Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  There was one such creature Edmund had sworn an oath to eradicate, but which eluded him. He knew not the creature’s name, nor its beginning, but tales of its crimes were whispered among the Slavic people. He was a clever one, a prolific killer possessing a rare intelligence and an innate sense that seemed to warn him whenever a sanctioned hunter was in the vicinity. He had first come to the attention of the Sanctum two hundred and fifty years ago when Philippe de Vere, Edmund’s ancestor, had been found dead in his study, his body drained of blood by the strigoi mort he’d been hunting. Among Philippe’s handwritten notes was the only clue to the fiend’s identity—the brightest, most beautiful green eyes ever to exert control over a mortal mind. To avenge the gruesome death of Philippe, the destruction of this particular strigoi had become Edmund goal to the point of obsession. Any other such creature that could be obliterated was, but as long as Edmund lived, the green-eyed monster was the object of his singular vendetta.

  Edmund had tracked him from Russia to Bulgaria, Serbia to Poland, and finally to London, where his penchant for feeding on thieves and murderers on the East End seemed to be his calling card. Several times Edmund had stumbled across the victims only hours after they had been drained. He was close, so close to catching the creature that had thus far managed to stay one step ahead of the de Veres through the centuries.

  By day, Edmund de Vere was a pewterer, fashioning sauce boats, chargers and candlesticks for the wealthy, stamping each piece with his own set of crowned initial marks, accumulating a respectable six thousand Pounds at his trade. By night, the amiable tradesman became a predator, as solitary and stealthy as the one he stalked.

  Edmund stared down at his kit. Everything was in order. Stakes, mallet, crucifix, holy water, knives, rope, saw. As he donned his greatcoat and prepared to go hunting, he could not help but think that maybe this would be the night when he would catch the fiend and put an end to his centuries of bloodletting. But first, he would stop in Folgate Street to call upon Prudence. It was time he and his fiancée set a date for their marriage.

  ***

  Lienore ran a tortoise-shell brush through her waist-length hair. It was pretty, but not as striking as her once henna-colored tresses that had been so appropriately like the color of blood. She heaved an involuntary sigh. If only she were able to view her former self in the cheval glass, but the image that used to peer back at her from glistening pools in days of old appeared not in the glass. In its place was the face and form of her current victim. All she had to recall her own startling beauty was an ancient memory of a strong, lovely face. Some things, however, never changed, and for all the centuries that had elapsed since her making she had lost neither her urgent desires nor the vanity that compelled her to choose only the fairest and loveliest hosts in which to dwell.

  The present one suited her vanity quite nicely, with its heavy, full breasts, ample hips and face that turned masculine heads. Not at all like the last, which had been beautiful, yes, but willful, and spiteful to the end, throwing herself from the bridge into the murky river to escape possession. That she had managed to flee the host before it hit the water was luck indeed, but a greater stroke of luck presented itself in this latest host. This one was much more docile and so easily overtaken.

  How many had there been since that fateful night when she’d been standing over the cauldron making earth magic, intoning the words of power, when the Druids dragged her away and sacrificed her blood in that awful ritual? Suddenly, she felt about a thousand years old. Oh Goddess, Mother, why did you forsake me? Why did you not hear my cries that night as I writhed on the stone altar, begging for mercy? Would that I had died a mortal’s death that night than to live as this…this thing that I am.

  Lienore’s face flushed with anger. Her eyes glowed with an unearthly fire as hatred seared upon her heart, as it invariably did when confronted with her fate. Vengeance welled within, and as it did, she grew more ominous, more determined to wreck her menacing havoc on the living. And she would start with that old man. Damn him and his infernal music, and that deep, bellowing instrument that looked like an overripe milkmaid. Oh, how she despised not just his music, but all music for the unbearable memories it conjured of the night that sealed her fate. Until now she had merely toyed with this mortal who called himself the music master, but he was about to experience the full extent of her sinister power and the white-hot rage that propelled her through the ages.

  CHAPTER 2

  Pru waited in the receiving room of the house in Hanover Square. Overhead a brass chandelier suspended from the high ceiling was lit by candles that threw a warm light over the lavish furnishings. Portraits hung about the dark wood walls lighted by candles from below. Ancestors, she supposed, although none bore any resemblance to man she met several nights ago on the bridge. She recalled the smile that looked as if it could melt the coldest heart, and the bright green eyes that had caught and held her gaze more strongly than any man’s ever had. She had sensed something strange emanating from him that night, a dark aura that made her shiver even now. She had guessed him to be twenty-six or seven, or perhaps even a little older, and although he had seemed very mature, his face had borne the rosy flush of youth. Yet for all that, it was the sorrow she saw in his eyes that had softened her guard.

  As she stood there fidgeting from foot to foot, unsure if she should stay or leave, the bittersweet strains of the violoncello began to stream throughout the house. Its anguished tones and sense of profound introspection infiltrated every corner, penetrating her thoughts and drawing her attention away from her unease. The soulful quality of the suite that was being played, full of light and shadow, sorrow and joy, emphasized the instrument’s lower register, a resonant sound that she did not at first fully appreciate, until her ears became adjusted, and then, nothing else seemed important.

  Like a siren’s call, the rhapsody beckoned. It lured her out of the receiving room and through the doors of a smoking room. As she moved across the carpet, she noticed a fine walnut card table with cabriole legs and acanthus carvings on the knees, atop which sat a flask and a half-filled glass of what looked to be dark claret. She followed the music to a sitting room whose open double doors revealed heavy fabric embellished with tassels and bows drawn tight over the tall windows even though the sun had not yet set.

  The music led her up a narrow staircase to the garret floor set in the roof. Finding the door ajar, she tiptoed cautiously closer and peered inside. As below stairs, the large windows were draped with heavy fabric, obliterating the burgeoning twilight. Big white candles cast a faint luminescence across the dusky room and threw flickering shadows over the walls. A soft golden light fell upon the dark locks spilling across the brow of the figure who sat behind the violoncello, head bent and eyes closed.

  Pru felt like an eavesdropper, yet she could not will herself to move from the doorway where she stood listening uninvited to the most beautiful, mystical conversation she had ever heard. In his hands the instrument came alive, singing with a voice as clear and beautiful as any she had heard in a church choir. She had no idea how long she stood there watching and listening from the shadows, for time seemed to have no meaning when wrapped in the rapture of his music. The prayerful, meditative concentration to the piece was perhaps the closest she would ever come to experiencing the soul of this man through his music.

  Her father had been right. This man’s talent was indeed special. With a pale hand he glided the bow across the strings for the final notes. And then, silence, as if the air inside the garret room had absorbed all the beauty it could hold until it could hold no more. He put the bow aside, and with head lowered, eyes still closed, caressed the carved neck of the instrument with the tenderness of a man caressing his lover’s neck. He rose fluidly, removed the endpin upon which the violoncello stood, and carefully placed the instrument in its velvet-lined case, all the while seemingly unaware of the woman who watched from the doorway.

  With the music over, Pru was suddenly ashamed of her intrus
ion. She stood there uncertainly, not knowing what to do. Should she slowly and silently back away and retreat unnoticed downstairs, or should she make her presence known to him and risk his ire? Her dilemma was solved in the next instant when, with his back turned to her, he spoke.

  “Did you like the piece?” It was the same velvety smooth voice she recalled from the bridge, only softer, more melodious, like an instrument itself.

  “I…I…” she stammered. “Yes. Very much.” How long had he known she was there? She prayed the flickering candlelight concealed the blush of embarrassment that flamed her cheeks. “It sounded much like the Prelude from Bach’s Suite Number Five, but different.”

  He turned to her then and arched a dark brow, and asked, “You are familiar with the six suites for unaccompanied violoncello?”

  Nervously, she explained, “I grew up to the music of Bach. I used to creep into my father’s music room and listen to him play. I’m not familiar with the piece you were just playing, though. Is it Bach?”

  “It’s a piece I composed myself.” He beckoned for her to come in.

  As she came tentatively forward, she felt grit beneath her shoes. Glancing to the dark painted wood floor, she noticed a trail of dirt leading from the doorway across the room to the spot where he was standing.

  He strode quickly forward with a panther-like movement and deflected her attention away from the path of soil with a diabolically sweet tone. “I must have tracked that in earlier when I came in from outside. I’ll have my man sweep it up.”

  “Didn’t he tell you I was here?” she asked.

  “He knows not to disturb me when I am playing. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I brought something from my father.” From beneath her cloak she withdrew a scroll. “It’s a manuscript he has been working on for some time. His illness prevents him from finishing it. He said if anyone can do it justice, it is you. He would like you to have it, perhaps to finish it.” Those green eyes were staring with such ravenous intent that her hand trembled as she handed the manuscript to him.

  He took the parchment from her and unfurled it with his pale hands. “But this is brilliant,” he exclaimed, as his eyes flew over the notes penned in black ink. “Your father does me a great honor.”

  She turned to leave, but the melodic rhythm of his voice stopped her. “Will you join me downstairs in the sitting room?”

  She gave a guarded shake of the head. “I must go.”

  He moved between her and the doorway with a motion that seemed effortless, almost as if he were scarcely moving at all. “Is there nothing I can offer you in return for delivering this gift? Some brandy, perhaps?”

  It must have been a trick of the flickering candlelight, Pru thought as she backed away. “No, thank you.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot offer you coffee. I’ve not quite acquired a taste for it, so I don’t keep any in the house. Some tea, then? It’s ruinously expensive, but much more tolerable. My former servant dried the used tea leaves and sold them, a practice he did not think I was aware of. It’s illegal, of course, but…” He waved a pallid hand as if to dismiss the infraction.

  The intensity of his stare was making Pru uncomfortable. She struggled to pull her gaze from his. “I must go,” she repeated. “My fiancé and aunt are waiting for me in the carriage outside. We’re on our way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre.”

  Those handsome green eyes registered surprise. “The Beggar’s Opera? I would not have thought you a fan of that sort of entertainment.”

  “My aunt has a taste for scandal. Have you seen it?”

  “I have indeed. I’ll admit it’s a brilliant satire on life. I was amused to hear that your Sir Robert Walpole was not at all pleased by the depiction of himself and his mistress. Such is the hypocrisy of the esteemed Prime Minister. It’s no secret that after Lady Walpole died he married his mistress, the woman with whom he’s been seen openly in London society for years. She bore him an illegitimate daughter, did she not?”

  Pru’s cheeks colored. Was he purposely trying to provoke a reaction? Smiling shyly, ashamed to admit that it wasn’t only Aunt Vivienne who was intrigued by the tale of the highwayman, the fence’s daughter and the whores who betray him, she departed.

  ***

  The theatre was illuminated by oil lamps that smoked terribly and smelled almost as bad as cheap tallow candles, but neither the audience nor the actors seemed to mind.

  The auditorium seated more than fourteen hundred spectators and was lighted by six overhead chandeliers. The stage, with mirrors on each side, was larger than the one at Drury Lane. The audience this evening was lively, with an occasional riot breaking out in the footman’s gallery.

  Pru sat erect in her seat, her white gloved hands folded demurely in her lap while Edmund and Aunt Vivienne chatted before the curtain went up. At one point, Edmund reached over and laid a hand atop hers. Ever so gently she slid her hand from beneath his under the pretext of removing her gloves. Still smarting over the words they’d had several nights ago on the subject of their upcoming marriage, she was in no mood for his overtures.

  Edmund was adamantly in favor of marriage by license to avoid the publicity of having the banns called in church. She, on the other hand, wished for the normal marriage of the Church of England in which banns were called on three occasions and the ceremony was held in open church. Why he was so opposed to having his name announced in public was, to her consternation, beyond her guess. Furthermore, he had made it clear to her from the start that their evenings together would be infrequent, as he would be otherwise engaged at the working men’s club where he and his fellow tradesmen spent their evenings relaxing, mixing with friends and playing parlor games.

  Parlor games, indeed. When she complained to her father about Edmund’s apparent lack of interest, he had dismissed her misgivings with a frown, advising her not to be impatient, that Edmund was merely taking his time in proceding down the marriage path. And how was that? She wondered. By engaging in socializing when he should have been more intent on getting to know his future bride better? With papa ill, she dared not voice her qualms to him now and risk upsetting him. That Edmund had consented to escort her and Aunt Vivienne to the theatre was only because of the displeasure she had expressed the other evening when he had called on her to discuss the wedding. An attempt to placate her, to be sure. But to what advantage? For since that night she had pondered long and hard over the wisdom of marriage to Edmund de Vere.

  Having been brought up to believe that men like her father, and the one who would eventually be her husband, knew what was best for her, ordinarily, she made no demands, even suppressing her own will for the sake of others. But marriage was too important an undertaking to capitulate to someone else’s will, and her pugnacious response that night had startled not only Edmund, but herself as well.

  At the sound of Edmund’s exasperated sigh when she withdrew her hand from beneath his, a little look of triumph crossed her face. She tried to think of all the ways in which her fiancé thrilled her, and was rather vexed to find that she was unable to name one. His kisses were mild at best, his touch failed to spark a quiver, and his attention always seemed to be focused elsewhere. A sensible marriage, that’s what her papa called it, to a man with a sensible trade. But Pru was tired of being sensible. A lifetime of sensible left room for little else, least of all unrestrained gaiety or, dare she think it, passion. She knew her person was not attractive in the way that Aunt Vivienne was or Mama had been. With the exception of her blue eyes, she more strongly resembled Papa. Inasmuch as vanity was a trait she did not possess, she did not dwell overlong on her lack of physical beauty. But was a plain countenance enough reason to relegate herself to a sensible life for the rest of her days on earth?

  There had been nothing sensible in the music she heard tonight in the house in Hanover Square. She had not thought it possible to be swept away on a wave of such unbridled emotion, to be held in sway by a pair of mesmerizing green eye
s, to tremble to a voice that was so distinctly mellow, or to warm to a smile that looked as if it could melt the iciest heart. How was it possible to be drawn to a man she scarcely knew and yet through whose music she felt she knew more intimately than any other? She suspected something worldly and wicked about him, eliciting new and untapped emotions from within. So compelling was he that she could not chase the thought of him from her mind even as the curtain rose to riotous applause.

  By the end of the first act Pru found herself on the edge of her seat, enthralled by the spectacle. The tall, enigmatic man and his music were all but forgotten. When the curtain came down, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered with excitement. She turned to Edmund, but he was once again engaged in conversation with her aunt. Just then, something made her pause while still on the edge of her seat.

  There was a sudden tension in the air, as if a wick had been lighted and sizzled close by. She thought she detected an uncommonly sweet scent, but when she lifted her head and sniffed the air, all she smelled was the oil lamps and a hint of greasepaint. She slid slowly back in her seat and glanced around, but saw nothing other than the happy faces that shared the box, and heard only the calamatous ring of voices inside the cavernous auditorium. Nevertheless, the hairs at the back of her neck were standing on end and her palms had grown inexplicably moist.

  Behind the seats at the rear of the box, half hidden by the curtain, stood a tall figure unnoticed by the spectators, green eyes scanning the auditorium.

  The small stage and two-tiered auditorium rivaled the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket. Was it possible that thirty-five years had passed since he sat in this theatre for a performance of Love for Love? Or that nearly seventy years ago he had enjoyed a revival of Romeo and Juliet, with the original ending one night and an altenative happy ending the next? Ah, but what was the passage of years to one who had lived for so long?