by Nancy Gideon
Marchand.
No, it couldn’t be . . .
Marchand, tell me where you are.
The hairs on his arms stirred as the soft command echoed within his mind. He gripped the doorknob and in his panic began a desperate pulling instead of pushing inward. Any second, he expected the feel of cold fingertips and the confusion of helplessness that followed. That helplessness that was like dying.
“Marchand?”
The touch of a hand made him whirl around, his back pressing to the door, his palms flat against the solid wood. But he only saw Musette, her pretty features pinched with concern.
“Oh, Marchand, you are unwell. Let me help you.”
She leaned past him to open the door and the tension left his body in a shivery wave. Needing some contact with reality, he caught her up in a tight embrace, hugging her against him, reveling in the feel of warm, well-rounded humanity. After she got over her surprise, Musette put her arms about his middle and hugged back.
“I miss him, too, Marchand. It seems so strange not hearing his voice or seeing him beside me.”
Marchand squeezed his eyes shut, “Musette, trust me, do not wish for those things.” And he hung on tighter, trying to force out the image of his dead brother looking down at a bloodstained palm, trying to make himself believe it was madness—wishing it was madness.
“What are we going to do, Marchand? I’m at such a loss now that he’s gone.”
What were they going to do? God, he wished he knew! But then there was one thing he did know, one goal he did hold strong. Marchand took a deep breath. Determination spread like hot steel through his veins. “I’m going to find out what killed him and I’m going to put him properly to rest.”
Not understanding the depth of that promise, Musette stepped back, his hands in hers. “Rest is what you need right now. You look terrible, March.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Would you mind if I lay down with you for a while?”
“Musette—”
“I need to be close to someone who was close to Frederic. I don’t mean it in a personal way. It’s just that he was everything to me and now—”
“You needn’t explain,” he murmured. He placed a light kiss upon her brow. “I don’t want to be alone with my own company, either.” No, he didn’t want to be alone. Alone, he was vulnerable. And with his arm about her shoulders, he guided her into his room and shut the door, unaware that Nicole was watching from the top of the shadowed stairs with the same pain-filled expression that had lined her face when she saw Musette exit his room that morning.
They lay together beneath the covers, both completely dressed with the exception of footwear. With Musette’s firm little figure pressed against him and her bright head pillowed upon his shoulder, Marchand felt inexplicably better . . . safer. Perhaps her presence would hold the dreams and beckoning voices at bay. It was better that they not be separated. At least here, he could try to protect her from what he’d discovered in this house. He owed it to Frederic, to all of them, to see that one of their number survived unscathed. So he clutched her close, wondering how on earth he was going to see to that vow here in this unnatural fold.
Louis and Nicole Radouix were the same kind of monsters that had stolen Camille and Frederic’s souls.
How could he rest while dark questions lingered? He closed his eyes and could see the sleek image of Gerardo Pasquale with his arms about those two soon-to-be-ghoulish women, purring smugly, “I’ve brought guests for dinner.”
How long before he and Musette were invited to be the main course at the Radouix’ table?
NICOLE PAUSED outside Marchand’s door. Within, she could feel two hearts beating close together. A sudden fierce rage rose up to wipe away her pain. How could he do this to her? How dare he do this to her? She’d saved his life and this was how she was to be repaid? By his fickle treachery? Before his brother’s memory was even cold?
Her hands clenched into tight fists where they rested against his door. The rhythm of those two hearts took on a taunting tempo. Didn’t he know what she’d offered him? Her love, her strength, her fortune. Yet he chose to discard it. Did he realize how dangerous it could be to slight her? Did he know how powerful she was, how easy it would be for her to tear this feeble door from its frame and simply take what was hers? He was hers, presented to her as her rite of passage. Perhaps she’d been too sentimental in her want to preserve his individuality. If this was how he was going to treat her, he didn’t deserve the right to choose. She’d make that choice for him with one swift claim. Then he wouldn’t be able to turn away from her in horror or to turn to someone else in her stead. He would be hers to control, hers to command.
She leaned against the door, her pulse pounding, her breath hissing between rapidly altering teeth. How dare he mock her. How dare he dismiss her love when she was like a god! Foolish mortal. She would show him she was not to be trifled with. She would become—
Just like Bianca and Gerard.
That shock sobered her.
What was she thinking? Oh, Marchand, forgive me, my love. She reeled away from his door, racing toward her own room, aghast at how she’d nearly lost her first battle against the pull of power. Now she understood her father’s warning. It would be so easy to give way to temptation, so simple to adopt the attitude of contemptuous superiority. So easy to control and kill for reasons less noble than survival.
“Nicole?”
She turned quickly into her mother’s arms, letting her tears come and her insecurities flow as freely. “Oh, Mama, what am I to do? He will never love me as I am.”
“Is he a strong man, Nicole? A brave one?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Then all is not lost. He’s here with you. He hasn’t run from you. I’d say that speaks of courage and trust.”
“I’m not sure I’m worthy of that trust,” she admitted wretchedly.
“You’ve kept him safe. You’ve brought him here. I’d say you are. He must love you very much to have come this far.”
Nicole sniffled. “He says he does. Or at least he did.”
“I like your Marchand. He is a smart, practical man, but his life has just undergone a tremendous upheaval. Give him time to heal, Nicole. Help calm his fears.”
“How can I reassure him when I can’t convince myself that all will be well?”
“You must work together.”
Nicole rested her head upon her mother’s shoulder, taking comfort from her confidence. “Mama, were you never afraid?”
“Of your father? No. Not really. There were aspects of him that were truly frightening, but I love the man he is too much to let that part of him scare me away.”
“He’s never—hurt you?”
“No.”
“But he’s—he’s taken of your blood.”
“He takes what I’ve gladly given.”
“But you’re not a slave to him.”
Arabella laughed. “No, I’m not. He doesn’t want me to be. He needs me to be strong for the times when he’s not strong. As it should be between man and wife.” She led Nicole into her bedroom, sat her down at her dressing table and began to brush out her hair as she’d done since her daughter was a child. Nicole studied her own reflection. Hers was the only mirror in the house. She stared at her face and thought of what her father had said. A shadow of his soul. And she touched her cheek, wondering when her own image would begin to fade.
“What is it like, Mama?” Their eyes met in the glass, Arabella pausing in mid stroke, then continuing the smooth rhythm.
“It’s the loss of self, the combining of two into one. It’s a perfect union of heart and mind and body. There’s no other closeness like it.” Then she tipped up her daughter’s face to ask her, “Have you initiated Marchand?”
“No.” Then her gaze dropped and she murmure
d, “I’ve made love with him.” When her mother made no comment, she risked a glance upward and was relieved to see no condemnation there. “Oh, Mama, it was so beautiful. Is it like that?”
Arabella caressed her fair cheek, her smile slightly sad at the thought of innocence lost. “Yes, it’s like that. Only—more. It’s the ultimate gift of trust, Nicole. It can’t be forced. Turn your head and let me finish this.”
Nicole pondered her mother’s words, then another thought occurred to her, one she hadn’t considered before, one that was twice too late to change.
“Mama, you made me while Father was in a human form.”
“Yes.”
“Marchand is human. What are the chances that he and I—”
“Could you conceive a child between you?” Arabella went still, her expression taking on that cool scientific facade it did whenever she was pensive. “I don’t know, Nicole. I suppose it would be possible. But as to what that child would be, I could not guess.”
Nicole twisted on the stool, her face lifting in earnest. “Is it wrong of me to want him? To want a child with him?”
“No.”
“I do! I do want the things normal women have and I want them with him. I can’t bear the way he looks at me now. What am I going to do? How can I convince him not to be afraid?”
“Show him all that you are, Nicole. Then, you must let him decide. It isn’t a choice many could make.”
“You did!”
“Yes, and I’ve never regretted it.”
“But haven’t you ever wanted Father to change you so that you could share eternity together?”
“I thought on it long and hard, my darling, but I couldn’t let go of life when I was raised to cherish it. It’s that quality Louis loves in me. Yes, it’s hard to accept the years when he does not age, but when he tells me it doesn’t matter to him, I believe him. He would grow old with me if he could. That is his greatest wish. Alas, he can only grow old through me. Life is sacred, Nicole, not to be taken selfishly or for your own purpose. Believing that is what keeps your father from being a monster.”
“I love Marchand, Mama. I can make him want me.”
Arabella thought of Gerardo Pasquale and shook her head. “No. It would never be the same. Better to lose him than own him.”
Nicole looked as though she might protest, but she didn’t. In the end, she nodded, accepting that wisdom with a breaking heart.
“Nicole?”
“Yes?” She looked up alerted by her mother’s tone.
“You said you’ve not taken of his blood.”
“No.”
“Do you know who might have?”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, and I’m saying this strictly from necessity, is that as soon as possible you need to get him into a natural state so you can search for signs of a bite.”
“Mother!”
“I don’t think he’d be inclined to disrobe for me, physician’s daughter or no. And if he is in the thrall of another, he won’t be able to volunteer any information on his own. This is important, Nicole, vital to our very safety. You’ve brought him here and he is the eyes of whomever took him. We could be in terrible danger.”
“Then perhaps you should ask Musette to look. She would seem to have a better chance than I.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” Arabella said gently. “I was wondering. I think you’re wrong there, Nicole. He doesn’t look at her the way he looks at you.”
“He looks at me as if I was a demon!”
“He looks at you like a man in love.”
And Nicole held to that observation as she paced her room in restless strides through the long hours of the night.
How was she going to go about seducing a man who both loved and loathed her?
WHEN PLANNING a campaign, the first thing one did was find out everything possible about the enemy. His first task was suspending belief long enough to look for that information.
Marchand had slept well and had awakened at first light with his strength restored. And with that energy, came his determination. He’d been helpless and he didn’t like it. Knowledge was power, be it battlefield or boulevard, and so far, all he had was a name steeped in superstition.
Vampire.
He chose dawn purposefully. It seemed the time when everything under the Radouix’s roof would be resting. Leaving Musette abed asleep, he crept down the stairs into the stillness of the lower floor. Then he went quietly and efficiently from room to room, searching for anything that would further his cause. When he opened the doors to an extensive library, he was smiling with a grim satisfaction.
“Were you looking for something in particular?”
The sound of his host’s smooth drawl spoken directly behind him gave Marchand a terrible start. He lunged forward, placing a heavy map table between him and whatever Radouix was. There, he waited, tense and en garde and frustratingly unarmed. If there was a way to arm against such as him.
Radouix glided in from the darker hall. There was no other way to describe the way he moved. There was something hypnotic in that effortless motion, but Marchand refused to be charmed.
“Might I hazard a guess,” Louis continued. “You’ll find a surprisingly good section on ancient folklore along that wall. Any subtext you were interested in? Perhaps I could help you. I am rather well learned in the area.”
“Vampirism.”
Marchand’s direct reply brought Louis’s dark brows up in a delicate arch. “Ah, I am somewhat of an expert on that topic. Let me save you some time. You may ask me your questions.”
Marchand watched his host sink languidly into a leather chair. There was scarcely any give to the cushion, as if a man his size was without weight. Louis crossed his legs and tented long-fingered hands upon one knee and he looked up with an infinite patience.
“Ask your questions.”
Marchand tried to speak, but words wouldn’t come at first. He wet his lips and assumed an aggressive posture. It seemed his host smiled faintly at that bit of bravado.
“There are such things?”
His smile widened and his green eyes gleamed. “Oh, yes.”
“And you are one?”
There was a long silence then a slightly chiding, “Is that what you think?”
“Yes.”
“Then you are either very brave or very foolish to be standing there asking such questions of me, are you not?”
He was mad, that’s what he was! But Marchand couldn’t relent. What did he have to lose, after all? If this elegantly draped creature wanted to kill him, what could he do? Run? How amusing. He’d seen how fast they moved and he’d sampled their strength. He was a babe in his ignorance and here was his chance to learn.
“One of your . . . legion, killed my brother and my friend.”
“Ah.” That was a soft sound, one of infinite understanding. “And what is it you mean to do about it?”
“I’m not sure there is anything I can do.”
“Then you mean to accept the fact as it is and go on with your life. Very . . . prudent of you.”
“I accept nothing about what was done!” he cried out passionately, unaware that he was being gently baited. “He was my brother and now he—he—I don’t know what he is.” He blinked rapidly to discourage the welling emotions. Now was not the time for grief. He regarded Louis narrowly. “Can you tell me what he is?”
“Not all the victims of a vampire become vampires. A vampire has undergone a ritual of initiation, a rather close-guarded secret among those of my society. It is not casually done, for when we increase our number that way, it is for an eternity.”
Marchand swallowed hard because Louis admitted what he had already known. That he was a vampire. “Then what happens to those who are killed . .
. casually?”
“Whenever blood in any amount is drawn, the victim becomes a pawn to whoever has taken from him. The dominance will last until death—of one or the other. If the victim dies without the initiation, he will rise again in an inferior state, as a revenant-en-corps, an animated corpse. Without the transformation of spirit, he is much like a decomposing body wandering at night, killing and making others like himself. It is not an envied state, this mindless existence as a slave to the hunger and to he who made him.”
Marchand closed his eyes, overcome by what he heard. “Mon Dieu. Oh, mon frère . . . Frederic . . .” Then, realizing how far he’d allowed his defenses to drop, his eyes flashed open in alarm. But Louis was still seated, watching him with a century-deep detachment. It was a struggle for Marchand to force down the frailty of heart to ask, “H-How does one put such a creature to permanent rest?”
“There are several ways. A stake through the heart and the severing of the head from the body, consummation by fire and the scattering of ashes, exposure to daylight. They are vulnerable during the day when they are confined to darkness and their unnatural sleep.”
Puzzled, Marchand glanced toward the slight gap in the drapes here the world outside was lightening by progressive degrees. Louis smiled blandly, making no effort to lift his confusion. Rather than challenge the truth of what he was hearing, Marchand asked, “Where does one look for these ghouls?”
“At night, they will find you. They’ll be drawn to food. During the day, look in dark, secret places where they will not be easily disturbed.” He paused and regarded Marchand for a long moment before asking, “And if you find your brother and your friend, will you have the courage it will take to end their existence?”
Marchand thought of those soulless eyes and answered without hesitation, “Yes.”
Louis pursed his lips, his gaze leisurely measuring the other man. Then he nodded. “I think you will. And is this your plan, to put them to rest?”
Marchand was silent then, unsure of how much to reveal to the sophisticated demon before him.
