Chapter 5 – Dahlia #2
Hmmm. I only talked to Bellamy briefly when he called me up to tell me the guild was giving me a second chance.
That’s all I needed. I’d be happy if I never talked to him again.
We didn’t end things on good terms. He went from being my substitute father to being a stranger faster than I could blink.
Somewhere nearby a church bell rings, the sound solemn, and I glance at my phone. Time for my music theory class, sadly it’s not one with Professor Vampire.
“I have to run,” I tell Livia, finishing the rest of my coffee.
“Okay,” she says. “Next week this time?”
I get out of my chair and nod, pulling my purse onto my shoulder. “I’ll text you if I have any problems,” I tell her.
“Hopefully you won’t,” she says, her face going grim. “Be safe, okay? I mean it.”
I give her a shaky smile. “I’ll do my best. On all accounts.”
I head off toward the school, wishing that the sun felt warmer on my skin.
The shadows of the buildings are long, the canals dark, and even though it’s still crowded with tourists, the spooky feeling follows me all the way to my class.
Even during class I have a hard time paying attention.
Doesn’t help that music theory is incredibly boring.
When the class is finally over, I don’t really feel like going to my apartment. It’s too small and isolated and feels like a hotbox at this time of day. It’s rare that I actually want to be around people—I crave solitude above all else—but after the talk with Livia, I don’t want to be alone.
I decide to head to the library. I’d only been in there twice this week, both just to take a peek, but now that I have some exams and projects coming up I figure it’s good to get a head start in studying.
The library is located on the top floor at the back of the school.
With its high arched ceilings, alfresco paints and moldings, it would rival the concert room in grandeur if it didn’t have a haphazard way about it.
It’s darker than it should be, as if the light doesn’t travel very far, and the rows are stacked in an awkward manner.
That usual smell of old books, the vanilla-ish lignin, is absent.
At the back of the library is a small museum of sorts with rare manuscripts and music sheets on display, a room that’s portioned off by glass. It’s there that I find Professor Aminoff, standing behind a large table in the center and opening an envelope, his hands encased in plastic gloves.
For a moment I think I should just go through the stacks and find the books I need for my courses, but knowing that every second I waste not getting to know the vampire is a second longer that this so-called portal is open.
And it doesn’t matter because I watch as Valtu smiles to himself and then gazes up at me without raising his head, making him look both sexy and sinister, a deadly combination.
The hair raises at the back of my neck, the urge to flee tugging at me.
“Dahlia,” he says quietly, straightening up. “And to what do I owe your presence this evening?”
He’s speaking English and his tone is amused yet dry, as if I’m someone he could do without seeing. The feeling is mutual.
“I was going to check out some books,” I tell him. I walk toward him and stop just outside the entrance to the glass room. “What are you doing?”
He raises up an old book in his hands. “Just received a donation of a rare manuscript from the 1700s. Cover is worn off but the inside is intact.”
I peer at it from where I am. “Who is it from?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. We get donations here all the time. I’m sorting through some of them now.” He eyes me. “Come on in.”
I hesitate. “I’m sure you don’t need me breathing all over your rare books.”
“Too much garlic?” he asks, another quirk of his lips. “You’re in Italy now, rossa . Garlic is coming out of all of our pores.”
For a moment I ignore his new nickname for me and wish that the Hollywood ways of killing or repelling vampires actually worked.
Garlic? Nope. As you can see, Valtu eats it.
Silver? He’s got a few silver rings on his slender fingers.
Sunlight? The vampire lives in Italy. I know that vampires in general don’t like the sun because their eyes and skin are extra sensitive, but it certainly doesn’t kill them.
A cross? Some vampires go to church. A stake through the heart?
Unless it’s the blade of mordernes , the special slayer’s blade I have, then their heart will continue to beat around it.
Only decapitation and sometimes fire can actually end their lives.
At the thought of my blade, my fingers start to twitch, something Valtu picks up on.
“Are you alright?” he asks, eyeing my flexing hand.
“I’m mentally playing the organ,” I lie. “Just something I do sometimes.”
He meets my eyes and I have to suck in my breath, the intensity in his dark gaze seeming to steal the oxygen from the room.
He knows I’m lying, doesn’t he? He knows that I’m the one to wield the blade that can kill him, that the metal handle fits perfectly in my palm like we were once fused together.
“Ah,” he eventually says before turning his attention back to the book. “Then don’t let me keep you.”
I want to take the exit. I want to turn and disappear into the stacks or maybe just go straight back to the apartment after all. My pulse is quicksilver, the ends of my hair still standing up, and fuck it, can’t he tell that I’m scared?
And yet I stay. And it’s not because I am stubborn or that I really want to get this job done (though both are true), but because I am compelled to be by his side. The kicker is I can’t tell if it’s because he’s using his power to compel me or if it’s something else, like hormones gone wild.
So I step inside the room beside him, and one brow lifts as he eyes me. “Do you need any help?” I ask him, my gaze going to the stack of envelopes beside him, ripped open, and the books displayed beside them. “Are those all donations?”
He stares at me for a long moment—long enough to make my cheeks feel hot—then nods. “They are.”
“All anonymous?”
“All anonymous.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” I ask.
He pulls out a drawer from the edge of the table and removes a box of latex gloves, handing it to me.
“Rich people are eccentric,” he says as I take the box.
“Not all of them want to be associated with handing over relics, especially if they came across them in some, shall we say unscrupulous way. Besides, it wasn’t long ago that the tidal surge of the acqua alta flooded the library, ruining a lot of our most prized books, which led to a surge in donations.
Who thought it was a good idea to have them housed on the ground floor in Venice is beyond me. ”
“That explains why the library feels so new,” I tell him, slipping on the gloves. I stay on the end of the table, not wanting to get too close to him.
“Yes, they could have done a better job in moving it,” he comments dryly. “The lighting in here is atrocious. But at least the books are safe.”
He reaches over and hands a book to me, then puts a pen and a library card beside it. “I haven’t checked this one over. Just try to make some sense of it and write down the key characteristics on the card. It will help with cataloging it.”
I carefully flip the book open and I’m hit with the smell that’s been missing from here. I close my eyes for a moment and when I open them, Valtu is staring at me again and I’m suddenly aware I’ve been smiling.
“Do you know what causes the smell of old books?” he asks me.
I give him a smile that borders on triumphant. “Lignin. The breakdown of the wood in paper, plus the glue, ink and other chemicals.”
“So then you know,” he says, flipping through the book he’s holding before glancing at me again. “Are you able to read that?”
I peer at the musty pages. The ink has faded a bit but it’s in Italian and clear enough. I nod. “I read Italian better than I speak it.”
“I think you speak it just fine.”
I refuse to let him compliment me. “I sound terrible and you know it.”
He tries to hide a smile but his eyes are dancing. Good lord. He has a way of making me forget what he really is. “For an American, your accent is superb.”
“I’m Canadian.”
“Oh right. Then you’re really doing well. But your writing? Well, that remains to be seen.”
I don’t bother telling him my writing is even worse. Learning a language through witchcraft only does so much, especially on a short amount of time.
Don’t even think about that , I remind myself. What if he hears your thoughts?
But even though vampires can do that with some humans, my glamor is preventing him from doing that with me. At least I assume so. Otherwise he would have known my intentions from day one.
“Tell me,” he says thoughtfully, “why did you decide to come to school here?”
“I’ve always been charmed by Venice,” I tell him.
“But in class the other day, you said it was your first time here.”
“I mean, I’ve always been charmed by the idea of Venice.”
“I see. And has it charmed you yet?”
No, but its vampire is giving it a run for its money.
“I’m not easy to win over,” I tell him with a teasing smile.
“I can tell,” he says.
“Neither are you,” I add.
He frowns, looking me over curiously. “What makes you say that?”
“I invited you for a drink and you said no,” I say bluntly.
His brows shoot up. “And you think that didn’t win me over?”
“You said no,” I repeat.
“I had to say no,” he says with a scoff. “What kind of gentleman do you think I am?”
“I don’t think you’re much of one at all,” I say plainly.
He bursts out laughing at that, his smile giving the dim room all the light it needs. The hair on my neck stands up again but this time not in a frightened way. In a pleasurable way. Which I suppose is frightening in itself.
I clear my throat, trying to ignore the floaty sensation in my stomach. “Why are you in Venice?” I ask him.