I called to Madison to open the door while I put on my earrings and struggled with the clasp on my necklace.
Downstairs, I could hear a male voice pronouncing my name with a Spanish accent that mimicked mine.
“Mom,” Madison called as I left my room. Without inviting the man inside, she climbed the stairs. “I told you it was a costume party,” she whispered when she reached me.
I looked over her shoulder at the man framed in the doorway. He was dressed in an ivory suit that would have been in fashion a century before. Yet, by the easy way he carried it off, the jacket open, revealing a white shirt with the two first buttons undone, and a red handkerchief loosely tied around his neck, I knew it was not a costume. I also knew, by the wide smile spread across his face, he had heard Madison’s comment.
I smiled back at him. Apologizing would have made the situation even more awkward. Instead, I offered him my hand.
“I’m Carla, and you must be Matt.”
He was handsome, I noticed, with black hair and dark sensitive eyes that stared openly at me.
“Federico, actually,” he said and took my hand.
I looked at him with renewed interest. Federico. The friend Becquer didn’t want to pick up. The one who didn’t want to rent a car.
Federico took a step back. “Shall we?”
In the dim light of the only lamp outside, I noticed a reddish glow in his eyes, a reddish glow that could only mean he was an immortal.
I stopped. Why had I agreed to go to this party? What if immortals fed on human blood like the vampires of lore and the party was Becquer’s excuse to lure me to his house?
But that was absurd. Becquer had given me his word that he would not harm me. Besides he needed me alive if I was to write for him. And I would not be the only human there. He had invited other authors “who didn’t know of his condition,” as he had put it. Other authors who had been his clients for years — I had checked — and who were still very much alive. And Beatriz, his secretary, was human too and would be at the party as well. Although this last fact was not reassuring. The hate in her eyes when leaving Cafe Vienna had been unmistakable. Beatriz would not help me if her boss decided to drink my blood.
I hesitated at the unsetting thought and considered excusing myself. But when I met Federico’s eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Besides, I needed to see Becquer. I needed to ask him why and when he had given his business card to Ryan. So I nodded, put on my coat, and followed Federico into the gathering dusk.
“I really appreciate your picking me up,” I told him as we reached the silver Mercedes parked by the curb.
“My pleasure,” he said opening the passenger seat for me. “Actually, I’m in your debt. Becquer and Beatriz were arguing and I was glad to have an excuse to leave the house.”
“Why were they arguing?” I asked him after we joined the traffic.
Federico stole a quick glance at me, as if wondering how much I knew, then shrugged. “The usual,” he said. Without warning he switched to Spanish, his words flowing fast, in the clipped pattern of Southern Spain. “As far as I can tell, she didn’t want Becquer to represent your work.”
“Why not?”
“I wouldn’t be offended if I were you,” he continued, without answering my question. “On the contrary. Beatriz has no literary talent. Yet she has taken it upon herself to save humanity. Through books. She believes only philosophy treatises should be published, and literary books dealing with the human condition. You know the ones where nothing happens and the authors are so much in love with their own writing, they forget to tell a story. I don’t understand why Becquer has put up with her this long.”
“You don’t like her much.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“That wasn’t my impression. This morning, she convinced Becquer to go to the airport to pick you up.”
He braked sharply and swerved off the road, bringing the car to a halt on the dirt shoulder.
“Becquer didn’t want to go?”
“He … he had things to do and — ”
“Things to do. Like what? Decorating the house? I haven’t seen him in a year, and he needs convincing?”
His voice rose as he spoke so that by now he was shouting.
I looked ahead at the trees caught in the headlights and waited for his anger to pass. When he spoke again, he sounded subdued.
“What else did he say about me?” he asked.
“Nothing. Really. He left right after Beatriz came. Well, not after she came. First, he stopped time for us so she wouldn’t interfere with my signing the contract.”
“He stopped time? So you know? You know what — who he is?”
I nodded.
“What about me? Did he tell you who I am?”
“No, he didn’t mention it.”
“Of course not. I’m not important enough. For two decades we were lovers. And what am I to him now? An inconvenience when I come to visit, an errand to add to his list of things to do before his guests arrive.”
I gasped. Lovers? Becquer and Federico were — had been lovers?
Federico was not looking at me, but straight ahead, his hands grabbing the wheel with such intensity it broke loose. He stared at it for a moment as if puzzled, then opening the door, threw it against the darkness. His eyes flaring red, he turned to me.
I stood still, eerily aware I was sitting next to a man who was not human and that, for all his gentle appearance, could break my neck without even trying. As he had the wheel.
I had to leave. Now.
My hand trembling uncontrollably, I reached for the door.
“Don’t.” Federico’s arm flashed in front of me and grabbed my hand.
“Please, don’t,” he repeated, his voice softer now, apologetic. “Becquer might forgive me for breaking his car. Or for failing to drive you to the party. But if I do both, he will kill me for sure.”
I frowned, surprised at his self-deprecating tone. “I thought you were immortal.”
“I’m sure he would find a way,” Federico said, releasing my hand. “His ingenuity to cause me pain knows no limit.”
“You love him.”
I regretted my words the moment I said them for I was afraid my inappropriate comment would throw him into another fit of anger. But Federico didn’t seem to hear. He was staring at the gaping hole in the dashboard where the wheel used to be as if willing another one to appear.
“Becquer is right,” he said after a moment. “I do overreact sometimes.”
He sounded so defeated I felt sorry for him. Becquer was charming, I had to admit. It was not difficult for me to imagine falling for him and the pain at his rejection.
“Not at all,” I agreed to keep him calm. “Your reaction was understandable given the circumstances. He should have offered to pick you up.”
“You think?”
When I nodded, he added wistfully, “Let’s hope Becquer agrees with you when I tell him.”
I waited for him to produce a phone and call Becquer to ask him to give us a ride. Although it wasn’t cold outside, I was not looking forward to walking in my too tight black dress and fancy shoes. But Federico didn’t move and when, after digging into my handbag, I offered him mine, he shook his head.
“That won’t be necessary. Becquer just told me Matt is coming.”
“He told you? But how? You didn’t … ” I waved my phone at him.
Federico shrugged. “I don’t need a phone to talk with Becquer when we are this close.”
“You can read his mind?”
