by Susan Conley
And so I had to admit that, for all his charm, Bécquer was, indeed, a monster that fed on humans, and if Beatriz was right, I was to be his next victim, his next blood giver. I turned to flee, but Bécquer grabbed my arms. Forceful, passionate, his voice broke into my mind. I’m not a monster.
“Get out!”
“Please, Carla. Listen to me. I never … ”
He spoke aloud this time, but I pulled from him, screaming.
For a moment, he stared at me, his eyes not red, but black as night. Then, brusquely, he let go of my arms and, cupping my face in his hands, pressed his lips against mine, effectively silencing my crying.
As if reflected in the trembling surface of a shallow pond, an image swirled before my eyes. The strikingly beautiful face of Beatriz, a younger Beatriz, her beguiling smile and her dilated pupils that almost drowned the pale blue irises of her eyes, a teasing, irresistible call to the senses.
Beatriz, a voice whispered. Bécquer’s voice, distorted in my mind.
I knew this was Bécquer’s memory, a disturbing, unwanted memory. I fought it back and the image faded, only to be replaced by another, of a tearful Beatriz pleading to Bécquer to give her his blood and take her as his blood giver, followed by another of Beatriz sucking greedily on the bleeding wrist of a man’s hand. The same hand I had admired this morning in Café Vienna. Bécquer’s hand.
Out of nowhere a flash of pain struck me, and the images disappeared.
I opened my eyes. In front of me, Bécquer stumbled.
“Carla, go,” he said. But his voice, strangled and broken, carried no power. I didn’t move, but watched Beatriz step back, her eyes bright with madness, holding in her hands a broken glass red with blood.
“Bécquer!” I called and reached for him. But I was too late.
A red stain rapidly spreading on the collar of his white shirt, Bécquer fell to his knees.
Chapter Eight: Beatriz
I screamed.
I screamed and lunged at Beatriz, who was about to strike the fallen Bécquer once again. Without even looking, Beatriz pushed me aside and sent me flying against the wall.
By the time I came back to my senses and yanked from my face the crooked mask that blinded me, Bécquer and Beatriz were gone. There was shattered glass on the floor where I had last seen them and a red smear leading to a closed door.
Blood, I thought and stood, panic stricken, as I remembered Bécquer bleeding at my feet. At the sudden movement, my stomach lurched in complaint and the room started spinning. Gritting my teeth, I leaned back against the wall.
A million questions rushed through my mind. Where was Bécquer? Had Beatriz killed him and dragged him outside to dispose of his body? But that was impossible. Bécquer was immortal. Yet the pain in his mind when the glass cut his throat had been real. The glass. Glass wounds heal slowly in immortals and the loss of blood leave us vulnerable, Federico had told me. Beatriz knew this, I was sure, and was angry with Bécquer. Angry enough to kill him?
Bécquer and his stupid pride. If only he had told Beatriz I was his descendant, she would have understood his interest in me. But, Federico was right: Bécquer liked to play with people’s feelings and was too proud to explain himself to anyone. And now he was hurt, maybe too hurt to explain. I had to find them. I had to tell Beatriz the truth about Bécquer and me. I had to stop her from harming Bécquer any further because I believed him. I believed Bécquer had not forced Beatriz to give him blood. She had agreed to it willingly. Even if Bécquer’s memories were misleading, and he was in part to blame for taking Beatriz’s blood, her attack on him had been unwarranted.
I took a step and the room erupted into movement and the noise exploded, deafening, in my ears, as if I had just emerged from being underwater in a crowded pool. Even the piano playing, so pleasurable before, pounded in my head. Carefully avoiding the broken glass at my feet, I made it to the door.
The corridor on the other side of the ballroom was empty.
In the diffuse light coming from the iron sconces that hung on the walls I could see several doors on the wall across, all closed, the rooms behind them in darkness. But at the end of the corridor, a rectangle of moonlight escaped through the opening of a heavily carved set of French doors.
I ran to them and slid them open. A piece of cloth lay on the floor. I picked it up. It was the blue shawl Beatriz had worn at the party. The blue shawl stained with blood.
I stepped inside and looked around, taking in the tall bookshelves, the slick wooden table and matching chairs that cast long shadows in the silvery moonlight pouring through the far wall, that was, ironically enough, made out of glass.
A noise to my left caught my attention, a moan maybe, a whisper? Then I heard his voice, Bécquer’s voice inside my head, Leave. But it was weak, too weak to overrule my will. So instead I dashed around the bookshelf that partitioned the floor, toward the sound, then stopped. There was no need for me to go further. I had found them. I had found Bécquer, and he didn’t need me, for he was lying with Beatriz in a sofa set against the wall. Bécquer, his eyes closed, his head resting on the leather armrest had his arms around her body, while Beatriz’s head nested against his chest.
How could I have been so stupid to think Bécquer’s life was in danger? For seeing them now, so closely entangled, I understood that, for all the drama of their exchange and her vicious attack, their whole argument had been nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. A disagreement already forgotten.
“He always comes back to me,” Beatriz had told me. And so he had.
Please, Carla, leave now. Bécquer’s voice was again in my mind, so weak I could have dismissed it. Except this time I had no reason to. I took a step back.
Stay!
Beatriz’s call, strong and willful, stopped me. I looked up and saw her standing in front of Bécquer, blood on her bodice and a snarl on her face. “I did so hope that you would come,” she said, this time aloud.
Her eyes glowed red. I froze in fear for that could only mean one thing: Beatriz was immortal.
Behind her, Bécquer struggled to get up. “Let her go,” he whispered.
He reached forward and grabbed her arm. But Beatriz pulled away. “Why?” she screamed as Bécquer stumbled back and collapsed on the floor. “Why do you care so much for her?”
“He doesn’t,” I said.
In a flash, Beatriz was at my side. “Don’t lie to me.” With apparent ease, she lifted me from the ground and yanked me back against the bookshelf. “I know him. I know him better than he knows himself, and I know he cares for you.”
“But it is not like that … He cares for me because he is … because I am his descendant.”
Beatriz glared at me, her eyes a burning fire, and I felt the push of her mind entering mine, a harsh, painful thrust, like the prodding of a fingernail in an open wound. Then, she released me suddenly, and I hit the floor so hard my knees gave way and I fell down.
“I see you’re telling the truth,” Beatriz started. “I wonder why — ?”
She halted, and her eyes seemed to withdraw as if they were looking inwards. One moment she was looming over me, the next she was gone, leaving behind the echo of a latch unfastening and her unfinished sentence haunting my mind.
I climbed to my feet and looked around, searching for clues of what had just happened. But for the sliding door opened to the night outside, the room was as it had been.
For a moment, I considered whether Bécquer had stopped time again and left, taking Beatriz with him. But when I looked, I saw him, lying still on the floor. I rushed to his side. His eyes closed, his chiseled features paler than ever in the soft light of the full moon, Bécquer did not answer my frantic callings. Scarier still, he had no pulse.
I panicked, at first, for no pulse meant death in my mind, until I remembered Bécquer was not human. Di
d immortals have a pulse?
Grateful that Bécquer’s blood had made me immune to my usual blackout reaction at the sight of blood, I opened the collar of his shirt, drenched in blood, and checked his neck. A nasty cut ran from ear to ear. There was something bright inside the wound. A shard of glass.
Just as I pried it loose, two hands grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me back.
“What have you done to him?” Federico roared. His back to me, he bent over Bécquer. Then again, he faced me. “You cut him with a broken glass and took his blood,” he shouted.
For the second time that evening, his strong arms held me in the air. “I told you I would not allow anyone to hurt him.”
I tried to speak but his hands were at my throat. I closed my eyes, certain I was about to die for Federico’s thoughts screamed of murder. But another voice was in his mind, a tenuous presence, like a thought made out of mist, fighting his instincts.
He put me down.
“Leave,” he ordered. Turning his back to me, he knelt by Bécquer.
I didn’t move. “Is he going to be all right?”
Federico didn’t answer.
“Beatriz cut him with a broken glass,” I said. “I never hurt him.”
“I know. I can sense your feelings, remember? I know your hate for him is gone.”
Gently, like a mother cradles her child, Federico lifted Bécquer and set him on the sofa.
“Bécquer is my ancestor,” I talked to his back, simplifying the story. “He’s Ryan’s ancestor too. Not his lover.”
Federico looked at me. “That is why he has his picture.”
I nodded.
“Is he going to be all right?” I asked again.
“Yes. But he needs blood and soon.”
He needs blood. I shivered at the implications of his words. With Beatriz his blood giver gone, I was the obvious choice to replace her.
I could leave, of course, as Federico had urged me to do and for a moment I did consider leaving. But if I left, Federico would force somebody else to feed Bécquer. He had made it clear he would not let him die. I couldn’t let somebody else take my place. Besides, finding this other somebody would take time, and Bécquer didn’t look as if he could waste any more time. I chose to stay.
“But first we must clean his wound,” Federico continued. “Any glass left inside would prevent it from healing.”
I watched as Federico removed the red handkerchief from his neck and used it to clean Bécquer’s cut. After retrieving several shards, he stopped and looked up.
“We need a bigger cloth to dress his wound,” he explained as his eyes took in the room. “Perfect,” he said, pointing beyond my head.
Faster than my eyes could follow, he left and returned holding a scarf, Beatriz’s scarf I must have dropped when she attacked me. While I held Bécquer, Federico wrapped it around the wound.
“You should go, Carla,” Federico told me when he finished.
“Go? But you said Bécquer needs blood.”
Federico frowned, and then, as a spark of understanding lit his eyes, he shook his head. “My blood, Carla. Not yours. How could you think I would take yours?”
“I thought he needed human blood.”
“No. Mine will do.” Kneeling, he cut his own wrist with a knife and held the wound to Bécquer’s lips.
I watched Bécquer, looking desperately for some sign of life, for although he had made Beatriz an immortal —
You’re wrong. Bécquer’s voice resonated inside my mind, and so relieved I was that he was still alive, I didn’t fight his intrusion this time. Not even when his memories came rushing in. A fuzzy memory of Beatriz dragging a reluctant Bécquer through the library, of Beatriz drinking blood from him, of Beatriz, her eyes glowing red, staring at him with wild desire.
Good heavens, Federico yelled, moving back. You made Beatriz immortal!
Bécquer sat up. I didn’t. She stole my blood. Give me some credit, for Carla’s sake.
Federico stared at me. You can hear us?
“Yes,” I said, aloud now. For only then, I realized the previous conversation had taken place inside my head.
Federico turned to Bécquer. “You gave Carla your blood?”
“What if I did?”
“Really, Bécquer. No wonder Beatriz attacked you.”
“Glad to hear you approve.”
“You knew Beatriz was concerned about Carla taking her place,” Federico continued, ignoring Bécquer’s sarcastic retort, “yet you give her your blood. What did you expect?”
“Certainly not that you’d condone her attack.”
“I do not condone her action. But this wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t use humans.”
“I don’t use humans, Federico. You know quite well that Beatriz asked me to take her as my blood giver. As for Carla, you don’t have to worry: she doesn’t want my blood. You can ask her. When I’m gone.”
Setting his hands firmly on the sofa, Bécquer stood.
Federico blocked his way. “Where are you going?”
“To find Beatriz. I must stop her before she kills someone.”
“You are not serious. You cannot stop Beatriz. She’s stronger than you are right now. She will kill you.”
Bécquer groaned. “Thanks for your vote of confidence. But I’ve no choice.”
“Be my guest.” Bowing mockingly at him, Federico stepped aside.
I looked on, bemused by Federico’s reaction, for Bécquer was shaking badly and I couldn’t imagine how he was going to make it to the door, let alone confront Beatriz, this new immortal Beatriz who had lifted me with the ease of a tornado uprooting a tree.
As I feared, Bécquer didn’t make it far. He took a step, then stumbled and would have fallen if Federico had not held him and helped him back to the sofa.
“I need more blood,” Bécquer’s voice was low, demanding. “I must reach Beatriz tonight.”
“Beatriz is beyond your help, Bécquer. She stole immortality. The Elders will kill her. You know the law.”
“Yes, I know the law. I sired her, thus she is my responsibility. If she kills tonight, the Elders will blame me for her digressions and kill me too.”
Federico’s face turned ashen. “Then I’ll do it. I’ll find her and kill her before she kills somebody.”
“I don’t want her dead. I want to stop her before it’s too late.”
“You can’t, Bécquer. You have lost too much blood and she’s driven by the unquenchable thirst of the newborn. Even if I’d give you blood, you won’t be a match for her.”
After a rapid nod in my direction, Federico started toward the door. But before he reached it, I heard in my mind Bécquer’s voice calling his name. His silent cry, a compelling order that, even though it was not directed at me, overcame my will and sent me to my knees. Federico stopped.
Give me your blood. Again Bécquer’s voice boomed inside my head, a command too strong even for Federico to resist.
Through half closed eyes, I watched him walk back to Bécquer’s side, and sitting on the sofa pull down the collar of his shirt to reveal his naked throat. I looked away.
I could feel the battle raging between their minds, flashes of anger storming back and forth, hurting as if a hammer was pounding my brain.
“Enough,” I shouted, not really expecting them to hear me. But immediately the voices stopped and, for a moment, only Bécquer’s remained, a soothing whisper. Block your thoughts. Then their bickering returned.
I can’t, I called to him. I don’t know how.
Think of ice, Bécquer’s voice suggested. A wall of ice.
I tried and failed. I tried again, until the wall remained, cold and forbidding between their minds and mine. And there was silence. A silence broken soon
by the steps of someone running, getting closer and closer. Behind the sofa to my left, a door I hadn’t noticed before opened and Matt stood in the doorway.
He was panting which didn’t surprise me for I had heard him running, but despite his obvious hurry, he stood on the threshold, blinking, and didn’t come in. The library, I realized then, was lit only by the moonlight coming through the glass wall, and for a human eye, the room would be almost in darkness. The fact that I could see clearly was, I guessed, another side effect of having taken Bécquer’s blood.
While Matt waited at the door, Bécquer came to my side and helped me to my feet. “Sorry, Carla,” he whispered, his fingers pushing back a stray lock of my hair. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
Before I could as much as nod, he had already reached the open door, and was inviting Matt to come inside.
Matt didn’t move. “Where is Federico?” he asked, and there was fear in his voice.
Bécquer pointed at the sofa. “Right there.”
“Is he hurt?”
“No. Why would you think that?”
“My mother … She’s immortal.”
“Yes. I know.”
Bécquer’s voice was even. But Matt’s snapped. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“He didn’t,” Federico said, walking to them. “Your mother stole Bécquer’s blood.”
“You have to find her.”
“I was just going — ”
“To kill her,” Bécquer finished Federico’s sentence.
Matt stared at Federico, eyes open wide with horror. “You can’t kill her. She’s my mother.”
“He won’t,” Bécquer said while Federico glowered at him. “Federico is staying here. To attend to the party,” he added, shooting a warning look at his friend. Then he turned to Matt, “And I won’t harm your mother. You have my word. But you must tell me where she is.”
