Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  She lifted a delicate brow. She looked at Joseph and then at me as if she’d seen something between us that intrigued her. “Ah, is that all it is? A friend?”

  “Yes,” I said, taking a quick sip of wine. Joseph gave me a reassuring smile, but I saw how carefully Odilé watched us, as if she were determined to decipher something that puzzled her. Again, I felt it as something familiar.

  She said, “Monsieur, now I think perhaps it is time to tell you why I’ve invited you tonight. What proposition I have to offer.”

  Joseph’s gaze jerked to her. “A proposition?”

  Just then, the servant returned, bearing a silver tray. On it were many little mahogany-colored fluted cakes. She set the tray on the table, and then next to it a small cloth bag. I heard the clanking of coins.

  Odilé León took up a little silver fork, speared one of the cakes, and set it before my brother, easing it off the tines with her fingers. “Canelés,” she said. “A specialty of Bordeaux. I’ve heard they were first made by nuns. Strange, don’t you think, that nuns and monks make the most sensual food and drink? Do you suppose it’s their closeness to God that gives them such secrets?”

  She speared another and gave it to me. I took a bite. It was crispy on the outside, and chewy, custardy on the inside, tasting of vanilla and burnt sugar.

  Joseph said, “Or perhaps it’s their yearning that lends such flavor.”

  “Yearning,” she repeated. “Yes, you may be right.” She reached for the little cloth purse, hefting it in her hand. “I would like to commission you, monsieur.”

  “Commission me?” Joseph looked at her in blank surprise. “But why? Why me? You’ve seen nothing of my work—”

  “I saw the sketch you did of your sister in the Rialto.”

  “And you would commission me on the basis of one sketch?”

  She leaned forward, handing my brother the purse. “It was enough to show me that you are exactly what I am looking for. What I have been looking for for some time. This is half of what I will pay, with the rest to be paid upon completion.”

  The bag weighted Joseph’s hand. I wondered how much was in it. Joseph asked, “Completion of what? Who is the subject? Yourself?”

  Odilé León smiled. “I think you know something of desire, don’t you? Of the kind of yearning that gives life flavor, as you say, the thing that makes us feel immortal. That is what I want. A portrait to show me that. I want to look at it on those days I have forgotten there is such a thing to feel.” She took up another canelé, the golden chains of her bracelets sparking in the candlelight, twisting as if they were alive. She took a bite of the pastry, closing her eyes, savoring.

  I heard Joseph’s quick inhalation. I saw once again the bewitchment in my brother’s eyes, her dark magic, familiar again, and so palpable it prickled my skin. The night seemed to close in on me, that heavy Venetian sea air, weighted with the things she’d spoken of, devil’s bargains and desire, a yearning that beckoned, that knew me by name, that laid my secrets bare.

  NICHOLAS

  I watched the Dana Rosti, as I’d been watching for hours, feeling a grim satisfaction at the presence of the police gondola. So they’d caught on to her involvement at last—I could not have asked for a better way to slow her. Odilé must be suffering. Perhaps the loss of the singer and the two days without sustenance had weakened her into paralysis. It was a pleasant thought, no matter how unlikely. I had an image of Odilé naked and writhing, her own coils strangling her tight.

  She would have a new victim soon, but the thought of spending another night waiting for the appearance of her latest lover held no appeal, and I had other interests now too. I hurried back to the rooms I shared with Giles. He was dressing to go to the Alvisi, and when he saw me come in, he paused, frowning as he knotted a broad swath of bronze silk about his throat.

  “Where the hell have you been, Nick?”

  “I had some business,” I told him, going to the kitchen, where the dirty glasses from two nights ago still littered the counter. “Is there anything here to eat?”

  “Not a thing,” he said, following me. “You look like death.”

  “Yes, well, I’m cold and hungry. And tired.” I grabbed a very hard roll that I didn’t remember either of us buying. My stomach growled as I gnawed at it without much success.

  Giles finished knotting his tie and scrutinized me. “You’d best go to bed. You look done in.”

  “And give you the chance at Sophie Hannigan without any competition?” I teased, making my way to my room. “I should say not. Just give me a moment to dress.”

  “You missed her last night. She and her brother were both at the salon. Asking for you.”

  I paused and looked over my shoulder at him. “Both of them were asking?”

  “Well, she was.” Giles frowned as if he didn’t like the thought of it. “In fact, she seemed quite distressed that you weren’t there.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Was she?”

  Giles sighed. “You’ve done it, haven’t you? Won her before I’ve even got a chance? You weren’t in the kitchen five minutes!”

  “Long enough for a kiss.”

  He made a face.

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “I am sorry, my friend. But I couldn’t quite help myself.”

  “She is astonishing,” Giles agreed. “And so is he, you know. The two of them are . . . well. . . .”

  “They did well enough on their own last night, I take it?”

  “As if they were born to it.”

  His words brought back that little consternation; I remembered how I’d felt seeing Hannigan with Whistler. How little he’d needed me. I pushed the thought away. “I’m going to get dressed. Wait for me?”

  Giles sank onto the settee and crossed his arms, letting his head fall against the wall with a helpless thud. “I suppose there’s no hope I could take her from you?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  I left him to dress, and we were on our way within the hour. That evening fog was gathering again, the damp chill of Venice easing into my bones. When we arrived on the doorstep of the Alvisi, I barely said two words to the servant. I raced up the stairs, Giles following breathlessly behind, calling irritably, “Slow down, Nick! What’s the hurry?”

  I stepped into the portego and scanned the crowd, but I saw no sign of them. Not there, and not on the balcony. In the main salon, Katharine Bronson was holding court with three others. She raised her eyes to me as I entered, beckoning me over.

  “Mr. Dane, how we did miss you last night!” She turned to the three. “You’ve met the Paulsons, haven’t you? And Mr. Sweeten?”

  I had, and I nodded a hello to each of them, barely able to contain my impatience long enough to ask, “Have the Hannigans arrived?”

  “Oh, I’m afraid not yet,” she said. “But bring them over when they do, will you, please?” She turned to the others. “Mr. Dane has brought us the most marvelous artist and his sister. You really must meet them. They’re twins, and quite extraordinary. . . .”

  I wandered away as soon as it was prudent. I went to the portego, positioning myself with an eye to the door, and involved myself in several absurdly boring conversations while I waited for a glimpse of them. But the hours passed, and they did not arrive. I began to feel anxious. After eleven o’clock came and went, and then midnight, I cornered Giles and said, “Did they say anything to you about not coming tonight?”

  “I would have told you if they had,” he said with exasperation.

  When the clock struck one thirty, I told Giles I was going home and left the Alvisi. I did not go home, however. Instead, I made my way to the Moretta. Had there been a single light on, I would have rung the bell, but the place was dark. They had obviously already gone to bed.

  I told the gondolier to take me to the Dana Rosti. There was only a single light on at Odilé’s, and no flickering shadows. No one was about, no visiting gondola. I realized then that I’d been afraid Odil�
� had found them—though I knew it was impossible. I’d been watching. I would have known. It was very late now, nearly three, and abjectly still; even the mist hovering about the water did not seem to shift as my gondola moved through it to the fondamenta. The night felt strange, as if the world were on watch, but it was only that I was, I knew, and I let my unease fade into relief. They were not here—of course not. Why should they be? I paid the gondolier and disembarked, parking myself again beside the rotting boat. And then I turned up my collar and prepared to spend another watchful night among the ghosts of Venice.

  ODILÉ

  They were gone by midnight, and when they left, the room seemed eerily quiet, hushed, the candle flames flickering as if people still moved about. I blew out all the candles but for a single hand and sat for a moment in the dim light, trying to catch my breath, which was unsteady and painful.

  The evening had been a trial. I was used to desire, to wanting—it was the reason for my existence, after all—but I could not remember ever feeling any such as this. The power of it was a ravishment, twisting me about until I felt myself dissolve in its fury, until I was nothing but yearning. I wanted him as badly as I’d ever wanted a man. He had raised my hunger to a fever—it had been all I could do to control it—and yet, my appetite seemed not to affect him. I’d felt nothing from her, which told me she had no talent at all despite what he’d said about her storytelling. But his . . . it must be more prodigious even than I’d suspected. Perhaps more so than any I’d ever before had. I felt a frisson of excitement through my pain.

  What do you most desire, Odilé?

  I closed my eyes against the rushing currents of remembrance. The one memory I wished to forget, so stubbornly and starkly clear. The night so blackly dark, the storm raging outside, wind screeching down the narrow, twisting streets, rain driven across the stones. The knock upon my door so very late. The alarm I’d felt when I opened the door to see Madeleine standing there, alone, not a servant in sight.

  “What is it?” I’d asked her. “What has happened?”

  She pushed her way inside. Her blond hair straggled loose over her shoulders, and she looked drawn and pale, her eyes like shining bits of coal in contrast. I closed the door and pulled my wrap more closely about me. She went to the fireplace, which was barely warm, the fire banked for the night, and held her hands out to it, revealing the bracelets about her wrists—she was still dressed for a party, though it was nearly morning. She rarely left her entertainments early, and I knew something must have happened to bring her here.

  My alarm grew. I hurried to the hearth and stirred up the embers, building the fire again. “Shall I get you some tea? Or wine?”

  She was shivering as she shook her head, but I went to the kitchen and warmed some wine for her. When I brought it, she drank it gratefully. Still, she said nothing, and I let her sit in silence until I could no longer bear it. “I don’t understand. Why are you here now?”

  She turned to me, and there was something in her face—I cannot describe it, but it terrified me. She held out her shaking hand to me—pale, thin fingers. She whispered. “Look at what I am.”

  I had no idea what she meant for me to see. “You look as if you’ve had a fright. And you’re freezing.”

  She shook her head again, almost violently. “You’ve allowed yourself to be blind, Odilé. Look at me. Tell me what you see.”

  I was puzzled and feeling more uneasy by the moment. “I see my friend, Madeleine Dumas, who has inspired great men, and who will inspire a great many more.”

  She laughed, but it had a brittle edge. “You said you wish to be like me. Is that still true?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “Why would it not be?”

  “Will you still, I wonder, when you know the truth?”

  “What truth is that?”

  She leaned across the space between us to grip my arm. She was very strong; I felt it would be a struggle to break free, and was amazed that I even thought to do so. This was Madeleine, my friend and mentor and yet . . . in those moments she seemed not that, but something else. Something that did not belong here, before my hearth.

  “Madeleine, you’re frightening me.”

  At those words, her grip loosened. Her eyes dimmed, returning to their usual luminosity. Her face seemed not so grave or gaunt—there was the pink in her cheeks, the smooth brow, the fine down at her temples. She drew back.

  “How old am I?” she demanded of me.

  The question confused me further. “I don’t know. As old as I am, I think. No more than forty.”

  Her lips twitched in a smile. She looked to the fire, which was now burning hotly, casting her face in an orange-and-yellow glow. “I have lived five hundred and thirty-two years.”

  I thought she had a fever. Or that she’d gone mad. The insanity of the poet she’d abandoned had been somehow contagious. I did not know what to say.

  “I am tired,” she said. “I have been tired for some time. And I have looked for someone to take my place. But I have never found her. Until now.”

  “You need sleep. Come, and I’ll—”

  She jerked from my proffered hand. “Do you not understand, Odilé? I am telling you the secrets you have been begging to know. Did you truly want to know them? Or was it only talk?”

  Her eyes were burning again. I remembered the conversation we’d had only days ago, the talk of demons, my sense that there had been something in it I was not seeing. Carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, I said, “I truly wish to know.”

  She smiled thinly. “You think I am mad. I can assure you I am not.”

  The air seemed to shiver about her. I found myself stepping back.

  “I have lived for five hundred and thirty-two years,” she said again, this time slowly, as if I were an idiot who could not grasp the words. I could not move nor look away. “I was given this gift when I was thirty-two. I wanted youth, you see. I wanted never to grow old. I did not understand the burden of it then.”

  “The gift,” I said carefully. “What gift is that?”

  “Can you not guess?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Her smile grew—this time it was bitter. “We have been called many things. Demons and angels, daughters of Lilith and Naamah, sirens and banshees.”

  I felt I was in some strange and disturbing dream. “What?”

  “Have you not heard of women who mated with fallen angels? Who became demons themselves?”

  “You . . . you had a fallen angel?” I could not believe I’d even said such words.

  She shook her head impatiently. “I just told you. The gift was passed to me. The fallen angels are only the story of how we began. But this is truly what I am, Odilé. A succubus. It is what I have been for five hundred years. It is what I wish no longer to be. I am tired, cherie. But I cannot just give it up. There must always be one of us. Do you understand? I cannot die until I pass it along. You must take the gift from me.”

  I didn’t understand. Not a single thing she was telling me. A succubus? It was absurd; a fever dream, an illness.

  She went on, “When you brought me that poet, I knew you would be so much better at this than I. You told me I could change the world if I chose better. Now, I’m offering that to you. You could change the world. You have the eye it needs. Think of what you’ve told me. You wish to leave a mark. You want your name to be remembered. I can give you that.”

  My mind was churning—to listen, to put her to bed, to call the apothecary. . . . But I felt paralyzed by her gaze, and gradually I became aware that I saw no madness in her eyes. But how could that be? Everything she was saying was impossible.

  She said steadily, “You have known from the start that I was not like anyone else. What is in me speaks to you, cherie, you know it does. You are beautiful and skilled. I can make you more beautiful. I can give you the power you crave. I can take away the yearning that torments you. You know I can.”

  Truth has a way of speaking, of sneaking in beyo
nd fear or dread. My instincts tingled. Everything I had always wondered about Madeleine made sense of those words: her irresistible beauty, the madness of those who fell under her spell, the power of her inspiration.

  Still, I denied it. “What you speak of is impossible.”

  “Is it? Imagine it, Odilé. Imagine: men inspired by you. Men who will never forget you. A world that will not forget.”

  She knew what to say, what would most affect me.

  “Those things can’t just be given,” I protested. “Such a talent—”

  “You are wrong. It can be given. I can give it to you. Look at me, Odilé.”

  I saw the change in her gaze, the blackness within her eyes glittering, writhing. Supernatural. Occult. Demon eyes. I remembered the eyes in the portrait, her asking what I thought of the cost of immortality.

  “No,” I whispered in horror. “No. Impossible.”

  She rose, stepping so close I felt the warmth of her breath as she spoke. “It is a gift. And I can give it to you. Ask me, Odilé. Ask me. Be what I am.”

  I could not believe, even as her words wheedled into my heart, even as temptation roused. What she was offering me—it couldn’t be, could it? But then . . . I had recognized her. I had seen the otherworldliness in her eyes, and I knew it was real. And the truth was that I did long to be like her—how could I resist the offer now? If such a thing could be—I had wanted this for so long, my whole life. To be known. To be remembered. To leave a mark . . .

  I felt now as if my destiny, as if every step I’d ever taken, had brought me to this moment. My hunger for it bloomed irresistibly, as she must have known it would.

  I heard my own voice, hoarse with longing, whisper, “Yes. Yes. What must I do?”

  The satisfaction that came into her expression would have chilled me had I not wanted what she offered so badly. “There are things you must know first. Listen carefully. There are rules you cannot break. You will appear to every man as desire. But only those with talent can feed you, and if you resist your appetite for too long, it will draw from the world around you—a bird’s song, a farmer whistling, a juggler’s tricks—even such little talents you will leech away. To truly appease your hunger requires bedding.” Her smile turned cunning. “You are a succubus, after all. Temptation incarnate.”