Whispers of Vengeance

Kelantha

I had hoped never to see him again, and yet he stood before me, the same rash, impulsive man that once I had believed I might love. Nothing had changed in our years apart, not his cynical smile, nor the dancing danger in his eyes as his hand wrapped protectively around the arm of the woman who had once called me �friend.� I hated him in that moment, with such a vile passion that it nearly overwhelmed me; but my features were complacent, utterly composed in the remarkable ability I had to repel instinct. His fingers stretched out to me, and mine fell into them, lifted to his lips with a sensuous intensity that would have been alarming, were I not aware of my own power. In that instinctive instant, in the well-lit courtyard with my parents� guests dancing in the background, and my husband slipping away through the columns, a shadow in the darkness, I gazed into my former fianc�s eyes and acknowledged the hold that I held over him. That I could hold over him. I seduced men�s souls with the power of my voice, corrupted their hearts with the intensity of my gaze. I might have rendered him powerless in that moment, and yet all I could feel rippling through me was fear. He reminded me of things I wanted to forget, places I would have rather not returned to, individuals that I prayed never to see again. This weakened me, and I knew that it enraged my husband, for he was watching from the shadow of the nearest column.

It was still there, a burning flicker of desire from the man who had attempted to ill-use me for profit. My mother was still vexed with me for shunning him, and had brought us together again in both triumph over my superior choice or an attempt to punish me. I felt a rush of energy in my veins, the blood newly pulsing through my dead soul, as I beheld him against the other guests, a tall, domineering figure utterly self-absorbed. My eyes narrowed, and I felt an emotion akin to one an animal has upon spying its prey. That he would profess, after all he had done to me, that we might be �friends� was a blow that caused me to politely flee when the moment was prudent. I beheld him with contempt and plotted my revenge. I knew that to seek him out would be dangerous for both of us, and thus I avoided him, but visions of what might have been, possibilities of luring him to his death, of taking advantage of his domineering pride in order to render him to ruin, appealed to me.

There were many curious about my time spent abroad; questions of London and society in Transylvania, a place that so many of them had never even heard of. Throughout, over the melody of the players set up beneath the arches, my eyes were often drawn to the darkness beyond, beckoning me into the streets. I longed to leave them, as Dracula had, rippling out in a flutter of cape, but could not for propriety�s sake. I had turned away from yet another relative with a strained smile upon my lips, when looming before me was a figure I knew well. I had not spoken with the archbishop since that evening in the cemetery, when I had come so near to bearing my soul, and the warmth in his eyes as he appraised my stature and the sweep of my hands was one of fatherly admiration. My lips parted, and for an instant no sound uttered forth; then I said quietly, but with joy, �I am so glad you have come.�

de Vivero took my hand into his, and the warmth of his touch radiated through my cold body. It was painful to be this close to him, and yet I embraced the pain, for I would not yet relinquish all goodness from my soul. It weakened me, the faith that brewed in his veins. �Kelantha, my darling child,� he said, �I would not have missed this evening for all the saints in Christendom. Will you allow an old priest the privilege of a dance?�

Memories came washing back to me, of moonlight and courtyards, of sitting alone watching as my mother and the other ladies of society went through delicate paces, of chewing on the end of my pigtails and wishing that I could be among them. He had come along the columns softly, his long robes rippling, and sat down beside me. �One day your turn will come,� he promised me; and only now had his vow come true. As a precocious nine year old, I had asked him if he would dance with me, and he had said that one day he would. My hand molded into his, the delicate sensation of his touch upon my waist, the goodness that radiated from him as we moved together in slow steps, the conversation that poured from his lips, the curiosity and concern in his eyes, the fact that he never mentioned my illness or that I had missed mass, there was only an instant in which the child existed once more, and looked in adoration upon her mentor.

I was nearly in tears when we parted once again, he to return to his church of magnificence and I to languish in darkness for an eternity. My husband had gone. Though the fiesta lingered late into the night, and dawn was coming upon the horizon when the last of the guests bid their farewells, I did not see him again. When he returned, his features were darker than I have ever seen them, cruel in their glittering intent. There was a coldness to his countenance as he came to me, placing his arms around me and drawing me to him. �I have never known,� he said softly, �such darkness among common man. Everything in this city is a farce, a masquerade, and concealment for the vile nature that dwells within. Those who profess to be innocent are less than they appear, and those who profess to be knowledgeable are the most innocent of all. They smile while tearing at the soul like ravenous wolves. I know now why you left, and it is perhaps advisable that we do the same.�

He parted from me, leaving me alone on the verandah as I beheld the first creeping fragments of light ripple against the horizon. But as he passed, I turned and caught his sleeve, drawing the intensity of his gaze; it softened when it beheld the determination in my eyes. �Not yet,� I whispered. �We cannot leave now, not until it is finished. Not until I have had my vengeance.�

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