La Commedia Dell'Arte

La Commedia Dell'Arte

Chapter 1

There are markets in the dark places. They are secrets, passed by knowing voices in exchange for cash. These places are shunned by most of the civilized world, but it's also where people go when they fall through the cracks.

They must land somewhere, after all.

Most of the Fallen are moved around, captured and shipped away to distant lands where they are more exotic - and less likely to escape. Not knowing the language, they will not know their fate until it happens to them. The Fallen are helpless creatures, and generally beautiful. That is their main asset, and if they're skilled in other ways, then so much the better.

Are humans the only ones on sale at these markets? No, of course not. The world still has untold treasures, hidden and difficult to find. But humans are the most numerous and the easiest to collect. Indeed, for all their sublime claims to "human rights", very few truly care if strangers suffer, go missing, or die. It is their condition. One I share half of, I suppose.

In our world there are many kinds of creatures that blend in. They are adept at it. They have evolved to disappear. My father was one such - a strzyga, a living vampire. A twice-lived. He came from the old country to make a new life here in the United States, and against all odds he found a human woman who loved him. My mother loved us both, but our natures weren't like hers. Father tried to be good, to be godly and righteous, but it couldn't last. He outlived her, as he always knew he would, and right up to the end he, still young and handsome, prayed with her to comfort her. When she was gone, the prayers stopped. He had no reason to pretend anymore.

I suppose I didn't either. When mother passed, I was still young. For a vampire, that is. Fifty years old seems like nothing for the twice lived, and our youthful complexions sometimes fool us, too. For mother's sake I tried to live a human life, to find a job, learn a trade. In the end I did, though mother would turn in her grave if she knew what it was.

I am the head trader of the Fallen on the east coast of the United States. It's not something you can put on your resume, but those who matter already know. To the rest of the world I am nobody, a shiftless guy who used to jump from odd job to odd job and faded away into obscurity.

In the Dark Market, my name is Volto.

To assure my secrecy, I wear a mask - the volto, as the name implies. It's the type of masquerade mask that cover's one's face from chin to forehead, temple to temple. Mine is white and gold, with eye holes that reveal my light blue eyes with startling clarity. Above, my black hair is somewhat shaggy, just long enough to cover my ears, and my skin has always tended towards an olive complexion. Odd for a strzyga, yes, but my mother was Italian. Perhaps she bestowed upon me my love for Venetian masks. Or perhaps she taught me how to wear one before I ever placed the volto upon my face.

Tonight, I can smell the salty funk of the sea air seeping into the lower levels of the Charleston dockside warehouse. These markets always seem to occur near the water - it's less risky to hold the events where the shipping crates have arrived, rather than daring to transport such precious cargo across town. So many questions and problems with that method. So many bribes. So many unexplained disappearances, and recollected bribe money. I'm not one to waste resources, of course.

It's still somewhat early in the evening - 11pm. The stock cages are sturdy creations in steel, scrubbed clean every evening by my precious interns. I call them interns, but let's refer to them as they are - Fallen creatures that aren't pretty enough to make me coin. So I feed them, house them, and tend to their diseases in exchange for their labor. At times, I employ them as little spies. No one pays them attention, and my clientele have such big, flapping mouths. If they discover a secret that's useful, I reward them. They know better than to play double agents, of course. The last one I found being 'clever' was made an example of, then sold to a butcher and fed to the rest. There have been no clever ideas after that episode.

At 11:15, the first of the clients arrive, escorted into the assembled galleries by my masked interns. They wear masks like mine, but there's is a doll's face. Toys. I watch from my throne, a repurposed life-guard's high chair painted in black and strung with crimson and ebon silk ribbons. Above me, the lights are turned off, the remaining illumination at shoulder height. White Christmas lights are strung about the cages, creating a carnival-like atmosphere. Indeed, music plays, and there are entertainers here and there. More of mine, of course.

The cages themselves are draped with black velvet. Write ups of each sale item hang below on placards, and even now my little dolls are leading the growing number of clients around, showing them items that might satisfy them. My prices, of course, cover a range, as does the quality of my stock. Not everyone can afford a stunning pet worthy of a crime lord - some are in the mood for disposable amusements. I suppose a crime lord might be in the mood for either, but, in any case, I try to provide a wide selection. Male, female, human, and decidedly not human.

I watch from my perch as one of my dolls moves aside a curtain to reveal a young woman sitting in the back of her cage. She's naked, of course, just like the rest of my stock, save for the muzzle strapped to her face and locked there. Her arms are cuffed behind her, and her ankles are bound. She's of age - I do not trade in children - and I believe she might be Greek. Or perhaps Sicilian. Who can tell? All I know is that she's beautiful. Better yet, she understands her situation, and is doing a good job selling herself.

The evening carries on without a great deal of intervention on my part. My dolls are well trained, and the only part of the deal they aren't allowed to handle is payment. That's when I descend from my throne, gliding through the crowd like a wraith. I'm not as tall as the typical men of this day and age - I'm only 5'7", and I'm very slight. Still, I wear a black suit well, or, as I've done this muggy summer night, a pair of suit pants, black socks, black dress shoes, a black dress shirt, and black silk vest, fitted just so about my slender midriff.

What the client purchases from me in exchange for such precious money is a single key. Well, a key, and the assurance that when he or she takes their prize from its cage and goes home with it, I won't hunt them down. I don't believe in piracy of course. Some who run their own Dark Markets sometimes sell a stock item several times, but in the end it always gives them a poor reputation. I couldn't abide that, personally. I want my name, or at least my pseudonym, to be trusted. Volto shall never let you down. Volto has just what you need. That is what they say - that is what they will always say.

By the close of the market, I have sold nine keys. It's not bad, but I had been hoping to empty all ten cages. I've been moving the item within cage ten from market to market for three months now, and I can't seem to find a buyer for him. The dolls begin breaking down the displays while I walk down the two rows of cages. The last on the left remains covered, and I brush the black velvet aside to take a look at him. The man's slender without being gaunt. His look is perhaps middle eastern, perhaps Armenian. These days it's getting harder and harder to tell. Still, he's handsome, he's not diseased, and he's not too old. Why he's not selling is becoming a mystery.

I look down and tilt up his placard, studying the information there. Behind my mask I murmur the name printed there. "Seektear." I look at him, and his eyes smirk back at me above the covering of his muzzle. This was the only information we could get out of him when we acquired him. In fact, it was the only thing he ever bothered to say. A quick perusal of my smart phone brings up the truth, and I give him a look. "Ah, so you're Turkish, are you?"

He frowns, turning his face away from me. I would guess he's somewhere in his mid twenties and stands at about my height. I must admit that it amuses me that for so long we've been thinking that had been his name, when it was just the transliteration of his Turkish invective telling us all to fuck off, more or less. No wonder he hasn't been selling, charming lad.

When the dolls come around to take him out of his cage, I hold up a hand. "I'll see to him." My attendants bow and run off to help the others wheel away the other cages. The warehouse is emptying now, the strings of Christmas lights left on the floor, casting up their illumination as if in a horror movie. I suppose, for our young Turk, it is. "I've given you ample opportunity to offer me a name, and you've given me nothing of merit. So I suppose I'll name you." While he scowls at me, glaring from the corners of his lovely gray eyes, I take in his gestalt. Wiry, angry, passionate, but not all that forward-thinking. "Since you find yourself so terribly funny, I will name you Arlecchino."

I snap my fingers, and two of my larger dolls are by my side in a moment. "Wheel his cage back to the Commedia," I announce, though as they pull the velvet down and begin to move him, I add "leave him in my quarters." My dolls incline their heads, and wheel the cage out through the back door, the same place all the other empty cages had gone.

The rest of the night is mine, I suppose. Time for a light repast.

Chapter 2

I am back at the Commedia well before we are set to launch at dawn. It's not that I, as a living vampire, must escape the sun. I rather like it, all things considered. A benefit of being twice-lived - I shall never grow old, but I needn't live like a lupus-riddled hermit. My dinner sits in my belly, still hot. Like the fanged dead, I can drink from human beings and leave them no worse for wear. Well, more or less. The possibility of leaving them infatuated is always a risk.

Given the light misting rain that's been falling all evening, the main deck of my beloved handysize cargo vessel is well-rinsed and clean, aided, of course, by my on-board dolls. There are a few shipping containers loaded, mostly with things like scrap metal and other materials that I can get a good price for that American junk yards no longer need. I consider that fact - for the past twenty-something years, I've brought beautiful Fallen treasures for sale, and left with garbage, which would be sold to fund my next purchase of Fallen. The profits from such a cycle aren't great, but it's sustainable. Plus, I can live my life anywhere on this lovely ship. Given its relatively small size and draught, I can access nearly any port.

Which is handy, given that I must routinely shift the locations of my markets to avoid undo attention.

Beneath my boots, I feel the metal rumble to life. The engines churn water and push us out now that everyone's aboard. Luckily, my crew is experienced enough to handle all ship's operations on their own. I suppose that means they could make off with the vessel beneath my nose some night, but at present they wouldn't dare. They are all enthralled to me, of course, and hate me as they sometimes may, they could never bring themselves to knowingly disobey me.

I almost feel bad for them, and maybe would feel worse if I didn't give them food and shelter. And an allowance, if they're extra good. Besides, their skill as my crew pales in comparison to their use as nutrition for myself when we're out at sea. I can't really stomach anything other than meat and blood anymore, and when out in the middle of the ocean, one of them makes a donation every few days. It all rotates, of course - taking too much from one would just be wasteful.

Right now I'm dressed quite differently than I was in the market. Before I'd gone out, I'd changed out of my suit and mask and into a pair of jeans, work boots, and a light black hoodie over a black muscle shirt. My face is unknown by now - all of my business I carry out behind my mask. Unknown, but handsome. My mother blessed me with her coloration and slender build, while my father, of course, offered me his blue eyes and his condition. I'm striking both at a distance and up close, my cheekbones high, my features elegant, and my smile winning when I bother to show it. Unique to my people, my fangs fold up against the roof of my mouth like a viper, so it's difficult for someone to see my cutlery by accident even when I laugh.

By the time I ascend the metal steps of the stairwell inside, I know that the Commedia is heading back out to sea. I never plan a destination when I leave port, of course. Perhaps I'll make up my mind tonight when we've lost sight of the shore. The risers carry the sound of my steps to my private level, my pace languid. I know the sound carries through the floor of my quarters, and sure enough there waits Arlecchino, bound, gagged, and chained to kneel on the floor by the foot of my bed.

When his eyes lift to look at me, he blinks. I know that he's never seen me with the mask off before - I'm very careful never to let the stock see me. Now, however, since I haven't been able to sell him, I must think up some other use for him, or be rid of him. And for some reason, I like that his placard's been telling us all to fuck off in Turkish for the last three months. It shows panache, or at least an idiotic disregard for his welfare. Both, I think.

"Are you surprised by what you see, Arlecchino?" I ask softly, coming to crouch before him.

The young man looks confused, then angry, digging his teeth harder into his gag as he stares down at his knees. He tenses when I shift forward and grip his hair, tilting his head so that I can slowly breathe in the scent of his temple. His skin is clean and his hair has been washed recently, which is a relief. I can't stand it when stock is allowed to saturate in their own filth. Most of my sale items are on the same page with their fate, and offer no trouble when the dolls go in to take care of them. Arlecchino may have put up more of a fight. When I release his hair and shift around behind him to examine his bound hands, I frown when I see the dirt under his nails.

"This will never do. I can't have some filthy creature staying in my cabin. I can only imagine the state of your teeth," I chide, pulling out a small utility knife in one hand as I keep his fingers immobile with the other. Each nail is cleaned, and it almost feels like I'm cleaning out the hooves of a horse I intend to groom and show. I suppose I do at that, now that I think of it. "There, that's better. Now," I slip the knife along between the cloth strip and his cheek and pull, the fabric splitting along the blade so that his gag falls away into his lap, "impress me."

The man stretches out his mouth with a groan. Admittedly, he's been gagged almost continuously, save for being fed. When I get to my feet and put my knife away he just glares at me, his lips a firm line as he refuses to speak.

I roll my eyes and take a seat by my writing desk, turning slowly around in the comfortable swivel chair that's bolted to the floor. "Oh come now. I'm sure you've been dying to speak your mind for months, to bitterly tell me what a monster I am for trying to sell you, in this day and age." My brows are lifted expectantly, but still nothing, and I deflate in my chair. "Arlecchino, you're breaking my heart. I had such hopes for you."

"Are you going to kill me?" he suddenly asks in English, his Turkish accent pleasant but not overbearing, even if his tone is flat and tense.

At first I'm not sure that I've heard him correctly. But given that he doesn't repeat himself, I suppose there was never meant to be more to that question. "Oh, I don't think so," I offer casually. "There must be some use for you."

"You could set me free," he growls, a lovely ripple of muscle tensing along his shoulders and stomach.

That only makes me smile, and I slouch back in my seat. "And what will you do, once you're," I wriggle my fingers condescendingly, "set free?"

He frowns. "I'll go home."

"Of course you will. And where is home?"

With a charming straightening of his spine, he boasts "Ankara, of course. The Altındağ quarter."

I remember what his file had said when I'd rechecked it earlier this evening - yet another street urchin who'd matured into a low-level thug and thief. At the very least, that's what the Collector had said. Collectors are those who scour the slums, docks, and ghettos for the Fallen. Sometimes they post bail for those already in custody, and then keep them. Other times they lure in their quarry and groom them to get more money at the Dark Markets. Arlecchino's Collector had boasted that the young man had been quite a problem, and while I'd been dubious (Mediterranean Collectors are always full of shit to inflate their prices), there may have been a grain of truth to it. Altındağ is one of Ankara's poorer neighborhoods, its dusty hills barnacled with shanty towns.

"And you will go back to your old life doing what, exactly?"

He sniffs, and gives me a petulant glare. "Whatever I want. Away from this, and you, demon." There's a tug at his wrist shackles, and he snarls. "You can't keep me chained forever! I am Erbörü! I can't live like this!" The sudden revelation catches me by surprise, and I think his fit of pique has surprised him, too. His eyes had paled to silver for a moment, and he'd strained, not to escape, but to transform. For some reason he decided to stop the process, which seems to have taxed him considerably.

His shoulder rests against the frame of my bed and he shudders, gritting his teeth, which I only just see have points that are dulling once more. Breathlessly he insists "you... you're Mhachkay. I can smell it. A blood drinker. You're not human. You understand, don't you?" When he lifts his soulful, hurting eyes to me again, they've returned to their original dark coloration. I'm almost disappointed.

I turn to look out the window above my writing desk, gazing upon the sparkling blue waters as we leave port. This boat and this life are my assurance of freedom and privacy. It's difficult to find such a thing in a world full of humans. With a sigh I close my eyes, disliking that I'm starting to feel some sense of kinship with this cur chained to my floor. "I'm not in the business of offering charity," I grumble, my sarcasm forgotten for the time being.

Behind me I can hear the chains clink as he kneels upright again, eager. "Of course not. But I can be useful! I can fight, and I can steal."

With a sniff, I turn my chair back to him. "So can I. Why do I need you?"

He just gives me a blank look, then worms his way into my ego. "But... why should you have to do those things? Why not keep a man, an Erbörü, at hand to take care of those things? They are beneath you, surely." His grin is devilish as he purrs "They are not beneath me."

Be still my heart. For a long while I just study him, my features somewhat inscrutable. The boy doesn't let up, eager to please, or at least make it seem like he is. I suppose if I enthrall him he won't be so troublesome to tame. Plus, if he lays a hand on one of my dolls I will eat him myself and toss the rest overboard. Who needs a stable of hogs when you can dispose of the evidence yourself? My condition is so convenient, sometimes.

At long last I sigh and stand up. The boy flinches nervously as I walk around behind him and crouch again. I can feel his pulse lift, then race as I grip at his hair again to expose his neck. I've already fed, so I won't take much, but he doesn't know that. My more sadistic side delights as I trail my lips along his skin, feeling how hot his flesh is so I can locate the vein. He shudders, squeezing his eyes shut in frightened anticipation. It startles him when I find the right spot and slowly slide my tongue over it.