THE UNDYING | TWILIGHT

16. Possessed

It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Christopher had just finished his third cup of coffee at the behest of Signora Parrilla, the kind elderly woman who'd invited him into her home for chitchat over breakfast. He'd intended to ask about the vampire myths of which the city was so widely known. Unfortunately, the old woman preferred filling his stomach with sweet breads and coffee and telling him stories of her childhood. Although growing impatient, Christopher listened attentively.

The woman took a sip of her coffee. "Where was I again?"

"Your friend Mariella, she stole your lover."

"Oh, yes. Thank you. She had a way about her, that Mariella. An aura, some called it, and it drew everyone to her, men and women alike. I hated her, and yet I loved her all the same. Everything came naturally to her, but singing was her passion, just as it was mine. We both wanted to be opera singers and move to Milan.

"Most nights, we would sneak into the old Roman theater and practice. But one night, she said, a man approached her while she was walking home. He was the most handsome man she'd ever seen: tall, well-dressed, and so sophisticated, which to a girl of fifteen is as good as finding a prince. He said he had heard her singing and thought she possessed a very rare and beautiful voice, one that the world absolutely needed to hear. With his help, she could be famous.

"I had a bad feeling — a very bad feeling — and I told her never to meet him again, but she wouldn't listen to me, her best friend. She claimed she was in love with him. Young girls' hearts are so easily swayed ..."

Signora Parrilla lifted her coffee cup once more, and her wrinkled hand was shaking so much, coffee was spilling out and splashing onto the table. By now, Christopher had scooted to the edge of his chair, hanging on her every word.

"What happened to Mariella?" he gently pressed.

"I don't know. That was the last I saw of her. For months, they searched for her, but they found nothing. Many thought she'd run away, even her own parents, but I knew better. He took her; I know he took her."

"Did you tell the police?"

"Of course, but they wouldn't believe me. This man had no name to me, no face, so he might as well have been a ghost. After a while, everyone forgot; everyone moved on. But not me. Five years later, I returned to the Roman theater, and as I was sitting there amongst the rubble, I saw him."

"You saw whom?"

"The man who took Mariella. He looked just as she described: perfect, absolutely perfect, like a god among men. He was just sitting there, watching me for God knows how long. Slowly, he descended the cavea, wearing a long black coat, and as soon he got close, I saw him for what he really was: a demon, with eyes of blood — a vampire!"

The front door swung open then, and a woman soon entered the kitchen. Peeking out over the top of two paper grocery bags, she stared inquisitively at the old woman and her guest. "Mom, who's this?" she asked.

"This man is a journalist. He's writing a story about the vampires that lurk beneath the city. Finally, someone wants to hear what I have to say."

Her daughter rolled her eyes. "Not that again ... Ugh, you and your crazy conspiracies." Then she said to Christopher, "Thanks for encouraging her."

"I just want the truth," replied Christopher.

"What truth? There are no vampires in Volterra! Now, I'm sure you went through a lot of trouble to get here, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. I have a sick daughter to care for; I don't have time for this. Please show yourself out."

Christopher stood up. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disrupt your household. I'll leave, but may I first use your restroom? It's a long drive back."

"Of course. Down the hall, last door on your right."