by Michele Hauf
The black-and-white harlequin ballroom floor buzzed with an assorted enclave, ranging from the dourly macabre to the flighty giddiness of the Sidhe. A few pairings of four danced an intricate quadrille flowing from three violins and a boxy harpsichord.
Low, black wrought-iron candelabras flickered a circus ring of amber flames. Rococo frieze lined the upper walls with what appeared to be cupids vomiting roses and birds. Rhys noted bird guano smeared the black-and-silver-striped English paper on the wall to his left.
The ballroom was a bustle of animated expressions, studied smiles and practiced gestures. Men dodged powdered and beribboned wigs. Women tapped damask shoulders and the occasional cheek with a communicative flip of their lace fans.
Rhys understood the women could send messages with a flick of their fans. The intricate code bemused him, though he had never bothered to learn it.
The thought to make a connection with a sumptuous lovely hung in his mind. When in Paris, indulgence could not be ignored.
A minuet twinkled from the harpsichord and the dancers rearranged and re-paired. Rhys noticed Orlando paired with a blushing mortal who wore her blue satin bodice low enough to reveal the rosy aureoles staining her breasts. The young wolf was hungry for a ripe female. The boy’s pleasures were not wicked or dark, so he was safe.
Rhys on the other hand, possessed a dark secret, which made him cautious as to whom he chose to engage in a lusty liaison.
An interesting scatter of red roses nestled against fathomless black hair caught his attention. Red, so red. Like that first drop of blood. The vampire within him stirred. Tucked within the center buds of those roses were tiny…skulls? Curious.
Rhys followed the woman’s gliding procession across the ballroom. Her hair was unfettered by powder or wig. Dressed in bold red, she was attired to captivate.
“Regarde moi,” he whispered. Look at me.
She turned. Rhys straightened, lifting his chin. His persuasion never worked on paranormals. She couldn’t have heard him. Blue eyes sought his. Unnaturally blue, but not Sidhe, for faery eyes held a violet tint.
The corner of her mouth turned up, a morsel of tease. What sensual delights did that tiny curve of flesh promise? Did her mouth curl so preciously when she cried out in ecstasy?
Sweet mercy, Rhys had not felt his body react so instinctively to a woman in years. His heart pounded and blood rushed to his groin. His werewolf growled lowly, pining for an illicit coupling.
Fortunately, he was vampire now. It was easier to contain the werewolf’s lusty desires when in this form. And much safer.
The rose-embellished beauty swept behind a couple who nuzzled nose against neck. The man’s gray powdered wig tilted askew as his fangs grazed alabaster skin. The bite. A wicked tease between two vampires that could be construed as a promise to one another, but only if mutually consented.
When had he last taken blood for sustenance? Rhys couldn’t recall. Weeks surely. And that was the aggravation of it. When in vampire form, he had to remember to take blood; it was not instinctual. Though he assumed vampire form most often, his werewolf mind ruled when in this shape—and the werewolf did not desire blood.
He’d ask about the murders, and find a pretty thing to bring home tonight. Or at the least, find one to wander through the Tuileries with him, the taste of her trickling down his throat after he abandoned her in a swoon beside a lush crop of roses.
Perhaps the rosy beauty with the bright eyes?
Following the pull of desire, Rhys shuffled through the crush of powder-dusted shoulders and silk-stockinged legs. Passing a faery, he accidentally brushed her forearm with his fingers, and whispered an apology. The result of contact sparkled on his flesh. He rubbed his fingers on his coat to wipe it off.
Again she appeared in view. Closer. She received a kiss on both cheeks from another woman Rhys knew was vampire for the fangs her smile revealed. But the blue-eyed beauty, while pale, was vibrant, too much life sparkled in her eyes to be vampire.
He favored mortals. Much less drama. And easier to abandon after the bite with a touch of persuasion. Perhaps that was why she’d turned to him—she was mortal.
Again her gaze fixed to his. Her eyes widened with promise, a touch without tactile sensation, yet it sped Rhys’s pulse and warmed his neck.
He nodded and offered a smile, remembering Orlando’s coaching: When at court one must never smile to show their teeth, but the smile mustn’t be so weak as to be construed false. So many rules and ridiculous pandering. It was enough to make a man’s head spin.
It took a lot to spin Rhys’s head. And this exquisite beauty did so.
The woman touched her bottom lip with a fingertip, her flirtatious eyes holding his. Just below her left eye a black heart patch beckoned.
Rhys offered her his most charming smile.
She let out a peal of laughter and spun away, an elusive wraith becrowned in skulls and roses.
“What the hell?” Rhys muttered to himself. Had his sensual prowess fallen amiss? He could not let her slip away without a few words.
The investigation could wait.
VIVIANE STRODE THE MARBLE floor in one of many galleries of paintings. She’d needed a moment away from the stuffy ballroom and leering gazes. It seemed all the male vampires were hungry for her. Not because she was attractive or interesting, but because she was bloodborn.
“Bother.”
Drawing in the air, she thought of Henri. He had never made her feel like an object.
The clatter of approaching shoes tugged her from the wistful moment.
A man strolled toward her. His swaggering stride made him move like a prowling feline, yet his broad shoulders and stocky build put into Viviane’s mind that of a provincial worker, one who lived off the land.
Certainly not an aristocrat, and most definitely not vampire. That put her to ease.
His eyes fell upon her high breasts, tethered behind the cinched bodice. Very well, so he was like the other men.
Licking his lips, he smiled, revealing the whitest teeth and an easy charm that Viviane could not disregard. Hair dark as her own had been tamed into a queue at the back of his neck and tied with a plain black ribbon. But there, on the left side of his head, a gray streak amidst the black gleamed under the candlelight.
Desire stirred. Momentarily, Viviane imagined his hair sweeping across her breasts, gasps huffing from his lips, and she clinging to those wide shoulders. No other at the Salon Noir had been capable of summoning such a visceral reaction, and this man had not yet spoken a word.
She angled so her path would pass him on the left.
He adjusted his trajectory to a direct line before her.
Presumptuous of him. She shuffled sideways. The man matched her feint.
“Pardon me,” she said, and her skirts swished across his buckled shoes.
At the last moment, he stepped aside to grant her berth, but not too far, and her skirts crushed against his thighs.
“You are hardly deserving of a pardon, mademoiselle. Such beauty should never be forgiven, but rather indulged.”
Viviane stopped walking and swung a look over her shoulder. Romantic blather never impressed her, even when issued in a deep, sure tone. His delving eyes were brown, as was his frockcoat. So common.
Strangely, though, her heart beat faster, anticipating more than she expected he could give her. Men always disappointed.
One of her dark brows curved sharply. “Who are you?”
“Rhys Hawkes.” He strolled around behind her. “An admirer.”
Viviane drew a careful study from his hands, along the snug cut of his sleeves and down the front of his frockcoat. Minimal decorative embroidery on his coat, and only a bit on his blue waistcoat. A sorry lack of lace, which further alluded to his provincial origins. Yet she could not know what he was without touching him, or tasting his blood. Mortal or other?
“Are you like me?” she asked abruptly.
“A vampire?”
“You c
annot be.” He could not be vampire for his ill fashion sense and less than discreet approach. At the very least, he was not a Nava tribe member.
“I am,” he confirmed.
“Hmph. You are—” nostrils flaring, she winced “—not right.”
The man pressed a palm to his chest and bowed his head. Offended? What had she said? And then she did not care; not if he was here on pretense.
“How did you get in?” she asked tersely. “The Salon Noir is invitation only, and I know Salignac would not dream of admitting an unfamiliar.”
He stepped closer. Yet as annoyed as he made her, Viviane’s feelings vacillated from cool dislike to lunatic desire.
Could she press her tongue through his smirking lips? Might the man answer her longings, fulfill her desires and entertain her passions?
Possibly, but there was no reward in succumbing too easily.
“I suppose those glances across the ballroom meant nothing?” he said.
“You must be mistaken, monsieur, if you believe I was looking at you. I dare not waste a moment on one so—”
“Not right?”
“Who are you?”
“I’ve told you, I am an admirer.” He performed a curt half bow, and came up, gliding his face close to hers. He smelled earthy, like a forest. So different. “There lives a daring challenge in the curve of your smile, mademoiselle.”
A flicker of her lashes could not be stopped. Yet until she learned exactly what he was, she daren’t appear interested. If he really were vampire avoidance was key.
Viviane took a step to the side.
He matched her with a quick side step.
“Remove yourself from my path, monsieur, or I will scream.”
“You won’t do that. It’s hardly fitting of your character. And I’ll press my mouth to yours to capture that scream before you can vocalize it.”
The tip of her tongue dashed out to trace her lower lip. Yes, please?
“You are correct,” she offered calmly. “A scream is vulgar.”
In a sinuous move, she snapped her fan out from where it had been tucked up her sleeve, and slashed it before him. Blood purled from cut skin and sweetened the air.
The man touched his cheek and turned his forefinger toward her. “Does not my blood attract you?”
Her nostrils flared as she scented him. Wrong move, Viviane. You are always hungry of late.
“It repulses me,” she forced out. “You are not vampire.”
“I…am.” Why the reluctance in his tone? “But I do not intend to wear out my voice convincing you of what should be obvious.”
He brushed his fingers across her cheek. Before she could close her eyes and dip her head into the delicious connection, Viviane flinched away. “The shimmer,” she said on a gasp.
She did not speak of faery dust, but the innate sensation two vampires felt when touching. So he was vampire. Yet why did she still wonder at what made him so different?
Rhys stepped aside, offering her ease of escape. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. My passion knows little in the way of boundaries.”
“Passion? We’ve only just met, Monsieur Hawkes. You do not even know my name.”
She wanted to tell it, but again, that would be too forward. If he discovered it on his own that would prove his interest.
“Indeed. And I also sense my desire offends you.”
“Desire never offends me. Speaking with a man who is not what he claims to be does.”
Rhys nodded. “I release you from this uncomfortable tête-à-tête with hopes you will spend fitful moments anguishing over the loss of my presence.”
He bowed, spun sharply, and marched away, shoes clacking loudly.
A roll of her eyes could not be prevented. Anguishing over the loss of his presence? Why did they always attempt to win through words and platitudes?
Viviane desired action, a bold approach and a forceful insinuation of passion. Or rather, it was a fantasy she thought of often, but had never the pleasure of experiencing. Rare did she meet a man to match her bold mien.
Pausing at the doorway, the man touched the cut on his cheek. She had marked him.
“But have you the daring to mark me?”
“THIS WAS A DELICIOUS IDEA,” Orlando muttered as he joined Rhys.
Orlando tugged at the frockcoat the tailor had insisted be taken in at the arms. The green velvet transformed the pup into one of those Greek forest deities with powerful muscles and the face of an angel, or so the effeminate tailor had commented, much to Orlando’s discomfort.
“My ideas are never delicious,” Rhys grumbled. “Reckless perhaps, but never bordering delicious.”
“Most certainly not wearing such plain attire.”
Orlando had taken on airs since stepping inside the Hôtel de Salignac. Rhys would allow the boy his vanity.
He had brought along Orlando, who was much like a son to him, because the two of them named a common friend in William Montfalcon, a werewolf who lived tucked on the left bank’s boulevard Saint Germain. It was where they were currently staying, despite Montfalcon’s strange absence.
Rhys smoothed a palm down his new coat, brushing at the clinging faery dust. Plain? The brown embroidered silk suited him. The tailor had insisted he call the color by its proper name la chocolat, after the queen’s favorite drink. Though the ivory buttons were extravagant and over the top, the enthusiastic tailor had insisted they would draw attention in the wake of Rhys’s regrettable decision to forego lace engageantes on his sleeves. The sky-blue waistcoat lent to what little vanity Rhys could muster.
And while he was a boot man always, the hose and buckled shoes did not feel uncomfortable, only not quite masculine. Heaven forbid, he engage in swordplay on rain-slippery cobblestones.
At least he’d the principle to forego a powdered bagwig.
Rhys decided he would make no advances worrying about his attire. It was his carriage and attitude that would win him entrance into the secrets hoarded within the salon.
He leaned close to Orlando and said, “The rumor is that a werewolf murdered the vampires. Have you heard any interesting discussion?”
“Not yet, but I did spy Salignac. Over there.”
Following Orlando’s nod, Rhys scanned the crowd of wigs dribbled with candle wax and bird droppings and saw, splayed across a red velvet chaise longue, the vampire lord and leader of tribe Nava, Constantine de Salignac.
Blood heated Rhys’s neck and he clenched his fists.
Over the years, he and Salignac had traded the role of tormentor against the other. Whenever Salignac found opportunity, he went for Rhys’s jugular. They got into rousing duels and malicious dupes. Constantine had even gone so far as causing the death of Rhys’s only loved one.
Rhys did not believe in an eye for an eye. Senseless violence proved nothing. Yet the seeds of such violence were always cracked open whenever in Salignac’s presence.
He took morbid delight in the idea of walking up to Salignac tonight. It had been a decade since they’d last spoken.
“Here’s something you’ll find of interest,” Orlando said. “Salignac is smitten.”
“Smitten? As in…?”
“In love. Or so the whispers tell.” Always so comically dramatic, the young werewolf fit into this false society with an ease Rhys would never possess. “Seems there is a beautiful vampiress who was left without a patron after Henri Chevalier’s murder. You know the females need to feed from a familiar blood source to maintain their life essence.
“The thought curdles my blood,” Orlando muttered.
Werewolves would never dream of drinking blood from humans, or consuming their flesh. It was abominable. Yet a werewolf bitten by a vampire would develop the gruesome need to take mortal blood.
“Salignac stumbles moon-eyed in the wake of her silken skirts,” Orlando reported. “The entire salon is abuzz with rumors he will patron her, perhaps even marry her. It is why no other vampire dares pursue her.”
“That is
not love, Orlando.”
“Yes, but if ever an alpha existed in the vampire ranks, it is Salignac. If he strikes first, the other males cower. I hear the woman is indifferent.”
Rhys smirked. “A female not interested in Constantine? The illustrious leader of the failing tribe must be confounded.”
“Seems her former patron gave her unbounded freedom.”
Interesting. Rhys had never heard such a thing. Female kin were literal slaves to their patron.
“She attends the salon and boldly defies convention,” Orlando added. “She is wicked.”
“Wicked women are better left to other men to suffer their claws.” And yet, he’d never refuse a scratch or two, most especially one from an azure-eyed beauty.
“Perhaps so, but Salignac is relentless.”
Rhys had once been in love. With family. With the idea of serenity and an untroubled life. He still considered it on occasion, despite Constantine’s best efforts to excise that desire from his heart. The man had taken it all from him, and with a smirk and a nod.
“To each his own,” Rhys said.
Yet his tattered heart heaved to know Constantine was in love. And Rhys would ever be challenged to find a woman who could see beyond his darkness and into his heart. You are not right. The oath female vampires tended to pin on him with an indelicate stab. Not usually so quickly, though.
Hearing such words from the vampiress, issued with a biting cut, had been akin to pushing him facedown in the muck littering the streets of Paris.
The deuce! He did not require love. Lust suited him fine. And the sensual vampiress would serve that craving well.
Both men observed as a tall woman bowed before Lord de Salignac. Rhys noted it wasn’t a complete bow, rather forced actually. She did not deem Salignac worthy of her submission.
Though he could not completely see her face, long curls of raven hair paralleled a slender neck. And the hair was teased, coiled and pinned up with—
“Red roses,” Rhys said under his breath. It was the blue-eyed woman who had caught his eye.
“What’s that?”
“Can you see if there are skulls at the center of the roses?”
