by Nancy Gideon
Oh God! Run!
“How could you think to do such a thing?” Gerard moaned in abject misery. “Gino, he is the best of our kind and Bella—Bella, she is—she was a most worthy female, one who could move even so hard and black a heart as mine.”
It wasn’t me! It was my hand but not my deed!
“If only there was a way I could make you live long enough to suffer as I will suffer this through an eternity. But alas, I haven’t the patience for torture. I shall have to content myself with ripping you apart and scattering your insides.”
And then Gerard came toward him, moving with that slow liquid grace no human being could manage. For all his unchecked fury of moments ago, he was now controlled by an emotionless calm. Only his glittering eyes betrayed any signs of sorrow. He reached down for Marchand, hoisting him easily to his feet, then with one powerful move, tore open his shirt from collar to waist.
And there upon Marchand’s broad chest gleamed the silver cross.
Gerard regarded it, not with fear or distaste but with an odd remorse. “That was Bella’s. I remember the first time she showed it to me.” His lips twitched into a slight smile. Then he was all cold business once again. “She was too brave to be destroyed by one cowardly act. Take it off.”
When Marchand didn’t move, the vampire roared, “Take it off or I will remove your head from your shoulders, upend you and shake you until it falls off!”
When Marchand didn’t move; couldn’t move, Gerard reached out to crush the delicate clasp with powerful fingers, snarling in rage as the silver seared him. The chain trickled down from around Marchand’s neck, dropping between his feet.
Hit him! Escape while you can! He’s going to kill you! But there would be no escape now, even if he could have broken from Bianca’s drugging spell. Everything inside him shivered loose as Gerard’s cool palm stroked over his cheek and grazed the side of his throat. His heart was beating frantically in contrast to his unnatural outward lethargy and he could tell that hurried rhythm was exciting the vampire’s lust for blood, because Gerard was leaning closer, his nostrils flaring, his mouth moistening in anticipation.
Marchand could smell the fine wool of his coat and sense the inhuman chill of his flesh as he was embraced in the other’s arms, the way a dear friend would be gathered close and held near. One slender hand was stroking through his hair, petting him in the soothing way one calmed a frightened domestic pet. And then those fingers meshed tight and tugged back hard, pulling his neck into a tautly exposed arch. And Gerard’s breath whispered there against the throb of life he was about to lose.
Push him away! Don’t go placidly to your death. Strike him. Curse him. Anything! Say something to distract him!
“Nicole.”
Her name croaked from the constricted bend in his throat.
“Nicole?”
The hairs all over Marchand’s body prickled as the vampire spoke that against his veins.
“Do you think Nicole would save you now?” Then Gerard was still and thoughtful even though his grip on Marchand never slackened. “But perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am being selfish. Nicole should be the one to have the pleasure of the kill.” But then his lips were rubbing silkily over the bulge of his carotid artery. “But that’s no reason to deny myself for the moment.”
Marchand ordered his body to resist. He screamed at his muscles to jerk back, to pull away, but all he could effect was a tense tremor that shook him from head to toe.
Then came the sudden sharp puncturing pain of Gerard’s teeth. And with it, all the shadows fell from his mind. He could remember more than he wanted about Bianca’s thirsty kiss, about her softly uttered instructions that clouded memory and morals and made him a devil’s pawn. Then with Gerard’s first, hard draw, the blood came racing through his arteries, leaving him tingling all over with spots flashing bright before his eyes. His outcry faded to a moan and the involuntary thrust of his palms against the fine wool coat became a helpless flutter and finally, his hands fell limp at his side.
His knees gave and Gerard went with him down to the floor, still feasting greedily from the fount as his throat. A numbing weariness threaded through his veins with each strong pull, but instead of drinking him down into darkness, Gerard lifted up slightly to break the vital connection then leaned for the longest moment with his heated cheek against Marchand’s cold one while he gasped for breath and swam with the intoxicating current of blood. Over the fragile thunder of his own heart, Marchand could hear the slurred voice whisper against his ear, “Now, how am I going to hold you until Nicole’s return? The dawn is almost upon us.”
While he considered that question, his mouth was drawn back to the holes he’d made and Marchand shuddered at the feel of him sucking delicately from them as if he was reluctant to leave the remains of a delicious meal while yet stirred by appetite. Then Gerard was on his feet, dragging Marchand with him across the room to an alcove in the far wall. Marchand felt a breeze of movement against his fevered face and got the impression of the wall yawning open as if to swallow them alive.
His vision was poor. Weakness and shock were seeping through him with a paralyzing chill. He made out a large dark shape but didn’t know what it was until Gerard stepped close and opened the top. Then Marchand gave a moan of recognition.
It was Gerard’s coffin.
“You’ll be safe in here with me. Bianca knows not how to find me and you’ll never be able to lift the lid off to escape.”
“No!” Horror forced that protest from his lungs.
“Now, don’t be squeamish. Get used to the feel and to the darkness. You’ll be making your permanent home in one of these quite soon.” And he climbed inside, lying back then pulling Marchand in facedown over him. The lid closed, sealing off all light, all life.
Marchand was too weak for full-blown hysteria to take hold, but panic was very much alive within him. The blackness of the interior itself was suffocating, filled as it was with the smell of his own blood and moist frantic breathing. Beneath him, Gerard had gone completely still as the lassitude of daylight overtook him. The thrum of his heartbeat slowed until it was imperceptible and there was no rise-and-fall motion of his chest. It was like resting atop a corpse; except this corpse was hot with the life stolen from him.
He had to get out. The darkness, the cold, the frantic distress compounded by the second until Marchand was panting wildly with it. He pressed his back against the silk-lined lid, pushing up with all his might, but it gave not an inch. He was trapped inside the den of the dead.
Beneath him, he felt the rumbling vibration of Gerard’s laugh. “Lay still, fool. Conserve your strength and your air or you’ll be dead before Nicole arrives. And I wouldn’t want for her to miss the pleasure of ending your miserable life.”
Chapter Twenty-One
A POUNDING UPON the chamber door startled father and daughter.
“Master Louis? Mistress Arabella? What’s going on in there? I thought I heard a shot!” The knob rattled, then Bessie Kampford’s voice sounded more rattled, still. “Break it down, Takeo!”
The heavy portal shuddered and gave inward, admitting the two worried servants who drew up in horror at the sight before them; Louis and Nicole on their knees, Arabella with her pale, still face resting upon her husband’s chest. And blood . . . everywhere.
And because it became obvious that her father wasn’t going to take control, Nicole did, saying crisply, “Mother’s been injured. Mrs. Kampford, we need a doctor, immediately. The one from the village should do for now until we know how bad things are.”
“She’s—alive?”
“Yes. Hurry!”
And there was the sound of crunching petticoats as the housekeeper fled down the stairs.
Takeo came to kneel down at his friend and master’s side, his gaze asking eloquently if there were something he could do.
But Louis’s look was lost and beyond asking for anything but the seemingly impossible; that the clock could reverse itself to bring him back his vivacious wife.
“We should get her to bed, lay her down,” Nicole suggested, but beyond that, she had no answers.
“No, not yet. I would like to hold her a bit longer.”
“Father—”
“Just a bit longer.”
Takeo rose up, drawing Nicole away with him so that Louis could be alone with his love. He spoke to her softly, unaware of whether he used words or the power of his mind but needing to reach out to her, to touch her any way he could. To make her understand what she meant to him.
“Bella, my love, you cannot do this to me. How will I go on without you? I’m not ready to let go of you yet.” He stroked back her hair with stained fingers and tenderly kissed her brow. “You promised you would always be there for me when I awoke. Would you go back on your word now when I need you most? Would you let Bianca have her way? Would you let her have me?”
A soft sound of objection moaned from the figure beginning to stir in his embrace. And a name: “Louis,” as fragile fingertips lifted to sketch the dramatic angle of his cheek. He caught that hand and pressed fevered kisses to it.
“Bella, stay with me. Stay with me, little one.”
“I would never leave you, my love,” came her weak reply, but it was enough to satisfy him. Carefully, he lifted her and bore her to the bed they’d shared in their long and unusual relationship of myth and mortal. She lay upon the covers, white and frail.
“Are you in terrible pain?” Louis asked gently, his eyes reflecting the agony he knew she must feel.
“No,” she whispered. “Only a slight discomfort. And I fear for Marchand. Louis, what will happen to him?”
“Shhh. Don’t concern yourself over that now. I will see to Marchand. And to Bianca.”
“No, Louis. Let her go. If she is satisfied with her revenge, let her have it. I will not lose you to her.”
“You must rest now. The doctor is on his way.”
“The village charlatan? Louis, do not let him remove anything unnecessarily. I would not like to be a test subject for the local witch doctor.”
He chuckled softly and kissed her, murmuring, “I did not know you were a professional snob, my love. I will watch over you for as long as I can.”
“Nicole? Where is Nicole?”
“She is here.”
“Louis, you must protect her. She will want to go after Marchand. It’s what I would do.”
He smiled faintly. “I will keep her safe. Now rest. I will be here with you.”
And he stayed, even when the doctor arrived and insisted that he leave the room while he gave his examination. Louis fixed him with a cool stare and the man swallowed nervously, agreeing to allow him to remain. Nicole, Musette, Bessie and Takeo hovered in the sitting room, anxiously awaiting news that was pessimistic at best.
“She may not walk again,” Louis told the gathering grimly. “If she does, it will be with difficulty. The bullet is lodged near her spine, and few surgeons have the skill needed for such a delicate piece of work. I am sending for one of them, but in the meantime, all we can do is keep her comfortable.”
Nicole went to him and hugged him hard. She’d never seen him vulnerable before, not like this, and that frightened her deeply. Morning was upon them and she could tell its brightness was hurting him, but he refused to go below until the doctor had finished and was seen to the door. By then, he was gaunt and distressed.
“Father, you must rest,” Nicole urged gently. “Go below and I will see to things here.”
He looked as though he might argue, but the advancing daylight was wearing on him, dragging down upon the clarity of his mind even as he struggled to stay alert. “All right, but you must promise to do nothing foolish, Nicole. You are not strong enough. You don’t know all that you face. Leave them for me. Your word.”
“I will do nothing foolish.” And she leaned forward to kiss his hollowed cheek. “I love you, mío pádre.”
No, she would do nothing foolish, she told herself as she climbed the stairs alone. She’d already done enough foolish things. Things that endangered her family and her love, nearly costing her mother her life and Marchand his freedom. It was time to do sensible, well-thought-out things.
She glanced in on her mother to find her sleeping peacefully under Bessie’s care. Takeo was in the sitting room, his impassive Far Eastern mien poorly disguising his concern.
“Takeo, I must leave for Paris.”
He instantly gripped her wrist and held fast. She patted that imprisoning hand.
“I want you to watch over my father and mother. Keep them safe. I must go for Marchand. He may not survive another nightfall. I am responsible for all that has happened and I will see things to right. I have the advantage of the daylight and I can no longer claim ignorance of my enemy. My mother was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice of her life for my father. Can I do any less for the man I love?”
Takeo continued to stare at her as if he was seeing some strange metamorphosis from child to woman before his very eyes.
“Let me go, Takeo. I should hate to harm you but be warned, you will not stop me.”
He smiled blandly and released her wrist, executing a formal bow of acquiescence that humbled her. Winning his acceptance was a monumental feat, especially when it meant going against her father’s wishes. It was a sign of faith that he believed her capable of seeing to her quest. She hoped he was right.
Nicole delayed long enough to kiss her mother’s still cheek and to reassure Musette that she would be bringing Marchand back with her. As she headed for the door and the destiny that awaited, Takeo sketched another bow and extended an ornate sheath. She took it curiously and, placing a hand upon a finely wound leather hilt, withdrew from it a glittering silver blade approximately a foot in length. He didn’t need to explain. It was for the taking of a vampire’s head.
IN SPITE OF HER hurry, Nicole dreaded the return to Paris. She knew what lay ahead; a challenge she wasn’t sure she could meet, a man she wasn’t sure she could claim.
What if Marchand was already dead? Did she have the kind of strength it would take to use the blade she carried to put him to a decent rest? She couldn’t allow him to rise up as a revenant. Not a man of Marchand’s noble spirit. He would prefer her to end it for him quickly. And she would. She swore by her love for him that she would.
She bid her father’s driver to wait along the avenue within a block of Bianca’s house. She walked the rest of the way in the warm sunlight, trying to soak up its heat to bolster her inner fire of determination. The closer she got, the more energy she extended, using her fledgling powers to feel the house before actually entering.
Gerard?
Ah, Nicole, cara! Come to me. I have something for you!
No hint of threat, just Gerard’s dark humor. For all her hatred and loathing for Bianca, she remembered her mother’s implicit trust of Gerard and shared it. She didn’t think he would harm her. She walked into the cool-shadowed hall, trying to prepare for anything she might meet.
Where are you?
Come into the parlor.
What she saw there made her hesitate. It looked as though a torrential whirlwind had gutted the room. And then on the dark tiles, she saw blood. Not a lot, but definite splotches leading to what seemed to be a solid wall. Not so solid, apparently, for that trail of crimson was smeared by dragging movement.
How do I get in?
Straight from the horse’s mouth.
She frowned and studied the two relief plaster busts adorning either side of the alcove. Horses’ heads, sculpted with eyes wide, nostrils flaring and teeth bared. Feeling rather foolish, she gripped the lower jaw of one and tugged. Nothing. But when she pulled upon the oth
er, there was a soft grinding sound and an entire section of the wall swung out, opening the way to a small dim room beyond.
She stepped in warily, not totally convinced it wasn’t a trap until she saw Gerard’s coffin. She could sense his presence within it. Hooking her fingers under the edge of the lid, she lifted it up and gave a quiet moan of despair.
Gerard was within, his handsome features flushed with high color and composed in his unnatural rest. Not so natural was Marchand sprawled out across him. From the way his dark head was angled upon the sleeping vampire’s shoulder, the wounds on his throat were horribly exposed.
Her hand was trembling visibly as she held it before Marchand’s nose and mouth. There, faintly, she felt his breath stir.
“Marchand?”
Her penetrating whisper brought a flutter to his lashes then gradually his eyes opened and immediately squinted up after the complete blackness inside Gerard’s tomb.
“Nicole.”
His voice was so hoarse and raw, it hurt to hear it.
“Let’s get you out of here, my love.”
She was assisting him into a seated position when without warning, Gerard’s hand fastened about his throat, dragging him back down into the coffin. Nicole tried to pry the fingers loose, for Marchand was rapidly losing color.
“Gerard! Gerard, release him!” And she drew the short sword, steeling herself to use it when Gerard’s grasp abruptly slackened and his hand settled gracefully atop his shirtfront once more. Nicole quickly secured a hold under Marchand’s arms and hauled him out of the coffin, letting him down easily to the floor.
The moment his breathing returned to normal, Marchand’s arms went about her, hugging her up tightly to him. “Mon Dieu! I’m so glad to see you!” came the painful rasp of his words. She let him cling, enjoying the feel too much to end the contact, but finally having to. She eased back, then leaned forward again to kiss him. His mouth was dry, rough, desperately eager for hers.
