The Power of Her Voice

Kelantha

Given my natural sensibilities, it came as no surprise to me that the visit of the local priest came as an immense vexation to my husband. It was not his general distaste for the church as a whole as much as it was utter loathing and contempt for a man that we would soon find to be intolerable, whether in his personal habits, which were tidy to the point of being maddening, or his professional vices, which did not slack even when warned numerous times to leave the matter be. My husband went out in a rage shortly after the short, balding man quitted my mother�s household with an arrogant sniff of displeasure at our narrow-mindedness, and did not return until the early hours of the morning. I knew from his expression as he came in that he had fed, but it had not satisfied him. There was a curious listlessness to his movements that I had grown accustomed to equating with an odd sense of self-evaluation.

I anticipated further visits from Father Torquemada, but there were none. It was both a relief and a misery, for I anticipated that we had not heard the last of it. The notion that the priest had indicated to bathe my fair skin in holy water and the blessings of the church in account of what must be immeasurable sins to have caused me such misfortune as consumption, had struck me with such horror that the blessed memories of happiness within the sanctuary of the church had been temporarily wiped from my mind. My mother was dutifully disapproving of my behavior, and that of my �foreign husband,� and ignored me for the greater part of the evening following. By the time sunset came, I was desperate to quit the house and its occupants. Cristina�s flattering but tiresome attempts to console me, to fetch things for me, had become a damned nuisance. I looked upon her with loathing not for her own sake, but because I desired to be let alone.

But I could not escape. Our house had been descended upon by the normal variety of guests, who gathered in the parlor and were excessively polite. I knew that the rumors of my illness had spread rapidly and that the compassionate looks they sent me were in the wake of the thought, The poor dear, so pale and thin, it must be dreadful for her to be so stricken. They thought I was weak, an invalid, but I had more strength than five of them together. The boys that had happily bullied me as children would have now been prey to my tremendous strength and stamina. I could have picked them off one by one in the late hours of the night, had they not been my brothers. I was affectionate to them, and this was genuine, but for the guests I put on a pleasant countenance and pretended to be interested in their trivial comments.

Cristina was a marvelous pianist and it was not long before she was called upon to entertain all of us with her talent. I sat and listened, and felt my heart bond to the music. With my changing had come an awakening of senses that I did not know existed; I knew how the lyrical song effected everyone within the room, from the drifting minds of my companions to the increased heartbeat as it thundered in my father�s breast�that of pride, in having such an accomplished daughter in law. And then there was my immortal companion, the sober figure in black that lurked in the background, ever charming, able to easily woo even the most stubborn of guests. His lithe fingers rested on the back of my chair as he came to listen, his eyes glowing fiercely with a love of the music. Had anyone interrupted it, they would have faced his horrible wrath; but in that instant he was tranquil, at peace.

Once the song ended, Cristina waved aside our praises demurely and then, without thinking, remarked on my beautiful voice. I had not sung in public since my younger years, my mother having insisted on me being paraded before her guests. Shortly before my departure for England, I had sworn never to sing again, as much to displease her as to prevent masculine eyes from gazing upon me in awe and appreciation. There came a sudden silence to the room, and her eyes widened as one hand lifted to her mouth. Her apology�the assumption that I could not now sing�was a moment too late, for I gazed upon the surrounding circle and, dangerous as it might have been to comply, agreed that I would sing. It would give me power, and I wanted to shock them. I was not so great of a pianist, but put my hands to it, granting a ballad from Transylvania, one that I had learned from the gypsies. My voice soared into the lyrics, a sensual interpretation of the lands from which my husband came, as dear to him as the breath that had once flowed through his veins; and over the room came a sudden stillness, as though no one partook of the air surrounding them, so captivated were they. My mother was as much horrified with my choice as she was astounded by my voice, for it had changed, deepened, become enriched. I did not then realize it, but much later came to understand why: it was he. The blood that we shared, that even now rippled through our veins, our physical union in the desperate darkness, had changed me beyond a mere altering of life and death. It had made me more than I had been; there was a strong sensuality to my voice that astounded them, and granted me power.

My eyes never lifted from the ivory keys, but I could sense him watching me. Dracula was powerfully enthralled. I could feel the pleasure radiating from him, a pride in my accomplishments, awe at the strength of my voice, for he had never heard it before, and a purely primal adoration for the song that I had chosen. When it came to its conclusion, everyone remained aghast. I did not feign weakness, and perhaps I should have, but arose from the piano. Cristina was the first to compliment me, hastening to come to my side and clasp my arm in hers. The others joined in with their appreciation, but it was a silent party that left our residence that night. Everyone knew something had altered, that the emotions they experienced should not have been awakened, but they might cleanse themselves the following day with Mass. I was grateful only for the embracing darkness. It welcomed me as I slipped through the side door, meeting my husband on the landing.

Dracula did not ask to accompany me, nor I give him permission, but we went forth as one into the night, not so much in the desire to feed, but desperation to be together. We spent numerous hours in one another�s presence but it was only now, when the sun had long set and the wind flowing across the river bore a familiar scent of churned earth and flowing water, that we felt truly at ease. I had never done so before, but as we walked down the narrow, darkened street, I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. We did not hasten our pace, but allowed the moment to linger. It was only in the later hours that I saw a figure passing in the shadows. It was an older woman, making her way tediously down the street, unaffected by the darkness. My hand left the folds of his cloak and I stepped in her general direction, only to pull back as another figure approached from down the way.

Even at a distance I could sense the power of the Archbishop. His compassion radiated out from him in waves, as he escorted the poor wretch safely home. Neither of us spoke, my husband and I, but found nourishment elsewhere. We might have wandered until dawn, but returned to the house. I bolted the door, and he came to me. His grip was gentle, the taste of blood upon his lips, but there was strangeness to his eyes as he drew back, cradling my face in his hands. My hair came undone and fell around my chin, caressing his white fingers in fragrant waves. �I wonder that I know you, Kelantha,� he whispered. �Each time I dare presume, you astound me. You have greater powers than I have ever imagined.�

�All the more worthy,� I replied, �to be your bride.�

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