previous evening.
“No,” my reason answered. “I told you I didn’t want to share blood with you.”
“Yes. You told me that before the party. But later you offered it to me.”
“And you refused.”
“And I would not be here begging, if I had accepted it. So, you see, we all make mistakes. I’m no hero, Carla. I want this to be over. But I’m no demon either. I have no devious plan for you afterward.”
The strangest thing of all was that I believed him. I believed he didn’t mean to force me to stay when he didn’t need me any longer. I believed him. It was me I didn’t trust.
I had tasted his blood only once and was already finding it almost impossible to resist its lure. How could I trust myself to give up drinking it after I had taken it for a week? And if I stayed longer as his giver, wouldn’t I end up like Beatriz, wanting its powers so badly I would steal it to become immortal?
“You are not like Beatriz,” Becquer said. He was using his powers to sense my feelings so he could convince me to do his bidding. If I could, wouldn’t I use them too? To anticipate my children’s mistakes? To keep them safe? To be there when they got in trouble, like Becquer had done the day he took Ryan to the ER?
“Beatriz had her agenda, her grandiloquent expectations of saving the world. You wouldn’t steal my blood.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I have had many blood givers. None of the others turned rogue.”
I pushed my chair back.
Every breath hurting as if the air had frozen inside me, I got up. “I’m sorry, Becquer, but I can’t.”
I saw pain in his eyes, a flash of anger, before his features settled into a mask, a beautiful mask of cold disdain. “As you wish.”
Before I could answer, Federico’s deep voice came from behind. “Took forever but here I am.”
He came forward and set a tray with three cups on the table, three espressos black and steaming, while shooting a warning look at Becquer. When he finished, he turned to me, “Carla, you’re not leaving now, are you?”
I nodded, for I didn’t trust my voice would not break were I to speak.
“But you can’t. You mustn’t,” Federico said, blocking my way.
I felt the undercurrent of a silent conversation going on between them and the sense of loss at not being able to hear their minds hurt almost like a physical wound. I had to go, I knew, or I would agree if only to stop that yearning.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” Federico continued. “And this may well be the last time we see each other. I would hate our acquaintance to end like this, in a hurried goodbye. Would you please humor me and take a seat?”
I found myself obeying his soothing voice. For a moment, I wondered whether he was using his charm on me, but rejected the idea. I genuinely liked Federico and wanted to talk with him. Besides, who in her right mind would say no to a chance to be with him?
Federico smiled and, after I moved aside my cold espresso, he handed me a new one.
“Where is my latte?” Becquer asked, his sharp words covering my thanks.
Unperturbed by Becquer’s demanding tone, Federico placed one of the cups in front of him. “You didn’t tell me you wanted a latte.”
“No, I didn’t. You’re right. I didn’t because you didn’t bother to ask.”
Federico sat down. “Gustavo, you don’t drink. So, really what does it matter which kind of coffee I brought you?”
Becquer glared at him. “And that shows how much you know me. I don’t need to drink. That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy drinking coffee. And when I do drink it, I like it with milk. So, I’d really appreciate it if you’d get me a latte. I’d go myself, except you have made it very difficult for me to do anything on my own just now.”
Federico’s eyes glowed red for a moment. Then, he turned and glanced at the counter where the line almost reached the door. When he looked back, his eyes were back to normal. “I’m sorry. But it would take me too long. Would you be so kind as to drink your coffee black just this time?”
“Fine.” Reaching forward, he lifted his cup.
Becquer was right handed, I knew, and, his right arm being in a sling, he was using his left hand. Still, it seemed to me, he was inordinately inept with his left one. Or maybe he was weaker than his relaxed attitude had suggested for his hand was trembling, his movement so shaky, I had to stop myself from leaning forward to help him.
But if Becquer needed help, I reasoned, Federico would have offered it. Federico shrugged when I looked at him, and, grabbing his cup abruptly, drank his coffee in one gulp.
The coffee had been too hot for me to take more than one sip, but Federico didn’t show any sign of distress. Unlike Becquer who, as the rim of the cup touched his lips, winced. In Becquer’s hand the cup trembled, the steaming liquid spilling over his fingers. Becquer swore as the cup slipped from his grip and hit the table, coffee splashing in all directions.
Federico stood and wheeled Becquer chair back. “Really, Becquer. Was that necessary?”
Becquer said nothing, but stared toward the counter while Federico offered him a white handkerchief he had produced from the pocket of his jacket to dry his hand.
I got up to fetch some napkins from the island by the door. When I came back, the girl with the ginger hair who had greeted Becquer before was by his side. The nametag on her black top read Rachel.
I set the napkins on the table and sat down. The napkins were unnecessary for Rachel had already wiped the table with a cloth. She was fussing over Becquer now, while Becquer stared at her, at her cleavage more precisely, for the girl was leaning over him. Visibly upset, she gushed excuses and apologies as if she were the one to blame.
“Are you sure you didn’t burn yourself?” she asked.
Becquer shook his head and smiled at her, with that maddening smile of his that could melt ice.
“Let me see.” She took his left hand in hers. “Oh no!” she said as she examined his fingers. “You did burn yourself. I’ll bring you some ice.”
“That won’t be necessary, Rachel.” He pronounced her name slowly, rolling the R so that he was almost purring. “It is just a small burn. In my circumstances,” he waved his hand slowly to include his broken leg, his arm held in a sling, and the collar brace around his neck, “it does not signify.”
The girl let out a nervous giggle. “May I at least bring you another coffee? Latte, isn’t it?”
Becquer beamed at her. “That would be lovely.”
I followed Rachel with my eyes, frustrated at how much Becquer’s flirting with her bothered me. Without making a conscious decision, I stood again.
“I have to go,” I said to no one in particular and, grabbing my coat from the windowsill, I started for the door.
This time, Federico did not try to stop me, but when I got to the parking lot he was waiting by my car.
“Other door,” he said, pointing at the front of the building. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I came to apologize for Becquer’s behavior and beg you to reconsider his proposal of becoming his blood giver.”
“Did Becquer send you?”
“No. He’s too proud or too stupid to do so. Probably both. But he’s hurting and he needs you, so I came in his stead.”
“You’re wrong. He doesn’t need me. Not anymore. He has found a new giver.”
Federico sighed. “Yes, I guess Rachel would do anything for him at this point.
“But don’t let his shameless flirting mislead you. I don’t think Becquer cares for the girl. He’s probably charming her to cover his hurt at your rejection.”
“Are you saying he’s using her? And you are all right with that?”
“Don’t be so harsh on him, Carla. Becquer was eleven the first time he tasted immortal blood. And although he remained human for many years, I think a part of him stopped growing that day. When he’s upset, he reverts to being that child.”
“To be hurt is not an excuse to hurt others. If he behaves like a child, you should treat him like one. Don’t
