Giacomo watched the girl all throughout his day standing at the door.
He watched as she sat by her father's side while his stomach uncomfortably gurgled. But that was most likely from the musty candied fruits the pretty kitchenmaid slipped him that morning.
He watched as she twirled her long, blonde hair around her finger as chills ran though his body. But that was probably due to the restless, eastward winds blowing under the overcast sky.
He watched as she chased pigeons in the square even though his vision blurred on occasion. But that was a result of being on his feet all day with nothing to drink.
And he watched as she finally left with the setting sun, not having even glanced in his direction, unawares of the increasing scratchiness in his throat. But that was definitely because he hadn't spoken to anyone for half the afternoon. It—and the rest of his ails—had to have such simple explanations because the alternative was unthinkable.
Yet all Giacomo did that day besides intently watch the preacher's daughter just a few dozen meters away in front of the basilica was think about the plague. What else was he supposed to do when one-by-one, his body began exhibiting signs of illness? He could have listened to her father, of course, but he'd heard the proselytizing before. Anyone who'd regularly spent time in San Marco's square these past few months had gotten an earful about the end of days, repentance, and eternal life. Why, the curiosity those emphatic orations exhibited within him were what had originally driven Giacomo to attend the discreet meeting the previous day.
He had left the curious session with more questions than answers, promising himself to get more guidance on the matter posthaste. Tonight, over supper with his uncle, he would do exactly that. As he relinquished his duties for the evening to another boy, Giacomo hoped his decision wouldn't come too late.
Darkness descended quickly as he hurried down the piazza's arcade, his steps echoing off the marble floor. The occasional torch alongside a canal or the brief glimmer of candlelight from a window were all that gave a brief respite from the inky void on this moonless night. But Giacomo knew his route well. Having maneuvered the bridges and alleys between the Santa Croce sestiere and San Marco twice a day for most of the last three years, he could probably make the trip blindfolded without as much as getting his feet wet. It was a good thing, too, for on nights like this, it felt as though he was moving less by sight than through the use of his other senses.
The delicate splash of an gondolier's oar. The pungent aroma of a wood fire. The coarse texture of a brick wall. These were all familiar companions while crossing the countless islands. Yet, tonight, there was something more. Something different. Dare he think, something even sinister.
He couldn't explain the odd feeling, but pulling his cloak tighter around his body, Giacomo hastened his stride. A loud chuckle from inside a nearby building made him jump before he exhaled in relief. It was just a father laughing at his child's silly joke or a husband showing amusement at his wife's daily gossip, both innocent enough to ignore.
So ignore it he did, continuing on.
Crossing a narrow canal briefly brought Giacomo out of the shadows, and he took the opportunity to pause and look back. Behind him was nothing, but the dark alleyway. Ahead of him was the same. With another deep breath, Giacomo resumed his journey. Twenty paces later, footsteps other than his own joined in—first hastily, then unnaturally slow. The boy sped up once more as his heart beat in his throat, its sound reverberating in his ears.
One block further, the cold, crisp air carried with it a low, guttural groan. Giacomo frantically pivoted his gaze, but in the labyrinthine city, the sound could have come from any direction. Then, a shadow—roughly the size and shape of a grown man—flittered between two buildings, causing Giacomo to unwittingly backtrack and turn off his usual path. The footsteps in his wake were now louder, followed by a scream that made him freeze. Taking quick stock of his location, the boy realized too late that he'd inadvertently stumbled down a one-way passage. There was no escape, except from whence he'd come.
With his forehead dripping with sweat and his lungs gasping for air, Giacomo reached to the sheath on his belt and drew his dagger. The steel blade shook in his hand as he squeezed the ebony hilt, the prospect of using the weapon for the first time both frightening and exhilarating.
"Adieu, farewell, earth's bliss, this world uncertain is," came an out-of-place melody in a quiet sing-song, the meaning behind the words much too heavy for the youthful voice behind them.
Giacomo peered into the darkness, awaiting the source; the hairs on the back of his neck standing up on end from anticipation. He didn't have to wait long, for after a brief pause the macabre verse not only continued, but also became increasingly louder.
"Fond are life's lustful joys. Death proves them all but toys. None from his darts can fly; I am sick, I must die."
Upon the final words, a small figure appeared at the open end of the alley. It didn't take Giacomo to recognize her. The porcelain face and piercing eyes framed by the long, flaxen hair were unmistakeable especially since he'd been watching them all day.
"What are you doing here, little one?" he asked, finding reassurance that any threat of harm had passed.
She giggled. "I've come to save you."
Giacomo flinched. "Save me? From who, pray tell?"
The smile that had been on her face dropped, and she shook her head. "Not who. What."
As if on queue, a loud groan rang out. Pained, angry, tired or perhaps all three, it was more animalistic than human. The same invisible menace he'd felt earlier quickly returned, but as one, two, three and finally four figures assembled behind the girl, he now had an explanation for it.
The even mix of men and women approached slowly, the lethargy in their steps and reactions both very much unnatural. For no level of age or amount of physical debilitation he'd seen had ever caused such odd movement. Their limbs appeared to operate on their own accord, no two in normal synchrony. Their torsos jerked, their heads tilted, and their faces . . .. Oh, their faces were the worst of all!
With mouths slightly agape, skin pallid even in the faint moonlight, and eyes unblinking, they resembled corpses more than the living. Dressed in the clothes of the well-off along with those of the lower classes, the four appeared to have nothing more in common with each other than their inhumanity. And still they grunted, growled, groaned and occasionally even made sounds akin to individual words.
"What . . . what are they?" Giacomo asked as his eyes darted among the unusual scene.
The girl took several steps forward, holding her hand out to stay the much larger figures behind her. To Giacomo's astonishment, they obeyed.
"They are the children of God who have found eternal salvation right here on Earth," she said, as if mimicking one of her father's sermons.
Giacomo didn't understand. What he was looking at didn't appear to be salvation, but rather quite the opposite. And if damnation was what the preacher would deliver to his disciples, he wanted nothing to do with it.
"You must allow me to continue on my way home," he said, raising the quivering dagger in a silent, but unmistakable threat.
Undeterred, the girl laughed before breaking out into song again, merrily spinning around contrary to the words' sombre message. "Strength stoops unto the grave, worms feed on Hector brave. Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds open her gate. 'Come, come!' the bells do cry. I am sick, I must die."
The ground under Giacomo's feet shifted. His head was light, and his vision blurred. The dagger in his hand felt heavy as his mouth went dry. "Stop singing that!" he yelled, his voice cracking with terror. "I am not sick, and I am not going to die!"
The girl came to a sudden stop, reached out, and took the weapon from his increasingly unsteady grip. "No, you will not die. I will make sure of it," she said with a wicked grin. Pushing the sleeve of his jacket up, she clamped her mouth over the inside of his wrist before Giacomo even realized what was happening.
He let out an anguished scream as the girl's teeth ripped into his flesh, the escaping blood warming the surrounding skin in its haste to leave his body. Yet as quickly as she acted, she finished.
"There," she said, wiping her bloody lips with the back of her hand and leaving a dark streak across her cherubic face. "It is done."
"What . . . What is done?" Giacomo asked between gasps for breath.
The girl reached to the bottom of her dress and tore a strip of linen from the hem. "You have been given a chance at eternal life. We will now have to wait and see if the Lord deems you worthy of it," she said as she wrapped his bloody wound.
Giacomo suddenly recalled the strange sermon he'd witnessed at the Arsenale the previous day. The girl's father had spoken of eternal life to the initiates with the bandaged wrists, and although Giacomo didn't grasp how everything fit together then, he'd been intrigued by the prospect of possibly being protected from the plague. Is that what this girl had gifted to him now? If so, it sounded like the outcome wasn't certain.
"And what if He does not?" he asked, flexing the fingers on is injured hand. The pain was both excruciating and invigorating.
The girl smiled, his blood still staining her small, white teeth red. "Have faith. I shall also pray for you." Returning his dagger, she backed away before turning around. As she left with her grunting and stumbling disciples, she began to sing once more.
"Wit with his wantonness, tasteth death's bitterness. Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a player's stage. Mount we unto the sky. I am sick, I must die."