Читать книгу Two for tragedy. Volume 1 - Анна Морион - Страница 8

I didn't think it would come to reconciliation. On the contrary-I was going to humiliate and shame Viper again, but it turned out that I was the one standing in front of her, humiliated and ashamed of my action. Something inexplicable pushed me to tell her about my love of poetry, and even to explain the reason for that love. Why? Do I have to explain anything to her? It was as if my mind had fallen asleep: my contempt for Viper was gone, and I was enjoying her company, for I had always guarded my privacy and my thoughts fiercely, preferring solitude to any interlocutor. I liked this girl's voice – low enough, but soft and enchanting, as if penetrating to the very soul.

Full of these thoughts I went to the next pair, but comfortably seated in my chair, I did not hear the teacher's voice. What he was talking about or how he was explaining the hieroglyphics adorning the blackboard was unimportant. I couldn't concentrate. I looked at that blackboard and saw blurred silhouettes spreading out on it like watercolours on wet paper.

In the afternoon, an unexpected sun peeked out, which brought me some difficulties. Pulling my jacket over my ears and trying to hide in the shadows cast by the university, I made my way swiftly to my car. When I reached it and placed my palm on the door handle, a ray of sunlight hit my skin, immediately turning my palm from young and beautiful to ugly, aged, yellowed like ancient parchment. I was instantly in the car and smiled mockingly at this little incident: fortunately, there were no witnesses I had to eliminate so that no one would ever know what Cedric Morgan was really like.

I arrived at the castle, put the car in the garage and went up to the main hall, which served as our sitting room and, occasionally, our dining room, when we, with goblets full of fresh blood, sat by the huge fireplace and had conversations on a variety of topics.

Although I had at my disposal my own spacious annexe, to which I had to walk across the castle, I occupied only one room. Along the way, I rarely encountered any unexpected visitors, as the castle was empty most of the time. I did not consider the presence of six servants, who travelled through the castle by secret passages, so as not to glimpse their masters, worthy of attention.

For a family as old, wealthy, and honourable as the Morgans, the presence of six servants was something extraordinary, out of the ordinary. But we got along just fine with that number, for with the advancement of science and technology, machines did most of the work. Yes, a hundred years ago servants did everything, and in those days our castles were cared for by no less than fifty servants. Now there was simply no need for them. Naturally, the servants were not humans, but vampires who could not find their place in life and preferred to obey the strongest.

Morgan's Castle was a work of art: Gothic architecture did not allow itself to be disfigured by the gaudy gilding and opulence of later styles. Austerity and simplicity – that is what caught the eye of the numerous guests of our cloister. The legs of tables, chairs, sofas and even wardrobes were ubiquitous decorations, representing the paws of predatory animals. Each room had large stone fireplaces guarded by stone predators, different in each room. Ancient candelabra, the wax candles of which had long since been replaced by electric ones, adorned the walls, along with tapestries and heavy large paintings. It smelled medieval, but it wasn't gloomy-it was lit by a subdued, soft light that illuminated the entire castle, hidden so skilfully that the walls seemed to glow from within.

My room was a large, rectangular room of little variety and luxury, covered with a thick, soft carpet, its grey colour blending with the stone floor. There was a wooden bed, just for show, a black, somewhat worn desk, a comfortable wide sofa, two large armchairs by the carved fireplace, guarded by two curved stone panthers, and my huge personal library on oak shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Above the fireplace hung a large pastel painting in a rough oak frame depicting the stark landscape of a Norwegian fjord where our family had lived about a hundred years ago, and which was so etched in my memory that I had painted the landscape simply from memory. Heavy thick black curtains blocked the room from light and sunlight – I hated to see what a monster I had become in two and a half centuries, so the curtains were always tightly closed. This sparsely furnished room was my personal retreat and a place of true solitude, where I knew little or no disturbance.

I walked into the room, threw my knapsack in a corner, poured fresh blood into an iron goblet, and contemplated the fire dancing in the fireplace. Sometimes I thought about people and marvelled at how imperfect they are: where do they find time for studies, seminars, recreation and personal life when they need sleep and food every 24 hours, at least three times a day? We are another matter. We are always full of vigour and energy. We do not need to sleep, but only for a couple of seconds we go deep into the depths of our consciousness, and that is enough for a whole week. The blood of one victim lasts at least three days, a week at the most, depending on how hardened the organism is.

In the evening I went down to the main hall, where I found my parents and Markus and his fiancée: Mariszka had recently moved in with us and had become a legal resident of the castle and a member of our family.

Her mother and father always sat next to each other: they were very fond of each other and rarely parted. Mortals thought they were my brother and sister, so young and beautiful they were.

My mother was a native Czech. Despite the fact that she was over five hundred years old, she was beautiful: she had skin as matte white as snow, her beautiful long wavy hair of dark brown colour was astonishingly luxurious. Light brown eyes, a clear, gently arched brow line. My mother was a remarkably beautiful woman, and no mortal gave her more than twenty-five years of age.

My father, a true native of Foggy Albion, had the same white skin as his wife, but his coal-black hair gave him a somewhat gloomy and over-aristocratic appearance. His eyes – cold, blue, smiled rarely. In the eyes of mortals, he was a young, gorgeous man. In reality, he was five hundred and seventy-four years old.

And only his eyes gave away the true age of my parents – they glittered with knowledge and centuries of wisdom, and seemed to pierce the consciousness.

Markus and Mariszka were sitting in the far corner, whispering about something. It was our custom not to eavesdrop on each other, so no one paid attention to their confidential conversation. Or rather, love cooing.

When I entered the hall, my father was telling my mother about an old friend who was soon going to visit us for a couple of days. This news did not make me happy: friends were nothing but trouble for our family. Almost every month one of my father's or mother's friends would visit our castle, either alone or in clans, and then things would get very bad. The Praguers. Since it cost a lot of money to feed a horde of vampires, from the very first day of their stay, the Prague newspapers trumpeted that Prague was once again home to a maniac. Other journalists speculated about an unknown predator killing people in the woods. Some vampires behaved too openly and brazenly: despite strict warnings not to kill unnecessarily, they killed for fun. I was always annoyed by it, but my father stubbornly forgave those apostates, arguing that they had been friends for centuries.

I sat down in one of the armchairs and thought about my feelings. Lately I had been thinking of Viper, of her image before my eyes, of her voice, and of my desire to meet her. These reflections did not lead me to a definite conclusion, and no matter how strictly I ordered myself to suppress these thoughts, they returned again and again, making me worry that I had begun to think of a human being. I pondered, wondering to myself, until I heard my mother call my name – this brought me out of the captivity of my thoughts.

– …Cedric a new car. His old wreck is driving me out of my mind.

It's trivial: my mother has once again started another unnecessary conversation about the fact that I should replace the car. Until today I managed to protect my faithful humble friend, but today, in my thoughts, I was far away from this hall, so this time I did not really resist my mother's insistence to make me a "worthy vampire".

– We've talked about this so many times. Has your ardour still not cooled? – I smiled weakly at my mother.

– You know me, darling: I will insist until you replace your old wreck with a more dignified vehicle! You're Morgan! – exclaimed my mother, clearly not going to give in to this argument.

– Well, for the hundredth time, I'm happy with my car, and I'm not going to part with it.

– But let's face it: it's been looking like an old painted can for a long time. And I'm ashamed that my son drives such an old and unusable car!

– You're the only one who can't accept this sad fact, because everyone but you is not annoyed by my Toyota," I said ironically to this.

– We're just silently tolerating it," Markus's mocking voice came through.

I glanced at my father, silently begging him to cool my mother's temper and make her leave me alone, but he just shrugged and grinned dolefully.

– Well, it looks like all the Morgans are united against my choice," I grinned. – What about you, Mariszka?

– I can't go against my fiancé's judgement! – she replied cheerfully.

– I see, my opinion is not interested in anyone, – I smiled sarcastically.

– Of course you do, but in this case, the majority opinion should be your judgement. – Markus was in his repertoire: we loved to banter with each other, and today he was the star of a slapstick comedy show.

– I've been to the car showroom today and I've found a great one for you," my mother said to me.

– Like a peacock? – I asked mockingly, knowing my parent's taste.

– By the way, your father thinks so, too. Don't you, Gregory?

– It's a great car," I said, but I knew he supported his beloved and was biased in his judgement.

We could have argued for a long time, but this time I had neither the energy nor the will to waste time on idle chatter.

– Well, I'll accept it," I began.

– Hail Mary," Markus said.

– What are you doing here? I think you're talking? – I asked mockingly, mocking him.

– For your information, I have the unique gift of speaking and listening at the same time, which doesn't stop me from observing your argument. Mum's just a magician – she got the stubborn one to come round and win 1-0! – replied my brother cheerfully.

– Do you really agree? – Mother jumped up and down.

– Agree? I was forced to agree! – I said, laughing. – Besides, I myself am glad that now you will get rid of me.

– I'm going to the salon tonight! – My mother jumped up from her seat.

– Luckily, it's already closed," I chuckled.

– Not for me, it isn't! I want you to go to university tomorrow like a normal vampire, in a nice car, not this junk! – replied Mum as she left the hall.

– What's going to happen to my faithful swallow? – I muttered regretfully.

– May she rest in peace," Markus said in a sad, mournful voice. He and Mariszka giggled.

– Shut up, Markus," I said sharply.

– Whatever you say, mister! Not a word of discretion from now on! – he said.

I heard the laughter of the couple again.

I decided to ignore them and meditate again. But this time my father interrupted me.

– How was your day? – he asked me.

– The usual. My life is so boring and monotonous that nothing interesting can happen in it," I replied, unhappy that my father wasn't letting me reflect in peace and quiet.

– Judging by your mood and tone, the routine is eating you alive. Anything new in your studies? – Father asked again.

– The rector has decided to show his power and make fun of the students," I grinned. – As of last week, the senior courses are supposed to prepare the juniors for their exams until winter.

– Why would they do that?

– Who knows. There's a whole pack of these oafs at the university.

– Interesting.

– And fun.

– How does this happen? – asked my father, clearly interested in this innovation.

– Everyone has a student from the junior year sitting on their neck.

– And you?

– And me.

– Who's sitting on your neck?

– A third-year student girl.

– How's your relationship?

– It's not. The only weird thing about this situation is…" I started, but suddenly stopped talking. Should I tell my father about my strange state of mind since I'd met Viper? Maybe he could explain what the hell was happening to me.

– The scent of her blood," I said instead, not wanting to share my weakness with anyone. – I've never smelled blood so beautiful. It's so heavy and tart that it makes it hard for me to focus when I'm sitting next to her.

I learnt long ago to control myself and temper my predatory instincts. Now any scent, even one that incited me to kill, was not dangerous to me. But Viper blood beckoned to me like no other in all the years of my long life. I mentally pictured drinking that marvellous blood and feeling the sea breeze on my face. But where would that sea breeze come from if Viper was born and raised in Brno?

– Does her blood taste as good as its flavour?

– I didn't kill her.

Father's testing gaze was like he was trying to scan my soul. Talking about Viper interested him far more than I'd realised.

– If you want her blood so badly, drink it, then you'll get those thoughts out of your head," my father advised me.

– Have you ever experienced anything like that? – I asked.

– All of us, at least once, suddenly feel obsessed with a certain flavour. In such a situation, you should kill the victim so that you don't feel constrained. Kill her and forget about this nonsense.

– That's what I'll do," I said to get my father behind me.

Kill Viper and drink her blood. Kill her. How easy it is. How easy it would be to get rid of this problem. How sweet this moment will be. The moment I'm free of it. Isn't that the answer to my question?

But when I imagined killing this girl, this elf, I felt uneasy. Something in me rebelled against even the thought of it. This decision would be horrible. If I killed Viper, and this fragile girl was gone – the mystery would be gone. What if her death was in vain? What if I never find the answer and I'm tormented because I was wrong to do what I did? No. Viper has to live. I won't kill her just because talking to her has put me in this abnormal state. Yes, she's only human, but if Viper is to lose her life, it won't be by my hand. Because I had no idea how I was going to live knowing that I had robbed the world of such a fragile, wonderful flower with a strange name like Viper.

"I'm getting a little lazy and thinking about that mortal too much!" – I thought to myself irritably. I was angry with myself and with Viper because she had been on my mind ever since I'd first met her. I could suppress them, block them out, but they still found tricks and secret passages in my mind and broke free. Never in my long life had I thought of mortals at all – they were of no interest to me. Their mundane short lives taught them nothing, and I was sure that all mortals were stupid and ignorant. And I had never thought about a woman for so long. Much less a mortal. Mentally tracing my life's journey and remembering my temporary admiration and brief attraction to one of the vampires that was so much prettier, smarter, more perfect than Viper, I chuckled derisively, laughing at myself and my obsession with some mortal.

Where the hell had my morbid interest in this girl come from? Unhealthy, because I'd only ever thought of humans as a source of food before. And I certainly didn't care what impression I might make on them, whether I hurt them, frightened them, made them hate me and think I was a son of a bitch. The predator sees no beauty in his prey, except that he will soon satisfy his hunger with it.

So what's wrong with me? Am I destructive? Is that why I'm attracted to Viper? What do I do if that's really the case? What if my infatuation with this mortal turns into something more? Then I'll be finished. We only fall in love once. For life. We are either eternally happy, or we give our passion in vain, living in the agony of unrequited love, unable to cure our heart with another love, because it will be given to only one life for the rest of our lives.

No, I will not go to that extreme and love a mortal. It would be impossible. The torment of love is not my lot.

So what do I do? What do I do to get the image of Viper out of my mind? How do I get rid of these conflicting feelings for a predator? There's something strange going on in my soul. But what? There's no name for it. You can't go any further, you can't enjoy the company of a mortal. You cannot allow yourself to think of her, allow yourself to savour her beauty, and her voice. Her existence. She is nothing but a food source… Damn, it's so easy to say all this! However, I haven't even tried to carry out my own plans to banish Viper from my head and force my own thoughts into submission. I'm sure I'll have the willpower to give her up later, in case I feel like I'm infatuated with Viper beyond measure. I will simply forget about her and erase her image, but until that moment of collapse comes, I will try to understand these feelings, to comprehend this mystery, to try to solve the riddle of this mortal.

It will be a kind of experiment for me to find out how strong I am and how much my mind obeys me. Just seeing Viper. Just talking to her, hearing her voice, and looking into her bright dark eyes that always held a slight sadness and some reticence. I felt there was something beautiful behind that barrier, something that could only be unravelled when I succeeded in destroying that wall.

Viper's soul is like a pearl languishing in a hard shell at the bottom of an ocean trough.