A. M. Dunnewin

After some much needed help from my wonderful street team, it’s been decided that a sneak peek of A Cursed Age is in order. 😁 While the book isn’t releasing until early Summer, that doesn’t mean I can’t start sharing some of the doom that awaits us in this standalone novel.

However, before you get started, I just want to give a little heads up of what you’re getting into. The sneak peek is of the prologue, as well as a historical note that comes right before it. While this story is an alternate history, there are still a lot of historical facts involved. The historical note not only sets up the setting of the prologue and where our villain is, but also the year the book takes place. This will basically give you an insight of what our main characters are up against right from the start. 🙃

Also, quick disclaimer: Since the book is being released next year, there’s still a chance that some minor tweaking may be involved when it comes to the finished version, such as spelling, grammar, cleaner sentences, etc. ✍️

With all that that said, here we go!

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THE VENETIAN LAGOON

A Historical Note

1806 swept in like any other year. A few festivities sprang up, hopes for a better year whispering into the night, but life that once belonged in Venice was nearly suffocated by the French troops that now occupied it. Again.

Nine years had gone by since the fall of the Republic of Venice, and the scars left by Napoleon Bonaparte’s army were still there, etched in the memories of those who remained after the takeover, the looting, the destruction. The unnecessary killings had devastated almost every household; the art and beauty stolen away had soured the rest. It didn’t help that their own government had succumbed so easily to the emperor, fleeing shortly after, a betrayal the Venetians felt more deeply than the occupation of Bonaparte’s men.

In the year after the fall, they were given into the hands of the Austrians, ending the plundering, but in 1805 they had been given back to France—to Bonaparte—like a battered victim handed back over to their abuser. It had now been barely a year since his army returned to port, but it was almost like the new emperor’s influence had never left. Stolen or ruined art was in the process of being replaced, a palace for the newly minted King of Italy was underway, yet no one in the city once known as the City of Masks could appreciate it. Anger gave way to emptiness, and Venice itself was nonetheless a beauty trying every day to hide her scars.

Scars that were still often heard throughout the night in the form of screams…

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PROLOGUE

Nobody cared much when the rowboat came into view one evening in mid-January. Sailors had built the city and sailors had destroyed it. The battle at the ports those nine years ago had left a graveyard of ships underneath the water’s surface that the little boat floated over. The ports that had tried so hard to fight off the invasion were now partially full of docked ships, quiet for the night.

Looking around, a couple of the sailors noticed how docile the place appeared, even in the shadows of the setting sun. This was the time the preparations for Carnival would have commenced, and yet all was quiet. Carnival had long since been banned, leaving it as a sweet memory to those who remembered the days before the fall.

It was a pity; the masks that had given the masquerades their mystery and allure were the exact reason the new government had abruptly ended it. It wasn’t the hidden affairs that occurred, the music and dancing that crowded the place, or the universal gambling that was continuous and often violent. It was who could be hiding behind the masks. Was the stranger in the bautas an assassin, his identity hidden well underneath the black attire and white mask? Were the women in the fanciful voltos and columbinas lovers of a deadlier kind?

No one in a higher position wanted to take the chance.

As the ship docked, some of the crew old enough to remember a time well-spent in the Venetian masquerade, looked upon the quiet streets in memory. The younger members looked at the lamplit streets with indifference, caring only for the liquor that would warm them.

There was only one who seemed excited, to a point beyond obsession.

“We must hurry!” he called, leaping out of the boat as it came to a stop. He was lingering on the street, staring off in a direction that kept his back to the sea, his cohorts tying the boat before meeting him. Some were surprised he had stayed, thinking he would have bounded off without them. But something was keeping him there, making him wait, which the crew mistook for him simply being courteous. Deep down, though, it was something more unnatural—something unseen, controlling him and wanting him to be followed.

The moment they joined him, however, he was off.

“Slow down, Pasquel,” one of the men hissed, following him as he strode off, racing next to the canal before crossing a bridge that led him onto another street.

It was hard to believe he remembered the way by memory. He had only been to the place the one time, when they last anchored here and he had separated from the group to roam the streets, admiring the city’s layout. When the crew was told that they would be anchoring in Venice again, it was like someone had snapped their fingers in front of his face and entranced him, his whole world suddenly centered on the Floating City and the unnamed bordello he swore they had to see for themselves.

The stories he told of the beautiful women were enough to convince some of the crew to join him, curious to see the bellas for themselves. Pasquel was a good lad, so seeing his excitement alone had sold them in wanting to see the place with no name.

“This better be worth it,” one man grumbled.

Another answered him, “It must be if this fool still knows the way.”

There was a consensus as they followed, rounding into a dead-end street that looked worse for wear. Stopping, they barely caught Pasquel’s shadowy figure before hearing his knuckles rap along a door hidden in the dark.

Just as some of the men began to sober up, thinking of a better place to spend their time, the door opened, casting light against it before Pasquel slipped inside. Inching forward, the closer they came to the open doorway, the more they heard the music and laughter.

It was the singing, however, that put them at ease, melting away their distrust as their footfalls became more confident. Each man entered through the doorway and followed a hallway lit with sconces, the flames of the candles dancing almost in rhythm to the songs.

No one noticed the door when it closed behind them, secured shut by invisible hands.

At the end of the hallway was a curtain, where Pasquel had turned and was waiting for them. Thinking he was just being dramatic, they grinned in anticipation when he eyed each man with an excited smirk.

“Welcome, gentleman,” he mused before pulling back the curtain, revealing a scene they hadn’t expected, causing them to stop dead in their tracks.

It was like they had been transported back in time to when Venice was alive with color and splendor, long before those horrid days known as the Reign of Terror. A crowd awaited them, full of gaiety and laughter, song and dance. Music loomed over the crowd, but all those bodies dressed in fine silks and lace blocked any chances of viewing the musicians. Some were dressed in full costume, the revival of Carnival; others were barely dressed, a reminder they had entered a brothel. But everyone wore some sort of mask, representing the absence of rules and total, anonymous freedom.

The other constant in the long, open room were the women themselves. They were all beautiful, their hair layered high in the lost rococo style and adorned in different ways. One had pearls intertwined in her locks, another had seashells. Each one wore a half mask that accented their elegant eyes and painted lips. Feathers were somehow in everyone’s possession, whether in their hair or masks. Even those who had been stripped down to their corsets and high stockings—which was the majority, save a couple who remained more mysterious with their approach—had handheld fans in their grasps, using them expertly to flirt. One exotic beauty with deep olive skin and hair as black as night twisted up into a handsome updo, had walked by in her teal and gold corset, a trail of peacock feathers dragging along behind her like the train of a dress.

And the food; it was everywhere. Laid out like a buffet on long tables against the walls. The smells of the food—tarts and sweets and even roasted things that smelled savory and divine—had mixed with the cigar smoke that had left the room hazy against the dim lighting of the hanging chandeliers.

While it had been a winter day outside, inside felt like a warm midnight. The darkness ebbed and flowed in between the candles, the enchantment of the hour weighing heavily like the smoke that was laced with something, giving it a teal shimmer that made everything much more alluring.

As the new arrivals scooted farther in, the women turned to admire them. A few, perched in their corners, left their posts to attend to the fresh faces. The group slowly disbanded, a kiss on the lips pulling them away from the familiar, causing them to follow the beautiful strangers willingly.

Only one man remained, the one who had led them there.

He waited as patiently as he could until one woman finally came to claim him—the peacock from earlier who had walked by simply to survey them.

“She’s been waiting for you,” she crooned to him, and upon turning away, she made her way through the dense crowd, him following along, trying not to step on her tail of feathers. His mind was vibrating with excitement, those words sending a shockwave through him that he had never felt before, to the point that he’d do anything to hear them again.

Venturing further into the room, Pasquel didn’t notice anything else except the woman he was following, a simple extension of the woman that waited for him. He didn’t notice, like the rest of the patrons around him, how pitch black the walls were. Filigree patterns and borders were here and there, dusted in gold, but it was the darkness of the walls and dimness of the room that gave the place its timeless—almost lost—feel, as if things might slip in and out of the shadows without notice. No one saw when they did; the colors of the women overshadowed the emptiness that lurked beyond them.

Pasquel followed along, weaving among the guests, his eyes set on the feathers in front of him. He had been promised things—certain things—and now was the time he’d be rewarded. He didn’t see how the food was being devoured; how the women pretended to feed their guests before snatching it away, using it as a flirtatious ploy. He didn’t see the debauchery, or the chaos disguised as flirting. He didn’t see the intoxication of drink or beauty, the way no one looked in his direction because they, too, were deep in their own enchantment.

He also hadn’t noticed the fanned-out marble staircase until he had already stumbled up a couple of steps. Looking behind him, he found himself towering over the luxurious party, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction that he had been chosen to be above them all.

Upon reaching the landing, the two faced a pair of elegant double doors. The handle was turned, and the woman swept the tail of teal and gold feathers out of the way, curtsying as she opened the door to him. Pasquel hurried in, never seeing her cruel sneer behind her mask, or the way her long nails, like talons, clicked against the handle after she had closed the door behind him, locking him in.

The room he encountered was that of a bedchamber. A plush bed faced him, a canopy of sheer silk scalloping around overhead. He looked about him then, as if slightly awakening. The room was also painted with black walls, the crowning lining the top dusted in gold. Large gold frames hung against each wall, but what made them peculiar were the lack of paintings and mirrors inside them, leaving each one elegant and empty.

The floor, however, was of black marble, something he had never seen in such a way. No windows lit the room, only the self-standing candelabras sitting in each corner, candles dripping wax down their gold holdings. But there, carved out of the right wall, was an arched entryway leading straight into a washroom as big as the chamber he was standing in. In the center, he saw the black clawfoot tub, one the size he had never seen before. Steam was rising from its surface, revealing the hot water already waiting.

Curiosity got the better of him, and the young lad stepped quietly towards it, wondering how the golden legs remained standing with such weight. As he passed over the threshold, he found that this room had the same dark walls, the same candelabras sitting in each corner, casting light across the walls and marble floor. The only difference was the world map on the wall facing the entrance, a large one that showed every country, every sea. A narrow, elegant table sat underneath it; a glass bowl of water perched there for no reason.

Pasquel began to breathe harder then, nervousness pricking at his skin for the first time. He looked about the room, but his eyes couldn’t help but fall back to the tub. As he inched closer, he ran his hand across the steam, feeling the heat against his fingertips. The room now seemed hazy from it, his nostrils filling with the smell of saltwater and… something sweet and fresh, but not too pungent…

“Lavender.”

The feminine voice startled him. Pasquel spun around to find a woman eyeing him from the entranceway. While he was confused that she had answered his inner question, the sight of her struck him so hard that he forgot where he even was.

Her hair, long and wavy, was a shade of red he hadn’t seen before. It was dark, almost black except for when the light caught it, revealing a red, brassy shine. It reminded him of blood.

“Thank you for the offerings,” she continued, her voice as soothing as the bath behind him. “But where is he?”

“He’s heading back from Austerlitz. The Battle of the Three Emperors was a success for him,” he replied, eagerness in his tone, unable to stop his eyes from wandering over her. The thoughts of the crewmates were already lost from his mind, even as his words still hung in the air.

Her body was covered in a sheer black robe that played with her curves, accenting her femininity that aroused more than just his curiosity. But the longer he stared, the more he noticed the tattoos. First, they were shadows matching her skin, but then a glint of pink peeked through as she moved towards him, reminding him of the glistening skin of an octopus. He had only ever seen tattoos in black, and his mind whirled around how these were made and what kind of ink was used.

“Is he heading here, though?” she asked.

“Bonaparte’s heading to Paris,” the lad replied, seeming to catch himself when he saw something dark cross her beautiful eyes. “But—but I can try again.”

“No need,” she replied with a smile, which made the air catch in his lungs. She came to stand in front of him, staring at him eye-to-eye. No woman he had encountered had ever done that before. He would have been more aware of that if he hadn’t been entranced by her eyes, a teal color that stood out against her dark lashes.

“You said I’d be rewarded for my efforts,” he spoke out with a shaky voice. Although he was trying to be the domineering one—something all the men in his life had tried to enforce in him—he was having a hard time finding his voice while those eyes stared at him. But he had come back for a reason, one that had been whispered to him the last time he was there.

“I did,” she agreed, “but I need to get ready first, if you don’t mind.”

Pasquel knew her hand had touched his chest, but he hadn’t realized she had moved him away to stand in front of the tub.

He stared as the robe was removed, flesh and shiny pink intertwined on one body. He saw then that the tattoos were of tentacles, wrapping and bending against her curves, somehow accenting her features more than distracting from them, like jewelry adorning its wearer.

But the longer he stared, he slowly began to realize that they weren’t tattoos, that the tentacles weren’t made of ink.

They were burn scars.

And while he stared at her body, he didn’t see the movement in her hair, some of those red locks curling like limbs of an octopus.

Carefully, she slipped one leg over the black rim, and then the other, slowly sinking herself into the hot water. Pasquel found himself stepping closer, watching as she laid back, the water replacing the robe.

“Care to join?” she asked, her smile teasing him.

Pasquel nodded, frantically pulling his shirt over his head. There was movement in front of him, as if she were sinking lower into the tub, but he was too busy with the shirt to notice. Once removed, he stared down into… nothing.

The tub was empty.

Confused, the lad looked about him, finding that she was gone. He even went to the doorway, looking into the bedroom as if she had somehow escaped past him. But then the sound of water sloshing struck his ear, and he turned around to find that something had moved in the tub. Inching closer, he gazed down into the water, the woman still gone. However, the water wasn’t the same. It was darker, and the steam that had been rising was gone.

Holding his breath, he skimmed his hand across the surface, finding black water rippling against his fingertips. Lifting his hand, he found his fingers stained in some sort of black ink.

There was barely a warning—a splash, a jolt of movement—and something had wrapped itself around his neck. Pasquel immediately began to suffocate, air squeezing out of his gaping mouth, as he found that what had him was extending out of the water. He didn’t realize it was a tentacle until his hands gripped it. Despite feeling its strength, the skin itself was slippery, making him panic as the suckers pulled at his skin, the arm squeezing tighter around his neck.

Warped by his own fear, Pasquel pushed his foot against the tub, pulling back in order to get the grip to release. He had started pounding at the tentacle when another one shot from the water, wrapping itself around his knee. With a quick jolt and a sudden crack, his leg went limp as his body was forced back to the tub.

Pasquel would have screamed, but all that came out was a gurgling whine as he caught the rim of the tub, his body now hovering over the water. As his eyes bulged from pressure, something slimy worked itself around his torso, and he knew it was another tentacle as it tightened, revealing its strength. The cracking of ribs vibrated into the air as the pain caused Pasquel’s grip on the rim to falter.

A brief moment came to him when he thought the tentacles had eased their grip, giving him hope of surviving. But then suddenly he was dragged under, his screams trailing along, even underwater. He battled as best as he could, water spilling over the tub with each jerking movement. For a long moment, he fought, until the fight was finally squeezed out of him and the water fully devoured him.

No one outside the room heard the screaming or thrashing, the music and delirium overpowering the death that had occurred. And if someone had heard and the room had been unlocked, they would have simply found a red-haired woman lying in a tub, the water rose red as her hand draped over the rim, enjoying herself as a tentacle caressed her skin, thankful for the meal.

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Hope you enjoyed, lovelies! 🖤

If you liked the start of this novel, please feel free to let me know! 😁 And if you really enjoyed it, please feel free to share this post with your fellow readers so they can join in on the fun. A Cursed Age is available for pre-order and can be added to reading lists on Goodreads. 📖

As always, stay safe and stay reading! 🤩

(Psst! I don’t own these gifs! The mask gif is from Fox Broadcasting, and the Venice boat ride gif is from Turner Classic Movies. Whoever created these is the rightful owner, whoever they are. 😎)