Seducing the Vampire

by Michele Hauf

“I know, but listen. They say a vampire chick fell in love with a man who was a vampire or maybe he was a werewolf. I’m not clear on that detail,” one of them said.

  Rhys slid onto a bar stool. He smiled at the men and pushed the crystal peanut bowl between his hands. They regarded him with nods.

  “Vampires and werewolves are fiction,” one man said.

  “Whatever. So are urban legends, but you wanted one you’d never heard for tomorrow’s blog.”

  “All right, give it to me. So she fell in love with a guy who might have been a vamp—”

  “Or maybe a werewolf. But she was being courted by a vampire, too. An evil vampire.”

  Rhys’s fingers curled into a fist. He felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten. He wanted to grip the man and shake the rest of the tale out of him, but he checked his growing urgency.

  “Anyway, so this vampire chick falls in love with the man who wasn’t what he seemed and they get married or something. I don’t know. I’m foggy on that detail. Only the evil vampire is pissed, see. So something happens to separate the two—the chick and her lover—and the evil vampire locks her away in a glass coffin and buries her like some kind of Goth Snow White.”

  “That’s a dorky legend. Couldn’t she have broken the glass?”

  “No, dude, get this. The vampire had a warlock put her under a spell. She couldn’t move, but would live forever. So she can see out the glass coffin, but can’t move or scream. So the legend says she went mad, and she’s probably still buried somewhere beneath the streets of Paris. You know they have all those tunnels under Paris.”

  “Huh. So what if she escaped?”

  “Don’t know, man. That’d be one freaky bloodsucking chick.”

  The men tilted back swigs from their beer bottles.

  “Sweet. But, dude, so not true.”

  “Tell me about it. Vampirella gone mad.”

  “I’d offer my neck to Vampirella any day. She is so sexy.”

  “She’s a cartoon, too.” The storyteller swiped an arm across his lips. “You going to put it on the blog?”

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Buy me another beer, dude, this one’s tapped. So what’s with the man who was a vampire or maybe a werewolf?”

  “I don’t know. That’s how I heard it told.”

  “So you mean he’s different, like, where his hand should be—” the guy assumed a melodramatic tone “—was a stainless-steel hook!”

  Rhys winced.

  “No, dude, he was…not right.”

  The crystal bowl in Rhys’s grip cracked in half. The men turned and delivered him wonky looks.

  “Delicate,” Rhys offered sheepishly.

  Not right. The words stabbed Rhys’s heart with bittersweet memory. He could hear them spoken in her voice. He pushed the mess aside. “Interesting story.”

  “Yeah, dude, it’s an urban legend. You can read all about it tomorrow at my blog.”

  One guy handed Rhys a business card that simply read: UrbanTrash.com.

  “Wouldn’t it rock if werewolves and vampires existed? We could all like, live forever.”

  “Forever is not always appealing.” Rhys strode away.

  The Vampire Snow White. Once loved by an evil vampire and another who was maybe a vampire or maybe a werewolf. An urban legend?

  It was rumor.

  But the details were too familiar to disregard.

  “Mon Dieu, I thought she was dead.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Paris, 1785

  THE PERILOUS JOURNEY THROUGH knee-high snow ended when a rider galloped alongside Viviane. He literally swept her into his arms to sit before him on the horse’s withers.

  The warmth emanating from his thighs and chest told her that he was mortal. The desire to bite him did not rise. All that mattered was getting warm and shaking the feeling into her left foot. A hasty “merci” spilled from her lips.

  “The sun will beat us if we do not hurry,” he said.

  How could he know the sun would prove her bane? “Who are you?”

  “They call me the Highwayman. I know you are not human.”

  “But you are.”

  “Not like most humans, though.”

  They made Paris as the sun traced the horizon, and he left her at her patron’s home.

  As she entered the warmth of the marble-tiled foyer, Viviane tumbled into Henri Chevalier’s arms. Shivering and sniffing tears, she took a moment to glance outside. The Highwayman had heeled his mount down the cobblestones toward the pink sunrise, his leather greatcoat flapping out like wings.

  She dropped the pistol in her pocket and listened to it clatter to the floor.

  “Viviane, what has happened? Where is the carriage?”

  “Uh…” Pulled into Henri’s welcoming hug, she melded against her patron’s body. Henri was all muscle and hard lines and smelled like cedar and lavender. “The Highwayman found me.”

  “I’ve heard the legend. He is a good man.”

  “Like us?”

  “No, but immortal. He’s no grouse against vampires—but rather demons—fortunately for you. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow evening.”

  “Henri? Oh, dear.” Henri’s wife, Blanche, touched Viviane’s shoulder where wolf blood stained the fabric.

  Two years earlier while in Paris on an annual visit to her patron, Viviane had met Blanche and decided to like her. The petite blonde stood like a bird next to Henri’s towering build. She gave to Henri the one thing he had never asked of Viviane—intimacy.

  “Have the maid boil water and fill the bath,” Henri directed his wife. “And draw the curtains in the guest room. Quickly!”

  It felt decadently blissful to nuzzle against Henri’s chest and cling to the heavy brocade robe that hung upon his broad shoulders. He must have been preparing for sleep. He always did greet the dawn in his dark bedchambers. Vampires required a quarter as much sleep as a mortal did.

  “The carriage tending me here…broke a wheel three leagues out,” Viviane whispered. Exhausted and starving, she could but speak in gasps. “A wolf…killed the coachman.”

  “And you managed to escape?”

  “I…broke the animal’s neck.”

  Henri’s chuckle rumbled against her cheek. “I should not doubt it.”

  “It was a werewolf.”

  “Ah?”

  She knew well he held no resentment toward werewolves, unlike most vampires. Henri did not take sides, nor did he hate—unless given reason.

  He toed the pistol. “Not yours.”

  “Belonged to the driver, who is dead. Sacre bleu, Henri, I did not wish to harm the beast, but I prefer life over mauling.”

  “Pity the man—or beast—who forces Viviane LaMourette to do anything. You are fortunate the Highwayman happened along.”

  He kissed her cheek and carried her up the curving marble stairs to the guest room. Half a dozen candles glowed upon a writing desk. Two mortal maids—enthralled by their master—bustled about, pouring boiling water into the copper tub. White linen lined the tub; a frill of lace dancing along the hem dusted the floor.

  Before Henri could set her on the bed, Viviane clutched his robe. “I’m unsure if I can wait until you rise later.”

  He nodded and instead of setting her down, carried her into his bedchamber. Blanche, with but a nod from her husband, whispered, “Bonjour” and took her leave, closing the door behind her.

  “I shouldn’t wish to impose upon her,” Viviane said, as Henri set her on the bed. Leaning back onto her elbows, she spread out her hands, crushing the decadent silk bed linens between her fingers.

  “It is not an imposition. Blanche will sleep in her private chambers this morning.”

  Shrugging off the robe, Henri then tugged the gauzy night rail over his head and dropped it onto the bed to stand in but chamois underbreeches. Built like a Roman gladiator, the man’s broad shoulders never did align straight across. He’d broken his collarbone decades earlier after falling from a cliff in Greece and
it had never healed properly. It gave him little worry, but he did wince when raising his left arm over his head.

  He stretched out on the black-and-gold-striped chaise longue positioned before the hearth fire.

  Viviane found her place and nestled beside him, chest to chest, kissing his cheek.

  “I’ve missed you,” she admitted. It had been five or six months. “Have you gained another line near your eyes? You are such a handsome man, Henri. So kind to me. I can never thank you for the freedom you have given me.”

  “Then do not speak,” he said. “Take what you need.”

  Candle glow licked teasingly upon Henri’s neck. Viviane tongued his flesh, then pierced skin and the thick, pulsing vein to slake the thirst she could only satisfy with Henri, her patron, a friend and mentor, but never her lover.

  He was, quite literally, her lifeline. Without him she would be lost.

  Two weeks later…

  VIVIANE LANGUISHED IN THE SPA. Henri called the room a tepidarium after the Roman baths he’d once enjoyed in Greece. The stone floor was always warm due to an underground pipe system. Istrian tiles lined the walls and glossy crimson squares glinted amongst the pearly white squares. A constellation of crystals set in a white iron candelabrum reigned over the round pool, which was as wide as Viviane’s length should she float across it.

  She visited Henri twice yearly, and did like to spoil herself amidst the luxuries of his home.

  A map room appealed to her desire for knowledge, though she could not read the words, only trace the snaking rivers and marvel over the shapes of so many countries. The spa and music room strummed her sensual ribbons. Viviane devoured all things sensory and erotic. She was a woman, after all, and would not be kept wanting. Men overwhelmingly agreed, and when she desired pleasure, she took it.

  Seven bedchambers, a ballroom and a twelve-stall stable told the world Henri Chevalier could afford anything he desired. Yet he would never be so conceited as to state it himself. Flaunting one’s riches was considered lewd.

  Blanche generously shared her wardrobe, and kept an entire room devoted to shoes. By delicious coincidence, Viviane wore the same gown and shoe size as her patron’s wife.

  Viviane’s home in Venice was as richly decorated, but it was old. Most furnishings had been acquired in the sixteenth century, and were in desperate need of reconditioning. The plaster walls were cracked and water seeped in the north entry hugging the canal.

  Alas, those repairs would never be made. Viviane kept her current financial condition close to heart. It was not dire, but could become so if she did not invest properly, and soon. Pity, the last notaire who had invested well for her had died of sudden blood loss.

  Sometimes she simply could not control her hunger, especially when sated by a handsome young man.

  Ah, but she had survived alone two centuries; she would beg no man for help now.

  And no Casanova vampire lord would entice her to change those principles of independence with the suggestion of marriage. It mattered little that Henri had last evening suggested his approval for the union, if and when Lord de Salignac put forth the offer.

  Viviane had attended the Salon Noir twice since arriving in Paris. The Salon Noir mirrored Marie Antoinette’s court with lavish clothing, jewels, courtly titles and decadence, save the attendees were vampires, werewolves, demons and other Dark Ones. Faeries from the Sidhe nation, and a familiar or two, attended in fewer numbers. The Light—the witches—kept away due mainly to their differences with the vampires. The vampires did not mind at all since witch’s blood was poisonous to them.

  If you were dressed well, and not human, it was a given you’d been invited to the Salon Noir.

  During her second visit to the salon, Constantine had been preoccupied with his patroned kin until she had sashayed past him. She had heard the thud of a woman’s backside hit the marble floor as Constantine pushed her from his lap and sauntered after Viviane.

  When Constantine de Salignac walked through a room, all eyes followed his regal lift of chin, those steely gray eyes that saw things before everyone else, that compressed mouth, which could utter a biting jest, or indeed, bite.

  Being a tribe leader, Lord de Salignac was expected to populate his tribe with bloodborn vampires. That was possible when a child was born to two vampires. So he blooded mortal women recently transformed to vampire in hopes they would be able to carry his child. It was a long process that could take years before the new kin could even conceive.

  Viviane did not care to be another woman feathering his elaborate damask-and-gold nest.

  As well, vampire lovers were risky. Most insisted on sharing the bite, which was a means of bonding to one another through the blood. Taking another vampire’s blood was something she had reserved, as most did, for one exquisite relationship that would bond them both in body and blood. It was not to be considered lightly.

  Dragging her fingertips over the opalescent bathwater, Viviane sighed and dismissed the dread thoughts. The bath was two parts water, one part milk. Wine and mulled spices had been stirred into the exotic witch’s brew.

  Portia, Blanche’s maid, popped her head inside the circular tepidarium. “What is your opinion, mademoiselle? Is the scent not divine?”

  “Devastatingly indulgent,” Viviane drawled. “You were quite right regarding my pleasures, Portia. How is it you know so much about what will please a woman when you’ve led a subservient life?”

  “Fantasies, my lady.” Portia winked, and dismissed herself.

  Viviane wondered if Blanche would allow her to abscond with Portia when finally she returned to Venice. The attentive maid was a prize to hoard.

  Viviane had skipped the Versailles soiree Blanche had pleaded she attend. Seeking the king’s eye, and Queen Marie Antoinette’s favor, interested her little. The gossip Blanche would report upon their return would suffice.

  Stretching her arms about the curved marble pool, she closed her eyes. Tilting her hips, she let her legs float to the surface. Her toes popped up in the milky sheen, a string of pebble islands.

  An acrid taste suddenly stung her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest and coughed.

  That was odd. She wasn’t ill. Vampires rarely contracted a human malady. Must be the intense scent of the spices.

  A convulsion in her gut forced up a hacking cough. A bead of crimson expanded on the white surface before her.

  “What…?”

  She touched her lip. Blood painted her fingers. Now she tasted it in her mouth, metallic and hot.

  A spike of feverous heat clenched her heart. Sucking in a breath, she slapped her palms on the water. More blood eddied up her throat. She tried to call for Portia but, wrenched forward by the sudden sharp pain in her chest, her head plunged under the milky surface.

  Viviane swallowed the odious blend. Surfacing, she choked up another throat-burning spasm. Blood swirled into the white.

  She felt a stabbing pain at her breast.

  “Portia!”

  Thrusting her naked body aside, she landed on the ceramic-tiled floor. Heaving blood, she cried out as the pain ceased.

  Three leagues west of Paris, en route to Versailles

  THE STAKE BURST HIS HEART. Henri stumbled, groping at the thick wooden dowel. His attacker growled and slashed talons across his throat. Blood choked into his mouth and blurred his vision as he collapsed before the carriage. In eyesight lay Blanche, her head severed from her neck. Crimson spattered her blond ringlets.

  The werewolf who had charged the carriage, leaping to grab the coachman from his post, stomped his paw on Henri’s head, crushing it into the soft mud.

  NO FUNERAL WAS HELD FOR EITHER Henri Chevalier or Blanche. A team of four vampires had been dispatched to clean the scene of assault before dawn and collect the vampire ash. The carriage was burned. The ash was thrown into the Seine.

  According to rumor, a werewolf had murdered the couple.

  Viviane did not attend the Salon Noir for weeks. But though her he
art ached for her patron she was not a woman to dwell in sadness.

  Now, more than ever, she must be vigilant for her own future.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE HÔTEL DE SALIGNAC SAT at the west end of the Tuileries on the rue Saint-Honoré. Tonight the four-story town palace’s cobbled fore-courtyard boasted carriages parked tail to head. A blazing touchier, brandished by an iron Aphrodite, held reign center courtyard to welcome the Dark Ones.

  It was rumored Lord de Salignac privately entertained the queen and her ladies on occasion. Marie Antoinette was said to be particularly fond of Salignac’s aviary, ill contained as it was. The birds had the run—or rather flight—of the palace.

  Moving through the ballroom, Rhys Hawkes took in the faces. Among the crowd, the vampires were easy to spot. Pale flesh was not the most obvious giveaway—for mortals used cosmetic powder to achieve the same effect—but rather the imperious lift of nose as they practiced their ill-gotten aristocratic airs.

  Rhys was thankful he’d not developed the snobbish mannerism innate to Parisian vampires, though at times like this he realized it best he at least adopt an air so he did not draw the sort of attention he abhorred—disdain.

  He did not sense any wolves in attendance, besides his companion Orlando, and that put Rhys ill at ease. The Salon Noir was a sort of safe ground for all breeds of Dark Ones to gather, but Rhys knew well vampires had an irritating manner of labeling werewolves animals and claiming themselves the civilized breed of Dark Ones. As well, find a werewolf eager to embrace a vampire and you’d find an omega wolf ostracized from the pack.

  He would stay so long as required to sniff out any suspicious sorts.

  Two vampires had been murdered a fortnight earlier east of Versailles.

  Rhys had been recruited by the Council, which had representatives from all the paranormal nations, to discover the culprit and the reason behind the heinous act. He would be accepted as a seated Council member after he’d solved the mystery. Field investigation was a lowly assignment, but he didn’t mind. A man should have to prove his worth if he wished to claim merit.