Never Expect a Vampire Like You

Chapter 10: Shadows and Promises

Summer. In the sunless gloom of a Florence alleyway, faint echoes of laughter, conversation, and the clatter of carriages drifted from the main street. Above, beneath a cloudless azure sky, lay tier upon tier of red rooftops, yet none could obscure the vast, striking dome of the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore.

Returning to the Renaissance—this fantastical reality—had taken Chiara two months to accept.

But she had no idea how much longer it would take to fully digest the scene unfolding before her now.

After the monster’s head was twisted off, there was no spray of blood, no clinging flesh. It seemed only dead matter, cleanly severed. That head, contorted with malice moments ago, now hung from a pale, beautiful hand. The headless body, bereft of consciousness, slowly toppled backward. Marco, still unconscious over the creature’s shoulder, was lifted by the scruff of his collar by the black-cloaked figure’s other hand.

Chiara quickly reached out and grasped Marco’s shoe, swallowing hard to force her pounding heart back down her throat. "Sir, please—rest assured, I won’t speak a word of what happened today to anyone."

Nervous and reeling from the shock, her words stumbled out in a rush. Fearing the man might reconsider, she hastily added, "I know you—all of you—must wish to remain hidden from humankind. So I’ll tell no one. Marco was unconscious; he knows nothing. And I… I swear on my life to keep this vow. Not a whisper to the outside world. So please… spare Marco. And… spare me."

She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

The high noon sun had shifted slightly westward, casting another sliver of golden light onto the western wall. Under the sun’s glare, every speck of grime on the ochre-yellow plaster stood exposed.

The cloaked figure slowly crouched down. Sunlight that had been behind him now flooded Chiara’s vision. She squinted slightly and saw, beneath the hood, a pair of deep brown eyes that glinted with the sheen of rubies.

The face they belonged to was flawlessly sculpted: fine, arched brows, a straight and noble nose, thin lips—every feature seemed painted by an artist wielding boundless imagination. His cheeks held a sickly pallor, utterly bloodless, yet it did nothing to diminish the startling impact of his beauty. He looked about eighteen or nineteen, his eyes still carrying the sharp edge of youth.

"You…" he began, "why do you assume I wish to keep our existence hidden from humans?"

His voice hovered between youth and maturity—clear yet cold. His phrasing, however, was oddly archaic, carrying an air of condescension, as if looking down upon mortals. Had Chiara not spent fourteen years in the Vatican, steeped in the ways of the clergy, she might have mistaken him for some rigid young priest.

His question felt like a challenge, sharp and threatening. One wrong answer, Chiara sensed, and her fate would mirror that of the headless creature.

"I… I know…" Chiara shrank back under his gaze. "I know you must be a vampire hunter."

The youth frowned. "Vampire hunter?"

"Is that not it…?" Chiara glanced down at the headless corpse. "Fangs, unnatural strength, a body that bleeds not when decapitated… that must be a vampire. And you, sir…" She deliberately used the honorific. "You seemed to have pursued him for some time, striking with lethal precision at the perfect moment. You must be one of those who hunt vampires, silently preserving the world’s peace through centuries of human ignorance."

Though the term "vampire" originated in 18th-century Romanian folklore, tales of blood-drinking creatures had existed for millennia, woven into the myths of Mesopotamia and ancient Rome. Thus, in the Renaissance, while the word "vampire" was unknown, fanged, blood-sucking monsters were already fixtures of legend.

Chiara had once been a staunch atheist. Her sudden transmigration had shattered her worldview. After fourteen quiet, ordinary years, encountering a vampire now… she had accepted this new fantastical reality with remarkable calm.

But the more solemnly serious her explanation, the stranger the youth’s expression became.

She felt she’d pieced together the entire hidden truth beneath the surface world and silently congratulated herself.

A short while later, as the shadow on the alley’s west wall crept downward, Chiara heard hurried footsteps approaching from behind. Thinking it must be passersby, she turned—just as the black-cloaked man unceremoniously tossed Marco toward her. She fumbled but caught the boy securely. Then the youth’s voice sounded above her:

"Remember your vow. Should you breathe a single word to anyone, I will not hesitate to kill you… and whoever you told."

Chiara looked up toward the voice. The space before her was empty. The headless vampire’s body had vanished too.

The footsteps behind her drew closer. Soon, Silvio’s panting voice reached her: "Signorina Chiara! Are you all right? We saw you jump from the beam inside the market and—"

"I did not jump from any beam inside the Central Market," Chiara interrupted, slowly rising from the cool cobblestones of the shaded alley with Marco in her arms. "We split up to explore after arriving. Marco grew tired, so we decided to head home early."

"As for my state…" She glanced down at her crumpled, dust-streaked skirt and the dirty shoes beneath. "…the crowds at the market jostled me."

"But—"

"You saw it yourselves," Chiara said flatly. "Today, a woman climbing the walls caused a commotion in the market. There were stampedes. I was one of the victims."

*

Back at the Totti residence, Chiara discarded the grimy, wrinkled dress from the day. She spent hours drawing a bath, filling a bucket with hot water, then sinking into it for a long, soothing soak.

By the time she was ready, evening had fallen.

Lisa had prepared dinner for the household. Thankfully, no pasta graced the table—a small mercy for Chiara’s frayed nerves after the day’s shocks.

Marco, washed and dressed, sat waiting at the table. Small for his age, his feet dangled, swinging gently back and forth beneath the chair. His eyes lit up when Chiara entered the dining room. He called out a bright "Sister!" then fell silent, his gaze following her.

Chiara sat beside him and glanced around. "Where is Signor Riccardo?"

Lisa, standing nearby, answered, "The master made cheesecake and took it upstairs for the mistress."

*…Another day blinded by sickly-sweet love,* Chiara thought dryly.

Soon, Riccardo appeared at the stairway. He descended slowly, walked straight to the table, and smiled as he pulled out his chair upon seeing Chiara and Marco watching him expectantly. "Let’s eat," he said.

Dinner was usually family time. But the Totti household was… unusual.

Marco’s condition meant he could not express his thoughts, however much he longed to connect. Matilda remained bedridden, dining in her room under Nonna Elisabetta’s care. That left only the three young servants—but however open-minded the Totti family might be, servants dining and chatting freely with their masters was still unthinkable.

Thus, dinner at the Totti home was exceptionally… quiet.

Chiara didn’t mind. She’d never been overly talkative. Her siblings at the Orsini Palace had been far more eloquent. Back in Rome, or at Rodrigo’s country estates, dinner always began with the Cardinal, descended into arguments between Juan and Lucrezia, and ended with Rodrigo summarizing the key points of their debate.

She could remain silent throughout, wholly focused on the meal.

Still, Riccardo seemed to think the silence might unsettle their new guest. He often filled it with amusing anecdotes: how Marco, as a child, tried to adopt a stray puppy only for it to bite him and flee; or how Arturo, years ago, secretly adored a maid in Signora Medici’s service. When he finally mustered the courage to confess, the maid declared she would marry none but Botticelli. Arturo, in a fit of pique, took up painting—only to abandon it when the cost of pigments proved too steep, vehemently denying it was due to his utter lack of talent.

Within days, Chiara knew every embarrassing story the Totti family had to offer.

She wondered whose tale Riccardo would share tonight. Instead, after taking a bite of beef, he paused thoughtfully and said, "I heard something strange happened at the Central Market today, Chiara. Did you see it?"

Chiara: "…"

Florence was neither small—being one of Italy’s wealthiest cities and a hub of European finance—nor particularly large. News of a woman scaling walls like a spider at the noon market had spread citywide by afternoon. Even Riccardo, home all day tending to his wife, had caught wind of it.

Chiara coughed drily. "Of course I saw it. I was even trampled by the crowd."

"Understandable. Florence hasn’t seen such a spectacle in years. The excitement was natural," Riccardo mused.

"Such a spectacle?" Chiara blinked. "What kind?"

"A person who could scale walls," Riccardo said, taking another bite of beef. He chewed slowly, seeming to recall something. "Walking on smooth walls and uneven rooftops as if they were level ground."