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.”

Introduction

In which one Samuel Taylor Coleridge makes the acquaintance of an Italianate stranger who may or may not be extremely questionable company.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Samuel swore, throwing down his pen. He had written all of three lines that day. He leaned back and closed his eyes, as a feeling of deep despair and inadequacy swept over him. Just beyond the border of his consciousness, Samuel could almost hear William laughing at him. By this time, William would probably be scanning the pages he'd surely written that evening, nodding sagely over them with a self-satisfied air and sending them off to be published. Samuel kicked the table.

Sitting there, rubbing his toe (he had stubbed it kicking the table), Samuel suddenly became aware of a gentle, if persistent knocking sound. Not thinking it likely that anyone would call at this hour, he ignored the noise. The knocking, however, continued. Sighing deeply, and limping a bit, Samuel made his way to the door and opened it. The sight that meet his eyes was more than a little disconcerting, for standing outside was a veritable cliche of an ominous visitor: a tall, thin stranger with a skull-like face and dark, piercing eyes that seemed to glow like coals. He was wearing an archaic kind of robe in a deep dark color and when he raised one skeletal hand, Samuel drew back instinctively.

“Signior Col-e-ridge?” the stranger spoke with a strange lilting accent Samuel couldn't quite place, showing white white and alarmingly sharp teeth as he did so.

“I...uh...yes. Quite.” Samuel stammered.

“I would very much like to speak with you.” the stranger's eyes seemed to glow brighter and Samuel found himself quite unable to look away as much as he wished to do so.

“I...uh...yes.” Samuel said. “Please. Come in.”

With a look of great relief, the stranger swept past Samuel, settled himself comfortably in Samuel's chair and looked at Samuel expectantly.

“So, Signior.” said the stranger.

“So, yourself!” Samuel exploded. “Just who in the name of all that's holy are you? And what are you doing in my house? In my chair?!”

“My name” the stranger sighed. “I do not think you will believe me.”

“Your name, sir.” Samuel insisted. “Your full, proper, real name.”

“Niccolo Machiavelli.” the stranger responded.

Samuel was momentarily stunned. Then he recovered. “Your parents must have had an awfully odd sense of humour, eh?”

“No” the stranger sighed again. “Niccolo Machiavelli. The Machiavelli. You have heard of me? Il Principe?”

“Well, yes! Of course!” sputtered Samuel. “But he's...that is to say...you're...you're supposed to be, well, dead, aren't you?”

Machiavelli, for it was he, sighed yet again. “Yes.” he said. “Yes.”