Inamorata (33 page)

I blinked, roused from bliss, startled back into the world—the
portego
and the strange light, gray and overcast, the terrazzo floor gleaming even so, the watery reflections cast about the walls no longer there—ah, but they had never been. They had only been in his vision, only me seeing through his eyes in those moments before I’d chosen him. Not real.

I felt his genius in my blood, coursing through me, stronger than I’d anticipated—so strong and full I could not hold it all. I felt it spilling onto the floor, spreading, a light around the both of us. I captured what I could—it would stay, ebbing back and forth between us as he needed inspiration, until he had what I’d promised, and then it would lock deep within me, feeding me for months, a year, while my appetite hibernated, until it woke again. I felt the gentle throb of him deep within me. His chest heaved where it pressed to mine as he tried to catch his breath. His face was buried in my shoulder, his hair soft against my cheek. His fingers dug into my thighs, holding me in place. He was trembling, and—surprise of all surprises—so was I.

“It’s done,” he whispered—I was uncertain whether it was a question or a statement. He sounded exultant and astonished. The words were a psalm sung in his deep voice, and in my ears they distorted as light distorts on water, rippling and changing until they echoed, changing into a voice that was no longer his, and one that felt dangerous. Her voice.
It’s done.

S
OPHIE

I
jackknifed up in bed, gasping as if I were drowning, voices in my head—my brother’s, Odilé’s—my heart racing and my blood pounding as if I’d been running in a nightmare, but I had no recollection of any dream at all.

Overcast light streamed into my room; it was late morning, and I felt as if I’d been wrenched and torn apart and hastily put together again, and still the whispers of those voices tumbled about inside my head.

I pushed back the covers to get out of bed, feeling weak. It seemed to take all my strength to reach the pitcher on the washstand. My hand shook as I poured the water, and I grabbed the edge of the stand to anchor myself as I drank. I put on my dressing gown and made my way slowly to the kitchen. There wasn’t much there—a bottle of wine that Joseph and I had half drunk, the heel from a loaf of bread. I took that, and after the first bite I was so ravenous I stuffed nearly the whole thing into my mouth—it was dry and chewy and far too big a piece for a single bite, and I felt like an animal as I ate it.

It restored me somewhat, but still the whispers whirled in my ears; I touched my temple and felt a strange, buzzing sensation, as if I’d shocked myself. Then the voices faded, and in their place came a pounding. Incessant and fierce. I wanted to put my head beneath a pillow to muffle it. But then I realized it wasn’t coming from inside my head at all, but from the door.

I wanted to ignore it and go back to bed, but it wouldn’t stop. I thought it might be Joseph. I remembered too late that Joseph would not be knocking this way—he would just come in—but by then I was nearly to the door, and I heard a voice now, low and urgent, on the other side.

“Sophie, for God’s sake, let me in.”

Nicholas.

Nicholas.
I wrenched open the door, and he nearly fell inside, catching himself on the door frame. His hair was tousled; he had that look one got sometimes after a sleepless night—not tired but invigorated, tense, every movement too blunt and quick.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said.

But I didn’t feel warm at his words, because there was something desperate about the way he said them. Something wrong.

“What is it?”

He had stepped fully inside and was already striding toward the
sala
. He looked over his shoulder, motioning for me to follow, saying, “There’s something I must tell you.”

I closed the door and stumbled after him. I said again, “What’s wrong?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his expression had softened. “I think you’d best sit down. It’s not the easiest of things to hear, and . . . and you look rather . . . frail.”

“I don’t feel very well,” I confessed, moving gratefully to the settee and sinking down upon it. “I woke with the strangest feeling. But then, I hardly slept.”

“That makes two of us. Joseph isn’t here.”

It was not a question. “No. He didn’t come home last night. He’s with a friend—”

“Odilé León,” he said.

That startled me. “Yes. How did you know?”

He looked suddenly exhausted. “Because I’ve been following her. I’ve known her a long time. She is, in fact, the reason I came to Venice.”

My uneasiness grew. “The reason?”

“I’ve a story to tell you, Sophie, and I hope you will believe it.”

I lifted my chin, thinking I already knew the story, feeling disconsolate and hopeless now on top of tired. There was only one reason for him to have followed Odilé to Venice. “You don’t need to say anything more. In fact, I wish you wouldn’t. You’re in love with Odilé, and—”

“That’s not it,” Nicholas said abruptly, almost angrily. “I’m not in love with Odilé León.”

“You’re not?”

“How could I be, when I’m in love with you?”

No one had ever made such a declaration to me, and I wasn’t prepared for my relief or joy. “Oh, Nicholas—” At the sight of his expression, I stopped. So somber. Worried. My joy curled back, chastened.

He came to the settee and sat beside me, but he didn’t touch me or take me into his arms. “I want to protect you, Sophie. I would never involve you in this except . . . I spoke to your brother this morning. He won’t listen to me, and that’s why I’ve come to you. You’ll need to be the one to convince him.”

“Convince him of what?”

He took my hand, stroking my palm with his finger, closing it tightly in his palm. “I met Odilé León seven years ago. In Paris. We were lovers.” He paused as if waiting for my response, watching for it.

I didn’t know what to say. Of course. Anyone would have taken the opportunity to be with her. “I understand.”

“No you don’t. Of that I’m certain.” His hand tightened on mine. “I was with her only for a short time, but it was the most productive period of my life. I wrote enough poems to fill an entire volume. And when she left me, I fell into despair.”

“That was how you lost your words,” I said.

“Words, inspiration, love . . . all of it,” he said frankly. “But that isn’t what matters.” He went on, telling me an impossible tale of love and desire and inspiration. A horror story, with a beautiful demon at its center.

He was flushed; a strange energy vibrated from him. For a moment I thought he must be mad—
of course, how perfect. The man who loves me is mad
.

“I know it seems implausible, Sophie. I know it’s impossible. But I’m telling you the truth. She has wrought both the greatest revelations and the most terrible destruction.”

“Oh, Nicholas.”

“You think I’m mad,” he said. “I thought I was too, when I realized what she was. I didn’t want to believe it. But it’s all true.”

I pulled my hand hard from his. “I’m sorry; I really do feel unwell. I don’t think I’m hearing you correctly.”

He grabbed my hand again, saying urgently, “I’m telling you the truth. She’ll destroy Joseph too. I warned him this morning, but he wants what she can offer, Sophie. He’ll take the bargain if she makes it. And if she chooses him, there’s nothing we can do. She’ll take everything from him. Is that what you want? Joseph to be famous for one work—one single work—and then fallen to despair or madness after?”

I said wearily, “Is this what you spoke with Joseph about this morning?”

“Yes. And he told me he didn’t care.”

“You mean he believed you?”

Nicholas met my gaze. “He knows what she is, yes. He knows what she can do for him. I believe he means to ask her for it. He said . . . he said he didn’t want you to sacrifice for him anymore. He asked me to take care of you.”

His last words caught my attention. My dream from last night came back. Her whispers and his. My fears that Odilé was what my brother was looking for, a place to drown.

Nicholas said, “Sophie, listen to me. You discovered Nelson Stafford’s body in that courtyard. He’d been Odilé’s lover. And that musician they found in the canal—do you remember? He was with Odilé as well. Since she’s been in Venice, she’s left a string of bodies in her wake—all talented men. Three of them, Sophie. Three men who succumbed to her and were destroyed. The police have been watching her. Ask them if you don’t believe me. They’ll tell you what they suspect.”

I remembered what Katharine Bronson had told me about Nelson Stafford.
He fell in love and fell away
. . . .
She’s quite irresistible.
I thought of my brother’s face in the rain.

“No,” I whispered. “Oh no. Please.”

“I’ve watched her do this in every city she’s been in,” Nicholas said. “But it was in Barcelona that I learned the truth of her. Her hunger is an entity of its own. If she doesn’t choose within three years, if she doesn’t convince someone to take the bargain she offers, she can no longer control it. She
becomes
the demon that lives inside her. That was what I saw in Barcelona. A lamia crawling over the bodies of the men she’d drained. A score of them. Perhaps more. But their deaths fed her and remade her. The demon retreated. She was herself again when I saw her next in Paris.”

I went cold, cold to the bone. Cold so I could no longer feel his touch on my fingers. No, none of this could be true.
A succubus.
Such things were only myths. Creatures from stories. Fairy tales. And yet . . . I knew how such things lurked at the edges of the real world. I knew what it felt like to be held by demons. I knew what it meant to fight them.

And the truth was that now everything made sense.
Put Joseph in my hands, and I will make him a king. I will make him more famous than he ever dreamed.

“What did Joseph say to you?” I demanded. “What did he say
exactly
?”

Nicholas whispered, “That it wasn’t fair of him to keep you. He asked me to love you. He said he could not leave you to anyone else. He said this would make it all worth something.”

My vision blurred. “No. No, he can’t make the bargain. I won’t let him. He can’t have done it. He wouldn’t leave me.”

But even I no longer believed that, and Nicholas only gave me a grim look. “Then you must speak with him. Now.”

He let go of my hands, and I rose, the room wavering.

He took my arm, anchoring me. “We can’t afford to wait. We must go now.”

The ground tilted beneath me as I went to my bedroom, as I dressed with shaking fingers. To get to Joseph, to stop him, was all I could think about. I knew I looked disheveled as I hurried out again, my hair still braided because I could not take the time to dress it.
Joseph
,
don’t. Don’t leave me. I will never survive it.

Marco was waiting, and Nicholas and I were soon on our way to the Dana Rosti. My stomach twisted and turned as Nicholas told me what he wanted to do, what Odilé’s end must be.

“I mean to destroy her, Sophie. I’d thought . . . if I could keep her from making the choice, if I could drive her to three years without it—”

“But the demon would be released, you said.”

“Yes. But what happens if there’s no one for her to feed upon? What if she’s locked in a room with no escape? I think—I hope—that if that happens, she’ll destroy herself.”

I felt the intensity of his belief, the sheer
will
of his intention. The horror of it.

“It’s been three years, Sophie,” he said, now in a whisper. “I’m so close. Her destruction is only days away. But now . . . now there’s Joseph, and who knows what he’s done?”

When we arrived, Nicholas said, “It would be best if she didn’t know I was here. She won’t let me in, that’s a certainty, and she might refuse you too if she sees me. You’ll have to do this on your own, Sophie. Talk to Joseph—bring him out if you can.”

I nodded. He helped me from the
felze
while still staying in the shadows of the cabin. Oddly, nearly the moment I set foot on the cracked, algae-strewn stairs, I felt steadier. I was infused with a sudden strength and determination as I stepped to the door.

I yanked the bell pull. There was only silence after, for what seemed a long time, and I looked over my shoulder for reassurance, but Nicholas was hidden in the
felze
. I reached for the bell pull again.

Before I could ring it, I heard footsteps on the stones on the other side of the door, and it cracked open to reveal Maria, who was frowning fiercely.

I tried to smile. “I’ve come to see Madame León. And my brother. Will you tell her please that Sophie Hannigan has come to pay a call?”

Maria’s frown grew more ferocious. “The
padrona
is not seeing visitors today, signorina
.
”

My smile faltered. “Oh, but I’m not really a visitor. My brother is here, you know. Joseph, and—”

“They are both indisposed.” She began to shut the door.

I put my hand to the door to stop it from closing. “I don’t think you understand. Please tell Madame León I’m here. I’m certain she will wish to know—”

“She said no visitors, signorina,” said Maria, her dark eyes seeming to glow strangely. “And not you most of all. She says to remember your promise. She says to go away.”

The door closed so hard that I stepped back. I heard the slide of the lock, the footsteps fading. I felt the air shudder against my skin; the world faded and went dim, nothing in it but me, the only light at the center of shadows. I felt so profoundly alone that I gasped, reaching a hand to steady myself against the door. I blinked, and then the feeling was gone, but it left me greatly uneasy.
Joseph.

I grabbed the bell pull angrily, nearly shaking it. The sound echoed, distant and faraway. I pulled it again. Then once more. Nothing. No one was coming.

In dismay, I stepped back, craning to look at the balcony above. “Joseph!” I called. “Joseph, it’s Sophie! Come to the door!”

My voice seemed too loud, and then it vanished as if I’d shouted into a void. There was no answer. In disbelief, I shouted again. If Joseph heard me, he would come. He must come.

“Joseph! Joseph, please!”

Nothing.

From the gondola, Nicholas called in a low, hard voice, “Sophie, come away.”