays blasted from around a corner.

At one point, he managed to shake off Wolfgang's attention and position himself next to the beauty while they walked between stops. Their umbrellas brushed against one another in a pathetic mockery of intimacy. Crispin introduced himself, and she replied with a laugh, "What a name! You must be new to this."

Had she meant the game of flirtation? But surely, she didn't want him to make up a name. If he had used a name that signaled strength and romance, it would have been an utter lie. She couldn't want a man so full of deceit from his very first words to her, could she? Still, her laughter shook him and deflated his confidence.

However, one wink from those long lashes was all it took to forget about the offense. With the slow, seductive blink of her eye, a new understanding between them was born—an understanding Crispin didn't entirely understand.

"Well, Mr. Gnash, pleased to meet you." She stopped and held out her delicate hand to him. "I am known as Doña Julia De Sevilla."

Her name is Donna, he said to himself, securing it in his memory. Donna Hoolia Disevia.

Crispin took her slender fingers. The way the palm faced down gave him the strange idea he should kiss it like in some corny, old movie. But who did that in the twenty-first century? She would think him completely ridiculous. So, he gave her cool fingers an awkward shake and held them too long, fearing that once he let go, the spell would be broken and she'd vanish—evaporate in a cloud.

The guide's booming voice called for attention, and Donna's hand left his grip almost as though it really had become ephemeral. She hurried to rejoin the group with Crispin chasing after her.

Everyone stood in front of a white stone church. It was along a narrow street, and Crispin needed to press his back against the opposite building and crane his neck to see the steeple.

A burly man with shaggy hair, introduced as Green, came forward to speak. He was dressed simply in a black shirt and pants like many of the other men, but his clothes had a rougher look, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing hairy arms. If everyone else was attired to attend a funeral, he was dressed to dig the grave.

He spoke with an Australian accent. "Like my mate Antonio just said, this fellow here was carved by Zoran Sedej." Green threw a thumb back over his shoulder at a carving of a wild-haired man with long fangs. "Old Zoran was an artisan brought in to work on the new façade and apse in 1709. As you may recall, many churches were getting updates at that time, and local laborers were hard to come by. Craftsmen were brought in from all over the republic. Even Venetian Slovenia, as was the case with old Zoran.

"He may not have been the first choice for the work, but he was a master. Take a look at the intricacy of the stonework and the close resemblance to the model. But like most artists, he had his vices and could often be found at the Cantina Do Mori, where he came across all sorts of unsavory characters. Including this particularly gruesome fellow." Green flicked his eyes to the stone face above his head, and the crowd laughed. Crispin didn't really get the joke. Was it because Green acted as though the foul creature was based on someone real?

Had all their speeches been like this? Instead of talking about the actual places, were they simply fabricating outlandish stories?

Good Lord, had Crispin fallen in with a group of actors? Or worse... writers!

Mr. Green told the tale of how the artist and the fiend met over a game of dice and despite their different backgrounds, became fast friends. One drunken evening, they were set upon by a group of ruffians. The creature, who went by the name Verdo at the time, transformed into his true nature and slew the bandits. Sedej's shock was soon replaced by fascination, and instead of being afraid, he actually drew closer to the monster. They spent all spring and summer that year carousing through the taverns of Venice.

"But..." Green said dramatically. "All that ended when Zoran's work was finally unveiled. Can you imagine old Verdo's surprise when he saw himself on a church? He'd already be immortalized once, as it were, and was pretty pissed to find out he was on display for all of Venice to see. That night, Verdo pretended to be pleased with the sculpture and plied Zoran with grappa in celebration. Then, he ripped the scoundrel's throat out in a dark and forgotten lane. Sedej paid a heavy price for his impertinence. Today, one might call it a licensing fee."

The burly man bowed his head to signal the story was over, and everyone smiled and clapped. Crispin joined in to be polite despite not enjoying the story. Was he the only one who felt bad for how things ended with the sculptor?

The group began to move, with Antonio calling out the destination in garbled Italian. Wolfgang pulled up alongside Crispin and stretched his arm across his shoulders like they were old pals. "He says it is time for some refreshments. Long overdue, I say. I could drink St. Mark's Square dry."

Crispin wasn't sure if his capacity for alcohol equaled his German friend's, but he said, "This heat has made me very thirsty."

"Then we shall drink deep," Wolfgang said with an air of triumph. "Our time of satiation is nigh!"

Crispin smiled. A cold beer would be just the thing to quench his thirst. And in the relaxed setting, he might be able to draw Donna away from the others and speak to her at length.

Antonio passed by many perfectly good taverns and cafes, taking a determined route to some particular place he had his mind set on. No doubt, it was an establishment that let him drink for free if he brought his tours there as a captive audience.

At the end of a tight alleyway with only a low rail preventing a misstep from sending a body into the canal, Antonio unlocked a wooden door and entered. Each member of the group passed single file, putting down their umbrellas and ducking into the building. As Crispin neared the entrance, nothing but pitch blackness could be seen. Something about it urged him to flee. But Donna was already inside, and Wolfgang was behind him, blocking retreat.

The room he entered was cool and dank. The shift in temperature should have been a relief, but it was too much like the chill of sickness. The only illumination came from the door behind him and a flickering flame up ahead where Antonio stood with an oil lantern.

He beckoned Crispin with the light. Was this part of the experience? A creepy, blind walk through a derelict building? Or was he taking them to the worst bar in Venice?

The corridor had many turns leading deeper into the heart of the ancient building and farther from the day outside. The floor became slippery from years of canal water seeping in.

The mood of the solemn journey lifted as they approached a roughhewn chamber. The tour members in the front rushed in. If this was the bar, there was no music and no conversation. Only muffled grunts and sighs. In the flickering light, indistinct figures swooped across the wall creating a grotesque shadow play.

Nothing about this was normal. The compulsion to bolt from this place came back stronger than before. Crispin's whole being begged him to run away. But the others were surging forward. Wolfgang pressed against him, anxious to get in.

Up ahead, a woman screamed in terror.

Donna?

Crispin forgot all thoughts of his own safety and threw himself into the torch-lit room, hoping to protect her.

He found the poor woman hunched forward on the ground. Perhaps hurt. Perhaps in pain. His knees skidded through the muck as he grabbed hold of her arm.

With her so close, things became clearer to his eyes, if not to his mind.

Donna leaned over a prone woman. Her features were hard to make out, but from the short dress she wore, it looked as though she had just come from a dance club. Her hands and feet were bound. A cloth gag had worked free from her mouth, and she howled again in pain and horror. Her neck, stretched taut, was covered in blood. The same blood that was on Donna's lips—lips Crispin had fantasized about kissing a thousand times in the short time he'd known her. But now, her whole face had deformed into a demonic leer. Her tongue snaked from her mouth and licked a drop of blood off of a long, vicious incisor.

With the strange fussiness of a mother straightening a child's clothes, Donna adjusted the gag to block off the woman's screams. Then turning to Crispin, she said, "There is still plenty. Would you care to share?" The softness of her voice and the way her eyes didn't quite meet his hinted at a shyness born from a romantic interest.

Nothing made sense. He had slipped into some nightmare. Perhaps he had passed out from heatstroke and had been dreaming this whole twisted escapade with the tour group and Donna.

Except, the details were too explicit for a dream. The building's dankness clung to his skin like cold slime. His nostrils filled with a mildew reek mixed with the iron meatiness of blood. The noise around him was chaotic—filled with movement, violence, and whimpers from all directions.

Then there was her face.

The faint lantern light reflected off her eyes, making them almost glow. An out-of-place hair slashed across her forehead, a hard black strand against carved white marble. The delicate curl of her smile ended with a trickle of red gore inching down her chin. Had it been drool, she would have looked mindlessly wanton, but this was suggestive of unspeakable inhuman hungers.

Crispin reeled away from her, muttering, "What the hell are you?"

The confused and frantic movement around him halted. The windowless room was still as a grave for a single second before a woosh of wind rushed by, and Mr. Green suddenly stood in front of him. He grabbed Crispen by the neck and pinned him to a wall. Crispin's feet kicked out, trying to find some support, but the ground was a good foot below him. His fingers clawed at the hand shutting his throat from any chance of breath. Green paid no attention.

"Who was the flamming galah that brought the mortal?" When there was a grumble of disbelief from the rest of the tour, he said, "I can feel the blood in his veins. This one's food."

Crispen could feel the blood too. His pulse pounded like a bass drum beneath the cold, impossibly solid grip. He looked down into a face that no longer belonged to the shaggy-haired Australian but the hideous monster carved onto that church.

Antonio yelled at Wolfgang in Italian. The single word "idiota" made clear he was berating the German for bringing Crispin.

"He is not a vampire?" Donna asked, slowly getting to her feet. Dismay replaced the fierce need that had filled her face. "This cannot be. What will we do with him?"

Green said—or rather, Verdo said, "Well, we can't let the bastard live. I made that mistake once. I won't make it again."

Donna sighed and ran a bloody hand through her hair. "You're right. You are right. But please, let me take care of it."

The big monster shrugged, then dropped Crispin. He fell limp to the damp floor, gasping for air. Donna's fingers caressed his cheek, and she made a soothing coo. "Do not fight it. I promise not to make it hurt."

* * *

In the haze of predawn, Crispin Nash's dead body floated down the Grand Canal. The sky was lost in the mist rising off the water. The only light came from windows and street lamps reflecting in the water's ripples. He floated past the Basilica di Santa Maria to the lagoon and further out, past the Lido, and into the great vastness of the Adriatic.

The deck chair beneath him was buoyed by gentle, rolling waves. Crispin turned from the scene of Venice fading into the distance to watch Doña Julia step out of the yacht's cabin. She carried two champagne flutes.

"It is all settled," she said. "The course is set to Spain. We will be at my villa in a couple of nights." She handed him a glass.

"And then what?" he asked. The wound where she'd bitten him still itched, but he tried to ignore it. Julia had told him it would heal quickly now he was no longer alive.

"We have all of eternity to decide that." She settled into the seat next to him and took his hand. Crispin sipped at the dark ichor in the glass.

There were worse fates he could think of.