Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  His eyes misted over as a pang of longing gripped him, longing for a past that was so far beyond recall it was almost as if it had never happened. Had he really once been just a boy, with a boy’s sense of devilish delight in tormenting his sisters? Had he really stood on the verge of manhood, aspiring to be a man like his father? Had he really grown into a young adult on the threshhold of marriage? Or had he dreamed it all, including the terrible night when it all came crashing down, when the man he had hoped to become had ceased to be, and in his place was this half man-half creature who was doomed to go through eternity nursing bitter memories and a thirst for blood?

  He felt the rancor mounting inside of him as it invariably did whenever he struggled with the past. Why had he come here? To satisfy some wicked whim, he supposed. Well, there she was, the object of his curiosity, seated with her hands folded primly in her lap. He sensed that beneath the demure lashes and shy smiles beat the heart of a demimonde and was equally certain that she herself was unaware of it. What perverse pleasure it would give him to unlock the door to her carnal nature. But he also sensed the presence of a tenacious will, one that would not easily succumb to his preternatural charms. It would require something stronger than unholy charisma to seduce her. And then it came to him. The music. He would win her trust with rhapsodies, her body with preludes, and her blood with the unfinished suite. He suppressed a devious chuckle. The music master would never know that in bestowing upon him the honor of finishing the suite, he had presented him with an even greater gift…his daughter.

  He was about to turn away and leave, when a chill careened unexpectedly down his spine. Oh, how well he knew that feeling. Over the centuries he had trusted it countless times to alert him to danger. There was only one thing on this earth that he stood in dread of, and that was his own destruction, caused not by old age, nor disease, nor even the sunlight. The only thing that could destroy him was a hunter, but not just any hunter. He sensed that a member of the Sanctum was perilously close at hand.

  His gaze moved stealthily about the box, searching the faces in the crowd, seeking out the destroyer. No, not that one. Nor that one. It could only be… Slowly, his scrutiny returned to the man seated beside the music master’s daughter.

  He froze like a wolf in the forest. His green eyes burned with a sulfurous glare, and his lips curled in an elegant snarl, revealing long pointed eyeteeth. One name seared through his brain like a red-hot poker…de Vere.

  What opportunity for vengeance existed in this dark coincidence. It would make having the music master’s daughter all the more sweeter. After she left him this evening he had toyed with the idea of allowing her to live for his own sexual amusement, but in choosing a de Vere to marry she had unwittingly signed her own death warrant. What she saw in the man was beyond him. What would she think if she knew that her betrothed was himself a killer and that he came from a long line of killers? It mattered not. First, he would use her to sate his lust, and then he would use her to lure the destroyer into a trap. He would kill her while the destroyer watched. And then he would put an end to the de Vere line once and for all. He could not take the chance of these two mating and producing more first-born sons to hunt him through the ages. His mind was already at work on its evil plot as he transformed into an ethereal mist and disappeared with only the scarcest rustle of the curtain.

  CHAPTER 3

  Several days passed before Pru summoned the courage to voice her misgivings about Edmund de Vere.

  Storm clouds raced across the sky and streams of rain pelted the windows of the house in Folgate Street. Pru stood at the segmental-arched window watching figures hurry along the cobblestone street below, heads bent against the rain, leaning into the wind.

  Just as the long case clock in the hallway struck the hour, a shapely figure in fluttering silk burst into the room.

  “I cannot imagine why you chose this room as your bedroom when there are perfectly good rooms below,” Vivienne complained, breathless from having climbed the winding stairs to the top floor.

  James Hightower had been assigned the lease as a mortgage on the four-story weaver’s house, chosen for its good light so that his wife could weave without breaking fragile threads and could properly match colors before the broad weaver’s window on the upper floor. It was a typical weaver’s house of simple utilitarian character, faced with stock brick and a narrow stone coping. Unlike the others, however, which were one room deep, this house had a receiving room, dining room and music room on the ground floor, a parlor and bedrooms above. The kitchen was set in the basement where Gladys, the Hightowers’ cheerful, round-faced servant, cooked over an open hearth, sending flavorful aromas upwards throughout the house.

  “Mama loved this room,” Pru said softly as she watched the rain batter the street below. “Her loom was set up before this very window. She used to hum to herself as she was weaving.”

  “Weaving, yes,” Vivienne remarked sourly. “Margaret did have a knack for it even as a child. I would have thought something more befitting a woman of her good looks, but I suppose having a trade came in handy when she chose to marry a man of such meager means.”

  With a pang Pru recalled how, as a child, she would lay for hours on the creaking floorboards beside her mother’s loom, watching her graceful fingers weave the threads into the fabrics that she would later sell to the silkman and the linen-draper. She had been one of the finest silk weavers in Spitalfields. Pru would never forget the time Aunt Vivienne had come to London to visit and had remarked to her sister about the unseemliness of working to support her husband’s paltry income, to which Margaret had responded that it was better to be known as the best at something than the best at nothing. Vivienne had flushed scarlet and stammered something in her own defense, but the truth was, if she did not have the generous settlement of a divorce from a well-to-do gentleman who’d been much addicted to drink, she herself might have been forced to take up weaving to support herself, for in the terms of her bed-to-board divorce there was no provision for remarriage.

  For several moments neither Pru nor Vivienne spoke as Margaret’s memory flooded the room like warm light despite the storm that raged outside.

  Vivienne broke the static silence by announcing, “Brocaded satin, blue to match your eyes, trimmed with Mechlin lace. That would be my choice for your wedding dress. But with the satin at eighteen shillings a yard and the lace at thirteen, your father could never afford such a luxury. I spotted a blue gown at a little shop in Mayfair. It’s not as formal as we would like, but lovely nevertheless. It has an open-fronted bodice that we could fill in with a stomacher, and bell-shaped sleeves caught up at the elbow to show the lace-trimmed sleeves of a shift beneath. It’s not as fine as a gown made to order, of course, but it will have to do.”

  Pru did not fail to notice the same disapproving tone her aunt had used when she had first looked upon Pru’s wardrobe of proper, somber-hued clothes. Now, as then, there was the distinct ring of dissatisfaction. “You’re getting ahead of yourself, Aunt. No date has been set, and…” She paused, uncertain how to break the news. “I’m not sure there’s going to be a wedding.”

  “Really, my dear,” Vivienne said, now clearly annoyed. “I don’t know why you would object to this marriage. I find your young man quite amiable.”

  Drawing a beleaguered sigh, Pru let the curtain slip from her finger and turned away from the window. “Yes, Aunt. Amiable.”

  “Child, now that your mother is gone, it is up to me to guide you. And I tell you this. Amiable may be as good as it gets. Men are, how shall I say it, primitive in their ways, if you take my meaning. They are such creatures of the flesh, wanting what they want, when they want it.”

  Pru’s fair skin colored like a rose.

  “Women are not thought to be the same as men, of course,” Vivienne went on. “We simply require that we be treated with the deference and admiration which is clearly due us. You should consider yourself fortunate that you have found a young man who will treat y
ou with respect and who, I might add, earns a good enough income to forego a dowry. For many men a dowry is the only way in which to set themselves up in business. You are fortunate that your young man is already well established in his trade. Although…” She paused here to ponder, a frown marring her lustrous features. “There is something a little disquieting about him. I cannot quite put my finger on it.”

  “So, you feel is, too,” Pru exclaimed, blue eyes flashing.

  Vivienne waved it off with a graceful gesture. “I’m sure it’s nothing. He was most gracious the other evening at the theatre.”

  “To you, perhaps. He scarcely acknowledged my presence.”

  “Can you blame the poor man, after the row you had with him over your marriage?”

  “I do not require ascending to a pedestal and demanding to be worshipped as some goddess,” Pru asserted. “My mouth is too thin, my nose is too small and my figure is less than statuesque to warrant a man’s adoration.”

  “Nonsense, child. Your eyes are quite lovely, and you have a splendid figure. Men are such fools for an ample bosom.”

  “It’s kind of you to say that, Aunt, but the mirror does not lie and I do not delude myself into thinking that I am anything more than passing fair. But to press my point, I refuse to be dictated to about the event that is sure to be the most important of my life. Have I no say in the matter?” She looked away, doubt troubling her features. “I’m not sure Edmund is the man for me.”

  “My dear, why are you being so obstinate about this?”

  “Perhaps it is because I do not love him.”

  “Ah, love. So that is the problem. Trust me, child, it is far better that you do not love the man you marry.”

  Margaret had spoken about how, in their youth, Vivienne was always on the arm of an affluent new companion, while she’d had eyes only for a penniless music student. Countless lovers to just one. How different the sisters were. “Have you had many lovers, Aunt?” Pru ventured.

  Vivienne’s full lips parted in a smile to reveal flashing white teeth. “Oh yes. Many indeed. But I only truly loved two of them.”

  “And one of them ended in divorce.”

  “Yes, regrettably.”

  “And the other?”

  “It began a long time ago, in the bracken.”

  Pru was not surprised that her aunt had lain with a boy in the woods. There had doubtless been many such boys in her life.

  Vivienne turned away with a remote look in her eyes. “It was a very big mistake.”

  “Then you of all people should understand how I feel about marrying a man I do not love,” Pru said.

  “Honestly, Prudence, to hear you speak of things you cannot know about one would think you had your head in too many playbooks or novels.”

  “Aunt, may I confide in you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have met someone.”

  Vivienne’s annoyance fled as she suppressed a gleeful giggle. “Do tell.”

  “He’s quite handsome, if not a bit pale. I would not guess him to be older than thirty. His features are quite boyish and yet there is something about him that is very, I don’t know, old. It’s in his eyes. There is a sad, haunted quality about them, the kind of expression you see in the eyes of a man for whom the joy of living has disappeared.”

  “Nearing thirty, you say? And not yet married? Now, that could be a problem.”

  “How so?”

  “When a man reaches a certain age and is still unwed, you have to wonder why.”

  “Perhaps he has not yet met the right woman.”

  “Yes, that could be. Hmmm. Young and handsome and unwed.”

  “I can see where you are going with this, but I must tell you, I am not interested in him in that way.”

  “Then why go through such length to describe him to me?”

  “Because it points out to me all the areas in which Edmund is lacking.”

  “What does this man do for a living?”

  “I don’t know much else about him, other than he is a pupil of Papa’s.”

  “A musician? No, no, that will never do. The musicians I have known have all been penniless dreamers. I cautioned your poor mother not to marry James Hightower. Not that your father isn’t a good man,” she hastened to add when she saw Pru’s frown of displeasure. “It’s just that she could have done so much better for herself.”

  “Mama loved Papa very much,” Pru said defensively.

  “Love,” her aunt chided. “Are we back to that again?”

  “I shall not marry for any other reason,” Pru said. “And when the time is right, I will tell Edmund that the engagement is off.” A guilty look shadowed her features. “But first I must break the news to Papa.”

  “Your papa, yes, that reminds me. It’s time for his tonic. I’ll see to him.”

  Pru watched Vivienne sweep from the room, and gave a tremulous smile. When was it she first guessed that the gay, flirtatious woman who had fled to Paris after her divorce had another side? She had witnessed none of it during the year she spent with her aunt in Paris after Margaret’s death. It was soon after they arrived back in London that she discovered her aunt’s spirit could change in an eye blink. There was never any telling what set off her moods. One moment she would be giddy, almost child-like, her face unmarked by the passage of time. In the next, her eyes would grow dull, the youthful appearance would fade, and it seemed as if all joy drained out of her. At times like those was she haunted by memories of lovers lost? Of a beloved sister’s suicide? Was she pining for a companion to match her vigor? Or was the burden of caring for her sister’s husband beginning to weigh upon her? Despite Vivienne’s contrary nature, however, Pru was grateful for her aunt’s presence and assistance, for since her timely arrival, Papa had been growing weaker every day.

  She turned her mind again toward marriage. Her father’s meager income was no secret, so it must be viewed that Edmund’s choice of her as his wife was based more on compatibility than on her father’s long baggs. With many London men opting for the financial benefits of bachelorhood, it was no wonder there was a surplus of females, and as she was fast approaching an age beyond which most girls were married, she supposed she was lucky to have Edmund. Papa was in favor of Edmund for purely practical reasons, knowing that his trade would allow him to marry without the expense of marriage dragging him back down the economic ladder he so patiently climbed as a bachelor. Aunt Vivienne was in favor of the marriage for purely emotional reasons. It was no secret that her gentleman husband had raised his hand to her when filled with too much drink, so to find a man who did not rule with his fist was fortunate indeed. But both Papa and Aunt Vivienne failed to take into account one other reason for marrying…love.

  If only Mama were here to point her in the right direction. Mama could have chosen any of the well-off suitors who came to call on the sisters, but she had chosen the only one she loved. There were times when she would catch Mama and Papa looking at one another as if with some secret understanding and a spark in their eyes that spoke of the passion they shared.

  But what, exactly, was passion? Pru suspected that it went beyond love, to something physical. Never having experienced it, she could only imagine what it must be like, and she wanted it. God help her, she wanted it. There had been only once in her life when she had felt something that could remotely be defined as passion and that was when she had stood in a darkened doorway listening to the most sensual, moving music she’d ever heard.

  Was it the music or the man who stirred such emotion inside of her? Yes, he was handsome, in a rather unconventional way, with something almost hypnotizing about the green eyes that looked old beyond their years. She had sensed a danger about him and, if truth be told, found it a little bit thrilling. What would it be like to be kissed by him? She dared to wonder. Would his kiss be timid and respectful, or would it be fierce and irreverent, like the look in his eyes? Edmund’s respectful kisses failed to stir any response in her. Fierce was something she ha
d never experienced and secretly yearned for. Oh yes, he was unlike any man she knew, the feelings he ignited in her blood unlike any she had experienced ever before. Her pulse pounded at the thought of the kinds of pleasures such a man could teach her. She dared not let her thoughts go that way. Fortunately, the clock in the hallway struck the hour, relieving her of the unrealistic burden of her fantasies.

  She was on her way downstairs to check on the chicken Gladys had roasting on the spit for the evening meal, when there came a rapping at the front door.

  He was standing in the rain, hair tossed by the wind, several dark locks falling rakishly across his brow, his handsome face dotted with raindrops, looking like someone who had lost his way in the storm. Were it not for the startling green eyes, so bright and alert and potent, Pru might not have recognized him.

  Even in his windblown state, he gave the appearance of a perfectly controlled energy, as if not at all affected by the discomfort of the storm. Why, to look at him, one would never have guessed that it was even raining outside.

  “Mr. Tedescu, won’t you please come in?”

  “Thank you, Miss Hightower,” he said with a slight bow.

  As he moved past her into the house, she noticed that the cloak that swung from his shoulders was barely wet. He must have come by carriage, yet she had not heard the sound of carriage wheels on the cobblestones, and glancing up and down the street just before she shut the door, she saw no sign of a carriage anywhere.

  “I thought that after the night on the bridge we could dispense with the formalities,” he said, his mouth curving upwards at the corners. “You had agreed to call me Nicolae.”

  Pru blushed. “Yes, of course.”

  He looked into her eyes. It was, she knew instantly, the kind of look men used on women to induce them to fall into their arms. Not that she’d had much experience in such things. At the age of twenty she’d been courted only once, by Edmund, although she suspected there was more to the courtship ritual than what he exhibited. Yet even she, as unpracticed as she was in the ways of courtship, recognized abject desire in a man’s eyes when she saw it. She was at once flattered, frightened and perplexed by it.