Free Immortal Love by Carmen Ferreiro-Esteban

feet. At the sudden movement, my stomach lurched in complaint and the room started spinning. Gritting my teeth, I leaned back against the wall.
    A million questions rushed through my mind. Where was Bécquer? Had Beatriz killed him and dragged him outside to dispose of his body? But that was impossible. Bécquer was immortal. Yet the pain in his mind when the glass cut his throat had been real. The glass. Glass wounds heal slowly in immortals and the loss of blood leave us vulnerable, Federico had told me. Beatriz knew this, I was sure, and was angry with Bécquer. Angry enough to kill him?
    Bécquer and his stupid pride. If only he had told Beatriz I was his descendant, she would have understood his interest in me. But, Federico was right: Bécquer liked to play with people’s feelings and was too proud to explain himself to anyone. And now he was hurt, maybe too hurt to explain. I had to find them. I had to tell Beatriz the truth about Bécquer and me. I had to stop her from harming Bécquer any further because I believed him. I believed Bécquer had not forced Beatriz to give him blood. She had agreed to it willingly. Even if Bécquer’s memories were misleading, and he was in part to blame for taking Beatriz’s blood, her attack on him had been unwarranted.
    I took a step and the room erupted into movement and the noise exploded, deafening, in my ears, as if I had just emerged from being underwater in a crowded pool. Even the piano playing, so pleasurable before, pounded in my head. Carefully avoiding the broken glass at my feet, I made it to the door.
    The corridor on the other side of the ballroom was empty.
    In the diffuse light coming from the iron sconces that hung on the walls I could see several doors on the wall across, all closed, the rooms behind them in darkness. But at the end of the corridor, a rectangle of moonlight escaped through the opening of a heavily carved set of French doors.
    I ran to them and slid them open. A piece of cloth lay on the floor. I picked it up. It was the blue shawl Beatriz had worn at the party. The blue shawl stained with blood.
    I stepped inside and looked around, taking in the tall bookshelves, the slick wooden table and matching chairs that cast long shadows in the silvery moonlight pouring through the far wall, that was, ironically enough, made out of glass.
    A noise to my left caught my attention, a moan maybe, a whisper? Then I heard his voice, Bécquer’s voice inside my head, Leave. But it was weak, too weak to overrule my will. So instead I dashed around the bookshelf that partitioned the floor, toward the sound, then stopped. There was no need for me to go further. I had found them. I had found Bécquer, and he didn’t need me, for he was lying with Beatriz in a sofa set against the wall. Bécquer, his eyes closed, his head resting on the leather armrest had his arms around her body, while Beatriz’s head nested against his chest.
    How could I have been so stupid to think Bécquer’s life was in danger? For seeing them now, so closely entangled, I understood that, for all the drama of their exchange and her vicious attack, their whole argument had been nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel. A disagreement already forgotten.
    “He always comes back to me,” Beatriz had told me. And so he had.
    Please, Carla, leave now. Bécquer’s voice was again in my mind, so weak I could have dismissed it. Except this time I had no reason to. I took a step back.
    Stay!
    Beatriz’s call, strong and willful, stopped me. I looked up and saw her standing in front of Bécquer, blood on her bodice and a snarl on her face. “I did so hope that you would come,” she said, this time aloud.
    Her eyes glowed red. I froze in fear for that could only mean one thing: Beatriz was immortal.
    Behind her, Bécquer struggled to get up. “Let her go,” he whispered.
    He reached forward and grabbed her arm. But Beatriz pulled away. “Why?” she screamed as Bécquer stumbled back and collapsed