by Kallysten
But it was still better than running after him into the street and risk ruining my high heels.
He came forward immediately, and I knew he wasn’t able to control his own movements. When he climbed onto the high stool next to mine, his mouth twisted into a grimace.
“You could have just asked nicely,” he muttered in faintly accented English. “There was no need for you to compel me.”
For what felt like the umpteenth time that night, he was surprising me. I wasn’t getting used to it. What can I say? I don’t like surprises unless I’m the one surprising someone.
“You know what I am?” I asked, frowning as I watched him remove his jacket and lay it across the bar.
“I didn’t know until two seconds ago,” he replied. “I’ll never understand why va… why you guys feel like compulsion is the correct answer to every little problem. Is that for me?”
I glanced down to what he was gesturing at, and when I nodded, he picked up one of the two glasses of wine. I took the other and tried to find my footing again. We vampires are, as a rule and by necessity, fairly careful about letting humans know what we are and what we can do. Many stories and myths exist about us, but very little of what they depict is true. It’s our best defense mechanism, of course.
We do drink blood, that much is true, but we usually don’t take enough to kill our prey. We don’t transform into anything, be it bats, mist or whatever else stories might say. We don’t age. We can walk in direct sunlight, although prolonged exposure can lead to sunburns. We do have a reflection, but while humans see us as perfectly normal, we see in mirrors what is, I suppose, our true nature, alien and dangerous.
If humans knew we existed, if they knew our real strengths and weaknesses, we’d undoubtedly be tracked and exterminated. It’s not easy to kill us, but it’s possible. Making them believe we’re nothing more than a myth and feeding them false information helps diffuse issues that sometimes arise when one of us is not as discreet as he or she ought to be. We deal with those troublemakers swiftly, because they endanger us all by letting humans know we exist.
I never believed myself immortal—everything must die, sooner or later, even vampires—but I was in no hurry to find death, and I’d always been very careful. Clearly whoever had let this particular human know about vampires was not anywhere near as cautious as I was. I supposed I’d have to do something about it. Find out who they were, get in touch with other vampires in Paris, talk it out with them. But until then…
“If you could make anyone do whatever you want,” I said, “wouldn’t you be tempted?”
Sipping his wine, he shrugged.
“I always thought it was more fun to convince people than to force their hand. Now, is there a reason why we’re having this absolutely lovely chat?”
His voice dripped with sarcasm and it was like being slapped across the face. The good will he had earned from me by playing my notes so beautifully was eroding, and I was forcibly reminded that, beautifully played or not, they had been stolen notes.
“If you know what’s good for you,” I hissed, “you’ll start showing a little respect.”
He raised his eyebrows at me and smirked.
“Or what? You’ll compel me again? You’ll kill me, right here in front of everyone? Please. Don’t take me for an imbecile. You wouldn’t expose yourself like that.”
My murderous thoughts from the beginning of the night were fast resurfacing. I don’t tolerate anyone giving me lip, least of all humans who know what I am and what I could do to them if I so chose. I wouldn’t say that I enjoy scaring people, but all things considered, a healthy dose of fear often smoothes things out. Not with him, that much was clear. I figured I might as well get on with it and ask what I wanted to know.
“The music you’ve been playing all night,” I said coldly. “Where did you get it?”
He took another sip.
“Here and there,” he said, turning around to look at his colleague seated at the piano. “A friend of mine collects sheet music from little-known composers. It’s a bit more interesting to play than this.”
He gestured toward the scene, drawing my attention to it. The new pianist was playing instrumental versions of recent pop songs. The only reason I even knew what they were was that they were overplayed in clubs across multiple countries. I grimaced and set my back firmly to the stage. Noticing my reaction, he smirked.
“Not a fan, huh?”
I had no interest whatsoever in discussing what the current entertainer was playing and how, as far as I was concerned, it could only loosely be called music. What I wanted to know was how he’d come to play my pieces.
“Where does your collector friend find these compositions?” I asked. “Do you know the names of the composers? How did you choose the pieces you played tonight? The first ones sounded completely different from what you played later on.”
He took another long sip from his wine, but kept his eyes on me. In the slightly muted light of the bar, I couldn’t tell if they were brown or hazel. Why it mattered right then, I couldn’t say.
“Why are you so curious about what I played?” he asked. “It’s just music. Nothing special.”
I’m usually fairly good at keeping my expression neutral when I don’t want to show something. At that moment, however, seeing his eyes grow wide and smelling the fear that burst in his scent like pricked soap bubbles, my expression must have shown something of what I felt. Which was anger and outrage. Had he slapped me across the face, I would have felt much the same.
“Nothing special?” I repeated, and I could hear the ice creeping into my own voice. “If they’re nothing special why did you spend the past two and a half hours playing them? Why did you play them that well, for that matter? A musician as talented as you are doesn’t dwell on pieces from an unknown composer that are ‘nothing special’ when there are ten millions other things by renowned composers he could be playing.”
He blinked several times and even leaned back as though to get away from me.
“I didn’t mean,” he started, but fell silent as his eyes widened. He inhaled sharply and let out a quiet, “Oh!”
Out of the blue, a look of pure awe spread over his face.
“It’s yours, isn’t it?” he asked in an excited voice, the words rushing past his lips. “You wrote that music. That’s why you’re curious about where I found it. And that’s why you’re offended I called it nothing special. You’re her. You’re Solange. Or Katherine. Whichever is your real name.”
I’ve lived for over six centuries, and even if lately decades seem to pass like weeks, it still is a very long time, you can take my word on that. Never, in all that time, has anyone known who I was, whether it was one of my names or my status as a vampire, when I didn’t want them to know. Not once in that entire time did I make a mistake and expose myself—something that is becoming more and more difficult with the advance of technology, digital pictures, computerized records, and facial-recognition software. I’ve always been extremely careful, changing my name every few decades, playing with my hair color, using make-up and clothing to disguise my appearance. Twice, I even lived as a man for a few years, just to blur things a little.
Never, to my knowledge, had anyone figured out that Solange Dubois or Katherine McClyde or any of the other pseudonyms I had used might possibly be related to one another.
Never, except that this man knew.
Worse; he’d known before meeting me that Solange and Katherine were one and the same, and when I said, with my best confused expression, “I don’t know what you mean,” he proved to me I hadn’t been quite as careful as I thought I was.
“I’ve seen a portrait of Solange,” he said, his accent a little thicker as he talked faster. “The hair color is wrong so I didn’t recognize you right away, but please don’t pretend it isn’t you. I’m not going to out you as… what you are. Or who you are. I’m just happy I got to meet you.”
And he did sound, and look, happy. As happy as
music fans who get to meet their favorite band, or movie buffs who stumble on the starlet or action hero of the day and ask for their autograph. I’d been in the periphery of some famous people, and I had seen it happen, but it had never happened to me.
Part of me was absolutely horrified that my cover had been blown to smithereens by… what? A human? Some random musician in a piano bar? How pathetic was that, really?
But I’d be lying if I denied that another small—tiny—absolutely minuscule—part of me was flattered that someone enjoyed my music enough to have untangled the webs I wove to protect my identity and that he was now looking at me with such excitement in his eyes.
“Irene,” I said, although I couldn’t tell you why I did. I’m not in the habit of giving out my real name to people I have no intention of seeing again after the night ends. “My name is Irene. Nice to meet you too, I suppose. Now will you tell me where you found my sheet music?”
He repeated my name, but pronounced it as though it were French, the way Ethan used to, and I felt a strange pang of longing. It sounded oddly intimate, especially after I’d listened to him play my music so beautifully, his eyes half-closed as though he’d been caught in a daydream.
“So?” I said after clearing my throat. “My sheet music?”
He finished his glass of wine and leaned back against the bar, and while a moment ago he’d been trying to pull away from me, now the same gesture was the very image of casual sex-appeal. I’d used the same move often enough to recognize it when it was being used on me.
“I already told you. A close friend of mine collects old compositions. He has a very thorough collection. As to where he finds it all…”
He spread his hands to indicate he didn’t know.
Following a hunch, I asked, “And, this friend of yours… He wouldn’t happen to be like me, would he?”
I let my fangs peek out as I finished to make it clear what I meant, but he was already nodding. He understood the word I wasn’t saying in this busy bar.
He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, he is, yes. I can’t wait to tell him I’ve met you. Actually…” He pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “If I don’t give him a chance to come meet you, he’ll never forgive me.”
I covered the phone with my hand before he could dial or type a text message.
“No, don’t,” I said, slipping back toward compulsion. “One groupie is quite enough for me.”
Or, more accurately, I needed to think before I met that vampire. Check on a few things, too, like the state of a couple of properties where the sheet music might have come from. I thought I remembered Lilah mentioning something about a break-in in our London home a few years back. She’d dealt with it and I’d never checked what was missing exactly. Knowing what had been taken would only have angered me, and it wouldn’t have helped me retrieve whatever it was. Sometimes, it’s better to let go.
But I couldn’t let go of this. Why would anyone steal music? Why would anyone steal my music? If it had been sheet music signed by a renowned composer, I could have understood, but none of my alter-egos had ever achieved fame, a decision that had been quite deliberate on my part.
So, why would anyone have such an interest in my music that he’d track me across countries, centuries, and false identities?
“Groupie?” he said, chuckling again as he pocketed the phone. “Is that what you think I am?”
I gave him a long look. The expression of awe he’d displayed when he had figured out who I was had disappeared, but the casualness he affected now felt forced—the same way a groupie might try to play it cool in front of their idol so as not to scare them away.
“Well,” I said with a dangerous grin, “there are two people in this room who can play my music for hours without referencing the sheet music. I know those notes because I’ve written them. What’s your excuse?”
He inclined his head.
“Touché. But I haven’t asked for your autograph yet. Isn’t that a requirement for groupies?”
I snorted in my wine.
“Yet?” I repeated, coughing a little. “Does that mean you’re going to?”
“Who knows? The night is still young.”
The prospect was rather… not frightening, maybe. I’m a vampire, I’m not going to be scared by someone wanting me to scribble my name on a piece of paper for them. But it was definitely disconcerting. And unexpected.
He signaled the waitress for a napkin, and handed it to me with a smile. I dabbed at my lips and observed him.
As I’ve already mentioned, I’ve always been very careful about concealing my identity. Over the centuries, I’ve played my compositions in public a few times, but always very sparingly, and never to the point of getting noticed. And now… now I was in front of someone who’d known my music before meeting me. Someone who played it not exactly as I played it, but with nuances that made it ring even more strongly.
All of a sudden, I wondered what he’d do with my most recent compositions, pieces that I had written in the past century, with more modern influences and themes woven throughout.
The thing about living as long as I have? You learn to be careful and not to act without forethought. But you also learn that, if you only ever do what you’ve planned without ever surprising yourself, life gets boring, and fast.
In the time it took me to set the napkin and my empty glass down on the bar, I considered the strange idea that had come to me.
Was it dangerous? No. Human, vampire; even if he knew what I was, he was no danger to me whatsoever.
Was it smart? Well. I didn’t know about smart, but at least it wasn’t stupid.
Was it necessary?
Yes.
Yes, it was.
Now that the idea had touched my mind, I had to know. I had to sit him at a piano, give him those sheets, and hear what he made of them. And I knew just which piece I’d give him first, if I could only find it again.
“Come on,” I said, sliding off the stool. “We’re leaving.”
I started toward the coat check, but soon realized he wasn’t following me and turned back. He was still sitting at the bar, and while he’d turned to watch me walk away, he gave no indication that he intended to follow me. I returned to him, impatient.
“Well?” I snapped, and it was a struggle not to tap my foot impatiently on top of it. “Are you coming?”
He gave me a bewildered look.
“Come where?”
“To my place.”
If anything, he seemed even more confused. Humans can be so infuriatingly slow at times.
“Uh… No offense, but why?”
“Do you want me to actually order you around?” I asked in a very low voice. “Because believe me, I’m two seconds away from doing it and ending this tedious conversation.”
I’m not used to people not doing what I say. I’m not used to anyone laughing in my face when I all but threaten them, either.
“You’re joking, right?” he said, chuckling. “I want to know what’s going on, and your answer is to compel me to do what you say? Wouldn’t it be easier to just, I don’t know, tell me?”
Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder why I even bother trying to talk to humans. Why do they have to make everything so complicated?
As interesting as he was, I’d reached the limits of my tolerance for annoying conversation and disrespect. I could have compelled him as I’d threatened, but what about when we got to my townhouse and I sat him at the piano? I could compel him to play, too, but I’d discovered a while back that even the best musicians lost something when they were forced to play as opposed to when they were free to play music of their own accord.
So, without another word, I turned on my heel and went to the coat check. Moments later, I was wrapped in my coat and starting down the street and back toward home. I wasn’t in the mood to dance anymore. Wasn’t in the mood to be around more idiotic humans, blood and feeding be damned.
I hadn’t even turned the corner when running stri
des resounded in the street behind me, and soon he caught up with me. To be honest, I had expected he might. I didn’t so much as glance at him as he fell into step with me.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said after a few seconds of silence, and there was no trace of laughter left in his voice.
I didn’t respond.
“I mean, try to see things from my point of view,” he said after another beat of silence. “When a…” He said the next word in a whisper, looking around us as though to check he wouldn’t be overheard. “Vampire you just met invites you home and won’t tell you what for, if you’re not a bit wary, you’re asking for trouble.”
I still didn’t reply anything, nor did I look at him, observing him instead from the corner of my eye. If he was that wary, why was he following me?
“For that matter,” he continued, “you haven’t even asked me my name. Why would you want me to go home with you when you haven’t even bothered asking my name? It’s Rachid, by the way.”
I repeated the name to myself, though I still didn’t speak. It was familiar, and it took me a couple of minutes to place it. I’d known a Rachid, at the turn of the previous century when Lilah, Morgan, and I had traveled through North Africa over the span of a few months. He’d been our guide through Morocco and Tunisia, and I’d walked in on him one evening as he was writing a poem about me. His embarrassment had been about as delicious as his blood. I’d kept the poem when I left him—alive though unable to recall what he’d been doing for the past two weeks, or where the sheet music bearing his name on his bed was from.
“Seriously? You’re just going to ignore me?” this Rachid snapped as I tried to remember how that piece of music had started.
I recalled the main melody but was unsure about the first few notes.
“First you force me to talk to you, then you question me, then you want to take me home, and now you’re just going to pretend I don’t exist? What is wrong with you?”