The Night Series - Entire Series Boxed Set : New World Immortal Mayan Vampire Romance

by Lisa Kessler

  Boots clicked down the hallway. Marie’s eyes widened when the officers rushed into the room. Marguerite’s heart slammed against her ribs, but she maintained eye contact, her chin held high.

  Gerard rushed in behind them. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle. These gentleman…” His voice oozed with sarcasm. “… pushed past me.” He walked to her side. “I am pleased to introduce Marguerite Bordeaux. Obviously there has been a mistake, and I would be happy to accept your apologies on behalf of my Master Kane Bordeaux.”

  Marguerite tried not to react to hearing Kane’s last name added to her own, and did her best to improvise with Gerard.

  The Commissionnaire de Policia stepped forward. “You match the description of Marguerite Rousseau who stands accused of robbery and treachery.”

  “There must be a mistake.” She kept her voice even while her stomach knotted with fear. “I can assure you, I have been within these walls. My husband will be home soon, and he can testify to my whereabouts.”

  The Commissionnaire nodded to his men, and they descended on her. Gerard did his best to shield her. Marie batted at a couple of the police with her rolling pin, but the kitchen staff was no match for the sheer number of the officers.

  Marguerite fought, kicking, biting, and scratching, until they restrained her hands behind her back and turned her to face the lead officer. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he twitched his thin moustache. “You will come with us now.”

  Two officers held Gerard back. “My Master will see that all of you are punished for this unlawful invasion and attack on his bride.”

  The officer grabbed the back of Marguerite’s hair, yanking her so close she could smell his sour body odor beneath the sweet scent of his cologne. “I have longed for this day…Le Voleur D’or.”

  Panic fluttered in her chest, but she kept her mouth shut.

  Anything she said now would be twisted and used against her. Instead, she did her best to maintain what was left of her composure and glanced toward Gerard. “Kane will come for me.”

  Gerard nodded. “I will see to it.”

  “Very well.” She straightened as much as possible with her hands bound behind her back. “May I get my shoes?”

  The officer shoved her so hard she nearly fell to the ground. “You will not need them where you are going.”

  Marguerite bounced around inside the black prison wagon.

  The interior boasted no cushioned seats and no windows.

  The horses trotted through the cobblestoned streets, turning, stopping, and starting, until her stomach roiled with motion sickness.

  It didn’t help that the interior still reeked of a recent traveler’s illness.

  Closing her eyes, she forced herself to breathe through her mouth. Her bare feet were numb with cold and a tear spilled down her cheek. She’d been too confident, too brazen, and certain the police would never catch her. Now she found herself in the back of a prisoner’s wagon, being transported for questioning. The Bastille had been destroyed during the French Revolution, so she would avoid that horror, but the new prison was not something she cared to explore.

  Panic seized her throat until a sob escaped. She tried to envision Kane’s face, his glorious smile, his blue eyes.

  He would never let them keep her.

  The carriage stopped. She opened her eyes and raised her chin, steeling her resolve. They would not see her as a broken criminal, and she would not give them the pleasure of her tears.

  The back door creaked open, and blinding light filled the dark carriage. Marguerite winced, unable to raise her bound hands to shield her eyes. The officer yanked her from the carriage. Her bare feet slapped on the hard cobblestoned street, jarring her for a moment. Marguerite blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light.

  She recognized this place.

  Marguerite screamed. Scraping the bottoms of her feet, she resisted the officers dragging her toward Antoine’s door.

  “No! I beg you!” But the officers showed no signs of slowing. Her head swiveled toward the group of people gathering on the street to watch. “Please. I have done nothing. This man will kill me. Someone help me!”

  But the people stayed back, whispering to one another as Marguerite shrieked.

  When the heavy front door closed behind her, her heart sank. There would be no help, and Kane would never find her before Antoine killed her.

  Her struggles ended when the officer shoved her inside a tiny room where Antoine stored his art supplies. A key turned, locking the door. Pressing her ear to the wood, she heard retreating boot heels against the stone floor. The familiar sound of the large front door opening filled the hall, followed by the thud of it closing.

  Once silence settled in, she turned around, feeling her way in the dark for anything she might use to open the lock on the door. Art brushes, palette boards, easels, nothing to jam into the lock.

  “Marguerite?”

  Her heart leapt into her throat at the sound of her cousin’s voice. She bent to the keyhole. “Callia?”

  “Yes, I am here, but I cannot find the key. The officer must have taken it with him.”

  Marguerite closed her eyes hard to keep from crying.

  “Leave me, Callia. Go back to the kitchen and keep away from Antoine.”

  “No. He is angry, Cousin. I fear he will kill you this time.

  You have to get away before the sun sets.”

  “If you help me, he will hurt you too, Callia.” She shook her head in the darkness. “Go. It is not a request.”

  Callia slapped the door. “You cannot ask me to leave you to die.”

  Marguerite heard her cousin’s footsteps running farther from the door until silence surrounded her again. She didn’t want to die, but condemning her cousin to death was unthinkable. Her fingertips grazed over the brushes and tools again. Surely he had a blade of some sort in his supplies. Anything she could use to fish in the lock and open the door.

  Footsteps approached again. She held her breath, pressing herself against the back wall. Could it be nightfall already?

  Something slid into the lock, but the latch didn’t turn.

  “Merde!”

  Marguerite almost smiled hearing her cousin curse under her breath. “Callia. What are you doing?”

  “He has hidden the key, but I have a hairpin.” More clicking and scratching came from the lock. “The lock will not lift.”

  Marguerite pressed her forehead against the door. “You are sweet to try, but you must go now.”

  “There is not much time left.” The hairpin moved feverishly in the lock. “He will be here soon.” Her voice trembled. “We have to get you out or…” She gasped. “I think he is coming.”

  “Run, Callia!” Marguerite bent close to the lock. “Run and hide. Now!”

  Chapter Nine

  Kane frowned when he lifted the stone and entered the master bedroom suite. Gerard’s scent lingered in his room, and someone paced outside his door. He pulled on a pair of pants and yanked the door open to find Gerard wringing his hands.

  “Forgive me, Master. I went to wake you, but you were gone from your bedchamber. I would have alerted you sooner, but I could not locate you.” He made eye contact.

  “They took her.”

  “Took who?” Kane frowned. “What are you talking about, Gerard?”

  His manservant lowered his gaze to his hands.

  “Marguerite. The Commissionnaire de Policia came with a warrant for her arrest. I tried to stop them. I told them she was your wife, not Mademoiselle Rousseau, but they took her anyway.”

  Kane clenched his fists and went back into his room for a shirt. Rushing to the jail looking like a half-dressed madman would not free Rita. He needed his wits.

  And his money.

  Since the fall of Napoleon and the destruction of the Bastille, a healthy purse influenced justice faster than being truly innocent. And if money didn’t solve the problem, he wouldn’t hesitate to use force.

  A few minutes later, fully dressed
with his money purse tied to his belt, Kane rode off on Kukulkan toward the jail in Paris.

  The door splintered, opened without unlocking or turning the knob. Candlelight flickered behind him, leaving Antoine’s face drenched in shadows.

  Only his sharp teeth gleamed white.

  “You have broken my heart, Marguerite.” He grabbed her upper arm in a bruising grip and spun her around, snapping the rope that bound her wrists.

  “You have no heart, Antoine. Not anymore.” His cool fingers circled her wrist, turning her back toward him.

  Marguerite tugged her arm, trying to jerk free from his grasp.

  “Not true.” He tsked and pulled her in close. His breath reeked of blood and death. “I love you enough to offer you one more chance. You wanted to marry me once, remember?”

  Tears welled, but her voice remained strong. “The artist I once cared for died the night you sold your soul for immortality.”

  He dragged her into his studio, and she gasped. “What have you done?”

  Callia sat with her hands and feet bound to a chair, and a tear-stained gag tied around her mouth. Her dress was torn, exposing one breast covered in bite marks. Puncture wounds also marked her arms and legs, yet she remained conscious.

  “You animal!” Marguerite slapped him with her free hand.

  He mocked her with a feigned look of shock. “I thought you would be pleased with my self-control. Perhaps you would rather I drank my fill while you watch the life fade from her body?”

  “Let her go, Antoine.” She met his gaze, forcing back her fear. “Please. There is no reason to hurt this poor girl.”

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Pain shot up her arm when he tightened his hold on her wrist. “I know who she is.

  I know what you were planning. How do you think I had you arrested ma petite?”

  He walked her to his easel beside Callia, and gripped a brush. “Every time I drink from you, your memories become mine, mi amour. I saw the men, the trinkets, the schemes.”

  Dipping the tip of his brush into one of Callia’s seeping wounds, he started stroking the canvas with her blood. “I know this girl is your cousin. I know you planned to leave me. She helped you.”

  Callia’s muffled weeping caught his attention. “No need to cry, little one. This will be over soon, and you will live on in art. You should be grateful to me for giving your worthless life some value.”

  “Antoine, please.” Marguerite buried her revulsion and attempted to settle back into her role as his servant, tucking a curl of his auburn hair behind his ear. “Callia is innocent.

  Let her go.”

  He spun on her, releasing her wrist and grabbing a handful of her hair. “Why should I listen to you? You whored yourself all over Paris!” His features twisted with fury. “You told me you couldn’t love me because my immortality came at too high a price, but now you hide under another vampire’s roof?”

  “He is a Night Walker. He offered me sanctuary instead of servitude.”

  He threw his head back, his laughter bordered on madness. Releasing her hair, he ran his cool fingers down her cheek. “Why do you always force me to hurt you? I can save you from death and love you for lifetimes.”

  Marguerite lifted her chin and did her best to hide her fear. “I am not afraid to grow old.”

  She never saw him move. Pain stabbed into her the moment he sank his fangs into the muscle at the base of her neck. Sucking at her skin, he bit again and again, until the fabric of her shift molded to her body, wet with her blood.

  Her vision wavered, heart racing, and he finally raised his head. Her blood stained his lips and chin, as if he were a wild animal feasting.

  She was the prey.

  Her legs wobbled, and he swept her up into his arms.

  Antoine shifted her until he held her in one arm. Marguerite tried to lift her head, but it felt heavy, too heavy, and lolled back. The tip of his paintbrush felt cool, stinging her as he dipped it into the gaping wound in her shoulder.

  “I think I will call this one Family in Blood.”

  Callia struggled in her chair. Marguerite wanted to tell her to be silent and not draw his attention, but exhaustion and blood loss stole her voice.

  Antoine peered at Callia, licking some of the blood from the corner of his mouth. Pulling another chair over, he placed Marguerite in it, facing her cousin. Deep inside, her instincts screamed to run. Get up and run.

  Even if she had the strength to flee, she wouldn’t leave Callia.

  The monster approached her cousin. Callia shrieked behind her gag.

  “Do you have something to say?” He stepped behind her chair and loosened the gag, pulling it away from her mouth.

  Callia coughed, her breath hitching. “Please. Let us go.

  We will leave Paris. No one will ever know about you.”

  “Your life depends on your cousin over there.” He pointed to Marguerite. “How much does she love you?”

  Marguerite managed a whisper. “Antoine. Punish me.

  She is innocent.”

  He pushed Callia’s head to the side, brushing her hair back from her throat. His gaze remained fixed on Marguerite.

  “How much is her life worth to you?”

  Kane galloped through the streets of Paris toward the jail.

  His pulse thundered in his ears like a ticking clock. If the police hurt Rita, he would kill them. No one threatened mortals under his protection. Not since the Night Demon.

  And never again.

  There would be ramifications if he slaughtered the corrupt officers, but he would deal with them once Rita was safe.

  As long as she was in peril, rational thought resided far beyond his reach.

  With the building in sight, he rocked back in the saddle, pulling the reins until Kukulkan slowed, prancing in place.

  Kane vaulted from the horse to the ground without a sound, his inner jaguar aching for freedom…for her. He didn’t bother to tie his horse. The stallion would wait for him to return.

  Kane shoved the door open, knocking an officer inside to the ground. The uniformed man behind the desk pushed his chair back and stood when Kane approached.

  “Halt, Monsieur!” He came around the desk, his hand on the hilt of his saber. “What is your business here?”

  Kane stared at the man, allowing his eye contact to draw in the weak-minded guard. “I am here to retrieve Marguerite Rousseau.”

  “She is not here.” The officer remained mesmerized by Kane’s gaze.

  “My staff informed me she was arrested today.” He frowned. He heard the other man’s thoughts. He told the truth.

  “The Commissionnaire took a few men to the Bordeaux Maison, but they did not find her there.”

  Kane wanted to tear the office apart in frustration, but that would not help him locate Rita any sooner. “Where is he now?”

  “He is on patrol, Monsieur.”

  Kane broke the connection with the man and wiped his visit from the officer’s memory before turning to leave.

  Kukulkan bobbed his head up and down, eager to stretch his legs again. Raising his boot up into the stirrup, Kane climbed into the saddle and nudged the stallion’s sides.

  Hoof beats echoed through the alleyways. Kane’s chest tightened. Had the Commissionnaire dealt with her himself?

  He’d been adamant about capturing Le Voleur D’or, angry that she’d evaded him. Could he have taken Rita and gotten even without bothering with a trial?

  He ground his teeth together, pushing the thought from his mind. His rage wouldn’t be so simple to contain. Pulling Kukulkan to the right, he raced toward the busy square around the Arc de Triomphe, opening his mind to the mortal thoughts that filled the night around him.

  Lowering his mental shields in such a public place assaulted him with a myriad of strange voices in his head.

  Some were in love, some grieving, and others were hoping for money for bread. So far, none had thought about a stunning blond woman who could smile while she pilf
ered your wallet.

  He winced, slowing his horse to a trot. Being an ancient, his powers in this world had increased to the point he could hear the thoughts of people far from the square. Miles away.

  Kane stopped Kukulkan. Turning the stallion around, his brow furrowed. Somewhere in the mass of sound, of mortal thoughts, he caught a weak whisper.

  She wasn’t far.

  Kukulkan launched into a gallop away from the Arc.

  Rita. Where are you?

  Almost instantly, the whisper slipped into his mind.

  Antoine.

  The connection vanished. She might have lost consciousness, or…

  He couldn’t even consider the other option.

  And he had no idea where Antoine lived.

  “Merde!” He pulled his horse around toward his home.

  Gerard had delivered his message to invite Rita to show him her master’s art. He would know where to find Antoine.

  Kane hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  “What do you want from me, Antoine?”

  Her question drew his attention away from Callia. She’d heard Kane’s voice in her mind again, like the night at the lake, but had he heard her answer? She couldn’t rely on him.

  Her future and the future of her younger cousin were on the line. If life had taught her nothing else, it taught her the only person she could count on was herself.

  Antoine knelt at her chair and took her hands. She wouldn’t waste the remains of her strength pulling them away.

  “I want the life we should have had together.” His gaze searched her face. “Promise me that, and I will let her go.”

  “You threw away the life we could have had.” She glanced at her cousin, pleased to see her twisting her hands, trying to loosen the bindings.

  His lip twitched. “You have no right to judge me. You never loved me. I painted for you, pined for you. I took you away from your miserable father and gave you a home, jewels, and dresses, and it was never enough.”

  “I never wanted those things.” She pulled her hands away from his. “You made me into a prized possession, nothing more. You drank too much wine, lost your position at the university, and took me to your bed against my will.