Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  “And then?” I asked.

  “The energy you take from an artist leaves a poison in their blood—a kind of madness, if you will. For them, that madness becomes inspiration. You will be a muse, at least for a time, to every man you feed upon. Those with too little talent, you will drain to death, so you must be careful. But this is the most important thing of all, Odilé; this you must not forget: Every three years, you must choose the one.”

  “The one?”

  “The artist you will make a bargain with. He must agree, Odilé. He must sell you his very soul: his talent in return for inspiration. Once the bargain is locked, you will feel a rapture such as you have never known. You will inspire him to the utmost of his ability. To him, you will be the muse of all muses.”

  “As you were to the poet,” I said.

  Her smile was sharp—I saw in it no sorrow over his fate. “Yes. Everything he is, he will pour into creating one final work. It will be the culmination of his brilliance. And then his talent will be gone, never to return. Some of them go mad after. Or take their own lives. They will never create again. But your hunger will be appeased. For a time it will hibernate. And then, the cycle will begin again. Your hunger will grow and grow, day by day, week by week, until you choose once more.”

  “It seems a hard bargain for them,” I said, remembering her poet’s despair.

  Madeleine shrugged. “You told me you thought inspiring the world worth any cost. Have you changed your mind?”

  I thought of the brilliance of the man’s poetry, the reason I’d brought him before her. “No. And if I don’t find the talent I want? If I don’t choose?”

  Madeleine’s eyes darkened. Her face went sharp and still. “You do not want to do that, cherie.”

  “What will happen?” I demanded. “You must tell me. Tell me everything if I am to do this.”

  “In your worst nightmares, you could not imagine it.” In that moment I saw truly the demon I had only glimpsed before. I saw the eyes that had followed her from a painted portrait, a terrible void that raised an answering horror in me. “The demon inside you will grow until you are nothing but your hunger. It will swallow everything, every bit of talent in its path. It will be too hungry to be discerning. You will drain everything of its creative force until the hunger is sated—for after all, everyone has some creativity, some imagination. You will become the monster, and it will take time to return to yourself. If you allow it to happen too often . . . at some point you will not be able to control the demon. Odilé will disappear forever, no matter how often you feed or what death you leave behind. You—Odilé—will be gone, but the demon will survive—you will become it, and you will be so until you can find someone to accept the gift. For the succubus monster cannot be killed; it cannot be destroyed. It can only be passed on.”

  Such terrors cannot be truly imagined without experience, and I could not imagine them then. I wanted what she offered so badly. Badly enough to believe that such a dark circumstance could never happen to me. How hard could it be to choose one every three years? I had been a courtesan for most of my life and had nothing but a bleak future. But this . . . to be the muse to inspire such brilliance, to be celebrated and adored. The world would be mine. How could I not want it?

  “Very well,” I said. “I understand. Give it to me. I will take it.”

  Madeleine stepped over to me and took my hand, gripping it tight, so the jewels of the bracelets at her wrists bit into my skin. She leaned close, whispering in my ear, an urgent command, “What do you most desire, Odilé?”

  I felt the ritual in it. “To be remembered.”

  She pressed something into my hand—I looked down to see a knife. I had no idea where it had come from. When I looked at her in question, she said, “You must use it, cherie. There can only be one of us, and one must die for the next to live.”

  I stared at her in horror, realizing at once what she meant for me to do. I tried to jerk away, but she held me fast. “No,” I said. “I can’t do that! You’re asking me to kill you. How can I? I love you. I would not trade you for this.”

  Her fingers tightened on my wrist. Those demon eyes gleamed. “You will not refuse me now.”

  “I can’t do this. No, I won’t do it.”

  “I am ready to die, Odilé. I am tired. I cannot pass on without your help. I want this. Be the friend you say you are. Take this burden from me. Take it. Do it. I am ready. Do not disappoint me.”

  I wish I could say I refused such an abomination, but I did not. In the end, I wanted what she offered so very much. Now that she’d provided such possibility, how could I go back to what I’d been?

  She curled her fingers around my hand, forcing me to grip the handle, giving me strength when I had none, driving my hand hard when I hesitated. I plunged the knife into her. Her eyes widened; she caught her breath. I felt the warmth of her blood on my hand. I saw her relief and joy.

  The last thing she said to me was, “Do not forget, Odilé. You can choose only one.”

  Then I felt a rush in my blood, a powerful force crashing through me, a blow that hurled me breathless to the floor, my fingers and toes burning, the very tips of my hair. I was on fire, I was consumed. I screamed out, and then, suddenly, there was a sucking that pulled at my skin as if it meant to turn me inside out, a shiver in the world that glowed before my eyes, and then it was still and gone, and I was lying beside Madeleine’s body with blood on my hands. I felt her absence in a great, dark emptiness. She was gone, and I had done this. My only friend was gone, and I was alone—though I did not realize then how truly so.

  I rose trembling, trying to clean my hands on my skirt. The blood would not be wiped away, as if it intended me to wear it forever, a reminder of the cost. As I stumbled to my feet, feeling sick, I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the fireplace. I froze in astonishment. The reflection that looked back at me was myself, but augmented, heightened. I had always been beautiful, but now there was something else in me too, something I recognized, because I had seen it in Madeleine. A glow in my gray eyes, a hollow darkness in their depths.

  I was too beguiled by the change to be afraid. That came much, much later.

  The memory faded. When I opened my eyes now, I was almost surprised to find myself in my Venetian sala. My eyes stung with tears—how I missed her still. How I regretted she was gone. And the worst of it was the joke—because I had not got what I’d wanted, had I? I was a muse, yes, but who knew that Odilé León had inspired Byron or Canaletto or Schumann? Who knew my name?

  I went to my bedroom, and lit the gas. Near the wall was a heavily padlocked trunk bound with straps. I drew the key from my pocket and twisted it in the lock. I lifted the lid and stared down at wrapped parcels. I took them out one at time, portraits—all of me, miniatures, sketches—music and poems, sheaves of paper bound with ribbon growing stiff and faded, tattered books. I rifled through them. There, near the bottom, was what I wanted, a journal so yellowed with time that its pages flaked at the edges.

  I took it up. The writing was fading, pages after pages of my own flowing script, listings of everything I’d discovered. Ah, so few pages truly! Madeleine had said so little of where we came from, why we existed, and while I had done my best to learn more, there was not much to find. Most of what had been written about succubi was of horror and resistance and immorality. Lilith, the mother, the wife, the first. Having refused to lie with Adam unless as an equal, she had exiled herself from Eden and taken up with the fallen angel Samael and become a succubus. When God sent three angels to capture her, they found her in bed with Samael, and when she refused to return to Adam, they threatened to kill her demon children. Still, she refused. The legend said that she took her revenge even now by injuring babies in their sleep. But if there existed a Lilith still, I didn’t know, and it wasn’t the babies that disturbed those who wrote of her, but her monstrous appeal, the irresistibility of the desire she raised. Lilith, the incarnation of lust, was identified with Asmodeus, the
devil of fornication. Subtle in wickedness, eager to do hurt, ever fertile in fresh deceptions . . . they stir up tempests, disguise themselves as angels, bear Hell always about them . . . through the wantonness of flesh, they have much power over men. Proverbs 2:18: Her house sinks down to death, and her course leads to the shades. All who go to her cannot return. . .

  I knew the names of succubi throughout the ages. Naamah, Agroth, Mahaleth. Lamashtû, the demon succubi of Mesopotamia. Qarinah of Arabia. Lilitû in Assyria. Lamia—only another name for Lilith. Circe. Leanan of the Scottish sidhe, a blood-sucking demon who was the muse of poets.

  So many and yet . . . and yet I had only met Madeleine, and she had implied there were no others. There can only be one of us, she’d said. But the Malleus Maleficarum stated that “Incubus and succubus devils have always existed.” Devils, plural. If that was so, where were they? How was it possible that I was so alone?

  Though I had written down every “fact” I’d read or discovered, I had no idea which were truth and which lies, which pure inventions. There had been times, horrors—Barcelona—when I’d thought the wickedness attributed to succubi was the truth. But in my more rational moments, I knew that what I’d told Madeleine was true, that the pleasures I could give changed the world, and that was the real reason we were feared. Desire made fools of us all, did it not? What was more controlling than unconsummated desire? What but wanting sent men on fatal quests or led them to begin senseless wars? What else led to thievery or murder? It wasn’t desire that was the enemy, but the inability to assuage it. Desire was only an emotion. It was no more evil than love.

  And if succubi were only evil, how did one explain the rest of the gift? How could it be said that art and beauty were unholy, whatever their inspiration?

  There was a reason we existed—I existed. To give mankind a reason to strive. In a world that wanted balance, it made sense that something must exist to counter death and disease and suffering. Inspiration. Beauty. Love needed hate. Destruction was necessary for creation. A price must be paid for great and lasting beauty. Art required sacrifice, and that was where I came in.

  Balance. Symmetry.

  I no longer pondered philosophy; I had, like Madeleine, grown weary of the debate. There was nothing new in the world. It was why I hunted only youth, because they at least had not grown weary of living. Their joy in it, their innocence, invigorated me. But it was not really new. It was not mine. It was only a mirror image, a reflection. It was never something I could touch.

  In Joseph Hannigan, I had been given something special, and I wondered: would he be the one to give me the credit I had spent four lifetimes waiting for? The reason I’d asked for the gift, the reward for my sacrifice at last?

  I believed he was. But then . . . I’d thought that of Byron too, hadn’t I? And Schumann. Canaletto. All these years, and still I was foolish enough to believe in generosity of spirit, no matter that I had been disabused of its possibility time and again. How foolish still to hope for it, to look in a man’s eyes and believe that his gratitude would be lasting. To think that he would immortalize something more than his own talent and give his inspiration a name that generations would whisper with awe, to give me what I deserved.

  But some foolish hopes never dissipated, and Joseph Hannigan was different enough to restore them. He had surprised me tonight, a rare enough thing. Not just with the depth of his talent, but with his comprehension of the world and his devotion to his sister. I didn’t understand it, but in the end it didn’t matter. I’d seen his expression when he looked at me, and I knew it would be no great challenge to get him here again. All I need do was persuade him to accept my offer, to make the bargain. I did not expect a struggle. It was never a difficult thing to tempt a talented man.

  SOPHIE

  I woke the next morning to the sense that I was somehow a ghost within the world, separate and unseen. My brother only made the feeling worse—he was, in fact, the cause of it. He sat on the settee, feverishly drawing, but he was distracted, so deep in thought it was as if I had ceased to exist for him. Every comment I made was met with either silence or a strange, unfocused stare, a blink, as if he were catching only glimpses of me, a spirit there one moment and then gone the next, and he shook his head in confusion and turned back to his drawing. I had never seen such a thing in him, not even during those early years with Miss Coring, when his infatuation trumped his anger and hatred.

  It was Odilé León, I knew. The spell of her lingered, and if I felt that way . . . I stole a glance at my brother, at the charcoal dust marking his hands and the cuffs of his shirt, how his hair fell into his face and how he did not shake it away, too consumed by whatever it was he saw in his head, and I remembered the way he’d looked at her last night. The way he’d touched her.

  Joseph had had many women—of course he had; one had only to look at him to know it. But I’d never felt in him this kind of restlessness, and it seemed to have sneaked beneath my own skin, to needle like a constant itch one could not find the center of. I felt that familiarity again without knowing where it came from. I only knew it was troubling, that it had to do with her and that strange commission—You know something of desire. I’d been as confused as my brother by her offer. How could one pay so much money on the basis of a single rough sketch? I felt it had more to do with her obvious attraction to Joseph than any wish to hire his talent. Everything in me said we should turn down her offer. But then . . . how could we? We needed the money so badly.

  Unless . . . I thought of Nicholas Dane, the Loneghans, Joseph’s and my plan. What if I could bring that to bear now? Loneghan’s money and influence would easily trump Odilé León. And if I could bring him in, Joseph could give up Odilé León’s commission. Neither of us would have to see her again. All I must do was convince Nicholas Dane . . .

  The thought of him brought a tingling anticipation I refused to let myself feel. I could not afford to feel it, not now, when I needed him more than ever. There are no white knights, Soph, not like in your stories.

  That night, as we climbed aboard the gondola to go to the salon, Joseph gave me a curious look. “What are you thinking? You’re . . . I don’t know what it is.”

  It was nearly the first full sentence he’d said to me all day. I said, “I’m hoping Mr. Dane will be there tonight.”

  Joseph hesitated. Then, “What do you mean to do?”

  “If he’s there, I will have Henry Loneghan for us by the end of the evening.”

  My brother gave me a considering look. “We have a little more time, you know. Now that Madame León has provided—”

  “She can only give us money,” I said firmly. “Henry Loneghan can give us everything. We won’t need Odilé León or her commission then.”

  I saw the question in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it. Instead, he seemed vaguely troubled. “All right. Just remember, Soph, don’t say yes, but—”

  “—don’t say no either. I know what to do.”

  “You’ll let me know if you need me.”

  I nodded, smiling. “Just be as charming as you always are.”

  When we arrived at the Alvisi, I left him with a kiss and went to look for Nicholas Dane. The crowd was not so great tonight, and I found Mr. Martin right away in the main sala.

  “Miss Hannigan! You look radiant this evening,” he said, bowing over my hand like some courtier.

  “You’re too kind. I don’t suppose Mr. Dane managed to come with you this evening?”

  “As a matter of fact, he did. He’s here.” Mr. Martin peered about nearsightedly. “Well, not here, but somewhere about.”

  I buried my excitement in determination and wandered through the crowd, craning for the sight of Mr. Dane. When I spotted him at last, on the far side of one of the smaller salons, talking to a bushy-mustachioed man, I felt again a surge of warmth, and I was possessed by the sudden wish that he might sense me, that he might turn to find me across the room as if he knew already I was there. What would it be like, I wondered
, to have someone look for only me? And just as I had the thought, impossibly, as if he’d known, he did turn. His gaze landed on me as if I’d yanked it there. I caught my breath at the pleasure I saw in it and had to forcibly remind myself of my task. I put a command in my eyes—come to me, follow me—and then I turned and left the room, moving slowly, my heart racing, wondering if he would.

  In moments, he was at my side, cupping my elbow in his hand, his low voice in my ear, “Miss Hannigan, how I have missed you these last days.”

  Careful, Sophie. I made myself remember everything at stake and I gave Nicholas Dane a flirtatious look. “Have you? Then why haven’t I seen you?”

  “My other business kept me away. But my thoughts have never left you. I was looking forward to seeing you last night—more than I can say. But alas, you weren’t here.”

  I touched his arm. “Is there somewhere . . . private we may go?”

  He glanced down at my fingers, and then up again, swallowing convulsively. “Of course,” he said with alacrity, taking my arm again. He led me through the rooms, smiling and nodding at those he knew, brief hellos, as he took me to what looked like Arthur Bronson’s study. It was unoccupied, but the scent of tobacco lingered. He did not close the door for propriety’s sake—and I was relieved. I could not do anything too stupid with the door open.

  I said, as we went to a settee against the far wall, “You know this house well.”

  “I’ve spent nearly every night here for some months,” he said. “This is where Arthur retreats when the salon becomes too much for him. Tonight he’s too busy talking to an old friend to leave.”

  The plan. Loneghan. Think. I said, “Did you really think of me these last days?”