Chapter 3 – Dahlia
Dahlia
I bring out my phone and get out of my seat, using the GPS to find my way to the conservatory. Once I get to Ponte de la Cortesia, tourists already crowding the pretty bridge, it’s a straight shot to the school.
The Benedetto Marcello Conservatory of Music is located in two buildings a stone’s throw away from the Grand Canal.
They blend in with the rest of Venice in the way that it’s both elegant and ubiquitous, the type of buildings that seem a fitting home for musicians.
I already received my welcome package online, so I enter the school with confidence, only briefly checking a map on the wall before heading off to my first class of the day.
Inside, the school is opulent and grand, with soaring ceilings and ornately carved moldings.
There are also a few modern touches, like large display screens in the hallways, and a garden area nestled in between two of the buildings, as well as inner courtyards that I’ve seen decorated with fairy lights during concerts on YouTube where guest musicians or students play.
The floors that surround the courtyards are open to the air, supported by pillars, giving the school the feeling of being in a grand palace.
I eventually find the classroom, passing by the entrance to the library on the way.
If I had more time I would duck my head in—the library is one of the most important in all of Italy, with over fifty thousand books as well as important historical artifacts, and it seems the perfect place to hide a stolen book of magic, especially if the professor is involved.
Instead, I go and wait outside the classroom, watching as students go in, pretending to check my phone.
Some are in pairs, but most don’t seem to know each other.
They all look at me but not in an odd way, more in wondering if I’ll be joining their class, which is a relief because it means I’m not standing out.
I take in a deep breath, watching the time count down on my phone. I don’t want to be too early, but I don’t want to waltz in late either. I have to do everything just right, to snag his interest without tipping him off that I’m doing it on purpose.
With two minutes before class starts, I walk in.
This is my music history class. I have a few academic classes while the rest are practical, and Professor Aminoff happens to be my teacher for both this one and the practical.
That wasn’t an accident of course. Even though this is my last chance according to the guild, I think the reason they picked me (they probably felt they had to pick me) wasn’t because of their generous nature in giving me a second chance, but because I was probably the only slayer who had musical experience and talent, particularly with it comes to the keys, which is Dracula’s speciality.
I immediately scan the room for the right seat, though I don’t have many options with only two left by the front.
I glance quickly at the professor, just to make sure he’s there, and in that quick glance I feel like I’ve gotten the wind knocked out of me.
Which is weird, since vampires usually leave me with an angry, disgusted feeling bordering on primal rage.
It doesn’t matter how compelling, how sexual, how otherworldly they are, I see past all of that and am only struck by how depraved, feral, and horrific they are.
I see them for what they really are: immoral, monstrous killers.
And staring at Professor Valtu Aminoff, the one who inspired Dracula, I see him for what he really is while he takes my fucking breath away.
He’s leaning over his desk, staring down at something on it—maybe his phone, maybe the curriculum, but I have no doubt that his attention is on every person that walks in his class, even if he doesn’t look like it. For better or worse, my attention is surely on him.
I’ve seen his picture before so I knew what to expect: a tall, well-built man with dark hair and strong features suited to another century. But seeing him in person is something else entirely.
To start, yes he’s tall and well-built but he’s more than that.
He’s wearing dark charcoal jeans and a white dress shirt that shows a hint of his chest, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in a haphazard way that makes him look like he got dressed in a hurry.
His forearms aren’t as pale as most vampires, as if he was born with a slightly golden sheen to him.
From the way he’s leaning on the desk, the veins and muscles on his forearm pop, showcasing the supernatural strength that he would naturally have.
His shoulders are broad, curving into his shirt, chest wide, biceps taking up the bulk of his sleeves, and I’d have to place him at six-foot-two.
Despite his height and how well-muscled he is, he’s not bulky.
He’s still quite lean with a lot of length in his limbs, a strange sort of elegance that might be the result of him being a vampire or it might just be him.
Then there is his face. A thick head of black hair, wavy, that falls long, almost past his chin, the kind of hair you want to run your fingers through.
His brows are low, naturally arched and dark, harboring deep-set brown eyes, framed by long lashes.
Nose is aquiline, like mine, but suits him so much better, mouth wide, lips full, a strong chin.
He’s clean shaven but I can tell he’ll have a five o’clock shadow by the time the day is done.
To every student walking in the class, no matter their gender, they would be enthralled by this man.
I am sure his nickname here is Professor Hottie, or Professore Bello or something.
But they would all chalk up their attraction to him on the fact that when you put all his pieces together, he ends up being an extremely attractive, sexually magnetic, charismatic human being.
Who wouldn’t look? But if they could see below the surface, see the life experiences of a 300 year old, plus being the world’s deadliest predator, and having the gift of the supernatural at their whim, they would understand why Professor Aminoff has such a pull on them.
I mean, he’s having a pull on me and I know exactly what I’m dealing with. And I realize this too late, because as I’m about to take my seat, as I’m about to avert my eyes, he looks up at me directly and his eyes meet mine.
In that second I am defenseless, pinned in place, and it’s only when he looks back down at his desk that I feel I can breathe again.
He had me there. He really had me for that one second and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
I stared directly into his dark eyes and I felt like giving everything up for him, I wanted to lie down on his desk, expose my neck, and offer myself to him.
In that second, I was no longer a witch with magic at her disposal. No longer the slayer I was trained to be. No longer the hunter. I was the hunted and I was his prey and I was happy about it.
But then all sense came back to me, followed by panic. He didn’t see past my glamor, did he? Does he know that I’m a witch, does he know who I truly am?
How the fuck am I going to do my job when he has me wanting to bend over for him the very first time we make eye contact?
I swallow those thoughts down and try my best to disappear into my role. Luckily if he’s paying attention to me, which I am sure he is, I could easily chalk up my fast heart rate and flushed cheeks to being nervous on my first day of school.
I take out the history textbook and my notebook and pencil from my bag (I take notes better by hand than laptop) and stare at him while waiting for the class to start, like every student seems to be.
“Ah,” he says, standing up straight and glancing over his shoulder at the clock on the wall.
“I guess we shall begin our class then. My name is Professor Valtu Aminoff, but please call me Valtu.” He says this in Italian, his accent fluent.
I have no doubt he can speak countless languages fluently.
While I learned German and French growing up and in university, it takes a spell or two to really master another language.
As a result, I learned Italian quickly but writing it can be hard for me, and I definitely don’t sound Italian when I speak.
He, on the other hand, looks and sounds as if he was born in Venice.
Perhaps he was. The history books of the witches have Dracula born in Russia, but they might be wrong.
The thought of Russia slams a memory into my head, one of me on the ground, looking up at a man speaking to me in Russian.
But I realize this isn’t a memory at all but a fragment from a dream, from the nightmare I had last night.
In all those dreams I could never understand the language spoken, but suddenly now I do.
Why was I dreaming in Russian?
“Now I know you are all students of music,” he goes on, his deep, slightly melodic voice bringing my attention back to him, “and you probably don’t give a rat’s ass about history.
You know your stuff, so you say. You can tell me all about Mozart, right?
You know Verdi, of course you do, this is Italy.
But what about Mendelssohn? Do you know that he was subjected to anti-semitism, brought on by Wagner who was actually jealous of his success?
How about Barber, who composed Sadness, a 23-bar piece in C minor at the age of seven .
” He pauses, a crooked smile on his lips, as if smiling to himself.
I swear I hear the internal swooning of the girl in the seat beside me.
“I know you are all here because you want to perfect your skills, whether in strings, percussion, keys, whatever it is. You are musicians ascending to the next level. But in order to really play music, you have to understand where it comes from. There’s no way around it. ”
And with that speech, Professor Aminoff launches into what we will be learning over the semester, and I do my best to listen and take notes, like a normal student would do.
Only my notes are written down as if I’m on autopilot, because what I’m really doing is trying to understand him.
What excites this vampire? What is he passionate about?
How will I stand out in this classroom amongst other students who are far prettier or handsomer?
How will I endear him to me, enough to get him alone, to infiltrate his life so I can do the job I was sent here to do?
“And you ,” Valtu’s voice penetrates my thoughts and I realize he’s turned his attention to me. In fact, I’m only now cluing in that he’s been asking everyone in the class to divulge a little bit about themselves.
Everyone’s eyes are on me and Valtu gives me a slight smirk, his dark eyes glimmering like he knows he’s caught me not paying attention (the irony, when he’s all I’ve been thinking about).
“And what about me?” I say to him, looking him dead in the eyes.
He holds my gaze, his right brow arching slightly. “If you care to follow suit and introduce yourself to the class.”
“As if we are in kindergarten?” I ask, then look around at my classmates who are staring at me, some smiling at what I said, a few looking far-too serious. “All right then. My name is Dahlia Abernathy. I was born in Victoria, British Columbia, Canada. My musical instrument of choice is the organ.”
“Ah,” the professor muses and I bring my attention back to him.
He’s in front of the desk now, leaning against it with practiced ease, arms folded across his chest. A lock of his dark hair falls across his forehead, giving him the brooding, wild look of Heathcliff wandering the moors, or so I’ve imagined.
“One of the four organists I am teaching this year. You’re a dying breed.
You’ll have to tell me why you took up the instrument. ”
I straighten my shoulders, belied by some inner confidence that slides upon me like stage makeup when I’m playing a role. “I’d rather show you why,” I tell him.
He tilts his head, as if taken aback, staring at me like I’ve totally thrown him off course. “Very well,” he says, then clears his throat, moving onto the next student.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m trying to endear myself to him, not challenge him and piss him off.
I’ve had easier times playing nice with vampires in the past—many of my kills started because I appealed to them in one way or another.
I can only hope that the one they call Dracula finds it alluring that I’m not fawning all over him.
But only time will tell.