Blood Rhapsody

by Nancy Morse

  He patted her hand. “There, there. Here, drink this. It will help.” He opened his palm to reveal a small vial.

  She drew back. “What is it?”

  “Just an herbal remedy. Trust me, Prudence. It will help with what I am about to tell you.”

  Trust was something she no longer equated with the male gender except, of course, for her papa. Bad news? She felt the blood drain from her face. “Tell me, Edmund,” she said. “You must tell me.”

  “Drink this first.”

  “No. I don’t want to drink it. I can bear whatever it is you have to say.”

  He sat back in the seat, shaking his head. “Prudence, I’m afraid I must insist, or I can go no further with what I have to tell you.”

  She glanced at the vial in his open palm. It looked familiar to her, yet she could not immediately place where she had seen it, or one like it, before. For several seconds she wavered as panic clutched her. “Oh, give me the thing,” she said at last.

  He pulled the stopper from the vial and handed it to her. She held it to her lips, and hesitated, looking from the vial and up to Edmund’s eager gaze and back again. And then she drank.

  “There,” she said, thrusting the vial back to him. “Now, would you please stop torturing me and tell me what you have learned about Papa’s illness.”

  The vial disappeared back into his coat pocket.

  “Why are you looking at me like that, Edmund? As if—” As if, what? She floundered for the words, but they vanished from her mind. “Oh dear. My head.” Her fingers went up to her temples which had suddenly begun to throb violently. She shut her eyes tightly against the onrush of pain. When she opened them again, the whole world seemed to be spinning out of control. She tried desperately to focus on Edmund, but his face looked distorted. “Wh…what…have you…done?” she said between gasping breaths.

  “No more than you deserve,” he harshly replied.

  “Wh…why…?”

  “What better way to kill a blood-drinking fiend than to bait him with the vile slut he has been fornicating with?” came his seething answer. “How could you?” he said with disgust. “You knew what he was and still you went to him.” His lips curled into a detestable sneer. “I knew the instant I saw him tonight that he is the one I’ve been hunting. Do you know how I knew it was him?” he taunted. “His eyes. Those fiendish eyes. The eyes of a killer.”

  Edmund’s hateful diatribe pierced Pru’s consciousness like a hot iron. “No,” she protested feebly. “He’s not…he’s not…” But her words trailed off into nothingness and darkness swooped down like a bird of prey to snatch her up in its terrible talons and carry her away.

  CHAPTER 15

  There were some good things about being immortal, but at the moment, Nicolae could not think of one of them. He was not even sure when to begin counting his life as having begun, the day he was born or the night he was made. But what difference did it make to one who had lived as long as he had, although living was not exactly how he would have characterized it. Existing was more like it.

  His was a horrible, hungering existence, the pain of which only blood could appease. It was a harsh and lonely thing, bereft of friendships, deprived of the glorious light of day, robbed of the hope of ever having a wife and family. There was no woman to share his bed, only centuries of lifeless corpses from which he had fed. Cold, inanimate bodies with faces as pale as frost and crimson droplets staining their precious necks. If he possessed a sliver of guilt over what he had done to them, it was assuaged by a cavalier notion that they had experienced with him the most fantastic sexual experience of their lives. But killing the whores he bedded did little to calm the growing hunger in his heart, not for blood, nor lust, but for something whose identity eluded him.

  It was ironic, really, that those who sought to destroy him—Edmund de Vere came disgustingly to mind—were after, of all things, his heart. The great seat of life from which blood issued, giving strength and vitality to the body. The destruction of his heart had been the singular goal of the de Veres for centuries, whether through staking, piercing or simply being ripped from his body with merciless, righteous force. But what those damnable de Veres did not know was that his heart had already suffered a fatal blow, and it had been delivered not by a de Vere, but by his own cruel hand.

  Loathing himself for what he could not help being was one thing, but the cruelty he had exhibited last night at the gardens was too much even for him. Prudence was right when she said he was beyond vile. Yes, yes, that’s what he was. Vile and contemptuous and evil to the core. And yet, there lingered somewhere within his wretched self a conscience so deeply buried that he had long ago given it up for dead. The shame he felt for the way he had treated her was surely a symptom of conscience. Wasn’t it? What else could it be?

  The more he contemplated his behavior toward Prudence Hightower, the more baffled he became. He paced the wide-planked floor of the garret room, trying hard to understand why he should feel any twinge of conscience at all. He’d done the noble thing by casting her away, yet the thought of never seeing her again pierced his heart as surely as any hawthorn stake ever could.

  What he felt for her went beyond the desperate need to appease his insatiable lust. It was more than the sexual gratification he derived from her warm and willing body. He was perplexed by it. After all, there had been countless warm, willing bodies through the centuries. When had she transformed from an object of sexual desire to something more? What was this feeling that was so profound he could not attach a name to it and which overwhelmed him with warmth and desire and a sweet benevolence that was too-long absent from his being?

  His feeling for her went beyond amorousness, past silly romanticism and God-awful sentimentality, to a thirst that surpassed the blood thirst to which he was forever doomed. This was no mere infatuation, no casual dalliance, no fanciful longing. This was a raw and naked hunger that spread its heat into every part of his being, infusing his limbs with vibrant energy, his loins with passion like never before and his heart with a desperate, almost physical, ache. Having never experienced this before, it took a while for the realization to fully form in his mind and for his world-weary heart to recognize it for what it was. He stopped pacing abruptly and sucked in his breath.

  Love.

  The awareness stunned him. The thing he had been searching for since that cold, snowy night in the Carpathians and which had eluded him for centuries was now thrust upon him with such violent force that it was almost unbearable. If he could have retched it out of himself, he would have done so, just to be rid of it, so long had he dwelled in a state of malicious uncaring.

  Love was for foolish mortals, not for the undead.

  How had this happened to him? He had no wish to be prey to his feelings. How dare she do this vile thing to him? He hated her for it, for invoking in him a semblance of the humanity that had been wrenched from him and for which he had longed so desperately without success that he had long ago given up any hope of it. He had become accustomed to living without love. He shuddered to think where it would lead. Love led to tolerance, tolerance to understanding, understanding to kindness. And if there was anything he was not, it was kind. He was no knight in shining armor, not he. More like a tarnished angel, fallen from grace, void of human emotion, plagued by the evil that made him, driven by a hunger that defied all logic.

  Whatever memories he had of a mortal life were so far distant to be all but forgotten. Now, all he had to remember it by was the miserable failings of the mortals he saw all around him. How he loathed them, with their beating hearts and sanctimonious souls. He had no wish to be like them, to experience their petty beliefs, to partake in their feeble enjoyments, to grow old and wither and die. He was far superior to them, physically stronger, with youth everlasting and powers they would never comprehend. And yet, here he was, beset by the one emotion that made him a mirror image of the mortals he detested.

  He loathed this new feeling that overwhelmed him. He stormed
around the garret room, his body pulsing with feral grace, cursing and reviling it. Yet try as he might, he could not banish it from his consciousness. The harder he fought it, the more deeply entrenched it became until, at last, weary from fighting, wracked with despair, a slow recognition seeped into his mind . It began like the dawn, hazy and translucent at first, then bursting over the tops of the trees with radiant sunlight such as he had not seen in hundreds of years, bringing forth a new understanding with its blinding light.

  It was his heart’s immortal hunger to be completely known, and in knowing, forgiven.

  He hated Prudence Hightower for exposing this weakness in him. Hated her. But wait. Hatred was not the emotion that haunted him. There was a great roaring in his head. A white hot rage gripped him, piercing his flesh down to the bone. A howl of despair tore from his throat, a lonely, protracted, wolf-like sound that echoed off the walls of the garret room. He did not know how to be human, and yet the most elemental of all human emotions raged within his heart.

  He loved her. God help him. He loved her.

  But why her? Why that little mouse of a woman when there were so many others more beautiful and worldly whose cunning temperaments matched his? Why did it have to be Prudence Hightower, so naive in the art of lovemaking that he’d had to mesmerize her that first night, so good and kind, yes kind, despite the harsh words she flung at him at the gardens?

  If only it had been one of his own kind, someone with whom he could go on his nocturnal hunts and who craved the blood feast as much as he did. If only… But all the ‘if only’s’ in the world meant nothing in the face of what was. And the ‘why’ of it was simple enough to comprehend. In all these long, lonely years of wandering the earth, of hunting and being hunted, of being called the most vile names and accused of the most foul deeds, only she cared enough to see past the hideous façade to the man beneath who suffered for his sins every day of his life. Christ, she even claimed to have seen a true soul in him. And now, he had sent her away, the only true and good thing that had ever happened to him. Gone by his harsh words and for her own good.

  He glanced at the instrument that had brought them together. Its centuries-old paint and gilt glittered in the twilight that whispered through the open window. Damn you, he fumed. If it had not been for you, she never would have come into my life and I would not be here now torn between need and despair. He picked up the nearest thing, a candle stand, and hurled it against the wooden wall with such force that it splintered into a thousand pieces. Next, the chair upon which he sat when he played the instrument, and flung it into the air so high it slammed against the rafters and crashed to the floor. He moved menacingly toward the violoncello and reached for it, but stopped. He could not do it. He could not destroy the last vestige of his sanity, the only thing left that mattered.

  Slowly the room returned to its previous calm. When all was still and his breathing had resumed a normal pitch, he became aware of a banging on the front door. He lifted his head and sniffed the air, but his acute sense of smell detected no hint of who was calling. Was it Prudence? He rushed from the room, his feet not even touching the winding stairs as he flew down them, a sight that would have curdled the blood of any mortal who witnessed it.

  He reached the front door in less than a heartbeat and pulled it open. “Prudence!”

  But it was not her. Standing there in the illumination of a street lamp was a woman whose face he did not recognize.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” she said.

  “Yes?” he growled with harsh impatience. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Gladys, sir. The Hightowers’ maid. My master sent me with this here note.”

  Master, not mistress, he noted with disappointment. “Very well, give it to me.”

  She thrust the note at him and hurried off into the rising fog.

  Expelling a disillusioned sigh, Nicolae closed the door and carried the note to the parlor where a fire was dying in the hearth. His first impulse was to toss it into the embers, wanting nothing more to do with the music master or his daughter. He tapped the note against his palm as he contemplated what to do with it. In the end, curiosity got the better of him.

  Imperative that you come at once.

  Nicolae stared at the note that was signed simply JH. What was so imperative? he wondered. And why was it the music master who was summoning him and not Prudence? Was he going to be chastised for the callous way he had treated her? The sense of urgency the note conveyed hinted of more than a father’s concern for his daughter’s wounded pride and made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

  For several moments his level stare was fixed on the coals, his eyes flashing and glowing like green stones in their glow. He gave a desperate laugh. Did they think he was a servant to be summoned at will? Or worse, a pawn to be moved from square to square at their whim? Somewhere high in the eaves an owl hooted, and far beyond the house his sharp ears picked up the sounds rats scurrying around the wharf. A pawn, he thought dismally, as he snatched his cloak off the back of a chair and swirled it around his shoulders.

  Outside, he paid no heed to the scent of blood on the wind and the age-old hunger gnawing at his belly as his boots struck hard against the cobblestones. A sense of urgency overtook him. Vanity be damned. Spreading his arms wide, he closed his eyes, and with a violent force of will called upon the terrible power of transformation.

  Suddenly, his face began to take on hideous proportions, bulging and contracting and settling into a short conical muzzle. His nose flattened and points sprouted at his ears, and a grayish-brown fur spread over his body that became smaller and smaller until it was no bigger than a man’s fist. In a series of rapid movements, his steps turned into short hops and his cloak took on the rough shape of wings, nasty-looking boney membranes that lifted him aloft and billowed and changed shape with every stroke he took. The moon was rising and the stars were its cold companions as the lord of the night sky winged his way toward the house in Folgate Street.

  ***

  He did not expect the maidservant to answer his knock; her slow, cumbersome human body was no doubt still on its way home. But when no one else came to the door, Nicolae grew suspicious. Casting a sly look around him and seeing no one about, he moved toward the front façade of the house. Hand over hand, fingers spread and claw-like, as nimble as a spider, he scaled the brick to the second floor.

  The window was thrown open, the sheer linen drapery billowed inward by the night breeze. A single candle flickered on the table beside the bed, throwing scant light into the room and the tall eerie shadow of a human form across the wall.

  The music master was seated in a chair beside the bed, his head hanging, chin nearly touching his chest as though asleep. Should I do it? Nicolae thought. Should I grant Prudence’s wish and turn the old man into the undead? It would have been so easy to overpower him, yank his head back to expose the crinkled skin of his neck, and bite, and then drip his own immortal blood into the shocked, gaping mouth. He could feel his eye teeth pressing at his gums, not the little needle-sharp teeth of the bat, but the big, pointy fangs of the wolf, the kind with the strength to rip through skin and muscle. He hadn’t fed yet tonight and imagined the music master’s blood would taste like fine barrel-aged port.

  “You sent for me?”

  At the sound of the deep voice that issued from the shadows, James Hightower’s head snapped up.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Nicolae moved smoothly toward him. “No one answered, so I let myself in.”

  The music master glanced toward the fluttering curtains.

  “I can shut the window if the breeze bothers you.”

  “No,” the old man said with a beleaguered sigh.

  “Your note said it was imperative.”

  A worried expression darted across the old man’s face. “Where is Prudence?”

  Nicolae shrugged. “In her bedroom, I would imagine.”

  “Her bed has not been slept in,” th
e music master said, urgency creeping into his voice. “She did not come home last night.”

  “Are you certain of this?”

  “Quite.”

  “Perhaps she spent the evening with a friend,” Nicolae suggested, but the thought that the friend may have been another man sent a bolt of jealousy ripping through him.

  “My daughter would never do that.” He struggled to rise. “The bed,” he said. “Help me to the bed.”

  Nicolae came forward. He placed his hands around the old man’s shoulders to assist him and was shocked at just how frail he was beneath his bedclothes.

  The music master shivered. “Your hands are so cold.”

  With a roll of his eyes, Nicolae replied, “It is the result of an unfortunate incident when I was a boy.” When the man was settled beneath his covers, he said, “Now, tell me about Prudence. Did you question her aunt?”

  “Yes, of course. Vivienne knows nothing. She says they were separated early in the evening. My sister-in-law is not the most reliable sort, but in this I believe her. Did you see my daughter last night?”

  Nicolae thought back to his confrontation with Prudence and a tremor of guilt passed through him. Was he to blame for her disappearance? Had she run off to nurse her wounds? “Well, yes, I did. After the concert.”

  “How did her behavior seem to you?”

  “I’m not the best judge of that,” Nicolae admitted. “Your daughter has always been a bit short-tempered with me. You have seen it yourself.”

  “That’s because she does not know what to make of you,” James explained. “But if she knew you, really knew you, I am sure her opinion of you would change.”

  Oh, but she does know me, Nicolae thought. Better than anyone else on this earth. And still she hates me. Especially after last night.

  “I’m afraid I may have been the cause of your daughter’s uncharacteristic behavior. After the concert, some unpleasant words passed between us. She was quite angry with me.”