Immortal Love

by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

  “Quite so.”

  “You should have told me. I would have gone to see you during the week. You didn’t have to stress yourself by coming here.”

  “Nonsense.” Richard waved his hand to encompass the room. “I couldn’t possibly miss your party.”

  “Let’s get you a seat.”

  As Bécquer spoke, a couple sharing the sofa further along the wall got up.

  A coincidence perhaps. Perhaps not, I thought as I remembered Federico’s conviction that Bécquer manipulated minds.

  I do not. Again Bécquer’s voice was in my head as clear as if he had spoken aloud.

  I glowered at him. Stop it.

  Bécquer raised an eyebrow. Why? It’s quicker and precludes misunderstandings. Besides I like being in your mind.

  I mean it.

  He shrugged and continued his conversation with Richard, a conversation he had managed to maintain even while we were engaged in our silent one.

  When we reached the sofa and, after he had helped Richard to sit and asked me what I wanted to drink, Bécquer excused himself and disappeared into the crowd.

  “Charming, isn’t he?” Richard said, the longing so strong in his mind that it flooded mine. “You’re lucky he’s your agent.”

  “Indeed,” I said, somehow insulted at the implication that it would be Bécquer’s charisma and not the strength of my writing what would get me a contract.

  I felt confusion in his mind, then embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it that way,” he rushed to apologize. “I respect Bécquer’s judgment tremendously. If he has signed you, you must be seriously talented.”

  I laughed. His overuse of qualifiers reminded me of Madison, who couldn’t leave a noun alone or use one adverb when she could use two.

  “Seriously.” I smiled. “I’m guessing, by your words, that, contrary to Bécquer’s belief, you’ve not read my manuscript.”

  His fingers tapping nervously on his glass betrayed his embarrassment. “I may have given him that impression in my last e-mail. I promise I will read it as soon as I get home.”

  “Any time in the next four months would be all right,” I teased him, to put him at ease, for I could sense how much he would hate Bécquer to catch his lie. “Querying is a long process. I’ve learned to be patient.”

  “A week only. And that is a promise.”

  “A week?” Bécquer repeated joining us.

  “For my contract,” I joked.

  Bécquer passed me the glass of Riesling I had requested and raised his. “I’ll drink to that,” he said.

  And we all drank.

  Another of Bécquer’s authors stopped by soon afterward, eager to share with Mr. Malick an idea she had just had for a horror story. She seemed surprised because she hated the genre, she explained, and all her novels so far had been realistic fiction. Bécquer encouraged her and used her presence to excuse himself and take me with him.

  “You gave her the ‘idea,’” I told Bécquer once we were far enough for them not to hear.

  “And why would I do that?” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “To be with you?”

  “Certainly not. I — ”

  “Actually I did,” he said setting his glass — still full, I noticed — on the tray of one of the waiters passing by. “I wanted you to meet other people, and didn’t want to leave him alone. Is that a crime?”

  I didn’t argue.

  Over the following hour or so, I met many of Bécquer’s authors, and several editors who requested my manuscript. Bécquer came and went freely. But whether he was there or not, the conversations flew with ease, driven by a common love of books and writing, and my enhanced ability to sense people’s emotions.

  It was a strange feeling being able to do so. Disturbing, yet exhilarating, for knowing how people felt, I soon realized, gave me power over them. I found it increasingly difficult, as the evening wore on, not to use it to my advantage.

  Apparently, Beatriz had been successful in asking Sheryl to perform, because she had been playing for some time now. Her choices, classical piano pieces, Chopin and Beethoven mainly, blended with the discussions, never too loud to cover the voices, yet audible enough to fill awkward silences.

  After each piece, all conversation ceased as a round of applause recognized her efforts, and provided an excuse, if needed, for the guests to part and regroup. I had just taken advantage of one of those breaks to take my leave from my last partner — a mystery writer I had always admired, but who, in person, had turned out to be most boring — when I spotted Bécquer.

  He was helping a young woman to one of the sofas. His gesture, paternalistic and condescending as it was, was also annoyingly touching.

  Bécquer looked up and his eyes met mine over the tiara the woman wore with the easy grace of a young queen. Embarrassed at being caught watching, I stumbled back and hit somebody.

  A firm hand steadied me.

  “Thanks,” I said and turned.

  Beatriz stood by my side, a glass of red wine in her hand, her eyes intent on the couple.

  “Her name is Sarah,” she said. “She is one of Bécquer’s readers and, as far as I know, his latest lover.”

  “Lover?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “No. But I thought he — ”

  It wasn’t that he had a lover what surprised me. Federico had made it clear that Bécquer had had many over the years. What surprised me was that, as Bécquer moved to take his seat by the woman’s side, I had seen by the bump her Empire-style gown couldn’t totally conceal that she was pregnant.

  “You thought he was the perfect gentleman?” Beatriz finished for me. “Well. Sorry to disappoint you, but he has had many lovers. They don’t last long, though. At the end, he always comes back to me.”

  I had disliked Beatriz from the moment I first met her. Just then, I plain hated her. I hated the patronizing innuendo in her voice. I hated the way she pronounced the words with the harsh edge of her foreign background that gave them the opposite meaning. And, even though I didn’t want to admit it, I hated her, because she had confessed to being Bécquer’s constant lover and, although I didn’t care for him, or so I told myself, she seemed to think I did and she had meant to hurt me.

  “Bécquer’s personal life is none of my business,” I said. “Why should I care whether he has a lover?”

  “Why indeed?”

  The sarcasm in her voice grated at my nerves. Especially because her disbelief was justifiable. Even in my ears, the harshness in my voice had belied my words.

  I took a deep breath, and turned to go. Once again, my eyes fell on Bécquer and his supposed lover. She was talking and he smiled as she took his hand and set it gently on her protruding belly. I remembered then, what I’d meant to ask before Beatriz interrupted me: not whether the girl and Bécquer were lovers but whether the baby was his. For if Bécquer could have children of his own, why had he gone through the trouble of contacting and befriending Ryan?

  “Is the baby his?” I blurted, my desire to know outweighing my profound dislike of Beatriz.

  Beatriz laughed. “No. Of course not.” There was contempt in her voice as she added. “So you don’t know?”

  “Know what? That he is immortal!”

  Beatriz’s grabbed my arm. “What else did Bécquer tell you?”

  “Let me go!”

  I yanked my arm, but her grip was strong and held. Beatriz pulled me closer, and as her eyes bore into mine, I felt a pressure in my mind, like a migraine about to happen. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pressure disappeared. But her grip did not.

  “You’re protected.” A deep frown creased her forehead. “But how … ?” Her eyes widened. “He gave you his blood,” she finished, her voice dripping contempt. “You pathetic little human. Have you any idea of what you have started?”

  Again I felt the pressure in my mind, followed this time by a stream of images, disconnected and confusing, like a movie trailer in fast forward. Images of Bécquer, his eyes
glowing red, his lips curled into a snarl to reveal his canines, sharp and longer than they should be. Then as his face grew closer, unfocused, I felt the pain of his sharp teeth piercing my neck, followed by a sudden jolt of perfect bliss. By the time he pulled away, his eyes had lost their glow and were just two dark wells of sated desire. There was blood on his lips that his tongue was playfully licking.

  “Beatriz!”

  Shattered by the harsh intrusion of Bécquer’s voice, the images disappeared, and I was back in the ballroom. But now Bécquer was before me, holding Beatriz from me.

  “You liar!” Beatriz screamed.

  The room had grown eerily silent, even the piano had stopped playing, and Beatriz’s voice resonated hollowly against the walls. But when I looked around, expecting to find everybody staring at us, I realized time had stopped, as it had that morning in Café Vienna and the people, frozen as they were, could not hear us.

  “Enough, Beatriz!” Bécquer roared. “You have no right to question me.”

  “You told me she was of no importance,” Beatriz yelled back, seemingly impervious to the threat of his tone. “Yet you gave her your blood. When were you going to tell me I was dispensable, before or after your first feed?”

  “You’re mistaken. Carla is not to take your place as my blood giver.”

  “Isn’t she? Then why? Why have you revealed yourself to her?”

  “I owe you no explanation.”

  “I won’t go easily, I warn you. I deserve to be made an immortal. You as much as promised.”

  Bécquer let go of Beatriz and took a step back as if distancing himself from her. “I promised nothing.”

  “You never denied it either. You knew it was the only reason I let you feed on me.”

  Bécquer laughed.

  Too stunned to intervene, I had followed their conversation hoping perhaps that Bécquer would deny what I had seen in Beatriz’s mind. But he hadn’t. Without a trace of guilt or remorse, he had admitted it was true that he had taken her blood and had laughed at her for expecting to be made an immortal in return.

  And so I had to admit that, for all his charm, Bécquer was, indeed, a monster that fed on humans, and if Beatriz was right, I was to be his next victim, his next blood giver. I turned to flee, but Bécquer grabbed my arms. Forceful, passionate, his voice broke into my mind. I’m not a monster.

  “Get out!”

  “Please, Carla. Listen to me. I never … ”

  He spoke aloud this time, but I pulled from him, screaming.

  For a moment, he stared at me, his eyes not red, but black as night. Then, brusquely, he let go of my arms and, cupping my face in his hands, pressed his lips against mine, effectively silencing my crying.

  As if reflected in the trembling surface of a shallow pond, an image swirled before my eyes. The strikingly beautiful face of Beatriz, a younger Beatriz, her beguiling smile and her dilated pupils that almost drowned the pale blue irises of her eyes, a teasing, irresistible call to the senses.

  Beatriz, a voice whispered. Bécquer’s voice, distorted in my mind.

  I knew this was Bécquer’s memory, a disturbing, unwanted memory. I fought it back and the image faded, only to be replaced by another, of a tearful Beatriz pleading to Bécquer to give her his blood and take her as his blood giver, followed by another of Beatriz sucking greedily on the bleeding wrist of a man’s hand. The same hand I had admired this morning in Café Vienna. Bécquer’s hand.

  Out of nowhere a flash of pain struck me, and the images disappeared.

  I opened my eyes. In front of me, Bécquer stumbled.

  “Carla, go,” he said. But his voice, strangled and broken, carried no power. I didn’t move, but watched Beatriz step back, her eyes bright with madness, holding in her hands a broken glass red with blood.

  “Bécquer!” I called and reached for him. But I was too late.

  A red stain rapidly spreading on the collar of his white shirt, Bécquer fell to his knees.

  Chapter Eight: Beatriz

  I screamed.

  I screamed and lunged at Beatriz, who was about to strike the fallen Bécquer once again. Without even looking, Beatriz pushed me aside and sent me flying against the wall.

  By the time I came back to my senses and yanked from my face the crooked mask that blinded me, Bécquer and Beatriz were gone. There was shattered glass on the floor where I had last seen them and a red smear leading to a closed door.

  Blood, I thought and stood, panic stricken, as I remembered Bécquer bleeding at my feet. At the sudden movement, my stomach lurched in complaint and the room started spinning. Gritting my teeth, I leaned back against the wall.

  A million questions rushed through my mind. Where was Bécquer? Had Beatriz killed him and dragged him outside to dispose of his body? But that was impossible. Bécquer was immortal. Yet the pain in his mind when the glass cut his throat had been real. The glass. Glass wounds heal slowly in immortals and the loss of blood leave us vulnerable, Federico had told me. Beatriz knew this, I was sure, and was angry with Bécquer. Angry enough to kill him?

  Bécquer and his stupid pride. If only he had told Beatriz I was his descendant, she would have understood his interest in me. But, Federico was right: Bécquer liked to play with people’s feelings and was too proud to explain himself to anyone. And now he was hurt, maybe too hurt to explain. I had to find them. I had to tell Beatriz the truth about Bécquer and me. I had to stop her from harming Bécquer any further because I believed him. I believed Bécquer had not forced Beatriz to give him blood. She had agreed to it willingly. Even if Bécquer’s memories were misleading, and he was in part to blame for taking Beatriz’s blood, her attack on him had been unwarranted.

  I took a step and the room erupted into movement and the noise exploded, deafening, in my ears, as if I had just emerged from being underwater in a crowded pool. Even the piano playing, so pleasurable before, pounded in my head. Carefully avoiding the broken glass at my feet, I made it to the door.

  The corridor on the other side of the ballroom was empty.

  In the diffuse light coming from the iron sconces that hung on the walls I could see several doors on the wall across, all closed, the rooms behind them in darkness. But at the end of the corridor, a rectangle of moonlight escaped through the opening of a heavily carved set of French doors.

  I ran to them and slid them open. A piece of cloth lay on the floor. I picked it up. It was the blue shawl Beatriz had worn at the party. The blue shawl stained with blood.

  I stepped inside and looked around, taking in the tall bookshelves, the slick wooden table and matching chairs that cast long shadows in the silvery moonlight pouring through the far wall, that was, ironically enough, made out of glass.

  A noise to my left caught my attention, a moan maybe, a whisper? Then I heard his voice, Bécquer’s voice inside my head, Leave. But it was weak, too weak to overrule my will. So instead I dashed around the bookshelf that partitioned the floor, toward the sound, then stopped. There was no need for me to go further. I had found them. I had found Bécquer, and he didn’t need me, for he was lying with Beatriz in a sofa set against the wall. Bécquer, his eyes closed, his head resting on the leather armrest had his arms around her body, while Beatriz’s head nested against his chest.

  How could I have been so stupid to think Bécquer’s life was in danger? For seeing them now, so closely entangled, I understood that, for all the drama of their exchange and her vicious attack, their whole argument had been nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. A disagreement already forgotten.

  “He always comes back to me,” Beatriz had told me. And so he had.

  Please, Carla, leave now. Bécquer’s voice was again in my mind, so weak I could have dismissed it. Except this time I had no reason to. I took a step back.

  Stay!

  Beatriz’s call, strong and willful, stopped me. I looked up and saw her standing in front of Bécquer, blood on her bodice and a snarl on her face. “I did so hope that you would come,” she
said, this time aloud.

  Her eyes glowed red. I froze in fear for that could only mean one thing: Beatriz was immortal.

  Behind her, Bécquer struggled to get up. “Let her go,” he whispered.

  He reached forward and grabbed her arm. But Beatriz pulled away. “Why?” she screamed as Bécquer stumbled back and collapsed on the floor. “Why do you care so much for her?”

  “He doesn’t,” I said.

  In a flash, Beatriz was at my side. “Don’t lie to me.” With apparent ease, she lifted me from the ground and yanked me back against the bookshelf. “I know him. I know him better than he knows himself, and I know he cares for you.”

  “But it is not like that … He cares for me because he is … because I am his descendant.”

  Beatriz glared at me, her eyes a burning fire, and I felt the push of her mind entering mine, a harsh, painful thrust, like the prodding of a fingernail in an open wound. Then, she released me suddenly, and I hit the floor so hard my knees gave way and I fell down.

  “I see you’re telling the truth,” Beatriz started. “I wonder why — ?”

  She halted, and her eyes seemed to withdraw as if they were looking inwards. One moment she was looming over me, the next she was gone, leaving behind the echo of a latch unfastening and her unfinished sentence haunting my mind.

  I climbed to my feet and looked around, searching for clues of what had just happened. But for the sliding door opened to the night outside, the room was as it had been.

  For a moment, I considered whether Bécquer had stopped time again and left, taking Beatriz with him. But when I looked, I saw him, lying still on the floor. I rushed to his side. His eyes closed, his chiseled features paler than ever in the soft light of the full moon, Bécquer did not answer my frantic callings. Scarier still, he had no pulse.

  I panicked, at first, for no pulse meant death in my mind, until I remembered Bécquer was not human. Did immortals have a pulse?

  Grateful that Bécquer’s blood had made me immune to my usual blackout reaction at the sight of blood, I opened the collar of his shirt, drenched in blood, and checked his neck. A nasty cut ran from ear to ear. There was something bright inside the wound. A shard of glass.