by Nancy Gideon
Marchand gave a soft groan and shifted upon his pallet. Nicole’s attention left Frederic to concentrate on him. But the younger LaValois had made his decision. He stood.
“Take care of him, Nicole.”
“Where are you going?” Her gaze darted up, wide with anxiousness and accountability; for her words fired him with this dangerous passion.
“To further the cause of freedom. I will meet with these friends of yours and ask what they are willing to do for our revolution.”
“Not you! You must stay away from them. I never intended for it to be you!”
“Who better? This is my hour of glory, Nicole, and I have you to thank for showing me the way.”
“No—”
“On this night, the tide will turn in our favor. I only wish Marchand understood and could share in my victory. Tell him how sorry I am to leave him like this, but you must get him to safety outside the city. Ask him to at least forgive me, if he can. If he can’t, tell him I learned my strength from him. Tell him I love him and Godspeed. And to you, Nicole.”
“But Frederic, Bianca and Gerard are not like me. They have no great love for humanity. They are . . . deadly.”
Before she could conclude that phrase in warning, Frederic LaValois was gone.
BIANCA DU MAURIER leaned back upon her chaise, all sensuous grace, a smile curving her seductive mouth as she listened to her unexpected guests. Nicole’s friends. An odd lot she chose to associate with. But a very lively bunch, indeed. Passionate. She liked passion. The one talking with such amusing animation was Nicole’s pretty lover’s brother. She’d already forgotten his name. The one watching through shrewd, greedy eyes was the one to deal with. The other; a weasel, an inconsequential. And there was a young woman, the lover of the poetic orator. Gerard had his eye on the pretty redhead from where he lingered, a motionless sentinel, beside her chaise. Even though his complexion was already ruddy and his pale eyes were still slightly dreamy from having so recently fed, there was the edge of predatory attentiveness in the way he watched her. Gerard; her insatiable lover, the only one she knew as coldly lethal, as amoral as herself. He enjoyed these cat-and-mouse games almost as much as he relished their conclusion.
Bianca continued to smile and listen, secretly entertained by the speaker’s professions of love for mankind. Oh, she knew about love. She’d known a love so strong it survived centuries. A love that kept her seated as these fools talked on and on about unimportant things; human things, while her mind spun craftily ahead thinking of how she could use them to her benefit.
And it was to her benefit to find a way to remind her negligent love that she still remembered how he’d spurned her in his taking of a mortal bride upon whom he’d made an unnatural child.
Some nights she couldn’t remember what drove her; her love or her hatred of Luigino Rodmini.
Musette tried to listen to Frederic. He was in rare form, espousing his view with a fine, vibrant clarity. Who could resist him when he poured so much heart and soul and faith into each word? Usually she was caught up in his fervor, like the newly baptized absorbing the text of a fiery preacher. But tonight, she couldn’t shake the chill inside her.
It was this odd pair Frederic called friends of Nicole’s. They didn’t look like they’d be friends of Nicole’s. They looked—unnatural. The woman was pale as moonlight and just as distant and cool. She appeared to be hanging upon every word, but there was the slightest curl—was it of contempt?—to her lips, and the black eyes fixed upon Frederic were empty. Dead eyes. Nonreflective, nonexpressive, flat black eyes. And the man, he was pleasant enough to look upon but he had that same mocking detachment to him, as if he was highly amused at their expense. And the way he looked at her . . . It wasn’t just looking, it was consuming, his gaze all cold, icy fire. Like he was ready to reach inside to snatch out her soul.
If it had been just her and Frederic, she would have urged him to leave and he would have listened. But he wouldn’t back down, not in front of De Sivry and his sycophant, Gaston, just because she felt uncomfortable around those they hoped would become their benefactors. Too much was at stake to heed one uneasy female’s intuition. They might never again have access to such wealthy patrons. So she stayed silent and kept her increasing sense of panic to herself.
Finally, the inner tension became too much. She had to escape the piercing scrutiny else lose all composure. She murmured meekly about needing to refresh herself. It took all her courage to hold back from a run as she left the room with the feel of those iridescent eyes upon her.
Once away from them, Musette felt the roil of distress settle in her belly. She hurried along the marble floor, her footsteps making a nervous patter. What would help her even more than a moment’s absence was a good glass of wine, she thought, catching sight of the dining room as she traversed the Egyptian-styled hall. Maybe after several glasses she wouldn’t find the twosome quite so disturbing.
She ducked into the dining room, sure her hosts wouldn’t miss a glass or two of the good-quality Burgundy she spotted shimmering lustrously in a cut-glass decanter upon the sideboard.
Except when she came further into the room, she saw with a horrifying certainty that it wasn’t wine at all.
It was blood.
Blood from the two women seated at the table, their bodies withered white shells drained of all vitality. One had slumped forward, as if resting her head upon her arms. But she wasn’t resting. Her eyes were wide open and staring like vacant blue marbles. A gash had been cut around her throat, shining there like a virulent ruby-colored ribbon. The other woman was still sitting upright, her blond head tilted to one side like that of a heavy sunflower on too weak a stem. Her shriveled forearm rested on the table, where crimson stained the white linen.
A scream choked up in Musette’s throat, the sound suffocating within the bitter rise of bile. Their hosts had killed these women and now were nonchalantly entertaining guests while the bodies grew ever colder!
De Sivry or no, she was getting Frederic out of there if she had to drag him. She wouldn’t waste time with explanations.
Who would believe her?
But before she could take more than two steps down the hall, a terrible cry sounded from the parlor up ahead.
Frederic!
The noise wavered, gurgled and came to an abrupt end. And so, she guessed had Frederic’s life.
With hands clapped over her mouth to retain her shrieks, Musette fled the elegant house, running like a madwoman along the dark Paris streets. She had only one thought in her frantic mind. She had to reach Marchand to tell him his brother was dead.
IN THE END, Bianca simply grew bored. She preferred action to oration, and though the young man was a competent speaker, she got tired of listening to how her money would go to the betterment of mankind.
What did she care about mankind?
She’d planned to wait until the woman returned, but she had no real interest in the female. It was the speaker who mattered, and the clever one, De Sivry.
The young man had come close while lost to the passion of his debate. His features were attractively flushed and she could feel the acceleration of his heartbeat as enthusiasm picked up its tempo. A delightful rhythm. Then she caught some of what he was saying.
“—power. That is the most important thing. Whoever holds that power, holds France. It’s not just a matter of money. Tonight Nicole told me something I did not believe at first, a tale about an eternity of strength and youth. Consider what that would do to further our cause! If only there was some way to obtain that power and harness it.”
“And if there were a way, would you be willing to embrace it?” she purred softly.
“Oh, yes.”
“Then open your arms wide and you shall embrace it as my slave.”
And she was upon him, her teeth sinking into his neck even
as he flailed and struggled to get free, even as the light was draining from his eyes as fast as the blood was being emptied from his body.
Gerard crossed twenty feet in what seemed to be two steps. He gripped the stunned Gaston by the pointed chin and wrenched his head about one hundred and eighty degrees. He never made a sound. Then Gerard, too, tapped an artery and drank.
De Sivry sat paralyzed with shock. Finally he made a move to rise and Bianca bellowed, “Sit!” One look at the blood-streaked face and he sat.
It took an obscenely short time to deplete the body of its fluids. Once it was done, Gerard collapsed back upon one of the low stools, his head lolling laxly as if he were intoxicated. Bianca fastidiously wiped her face and hands upon Frederic’s handkerchief, then she confronted the paralyzed De Sivry with an almost friendly smile.
“Now you and I are going to do business. If you think twice about betraying me, it will be your corpse upon the floor. Do you understand?”
He nodded dumbly.
“Good. I am quite interested in this power of which your companion spoke so eloquently. I care nothing for politics, but the position to rule is intriguing. I think I might like having my own country. Would you care to rule France with me, Sebastien, or would you rather serve in hell with your friends?”
“What do you want me to do?” came his weak question. Already his fear was falling away before greed and self-preservation.
“Tell me more about your plan to kill this king. Who will assume his place and how might I sit as the power behind the throne?” And this time she listened intently, nodding, questioning, scheming. She and the nasty De Sivry would do quite well together. “Return here tomorrow night and I will have the funds you need at your disposal. Cross me and you die. Is that understood?”
“Y-yes.”
“Go away. We need to make arrangements for our new friends.” She gestured to the bodies upon the floor. “Don’t be surprised if you see them tomorrow night, as well.” She smiled a slow, wicked smile and De Sivry, who feared nothing, quaked in his chair. Then he fled like the vermin he was into the underworld to see to her bidding. To his thinking, she might be unnatural, but by God, she knew how to wield power. And he wanted to be standing nearby to enjoy the benefits.
“Bianca, mía amóra, what are you thinking?” Gerard asked in a slightly slurred voice. “Why do you involve yourself with these creatures? What can they do for us?”
“Fool, they can give me everything I desire.”
“You already have that.”
“Not quite all.”
He regarded her for some time in silent suspicion, then said, “Nicole is gone.”
“What?” She whirled upon him in a fury. “What do you mean, gone?”
“She and her lover have run away.”
“Is this your doing?” she ranted. “It is, isn’t it? All your fine talk about her father. Her father! I will have him, Gerardo. I will! And she is my avenue. How could you let her get away?” She began to pace ferociously, then a cunning look replaced her aggravation. “She will be back. When that silly female finds them, he will come for his brother and I will have them both. And I will have Gino. Then I will have everything.”
“And what of Nicole?” Gerard asked smoothly.
Bianca gave him a haughty sneer. “I will get rid of her, of course. She is of no use to me. I believe I promised you that particular pleasure, didn’t I? You still want it, don’t you?” And she stared at him closely.
Gerard slanted a glance up at her, his eyes all cold, hard brilliance. The eyes of a ruthless killer. “Yes, of course.”
“And I will enjoy disposing of her meddlesome mother.”
ARABELLA RADMAN slept uneasily. Her dreams were dark and troubled, a reflection of her daily reality since they’d learned about Nicole. Everything had changed with that news. She blamed herself, and though she swore it wasn’t true, her husband stayed away, certain she felt him the cause behind her misery. Bearing the brunt of grief alone had become the worst possible torment.
The cushioning pressure of his mouth moving upon hers that woke her. A slow, languorous kiss that stirred an immediate and welcoming response and on this very lonely night, a relieved one. Her arms came up to embrace him. His coat was cold, still holding the chill of the night within its fibers, but she found him warm as her fingers messaged his nape and moved up to mesh in his hair, spreading wide to cup the back of his head.
It was then she realized that this man who was claiming her lips with such passion was not her husband.
Her eyes flew open to confront those of luminous blue.
“Buòna séra, mía ragázza,” he murmured with loverlike intimacy. When she lay frozen and speechless, he crooned, “What? You are not glad to see me? I would have thought so from your greeting.”
Arabella found her voice. “Louis will be here at any moment.”
“I do not think so, mía bèlla. I waited until he went out to hunt. We have some time to be alone, you and I. We could continue with our reunion.” With that husky suggestion, he bent to seek her lips once more, but she turned her head and began to push up against his shoulders. His cheek rubbed against hers as he whispered into her ear. “I could make you want to.”
Knowing he could, she went very still. “Don’t.”
She felt his sigh, then her own relief as he lifted up and stretched out with a comfortable laziness upon his side next to her in her bed. She’d forgotten how breathtakingly beautiful he was with his dark Italian features and startling blue eyes. So unchanged, so smooth and eternally young. And she realized how she must look to him. She began to turn away when his fingertips curled beneath her jaw, angling her back to face him. She felt the caress of his mind flirting with hers, picking up thoughts she would prefer to hide.
“Age has treated you with the adoration due a fine wine,” he crooned. “The years have only made you more beautiful.”
Refusing to admit how touched she was by his flattering words, Arabella demanded, “What do you want, Gerardo? Why are you here?”
“I’ve come to see you, Bella. Do you find that so hard to believe?” But his grin was teasing and she couldn’t judge his sincerity.
“How did you find us?” That question was tinged with fear.
“I’ve always known where you were. All I had to do was reach out for you, here.” His fingertips rubbed her temple. “As you could have done with me. But you never did, cara. I am wounded by your indifference.” Still the playful smile and mocking tone, but his gaze was oddly quiet.
“What about Bianca?” she asked tautly.
“She is—the same. Entertaining, beautiful, dangerous.”
“Why isn’t she here?”
“Because, innamoráta, I don’t tell her everything.”
It was then that Arabella relaxed.
The door to the bedroom chamber burst open and Arabella was quick to grab onto Gerard as he rolled with a mercurial shift into a defensive pose. He and the Asian in the doorway regarded each other for a long, tense moment.
“Takeo, it’s all right,” Arabella called as she was trying to distract Gerard from his readiness to attack. “Signor Pasquale is a friend of Louis’s.”
Takeo’s look cast doubt upon her assertion but he didn’t move. Instead, he used his telepathic link to Arabella to ask, Shall I get Master Louis for you?
No, it’s all right. Really. Signor Pasquale and I have things to discuss.
Gerard was glancing between them, picking up the signals but unable to translate them.
“You may go, Takeo. I’ll be fine. Gerardo is not going to hurt me.” The Asian bowed and withdrew obediently, closing the door in his wake. Then Arabella asked her unexpected guest, “Are you?”
“No.”
She believed him.
“Gino’s servant, he
talks to you through the mind.”
“Through our link with Louis. Takeo can’t speak.”
“Will he run to Gino and tell him you have taken a lover?” He settled back down upon his elbow, looking arrogantly pleased by the awkwardness of the situation he’d placed her in.
“Takeo will say nothing until he hears my explanation.”
“How loyal.”
“Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”
He laughed in delight. “Still prickly as ever. You have lost none of your spark, I see. Oh, how I have missed you, cara. Say you will leave Gino and run away with me.” He tucked her hand up against his heart in a dramatic pose while he grinned irreverently and his pale eyes gleamed with intense fire.
Calmly, she withdrew her hand. “And you have lost none of your conceit. Why are you here, Gerardo?”
He chose to ignore the question. He let his thumb stroke over the curve of her cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture. “There were dried tears upon your face. Why were you weeping, Bella? Has Gino made you unhappy?”
“No. It’s—it’s something else.”
“Tell me, cara. I cannot bear to think of you in pain.”
She looked up at him, startled by the passionate words. But his expression was bland and unreadable as if no emotion registered. She wondered which was the illusion and which the reality.
“We’ve recently lost our daughter.”
“Nicole.”
She blinked, amazed that he should know her name. But then again, nothing about him should have taken her by surprise. “Yes, Nicole. All our efforts to keep her safe failed. She died in Paris. There was nothing we could do. Takeo brought home the locket she’d been wearing after she’d been buried in a pauper’s grave. Apparently, she inherited my mortality.” And Arabella turned away, her eyes squeezed shut to conceal her grief, to retain fresh tears.
“Bella, you weep foolish tears.”
