“Thanks,” I said and turned.
Beatriz stood by my side, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes intent on the couple.
“Her name is Sarah,” she said. “She is one of Bécquer’s readers and, as far as I know, his latest lover.”
“Lover?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“No. But I thought he — ”
It wasn’t that he had a lover what surprised me. Federico had made it clear that Bécquer had had many over the years. What surprised me was that, as Bécquer moved to take his seat by the woman’s side, I had seen by the bump her Empire-style gown couldn’t totally conceal that she was pregnant.
“You thought he was the perfect gentleman?” Beatriz finished for me. “Well. Sorry to disappoint you, but he has had many lovers. They don’t last long, though. At the end, he always comes back to me.”
I had disliked Beatriz from the moment I first met her. Just then, I plain hated her. I hated the patronizing innuendo in her voice. I hated the way she pronounced the words with the harsh edge of her foreign background that gave them the opposite meaning. And, even though I didn’t want to admit it, I hated her, because she had confessed to being Bécquer’s constant lover and, although I didn’t care for him, or so I told myself, she seemed to think I did and she had meant to hurt me.
“Bécquer’s personal life is none of my business,” I said. “Why should I care whether he has a lover?”
“Why indeed?”
The sarcasm in her voice grated at my nerves. Especially because her disbelief was justifiable. Even in my ears, the harshness in my voice had belied my words.
I took a deep breath, and turned to go. Once again, my eyes fell on Bécquer and his supposed lover. She was talking and he smiled as she took his hand and set it gently on her protruding belly. I remembered then, what I’d meant to ask before Beatriz interrupted me: not whether the girl and Bécquer were lovers but whether the baby was his. For if Bécquer could have children of his own, why had he gone through the trouble of contacting and befriending Ryan?
“Is the baby his?” I blurted, my desire to know outweighing my profound dislike of Beatriz.
Beatriz laughed. “No. Of course not.” There was contempt in her voice as she added. “So you don’t know?”
“Know what? That he is immortal!”
Beatriz’s grabbed my arm. “What else did Bécquer 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 Bécquer, 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 Bécquer’s voice, the images disappeared, and I was back in the ballroom. But now Bécquer 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 Café Vienna and the people, frozen as they were, could not hear us.
“Enough, Beatriz!” Bécquer 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.”
Bécquer 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.”
Bécquer laughed.
Too stunned to intervene, I had followed their conversation hoping perhaps that Bécquer 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, 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.