Chapter I

In which Machiavelli quickly reveals his terrible secret and Coleridge is put in rather an awkward position. Not physically. Yet.

Samuel opened his eyes to see Machiavelli's skull-face hovering blurrily over him.

“Oh dear” he said reddening “Did I..?”

Machiavelli nodded sympathetically. “You fainted, Signior Col-e-ridge.”

“Coleridge.”

Machiavelli nodded again. “Col-e-ridge.” he said.

Samuel grumbled softly. Foreigners. He thought. He remembered vaguely being in Germany with William. They never got his name right there either. He didn't think it was a terribly difficult name to get right, but it was his, so he supposed he was used to it.

“So.” Samuel said, carefully sitting up. “What exactly is going on? Aside from you being dead and all.”

Machiavelli regarded him balefully. “ You might well say 'And all'” he confessed. “It is closer to the truth than you could guess..." he sighed and broke off. "Signior, let me be honest. It would not be my choice to tell you...it would not be my choice to tell anyone- but, I fear I have no choice. I will be honest-even though it seems unbelievable, I am...” He paused. Shook his head. Looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling.

“I am...how do you say...not-dead...undead...un vampiro.”

Samuel stared.

“You're a vampyre? But...how? You're real? You lot actually exist?”

“It is a particularly painful and unpleasant story.” Machiavelli said, mournfully, but with infinite politeness. “I do not wish to speak of it now.”

Samuel was deeply ashamed. “Oh yes...of course. How insensitive of me.”

“It was necessary that you know.” Machiavelli drummed his fingers on the table, having resumed his place in Samuel's chair. “Necessary so you would not question why we must travel only at night.”

“Travel?” Samuel was perplexed. “Where are we going?”

“A great many places, Signior Col-e-ridge”.

“Coleridge.” Samuel muttered under his breath.

“A great many places.” Machiavelli repeated. “There is a shadow of evil stretching across the world, and we must try to stop it, before it destroys us all.”

“Even to a poet” said Samuel, “that sounds a bit dramatic.”

“I am a vampire” Machiavelli said simply. “A vampire who has known the Medicis. My life is, as you say, 'a bit dramatic'.”

Samuel had no response to this.

“I'm a poet” he said, after a time. “What could you possibly need me for?”

Machiavelli nodded, pleased. “Esattamente. You are a poet. A poet of profound imagination. You are an incredibly important man, Signior Col-e-ridge.”

“Col-” Samuel started to correct him and then thought better of it. “Look here, I...why don't you just call me Samuel?”

Machiavelli's thin face suddenly split into a painful-looking grin. “Signior Sammi?” he suggested delightedly.

“No.” Samuel countered firmly. “Samuel will do.”

“In that case” Machiavelli said, making a grand gesture, “Samuel. I would be honoured if you would call me Niccolo. It seems only right.”

“I...” Samuel was going to say that it wouldn't be proper, but he had started this informality, and he would be damned if he was going to let that Italian make him feel odder than he did already. “Sir. Niccolo.”

He held out his hand and Machiavelli took it in his icy fingers. After shaking firmly, Samuel quickly dropped his hand, and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Well then.” He looked helplessly around. “We're in it then, aren't we?”

“We would seem to be, Samuel.”

Samuel suddenly felt very funny. Quashing the feeling, he became businesslike.

“I say we make a start of it now.” he suggested. “No time like the present.”

“Indeed.” Machiavelli inclined his head gravely. “We have a great deal to do.”