Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

The following evening at dinner, I asked Maximo when he would inform Duccio of his intentions. He couldn’t help but answer with a silent smile.

“I’ll leave it to you, then,” I challenged him.

But, I didn’t have to ask Maximo to follow me outside when dinner was finished, nor the next night, nor the next. Our affair swept me away. It bore no resemblance to anything that came before it. We loved each other for no ulterior reason other than our sublime and fiery attraction to one another.

While I longed for him to take me into the city and show me his world, that was not to be. But I could hardly complain about the time we spent together. The chilly nights spent in secret were exquisitely hot, and the fire between us was intoxicating. Again and again, Maximo’s intense lust swept me away from every other concern. A mere look from me would awaken him, and his passion could rarely be satisfied long before the light of dawn grew to separate us.

More thrilling than anything was how eager he was to join me when someone in need drew the attention of my wolf. Maximo was wildly excited by my gift, and he relished how I came across people in need of justice with such insatiable precision. Whether by the coincidence of my history, or by a mechanism of my female constitution, those who drew me were invariably women. When they suffered, I heard their voices from miles away. When I slaughtered the men who abused them, I felt triumphant and unashamedly satisfied.

Maximo told me that merely observing my ruthlessness led him to feel accomplished. He loved to watch how I destroyed them, the things I did and said to them as I ended their lives. Killing evil-doers bonded us so strongly that a night with only the moon and stars to guide us left him dissatisfied. I was his angel of death, and Maximo became infatuated by my avenger’s mind just as much as my body.

“Ours is really and truly a romance,” I finally told Sempronio one afternoon when his simple query opened the secretive floodgates I’d withheld from all but Pompeia.

Tears formed behind my eyes at the sight of the master’s unmasked joy. It filled my heart that he, at last, knew my secret and derived such happiness from my confession. Of all of them, Sempronio alone knew the truth of my journey. When he kissed my forehead upon departing his office, it meant more to me than anyone might ever understand.

Christmas arrived with unexpected fervor in Castello Palatino. In my childhood home, religion had been impractical, and so it was never observed. The feast the farmer’s held in late December was merely to beckon the coming spring. Even during my year in Morbegno, rarely leaving the house, little of Christmas made its way to me. Cecco had given me small gifts to mark the celebration, but our marital concerns buried their impact. I only sensed its importance to the world when I saw Father Piero’s eyes lighten one biting December day. He arrived at my door, and robustly wished me joy in the birth of Christ.

In Como, however, the change in people’s lives seemed far more palpable.

Duccio saw the castle decorated with elaborate boughs of evergreen, hung over every doorway. The clean pine scent brightened the household’s mood immeasurably. The alpha ordered hundreds of red wax candles made, and they bathed the house in their warm light each night for a week. What affected me most was the peculiar sight of cut pine trees erected indoors. The whimsy these oddities brought from all as we decorating them with red and gold ribbons made me laugh aloud. It felt as if we’d all gone mad. One night, I returned to my room to find Pompeia and Maximo decorating a small potted tree they’d placed in my drawing-room. The two conspirators looked positively proud of themselves as they turned to present their colorful work to me.

When the preparations had reached a fevered pitch, the festivities began in earnest with the first of several feasts.

“Saturnalia,” the master called it reverently. “It is the mark of the winter solstice. Tomorrow, the nights will begin to shorten, and the lengthening days will soon bring with them the return of spring.”

I confessed to him I never knew its name, but that my people also celebrated it.

“Our families farmed the lands, just the same as Sempronio’s did long ago,” Dionisio added. “Even during the most barren of winters, our people celebrated this night. It was an accomplishment to have lived to see it; a reward from the gods. They promised that the earth would soon be reborn and that life would return to the fields. And so we feasted as if the coming weeks of bitter cold and famine were unimportant, for on this night, we too were reborn.”

Dionisio’s explanation delighted me, and I kissed his warm cheek before refilling the wine in his cup.

My kiss drew whistles from the other end of the table that led to a ruse. The men all pushed toward him, each bent on delivering their own kiss. They fought in jest to win Dionisio’s affection, claiming him as their lover and drinking from his cup once they’d planted their lips on his reddening face. Even Sempronio followed along and placed his arms around the man, threatening the others with bloody death should they dare covet his prize, leaving the men roaring with laughter and applause.

As the night wore on, the men became hysterically drunk. The bottles of fine red wine gave way to brandy, which only seemed to raise their boisterous volume. The noise finally tempered when Sempronio banged on the table to draw their respect to Dionisio, who held a mandolin. After thumbing through several chords, from his lips came the sweetest voice; flawless in pitch and filled with emotion as he sang of love and life. Duccio was the first to stand in applause after Dionisio finished. He called to the others to repeat the song in unison, each singing so strongly they might have been heard a mile away.

But days later, on Christmas Eve, I was made a part of something unforgettable. The lycan of Castello Palatino hosted the most impressive feast I’d ever seen, prepared exclusively for its servants and their families. While staff members worked in the morning, they were all sent home early to prepare for the celebration by mid-day. Duccio hired carriages to transport more than seventy men, women, and children to the castle, many in our own vehicles. Even the sailors from Duccio’s barge were brought up from the lake. All arrived dressed handsomely in their finest as if they were attending mass. From the moment they placed their feet upon the ground, our guests were waited upon like noblemen. Not only by help hired in from Como specifically for the event but by Duccio and his family, as well.

Dressed in the house’s livery, we each toiled to carry dishes up from the kitchen, keep their cups filled, indulge their children with sweets, and attend to their every wish. More than a token of gratitude, Duccio arranged for nothing less than the finest food and drink of any house in the province to be served. In the main salon, he erected a stage to host players who performed Christmas plays. In another, a troop of puppeteers delighted the children with stories of clever animals who set out on adventures around the world. In the ballroom, musicians played dancing music over throngs of laughter and joy.

Under the oculus of the castle’s massive entrance hall, which Sempronio taught me was a recreation of the Pantheon of Rome, stood the largest of the Christmas trees. The room was lit by the glow of at least one hundred red candles, and Duccio had seating brought in to be set up around the perimeter. In the common tongue, he read a Bible story about the birth of Jesus Christ. The tale concluded with the arrival of the magi, who brought the infant savior gifts. I then understood the real purpose of the gathering. A choir of carolers, supported by the ballroom players, sang sacred hymns while Duccio and the other men presented gifts to everyone in attendance.

While the children offered loud and delighted ovations for the many toys they received, Duccio presented the men and women with tokens that left most speechless. Along with his private whispers of gratitude, Duccio presented each guest with a sizable chest. These boxes were constructed solidly to ensure their journey home and painted in bright shades of lacquered red. Despite their presentation’s utility, recipients discovered striking finery within each of their Christmas gifts.

From the men’s boxes came coats, hats, and boots. But these were not the simple wear of ordinary people. No, these were the garments of noblemen. Lush velvets, soft linens, and flawless leathers of the rarest qualities, each miraculously crafted and fitted perfectly for its recipient. Along with them came swords, rare cordials, carved walking sticks with silver handles, or leather-bound volumes for those who could read. Every box included a heavy purse of gold coins.

The women’s chests included even more finery, each composed of the wealthiest materials—silks, satins, laces, and furs—and each designed by ateliers from Venice, Milan, or Rome. Some items came from as far as London or Paris. With them were scarves, gloves, hats, and elegant shoes, as well as jewelry that boggled my mind. There were flawless rings, pendants, necklaces, lockets, earrings, and bracelets, all fashioned with dazzling gemstones, and each cut and set in refined silver or gold. There were also parasols, perfumes, gilded stationery, and some chests even contained small portraits painted of their families in stunning detail.

The extravagance of the banquet and entertainment still left me unprepared by what I observed given to these families. I knew perfectly well what it meant to be a servant--to live on a wage or upon the mercy of a faceless landowner. The contents of each chest amounted to more than the annual income of its recipient. I suspected they amounted to far more. But to the point, Duccio’s chests contained items a servant would never think to buy for themselves. Even if they’d saved a lifetime for such an extravagance, none would ever consider such unnecessary luxuries for a moment. Every woman under Duccio’s roof would arrive at mass tomorrow morning dressed for worship as the finest ladies in the Duchy of Milan. Every man would sleep soundly tonight, knowing that the coming year would be a prosperous one for his family.

I couldn’t fathom what the expense of the evening had been, let alone the effort required to achieve it. I wondered if kings might give such finery to those who emptied chamber pots or groomed their horses?

Sempronio took me by the hand as if he knew how the sight affected me.

“The things that are most meaningful to some are often meaningless to others,” he whispered. “You’ll find that tonight is meaningful to all of us here.”

I placed my head on his shoulder and let the choir’s soft voices settle my tired muscles.

The night finished well after midnight. We were all exhausted, and even Maximo offered me little more than a kiss goodnight before retiring to his room. When an unexpected knock came on my door, I presumed he had changed his mind.

Instead, standing in the hallway was Duccio, who bowed when I startled at the sight of him.

“If you are not too tired, I have one more gift to give,” he said.