Summary: Set during the Italian Renaissance, a painter is exiled from his home town after the death of his family. Just when his life seems meaningless, an encounter with a vampire changes his fate.

Warning: Blood, gore and possible innuendo.

Rated M for Mature: This rating is just to be safe. There's a lot of blood and gore later in the chapter.

Author's Note: Hello everyone!

This is my first horror... drama-ish... story on FictionPress.

I started writing this story about a year and half ago. Its not a very long story and I didn't expect it to be (its about 60 pages). In fact, I wrote this story as a bit of a side-project in a time where I was writing a lot of romance-fiction. I never started out in the romance genre. In fact, most of the books I read aren't romances. I started out in fantasy and adventure stories. I think writing Blood Oath was my escape from romance. It was a place I could return to when I wasn't in the mood for writing sappy lines and cheesy love scenes.

Slowly but surely, my little vampire story developed and was finally completed. Before anyone reads this, keep in mind I wrote this for my own entertainment. I hope when you read this story, you too will not take it so seriously. I'm aware that this story has an overwritten, cliche plot. The twists aren't that extravagant and the characters can sometimes be two-dimensional. Even so, I enjoyed writing this story and liked taking a chance at writing in the horror and vampire genres for the first time.

With that said, I hope you will relax and read the story. Hopefully you will find it enjoyable. If not... well, erm, sorry.

CHAPTER ONE

His world was filled with vibrant colors.

He was born with a natural gift for spotting splendor in the most unexpected places. He was capable of not just seeing but capturing the beauty of the world. Passed down by many generations were not only an accumulated wealth but also a natural talent.

His eyes could see what no average man could see. He saw symbolism, beauty and details… With his hands, he could create art.

With a brush in his hands, he was significant. He was unreachable.

On the surface, he was like every other man. Discard the beautiful silks and he was but an average human being. True, there was something about the young man that made men and women alike drawn to him. Men wanted to be his friends. Young maids wanted to marry him. Indeed, he had a certain undeniable charm. Despite his indecisiveness and his often bouts of insecurity, he was tactful, pleasant and handsome. He had an ability to listen and understand the most misunderstood. He knew what to say and when to say it and, though that fact often led him to be dishonest, his willingness to compliment and maintain harmony made him almost innocent. Though his words were not always sincere, his intentions were.

He was a man who was willing to please.

Like his neighbors in his homey Italian city, he was born with slightly curly raven hair, large hazel eyes and tan skin. His face was pleasantly rounded and built with graceful facial features. His build was proportionate and was of average height.

An average man whose only outstanding attributes was his grace and skill with a paintbrush.

His name was Vicente, a name he shared with his deceased grandfather, who was also a gifted painter.

Vicente had spent his summer painting in the east wing of his family's home. Vicente had a knack for color. His art also had certain finesse. If he was unable to catch all of the details of his subject, the colors still managed to flow together without notice of mistakes. His art, in a way, was an outward portrayal of his personality and his mindset. Being a usually carefree and dreamy person, Vicente usually missed out on the details, preferring to see the overall picture. Being a natural charmer, Vicente could cover up any flaws without letting anyone notice.

The art he made was a window into his very being. Vicente's art was Vicente. It was no different than his arm or his leg… it was his essence.

Vicente's father was a painter as well. In fact, Vicente came from generations of talented painters. Their branch of the Lazzari family was infamous amongst their province of Italy. Along with their talent and success, they managed to earn a vast fortune. Vicente's clothes were from the finest silks, his paints were of the highest quality and the home he lived in was a work of art itself.

Vicente was the most fortunate man in Italy. His home was excellent. He was active in the two things he enjoyed most: socializing and painting. His family's relationships with one another were healthy. His future was bright and promising.

Most of all, his life was harmonious. The way life should be.

"What about the chandelier?"

"What about the chandelier?"

"It seems off-center. The flowers are also looking dull. Perhaps I should go out and buy some more. Not to mention the paintings… they're so dusty! I should dust them myself!"

"Everything is fine, Mama. I'm sure the servants will take care of it. Why don't you go play your piano?"

Francesca sighed heavily, looking at her son with hopeless eyes.

"I'm so useless, Vicente," she said, gently holding her son's face in her hands. Hazel eyes looked into hazel eyes. Vicente noticed that there seemed to be a sad, desperate look in his mother's eyes. "I've become so old, haven't I? Here I am, in the most beautiful house complaining about the most beautiful chandelier… I've become so fickle. It's because I'm old, Vicente. It's only a matter of time before both you and Giraldo leave me and start your own lives. Then who am I to care for? All I've ever known is music and children. That's why I worry about the house."

"You're not old, Mama. There isn't a gray hair on your lovely head," said Vicente. What he said was mostly true. His good looks came from his mother. His mother, grown up with two grown up sons, still looked youthful. But there was still a tired old look in his mother's hazel eyes that betrayed her true age. "Besides," Vicente continued. He laughed warmly. "Giraldo and I won't be leaving any time soon."

"But I know you will be," Francesca insisted. Her hands left Vicente's face and she began to fiddle with them nervously. "Celia and Tonio's last son is married now. He's not too far from your age. Soon, you'll be leaving me too. Then Giraldo will leave after that."

Tonio was a fellow artist that was also notorious in their fair city. He and his family were close friends with the Lazzari clan. Tonio and Guglielmo, Vicente's father, were the best of friends.

"You'll have Papa," Vicente said earnestly. Francesca scoffed dramatically and Vicente couldn't help but smile.

"How could he possibly compare to my dear, beautiful sons?"

"You have your piano."

"A rotten old piano can't keep me company," she argued stubbornly. As much as she loved the piano, she knew she loved her sons more. She loved her sons more than anything in the world. Vicente knew that as well but he hoped to distract her. He hated to see his mother worry over him and his brother. He wanted her to be happy and cheerful.

"Come on, Mama. Of course the piano will keep you company. Try it, for Giraldo and I. Please, try it for your sons."

Francesca seemed reluctant. Still, Vicente managed to lead his mother to the piano in the parlor. The parlor was filled with rich, warm colors and decorated with beautiful curtains, rugs and tapestries. In the parlor was the large, grand piano that his mother often sat at. In this room, as boys, he and his younger brother Giraldo would sit at their mother's feet and listen to the music she created.

Vicente sat on the piano bench next to his mother and watched her long, dainty hands move gracefully across the keys, guiding soothing melodies from within the bulky instrument to the outside world.

Several minutes passed. Francesca never got bored of playing and didn't stop once she had started. This led her to be much more relaxed. Vicente smiled, knowing that he managed to soothe his mother's ruffled feathers. He kissed her on the cheek and complimented her abilities before getting up and moving on to the other room. Francesca barely noticed that he left; too entranced with the music she was focused on playing.

The music faded away and Vicente found his brother and father in the garden.

The garden was a beautiful place and often appeared in Vicente's paintings. It was well tended to, with healthy green plants. It was a relaxing environment that Vicente felt a close connection to. However, the garden seemed eerily quiet and tense.

He approached Guglielmo and Giraldo, expecting a pleasant conversation. Those hopes, however, faded once he saw their expressions. Both of their faces looked slightly grim and neither one of them lit up as they saw him. Vicente was taken aback. He had good relationships with his brother and his father and, when they were together, it was impossible to take the smiles off their faces. Things at that moment, however, were different. It seemed as though no matter what they spoke of, the frowns on their faces would never cease.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he stopped in front of them, genuinely concerned.

"We were just doing a bit of talking," Giraldo explained.

For brothers, Giraldo and Vicente were quite different. Giraldo was aggressive, stubborn, critical and honest. He lacked the certain tact and charm that Vicente had. Giraldo was also gifted in music, much like their mother, while Vicente painted like their father. However, Giraldo was also humble and wise. He was a person who didn't socialize well but could give good advice. He was a hard worker and a loyal young man.

"What were you talking about?" Vicente asked. "You both look bothered."

"Aldo was giving us a bit of trouble today in the marketplace," Giraldo said through clenched teeth. "Ever since Papa disowned him as his apprentice, he's done nothing but cause trouble for this family. He hasn't stopped there, either. He's been terrorizing Tonio too."

"That's nonsense," said Vicente, scowling. "Tonio has nothing to do with this."

"It's because he's jealous," Guglielmo, the boys' father, snorted. "He's jealous because Tonio is more of a worthy artist than him. Aldo has a great talent but he has no manners or tact! I had every right to disown him as my apprentice!"

"Exactly," Giraldo muttered. "But Aldo will never accept that."

The garden went quiet and a heavy sense of resentment hung in the air. Vicente was quite uncomfortable with the atmosphere he was placed in. He wanted his family to be happy and cheery like they usually were. But it was inevitable.

Guglielmo had taken in Aldo, a young and shady artist, in as his apprentice. Guglielmo was known as a great artist and to be his apprentice was a great honor. However, Aldo did not understand the significance of that privilege. He was always late to lessons, could never accept criticism and questioned everything Guglielmo taught him. Vicente had met Aldo several times and always saw him as infuriating and annoying. Giraldo disliked Aldo even more than Vicente did.

When Guglielmo decided to disown Aldo as his apprentice, both Vicente and Giraldo agreed it was the best decision he had made ever since he first took in Aldo.

Vicente could admit that he understood why Aldo was bitter about losing his apprenticeship but that did not excuse the arrogant artist for giving the Lazzari family grief over it. And now he was attacking Tonio and his family as well…

Vicente just hoped he would never run into Aldo. There would be no telling what he would say to the man if he did.

When Vicente awoke the next day, it seemed to have been a healthy morning. He dressed, combed his hair and greeted the servants pleasantly as he strolled towards the east wing. He picked up his canvas, easel, paintbrushes and broad collection of paints and carried it outside to the garden. It was difficult to carry all of the items without any help but Vicente was driven.

Once the easel was set up, Vicente grabbed a garden stool and set up the canvas. He began to sketch a specific flower in the garden—a pearly white hyacinth.

He became immersed into the picture he was creating. Time stood still as he began to convey the beauty of the hyacinth into his picture. He began with the actual flower. He painted several shades of white and off-whites. Then he began to use the delicate greens to paint the stem.

The picture of the hyacinth was quickly becoming his favorite when his father interrupted him.

Vicente looked up at his father, expecting him to correct a mistake or show a new technique, but instead he came face to face with a very grave expression. Vicente felt his heart swell, sensing that something was wrong, but not knowing what.

"Papa? Is something wrong?"

Guglielmo seemed to be deep in thought. His features were sullen and dark. Vicente was both worried and anxious. His father seemed to have important and grave news.

"I was in the marketplace today," Guglielmo started. His tone was quiet and tired, almost as if it was difficult for him to speak. "It was beautiful out. I was looking at a merchant's collection of silks when one of Tonio and Celia's daughters spoke to me. She came to me with a sorrowful expression and explained that Tonio had been killed."

Vicente gasped shallowly, his eyes large and wide.

"Tonio is dead?"

"Yes, he was murdered."

"But how and why was he killed?"

"No one caught the murderer," Guglielmo began to explain. "It was late at night and too dark to see the killer. They believe it was a thief who killed him because all of Tonio's valuable artwork was stolen." Guglielmo sighed heavily. "We were invited to the funeral tomorrow. I decided I had to tell you in person, rather than have you learned through gossip."

Vicente looked at his father with pity.

"I'm so sorry, Papa. I knew you and Tonio were good friends."

"He was taken from this world," Guglielmo said. His voice cracked, torn between outrage and utmost sorrow. "His life was stolen. He did nothing wrong. And now he's dead!"

It was quiet for a few moments. Guglielmo took these moments to regain his composure. Vicente bristled, overwhelmed with sympathy for his father and Tonio's family. He was also personally affected. He also had known Tonio well. Tonio was practically a part of the Lazzari family. Losing him was, to Vicente, almost as horrific as losing his own father.

Along with grief, Vicente also felt a sense of rage at the injustice that took Tonio's life. Vicente had never liked brutality. He was a peaceful soul. To understand that his father's close friend had been killed as a result of a burglary, it made Vicente furious.

It was unfair. It was cruel. It was barbaric. The result of Tonio Morazzi's death only further proved the point that the world was a dark place.

It took four stabs to the chest to kill Tonio Morazzi.

Celia and her sons and daughters looked grimly upon Tonio's casket. Celia, unable to hold in the grief of her dead husband any longer, began to weep hysterically once the coffin was lowered into its grave. Vicente watched the Morazzi clan, his heart wrenching at the sight of their anguish.

The oldest of Celia's sons took his mother's hand, rubbing it softly to comfort her. It did no good. Celia's sobs grew into wails as dirt was shoveled into the hole where Tonio's corpse rested. Slowly, the body of Signor Tonio Morazzi disappeared under a blanket of dirt.

Vicente looked onto the buried grave with vacant eyes. He looked at his family, clad in funeral clothing, watch with similar sullen expressions. Everywhere Vicente looked, there was grief. Even Aldo, Guglielmo's former apprentice who had also antagonized Tonio Morazzi, showed up to the funeral with a somber expression.

The final prayers for Tonio Morazzi were sent. Soon after, the crowd around the grave dispersed.

In just a few seconds, a great man was left behind.

When the Lazzari family returned home, it was at that moment where Guglielmo let out his emotions over his lost friend. No longer would he find comfort or carry a conversation with Tonio, his friend and comrade. Vicente, Francesca and Giraldo watched Guglielmo with pity. They held him and comforted him as he sobbed and they soon found themselves teary-eyed as well. However, for Guglielmo's sake, they stayed strong.

It was a bleak day for them, and Vicente knew it was only the beginning. Tonio was not there that day, nor would he be there the next day or the next. It was a new journey for his family and they would have to aim for acceptance—acceptance of Tonio's death.

As Vicente comforted his father through his grief, Vicente began to think back on Celia and her children. They didn't have a father anymore. Vicente wondered what life would be like without his mother or his father but had to stop himself. He couldn't imagine it. It was too horrific.

His mother, his father and his brother were everything to him. They were his friends. They were the people he turned to when something was wrong. They each had a place in his heart and he couldn't imagine life without any one of them. The more he thought about it, the sadder he became. He hoped he would never understand the pain Celia's children were going through.

It was also horrifying to understand how Tonio Morazzi died. Tonio Morazzi did not die peacefully of old age. He died a horrible, violent death. A crook had murdered Tonio—and this crook got away with taking the life of an innocent man.

How could there be any joy in life after that?

But Vicente had hope, even as he and his family crowded around his crying father. He prayed fervently that, at the end of this dark chapter in his families' lives, that they would be able to pull through and stay strong. He prayed that, even through such a great tragedy, they would never be torn apart. He also prayed for the Morazzi family.

End of Chapter

A/N: This story should be updated about every week. The story has already been finished, I just have to edit the chapters for mistakes before I post them. There may be times where it'll take me awhile before I update because I want to tweak a few things... other than that, though, expect to see updates often!