“Johnny Santiago,” she repeated the name the apparition had given her. “So you’ve met me,” she offered with bored resignation. “Now you may leave.”
“You have another suitor waiting in line?” he tried. “I saw the last guy. Human. Fang junkie?”
Yes. And his blood had been tainted with beer. She hated beer, so had only taken a sip from him. Just the same, the idiot had gone into gyrations of ecstasy when she’d sunk her fangs into his neck. Overkill never impressed her. She’d quickly sent him off.
“And you are vampire,” she said. “Is that what you bring to the table, then? Fangs? Not interested.”
“You’ve got me pegged wrong.”
“I don’t think so. No one comes back here without a reason, Johnny. The fang junkies want to get off. The vamps want to nail the dark mistress.”
“I’m not so crude.”
She yawned and drew her knees up to her chest. Dismissing the stage goddess she had been earlier, she let her head fall against the back of the couch, yet kept a keen eye on the curious man. Hell, she couldn’t look away from that pretty if her life depended on it.
He stepped forward, approaching with confidence as he scanned the room, which was always vast, the dimensions inexplicably impossible to those uninitiated.
“I’m a singer too,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his front pockets. The pose exposed taut ab muscles because his jeans hung low on his hips. Kam licked her lips. “Dark metal stuff like your band plays.”
“We’re not looking for another singer.”
“I’m not offering my services.”
“I’m tired, Johnny.”
“Right. Sorry. Shows do take a lot out of a person. I usually get psyched from a show, though. The crazy, frenetic energy feeds me like a blood transfusion to the soul.”
If only, Kam thought. Lately, it seemed the more blood she consumed the foggier she grew. Within her, she carried residue from all whom she had sunk her fangs into.
You are carrying around something even worse, and you know it.
Yes, but admitting it to herself was too terrible.
She tilted her gaze at him. The man had a switchblade smile, easy and genuine, filling his eyes. Slightly crooked on the one side. And he could flick it out like that. Yet was it for real? Or just a stage prop?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Didn’t you read the marquee?” Resting her chin on her knees, she cast her gaze toward the lazy fountain, and declared softly, painfully, “I am the Dark’s Mistress.”
“Yeah. I got that. That’s not a name, it’s a silly title created for optimal marketing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
She smirked and sighed, looking away from him. “I said I was tired.” And really? Perhaps he hadn’t made the promise she’d thought to have heard across the noisy club. Blame it on her hard-crushing heart. Always the bad boys appealed. “So if you’ll leave now.”
“Not until you give me your name. I need to know who I’ll be dreaming about tonight.”
“Aren’t you precious?”
Lunging to the edge of the couch, he grabbed her hand and sniffed her wrist. She didn’t pull away. He wasn’t rough with her, and his fingers tracing her skin were more affectionate than anything she’d felt in a long time. Had it been six months? Or so much longer?
The tenderness with which he took to draw in her scent spilled a luxurious shiver over her skin. As if she were feeding him delicate poison only he could survive, the feeling empowered her. And she felt the shimmer, the telltale vibrations two vampires experienced when touching one another.
And then she wanted him to kiss her so she could taste his alluring charm and bleed the poison back into her veins. Because she sensed he had lived a good life, one unhampered by pain. And she, well. So many things she did not remember.
“Kambriel,” she whispered. A caged dove’s voice. A resignation to remain trapped.
Blue eyes twinkled with a charming smile. “That’s gorgeous. Sounds angelic. Kambriel. Do your friends call you Kam?”
“Friends?” She pulled her hand from his. The flutter in her heart beat angry wings. “I used to have friends, but…” Another heavy sigh. “I don’t remember.”
“I think you do need to rest, Kambriel,” he offered. “You look tired. I won’t stay. But first…” He closed his eyes and inhaled. “You smell like chocolate and cherries. I’ll never forget that scent now.”
Wrapping her arms about her lower legs to close herself into a ball, she tilted her head on her knees to regard him. Apercevoir. To regard, to notice something. It was a French word she’d known before coming to Paris because her father had taught it to her. Maybe? She remembered her father, a vampire… Only it was difficult to reason why she would ever forget him.
“You’re different than the rest, Johnny,” she whispered. Her eyes traced his, falling across his broad shoulders, and along his arms to his wide yet gracefully strong hands, then back to his eyes. “Why aren’t you all over me? Trying to take what you want?”
“I may not know you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you. I think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve seen. Honestly? I may be like the rest, because I’d love a bite. I bet you taste sweet and dark. You can bite me any time.”
“A bite from me will steal your soul.”
He smirked. “Why do I feel as though a soul sacrifice would be worth it?”
He’d never believe the truth. So many souls fluttered within her heart.
Now she looked at him, really looked beyond the pretty façade and the rock n’ roll appeal. Kam’s body moved inexplicably toward him, and she stroked her fingers aside his cheek, brushing the black hair over his ear. It was glossy, like raven feathers, but it also reminded her of another man’s hair. She liked hair so black it shone blue at times.
Narrowing her gaze, she suddenly said, “Tell me you are different, Johnny.”
“I’m not like any other,” he said. “I promise. Kam,” he said, the sound of his deep voice fixing into her being as easily as the stolen souls that entered her heart. “Kambriel, of the impossibly gray eyes who lives in the dark. I want to show you brightness. Tomorrow night. Will you meet me?”
“You mean like a date?”
He nodded.
She considered the request. She could do as she liked. So long as she didn’t step across the line. A dark line that tumbled deep into the bowels of Beneath. She would never do that, though she did like to push at times, hang her toes over the edge, so to speak.
“After midnight,” she decided. “Then I’m free to go where I wish.”
“Who keeps you reined in before midnight?” he asked.
“I am the Dark’s mistress.”
He chuckled, not believing the truth even when it was spoken so plainly.
“Meet me in the Tuileries,” he said. “By the octagon pond near the west end.”
“Why such a public place?”
“Because it’s spring and the trees and flowers are in bloom. It smells like heaven. Something, I suspect, you are sorely in need of experiencing.”
“Heaven doesn’t exist, Johnny Santiago.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But this Hell you exist in? You need a break.” He kissed the back of her hand, and stood. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
And he walked out without looking back at her.
Chapter Three
The Tuileries at midnight was prettier than Kambriel had expected. When she’d first arrived in Paris a few months ago—or had it been years?—she’d not visited this garden while in tourist mode. It had seemed large and daunting and oddly ungardenlike. Where were the flowers? It was principally carved shrubbery, espaliered trees, and marble statues. Pretty, but to her, gardens should burst with color and blooms.
While eager to escape the loving arms of her family back in Minnesota and ‘discover herself’ she’d quickly realized that despite her father having spoken French to her often as a child, she didn’t unde
rstand the language. The cool yet snobbish Parisian natives had intimidated her, so she had fallen in with a ragtag bunch of English-speaking British vamps.
They’d spent most of their time at the nightclubs, stalking mortals for a bite, sleeping in dirty flats through the day then venturing back out at night with nary a bother over their appearance.
Kambriel preferred life’s finer offerings, such as showers, clean bites and pretty clothing and shoes. But spending Daddy’s money, while it had been endless, had felt wrong. She’d wanted to support herself, to show her parents she was a big girl and could live on her own. She’d hoped to find herself. To discover what it was within her that desired attention, needed feeding.
And then she’d met him. Or rather, Him.
She hadn’t known who or what he was during their initial courtship. And it must be called a courtship for he’d always displayed the finest manners and respected and treated her well. Anything she wanted, he gave her. Anything.
Kam now lived in a gorgeous flat off the Champs Elysees furnished with top-of-the-line appliances, furniture, fabrics and decorations. Including all the designer clothing she could shove into the massive walk-in closet that was as big as a normal living room.
The vexing thing was, the more she got the more she wanted. It could never be enough. Some days such materialism felt wrong, yet she quickly dismissed the feeling as soon as it niggled at her.
Yet other days it was too much for her to bear. A small piece within her that she suspected must be either her heart or her soul, wept with every day that passed while she remained under his thumb. His girl. The Dark’s mistress. The saddest truth of the matter was, she had surrendered to the title, accepted the black veil of her own free will, with very little resistance.
But she would never give him the one thing he most desired from her. And because of that, he would never release her.
Sitting on a bench beneath a fragrant blooming tree, Kambriel pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms about her knees, studying the mirrored reflection of the moon waver upon the octagon pond. Two ducks skimmed the surface. Tourists yet wandered the massive garden, and neon carousel lights glinted garishly in the distance.
The city never slept. Nor did Kambriel. And she was so tired.
Vamps didn’t require a lot of sleep. Kam had not closed her eyes in years. (Or had it been mere months?) Because she had to keep watch. Darkness crept on quiet hooves.
She heard someone approach but did not turn around. Despite the loose stone pathway, the barely-there footfalls and lacking rustle of clothing clued her that the person was vampire. Her date.
Johnny Santiago stopped beside her without a hello or bonsoir. He looked over the carousel, as did she. Was it such fun to ride on one of those things? She couldn’t imagine being strapped into a flimsy metal car and rotisseried about could provoke a laugh from her. When she was younger, she and her brother had begged their parents to take them to the county fair, which they had…
Kam sighed. It was as if a shield went up the moment she started to think about when and from where she had come.
Finally, Johnny said, “They are dazzled by Lutetia’s lights.”
Kam had first learned Paris was once called Lutetia, the city of mud, from—she snatched for the memory quickly—her father. When she was little, he had beguiled her with stories of knights and court fops, bohemians and artists.
She wondered if Johnny was very old then, to have remembered such a detail. The thing about vampires was they could look the same age, yet many wore centuries on their souls.
“They are free,” she commented on the riders. “Let the bedazzlement commence.”
Johnny sat on the bench beside her and flicked his fingers at the hem of her black tulle skirt that cut above her knees in the front and past her ankles in the back. The tee shirt she wore was so deeply red, it was as if blood. Soft and worn, it was one of Kam’s favorites.
“I almost didn’t come tonight,” he said.
That surprised her. He was the one who had asked her here. Had she read him wrong?
“You’re so sad, Kambriel. I can feel it in my veins.”
“And you didn’t want my melancholy to bring you down,” she stated, bowing her head to her knees.
Indeed, all her British friends had drifted from her, using her mysterious boyfriend as the excuse—which was a good reason—but she also knew it was because she had changed. At times even she didn’t want to be around herself. But she was all she had.
What had she been like before coming to Paris?
“So leave.” Leaning back, she stretched her arms across the back of the bench, grasping some of her defiant stage persona to soften the pain of speaking so boldly when all she wanted to do was ask for—no, she mustn’t consider it.
“And forego the challenge of you?” he countered. Oh, that mischievous twinkle in his sky-blue eye. “I don’t think so. Besides, you’ve gotten under my skin. You hum within my blood as if a song pleading for voice.”
“Poetic. But you don’t even know me.”
He propped an ankle over his knee and the black suede boot he tapped to a silent tune caught the moonlight in the mangled chain wrapped around the ankle. The man smelled warm and male. Fresh from the shower clean. Almost too good to be near. Yet Kam leaned forward to inhale the exquisite scent of him.
“I might not know you well, but I have felt you on me since we spoke last night. Can’t shake you off.” He tilted another look over his shoulder at her. In the darkness his eyes glinted with colors from the neon carousel lights. “I’m glad we’re here. Now I can learn more.”
“There’s nothing to know that you haven’t already learned. I’m a singer. I’m the same breed as you. I’m not much for conversation.”
She could be, but she was…nervous. He was so there. Larger than life. Smelling great and looking too sexy for words. He’d stepped off the stage for her own private show. She almost wanted to thrust up her arms and shout.
“You’re so tightly wrapped up,” he commented. “Put down your legs and get comfortable. I won’t bite.”
“But that’s the thing I was looking forward to.” The tease came easily enough, yet she surprised herself with it.
“All things in good time, Kam. But I thought you were already dating someone. Some dark dude?”
“I am. And he is.”
“So why are you here with me?”
“We’re not exclusive. I can do as I wish, with whomever I wish.”
“Sounds kinky to me.” He followed the ducks skimming the pond surface. His profile was sharp, clean, and the hair tucked over his ear glinted hematite. The shaved side of his scalp heightened his prominent cheekbones. And that pale skin put the moon to shame. Poetic, indeed.
“When I date someone, I desire a certain exclusivity arrangement,” he said. “Why share her with anyone else?”
“You’ve already staked a claim to me, then?”
“Well, no.”
“Then there’s nothing wrong with us chatting.”
“Right.” He leaned back and his shoulder rubbed hers. The casual intimacy was unexpected to Kam, because it didn’t quickly segue to groping and begging to be bitten. How she abhorred fang junkies. “We have a lot in common. Same breed, same fashion sense, a love for music.”
“It’s hard to describe what music does for me. It is my world some days.”
“Oh yeah.” Johnny rattled his fingers against his thigh to a silent drum beat. “Music is the ultimate form of communication. It’s our scream to the heavens. It’s the power-metal thump to the universe to remind it we are here and we will be heard.”
“I’ve never heard it explained like that. A universal thump. I like that.”
He tilted his head back to smile at her and she wanted to gather his hair into her hands to see what it would look like with the shaved portion completely exposed. But she daren’t touch him. Yet.
“So how long have you been singing?” he asked. “Your voice is amazing
.”
“Hmm, a few months?”
“What? You’re joking with me.”
“No, I started singing not too long ago. I lose track of time so I don’t know the exact length. The club was designed especially for me. To allow me to have a singing career.”
“Wow. This boyfriend of yours knows how to woo the girl. Now I know I can’t compete.”
“Extravagant gifts and receiving every little thing I should desire is sometimes too much. I’m beginning to forget what it’s like to just…be.”
He shifted on the bench and their thighs hugged. Kam savored the sneaky connection, but she didn’t know how to look into his eyes and convey the anticipatory feeling he stirred in her.
“You must have been born with natural talent,” he said. “I don’t know anyone who can take the stage when they’ve only been singing a few months and master an audience like you do. I guess it’s similar to your ability to master men who have hopes of winning your regard, eh?”
“You’re a charmer, Johnny.”
“That’s what they call me.” He winked, yet immediately dipped his head as if embarrassed to fess up to the title. Oh, pretty goth rock boy. She wanted to bleed his sweet darkness into her pores. “I like to have fun and make sure the people I’m with have fun, too.”
“I get that feeling about you. You speak English well. Have you lived in Paris all your life? Are your parents vampire?”
“Yes, and yes,” he said. “My mother is from the Santiago tribe—well, former tribe. They used to be vamp mafia, but have dropped the dirty dealings over the past decades. My father is also bloodborn, grew up in Faery, but never took an official surname when he came to the mortal realm. I’m French to the bone but I’ve always been bilingual. Comes in handy in this city that hosts so many tourists. Not that I hold conversations with my bites. What about you?”
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