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He totally said that on purpose.
I clear my throat. “So you can’t make a vampire, then.”
“We can,” he says slowly. “But it’s not allowed anymore.”
“Who says?”
“Who do you think?”
“Skarde?” He nods. “Why not anymore?”
“Because it was done for a while, to get vampires established, and then it was outlawed. It rarely goes the way you want it to. Humans that become vampires are…mentally and physically unstable, to put it mildly. It’s an awful life, if you’re unlucky enough to even survive it. Most kill themselves, one way or another, on purpose or not. You want to know how vampires became such feared and condemned creatures? That’s how. They’re the true monsters in this world.”
I shiver despite myself. “Have you turned anyone into one?”
His eyes narrow sharply. “I would never do that. I’m cruel, remember, but not that cruel.” He pauses, his fingers tensing around the glass, enough that I worry about it shattering. “The less blood-hungry savage creatures there are on this earth, the better.”
I decide I shouldn’t ask any more about that. Not from him, anyway. Then again, Wolf seemed pretty cagey and uncomfortable talking about Skarde too. I have to wonder if this house is on the vampire king’s shitlist. How can it not be, when Solon and his crew have been handing over vampires to witches for who knows how long?
Solon straightens up in his chair, looking toward a bookshelf. “Perhaps we should…play some music.”
Classical music immediately fills the room.
I’m impressed.
“Let me guess, that’s some kind of magic you got from witches?” I ask.
“No,” he says evenly. “That’s Alexa.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling my face flush.
“I do have a small repertoire of magic that I’ve bartered for, but technology wins out most of the time.”
“The music is lovely,” I tell him, letting the somber, elegant tones wash over me, bringing back that feeling of calm of when I first stepped into the house. “What is it?”
““The Poet Acts” by Philip Glass. Not bad for a modern composer.”
The term “modern composer” makes me think of how many composers he must have heard in his lifetime.
“Did you ever meet Beethoven?” I ask.
“Beethoven?” he repeats incredulously, giving me a funny look. “No. Just because I was alive when Beethoven was, doesn’t mean I met him.” He pauses, giving me a small smile. “I did see Mozart in concert though.”
I stare at him in awe. “No way.”
His smile widens, reaching his eyes until they’re absolutely dazzling. Butterflies twirl through my stomach.
“Yes, way,” he says. “It was in Paris.” He closes his eyes, a wistful crease in his brow. “1763, I believe. It was a cold night in November. In those days, it snowed that early, and the snow was coming down hard. Nearly missed the concert because of it. Mozart was so young, just a boy. Eight years old maybe. Never seen anything like it before, and haven’t since then.”
He opens his eyes and fixes them on me and for a moment I think I can see the past in them. I can feel what it was like to have been there, and tears automatically spring to my eyes, goosebumps spreading along my arms. I can feel the cold outside the concert hall doors, hear the hushed murmurs of the crowd, then footsteps walking across a wooden stage. The first notes of a piano, so clear, so beautiful, my heart is almost breaking.
The corner of his mouth lifts as he tilts his head, studying me. “That’s curious. Feels like you’re there, doesn’t it?”
I nod slowly, afraid to break the spell, though I can’t tell what belongs to Philip Glass, and what is Mozart swirling around in my head.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, his voice low as he continues to observe me, “it’s been ages since someone has had my blood. It doesn’t happen often, and it never happens by accident.”
“What does it all mean?” I ask, hushed.
He gets to his feet and comes over, crouching down in front of me, his presence so close, making my skin go from hot to cold and back again.
Utterly alive.
“It means you share parts of my memories now. Of what I’ve felt. What I’ve seen. And what I’ve done.” He reaches out and with startling tenderness, brushes his thumb under my eye. I’m surprised to see it wet with an errant tear. “I better be careful of what I tell you of my past,” he says quietly.
I stare at him, numb and amazed at once.
He gets to his feet and I immediately close my eyes, trying to conjure up the memory of Mozart again, but it’s faded away like a dream does in the morning.
I’m starting to fade too, like the emotions of his past are exhausting me, pulling me under.
“You look tired,” he says again. “You should relax.”
At his words, I sink deeper into the couch, the glass of Scotch dangling from my fingers. He reaches down and takes it from me before I drop it, placing it on the side table.
