Mozart’s Blood (14 page)

His brows rose. “How did you know that?”

She laughed. “Call it experience.”

“Shall I guess how old you are?”

“You can guess, but I'll never tell you.”

“I've read your bio, though.”

“You know perfectly well singers' bios are all lies.” He laughed, his rich baritone filling the car's interior. She touched the carefully preserved leather of the dashboard with her hand. “This is a marvelous auto,” she said. “And you're probably proud of its age.”

“Yes. It was my father's. He gave it to me after I graduated from the university. We've kept it in the family a long time.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“I will, at dinner. Here we are.”

The
trattoria
was tiny, with white lace curtains at the windows and no more than a dozen tables. They went down two steps from the street, through the door that opened directly into the dining room. The
padrone,
a compact man with a brush of white hair, came bustling out to meet them. His wife came behind him, smoothing her apron. There was a little fuss of introductions, of choosing the best table, of settling them with an
aperitivo.
No one produced a menu, but Massimo had evidently arranged everything. An
antipasto
of olives and
bruschetta
and grilled eggplant arrived, with a glass of pinot grigio, and was followed by a salad of tomatoes and basil and
mozzarella
liberally drizzled with green, fragrant olive oil. By the time the
padrone
brought them a decanter of red wine and bowls of
cioppino
bristling with shrimp and clams in their shells, Octavia had heard all about Massimo's father, a physician, and his mother, a designer for one of the minor Milanese fashion houses; she knew about his married sister and her twin daughters; she knew his brother was a great worry to the family, skipping from job to job; and she knew that Massimo had studied in La Scala's own school, and had tested himself in regional opera houses before accepting rôles at the big theater.

“And now,” he said. They were wiping their fingers on warm, damp towels. Their bowls were replaced with tiny glasses of
limoncello
and a plate of crisp
biscotti.
“Tell me about you.”

Octavia shrugged and sat back in her chair, cradling her glass in her fingers. She had perhaps drunk more than she should already, but she loved
limoncello,
and it always made her think fondly of Sorrento. “There's nothing much to tell, really. You've already read my bio.” He laughed, and she smiled up at him from beneath her lashes. He was remarkable, really. Such poise, at such a young age. She had not been nearly so sophisticated at twenty-eight, even though, at that age, she had been the slave of the tooth for nine years.

“Tell me what's not in your bio, Octavia,” he said. He leaned closer to her, so she could just catch the scent of him. It was not strong, but distinctly male, tinged slightly with citrus, and, somehow, very Italian. “Tell me what your family's like,” he said, grinning, showing white, straight teeth. “Tell me who your lovers are.”

She chuckled. “I have no lovers, Massimo.”

“Not possible.” He put an elbow on the table, propped his chin on his fist, and fixed her with that light brown gaze. “I'm sure you have a hundred. A thousand, like Don Giovanni.”

“Hardly. I've been too busy for any of that.” She set down her glass, forcing herself to leave a little in the bottom. She looked pointedly at her watch. “Massimo, this has been the most divine dinner. Fetch your friends so I can thank them, and then we'd both better get our rest.”

He nodded, and signaled to the waiter. Soon they were being bowed out of the restaurant by all the staff, with good wishes for the success of the opera. Massimo held her arm as they walked to the car and took her hand to help her into her seat. His skin was warm, his fingers strong, deliberate in their touch.

As he walked around to the driver's side, she scolded herself. She had enjoyed it too much. She couldn't afford to get close to anyone, least of all this sweet young man. It didn't help that the wines and the liqueur had made her head buzz and her inhibitions recede nearly beyond her reach.

He smiled at her as he turned the key and the engine purred. “This was nice,” he said.

Octavia wanted to say something sharp, something that would stem the rising feeling between them. But the appeal of his smile stopped her. “It was indeed,” she said weakly.

He had his hand on the gearshift, but he didn't move it. He leaned across it and pressed his lips to hers. His mouth was cool, his lips firm. He tasted slightly of lemons.

Octavia meant to pull back. She told herself to pull back. But it was, after all, only a kiss. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sweet taste of Massimo's mouth, the gentle insistence of his hand on her chin.

When he broke the kiss, he didn't pull away immediately. His hand stayed where it was, stroking her cheek, cupping her jaw. “Invite me to your room, Octavia.”

Gently, she removed his hand and placed it on the steering wheel. “It's not a good idea,” she said.

He put the car in gear, still watching her. “I think it is,” he said. “But I promised.”

“Good memory,” she answered. She tore her gaze away to look out at the lights of the city. The shops were closed now. Even some of the restaurants were closing their shutters. As the Mercedes carried her toward the hotel, she felt a pang of regret. She supposed the room would still be empty. And her mouth tingled with remembered pleasure, making her body tingle, too. It had been a long time.

When they reached the hotel, the doorman started out to meet the car. Octavia reached for the door handle, but Massimo reached across to stop her. Before she could speak, he kissed her again, lingeringly this time, his lips moving against hers, his hand running up her arm to touch her breast, down to caress her waist.

He seemed so guileless, touching her as a boy might, tentatively, but with the promise of delights to come. Her breath came faster, and she considered changing her mind.

Then, abruptly, she thrust his hands away from her and drew her head back, breathing hard.

In the light that came from the hotel entrance, she saw that his lean cheeks flamed.

“Massimo—I'm sorry, but I have to—I have to go.” She reached for the door handle, but the doorman, seeing her movement, was there before her.

“What happened, for God's sake?” Massimo asked.

“Thank you for dinner,” Octavia said hurriedly. She picked up her bag from the floor and swung her legs out. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

The doorman kept his eyes averted as he closed the door. The tires hissed as Massimo swung the Mercedes sharply around the drive and sped out into the street.

Octavia covered her mouth with her hand as she hurried into the lobby, which mercifully was empty except for the night clerk. She kept her head turned away as she waited for the elevator, and when it came, she went in without looking back into the lobby.

That old feeling was in her belly, the throbbing in her throat, the bee-stung swelling of her lips. When she reached her floor, she already had her key in her hand. She let herself into the suite and didn't stop even to take off her coat, but hurried into the bathroom, her hand still over her mouth.

She flicked on the light. Gingerly, almost afraid to look, she lowered her hand. She used her forefinger to lift her upper lip.

Relief made her sag against the counter. Her teeth looked no different from the way they had that morning, at least in no way she could detect. Her incisors were straight and blunt. Her canines were sharp, but no longer than anyone would expect. She turned away from the mirror and went through the suite and into her bedroom with dragging steps, pulling off her jacket and scarf. She stripped off the rest of her clothes, leaving them where they fell on the carpet. With trembling hands, she found a nightgown, and then the thick bathrobe. She unclipped her hair and collapsed across the bed.

Poor Massimo. She should never have gone out with him. Loneliness was no excuse.

She closed her eyes. The room was too warm, and her head spun with wine and with shame. The faces danced through her mind, so many faces, some of them beautiful, some plain, all of them shocked and fearful. Even the most recent of them had been gone a hundred years, yet remained painfully fresh in her perfect memory.

How would she ever forgive herself if she added Massimo Luca to their number?

The days after the premiere of
Don Giovanni
brimmed with celebrations at the Nostitz Theater. Mozart was elated, and Bondini strutted with pride as if he had written the opera himself. The dressing rooms were flooded with flowers, and the singers found themselves acclaimed in the cafés and shops, applauded when they walked through the Old Town Square. The Countess Milosch sent notes to each singer, and Count Nostitz himself came backstage to commend them all for their triumph.

Teresa knew there were musical things she should work on, improvements she could make in her reading of the rôle, but her heart and her body burned with a different obsession. She could think of nothing but Mozart. She haunted the artists' entrance when he was expected at the theater. She came early, hoping to see him, and she stayed late, trying to catch him alone. She fabricated questions about the music to have excuses to talk to him, but if he had any memory of what had happened between them and Zdenka Milosch, he gave no sign. He no longer referred to her as the
piatto saporito.
And Constanze seemed to be at his side whenever he wasn't conducting.

Teresa stood in the doorway of her dressing room, watching them leave together after a performance. She had removed her costume and she was in her dressing gown, brushing the powder from her hair. As the Mozarts passed her in the corridor, she reflexively touched her neck. The marks had healed quickly, though they were so deep. She knew Wolfgang must have the same marks. As the Mozarts passed, Constanze looked up at her, and there was a spark in her eye, something fierce and protective that made Teresa step backward into her dressing room, bending her head in acknowledgment of Constanze's right.

She went to her dressing table and reached for the pitcher of water she now kept there all the time. She poured a tumbler of water and drank it down. She touched her forehead and her wrists, but she felt no fever. Why was she so thirsty?

As she pinned her hair up again and put on her street dress and shoes, she told herself she must accept that she was nothing more to Mozart than the creator of his Donna Anna. She was simply another singer, one of dozens he worked with. The moment they had shared had meant nothing to him. There was nothing left of it but the bite marks, and even those were disappearing faster than she would have thought possible.

She stood staring blindly at the rack of costumes against the wall. Everyone else had left the dressing room, and the racket of sets being moved had subsided. The theater would be empty now, everyone gone home or to various receptions. Teresa didn't feel like going to a party, nor did she feel much like going back to her empty room. Absently, her fingers probed her neck, touching the last traces of her encounter with Mozart. Her throat felt parched again, though she had just drunk a full glass of water. She supposed it could mean she was ill. She felt a nearly unbearable restiveness. Her hands twitched at this and that: her hair, her skirts, the flowers on her dressing table. Her feet would not be still, tapping toe and heel, toe and heel, a nervous rhythm.

She pinched the wick of the candle on her dressing table and left the dressing room with a restless step, shutting the door behind her with an irritable bang. The sound resonated down the corridor and into the empty theater. She walked back to the darkened stage and stood just beneath the proscenium arch. The hundreds of candles that had lighted the performance had recently been extinguished, and the fragrance of melting wax filled the darkness. The gold leaf on the walls glimmered faintly through the gloom.

Teresa longed for Vincenzo. She wished there had been a
castrato
rôle in
Don Giovanni,
so he could have been there. Vincenzo had sung for Mozart before, and the composer liked his voice. But styles were changing. The days of the
castrati
were fading, and Vincenzo's opportunities were fading with them.

Teresa wished she could flee back to Milano. Vincenzo would chaff her for being in love with Mozart, a married man. He would tease her, and he would comfort her.

But she couldn't go yet. There were performances yet to give, and other productions after this one. She sighed and turned to go to the artists' entrance.

There was no light left in the corridor except a single oil lamp flickering beside the outer door. Teresa put out her hand to feel her way down the narrow passage, working her way toward the faint glow.

When the light disappeared, she thought at first that the lamp had guttered out. She stretched out her other hand to feel the opposite wall, and her groping fingers encountered something warm and solid.

She drew back, but not before a strong hand gripped her wrist. A man's voice said, “Ah, I've caught my own
piatto saporito!
”

Teresa tried to pull away, but his fingers were iron hard. He pulled her close to him, and she felt the heat of his body burn through her dress. “Let me go!” she demanded.

“Why should I do that, my tasty dish? This is just what I've been hungry for.”

She leaned away from his sour breath, but his other hand caught her neck and pulled her close. She felt his lips, thick and moist, mash against her neck. “Leave me alone!” she said. “How dare you!”

Both his arms went around her waist, and he yanked her off her feet. She squirmed, and her struggle made him turn so the light from the gas lamp fell on his face. It was one of the stagehands, a thick-bodied man hired for his strength alone.

“I'll see you're fired!” she hissed, and tried to rake his cheek with her fingernails.

He laughed and pressed her hard against the wall. She was helpless against his weight and muscle. She tried to kick at him. He threw her to the floor, where she landed with a grunt of pain. Before she could move, he was upon her, pinning her arms, mouthing her cheek. He thrust his hips against hers, leaving no doubt about his intent. He began scrabbling at her skirts to lift them, and when he succeeded in that, he reached a hand between their bodies to unbutton his trousers. One of his heavy boots bruised her ankle as he shoved her legs apart, and she gave a long, sobbing scream of protest.

“Just enjoy it!” he panted in her ear.

She drew breath to scream again, then paused with her lungs full of air. She released the breath in silence, letting her cry die unvoiced. Something had changed. She felt a new sensation in her throat, in her lips, in her teeth. It was like lust, and yet unlike. It was a desire all its own, an instinctive appetite, predatory, cunning, and irresistible.

She let her body relax, softening beneath her assailant. He gave a coarse laugh at her evident submission. “Now, now!” he said. “That's better!” He lifted his head over hers, no doubt intending to kiss her.

The strange thirst that had plagued Teresa for days was now in complete command of her. Her lips, hot and swollen, pulled back. Her teeth throbbed, and she opened her mouth wide.

As the man bent his head, she angled her own so that it would not be his mouth she met with hers, but that soft place where the heart's blood pulsed just under the skin. There was no reason in it. There was only her need, and it was more urgent than anything she had ever felt.

She sank her teeth deeply into the left side of his throat. The small sound the skin made as it broke sent a shudder of pleasure through her. It shocked her, but it didn't stop her.

He gave a hoarse cry, which died away in a whimper. He tried, too late, to pull away, but her teeth were locked into his flesh. When he fell onto his back, she followed, covering him with her body. She braced her hands on the floor, on either side of his head, and she drank.

Deep draughts of fresh, hot blood sparkled in her mouth. They soothed her burning throat, calmed her mind, flooded her muscles with vitality until she brimmed with it, a vessel no longer dry.

His body quivered helplessly beneath her. His whimpers turned to moans, then silence. He convulsed once, from head to foot, then lay still as stone.

Teresa didn't know how much time had passed. She came to herself with a sort of slow horror. She struggled awkwardly up from the floor, adjusting her skirts and her smallclothes. The man's arms were flung out, blocking the passage, and she stumbled over one of them as she went to her dressing room for a candle. When she lit it and carried it back, she looked down at the stagehand lying inert in the corridor. She crouched beside him to place a reluctant hand on his chest. He neither breathed nor moved.

She lifted the candle to look more closely at him. She seemed to remember that he was slow of mind, that the stage manager had shouted at him for mistakes and misunderstandings.

She moved the candle so that its flickering light fell over his throat. She saw the two puncture wounds there, dark, with small rivulets of blood trickling away, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. She recognized those marks, and the realization shook her. She tried to make the sign of the cross, but her fingers would not obey.

She ran back to her dressing room with the guttering candle to look in the mirror over her dressing table. There was blood on her lips, and blood on her dress. She rubbed her mouth clean with a towel, then dipped the towel into the ewer of water and scrubbed at the spots on her bodice. They thinned and spread, soaking permanently into the fabric.

She gave it up just as the candle guttered out, leaving her in darkness. She fumbled for her wrap. As she felt her way back out into the corridor, her toe struck the heavy body stretched across her path, and her stomach quivered. No life remained in that body. No spark ran through those muscles, no thoughts—even slow ones—fired in that brain.

But she, as she stepped over him and ran lightly out into the cobbled street, felt more alive than she would have thought possible. Her heart fluttered between remorse and relief like a night moth between two flames. Her body thrummed with energy. And for the first time in days, she was no longer thirsty.

But Mozart? Did he still thirst?

 

Teresa didn't sleep that night. She paced her room, a tiny hotel in the shadow of St. Nicholas Church, and wished the sun would rise so she could go out and roam the streets of Prague. She wanted to see Mozart, and ask him. She wanted to ask Countess Milosch what had happened. Zdenka Milosch had bitten her, and bitten Mozart. But neither of them had died. Teresa had not even felt weak.

As the long night wore on toward dawn, Teresa wrestled with her guilt. A man had died. He was a bad man, and he had meant to hurt her, but he had been a human being. It didn't matter that she hadn't meant him to die, that she had been driven by an instinct she couldn't resist. She had bitten him, and then she had drunk his blood until there was no longer enough left in him to sustain his life.

And what would happen in the morning? His empty body still lay in the backstage corridor. Frantically, she tried to remember what she had done with the bloody towel. Had she dropped it in her dressing room? In the corridor, or the street? She couldn't recall.

Her room was on the top floor of the hotel, where she could just see the Gothic spires of St. Vitus rising from the far side of the river. When they began to glimmer with early morning light, she tore off her ruined gown and put on a clean one. She pinned up her hair, washed her face, and put on a warm coat. With the bloodied dress bundled into a sack, she left her room and hurried down the stairs, and walked quickly through the dim square toward the Nostitz Theater. At a corner just off the square, she stuffed the sack with its damning evidence into a rubbish bin.

The light was growing with alarming speed. Vendors were loading their handcarts, and shopkeepers were opening their shutters. Teresa began to run. The Nostitz was dark tonight. Teresa didn't expect to meet anyone from the Bondini company, but she feared the cleaning staff might come early, while no one was about.

She rounded the corner into the alley behind the theater, and froze.

Countess Milosch was standing in the artists' entrance, holding the door ajar. A man in a long, dark coat with caped shoulders stepped out. He had what looked like a rolled-up carpet over his shoulder. Teresa flattened herself against the brick wall of the corner building just as the man, with a nod to the Countess, started down the street toward her. He wore a dark hat with a deep brim that dipped forward over his eyes.

Teresa was unable to move as the man walked toward her with a purposeful step. He moved lightly on his booted feet as if the roll of carpet, with its gruesome burden, weighed nothing. He came closer, and then closer. Teresa could hardly breathe.

As he reached her, his eyes peered out from beneath the brim of his hat.

Teresa had just begun to breathe again, thinking she was out of danger, when the man's lips parted and he smiled.

It was the briefest of smiles, a slight curling of the corners of the mouth, pleasant lines carved into lean cheeks. But he showed her—with evident deliberation—his canines. They were brilliantly white in the shadow of the hat brim, and extraordinarily long and pointed. Teresa's heart faltered, and she fell back against the wall so that the rough bricks caught at her hair.

As he strode past her, his lips folded over those fearsome teeth, hiding them from view. He nodded, and was gone, leaving her panting in horror.

“Why, it's our little
piatto saporito!
”

Teresa whirled and found Zdenka Milosch at her shoulder.

The older woman's lips curled, rather as the man's had, but the Countess kept her mouth closed as she smiled, and her cheeks barely moved. Her dark eyes had a flat look, as if no light reflected in them. “So, my dear,” she said. “I expect you're feeling better today.”

Teresa didn't realize she had been holding her breath until it suddenly hissed in her throat. She put her hands on her hips and glared at the Countess Milosch. “What have you done to me?”

The Countess's slim shoulders lifted. “Two great gifts,” she said. Her tone and her expression were careless, as if Teresa's feelings didn't matter in the least.