Immortal Love

“Know what? That he is immortal!”

Beatriz’s grabbed my arm. “What else did Becquer tell you?”

“Let me go!”

I yanked my arm, but her grip was strong and held. Beatriz pulled me closer, and as her eyes bore into mine, I felt a pressure in my mind, like a migraine about to happen. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure disappeared. But her grip did not.

“You’re protected.” A deep frown creased her forehead. “But how … ?” Her eyes widened. “He gave you his blood,” she finished, her voice dripping contempt. “You pathetic little human. Have you any idea of what you have started?”

Again I felt the pressure in my mind, followed this time by a stream of images, disconnected and confusing, like a movie trailer in fast forward. Images of Becquer, his eyes glowing red, his lips curled into a snarl to reveal his canines, sharp and longer than they should be. Then as his face grew closer, unfocused, I felt the pain of his sharp teeth piercing my neck, followed by a sudden jolt of perfect bliss. By the time he pulled away, his eyes had lost their glow and were just two dark wells of sated desire. There was blood on his lips that his tongue was playfully licking.

“Beatriz!”

Shattered by the harsh intrusion of Becquer’s voice, the images disappeared, and I was back in the ballroom. But now Becquer was before me, holding Beatriz from me.

“You liar!” Beatriz screamed.

The room had grown eerily silent, even the piano had stopped playing, and Beatriz’s voice resonated hollowly against the walls. But when I looked around, expecting to find everybody staring at us, I realized time had stopped, as it had that morning in Cafe Vienna and the people, frozen as they were, could not hear us.

“Enough, Beatriz!” Becquer roared. “You have no right to question me.”

“You told me she was of no importance,” Beatriz yelled back, seemingly impervious to the threat of his tone. “Yet you gave her your blood. When were you going to tell me I was dispensable, before or after your first feed?”

“You’re mistaken. Carla is not to take your place as my blood giver.”

“Isn’t she? Then why? Why have you revealed yourself to her?”

“I owe you no explanation.”

“I won’t go easily, I warn you. I deserve to be made an immortal. You as much as promised.”

Becquer let go of Beatriz and took a step back as if distancing himself from her. “I promised nothing.”

“You never denied it either. You knew it was the only reason I let you feed on me.”

Becquer laughed.

Too stunned to intervene, I had followed their conversation hoping perhaps that Becquer would deny what I had seen in Beatriz’s mind. But he hadn’t. Without a trace of guilt or remorse, he had admitted it was true that he had taken her blood and had laughed at her for expecting to be made an immortal in return.

And so I had to admit that, for all his charm, Becquer 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 Becquer 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. Becquer’s voice, distorted in my mind.

I knew this was Becquer’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 Becquer 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 Cafe Vienna. Becquer’s hand.

Out of nowhere a flash of pain struck me, and the images disappeared.

I opened my eyes. In front of me, Becquer 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.

“Becquer!” I called and reached for him. But I was too late.

A red stain rapidly spreading on the collar of his white shirt, Becquer fell to his knees.

Chapter Eight: Beatriz

I screamed.

I screamed and lunged at Beatriz, who was about to strike the fallen Becquer 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, Becquer 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 Becquer 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 Becquer? Had Beatriz killed him and dragged him outside to dispose of his body? But that was impossible. Becquer 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 Becquer. Angry enough to kill him?

Becquer 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: Becquer 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 Becquer and me. I had to stop her from harming Becquer any further because I believed him. I believed Becquer had not forced Beatriz to give him blood. She had agreed to it willingly. Even if Becquer’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, Becquer’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