Carpathian 10 - Dark Symphony

appearing in the great music room late at night and staying up till all hours with her. He rarely talked, just listened to the music, but sometimes they played chess or discussed books and world affairs. Those were the times she loved best, sitting and listening to the sound of his voice.
    He had courtly, Old World mannerisms and spoke with an accent she couldn't quite place. She imagined him a chival-Dark Symphony rous prince coming to call whenever she allowed her girlish imagination to get the better of her. He rarely touched her, but he never objected when she touched him, reading his expressions. He took her bream away each time he came into the same room with her.
    The musk swelled beneath her fingers, rose to a crescendo of rioting emotions. Byron.
    Her grandfather's friend. The rest of her family were wary and on edge around him. Most left the room soon after he entered. They thought him dangerous. Antonietta thought he might be, despite the fact that he was unfailingly gentle with her. She sensed behind Byron's calm exterior a predator hunting. Watching. Waiting. Biding his time. It only added to his allure.
    The unattainable fantasy. The dangerous, dark prince lurking in the shadows… watching…
    her.
    Antonietta laughed again at her own fanciful nonsense. She presented a certain image to the world: a confident, re-nowned concert pianist and respected composer. She dreamed her passionate dreams and turned each of them into soaring notes of music to express the fires burning deep inside where no one could see.
    Her fingers raced across the keys, fluttered and coaxed, so that the music took on life.
    There was no warning whatso-ever. One moment she was lost in her music, and the next, a rough hand clapped over her mouth and dragged her back-ward off the piano bench.
    Antonietta bit down hard, reaching back to pound at the face of her assailant. It was then she really noticed how leaden her body felt, sluggish, almost unwilling to follow her orders.
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    9/13/2007

    Dark Symphony
    Page 4 of 188
    Rather than striking hard, she barely tapped the man. She had the impression of strength.
    He smelled of alcohol and mints. He thrust a cloth over her nose and mouth.
    Antonietta coughed, thrashed in an effort to be rid of the foul-smelling material. She felt dizzy and lost the ability to move, sliding down, down toward semiconsciousness. At once she stopped fighting, slumping like a rag doll, pretending she was already unconscious. The cloth disappeared, and her assailant lifted her.
    She was aware of being carried, of someone breathing hard. Of her heart pounding. Then they were outside in the biting cold and piercing wind. The sea raged and thundered loudly, and sea spray reached her face.
    It took a few moments to realize mat they were not alone. She heard a man's voice, slurred, incoherent, asking something. A chill went down her spine. Her grandfather, frail at eighty-two, was being dragged up the path to the cliffs right along with her. Determined not to allow anything to happen to him, Antonietta fought her way back, breathing deeply to draw oxygen into her laboring lungs, gathering her strength, biding her time. In her mind she began to chant his name, using it as a prayer, a litany of strength: Byron. Byron. I need you now.
    Hurry, hurry. Byron. Where are you?
    Byron Justicano circled above the small city before winging his way toward the palazzo.
    As he moved across the sky, hunger crawled through his body, demanding he feed, but he ignored it, answering the sudden uneasy feeling churning in his gut. Something was wrong.
    Some intangible vibration in the air made him aware of the drama unfolding on the rocks below. A snarl exposed his fangs. Eyes glowed a frightening red in the dark of the night. A savage, bestial growl escaped his throat as he increased his speed, hurtling through the sky over the towering palazzo with its many stories and turrets and battlements.
    Above the many terraces and lofty stories loomed a high, rounded tower where it was rumored more than one woman had been murdered in the murky past, earning the palace the dubious name of Palazzo della Morte. Winged gargoyles stared blankly at him out of the heavy, white fog, looking almost real as the creatures seemed to swarm up the side of the villa.