you so that you know how to beg forgiveness every night of your life. I will teach you."
  I felt myself lifted, I felt my garments blown by the wind, I felt her tiny hands 
clinging to me, and the weight of her head on my back.
  Through the streets we were being dragged, and suddenly there appeared before us a 
great crowd of idle mortals issuing from a wine shop, drunken and laughing, a great 
jumble of swollen, natural faces and dark breeze-tossed clothes.
  "Do you see them, Vittorio? Do you see those upon whom you feed?" Mastema demanded.
  "I see them, Mastema!" I said. I groped for her hand, trying to find her, hold her, 
shield her. "I do see them, I do."
  "In each and every one of them, Vittorio, there is what I see in you, and in her - a 
human soul. Do you know what that is, Vittorio? Can you imagine?" I didn't dare to answer.
  The crowd spread out over the moonlighted piazza, and drew closer to us, even as it 
loosened.
  "A spark of the power that made all of us is within each of them," cried Mastema, "a 
spark of the invisible, of the subtle, of the sacred, of the mystery - a spark of that 
which created all things."
  "Ah, God!" I cried out. "Look at them, Ursula, look!"
  For each and every one of them, man, woman, it did not matter old or young, had taken 
on a powerful hazy golden glow. A light emanated from and surrounded and embraced each 
figure, a subtle body of light shaped to the very form of the human being who walked in 
it, unheeding of it, and the entire square was full of such golden light.
  I looked down at my own hands, and they too were surrounded by this subtle, etheric 
body, this lovely gleaming and numinous presence, this precious and unquenchable fire.
  I pivoted, my garments snagging around me, and I saw this flame envelop Ursula. I saw 
her living and breathing within it, and, turning back to the crowd, I saw again that each 
and every one of them lived and breathed in it, and I knew suddenly, understood perfectly 
- I would always see it. I would never see living human beings, be they monstrous or 
righteous, without this expanding, blinding, fire of the soul.
  "Yes," Mastema whispered in my ear. "Yes. Forever, and every time you feed, every time 
you raise one of their tender throats to your cursed fangs, every time you drink from 
them the lurid blood you would have, like the worst of God's beasts, you will see that 
light flicker and struggle, and when the heart stops at the will of your hunger, you will 
see that light go out!"
  I broke away from him. He let me go.
  With her hand only, I ran. I ran and ran towards the Arno, towards the bridge, towards 
the taverns that might still be open, but long before I saw the blazing flames of the 
souls there, I saw the glow of the souls from hundreds of windows, I saw the glow of 
souls from beneath the bottoms of bolted doors.
  I saw it, and I knew that he spoke the truth. I would always see it. I would see the 
spark of the Creator in every human life I ever encountered, and in every human life I 
took. Reaching the river, I leant over the stone railing. I cried out and cried out and 
let my cries echo over the water and up the walls on either side. I was mad with grief, 
and then through the darkness there came a toddling child towards me, a beggar, already 
versed in words to speak for bread or coins or any bit of charity that any man would 
vouchsafe him, and he glowed and sputtered and glittered and danced with brilliant and 
priceless light.
  
  
  16
  AND THE DARKNESS GRASPED IT NOT
  
  OVER the years, every time I saw one of Fra Filippo's magnificent creations, the angels 
came alive for me. It was I only for an instant, only enough to prick the heart and draw 
the blood, as if with a needle, to the core.
  Mastema himself did not appear in Fra Filippo's work until some years later, when Fra 
Filippo, struggling and arguing as always, was working for Piero, the son of Cosimo, who 
had gone to his grave.
  Fra Filippo never did give up his precious nun, Lucrezia Buti, and it was said of 
Filippo that every Virgin he ever painted - and there were many - bore Lucrezia's 
beautiful face. Lucrezia gave Fra Filippo a son, and that painter took the name 
Filippino, and his work too was rich in magnificence and rich in angels, and those angels 
too have always for one instant met my eyes when I came to worship before those canvases, 
sad and brokenhearted and full of love and afraid.
  In 1469, Filippo died in the town of Spoleto, and there ended the life of one of the 
greatest painters the world has ever known. This was the man who was put on the rack for 
fraud, and who had debauched a convent; this was a man who painted Mary as the frightened 
Virgin, as the Madonna of Christmas Night, as the Queen of Heaven, as the Queen of All 
Saints.
  And I, five hundred years after, have never strayed too far from that city which gave 
birth to Filippo and to that time we call the Age of Gold. Gold. That is what I see when 
I look at you.
  That is what I see when I look at any man, woman, child.
  I see the flaming celestial gold that Mastema revealed to me. I see it surrounding you, 
and holding you, encasing you and dancing with you, though you yourself may not behold 
it, or even care.
  From this tower tonight in Tuscany I look out over the land, and far away, deep in the 
valleys, I see the gold of human beings, I see the glowing vitality of beating souls. So 
you have my story. What do you think?
  Do you not see a strange conflict here? Do you see a dilemma? Let me put it to you this 
way.
  Think back to when I told you about how my father and I rode through the woods together 
and we spoke of Fra Filippo, and my father asked me what it was that drew me to this 
monk. I said that it was struggle and a divided nature in Filippo which so attracted me 
to him, and that from this divided nature, this conflict, there came a torment to the 
faces which Filippo rendered in paint. Filippo was a storm unto himself. So am I.
  My father, a man of calm spirits and simpler thoughts, smiled at this.
  But what does it mean in relationship to this tale?
  Yes, I am a vampire, as I told you; I am a thing that feeds on mortal life. I exist 
quietly, contentedly in my homeland, in the dark shadows of my home castle, and Ursula is 
with me as always, and five hundred years is not so long for a love as strong as ours.
  We are demons. We are damned. But have we not seen and understood things, have I not 
written things here that are of value to you? Have I not rendered a conflict so full of 
torment that something looms here which is full of brilliance and color, not unlike 
Filippo's work? Have I not embroidered, interwoven and gilded, have I not bled?
  Look at my story and tell me that it gives you nothing. I don't believe you if you say 
that.
  And when I think back on Filippo, and his rape of Lucrezia, and all his other 
tempestuous sins, how can I separate them from the magnificence of his paintings? How can 
I separate the violation of his vows, and his deceits and his quarrels, from the splendor 
which Filippo gave to the world?