Page 42 of Unbound

Fuck it, I’m not totally sure of who I am, because the reflection I’m looking at in the water below me isn’t mine. That can’t be me, can it? Did I ever look like that?

I wave a hand, and the reflection waves back. I do it again. Then I hold up my middle finger and watch the reflection flip me the bird. Fuck. It is me. How come I’m maybe five years old then? I remember touching something. Something I found in Vincenzo’s den. I don’t remember what it was; it’s like it’s in the corner of my eye and it moves every time I try to pin it down. But I touched something, and I blacked out, and I fell. Did I whack my head, crack my skull? Have I scrambled my brain? That seems a lot more likely than time travel.

I stare at the kid in the pond. Long dark hair running a little wild, curls on my shoulders. Pretty damn cute, if I do say so myself. I straighten, look down at myself. I’m wearing a white shirt with a frill at the collar, a cream-colored jerkin over the top, and brown breeches tucked into riding boots. A miniature lord of the fucking manor. Is this real? Is this a dream? Is this a memory? I’ve never had any recall of my childhood; only recently have I had those brief flashes, but they’ve been more like tableaus, individual scenes, nothing like this.

I reach down, splash my hand into the water. It’s cool, fresh, definitely feels real. I gaze around. The instantly recognizable landscape of the Tuscan hills. Sun-soaked grass in shades of vivid green, lush fields, the towering rows of cypress trees. I turn my face up, letting the sunlight warm my skin. For a split second I’m terrified, but I do not burn. I simply stand there, gazing upwards. God, that feels good … I realize that I’ve never felt the sun before, at least not that I remember. And not without fearing it might kill me. This is glorious, like no other warmth I’ve ever experienced. I open and close my eyes over and over, the bright glare leaving me deliciously dizzy.

Humans take this for granted, but it fills me with joy. I want to tear off all my clothes and run around naked. I want to let that orange ball in the sky touch every part of me. I want to sit and watch the sunset, then stay up all night and watch the sunrise. I’ve seen them before—from safe spaces—but I can only imagine how perfect it would feel to wake with the sun’s rays creeping over you. Enjoying new life instead of fearing death.

I’m still staring at the sun when I hear the sound of a horse whinnying. I whirl around, see a woman arrive on a handsome black stallion. She slides off her mount gracefully, and I stare at her in wonder. It’s the woman from my memories; I know it is. She has thick, dark curls and grins at me as she approaches. “Stop staring at the sun, Luca d’Argento, you’ll go blind.”

She chucks my cheeks and fluffs my hair, obviously a familiar routine. “Hungry?” she asks. I realize that she’s not speaking modern Italian—it’s the old Tuscan dialect. Florentine. It was just one of the many languages of Italy before its unification into one nation. I haven’t heard it spoken in centuries, but hearing it on this woman’s lips feels as natural as breathing.

I nod, and she sinks down on the grass, spreading her skirts around her. She gazes at the sun-kissed horizon, at the village a few miles away in the valley. She sighs in satisfaction and pulls an apple from her bag. She holds it out to me. “First, a kiss for your mamma.”

My mamma. It all clicks into place. It all fits. I never had a mamma, or at least that’s what I thought. I was told for the whole of my vampire life that I was sold to the Firenzes by a pregnant serving girl, that I belonged to them from being in the womb. I never grieved her, because I never knew her. She abandoned me to a world of horrors.

Now, I finally know … they lied. For all that time, they lied. This woman is no serving girl. Her robes are made of fine cloth, her neck is adorned with rubies, and the stallion alone would be worth a small fortune. She is a lady, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the elite classes of the region. More important than all of that, she is my mamma, and she loves me. It radiates from her, shines from her. The way she smiles as I walk over, the way she drags me down onto her lap for a cuddle. The way she holds me wrapped in her arms, makes me feel so safe, so comforted … this is a mother’s love. This is something that was taken from me—this memory was somehow erased. This beautiful beginning to my life was wiped out, drenched in blood and battle. This angelic young child, little Luca, was torn from peace and security and love, and thrown into a pit of vipers. I mourn for what was, grieve it.

I take the apple. Bite into it, relish its sweet crunch. I am angry. I am furious. I want to destroy the world for what I have lost … but I am also just a little boy, sitting with his mamma on a fine summer’s day. I have to choose which one to be, because I know I can’t be both. I have to choose.

I lean back into her, letting my head rest against her chest. It feels right. It feels like something I have done many times before. It feels real. Could it be? Have I somehow transported here, or is it nothing more than a vivid dream?

She sings to me, some song about blackbirds and crows, and it soothes me. Her voice is pure, familiar on a bone-deep level. I sit there, eating my apple, bathing in both the sunlight and my mother’s love. Yes. This is right. This is the place I need to be. I’m only a child. I cannot leave my mamma yet. What was I thinking?

It feels real and perfect and like everything I have ever yearned for. Almost. As she sings, casually ruffling my hair, there is just the tiniest hint of discontent. A nagging feeling that there is something else I should be doing.

I glance up at her, and she smiles. “What are you thinking about, little prince?”

“I don’t know. Should I be here?”

“Of course you should. It is a fine day, and we are together. What more could we want, Luca?”

“I’m not sure. I just feel like there is something missing.”

She kisses my head and laughs. “Well, when you figure out what, you will tell me, yes?”

I nod, settle back into her arms. I am awash with happiness. I am content. I am safe and loved and the sun is shining. This is my home, and this is my mamma. Where else should I be? Who else should I be? Who and what have I left behind?

Whatever it is, what could be worth leaving this for? I know I’m missing something, but I’m starting to forget what. I know there are things and people I love waiting for me somewhere, but maybe they’re not real. Maybe they were all just a dream. The more I try to remember them, the less real they become.

Over the sound of the gently buzzing insects and the whickering of the grazing horse, I start to hear a humming sound. A woman’s voice. Is it a song? A chant? A church service? I remember church now. There is a chapel on the estate where we live. Down in that beautiful valley, surrounded by fertile land and plenty. A small but intricate stone building where people gather for daily Mass, the service in Latin, the smell of the incense and the sound of the choir as vivid to me as the sun on my skin right now. I was scared of being in the sun earlier. Why was that? Why would anybody be scared of the sun?

“Can you hear that, Mamma?” I ask, glancing up at her. “The lady singing?”

She holds me closer, drops a kiss on my curls. “I can’t, my darling boy, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. You always were special. The d’Argento blood is strong in you, little one. What is the lady singing?”

I strain my ears, frowning. “I can’t understand it. It’s not really a song. It’s a little like the chants that the monks do. Wait, there’s someone else …”

“Listen closely, Luca,” my mother says, reaching out to stroke my hair, her eyes shining with pride. “What do they say?”

I close my eyes. Let the voice reach me. I don’t understand why, but the voice is familiar to me.

“She’s asking me to come back to her,” I tell my mamma, confused.

“And do you want to, sweet one? Do you want to go to her?”

I realize that I do. I don’t know who is asking me to go back or where she wants me to go back to, but I want to join her. I need to go to her. I belong here with my mother, but I also belong there, with the one who is calling me. If she calls me, I must go.