He left without saying another word, and all Trina could do was watch as he walked away, her heart even heavier than it was before.
Susan poured Trina another drink and sat back down on the couch across from her. Four empty bottles of merlot stood side by side on the coffee table like a row of dead sentinels, and whether it was from the wine or sheer exhaustion, the tension that had followed them home from the cemetery had finally seemed to dissipate. No one was feeling any pain.
Drumming her fingers on the side of her wine glass, Susan glanced at Louie and winked. “So, you little minx, just when were you planning on letting me and Louie in on your big secret?”
Taken completely off guard, Trina’s eyes flashed in momentary panic. “What secret? What are you talking about?”
Louie smirked. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with his finger on his chin for effect. “Maybe the one about our resident choir mistress getting her pipes cleaned on the sly?”
“What?” Trina sputtered, choking on her wine.
Holding his wine glass by its stem, he swirled the ruby liquid around, eyeing her over the rim of the cut glass. “You know exactly what we’re talking about. We know who he is, honey. Susan never forgets a face—especially when it’s attached to a good tip. She elbowed me the minute he walked up, chirping in my ear like an annoying seagull. But what I want to know is why you didn’t introduce him to us after the service.”
Still coughing, Trina wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. “Louie, please. I love you, but no questions tonight.”
“Not a chance, honey,” he said folding his arms unrepentantly in front of his chest.
Trina caught her breath, then exhaled. “That’s the second time someone’s said that to me tonight,” she mumbled. Both of her friends sat there expectantly, and she couldn’t help but wince. “What? There’s really not much to tell. I met him at the club. We’ve seen each other a couple of times, but that’s all,” she hedged.
Louie blinked. “That’s all? Honey, I could come up with a better story than that even on my worst bad hair day. You go from living like a nun to hooking up with a hottie that can barely tear his eyes from you, and you expect us to let you off the hook with that?” he questioned, cocking one brow.
“Louie, lay off. The poor girl has had a rough week. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to talk about it. Although, I do think it might take her mind off things if she told us a bit more about him…like say, his name, or maybe how they met? And for the record, Louie, when I say us, I really mean me,” Susan said deliberately slanting her eyes toward Trina. “You know, Trin, I’m the one who should be put out considering I saw him first.”
Trina shook her head. “Nice, Susan. Too bad no one ever told you passive-aggressive is an undesirable trait in a friend.” She sighed. “Since I know you two will only nag me till my ears bleed, I might as well tell you. His name is Carlos. We met at the club the same night I threw that redneck asshole up against the mirrors. He witnessed the whole scene, along with everyone else in the gallery that night,” she added dryly.
“Anyway, the two of us fell into talking. It all happened so fast. One minute I’m dealing with a handsy, out-of-town drunk, and the next I have a date. At first, it seemed too good to be true—he seemed too good to be true. It was like Carlos had stepped out of a dream or something. But then it got complicated,” she said wistfully. “You guys know me. Never in a million years would I fall for someone that quickly. But I guess that’s what happens when you let your guard down.” Trina’s voice was soft, but it rang with regret.
“And…?” Louie prompted.
“And nothing. I really can’t get into it, but let’s just say the whole situation gave new meaning to the words extraordinary and ironic. Especially after I found out he knew my great-grandmother.”
“He knew Isabel?” Susan replied her eyes owlish in surprise.
“Yep.”
“Jesus, how? Is he a doctor?”
“No,” Trina answered with a quick shake of her head. “The details are kind of fuzzy. I’m not really sure how they originally met, or how the whole thing came about, but somehow he was there with us at the end. Nanita regained consciousness right before she died and was lucid enough to recognize us both. The strange part is that she seemed overjoyed we had met, like it was some sort of predestined karmic reckoning. She even clasped our hands together and gave us some kind of blessing.”
“Wow. Weird, huh?”
“You have no idea.”
“So are you going to see him again?” Louie asked.
“That’s just it. I don’t know if I want to.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not?” Susan posed. “I mean he’s gorgeous, and based on the wad of cash he threw my way, he’s gotta be loaded. Aren’t you even the slightest bit curious?”
Trina just shrugged. “Of course I am, but like I said, it’s complicated. The situation is much more involved than anything a simple case of curiosity could resolve.”
“I don’t understand. Is he married?”
“No. It’s nothing like that. Let’s just say his lifestyle isn’t exactly one that I’m comfortable with.”
“Oh, please! Comfort is subjective. And whose lifestyle is completely normal, anyway? For that matter, what’s normal? I mean, jeez, take a look at us…take a look at me!” Louie exclaimed, leaving his characteristic sarcasm behind for once.
Trina opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. There was no way in hell she could tell them the truth of the situation.
“Louie, that’s not it at all. You know me better than that. I’m the last person who’d sit in judgment over anyone else’s choices. This is different. I wish I could explain it more and maybe someday I will, but right now you guys are just going to have to trust me on this.”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to pry. You’d never guess just by looking at him that Carlos was some kind of deviant,” Susan said, concerned.
“He’s not a deviant, Susan, he’s just…different.”
“Yeah, well, different is what makes the world go ’round. Take a walk on the wild side for once in your life, Trina, if for no other reason than to find out if that boy is as hot in the sack as he looks!”
Rolling her eyes, Susan pushed herself up from the couch. “And he’s back! Such warmth, Louie. It never ceases to amaze. We’d better go before you really do make Trina’s ears bleed,” she said, and steered him toward the hall.
“Hey, she’s the one with the pornographic dreams, remember?” he said with a sniff.
Laughing, Trina walked them out onto the front porch. “He may have a point,” she said, giving Susan’s shoulders a squeeze. “I don’t know how I would have made it through this week without you guys.” Pulling her sweater tighter around her waist, a shiver passed through her from more than just the crisp night air.
“Call me if you need anything, and remember my door is always open if it gets too creepy being alone around here.” Susan winked.
Louie blew her a kiss from the sidewalk as Susan walked down the steps after him. “Anytime, girlfriend, and all kidding aside, you should give him a call. But in case you don’t, you can always give him my number!”
“Ha! Not a chance!” Blowing them a kiss, she waved, watching the two weave unsteadily down the street until they turned the corner. She closed the door and leaned her head against the heavy hardwood. She was lucky. Friends like that were a blessing, but there was still no way she could let them in on her family’s little secret.
The house seemed so still. She knew it was no quieter than it had been for the past month, no emptier, either. Tonight it just felt that way. Moving into the parlor, she stood just inside the doorway, consciously squelching the urge to pick up the phone and call Carlos. “Thanks a lot, Louie,” she muttered. But regardless of her friend’s advice, the truth was she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind all week.
To keep herself busy, she grabbed a tray and carried the empty win
e bottles and half-empty glasses into the kitchen, piling everything into the sink. Standing there in the dark, she gripped the edge of the stainless steel. What now? She turned, pressing the cool, hard edge of the granite counter into the small of her back. The mahogany steps down the hall were shadowed in the ambient light, beckoning her to go upstairs and lie down. But the last thing she wanted was to face the reminders waiting for her in her room, regardless of her exhaustion.
She hadn’t been home, not even for her own clothes. She had sent Louie to get them, which explained some of the over-the-top outfits she’d been running around in over the past week. Bracing herself, she walked through the darkened hall, and as she made her way upstairs she could almost hear her great-grandmother’s voice telling her to stop being so silly.
She opened the door to her room, expecting an onslaught of memories. But instead of chaos, everything was in its place, including the black velvet box holding her antique mantilla. Someone had known enough to put it back in her jewelry case. Someone. It didn’t take much for her to guess who.
She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed. There was no rhyme or reason to this, no matter how she tried to figure it out. If the myths were true, then Carlos couldn’t have come back. She had told him to get out. That meant one thing—he had sent people to clean up their mess. Shuddering at the thought of strangers in her house, she realized she no longer had a clue as to what was truth and what was fiction come to life.
She tossed her stockings into the hamper, and unzipped the back of her black dress, hanging it on the door with the rest of her dry cleaning. At her dresser, she took off her earrings and the rest of her jewelry. It was then she noticed her great-grandmother’s locket lying on the mirrored tray. Carlos must have left it for her.
One of her oldest memories was of sitting on Nanita’s lap and playing with the delicate gold. Never in a million years did she think something so innocent would hold the key to so much. She opened it, and her eyes met the tiny images inside, their surreal reality blatant and heartbreaking all over again. This time one thing was missing—the key to her great-grandmother’s writing desk.
She searched the floor and the dresser, but it was nowhere to be found. Still in her bra and panties, she flew down the stairs and into the parlor, her mind in a spin. He wouldn’t, would he? Why? Didn’t he say he wanted her to read the diaries?
Trina snapped on the light and sure enough, there was an envelope with her name on it sitting on the beveled edge of the papelera. She tore it open and the key fell into her hand. With shaking hands, she opened the enclosed note. Written in elegant old-world script, she knew it was from Carlos before she even read the first word.
Trina,
I understand how overwhelmed you must feel at the extraordinary revelations to which you now find yourself privy. It is understandable after the shock from this past week that you would want to be alone, but I feel compelled to tell you just how astonished I am to find myself linked with you through such an unprecedented chain of events. Your memories of our time together may be filled with fear and disbelief, but mine are bittersweet…a mixture of unbelievable pleasure, hope, and sadly, regret.
As you read Isabel’s diaries, questions are to be expected. I want to be there to answer them the moment they spark in your mind. That way there will never be any doubt about who and what I am and how I feel about you. There is so much you don’t know…so much you can’t yet comprehend. When you are ready, I will come.
Carlos
Trina sat speechless in the glow of the antique Tiffany lamp. This was monumentally unfair. Hadn’t she just finished convincing herself not to see him again? Carlos might not have known her very long, but it was clear he knew her well. And as for questions—was she really that transparent?
Tears threatened, stinging her eyes. “He’s a vampire, Trina…a vampire,” she repeated to herself. But her words were hollow. His heartfelt honesty ran through her head, clouding her thoughts even as her great-grandmother’s words came back to strike a chord. Don’t be afraid, mi niña, and never be afraid of Carlos.
Trina sniffed, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. Complicated? Yeah, right—can anyone say understatement?
Taking a deep breath, she marshaled her thoughts. The diaries. They were what mattered now, regardless of the muddled mess churning inside her. Reading them, keeping her promise to her great-grandmother—that’s what she was determined to do and all else be damned.
She carefully inserted the tiny key into the archaic lock, silently praying the mechanism would still work after all this time. Holding her breath, she turned the key, listening for the telltale click. She couldn’t help but smile as the tumblers engaged and the door came ajar.
Amid a layer of dust and the scent of antique leather were at least two dozen or so leather-bound journals stacked neatly into the narrow space. Faded dates were scribbled along the spines, the oldest ones barely legible. Trina carefully pulled the bottom volume from the stack and opened the delicate cover. All she could do was stare. Written on the fragile vellum of the first page was the undeniable truth. El Diario de Isabel della Cortes—el año de nuestro Señor, 1740. The Diary of Isabel della Cortes—the year of our Lord, 1740.
Chapter Ten
Pouring herself another cup of tea, Trina climbed into one of the parlor chairs and wrapped a soft woolen throw around her shoulders. Resting her cup on the antique end table, she settled in to continue reading. She marveled at the sense of personal history these journals held, but also at the painstaking work that must have gone into making each handcrafted sheet. She turned the pages almost reverently, afraid they would crumble in her hand if she moved too quickly.
They were yellowed, and on most the ink had faded, but as she ran her fingers over the delicate handwriting she could picture Isabel in her mind, youthful and vibrant, sitting with her quill in hand as she documented the extraordinary.
Between the faded ink and Isabel’s long, looping script, translating her native Spanish was a daunting task. Her chronicle began shortly after she was married, describing in detail the two years it took for her to completely regain her strength, and how Jeffrey had kept his promise to Carlos and cared for her.
As Trina read each of the slender volumes, she could hear Nanita’s voice in her head, her soft accent rhythmic and musical in her mind as she told her story. It was well into the morning as Trina continued to turn page after page, book after book. She was compelled to hear the story through to the end. Without realizing it, she eventually found herself skimming past the mundane accountings of Isabel’s daily life and searching for any mention of Carlos. It wasn’t until she picked up the seventh diary that she found what she didn’t even realize she was looking for.
The 18th of April, the year of our Lord, 1781
Easter is but a week off, yet the air is damp and cold, as I go about the streets of London in preparation of the day. The people here are pleasant, and though they have long since accepted me as one of their own and no longer mind my accented English, I am nonetheless homesick.
Perhaps it is the spring or the want of it in this cold, wet place that makes my heart yearn for the warmth of Spain. It has been years since Jeffrey and I arrived on this rocky shore—just one year after that fateful night when I lost Carlos to the demon that so violently took his life, and in return had him lust for mine.
That night would have forever remained a poignant blur if not for Jeffrey’s accountings. Perhaps that terrible night burns so brightly in my mind because of the recent association with which we now find ourselves graced.
After years of quiet solitude from the nightmare of his time in the service to Sir Robert Mayfair, Jeffrey has once again unwittingly made the acquaintance of a nightwalker. Even as I grant the incontrovertible truth of their existence, a part of me still tries desperately to deny them—even as they move among us cloaked in their inhumanity. The marks Jeffrey and I carry have since faded, but to the elders of their race they remain a
herald of our past encounters.
Oh, rightly, I am sure my beloved Jeffrey would think me uncharitable in my opinions, for this new acquaintance is undeniably a man of genteel grace, and manages somehow to remain a practitioner of human compassion—however inhuman he may be. His name is Dominic De’Lessep, and although he boasts centuries in age and experience, he looks to be no older than we. But then, neither Jeffrey nor I resemble our true ages for almost the same reasons.
While Dominic candidly admits he has in the past been guilty of the same kinds of behaviors we are wont to fear, he has for some reason befriended my dear husband, assuring him he has regained his humanity in the only way left to him—to revere the human race and to seek his sustenance amongst the animals of the field and wood. He believes this is his way to redemption. And although he forces none of this enlightenment on others of his kind, instead leaving each to his own devices, he chuckles over the fact that some of his brethren have found his philosophies novel, even eccentric.
I am loath to admit a fondness for him has managed to find its way past my fears, and so it has come to pass that an unusual comradeship has formed. It was from him that we recently came to learn of Carlos and what became of him. And as I have never held Carlos culpable for his attack on my person, I was thus grateful for the news.
Dominic joined us at nightfall, after our evening repast. And as we sat by the fire I commented on the unusual chill for a Palm Sunday, and spoke of my yearning for the warmer climes. It was at this point that he embarked on an amusing tale about one of his expeditions south. He spoke of a young nightwalker who he encountered during his travels, one so despairing of his nature that he brought himself to near starvation before succumbing to his need for blood. He said he stood by and watched as the man reduced himself to pure need, then ravaged those in his wake, crying with such despondency in the aftermath of his actions that it touched Dominic’s heart.
Dominic went on to say it was obvious the young man was newly born to this existence, and that he wore the marks of one turned against his will. He found himself intrigued by the young one’s struggle against the violence and bloodlust that surely raged through him, for those turned in violence and lust forever lose any connection to their former humanity. My heart bled, for at that moment I somehow knew the young nightwalker of whom he spoke to be none other than Carlos.
The Cursed by Blood Saga Page 62