Chapter Three #2
“It was the most frightening and exhilarating year of my life,” he says.
“Finally, one night I received a letter. She asked me to compose something inspired by her, and promised that if it pleased her, she would give me a gift that no other patron would ever be able to match.” He sits down, carefully lifting his cello.
“This next piece is the one that convinced her to gift me with immortality.”
His story creeps under my skin. I’m far too tense, and I can’t help fearing that the woman who sired him is lurking somewhere behind us, waiting to strike again.
There are too many vampires, and I appear to be the only human in the room.
Gustavsson’s music doesn’t alleviate the feeling.
It’s raw, awful, as though he knew his end was coming when he first wrote it.
Once it finishes, the room is too quiet.
Professor Gustavsson remains seated, eyes shut as if he’s praying.
And then he’s up again, striding across his platform to tell us about another composer, Caroline Campbell.
“Only three of her compositions survived,” he says.
“She was famous for not writing anything down, and her melodies were so complex that even if you tried to memorise them, you could never capture the original sound. Campbell played for royalty, human and vampire alike, though most of her repertoire is now as lost as The Book of Blood and Roses.”
I’m rummaging through my bag for another pen, too caught up in the movement to fully react to the name of the book. Gustavsson drops his gramophone’s needle onto a record, a crackling piano filling the lecture hall. I grasp my pen, tight, and stare down at the blank paper. I didn’t imagine that.
He said it.
The Book of Blood and Roses.
I bite down a smile. Finally. I watch those around me. No one appears to be confused by the title.
“What’s The Book of Blood and Roses?” I whisper to Ife, as Professor Gustavsson bobs his head to the piano piece.
“You’ve never heard of it?” she asks, disbelief widening her eyes.
“I don’t think so.”
“A compendium of lost knowledge,” Ife says, leaning closer. “Though it’s been missing for centuries. No one knows who the author is, but people say it took them until their last breath to write the last word.”
“What sort of knowledge?” I ask. I need to know everything, yet I have a feeling I’m about to hit a wall, like another dead end in the meandering tunnels that run beneath this godforsaken campus.
“Methods,” Ife says slowly, “to kill vampires.”
A thrill runs through me. It is just as Penny said.
“And where is it?” I ask, trying to keep excitement out of my voice.
Ife frowns at me for a split second, with what I think is suspicion, but then shakes her head. “It’s lost,” she says. “And let’s hope it stays that way.”
I focus on the professor as he moves between one piece and the next, occasionally picking up his cello. The lecture drags on, two whole hours that feel like ten, before giving us three topics to choose from for our first essay.
“Human,” someone whispers in front of us as I pack my satchel. I glance ahead, surprised to find an unfamiliar vampire staring right at me. “Professor Gustavsson wants a word,” he says.
Ife furrows her brows, first at the vampire, and then at me. “She has a name,” Ife hisses.
“Well, I don’t know it,” the vampire counters. I shrug and tell her to leave without me.
The stench of incense grows stronger as I walk down the aisle between the tables, my boots echoing on the ancient tiles. Gustavsson is erasing his blackboard, filled with names of several obscure vampire composers. He then sets about fixing his tie before finally looking down at me.
“Ah, you must be”—he glances over at a list on his desk, and then at me again, with a frown—“Cassie Smith?”
“Yes,” I say. The wooden door slams shut, lifting a momentary breeze that snuffs out a few candles.
The already-dim classroom becomes even darker.
And now, we’re alone. “Sorry for being late,” I start, because I imagine that’s why he wants a word.
“I took a few wrong turns in the tunnels,” I say, hiding my clenched fists behind my back. “But it won’t happen again, Professor.”
“Oh, don’t be sorry,” he says quickly. “I imagine studying in a university like this must be a shock for a human.”
He keeps his distance, somewhat awkwardly. “I suppose so,” I reply. The echo of our voices fills the room, and I wait for someone passing by to open the door and peek inside, but even the tunnels seem to have quietened now. “But I’ve been looking forward to coming here.”
“Me, too,” he says. “It’s Tynahine’s first year opening its gates to humans, and also its first year allowing a wretched soul like me in, to share my so-called wisdom.”
“It’s your first year teaching here?” I ask.
“I was here two centuries ago, but as a student,” he says.
“That’s not why I wanted to talk, however.
You are my only human student, Cassie, so I just want to make it clear that if you are ever in any sort of”—he pauses, looking for the word—“trouble, then you can come to me. My office is a safe space for humans. As confident as Faust Nocth is in his little project, there is still danger. So, should you ever feel threatened, you’ll find my door is always open. ”
“Thanks,” I say. My muscles are stiff. His words come across as genuine, but the thought of running to a vampire’s office when I’m in danger is a little disturbing.
“Earlier you mentioned Campbell’s compositions are as lost as The Book of Blood and Roses, and that made me wonder…
” I pause, hoping he’ll answer without me having to probe too much. “What exactly is that book?”
He considers me and starts folding paper, so meticulously that I think he’s going to ignore my question.
“A book of secrets,” he finally says. “It’s best known for its instructions on how to kill a vampire.
But it contains much more. Remedies for curses, spells from forbidden grimoires, and a list of every vampiric weakness ever observed in the West,” he says.
“It’s both a history and a collection of theories—some even say it contained a cure for vampirism. A way to reverse our disease.”
He blows out the candles on his desk, so that the only source of light now is the stained-glass windows, glowing in the dim of the tunnels.
“Though I wouldn’t concern yourself with books as dangerous as that one, Cassie Smith,” he says, hoisting up his cello behind his back.
“Someone might mistake your curiosity for something a little more…sinister.”