Raphael (The Immortal Youth Book 1) (8 page)

Heart galloping in his chest and images of Luisa playing in his mind, Raphael nodded.

“Primotti’s son paid five times what he owed us. Tancredi called his father—”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because even though you aren’t a Red, yet, you were there on Red business. And no one hurts one of us. There are consequences.” Rock patted Raphael’s cast. “Thanks to you, now the Reds have a prime seat in Cinecittà. Uncharted territory.”

Throbbing pain flared up all over his body, and Raphael tried to sit up, banging the cast against the wall beside his bed. “Glad I could be of service.”

“Oh, you’ll be glad, cub.” Rock smirked. “You’ll see tonight.”

The rest of the afternoon went by in a haze for Raphael. His mind was on Luisa. The idea they would reunite at last numbed him to a barely functional stupor. Reds came by to his room to congratulate him, even people Raphael had never seen before, but eventually the crowd dispersed and he was left alone with Rock.

“You’ll take the ceremonial jacket from your older brother and you’ll present it to Father—”

Rock had been talking for the last half an hour, only pausing to ask Raphael if he understood one aspect or another of the Red protocol. Each time, Raphael nodded without knowing to what he was consenting. This time, something clicked in his addled brain when he put together bits and pieces of what little he had heard with Rock’s last statement. “I’ll take the jacket from my older brother…”

“Yes, the one you’ll have just elected.” To that, Rock’s eyes lit. “And you’ll present the jacket to Tancredi, who will give you the patch. Then one of the girls of the harem—you’ll get to pick one—will sew it for you.” With a sweeping motion of his hand, the werewolf encompassed the small bedroom. “Tonight, you’ll sleep upstairs.” He winked. “And not alone.” Pushing himself up from the chair he had been rocking the whole time he talked, Rock added, “Now, let’s make you presentable for Father.”

After a torturous shower with his cast arm enclosed in several layers of plastic bags, Raphael emerged from the stall battered but clean, and immediately covered himself with a cotton bathrobe. One glance at the fogged mirror confirmed he looked like he felt, bruised inside and out. Among many, one purple bruise stood out, covering the right side of his face from forehead to jaw.

From the doorway, Rock made a sound that could have been anything from pity to disgruntlement. “You look like crap.”

“I’ve been in worse shape.” With a shrug that caused him more discomfort, Raphael tightened the robe belt around his waist and walked out of the bathroom. “This nothing.”

Rock let him pass, then followed him back to his bedroom. “Shitty family?”

The werewolf’s question was simple and direct. Yet, it caused in Raphael an odd mixture of sadness and warmth. Very few people had ever shown an interest in knowing what had happened to him. When a kid, his body had been a billboard of the abuses he suffered, but no one had ever questioned his father. Those times when Raphael needed bones to be fixed, the nurses and doctors always believed the falling-down-the-stairs lie. Every single time. “Shitty father.”

“Got one of those too.” Rock opened his mouth as if he wanted to add something, then shook his head and smiled. “Doesn’t matter anymore. We’re family. Starting tonight, you’ll have a new father and an army of brothers.”

Helped by the werewolf, but making sure Rock would only see his front, Raphael donned a white cotton tunic that reached his knees. The garment was part of the ceremony, because in addition to the patched jacket he would also receive his first Red tattoo, a wolf on his chest.

When Rock offered Raphael a pink pill for the pain, saying, “It will make the needle more bearable since you’ve been beaten up enough for one day,” Raphael shook his head.

“I want to remember everything about tonight.” He didn’t do drugs, and even if he had he would have said no. Having waited so long to see Luisa again, he couldn’t bear the idea of not being lucid in her presence. Pain he would deal with. He had grown up learning how to dissociate his mind from it after all.

“You’ll be a proper Red in no time. I feel it.” Rock beamed at him. “Ready?”

“I am.” Robed and wearing nothing else but a pair of boxers and his combat boots, Raphael felt ridiculous but followed Rock to that metal door he had kept looking at for the last two months.

The ascent through the compound was anticlimactic. After so much anticipation, Raphael had expected to feel something profound when he left the billiard room and entered the
House
. Two guards were posted at the entry and congratulated him. The second and third floor were deserted. When Rock pushed him through the entryway to the fourth floor landing, Raphael’s senses went in overdrive with an orgy of smells, colors, and sounds.

A long hallway, brightly illuminated by chandeliers that looked like modern sculptures, was filled with werewolves standing by the walls, creating a long column of cheering Reds. Suspended from the high ceiling by thin chains, shining copper braziers rocked back and forth. The scent of burning jasmine was heavy in the air.

“Prospect, prospect, prospect—” the crowd repeated over and over again, until the last letter of one word attached to the beginning of the next and lost its meaning.

Rock took his place by the wall and sent Raphael ahead. At the other end of the hallway was an oversized, black and silver futuristic chair on a dais. On that modern representation of a throne sat Tancredi. To Raphael’s surprise, the man only wore a pair of jeans, showing the intricate arrays of tattoos covering every single centimeter of his muscular torso and arms. The designs composed of vividly sketched wolves, flowers, Latin letters and numerals, stopped just under his throat and before his wrists. As Raphael walked closer to the alpha, he also noticed the piercings to his nipples, nose, upper lip, and eyebrows.

Shivering, Raphael prompted his boots forward. He had thought the alpha scary when looking respectable and all his tattoos and piercings hidden from sight, but now he was terrified by Tancredi. Especially because the alpha looked like calm personified, and Raphael had grown to be afraid of Tancredi’s quieter states. In his short experience as a recruit, those were the harbingers of one of the alpha’s bouts of violence. Plus, Tancredi all decked out for the evening looked like one of those ancient representations of the devil.

“Sons—” The alpha’s voice boomed as if projected by a microphone, but there was none to be seen. “Raphael will join our brotherhood tonight.”

The loudest cheers yet were accompanied by stomping feet. Despite Raphael only wore the thin tunic, rivulets of sweat matted the fabric with darker patches.

“Sons, say your names for Raphael to elect his older brother.” Silence was restored, then Tancredi made sign for Raphael to approach the dais. “And you, Raphael, choose wisely. Brotherhood among the Reds is stronger than blood.”

As asked by the alpha, Raphael stood by his right and studied the crowd. Tancredi raised one heavily jeweled hand, and from the beginning of the hallway a werewolf stepped out, stated his name, bowed, then stepped back and left the stage for the next Red to repeat the same sequence of actions.

When it was Rock’s turn, Raphael’s heart lurched down to his stomach. The man puffed his chest and smiled when he presented himself, as if Raphael had already chosen him. The presentation part of the ceremony seemed to prolong forever after that. Finally, the Red Raphael was looking for—the man Carla had mentioned as the one owning Luisa—said his name loud and clear, Rico.

When the last werewolf in line bowed back, the lights in the hall changed color, from bright white to a more muted orange.

“Declare your choice.” Tancredi shifted in his throne, causing Raphael to turn and look at him. The alpha’s eyes were even colder than the first time Raphael had experienced their unwavering probing.

His throat closing, Raphael pushed the name out of his mouth. “Rico.”

Rock’s astonished and hurt expression was impossible to ignore, as it was the prolonged moment of silence that followed Raphael’s statement. Raphael wished he could explain his reasons to the werewolf, but it would never be possible.

“Rico, you may take your place to my left.” Even though Tancredi didn’t seem affected by Raphael’s decision, the tall werewolf with the long braid and partially shaved head looked perplexed and uncertainly walked toward them. The silence had become unnerving.

When Rico stepped on the dais, Rock gave a gentle shake of his head, then smiled to Raphael and started clapping. The crowd immediately followed.

“Time for your mark, prospect.” Tancredi opened his arm to the right, where a secondary hallway started. “Rico, is your duty to accompany him to the tattoo chamber.”

Rico groaned an answer and made sign for Raphael to move. They left the chanting crowd and entered the smaller corridor. Compared to the ceremony hall the space was dim and cold, and Raphael welcomed both.

“You made the right choice, pup.” Rico planted a beefy hand on Raphael’s shoulder, and propelled him forward. “Never understood why Tancredi patched Rock, he’s not Red material.”

The physical contact combined with the unflattering statement about Rock created an involuntary response in Raphael who recoiled.

Fortunately, the werewolf misunderstood Raphael’s reaction. “You’ll do fine on the chair. Don’t worry.” Rico extended his fisted hand toward Raphael, then opened it to reveal a purple sticker. “Three hours of ecstasy, guaranteed.”

Raphael forced a thank you out of his lips and refused.

With a scoff, Rico closed his fingers around the sticker. “Suit yourself. I only share the goodies with my most talented bitch.”

Seeing black, Raphael fought the urge to do something stupid like punching the guy, and hoped Rico would stop talking. His wish wasn’t granted, but they reached the end of the hall, and Rico opened a door on their right.

“In you go as a pup.” With a theatrical gesture, Rico showed Raphael a room with lights so low it took him a moment to see its interior.

Then his eyes adjusted, and he regretted it. At the center of the dark room stood a barber chair equipped with restraining cuffs for the head, arms, and legs. A man with the longest beard Raphael had ever seen sat on a stool by the chair.

“Make a man out of him, Guts.” Rico laughed.

“Come here, boy.” The bearded man, Guts, patted the barber chair.

Taking in various details as he entered the room, Raphael noticed none of the instruments he associated with the art of inking were present. In their stead, bowls with a viscous and pungent substance lined the surface of a small cart along with a metal stylus.

“Last chance to accept my offer.” Rico showed Raphael the sticker once again.

“I would accept if I were you.” Guts folded his arms over his chest.

Not so convinced anymore of his decision, Raphael still shook his head.

“No?” Guts raised an eyebrow, but gave him a small smile. “Sit then and let’s get going, I have a party to attend.”

Before Raphael knew what was happening, the two men forced him down to the chair, then immobilized him. Strapped, and with the only source of light in the room now pointing at him, for the second time that day he feared for his safety.

“Don’t struggle. It will only make the experience more unpleasant.” From one of the shadowy corners, Rico dragged a second stool closer to the barber chair.

“He’s right. Try to relax.” Guts reached for the cart.

With his head secured to the headrest, Raphael’s visual was impaired. He could only see what happened right in front of him, making the experience downright terrifying, and Guts hadn’t even started yet. When the man yanked open Raphael’s robe and his cold hands touched his chest, remnants of his breakfast came back to him.

“Breathe. Big gulps, in and out.” Guts’s words were accompanied by a pat that was meant to be reassuring, but it set Raphael’s nerves even more on edge. “We do things the right way here.”

Rico’s face appeared before Raphael. “Like the Romans did. Not that sissy stuff civilians think is inking.”

“Yes. I had to study the ancient texts to find the right solution for the vitriol paste.” Guts passed a wet sponge over Raphael’s chest as he recited, “Aetius, a six century Roman doctor, had the good sense to write down the Roman technique for tattooing. First, you wash the area with leek juice, you know, because you need an antiseptic.” He raised a cup to Raphael’s eyes. “But beforehand I must prepare the ink as Aetius explained, thankfully in detail.” He raised a large bowl this time. “The best tattooing ink combines the bark of Egyptian pine wood—” He shrugged. “On that one I had to improvise and find a good substitute. But don’t worry, through trial and error I discovered Mediterranean pine wood works fine.” He showed Raphael a handful of resinous bark. “Then you add corroded bronze, gall, and vitriol, and dilute the ink with more leek juice until you reach the proper texture.”

Breathing hard, Raphael shivered. “What are those? The gall? The vitriol? Never heard of them. I mean I know the word vitriol, but—”

“I’m glad you asked, because in my extensive research I found several possible meanings for the Roman word ‘gall.’ Again, through trial and error I decided gall was none other than the contents of the gallbladder. In other words, bile,” Guts said. “But fear not, I only use animal bile.”

“That’s good to know.” Raphael’s wolf showed his teeth, but Raphael ordered him to be quiet. That wasn’t the right moment to have a disagreement with his wolf about ethics.

“And vitriol is just plain old sulfuric acid. Very corrosive, hence the association between the corrosive and oily liquid and bitter criticism to which you were probably about to refer.”

“And you’re going to ink me with that?”

Rico snorted and made a clucking sound. “Chicken.”

“Of course,” with a raised eyebrow, Guts said, “Like the Romans did.” He adjusted the angle of the lighting fixture to illuminate Raphael’s chest only. Finally, he brought forth the stylus, which up close resembled a long needle. “I’ll prick the design into your skin with this.” In case Raphael hadn’t made the connection, Guts pierced his skin.

Once was fine, but Raphael envisioned that singularly painful puncture repeated hundreds of times for hours.

“Interesting factoid, this needle is called a stigma, because tattoos were for bad people and soldiers, and if you’re a smart pup you can make the connection with the modern meaning of the word and this—” Guts waved the stigma before Raphael. “Anyway, I keep inking your chest until blood is drawn and the design is injected permanently under your skin.”

“Ready, pup?” Rico asked.

By now, fear had frozen Raphael’s ability to think. The acrid smell of the paste offended his nostrils, and his wolf was running in his mind trying to take control of the situation. An image of Luisa appeared behind his eyes, and much needed inner peace took hold of him. “Let’s do it. Like I said, I have a party to attend.”