Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  Afterwards, the crimson and gold threads of the hangings sparkled in the great shafts of evening light that bathed the room. He lay beside her, tracing patterns across her heavy breasts. Lifting his hand to her face he felt a tear tumble down her cheek.

  “You’re crying.”

  Pru turned her face away from him, and said, “You bit me.”

  “Never fear,” he said thickly. “You’re still quite mortal.”

  She rolled away from him.

  “Is there more on your mind?”

  With her back to him, she asked, “Are you able to…to father children?”

  “Well, actually, yes, but it would be ill advised. Any offspring you and I might produce would likely be short-lived and prone to destroying its parents.”

  “Then we must not meet like this again,” she said, sitting up. “I cannot take the chance of, well, you know.”

  “Of bearing the spawn of the devil?” he said bitterly.

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “No, but it’s what you meant.”

  “Nicolae, I have done my best to understand all that you have confided in me. Please try to understand it from my point of view. We cannot meet like this again, and that’s final.”

  “May I remind you that you are to work with me on the music?”

  “Of course. At my home. Where there will be no temptation to—”

  “Devour your lovely flesh.”

  “Oh, do be serious, would you? What would happen to me if I were to bear a child out of wedlock?”

  “I never thought of myself as the marrying kind, but I suppose I could make the supreme sacrifice.”

  “Your humor leaves much to be desired,” she said dryly.

  He spread his hands innocently. “It was not intended as a jest.”

  “Be that as it may, if it were ever discovered that I had married a…a…what did you call yourself?”

  “A vampire.”

  “…a vampire and bore his child, I’d be locked away in Bedlam. I much prefer my home in Folgate Street than Finsbury Square, thank you.”

  “You could do worse,” he said indignantly. “May I remind you of your former fiancé?”

  “There’s one more thing,” she said.

  Nicolae rolled his eyes. “More demands?”

  “No. A question.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear it.”

  She ignored the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “We had a bargain. If I came to you of my own free will, you were going to help my father. By what means would you do so?”

  He smiled—that familiar cruel smile she’d come to know so well. “By what means do you think?”

  Pru bit her lip. “You would turn him into a…” She was almost afraid to utter the word. “…vampire?”

  He replied simply, “There is no other way.”

  Her fingers touched the place on her neck where his sharp teeth had pricked the skin. “Would there be any pain?”

  “Some, but only at first.”

  “Would he have to kill to survive?”

  “Not necessarily. He could drain a victim just enough to get the sustenance he needed.”

  “But you kill.”

  In the pale moonlight that came in through the window she saw the sulfurous glare in his eyes. “To avenge the despicable act that was perpetrated on my family,” he said vehemently. “To punish the world for the vile place it is. To remind myself of the sickening thing that I am.”

  To punish the world or to punish himself? Pru wondered as she turned away from him. After everything she had learned about him tonight, she wondered also if she would she ever really understand him. She shook her head. “If I were to agree to such a thing, would it be wise to tell him?”

  “I cannot make that decision for you. If you tell him and he declines, he will die.”

  She shivered at the biting reality in his tone. “You said there are others like you. Are they all as callous and cold as you are?”

  “Some are worse. Some do not feed on blood at all. There’s one in particular who carries an ancient hatred in her heart.”

  “Was she made in the same way you were made?”

  “No, it was very different. For the Celts of ancient Ireland, Beltain marked the time when the Sun God returned to Mother Earth. Basically, it was the beginning of the summer season, when the herds of livestock were driven out to the pastoral pastures. It was three days of feasting and celebrating his union with the Mother Goddess, marked by young girls dancing with abandon at the feast and laying down beside the fires with men they did not know. Lienore, that was her name, was caught laying in the bracken with a lover during Beltain, but her lover was not a young man. It was another woman. The Druids accused her of being a witch, which of course she was, and sacrified her in a blood ritual.”

  “How gruesome,” Pru remarked.

  “Not nearly as gruesome as the hatred she has perpetrated through the ages. If you think I am an aberration of nature, she is worse, much, much worse. She exudes the innocence of a child, but she harbors a ruthless guile that has brought destruction to countless unsuspecting mortals.”

  “If she is so evil, why hasn’t anyone destroyed her? Lopped off her head or run a stake through her heart?”

  “Because she is spirit. To form flesh and bone she must inhabit the body of a living human being. She flits from one host to another, always choosing the most comely, from what I am told, such a vain little thing she is. It’s generally not known that she has even been there until it’s too late. She drains her victims of their life force and then discards the host like a petulant child, leaving the victim and the host as dead as can be. I would love nothing more than to lop off her pretty head, as you so elegantly put it, but I have no idea what she looks like.”

  Pru looked at his strange, unearthly beauty in the swaying light, and shivered. “I want to go home now.”

  He got up from the bed and straightened his trousers. “I’ll take you.”

  She looked at him dubiously. “Are we going to fly, or something?”

  It was not meant as a joke and she was surprised by his sudden burst of laughter.

  “Flying would arouse too much attention, don’t you agree? I think it’s best if I have the carriage brought around.”

  CHAPTER 12

  “How are the lessons going, Pruddy?”

  She raised her eyes from the book in her lap at the sound of her father’s pet name for her, so unlike Nicolae’s formal pronunciation. Laying the book aside she got up and went to him. “Quite well,” she said as she straightened the covers around him. “It’s hard to imagine that he can get any better than he already is.”

  “Our young friend’s talent is reminiscent of my own when I was his age.” He turned his head away and stared pensively at the window across the room.

  “Would like me to ring for some tea, Papa?” she asked, hoping to draw him out of his quiet remembering.

  “Tea? No.”

  “Would you like—?”

  “What I would like,” he said suddenly, struggling to rise to his elbows, “is to get out of this bed. Look at it out there, Pruddy. Spring is upon us, and here I lay, unable to do anything. What I would like,” he repeated, “is to walk in the garden. To resume lessons with my students. To play my instrument again.” This last part uttered with an exertion that took his breath away. He slumped back against his pillow, weakened even further by his effort. “If only there was a way. If only…”

  Pru turned from her papa’s tortured expression and went to stand before the window. Spring was indeed in the air. The trees were sporting new growth, the leaves sparkling like bright shiny emeralds in the rare and scattered sunlight, reminding her of a certain pair of mesmerizing green eyes. The mornings and evenings were still cool, like the touch of his hand across her flesh. But the afternoon breeze carried the promise of warmth, like that which flooded her being at the thought of him.

  Was there no path her thoughts could take that did not lead t
o Nicolae? Her heart ached with doubt and confusion. More than her own selfish pleasures, the thought never left her mind that he could take away her papa’s illness and make him whole again. That he could wipe the pallor from his face and restore strength to his weakened limbs. That he could give her papa the thing he wanted most, to play his beloved violoncello once again.

  Gazing out the window at the burgeoning spring, she ventured, “Papa, if you could live forever, would you choose to do so?”

  From the bed came a deep inhalation and a slow, weak exhale of breath. “What have you been reading to put such a thought in your mind?”

  “Only Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe,” she answered, returning to his bedside. “No, Papa, I mean it. If immortality were offered to you, as a gift, say, would you take it?”

  He lifted his head a bit. “If immortality were offered to me, it would come as a gift from Satan, and I shudder to think at what price. Although…” He paused for a moment, and confessed, “I must admit, the temptation would be great indeed to accept.”

  She had hoped for something a trifle more definitive which would have enabled her to make a decision on what to do. “What if it were to come from me,” she said, “and it could make you well again?”

  “Only God can make me well, and it appears to be in His plan that my mortal soul should soon join Him. But, Pruddy,” he said, smiling kindly, “you’re a good girl to wish such a thing for your poor ailing papa.”

  No, Papa, she wanted to cry, I’m not good. I’ve done things with a man, scandalous things that would break your heart if only you knew. And I do hold in my hand the power to give you your life back, but to do that it would mean taking your life. Oh, Papa, I don’t fully understand it, but I do know that one word from me and it would be done.

  “What is it, my dear girl? What troubles you so?” He laid his hand over hers and gave it a fatherly pat.

  On his first visit after revealing his shocking tale, Nicolae had sworn her to secrecy and she had obliged him with her solemn oath that she would not breathe a word of what he had told her to anyone. How could she tell Papa what was wrong without betraying a confidence? Besides, he would never believe it. Who knew? Maybe she was a fool herself for believing it. She was wicked and weak, a prisoner of her own desires. Was she to add gullible to her list of shortcomings, as well?

  Each passing day she moved further away from the person she had been until she scarcely recognized herself. Even the reflection she saw of herself in the mirror looked somehow different. The features were the same, and yet they bore a maturity that hadn’t been there just a few short weeks ago. The eyes that stared back at her were just as round and just as blue, yet there seemed to be a perception in their depths, a knowingness that she had never noticed before. Upon close examination her body appeared to be the same, but a flush rose easily to her skin and her breasts fairly tingled with excitement, straining at the bodice of her dress for the caress of a familiar cold hand. She wished she could go back in time and reverse all that had happened since the night she had heard Nicolae playing in the garret room and a series of events had been set in motion that would change her life forever. Yet if she could, she would never have known the shameful pleasures he had unleashed in her. In all probability, she would have consigned herself to a joyless, passionless future as Mrs. Edmund de Vere.

  “Will he be ready for Vauxhall Gardens?”

  Papa’s tired voice drew Pru away from her perilous thoughts. “He’s ready now, if you ask me. But what do you think? I know you can hear him playing from here. You cannot pretend to be asleep and not hear it.”

  “If I pretend to be asleep, it’s only so that your aunt will not trouble me with her meddlesome presence.”

  “Well, you needn’t worry about Aunt Vivienne. She has taken a distinct dislike to Nicolae and manages to absent herself when she knows he will be here.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Pru shrugged. “In her room, I suspect. I heard her come in last night just as the clock was chiming the midnight hour. She’s probably still asleep.”

  “Is he coming tonight?”

  “Yes,” she replied with a note of despair as she headed for the door. “While I’m getting the music room ready, why don’t you try to get some sleep? If you’re feeling up to it, perhaps you can join us tonight.”

  He nodded listlessly and closed his eyes.

  Downstairs, Pru tidied the music room, placing the sheet music on the stand before the chair, just to the side the way Nicolae preferred it. He was already well prepared for the concert in one week’s time, and she suspected that his visits now were about more than just the music. Although nothing further had been mentioned about her joining him in immortality, the way his eyes sought hers and the urgent expectation mirrored in their green depths told her it was still very much in his mind. Good God, what must he have been thinking to ask such a thing? Oh, she supposed if she was totally besotted with him, she might have actually given it a second thought. But the dismal fact remained, she was not in love with him.

  What she felt for him was more difficult to explain. She craved his touch, his body inside of hers, the dizzying heights to which he brought her. She was swept away by the music he created, even more so now that she understood from whence came the despair she heard in the sorrowful notes. That she was attracted to him was undeniable. What woman would not be drawn to those boyish features and magnificent eyes?

  Given the transitory nature of human life, she was forced to admit that the idea of living forever did have a certain appeal. Creatures such as he cheated death, albeit at the dreadful price of subsisting on blood. The very thought of that sent chills down her spine. But it was, she supposed, an ironic victory compared to the slow, lingering deaths awaiting some mortals, like Papa she thought with anguish. Nevertheless, it would be sheer folly to think she might have a future with such a man. She would grow old and infirm and he would remain as he was now, young, robust and beautiful. In time he would come to resent her, not just as the young sometimes do of the old, but because she represented what he was not and never would be, mortal, and possessed something he did not have, a soul.

  She could not fathom how it was possible to have no soul. If he was truly dead, as he described it to her, would not his soul have lingered? A line from scriptures came to her mind. “Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.” Were the spirit and the soul one and the same? Was not the soul the life force which ended in death and was restored in the resurrection? Papa would know of such things, but she could not very well ask him without arousing his astute suspicion. And besides, he was far too ill to trouble with her foolish wonderings. She doubted Aunt Vivienne had given it any thought at all. Perhaps the Anglican priest who had given the sermon at her mother’s funeral could explain it to her. But there was more at stake here than just a lost soul, and she dared not reveal as much to a priest and risk excommunication. To be excluded from the communion of the faithful, to be unable to participate in church activities or to receive the sacraments would be akin to the damnation to which Nicolae was eternally committed.

  And then she remembered something he had said the night he revealed to her that he had no soul and she had asked with incredulity how such a thing could be. His angry words came back to her now. How the hell should I know? Go ask an alchemist.

  Yes, an alchemist. That was it.

  With this thought in mind she removed her papa’s violoncello from its case, positioned the end pin at the bottom and set it on its stand, then withdrew the bow and laid it across the seat of the hardbacked chair, all the while her mind working feverishly to plot her course of action. Where was she going to find an alchemist? It dawned on her that Edmund had mentioned he often bartered lead for finished flagons with an alchemist. Her pulse began to race. More than the answer to Nicolae’s dilemma of a lost soul was the possibility she had never considered that an alchemist might provide an elixir for poor Papa.


  She searched her brain, trying hard to recall if Edmund had ever mentioned the alchemist’s name or where he lived. No, she was sure he had not. Her pulse raced with uncertainty. She had neither seen nor heard from Edmund since the day she had gone to his shop to tell him that she was calling off their bethrothal. If he had any regret over it, he might have shown up at her house and asked her to reconsider, but he hadn’t, leading Pru to conclude that, despite the anger and bad manners he had displayed that afternoon, he was no longer troubled by it. Was he approachable now? There was only one way to find out. She grabbed her cloak and rushed from the house.

  ***

  “No, miss, he ain’t in today,” the young apprentice answered when Pru arrived at the shop and asked to see Edmund.

  “I see.” It was just as well. If the need arose, she would have used Papa as an excuse for asking about the alchemist, but she had no wish to see Edmund, after all.

  She hesitated, and peered up at him from beneath the brim of her bonnet. “May I ask, do you know of the alchemist with whom he barters?”

  “That queer chap over in Clapham? Oh sure. Name’s Cavendish. That bloke gives me the creeps, with those beady little eyes and pinched face, always lookin’ like he’s been suckin’ on a lemon.”

  Pru had seen that face, here, in this very shop. He’d been on his way in as she’d been on her way out. “Thank you, sir, you’ve been very kind.”

  “Aye, miss. I’ll tell the master you was here.”

  “Oh no, please don’t. I’d rather keep this just between us.” She offered her sweetest smile but no further explanation.

  The boy looked into her bright blue eyes and his freckled face broke into a smile. “Oh, don’t worry none, miss, I won’t tell him.”