The Visitant: a Venetian Ghost Story
“Mr. Basilio was Samuel’s age, with dark curling hair, olive-toned skin, and dark eyes dancing with amusement. “No need to dream about me any longer, my friend. I’m really here. Only for you would I have left Rome to come to this decrepit, uncomfortable place. Why the hell did my aunt put you in this room?”
“You’d have to ask her.” Samuel climbed from the bed, misjudging the height of the floor, stumbling, loosening the already very loose belt of his dressing gown further as he gave his frie...nd a quick embrace. “It’s good to see you.”
“How drunk are you?”
Samuel staggered back to the bed. “Quite.”
“And who is this pretty thing you kicked out of bed? Given the violence you were doing her, I can only assume she must be a demon.”
Samuel’s expression darkened, again I saw that shifting fear in his eyes, rapidly dismissed. “No demon. At least not most of the time.MoreLess
“You’d have to ask her.” Samuel climbed from the bed, misjudging the height of the floor, stumbling, loosening the already very loose belt of his dressing gown further as he gave his frie...nd a quick embrace. “It’s good to see you.”
“How drunk are you?”
Samuel staggered back to the bed. “Quite.”
“And who is this pretty thing you kicked out of bed? Given the violence you were doing her, I can only assume she must be a demon.”
Samuel’s expression darkened, again I saw that shifting fear in his eyes, rapidly dismissed. “No demon. At least not most of the time.MoreLess
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