Midnight Temptation

by Nancy Gideon

  “I know the mark, Marchand. Whose is it?”

  So many things paraded across his face in the next half minute; horror, foremost, then anger and fright, frustration, then confusion. And finally, a blank. He just stared at the mark, his eyes empty.

  “Marchand?” she persisted gently. “Who did this to you?”

  “I—I—” And his voice grew as vague as his expression.

  “It happened that night when you went after Frederic, didn’t it?”

  She saw something shift in his eyes and she didn’t like recognizing it as desperate cunning. “No.”

  “Yes. Who was it? Frederic? Camille?”

  “No.”

  “Gerard?”

  “He wasn’t there.”

  “Bianca, then.”

  And he said nothing. His features took in a belligerent, protective opaque. She wanted to shake him, to slap him, to free him from the slavish stupor. But she knew nothing would wake him.

  “Get dressed, Marchand. We must go to my parents with this news.” She was off the bed, pulling on her clothes while he sat struggling through his daze. Finally, he shook his head slowly.

  “No, we can’t. They’ll think I betrayed them. Nicole, they mustn’t know. They won’t let us be together.”

  She looked at him, suddenly suspicious. How much of his concern was for them and how much due to his need to protect the one who’d drunk from him? Knowing what she did, she couldn’t trust him. “They have to know. We could be in terrible danger.”

  He looked up at her through wide, guileless eyes. “I would never hurt you or them.”

  Tenderly, she cupped his face in her palms. “I know, my love.” And she kissed him with an urgent affirming passion, thinking angrily as she did of Bianca going into the veins of the man she’d claimed for her own. Furious that the other creature could so warp the faith she and Marchand were trying to establish between one another. Now there could be no trust unless she could find some way to free him from Bianca’s grasp.

  LOUIS PUSHED UP Marchand’s sleeve and with a dispassionate calm, regarded the marks revealed by the warm glow of their sitting room’s fire grate. Marchand stood rigidly at attention, suffering that scrutiny. An unbidden part of him was demanding that he pull away, that he cover the evidence, that he deny it to his last breath even though it was no longer a secret to be kept. That impulse tortured him while he held himself still, relying on a lifeline of military training for what little dignity he could yet command.

  “He’ll lead them right to us,” Louis stated emotionlessly.

  “Is it Bianca?” Arabella asked in a tight, little voice.

  Louis forked his hand beneath Marchand’s chin and held his head steady so he could delve into the cloudy confusion of his mind. After a long, concentrated moment, Marchand’s breath began to labor and his brow broke out in a sweat. When Nicole took an alarmed step forward, her mother caught her arm and held her fast.

  “Don’t interfere.”

  “But Father’s hurting him!”

  “Let him do what he must.”

  A guttural sound of distress moaned up from Marchand. Louis’s eyes had become hot green-gold flares, burning into his, cutting through the torpid layers of his brain to where a wall of unknown resistance stood firm. With his thoughts like great prying hands, Louis worked against that barrier, digging in deep, trying to spread apart those tightly woven links of imprinted defensiveness to get inside, mentally battering, physically rendering until Marchand’s knees gave way beneath the pressure. Pushing harder until the force threatened to crush his skull and destroy his mind entirely.

  Marchand was clawing at his arm, gasping for air, crying out from the agony that ripped along his veins from those two pulsing points at his elbow that seemed to have grown enormous and alive with pain. Then Louis’s hand opened, and freed, Marchand sank to the floor on hands and knees, weaving with a disoriented sickness. He was aware of Nicole’s embrace, of her strength supporting him. And he could hear the grim summation Louis made.

  “It was done by a master. None but Bianca or Gerardo could have created a bond too strong for me to break.”

  “Oh, Louis, what are we going to do? I refuse to spend the rest of my life running from that monster! I thought we’d be safe here.”

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” Marchand mumbled thickly. He was trying to wedge his feet under him but it was Nicole who had to help set him up on them. “I didn’t tell her where you were.”

  “Yes, you did.” That reluctant whisper came from Nicole. He stared at her, bewildered. “Camille’s painting. I heard you speaking of it aloud. The painting he gave me. It was of Grez. Any artist would know that. Anyone asking hereabout would know of us.”

  “I didn’t—” But the strength of his protest failed him, because he could remember speaking the words. He pushed away from Nicole, reeling through his own private hell of doubts. What had he done? Had he, with all his high ideals, brought the very devil to their door?

  “It’s not your fault, Marchand,” Arabella told him kindly in spite of her own anxiety. “You can’t help what she made you do.”

  He was rubbing the inside of his elbow with an absent vigor. “How can this power she has over me be broken? What must I do? I will not be a danger to you.” Then he saw the way Louis was looking at him and he recalled his words. “Only death,” he repeated. “Hers or mine.” He drew a slow breath, then said, “Kill me now, quickly.”

  “Marchand!” Nicole was instantly wrapped around him. “What are you saying? It’s madness!”

  “Not madness, Nicole. Necessity. Otherwise, it will all be for nothing; Frederic, Camille, and who knows how many others. It has something to do with De Sivry, for I saw Gaston there in her house. Nicole, I will not be a pawn in her plans. I could not bear for her to harm you and your family through me. Your father knows I am right.” He was setting her aside firmly. “He will do what must be done, for me then I beg you, for Frederic and Camille, as well.”

  Slowly, impressed and grieved, Louis nodded.

  “Father, you can’t kill him! There must be some other way.” Nicole went to him, lifting beseeching eyes.

  Louis was unable to reassure her. His solution was not much better. “If I brought him over and made him one of us, he would be my fledgling, not hers. But I don’t know if I can, Nicole. I’ve never done it. I don’t know if my blood would be strong enough to carry him back from the veil.”

  “Then you can’t—”

  “He must!” Marchand had no time to contemplate the moral nature of his choice. It had to be made. He gripped his collar, jerking it open. “Do it now, before she finds us.”

  “Oh, chéri,” purred a lethal voice from behind him. “Such a noble gesture, but alas, it comes too late.” And Bianca’s hand snaked around to catch him by the throat, compressing to the point of paralysis. Then she smiled at father, mother and daughter with benign malice. “Good evening, my friends. How well you all look. But so surprised! Didn’t I tell you I’d return?”

  “Get out of my house!” That was growled by Arabella, who alone had no power to withstand the lovely killer’s wrath.

  Bianca pursed her lips. “Oh, Gino, this one has no breeding at all.”

  “What do you want, Bianca?” Louis demanded in irritation. “We grow weary of your infantile dramatics. If you’ve a point, make it and begone.”

  Her features grew very pinched and pale. Her eyes glittered upon parchment skin like bits of sharp-edged coal. “My point? I believe I made it long ago, just as I made you, Gino. You are mine, just as this pretty one here is mine and Gerard is mine. And what is mine, I keep or I discard at will, but I never, ever share. A minor flaw, perhaps, one I fear I take quite seriously.”

  And at that moment, Nicole realized how cruelly she’d been used by the lovely blond demo
n. She, like Marchand, had been Bianca’s tool for vengeance, nothing more. Whatever happened within the next few minutes would be entirely upon her conscience.

  Arabella stepped closer to her husband and Nicole found her defiant courage nothing short of amazing considering what the vampiress could do. “Nothing here is yours. Louis married me and Nicole is our daughter. That young man is here as our guest. What gives you the right to meddle in our lives?”

  “Power. I do because I can and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

  “I can stop you, witch,” Louis drawled coldly. “Leave my family alone. Let that boy go. Step out into the night with me and we will see who is stronger.”

  “Louis, no—”

  He put his hand over the one Arabella placed upon his sleeve, but he didn’t look at her. His attention was fixed upon the deadly vampiress. “I have never liked your games, Bianca. They bore me as you bore me. Be done with them now. You have no power here.”

  She drew a soft, seething breath. “Oh, you are wrong, Gino. But if you want it ended, so it will end.” And from her cloak, she pulled a small pistol.

  Nicole and Arabella gasped but Louis sneered at her. “You mean to shoot me?”

  Her laugh was discordant. “Oh, no. Not I. I won’t have your death on my hands. Gerardo would find out and I don’t believe he would be as generous in his vengeance as you have been. For all his truly ruthless points, he can be annoyingly sentimental at the most inconvenient times. No. It won’t be by my hand. Take it, Marchand.”

  And Marchand’s hand came up obediently to close about the pistol grip. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes like dark window glass. His aim was true and unwavering as it sighted in upon Louis.

  “The bullets are silver,” Bianca went on to say. “My young friend’s skill should leave no room for error. Goodbye, Gino. I shall miss you.”

  “Marchand, no!”

  But Louis gripped his daughter’s arm. “Nicole, stay back. He can’t hear you.”

  “That’s right,” Bianca chuckled. “Mine is the only voice he recognizes. A bullet through the heart, Marchand. The heart you would not give to me, Gino. Do it now.”

  Just for an instant, the gun faltered as a dappling of perspiration broke upon Marchand’s brow. That hesitation before he squeezed the trigger gave Arabella the time to fling herself in front of her husband, becoming a human shield to save him. The report of the gun was massive within the confines of the room and as the echoes were dying, Arabella sank into Louis’s arms, a limp burden.

  “Bella!”

  He went down to his knees with her, his expression one of anguished disbelief as he regarded the crimson stain upon his palm.

  “Bella, no!”

  Bianca glared down at them dispassionately, watching the dark fatal flower bloom across the back of Arabella’s gown. “It isn’t the revenge I came for, but it will do. It is enough to have you on your knees before me once again.”

  “Marchand . . .”

  That moan came from Nicole, distracting Bianca’s attention as he raised the pistol again, thrusting the hot barrel up under his own chin and pulling the trigger once, twice. Bianca laughed and wrenched the empty weapon from him.

  “Fool! Did you think I would give you more than one chance? Say goodbye to our dear Nicole. You won’t be seeing her again.” And she jerked him backward through doors she closed and barred behind them, preventing an immediate pursuit.

  MARCHAND REMEMBERED none of the trip back to Paris. That the night was cold and damp was all he could recall. Then he was following Bianca into the palatial home she shared with Gerardo Pasquale. Following her with the docile obedience of a puppy because she told him to. Just as he’d fired the gun at her command. Because he was without any will of his own.

  However, his mind was not a blissful blank. In fact, it was agonizingly alive to all going on about him. He was aware of what he’d done in that private chamber, that he’d slain Nicole’s mother; a woman he admired and respected, that he’d done it with only a token resistance that in the end hadn’t been enough. He had seen the horror in his beloved’s face as her eyes raised to his in disbelief. And then he’d been unable to do the noble thing to stop the creature Bianca had made him from doing more wrong at her bidding.

  For he couldn’t stop. That part of his mind that was alive and thinking, reacting with outrage and indescribable dismay, was disassociated from the part that presided over motion. That part of him, Bianca controlled. She moved him about like her living, breathing puppet and, while his mind might shout and scream objections, his body complied of its own volition.

  “Come along, handsome one,” Bianca was saying as she walked down the large empty hall with her lithe, soundless step. “You know, you are not very amusing. I thought I might enjoy your spirit but I find it tedious after all. Too much effort to control you. I had considered bringing you over for my companion, but I think not. You would not serve me half as well as Gerard. I don’t believe you like me very much, do you, pretty one? No? Ah, well. Too bad.

  “And speaking of Gerard, what shall we tell him, eh? We cannot have him angry with us—or rather, with me.” She looked back over her shoulder, giving him a cold, calculating stare.

  “Cara, where have you been?” Gerard’s silky voice intruded, and soon Marchand saw him gliding in effortlessly from one of the adjacent rooms. “Why have you brought him here with you?”

  “What kind of greeting is that, my love?” Bianca chided. “Only questions? No words of fond welcome?” She slipped her arms over his shoulders, drawing him up close to her. Suspicion immediately flickered in his pale eyes as she pressed several explicit kisses upon his mouth. He caught her wrists and held her away.

  “What have you done?”

  “Gerardo, what makes you think—”

  “Stop simpering. I know you too well.” He glanced at Marchand again, then back to his lovely companion of the centuries. “Tell me what you’ve been up to. Tell me now.”

  “Really, you force me to hurt you and that was not my plan.” She was touching his stern-featured face with light, soothing strokes. “Oh, my heart, I am so sorry to bring you such sad news.”

  Again he caught her wrists, the compression making her wince. “What news? Has something happened to Nicole?”

  “Not . . . directly.”

  He gave a soft gasp. “Gino?”

  “Oh, Gerardo, it’s my fault, my fault. I sent this mortal villain to find him. You know how I have longed to see dear Gino again. How was I to know the treacherous creature would decide to do the righteous human thing and end our dear old friend’s existence?”

  “He killed Gino?” And for the first time, Marchand saw the unfailingly composed Gerardo Pasquale shaken.

  Liar! She’s lying to you! Those words screamed inside Marchand’s head, but all he could do as the vampire’s piercing stare turned upon him was stand mute and helpless to defend himself.

  Bianca’s hands were gently kneading Gerard’s forearms. Her voice was honeyed sympathy. “He had a gun with bullets of silver with which to see it done. But when he fired—when he fired, Gino’s mortal bride stepped between them. She chose her own death to spare her husband.”

  Gerard took a step back. There was no change in his expression, no shift in his eyes.

  Bella? His mental cry hurtled through space and fell into emptiness as vast as a black sea. He reached again, desperately. Nicole, what has happened? But from the vague connection he could make with her mind, he picked up fragmented images rather than coherent words. Marchand with gun in hand. The smoke of it discharging. Arabella sagging in her husband’s arms. His friend’s stricken face. He closed his eyes, breaking off from that tortuous portrayal.

  “I knew how disturbed you would be, my love,” Bianca continued with her tender purr of insincerity. “That’s why I broug
ht this vile assassin back with me. I brought him for you, Gerardo.”

  And the iridescent eyes reopened, canting over with glittering intensity to where Marchand stood. “For me?”

  She rubbed his prominent cheekbone with her knuckles. “Are you pleased, caro? Do you forgive me?”

  He turned his head to catch her fingers with a kiss. “A thoughtful gesture. Mílle grázie.”

  “Because I love you, beautiful one. I don’t wish you to be unhappy with me. And Gerardo,” she whispered against the cool part of his lips, “don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up for you.”

  Marchand watched her walk away. Upon her face, there was a smug smile Gerard couldn’t see. Run, Marchand instructed his placid body. Run! But he continued to stand in place as Gerard approached. Though the sleek vampire’s expression was remote and calm, Marchand could sense the violence simmering through him. And when he paused and gradually lifted his pale gaze to fix his own trancelike stare, the century-deep blue of his eyes was ablaze with white-hot sparks.

  “So, what shall I do with you, young friend?” came the soft, accented drawl.

  Then a tremendous roar tore up through the silvery-eyed Florentine. The back of his hand flew upward, striking a blow that sent Marchand airborne down the thirty-foot length of the hall. He went tumbling in through the doorway of the parlor and Gerard came after him.

  From where he lay on the marble tiles, Marchand saw Gerard streak past like the blur of a tornado. Howling like that uncontrollable storm, raging with an unnatural fury that sent him rocketing about the walls and ceiling, he destroyed everything in his path. Priceless artifacts, vases, draperies, furniture; shattered, splintered, ripped asunder as he stirred up an incredible tempest of raging pain.

  Move, run, defend yourself or he’s going to tear you to pieces! Get up, you fool! He’s going to kill you!

  But Marchand could do nothing but lay there, body dormant, while his mind shrieked in angry, useless warning.

  At last Gerard slowed into a recognizable form, one that wandered in wobbling aimless circles, wailing like a wounded animal. Then finally he was still, a low, wet sound seething from him. He turned his face toward Marchand, and there was dying horribly etched in every jutting angle and sunken plane.