Bloodbound Nocturne (The Sophia Kelly Chronicles Book 1)

by Amy J. Wenglar

"Sophe, forgive me, but do you honestly think the guy is interested in anything other than cheating on his girlfriend and having a fun night with you?"

  "Well if that's what he wants, he's gone to an awful lot of trouble with the hand-delivered symphony tickets."

  Greg looks at me for a moment, stunned.

  "He's the one who had them delivered?"

  I feel like I've made a good point, and for a second I feel like I can expect an apology from Greg for butting in where he wasn't wanted or needed, but he only shakes his head, standing firm with his judgment.

  "I still say you're better off. Thank the man for the tickets with your words, not your body." He loops his arm through mine, pulling me toward the door. "Now come on, and let's get out of here."

  He is a dog. He has a girlfriend. He only wanted to play with you. It meant nothing to him. Be glad Greg stepped in when he did. It's for the best.

  The mental reassurances that I've been giving myself since Greg and I left the concert seem to be working, as the sour mood that had been consuming me starts to dissolve. I'm still annoyed with Greg for not allowing me to make my own decision where Christoph is concerned, but deep down I know he is only looking out for me. As my best friend, he's always looking out for me, just like I am looking out for him.

  "Do you want to watch some trash TV before crashing?" Greg asks, flipping on the light in the living room.

  I can tell he's not quite sure where he stands with me right now and wants to smooth things over as best he can before we part ways for the night. I toss my purse on the couch and flop down next to it, burying my face in my hands. While my mood has lifted, the rest of my body feels heavy with exhaustion.

  "I don't think so, G. This evening has worn me out. I need to crash."

  He sits down beside me and drapes an arm around my shoulders.

  "I'm sorry for interfering earlier. Really. I don't want to see you get hurt, and that guy? Sophe, that guy has bad news written all over him."

  "And so what? Couldn't I have enjoyed a fun night with him? No strings?"

  A soft, almost sympathetic smile spreads across Greg's face.

  "It doesn't work like that. We both know it doesn't work like that. Not with men like him. Even Colin thought—"

  "Colin? When did you talk to Colin about it?"

  I wriggle away from him and move to the other side of the couch, where my anger starts to simmer again.

  "While you had your eyes locked with his, and you were oblivious to everything around you. We thought the entire room was going to go up in flames. We didn't exactly have some big drawn-out talk about it, but Colin said something about it, like Christoph is the last person you need to get involved with and that he needed to step in."

  I sigh loudly. This isn't a fight I'm going to win anytime soon, and it's not a fight I want to hold onto for much longer.

  "Fine."

  I rise from the couch and stretch my arms overhead, trying to decide if I have any last words for Greg before I skulk miserably out of the room.

  "You're going to stalk him online, aren't you?" Greg calls to me. He knows me all too well.

  The moment I start my online search for Christoph von Drauchenberg is the moment I should have stopped. Image searches pull up pictures of him surrounded by beautiful women. The kind who probably speak with charming accents and call everyone dah-ling. I see pictures of him at lavish parties and events or nestled in the heart of some cozy-looking European chateau. It's quite sickening. What exactly did that man see in someone like me?

  Once I am thoroughly depressed, I give up on my image search and turn instead to a web search that focuses on his career. It brings up the same awards and accolades that were mentioned tonight at the concert.

  I know that I'm getting a late start with college at age twenty-one, but being only six years older than me, he's already accomplished what most classical musicians are still striving for well past retirement age. I scroll through a website containing a vast collection of albums he's released, and before I know it I'm opening the streaming music app on my phone, eager to hear him play again. A chill runs through me as the sorrowful notes of a Chopin nocturne fill my ears.

  This isn't a good idea. I know it's not a good idea, but it's the only connection to Christoph that I will likely ever have, and for some reason I need that connection right now. He's stuck in my head. Maybe skipping his concert tomorrow night is a good thing. Perhaps I really should listen to my overprotective friends.

  My phone rings, distracting me from the music. A small part of me wishes it's Christoph, who has magically obtained my phone number and is calling because he can't stop thinking about me. But it isn't Christoph. It's Colin.

  "Oh thank God," he says with a sigh of relief as soon as I answer.

  I pull the phone away from my ear long enough to scowl down at the screen before returning.

  "Hey, Colin." I pause the music and set my tablet aside, but not without first gazing at the album cover's artistically pleasing picture of Christoph.

  Get a grip.

  "What's up?"

  "I was worried you were going to go off somewhere with him," he says, placing extra emphasis on him, as if he can't be bothered to say his name. His name is a mouthful, after all. "And I wanted to make sure you didn't."

  I stand and begin to pace the length of my bedroom, twirling a strand of hair between my fingers, anticipating yet another scolding for something that was nothing more than an innocent flirtation. Why are my friends beating me up about this?

  "No, I did not go off somewhere with him, Dad." I roll my eyes. "Jeez, between you and Greg—"

  "Sorry, Sophe, but I don't trust him." There is a pause and a frustrated sigh on the other end of the line before he continues. "It's not even any of my business, so I don't know why I'm calling and harassing you about it. There's something. I don't know. It's not a good idea."

  He acts like he's keeping something from me. Something more than just the he-has-a-girlfriend argument.

  "What does Sarah think? Did she touch him? Have some kind of vision?" The question comes out a little cattier than I'd anticipated, and I quickly jump in to apologize. "Sorry, I'm not trying to invalidate her gift, whatever she calls it. I just don't like people jumping into my business and not letting me make my own decisions. I know you guys are looking out for me. But think about how you would've felt."

  "It's just… not a good idea, Sophe. He's not right for you. He knows that. And he should know better."

  "Thanks for your concern, Colin, really, but I've been on my own and making my own decisions since I was a kid. That's what happens when your mother is an overgrown party girl, paranoid out of her mind with drugs. This is the first time I've actually had people truly concerned about me."

  "I have reason to be concerned," says Colin. "And if I had known your mother wasn't preparing you for…" He trails off with a defeated sigh.

  "Preparing me for what?" I counter. "What was my mother supposed to prepare me for? Men? Oh Jesus." I can't help but laugh.

  "We'll talk later when I see you at work on Monday."

  I'm not sure exactly what he's talking about, and why he feels the need to be so vague about it, but I can't shake the strange buzzing energy inside of me. The nervous excitement lighting up in the core of my body. My life is changing, and it's not just in the new-beginnings kind of way.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In the few days I've been in Austin, I've met a sexy pianist who my friends are convinced wants to murder me, or devour me alive, or something. And I've moved into a fully furnished house (with free grocery delivery) that most college students can only dream of. My life was supposed to become more normal, but so far this new beginning is making my old life with my mother and the daily, sometimes painful visits by Horace the Cat seem like life on Easy Street. Every day brings a strange new adventure.

  Today is my first day at my new campus job, and I'm a nervous wreck, scrambling around my bedroom trying to figure out what I'm doin
g besides running around like a headless chicken.

  "Where are my shoes? Why aren't they in my closet? They're always in my closet."

  I suddenly remember that I'd kicked them off late yesterday after an attempt at running for exercise for the first time. I never believed in running unless someone was chasing me, but after all the strange events that have transpired since my arrival, I figured now was as good a time as any to start a fitness regimen. On trembling, aching legs, I'd staggered home overheated, exhausted, and starved out of my mind, vowing I would never run again.

  "Why in the hell did you pick a day where the heat index is at 106 to try running?" Greg had demanded when I came falling through the front door yesterday, sweat dripping down my red face.

  "Water" was all I could muster before flopping down on the hard living room floor under the ceiling fan.

  "Sophe, our West Coast bodies are not made for this kind of heat. You're going to kill yourself."

  I had already explained to Greg how crucial it was to get into shape so I wouldn't gain the dreaded "freshman fifteen." Being the type of person who is obsessed with achieving a strong, fit body himself, Greg understood my dilemma. But he insisted that I work myself up slowly and not try to immediately run a marathon in 106-degree weather. But I'm stubborn and don't always listen to good advice.

  Despite my cramped muscles, I'd slept like a rock that night. Visions of Christoph von Drauchenberg, along with strange, gyrating bodies shrouded in layers of pale white light, had haunted my dreams, but my body was too exhausted to react to any of them. My sleep had been so heavy that I'd overslept by about a half hour. I woke up to my alarm screaming at full blast this morning feeling panicked and disoriented.

  Fortunately, one of the perks of my new job as a student aide is a casual dress code, so picking out something to wear has been relatively stress-free.

  "I cannot be late on my first day," I repeat to myself, as I throw on Greg's University of Texas T-shirt and my favorite pair of shorts. I dart into the bathroom, where I run a quick brush through my hair and haphazardly twirl it back in a messy bun, which is another thing I have yet to master, unlike Colin's girlfriend. Sarah is probably majoring in messy buns with a minor in avocado toast.

  After a quick couple of swipes of mascara and lip gloss, I sigh at my reflection in the mirror. Disheveled and pale is just going to have to work today.

  "You made it."

  Greg sits at the kitchen table, fresh from working out, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the campus newspaper. He stands and pushes the button on our coffee machine so that it starts to brew a cup.

  "Thanks, G. I'm afraid I should've gotten up earlier, though."

  "I know. I was out for a run, so I had no idea you'd overslept until I got home and heard the shower going."

  Greg is smart. He runs at a time of day when the sun doesn't bake the pavement.

  "Of all days to be late. With my luck, my new boss will be standing there waiting for me. Technically he's not supposed to be in until later this week, but considering I'm running super late, he'll probably be waiting for me."

  I imagine an old, balding man standing at my desk, impatiently tapping his foot and staring angrily at his watch as I come flying through the door, my messy bun in shambles around my face.

  "Well, I hope you don't meet him today looking like that." Greg makes a face as he takes in my sloppy appearance. "I made you a protein shake," says Greg, motioning toward the counter.

  I can be a damsel in distress, and if there's one thing Greg excels at, it's being my knight in shining armor, at least where coffee and protein shakes are concerned.

  "You're the best, G." I sigh with relief as I grab the cool drink and begin slurping it down as quickly as I can. "And for the record, the aides that work in the office are all students. We are allowed to dress as such."

  He gives me a teasing, catty grin. "Well, you're pulling that look off just fine then." I make a face at him. "Do you want me to drop you off this morning? I can pick you up this afternoon. I was going to run some errands today. Finish getting ready for classes to start."

  I swear Greg is a responsible adult trapped in an eighteen-year-old's body.

  "That works. I think I'm going to try out the gym at Jester after I finish work, so I'll text you when I get there."

  Greg gives me a look of disapproval. "You're going to kill yourself. Take a rest day."

  "Resting isn't going to get this body in shape, G." I pinch a soft spot of skin at my waist with my fingers.

  He opens his mouth to argue, probably about how rest is as important as working out, but he stops and slowly shakes his head instead. He knows I'm not listening anyway.

  The campus is starting to feel alive this morning as new students walk around with their parents, clutching campus maps in sweaty hands, carrying bulging backpacks, and wearing crisp new UT-branded clothing and confused expressions. With a sigh of relief, I smile to myself as I make my way to the music building, relaxing when I realize I'm not going to be late at all.

  The music office is empty when I walk in. A radio plays softly at the front desk, and for a moment I wonder if anyone is here. It's very quiet.

  "Sophie? Is that you?" Colin emerges from the back of the office, a broad smile plastered across his face. "I was making sure your computer and everything is set up." He pulls me in for a friendly hug. "It's the two of us this morning. Come on back. I'll show you where you sit."

  I follow him through a maze of cubicles and desks. My desk is toward the back of the office, where a faint smell of yesterday's microwaved lunches and stale popcorn lingers near a small, grubby kitchen.

  "The cubicles are reserved for the full-timers, so I'm afraid you only get a desk with an old computer."

  I shrug. "Works for me."

  I don't know what to expect anyway, and have never had a job where I've worked at a computer before, so it's all new to me. The desk is bare except for a UT coffee mug crammed full of chewed pens and highlighters, a stack of Post-it Notes, and a wire tray at the edge of the desk that is already overflowing with papers.

  Colin sits down in a squeaky rolling chair and wheels himself in front of my computer. "Your logins should work, but I'm going to test them real quick. You'll share this computer with the other aides, so don't put anything crazy on it."

  "Looks like I'll be too busy to be playing online," I snort, lifting the corner of one of the papers stacked in the tray.

  "Please file these in my office" is scrawled in red ink on a Post-it Note.

  I pick up the rest of the papers and frown at them. "Okay, so I guess I will start off the day with some filing." I hold up the note for Colin to see.

  The papers are stacked every which way and are in no way organized. I have no idea what to do with all of this. Colin gives me a quick demo of the computer and shows me where I can find all the essential applications and documents that I will need. The computer is old and looks nothing like a current machine, but as long as it gets the job done, I'm fine. I don't know a whole lot about computers anyway.

  "Thanks," I say while Colin logs me off the computer. "I'll probably still have a million questions once I'm using it. Or breaking it. One or the other."

  I follow Colin out of the office and down a narrow hallway of offices. "No worries. I'm here every day this week, so I can help you if you need it." He pauses for a moment before glancing at me over his shoulder. "Everything else okay?"

  "I'm good," I say with a casual shrug. "I still want to know why Sarah is afraid of me, though." I glance at him, hoping he'll pick up on my prodding, but he only laughs in response as we reach the end of the hallway and stop.

  "And here we are." Colin jingles the keys in his hand before selecting one and unlocking the door.

  "You still don't know who it is? This professor?"

  "Not a clue," Colin says as he unlocks the door. "Not sure why he's got you in there filing when you can't even move in there. But have at it, though." He gestures toward a stack o
f crumpled boxes. "I think every worldly good he owns is in that office."

  "Hey, whatever I can do to help." I turn to Colin. "If you need me, you know where to find me. If I don't come out in a couple of hours, I've probably gotten stuck under an avalanche of cardboard and books."

  Colin gives me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before turning on his heel and sauntering back down the hallway.

  The office door creaks open, and I step inside. I wasn't expecting the place to be immaculate, but I also wasn't prepared for a total mess. Boxes sit on the floor, half unpacked, their contents in piles beside them. Papers, musical scores, and books cover the entire surface of a large mahogany desk that looks as if it came straight out of another century. More boxes are stacked on the two chairs in front of the desk. A small wooden filing cabinet sits in the far corner of the office, but from the looks of the place I can't imagine that anything has been placed inside it yet. An ornately carved bookcase desk sits to my left, partly filled with instrument method books and books that resemble very old, dusty encyclopedias.

  I don't feel comfortable in here at all. There is so much stuff lying around that I feel like I'm right in the center of someone's very chaotic and disorganized world. As I carefully step over boxes, books, and papers, I resist the urge to organize the place until it resembles an actual office instead of a musical dumping ground. How much stuff can a person possibly need in one office?

  Sidestepping between the bookcase and the desk, I inch along until I'm standing behind the desk, facing the door. I imagine myself scolding students when they come through the door, pounding my fist on the desk. I have to admit I do feel kind of powerful back here.

  Reaching across the desk with a groan, I pull the stack of papers toward me before sitting down. There is a man's jacket hanging on the back of the chair that smells faintly of expensive cologne, and I am only slightly disappointed to notice that it does not have patches on the elbows, like any good professor's jacket should.

  Pulling out my phone, I open the music app only to find Christoph von Drauchenberg's albums staring me in the face. I quickly scroll away from his music to find something else to listen to. I want to be satisfied listening to Glenn Gould, just as I always have been. But I don't want to listen to Glenn Gould. I have a new favorite now. There is something about the way Christoph von Drauchenberg plays that intoxicates me. It's addictive.