Inamorata (31 page)

A scuffling broke into my imaginings. My eyes flew open. I jerked up, peering into the darkness, my heart racing. It was Joseph, returned. Joseph triumphant. But there was nothing there. Only silence, and just as my heart was settling, just as I felt the dullness of despair, I saw a movement, a shifting in the air, as if someone stood just beyond my vision, watching me in the darkness. I smelled cold and shadow. The hair rose on the back of my neck; I felt a quick terror, and then . . . calm. As if whatever stood there in the darkness meant to let me know it was not a danger.

I remembered what Odilé had told us about the ghost in the Moretta. The man who had thrown himself off the balcony out of despair and love. I whispered, “What do you want?”

My voice sounded too loud. The air shifted, only darkness again, whatever had been there gone, and I was shaken, my heart racing again. Impossible that I should have seen it. Impossible that the stories were true. And yet, I knew better than most that they were. I felt myself suddenly to be in the middle of one. The stories I told always ended happily, but the ghost’s lingering presence, his sorrow and his pain, reminded me that sometimes tragedy was the rule.

I thought of Joseph turning away from me on the stair, the goodbye in his kiss, his words
I don’t know when I’ll be back
, and Odilé’s:
I will make him a king. . . . Release him,
and with the ghost’s absence, the spell of Odilé snapped, and I knew that I had made a terrible mistake tonight in letting my brother go.

N
ICHOLAS

I
could not have told you what play I’d seen at the Goldoni. I could not have given you a single character or scene had my life depended on it. I did not stay until the end; I could not bear to. Instead, I set out for home, sick and afraid, with visions of Odilé’s lamia-serpent tightening her coils in my head. I hurried through the pouring rain, thunder and lightning crashing around me, a foul wind blowing, the rainwater that flooded the streets seeping into my boots.

I did not sleep, and by the time the storm gave way to dawn, my fear had turned to anger and desperation.

I went to the Dana Rosti, to my place on that wretched
fondamenta
, where I huddled, shivering, waiting for him to emerge. The curtains were drawn, blocking light and movement from the windows, and I watched in frustrated dread. I knew he was there, just as I knew he must come out at some point, unless her hunger was so great it destroyed him. But I didn’t think that would happen—not yet. There was so little time now before she would turn, and she needed to choose. That she would choose him was inevitable. I had known it the moment I’d met him, hadn’t I?

The thought of what she would reduce him to—all that talent, gone. Nothing left in those deep blue eyes but misery and despair and madness. And what that would do to Sophie . . . what would she be without him? To think of their magic stripped, the two of them less than extraordinary. . . .

I forgot what I’d lost in my own encounter with Odilé. I forgot what I thought I would win with her destruction. I thought only of Joseph and Sophie. I waited impatiently for him, running my various persuasions through my head, an endless circle of pleas. I thought he would listen to me. And if I could not persuade him on my own, I would go to Sophie. I had rarely convinced a man to leave Odilé, but I’d never had so much at stake before—not just the fate of the world, but my own, most personally.

And so I waited, shivering with cold, as the morning dawned gray and overcast, with a breeze that rippled the murky waters of the Canal and a dampness piercing to my bones. I had begun to wonder what I would do if he never emerged when I heard the balcony door open, and I glanced up to see Hannigan step out. He wore only a pair of trousers and his shirt, which was open and fluttering as he came to the balustrade. He braced his hands upon it and leaned over.

She did not come out behind him—a blessing I didn’t think would last long. But I grabbed the opportunity and stepped from my hiding place, striding quickly to the center of the
fondamenta
, waving. I saw him see me and start.

“Dane?”

“Quiet,” I said. “Can you come out for a moment? I want to talk to you.”

Concern swept his expression. “Is Sophie—”

“Ssshhh. Come down. And tell no one. Hurry.” I stepped away before he could say anything else, hurrying to the narrow
calle
that separated this ruined palazzo from the Dana Rosti, and waited. I half expected to see Odilé come instead of him, her thin and nasty smile, a smug
You’re not so clever after all, are you, Nicholas?
and I was relieved when it was only Hannigan who stepped from the gate. His shirt was buttoned now, and he’d put on boots. Closer, I thought he looked tired, and I wondered how much Odilé was affecting him. I wondered if she’d chosen him yet. If she had, it was over and done; there was nothing left but to help him end his misery—which I realized I would do, should he ask. I would not abandon him to madness.

Hannigan frowned when he saw me and hurried over, saying urgently, “What is it? If it’s Sophie—”

“She’s fine, as far as I know,” I told him. “It’s not Sophie I’ve come about—or, not really, anyway. It’s you.”

He swept his hair back from his face, his frown deepening. “Me?”

“You’re in grave peril, my friend. Greater than you can know.”

“What peril is that?”

“I have some history with Odilé León. There are things you should know about her.”

“You’ve history with her?” He sounded frankly disbelieving—almost insultingly so. “What kind of history?”

“Just what you’d expect,” I answered, more sharply than I’d meant. “I met her in Paris about seven years ago. I spent some time with her.”

“Some time.”

I nodded. “Doing just what you’re doing. Making love. Creating art. She is the devil’s own inspiration.”

He frowned again.

I went on, “She looks for young men with talent. And then she destroys them. Each of them, and always. She’ll destroy you too.”

Now his mouth quirked in a wary smile. “You were with her, you say, and yet you don’t seem destroyed.”

He was like all the others. Caught in her spell. Not wanting to believe. I took a deep breath. “Because I escaped her in time. By the very grace of God, I suppose. But I’ve been following this woman for seven years, Hannigan. Seven years I’ve been watching what she’s done to other men. Believe me when I say you must stay away from her.”

I saw the suspicion come into his eyes. “So you can step back in?”

“I’ve no intention of doing that.”

“I see,” he said dryly. “So you follow a woman for seven years for no other reason than curiosity?”

I laughed shortly. “Dear God, if it were only that! No. In fact, you could say it’s a calling, of sorts.”

“A calling.”

I was failing. Desperately, I said, “I know what you’re thinking. You think I’ve never fallen out of love with her. You think I’ve been following her hoping that one day she’ll take me back. I can assure you there’s nothing further from the truth. She’s a demon, Hannigan. Literally. I’ve seen things . . . you can’t even imagine. I’ve made it my business to see that no one else falls under her spell. Especially a man I hope to make my brother someday.”

He went very still. His blue eyes darkened.

I wasn’t certain what I saw there, jealousy or anger or relief, but I plunged on. “It’s not Odilé I love, but your sister, and I think you know it, which is why I’m asking you to listen to me now.”

I had his full attention at last. “All right.”

“This is going to sound absurd—like a fairy tale.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m used to fairy tales.”

I told him all I knew of Odilé, ending breathlessly with, “Each of them made a bargain with her—they wanted fame and inspiration and were willing to sacrifice anything to have it. And they do live on forever through a work of genius. A
singular
work, Hannigan. Think: what did any of them do beyond it? Nothing. That was what they sold to her. Their talent and their skill. Their vision. And she gave them immortality in art. She’s a succubus.”

“How do you know this?”

I expected so many other questions. I expected protests and laughter, denials—it was so absurd after all, wasn’t it? But I saw with shock that he understood. And this—his casual acceptance of an impossible truth—surprised me more than anything else about Joseph Hannigan. It had taken me months to come to it. Months to believe it, and even now, sometimes, I woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat thinking
no, no. This cannot be true. This cannot be my life. . . .

But he was looking at me as if the world suddenly made sense in a way it had not before, and I found myself saying softly, “That first year, I followed her because I couldn’t believe she’d gone. I was mad for her even as she left me despairing and half dead. I told you I talked to the artist in Paris . . . well, I spoke to many others. I suspected it then, but I knew it for certain in Barcelona. I don’t know where she comes from, or if there are others, but . . . I saw her in a . . . in a dark little room in Barcelona. She was
crawling
like a serpent or a . . . a demon about a score of naked men. And they were all dead. Every one of them. She’d sucked their energy from them until they were nothing. She’s like a vampire, but it’s not blood she’s taking. It’s vitality. Creativity. I’ve felt it myself—I know what she can do. You must have felt it too. The speeding of your heart, the lack of breath—”

Now he looked confused. “No. I’ve never felt that.”

“Then you will. How long have you been with her? A few days? A week? She’s feeding off you and you don’t even know it. But one day you’ll wake up and you won’t be able to draw. Your fingers won’t know how to hold a pencil. You’ll see nothing to inspire you, nothing worth marking down. She will drain you before you know it—unless she decides to make you the offer. But if she does, that’s the true hell.”

“Why would it be?”

“If you take the offer, you’ll paint your masterpiece, and you’ll have the fame you’ve always hoped for, but you’ll never do another thing, no matter that everyone in the world hopes for it. They’ll watch you, waiting for it, and nothing will come. You won’t be as you are now. Everything that makes you Joseph Hannigan will be gone. Your vision . . . gone. Imagine it. You said you could not bear to lose it, but you will. I know what it feels like. For seven years, I’ve felt it—”

“She made you the offer?” he asked. “But then . . . why have I not heard of you?”

The words were like a blow, and following them came a swift stab of anger, a resentment I forced myself to swallow. “No. She never did.”

He gave me a look—how to describe it? Knowing, thoughtful, pitying all at once.
Pity
. It enraged me. My fingers itched to wipe that look from his face.

But then it softened. He said, “I’m sorry,” and I heard his sadness and knew that once again he understood something I could not even admit to myself.

And I knew too that I would not convince him. He wanted too much—I saw it now. That shining, blistering ambition, the same things that had once been in myself, that deep emptiness, that terrible yearning. . . .

“You’ll start talking to angels the way Schumann did. You’ll drown yourself in a creek like Gros. Or worse, you’ll be a shell of what you were, a joke for English tourists to laugh over, like Canaletto. Which of those futures is yours, Hannigan? Which do you want? And what of Sophie? What will this do to her? I’m begging you, if only for her sake: walk away from Odilé now. You’ve got a bright future. Henry Loneghan will make something of you, and that’s a better bargain to take. It won’t cost you everything in return.”

He glanced away. “You can’t promise that—or money either. I haven’t the funds to struggle for years. And Sophie . . . Sophie shouldn’t. . . .” He struggled to find the words; I saw a strange bleakness in his eyes. “Sophie’s sacrificed for me too long. It’s not fair for me to keep her. Her gift . . . you understand how special she is. You’re the only one who ever has. You know what she can do.”

I frowned in confusion.

“I trust you, Dane. I would not be able to leave her to anyone else.”

“What are you saying?”

There was a sound—the opening of the balcony door. He glanced over his shoulder. We were out of sight of the balcony, but I felt her there just as he must have—I saw him go taut, as if he were listening to something only he could hear, some song whispered in the air.

I grabbed his arm hard, calling him back to me as I said softly, urgently, “I’m thinking of Sophie too. What will happen to her if you’re destroyed? Think of your sister, for God’s sake. Your
twin.
Think of everything you have before you. Walk away.”

He pulled away, gently but firmly. “I should be getting back before Odilé misses me.”

“Don’t go back. Come with me. We’ll go to the Moretta. Sophie’s waiting.”

His smile was small, his eyes distant. “You go to her. Keep her safe. Love her. Promise me—promise me you will.”

“Hannigan, for God’s sake, don’t do this.”

He leaned close, whispering, “You don’t understand. This will make up for everything,” and then, before I could truly grasp what he’d said, he was stepping back to the door, opening it.

“Hannigan—”

He went through it. It closed behind him with a thud, the clink of the metal latch falling into place.

For a moment I stood there, disbelieving, though why I should have been I wasn’t certain. I’d so rarely persuaded anyone, but I’d thought to have a chance with him. I’d thought, because he was my friend, because of Sophie . . . I still didn’t quite believe I hadn’t done it.

You don’t understand. This will make up for everything.
And with despair I realized that for him, more than anyone I’d ever known, Odilé was the answer to a prayer.