by Nancy Gideon
“But think, Marchand! What good will you serve if I kill you? You’ll be dead and I’ll be alone. No one will be able to make her pay for Frederic and Camille. Or for my mother. I’m not strong enough by myself. But together—”
“Together we might be,” he finished for her. And his expression grew still and pensive as he considered it.
“You don’t have to be damned, my love. Good and evil is the choice of the individual. I believe that was what Frederic was trying to tell me.”
“That was what your father said, as well.”
“Marchand, we could be together forever or we can lose each other now. I will not force this decision upon you. It must be yours.”
He was thinking. “Can you do it?”
“I know how it’s done, but, like my father, I don’t know if I’m powerful enough to see it through.”
“I guess that would have to be my risk, wouldn’t it?”
“Then you are willing to let me try?”
Marchand was silent for a moment. His mind filled up with images; of Camille as his bullet tore through him without effect, of Bebe sobbing at his graveside, of Frederic and Musette arm in arm drinking wine at a sunny café, of his brother engulfed in unholy flame. Sensations of rage and helplessness overcame him and then were stilled. Because he didn’t have to be helpless.
He didn’t have to let Bianca win.
“How is it done?”
Nicole took a breath, garnering her courage to tell him, repressing the sudden anticipation rising inside. “I will take your blood, then you will take it back from me. You must listen carefully for my voice. I will call you over and you must use all your strength to come.”
“At what point will I be dead?”
“At no point, I hope.” She pressed him back down to the pillows with a gentle touch. “Are you ready?”
He drew a breath and shut his eyes. “Go ahead.”
She leaned down over him, inhaling the warm saltiness of his skin and letting her appetite rise. She put her hands on his shoulders and felt his body tense. When her breath brushed the uninjured side of his neck, he reacted with an unconscious will for self-preservation. A thick sound of protest escaped him and his clutched fists rose to push her away. She gave easily and settled back to watch him struggle for control. His eyes opened and he looked at her with what could only be shame.
“I’m sorry. I thought I would be braver.”
Submitting himself to death? What could be braver, she wondered tenderly. She let her fingertips trail along the damp curve of his face. “Marchand, I don’t want your memories of this moment to be ones of fear. I won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid. My mother assures me that it’s better than making love.”
His smile was wry. “Not to my experience.”
“Then we shall make some new experiences for you.”
He submitted to her kiss easily enough. At that point, she could have drugged him with the heavy vampire magic, but she consciously chose not to. She wanted him to be aware. She wanted him to be able to say no.
She wanted him to like it.
She kissed him until his mouth softened and opened for her. She lingered there until his tongue was coaxed out to fence with hers and his arms came up to enfold her close. Then she was stroking his hair, his face, his shoulders, kissing him on the lips, on the eyelids, in that delicate hollow at the base of his throat. He stiffened up so she moved on, adoring him with her touch, with the trace of wet kisses. And as passion heated, she let her hunger rise.
“I love you, Marchand,” she murmured against the tender corner of his mouth. “I’ve wanted you like this for so long. For so very long.” And she came up over him, straddling him with her knees, rubbing over him until his body was moving in response. “Kiss me, Marchand. Tell me you love me and want me, too.”
“I love you, Nicole. I’ve wanted you forever.”
She continued to sprinkle kisses upon his face until his eyes had closed and his breathing stretched out into long, expectant shivers. And she let the taste of him excite her, the scent of him tantalize her, the heat of him promise what she’d never dared hope for. She was massaging his shoulders, rubbing his chest, coaxing his desire, higher, higher, feeding off the emotions until she was sure he was lost to them.
Then her hands stroked up, her thumbs planting beneath his chin to tip his head back and to one side. Exquisite agony lanced through her gums and cheekbones. She moaned uncontrollably and went into his throat. She felt him jerk and heard his soft cry of surprise but then there was nothing but the sound of his heartbeat and the rush of hot blood.
She drank and drank and drank, overcome by the volcanic pleasure, by the vibrating, caressing pulse of his blood as it filled her. And there was nothing like it, absolutely nothing, because this was Marchand and she was taking of his love, of his trust, and it was powerful, humbling all at once. The thirst was so great, time could not contain it. Her senses blurred, her awareness of Marchand with it. Then there was just the thrum of his heart, strong, challenging, vital, like the man she loved. And gradually, that pace began to slow and falter, but she continued to draw hungrily, helplessly, until the rhythm had become faint and hypnotic and impossible to pull from.
Stop Nicole. You must stop before he dies, cara.
She tore away, breathing hard, dizzy, hot, wildly intoxicated from the blood. It took a moment for her to remember where she was and what she was about, then with a gasp, she focused upon Marchand.
He was white against the bed linens, his eyes almost closed, glazing over even as he mouthed the words, “I love you.” Dying.
“No, Marchand. Don’t let go. Hold tight. Hold tight. Be brave. You must be brave.”
And she ripped open her wrist with her own sharp teeth, not feeling the pain, not feeling anything but the panic that he might slip away from her. She fed her spouting wrist into his mouth, crying, “Drink from me, Marchand. Take my strength and live. You must live.”
She felt a slight draw, then a suction so strong it seemed to core her veins, ripping at them with tongues of fire. She cried out from the pain, yet held his head so he could continue to feed voraciously while she grew ever fainter. She lay against him, her head on his shoulder, a prisoner of his draining grasp. She could feel her life, her strength flow into him and the weakness became all pleasure, a throbbing, overwhelming bliss. Enchantment and ecstasy meant to disguise a darker purpose; the devouring of heart and soul. Even knowing that, it was such a temptation to languish on that wave of swelling rapture, riding it to its black end. But she was forgetting the rest that she must do! Desperate to break from her swoon lest it become her own death, she pulled her arm away and fell back upon the pillows beside him, panting, weeping, weak.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Maybe seconds, perhaps full minutes, but finally the faintness left her and she was able to sit up slightly to see what she’d been able to accomplish. Marchand lay motionless beside her, his eyes closed, his slack mouth smeared a bright wet crimson, his respiration nonexistent. He was dead. She knew death and it was all over him.
“Marchand, come to me!” She waited, but no movement followed. “Marchand, you must wake before it becomes the sleep of centuries. Listen to me. Hear my voice. Come to me. You must. You must awaken. Fight hard. For Frederic and Camille. For me. If you love me, don’t leave me! Marchand, wake up!”
No response.
She’d killed him.
“What have I done?” she moaned into her trembling hands. She hadn’t been strong enough to coax his brave heart from death. She, the product of a vampire father and mortal mother, hadn’t the power to gift eternity. And she’d lost the only man she’d ever love.
A sound from the outer rooms distracted her. Gerard! Perhaps Gerard knew some magic. He’d been with her. He’d called her back from her hunger. He would help. She s
taggered from the bed, from one last look at Marchand sprawled lifeless upon it. His blood was still churning hot within her veins and it left her lightheaded and giddy, like too much wine. That was all she would ever have of him, that warm, sustaining taste. And she reeled into the parlor, desperate for her mentor’s wisdom.
But it wasn’t Gerard. It wasn’t yet dark.
The rooms were silent and stealthy with shadow. She moved through them with her quiet preternatural step. A glitter of silver caught her eyes and as she bent to pick up her mother’s cross, the feel of the metal tingling in her hand, she saw a figure emerge from the concealment.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Radouix. Are you alone?”
She straightened slowly, alarm making her pulse pound, but an inner calm controlling her movements. She regarded Sebastien De Sivry levelly. “Not for long, m’sieur.”
He was holding something in his hand and when he stepped forward she could see it was a pistol. With that kind of bullets, she wondered. Could the regular variety harm her? She didn’t know.
“What are you doing here?” He gestured to the chain trickling through her clenched fingers. “Stealing from my friends?”
“Your friends?”
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve not let politics or religion matter to me. Why be swayed from taking power by particulars in humanity? Why should I care what they are as long as they can get me what I want, eh?”
“You’re a fool if you think they’ll let you live beyond their use.”
His laugh was nasty and a little nervous. “I’m no fool. I saw what they did to Frederic and Gaston and I’ll be no easy mark. Now, you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here? Making problems for our hosts? And where is your troublesome lover? Perhaps he would like to be entertained with how his brother died. No? Perhaps I will just kill you now and him later. How would that be?” And his eyes grew chill and hard as he raised the pistol.
A blur of motion pulled De Sivry’s attention to one side. He had time to register shock and gave a brief cry in protest of his own fast-descending death. Incredibly strong hands gripped either side of his head, the pressure crushing. Then, with a quick snap, nothingness.
Nicole stood stunned as she watched Marchand ride de Sivry down to the tiled floor, his face buried at the dead man’s throat. Marchand’s head gave a savage shake and blood fountained up bright, splattering everywhere.
It was the sound that held her. Soft, sinister, unbelievably terrible. Low, panting growls and deeper purrs of rapture.
What manner of beast had she made?
He rose up at last, the movement effortless, powerful, mesmerizing in its fluidity. She’d never seen Marchand move that way. It scared her. He didn’t look at her but rather walked in a sideways sort of reel into the next room. She followed. He dropped down on his knees beside the pool, studying its calm, clear surface with a puzzled fascination. He touched it with his hand and was entranced by the spreading ripples. It was as if he’d never seen water before. And Nicole realized he hadn’t, not through these new vampire eyes.
He put his hands into the water at last and brought cups of it up to wash his face, letting the pinkish streams run down his shirtfront and back into the pool. And from a distance, Nicole observed him, frightened, uncertain. Overjoyed to see him, yet so very cautious.
“Marchand? Are you all right?”
He turned his head to look at her and she saw the difference right away. It was in his eyes, eyes that had lost their humanity. They were a dark, opaque glitter.
“Surprised the hell out of him, didn’t I? That was long past due.”
“You killed him,” was all she could think to say. And it wasn’t the fact, it was the way in which he’d done it. Brutally. Remorselessly. Like an unrepentant monster.
And he smiled, a cold, teeth-baring smile and said, “Let our hostess clean up the mess.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
HE WOKE UP CHANGED.
It was more than physical. It was perceptual difference so profound Marchand couldn’t begin to comprehend it all at once. He no longer felt the pain of Nicole’s bite, nor the fear or instantaneous regrets that followed. Those things were dead to him, as dead as his human form. The dark void of dying had been too quickly engulfed by the amazing newness of the world around him. He suffered from no great stress of separation, only from excitement and wonder.
It had begun with that first cautious swallow, then came the hunger for warmth, for life, so keen, so intense, it surpassed all other things. Nicole had shared that rich wondrous vitality with him, had fed it to him on each compelling beat of her heart, as if he’d been a babe suckling at her breast. Now he was the dark child she’d created with that gift. A child just beginning to understand his place in the surrounding universe.
He might have lain there all night enthralled by the beauty of simple sound, astonished by the poetry of movement in his own hands as he held them before his face, like a baby discovering his fingers and toes were a part of him and not of a separate existence. He was fascinated by the feel of the sheets, aware of the woven textures, the variation of colors, the scent of soap and starch, each sensation so intriguing he could barely stand to let go and move on to the next.
He could feel Nicole, could hear the heartbeat she’d shared with him, and a confusion of love and awe overwhelmed him. He didn’t understand the enormity of those feelings so he let them slip away, gratified just to know she was near.
But then there was something else; a strong, sharper scent. Harsh liquor, male sweat, gunpowder. Blood. Rich, flowing, beckoning with its tempting beat. A primal craving stirred inside, deep and dark and dangerously basic. The urge to claim that heat, that warmth, that life as his own. It was survival, but he knew it only as hunger. Pangs so strong and provoking, he couldn’t not act upon them.
He dressed quickly, distracted for a moment by his own movements as they seemed to flow one into the next with a quick silver liquefaction. Then he allowed the smell to guide him, feeling the urgency rise with each step like no arousal he’d ever known.
He saw De Sivry and recognized his threat to Nicole and the rest came so quick, he had no time for cognitive thought. He acted; swift, sure, deadly. Killing, feeding, letting instinct guide him to De Sivry’s throat, where he ripped with as yet undeveloped teeth until he knew once more that euphoric pleasure, learning as he did the first lesson of his vampiric state: It wasn’t as good as if they were already dead.
When he’d taken in all he could, Marchand basked in a wonderful lassitude that was like the afterglow of exhaustive sex. Contented and drowsy, he was also aware of a nagging discomfort. It had nothing to do with the moralistic horror he once would have held in view of what he’d just done. He’d done murder—worse—yet he felt not the slightest remorse. Indeed, he was smugly satisfied by the death of Sebastien De Sivry. The man had deserved to come to such a horrific end. That sense of justice done waived all his onetime reservations and he was surprised by how detached he was from any feelings of guilt. More than surprised: Dumbfounded.
He’d just killed a man and drank his blood.
And he didn’t care.
Confused, he looked up from the cleansing waters of the pool to Nicole, needing her guidance, her sensibility, her love, and he was met with wariness and fright. That affected him the way nothing else could. How had he displeased her? By being what she’d made him? He didn’t understand, and a terrible panic settled inside him. He needed her approval, not just because he was in love with her but because a whole new layer had unfolded in their relationship; a dependence he couldn’t yet grasp completely. A devotion so deep, her distance brought desolation. He didn’t mind leaving his mortal life behind. He’d had nothing left to hold him there. But in this new realm he’d found upon opening his eyes, there was just Nicole, his one link to self and soul. He crossed over barrier
s of time and space to be with her and now she would not have him. The sense of isolation was awful, worse even than the realization of his death.
He watched her watching him and saw her in a different way. He could feel her power, her goodness, her control. He could still taste the sweetness of her on his mouth, hear the commanding strength of her voice calling him back from the void of finality into this infinite existence. And he wanted—no, needed—to be close, to feel cherished, to be held, because he was yet new and frail. But her suspicions kept him at bay. She didn’t know quite what he was, and he didn’t know how to reassure her. What he was was all tangled up in her perception of him. He had no identity unless it was through her eyes. And he was scared even as she was afraid of him.
There was no more time for reflection as Marchand’s gaze caught upon a silky movement within the shadows. Gerardo Pasquale. He came to his feet, aware as he did of Bianca’s silhouette in the doorway. Quickly, without thought, he put himself between them and Nicole.
“How delightful,” Bianca purred. “We have guests, Gerard. Unexpected but not unwelcomed. Good evening, Nicole. How is your dear family?”
“Waiting to hear that I’ve sent you to hell.”
She laughed softly. “How amusing. And how naive.”
“I was naive, wasn’t I? Enough to be taken in by your twisted schemes, but no more. I see you for what you are now. A vain, pathetic creature who refuses to accept another’s happiness. Well, you did your best to make my father miserable, didn’t you? I’m glad to say he survived your cruel affections quite nicely. And that galls you, doesn’t it?”
“Be careful, girl, lest you end up like your foolish mother.”
“And how is that, Bianca? Perhaps Gerard would like to hear you tell it. Or perhaps I should.”
Bianca glanced at her sleek, dark lover and frowned. Gerard was regarding her with a half smile. He drawled, “Yes, cara, tell me. I do so enjoy a good story. Though I must confess my fondness for clever fiction is fast failing me.”
