Mr. Wolfe needed his strength if he was going to let Ambrosio have his way with him. He sat back in his seat, his gaze flittering across the room. He knew what was going to happen with Zev now. Was he sorry? He was always sorry to lose a worker to whom he'd passed his valuable secrets.
He glanced at a rare, original Titian he had carried with him for four hundred years from Venice. The portrait of a long-lost Italian cardinal and his transvestite lover was one of his most prized possessions. That and the piece of Venetian mirror he'd kept hidden after the burning of the city during the time of the plague.
Mr. Wolfe tried not to think of the hideous times those had been for his kind. Not the weres, but homosexual men. He had loved his sexy cardinal who had posed for the great Titian, who even then carried the deadly plague, but didn't know it. Mr. Wolfe took another sip of wine. He didn't usually enjoy Argentine wines, but this was a smooth, delicious blend.
Its smoky hue reminded him briefly of those lost days in Venice. He had dressed as a woman to please his cardinal, but it was the cardinal who had turned him into a werewolf. It had shocked and saddened him that a religious man would deliberately curse the one he loved.
For Mr. Wolfe, the monthly metamorphosis went from being his albatross to being his salvation. With each change he went through and subsequent recovery, he grew stronger, his supernatural instincts even sharper. He knew that the Catholic Church, which had turned a blind eye to its priests and cardinals' sexual predilections, would change. He'd tried to warn his lover, who grew tired of Mr. Wolfe's growing...spirituality, his need to be something more than a sex toy.
They had parted, bitterly, Mr. Wolfe taking up a trade as a pattern maker for a seamstress in St. Mark's Square. He was busy working when the local magistrates rounded up the known homosexuals and flogged them, finally tying them to stakes and setting them on fire.
The smell.
That was what roused Mr. Wolfe's attention in the first place. The smell of burning flesh. It had taken him years to allow himself to eat cooked mat again. He had seen his former lover perish in a cloud of screams and flaming hair. It wasn't right.
Mr. Wolfe was forced to move on. He had a double curse now. He was not only a finocchio, but he was a werewolf. It was only a matter of time before the authorities caught and killed him, roasting him alive.
He lost his taste for his meal. He dabbed his lips with a napkin. He'd detected the flavor of fennel in the bottled seasoning he'd bought at the market. He would never, ever eat fennel. He couldn't stand the smell. When the men had been burned at the stake in St. Mark's Square, the authorities had sprinkled their agonized bodies with fennel seeds in an effort to hide the smell.
Mr. Wolfe hurried from the room with his plate and glass, tossing the remnants of his meal into the garbage disposal. He threw water over his now sweaty face.
He breathed heavily.
Yes. He knew now what would happen to Vez, and felt powerless to stop it.
The kitchen felt warm, too warm and he stepped outside, gulping the cool air into his lungs.
He felt sorry for Vez, who suffered the same unrequited love so many humans went in for. He knew how long these lopsided passions could last. It wasn't a harmless love. Far from it. The old poets had given it a name.
Limerence.
It was, they said, an involuntary state where a person found themselves obsessed and determined to have their feelings reciprocated.
In the past, Mr. Wolfe had found his attraction toward other men, but after the shock of his association with the cardinal, focused on his craft.
When he met Ambrosio, all his old beliefs, his carefully guarded emotions fell away like winter coats. Their love was mutual. Their intense need to continue the work started and taught by so many who had passed on centuries ago was as important as their nightly hugs and kisses.
Mr. Wolfe would not let Vez or anybody else destroy their clandestine network of artisans; the hat makers, the shoe makers, sewers, pattern makers, designers, the dressers, wardrobe managers; the unseen, unsung talents whose work brought to life magic each night on stages all over the world.
The world could be a beautiful place and in each of these creative hands, it was. The arts were vital to allow humans to dream and thrive. Without the possibility of hope, there was no point to it all.
Many of those he worked with were his contemporaries from centuries ago, living in secret but not out of shame. It was out of necessity to keep the dream of fantasy and flight alive. Each had a purpose, to teach, to sew and to help their students let their lights shine. The old ways would never die as long as people like Mr. Wolfe could still hold a needle and thread in his hand.
He let out a ragged breath when he heard Ambrosio's SUV pulling into the driveway. He felt whole again as his husband switched off the engine, doused the lights and ran to him. They fell into each other's arms, Mr. Wolfe delighting in the rub of Ambrosio's nipple shields against his chest.
"Man, they hurt," Ambrosio said, jumping back. "They have been keeping me on fire all day."
"Perfect," Mr. Wolfe said, taking him by the hand. "Shall I make it all better for you?"
"Yeah," Ambrosio grumped. "As soon as I've had my supper."
* * * *
Mr. Wolfe lay across the sofa, his heartbeat thundering in his head. Feeding Ambrosio was somehow intoxicating, especially when his husband needed an urgent feed. He made Mr. Wolfe almost
