Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  “What did you see?”

  “Camille looking as if he’d stepped from the grave. The smell.” He swallowed hard. It was easier if he reminded himself that it wasn’t real. Just a dream. “I shot him. The bullet passed through and he never slowed. And Frederic, he was behind me and I could see no soul in his eyes and I—I—”

  Words failed.

  Nicole gathered him up and he was too weak inside to object when she held him close. It felt good to be in her arms. Real, after all the bizarre things doing jerky puppet dances through his mind. He wanted to lose himself in her embrace but something dark nagged upon the edge of his thoughts. His fingers cramped up in the fabric of her cloak. Tension had him shifting with a helpless agitation. She rocked with him, gently kissing his brow, his temple, his hair. And unbidden rose the cold, cruel belief that it had been no dream at all.

  “Oh God, forgive me. Camille . . . Frederic . . . forgive me. I would never hurt you. I would never hurt you. It was a dream! It had to be.”

  “It wasn’t them, Marchand,” Nicole whispered as she rocked and stroked his hair.

  And suddenly he went very still. Slowly he began to withdraw from her, easing away, edging back until he was plastered up against the wall of the coach, his eyes upon her, huge and staring.

  “But it was them,” he murmured. “It was them. I saw them . . . And I saw you.”

  And Nicole saw the horror of what she was reflected back in his gaze.

  Just then Musette gave a whimpering cry and came awake. She looked about through bewildered eyes but the minute she saw Marchand, her sorrow returned.

  “Oh, Marchand.”

  He slid off the seat he shared with Nicole, never taking his eyes from her. He nudged in next to Musette and took her up in his arms, cradling her while she wept some more in weary little snatches. And he began to croon to her, the reassuring words ingrained from habit.

  “It’s all right, Musette. It’s all right, cher. I’ll take care of you. We’re family, you and I. We’re family.” And when his own eyes filled up again, he cried them out silently in the tangle of red hair.

  And never had Nicole felt quite so all alone.

  THEIR COACH ROLLED through Grez shortly before sunset. It was its most beautiful at that time of day, and Nicole was pressed to the window, absorbing the sight with nostalgia tugging at her soul. She had to admit, it was homesickness. After the chaos and adventure of Paris, she was straining for her first glimpse of home.

  “This is the place from Camille’s painting.”

  “Yes.” Nicole looked around, encouraged. Marchand hadn’t spoken a word to her since he’d changed seats. “It’s Grez. My family lives near here. We should be able to see the house in a few minutes.”

  But that had satisfied the extent of Marchand’s curiosity. He looked away from her, ignoring the yearning in her expression.

  “Are you sure it will be all right with your family that we’ve come with you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Nicole assured Musette, but she was wishing she could have brought all of them with her; Camille, Bebe, Frederic, instead of just the emotionally fatigued remainders of their once carefree band.

  They rode in silence for a time, then Musette came up off her seat, staring in awe. “Nicole, is that your home?”

  Eyes welling up at the sight of the crimson-tiled roof and soft sand-colored walls, Nicole murmured, “Yes.” Then she glanced at Marchand to find him staring, too. But from his impassive expression, she couldn’t know how his heart sank as he took in the immense scale of the chateau, then his own shabby appearance.

  The coach whirred in through the open gates and stopped at the front of the house. Twilight bathed the stones with a reflective brightness, giving an almost daytime illumination to the scene Marchand observed. A couple stood waiting. The woman was middle-aged, handsome and teary-eyed. The man was about his age, of striking looks and anxious expression. Even before the step went down, Nicole came flying out of the coach into the woman’s arms. They embraced for a long while, both cheerfully weeping. Then the woman, Nicole’s mother—he could see the resemblance now—pushed her back gently and stood away, opening the path to where the aloof gentleman waited.

  They eyed one another for a moment, almost like cautious antagonists, then he made a slight gesture, the spreading of his hands, and with a heart-rending cry, Nicole flung herself upon him, burrowing emotionally into the crisp white linen of his shirtfront.

  Jealousy spiked high and hot through Marchand as he watched them together. Who was this man? A brother? A betrothed? Then he heard the low caress of Italian endearments and was reminded at once of Gerardo Pasquale. The youthful Gerard who was a reputed friend of her father’s. Who looked the same age as the man who cuddled Nicole on his chest.

  And then the man looked up through eyes of a particular shade of green and Marchand knew that somehow, impossibly, this man was her father.

  Nicole was loath to step away once she’d bridged the distance between them. The sense of security swept over her as she was hugged to the familiar plane. It wasn’t a monster she saw. It wasn’t a demon. It was the man who’d loved her all her life and had showered her with her every wish.

  “I’m so sorry I hurt you.” The words were muffled against him, but she could tell he heard by the way he caught his breath. “Please forgive me, mío pádre.”

  “It’s I who need to beg that of you. But these things we can say between us later. First, introduce us to our guests.”

  She turned, keeping her arms about her father’s lean waist. “Mother, Father, these are my friends, Musette Mercier and Marchand LaValois. They took me in like family while I was in Paris. I would ask you do the same for them now.”

  “My home is open to you. I am Louis Radouix and this is my wife, Arabella.”

  Arabella studied her daughter’s friends with interest. The girl was pretty, one of those Parisian free spirits, she supposed, and the young man, even slightly battered, bruised and bone weary, was quite impressive to behold. Arabella moved a linking glance between him and the redhead. Then between him and her daughter. Ah, so this was the lover Gerardo spoke of. She extended her hand and smiled.

  “Please come in. We owe you a great debt for taking care of our Nicole.” And her heart softened as the handsome young man’s face took on a warm flush of color and he looked away from her intent gaze. Definitely the lover. “You must be tired after the ride and eager to wash up and have a warm meal. I’ll have Mrs. Kampford prepare your rooms. We so seldom have visitors, this will be quite a treat.” And she shepherded them inside, pausing to gratefully clasp Takeo’s hand and to slip her arm about her husband.

  Their daughter was home safe.

  HIS ROOM WAS huge, bigger than their entire Paris flat, but Marchand noticed nothing beyond the invitingly pulled-back counterpane. He managed the strength to strip down to his worsted drawers, then sank into the sweet oblivion of the bed. All else could wait until he had the rest his body demanded.

  Except his mind couldn’t rest.

  There could be no base of reality to the images tumbling through his head. He was tormented by strange vignettes, snatches befitting some opiate dream or madman’s fancy. Over and over, he saw the ragged corpse of Camille Viotti emerging from the shadows. He could feel the resistance and give that met his sword as it impaled his brother’s body. The incredulous horror of it. All the reactions denied him at the time returned with chilling consequence. Those dead, empty eyes, burning with bestial fervor. He thrashed upon his sheets, bathed in a sweat of nameless terror. That charnel smell rising up to stir the bile in his belly. The impossibility of it all, the fantastic nature of things that could not be believed or explained.

  Shall I make you the companion of my next few centuries?

  No! He tossed wildly, fighting the bedcovers as if he was fighting those
demons in his dream. His head was full of the sound of his frantic shouts and fierce curses, of the useless thuds of his fists against bodies that felt no pain. He was lifted, his coat and shirt pulled off him. Their touch, so cold upon bared skin. He strained and struggled against the repellant feel of it. Then the insidious purr of a woman’s voice.

  You were to have been Nicole’s first, but since she cannot bring herself to take you . . . ah, well, such strength cannot go untapped.

  Then the glare of moonlight upon sharp white teeth.

  No . . . no . . . no . . . He moaned repeatedly in his restless slumber, his arms outflung as if they were pinned by some greater force, his body warping up, twisting, going abruptly rigid.

  With a soft cry, Marchand sat upright in his borrowed bed. The room was dark and he was alone. The only sound was the harsh uneven panting of his breath. He was wet with the stark terror of his dream. A dream. Yes, it was a dream, for even now, the images were unraveling, threads loosening, fraying, parting in the manner of dreams until he was left with no memory other than the disquieting chill. He lay back and brought the knotted covers up to his chin. He was all at once so cold and yet feverishly hot.

  With a sigh, he closed his eyes and let a healing slumber overtake him. As it did, he was subconsciously rubbing the inner crook of his elbow where twin indentations throbbed with barely noticeable pain.

  Bianca’s bite.

  Chapter Seventeen

  LOUIS RADMAN SAT on the parlor sofa, his feet stretched out toward the fire, his wife tucked up against his side. The heat from the first was an unnecessary indulgence, for he felt no great influx of hot or cold, but the warmth of the second was vital to his existence: the loving presence of the woman he’d married.

  He felt their daughter poised in the hall long before Arabella was aware of her there watching. When his wife would rise up in welcome, he caught her hand in his, kissed it gently and pressed it over his heart.

  Let her come to us, my love, was his silent message. Arabella relaxed against him, but he could sense her anticipation. And her anxiety. He shared it.

  Finally, Nicole came into the room, approaching them with both haughtiness and humility. There was pride in her ability to escape their rule and survive on her own. There was meekness in her return. It was an uneasy line to walk, and Louis vowed not to upset the balance. He didn’t move, continuing to gaze into the flames as she hovered uncertainly at the rolled arm of the sofa. Then she came around in front, settling on the floor at his feet, pillowing her head against his thigh as she’d done since she was a child. It was a submissive gesture then. Now it was one of trust and devotion. He would not mistake the two. Slowly, he stroked his palm along the glossy shimmer of her dark hair and her eyes closed on a sigh.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he began in a tone as soothing as his touch. “It’s about two young friends in Firenze, Italy. One was from a wealthy family. He was a scholar, always thinking deep thoughts, rather shy when it came to life’s pleasures. The other was from a modest family. He hungered for those things his friend took for granted. He was full of recklessness and passion. From such different backgrounds, with such different views, they should not have been friends, yet they were almost like brothers in their love for one another. Then a beautiful woman came between them.

  “The passionate one was wildly enamored of her air of mystery. The scholar was afraid of her and afraid for his friend. This woman played upon their affection and their fears and soon these friends became bitter rivals without ever intending to be. Through her trickery, she brought them to a point of honor which left the passionate one dying and his somber friend stricken with guilt and grief. The woman whispered that she would spare his life if the other would swear his allegiance to her. The scholar, he was a great fool, and in his ignorance agreed. This woman had no magic. She was no healer. She was a vampire and she drank up their souls, giving them both an eternal death.”

  “You, Gerard and Bianca,” Nicole murmured. And he paused for a moment, wondering how she knew, before answering, “Yes.

  “The passionate one, Gerardo, resigned himself to his existence, believing himself damned, but the scholar, Gino, he would not accept his fate. For centuries he searched for a way to escape his nocturnal curse, until he found a physician in London who was doing experimental work transferring blood. That doctor restored him to life. For a time, he lived as a normal man, falling in love, taking a wife, making a child, but his fortune was not to hold. Now he is once again among the cursed.”

  He paused in his tale to brush the trail of tears from his daughter’s cheek.

  “Nicole, you were born of the tremendous love your mother and I have for one another. It was never our intention that you come to any pain because of it. Forgive us our selfishness, but you brought us such joy. Now we must pay for it in your sorrow. It would seem the scholar never learned to think from the head instead of the heart.”

  Nicole caught his hand and held it against her cheek for a long moment, then she sat up to regard him intently. “I need to know the nature of what I am. I’m not like Bianca and Gerard. I don’t think I ever could be. Gerard says I am like you. Tell me what that means.”

  “I’m not like them, either. I never kill carelessly or for the thrill of the hunt. To me, all human life is sacred. They’ve forgotten, or pretend not to remember, what it means to be alive. They believe themselves superior, and in their arrogance they hold all else in contempt. We have great powers, great strengths, true, but also huge weaknesses; the light of day, the touch of silver, the scent of garlic, flowing water. We are condemned to darkness, to the vile food of our existence. We are slaves to the hunger. We live in fear of discovery, of being caught when we are helpless to defend ourselves against a sharpened stake or a severing stroke or the simple warmth of dawn.”

  “But I’ve seen you during the daylight hours.”

  “As I said, I’m not a true vampire. The experimentation left me with a trace of humanity. I can bear the daylight for a time. I can see a faint reflection in the glass; the shadow of my soul.” He smiled wryly at that. “The hunger no longer consumes me, but I still must yield to it at times.”

  “So what does that make me?” she asked him.

  “I don’t know. We’ve watched you since birth, hoping that you would be a normal child, praying my tainted blood escaped you.”

  “But it hasn’t, has it?” her mother put in quietly.

  “No,” Nicole answered.

  “Tell us the nature of what you are, little one.”

  She told them everything, about her preference for the night, her acute sensory perceptions, her strength and unnatural speed. It was a relief to unburden her soul to them.

  “And upon what do you dine these days?” Louis asked when she hesitated.

  “We share the same taste in meals, Father.”

  “You’ve killed?” Arabella exclaimed, unable to keep the anguish from her voice.

  “No, not for food. Not yet. But the instinct is there. Always. Marchand was to have been my first, but I couldn’t—” She broke off and looked away, ashamed, confused, hungry for him even now. “Bianca and Gerard were trying to teach me.”

  “Them?” Louis scoffed in disgust. “They hunt like savage animals, for the pleasure of the kill. You might as well learn from jackals. How do you know them, these shadows from my past?”

  “I’ve been staying with them in Paris.”

  “In Paris,” Arabella echoed, looking up to her husband in alarm. “So close! Louis!”

  He waved off her fright. His gaze was intent upon his daughter. “You lived with them. Explain yourself.”

  “Bianca discovered what I was. It’s a long story.” She blushed, unwilling to tell her parents she’d been stealing. “They said they were your friends and that they owed you. Gerard was very kind to me, but I didn’t trust Bianca’
s motives.”

  “Bianca is a demon and Gerardo is not kind. He is clever and he is dangerous. His affection is unpredictable.”

  “He saved her life,” Arabella murmured.

  “What? What do you mean, Bella?”

  “He was here the other night to tell me Nicole was in danger. He told me where Takeo could find her.”

  “Gerardo was here? In my house? And you said nothing to me?”

  Arabella glanced uncomfortably at Nicole and rubbed her husband’s hand in a placating manner. “We can discuss this later, Louis,” she muttered.

  “I wish to discuss it now! How did he know where to find us?”

  “He—just knew.”

  “Bella.” His voice rumbled impatiently.

  “I’m linked to him just as I am to you and Takeo.”

  Louis stared at her, agog, then he surged up and paced angrily to the fire gate. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded of the flames.

  “It—it seemed unnecessary. I haven’t heard from him since we left London.”

  “Mama, was he your—Never mind.”

  “Was he her what? Her lover? No! Never!” And he glared at his wife, commanding her to agree.

  “No,” Arabella told her. “No, he was not. But regardless of what your father says, I do trust him, and I don’t believe he would ever harm you.”

  Louis snorted. “That’s what I thought, too, until he crushed my bones and tore out my—”

  “Louis! Nicole doesn’t need to hear that. That’s past. You and Gerardo have made amends since then.”

  “An uneasy truce. If he ever puts a hand upon either of you, I will kill him without a qualm.” The golden glitter of his eyes attested to his words.

  “Bianca is another matter,” Arabella continued, ignoring her husband’s glower. “She is completely soulless, and there is nothing she would not do to harm us. If she knew where we were, none of us would be safe.”

  “Gerard warned me not to tell her where you were.”