Immortal Love

me to go further. I had found them. I had found Becquer, and he didn’t need me, for he was lying with Beatriz in a sofa set against the wall. Becquer, 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 Becquer’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. Becquer’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 Becquer, 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, Becquer struggled to get up. “Let her go,” he whispered.

He reached forward and grabbed her arm. But Beatriz pulled away. “Why?” she screamed as Becquer 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 Becquer 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, Becquer 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 Becquer was not human. Did immortals have a pulse?

Grateful that Becquer’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 Becquer. 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 Becquer.

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 Becquer and set him on the sofa.

“Becquer 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 Becquer. 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 Becquer 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 Becquer’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 Becquer, Federico wrapped it around the wound.

“You should go, Carla,” Federico told me when he finished.

“Go? But you said Becquer 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 Becquer’s lips.

I watched Becquer, looking desperately for some sign of life, for although he had made Beatriz an immortal —

You’re wrong. Becquer’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 Becquer 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!

Becquer 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 Becquer. “You gave Carla your blood?”

“What if I did?”

“Really, Becquer. No wonder Beatriz attacked you.”

“Glad to hear you approve.”

“You knew Beatriz was concerned about Carla taking her place,” Federico continued, ignoring Becquer’s sarcastic retort, “yet you give her your blood. What did you expect?”