Chapter 7 – Valtu #2
“It was dark in there but I swear I saw a shadow moving. Shouldn’t have been possible but all the same it was like there was something physically in the bathroom, like in the bathtub.
Suddenly I was cold. Like arctic cold. You know it’s cold when we feel it.
I almost chickened out. Then I told myself I was being silly.
Walked into the bathroom, turned on the lights.
Nothing there, of course.” He pauses. “The weirdest thing was I couldn’t look at the mirror after.
I was afraid to. I can’t explain it. You know they say vampires don’t have reflections?
Well this time, I swear to god, it was like if I looked in the mirror I would see someone else staring back at me. ”
I can pick up on Bitrus’s fear like he’s put on new cologne. Until this moment, he wasn’t really scared. Now, though, he’s got adrenaline in his veins.
“I’m sure you were just spooked,” I tell him.
“I know I fucking was,” he says. “But you’re saying there are monsters in the canals and I’m thinking there’s something in my mirror, ready to steal my soul, so…”
“Technically I never said it was a monster,” I remind him.
“Well, it’s enough that whatever my plans tonight, I’m going to avoid my reflection and the water. Tell you what, if you’re still offering some of that wine, I’ll take it.”
I chuckle and get up, heading into my house to get him another bottle of wine.
Monday rolled around quickly. When you have an infinite amount of weekends in your life, holding onto them is never a big deal, even when you’re working a steady job. For me, I was glad the time passed swiftly, and for all the wrong reasons.
It meant I got to see Dahlia.
Not that I have a lot of time to talk to her during history class. I’m there to teach everyone, not just her, and when I finally did talk to her for a moment after class, asking her how her weekend went, if perhaps she saw any ghosts, she was standoffish with me. Again, with the hot and cold.
Today though, we have more one-on-one time together. I have to give my students their piece for the winter recital, something they will play accompanied by a few string or wind instruments. Each student gets something different, something I have selected based on their style and skill level.
Dahlia is up first.
With the four students watching, I get up and open my folder, handing each student their piece.
Dahlia is looking especially ravishing today. A romantic mint-green dress that reminds me of another time, paired with Doc Martens for contrast. Her long red hair spills over her bare shoulders as she stares at the sheet music I’ve handed her.
“Do you want me to demonstrate first?” I ask her.
She stares up at me, her eyes matching her dress, a fiery determination in them. “No. I can figure it out as I go.”
I figured she would say that. The woman seems to abhor help.
I smile at her and nod my head to the organ. “All right, Ms. Abernathy. Have at her.”
She gets up and, with her chin held high, walks to the organ. She delicately places the paper on the stand, slips off her sandals, slides on socks and her organ shoes, then assumes the position.
I watch her carefully as her eyes flick over the sheet of music, taking it all in, trying to make sense of it. It’s like I can see the way she slots it in her head, like doing a mathematical equation, playing it there first before she tries to bring it to her life with her hands and feet.
She clears her throat and gives me an impatient look over her shoulder, as if she’s been waiting for my cue.
I just nod slightly.
Then she’s playing. Jumps right into it with more confidence than I’ve seen from her.
The piece starts off purely with the organ and it starts off with a bang.
It’s composed not by a famous musician, but by an artist I know personally, Sigmund Krahe.
It’s a fast and furious haunting piece that I think fits Dahlia well, for all her moodiness, her timelessness, her mystery.
And how she plays it well. There’s something magical about the way the organ responds to her, how fast her feet and fingers fly.
She’s in her element, becoming one with the notes, and it makes me hard as fuck.
I have sit down to watch the rest of her performance because all the blood in my body is rushing straight to my cock, the music, her music, overwhelming my cells.
It’s the music of God, of a church that opens to both heaven and hell, filled with sinners and saints, all of it swirling around to make us the fallen creatures that we are.
I watch, holding my breath, drawn into a warm stupor of sorts, like I’m being spun in a web, caught in a spell, until she finally finishes playing.
I find myself clapping, coming back to reality. The rest of her classmates applaud too. It wasn’t a perfect performance—that’s what practicing will accomplish—but it was brave and it was bold and utterly captivating.
She twists around on the bench, her cheeks flushed, her smile bright, and it’s been such a painfully long time since I ever saw someone so beautiful.
“That was a gorgeous piece of music,” she says, breathless. “Who is Sigmund Krahe?”
I clear my throat, trying to calm my heart. “A musician who I knew you would do justice to.”
“Never heard of him,” she says, but from the twinkle in her eyes, I know that she’s proud of how she played. She seems to enjoy impressing me right now. Wanting to please me. That’s good to know. That makes me fucking harder.
“That may change after the recital,” I tell her, trying to act like her professor again and not some blubbering fool. “You may yet make him famous.”
Unfortunately having an erection during class is frowned upon, so I have to move onto the other students and forget about Dahlia for now. Luckily I’m dealing with the Bristol woman, Margaret, who has an uncanny way of sucking the life out of what she plays, and I feel myself calm down accordingly.
It isn’t until class is over and Dahlia is walking off, that I catch up with her and stop her, my fingers pressing lightly against her elbow.
She stares at me curiously, waiting for me to say something.
Normally this is the part where I would compel her. I would ask her for a drink and make her do it.
But I can’t seem to bring myself to do it with her, especially since there’s a chance she’s going to want to go for that drink.
Instead, I don’t say that at all.
“Are you happy with the piece I chose for you?” I ask her.
“Very,” she says. “Though you seem to have more confidence in me than you should. That wasn’t the easiest thing to learn off the bat.”
“I guess I like testing you. I am your teacher, after all.”
She gives me a quick smile. “You don’t have to keep reminding me, Professor Aminoff,” she says before walking off.