Ghosts of Memories: A Vampire Memories Novel

by Barb Hendee

  Maybe it was time to push a few of his buttons.

  Slowly, gently, she let a hint of her gift seep out, making him see her as helpless, but she was careful, ready to shut it off if he noticed what she was doing.

  “Christian,” she said, pitching her voice to a tone of deference. “I’ve answered every question you’ve asked me, and you’ve told me almost nothing. Would you do something for me?”

  He stepped toward her, seeming intrigued. “What?”

  “Philip, Wade, and I have learned how to look inside each other’s minds and see memories, not just thoughts and images but real memories. If you would let me see a few of your memories, it would help me to know you better, to trust you more.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “I don’t know you.”

  He wavered, and she let the aura of her gift grow a little stronger, making him see her as something so far beneath himself that he need fear nothing she could do.

  Of course she didn’t tell him that if he agreed, once he let her inside his mind and he focused on a past memory, she could lock onto it, get him lost completely in the past, and force him down a chronological line for as long she wanted—seeing anything and everything she wanted. None of the elders had learned to do this, and they’d had no idea it was possible. This was something new that she and Wade had discovered in their early days together, and Eleisha was very, very good at it.

  “Please,” she said. “Just let me see a few of your early memories, of where you come from. It will help me understand you.”

  “Where I come from?” He seemed hesitant but still intrigued.

  She sat down on the bed. “Just come sit beside me. If you think back, I’ll be able to see scenes from your life.”

  She knew how he was imagining this, that he might show her a few carefully chosen memories and thus please her by doing something so simple…and she knew she’d tempted him by sitting down on the bed.

  He came to join her, sitting slowly.

  “I need to touch your hand,” she said.

  “By all means.”

  Reaching out, she grasped his hand.

  “What do you want to see?” he asked.

  “Go back to before you were turned.”

  “That wasn’t a pretty time.”

  “Please show me,” she said, reaching her thoughts toward his. “Let me in.”

  Reaching her thoughts into his, she could feel his reluctance, but then unbidden, unwanted, the image of a squalid, crowded room began to form in his mind.

  She locked on hard, and the world around her vanished.

  chapter eight

  PARIS, 1752

  CHRISTIAN

  Christian’s first real memory was hunger.

  Early years of malnourishment may have affected him, because he could barely recall his mother’s face or the seemingly endless mass of brothers and sisters crowded into single filthy room on a filthy street.

  But when he was about eight years old, he clearly remembered the fierce pain in his stomach and the emptiness eating away at his body, and he remembered the sight of a pouch hanging from a belt. Two well-dressed men were arguing loudly in front of a flower seller’s cart, and other people had begun gathering around them.

  But Christian saw only the pouch hanging from the belt of a bystander. Like all boys who’d survived there to the age of eight, he carried a knife, and he pulled it out, hiding it in one hand. As he slipped through the crowd, no one noticed him. He was small.

  He moved as close as he dared.

  Then one man slapped the other. Some people in the crowd gasped and some cheered, and when the scuffle began, Christian slipped past as if to escape the press of bodies, and he cut off the pouch in one movement and was gone before anyone saw what he’d done.

  Hiding in an alley, he counted the coins—more money than he’d ever seen.

  That night, for dinner, he bought himself ham and fresh-baked bread from a tavern owner, and he paid a few small coins for the privilege of sleeping in the back storage room. It was warm and dry, and his stomach was full.

  He never went home again.

  But he also never forgot the lesson of that first successful attempt. Christian wasn’t stupid, and he’d seen what became of pickpockets who were caught. To him, the key to this survival method was simple: Don’t get caught.

  This meant he would never make an attempt unless the target and everyone else around was thoroughly distracted.

  Paris was a large city, and as the years passed, he came to haunt the markets where street performers most often set up on the corners, trying to earn a few coins by juggling or performing acrobatics or even putting on short plays.

  Over time, Christian learned which performers could get the crowds gasping or laughing, and he used the laughter and press of bodies to cut a purse quickly and then vanish. By the age of thirteen, he was still so small that few people even noticed him.

  To him, the city was divided between a small number of the rich and the great masses of the starving poor. But the clothing of the wealthy always fascinated him, especially anything worn by the men, and he imagined himself in an embroidered waistcoat or ruffled shirt or white stockings pulled up beneath the knees of his breeches. He often wished he could just touch such clothing, but his trade depended on the utmost speed.

  The years blurred, one into the next.

  He never looked ahead or back and simply lived each day as it came, until his body began to betray him. He started to grow. By the time he was seventeen, he’d grown too tall to slip amid a crowd unnoticed, and when he was eighteen, his hair began turning steel gray. His eyes were light and clear, with just a hint of a blue. He knew that women found him handsome—as many of the local whores flirted with him and offered to take him home for free.

  But in spite of a few advantages, he had a difficult time finding this state of affairs very welcome. He stood out too much now. People noticed him.

  Pickpockets should not be noticed.

  He tried covering his head in various ways, but his days of invisibility were behind him, and for the first time, he began to worry about the future. Over the next three years, he learned to survive on less and less and to take fewer chances. He had no wish to end up locked away in a prison—or worse.

  Then one night he was out of coins and hungry again, wondering where he would even sleep, when he spotted a woman alone walking up ahead of him. It was summer, and she wore a light blue gown, tight at the waist, with a full skirt. Her head was adorned with a powdered wig and wide-brimmed hat decorated with a plume. Such women did not normally walk the streets unescorted.

  A small silk purse hung from a dainty cord on her wrist.

  He followed her. She was not distracted yet, but she must have had some destination, a rendezvous perhaps, and he might be provided with the right moment to walk past and slip the purse from her wrist.

  He followed her a few more blocks, until there were fewer people around them, and he considered abandoning the hunt. He knew how to work only in crowds.

  But then, to his shock, she suddenly stopped and turned around to face him.

  “Can I assist you?” she asked, speaking directly to him.

  No one of her class had ever spoken to him, and he took a step back, ready to bolt.

  “Wait,” she said, coming toward him. The split front of her gown exposed an embroidered petticoat beneath, as was the current fashion.

  For some reason, he didn’t run. She was staring at his face, his hair, his dirty clothes, and he stared back. She was about forty years old, with pale skin and large brown eyes. But the pale cast of her skin might be due to powder, and her cheeks were reddened with rouge. Her painted lips were thin and her nose was hooked, but dressed in such finery, she was beautiful to his eyes, and he couldn’t believe she’d spoken to him.

  She seemed to look through him, inside him, and he just stood there.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, but her tone implied she already knew he was
. “Come home and dine with me. I am all alone, and I long for company.”

  His shock began to fade. He’d heard some of the prettier boys of the streets speaking of wealthy men, or sometimes older women, who invited them home to provide…entertainment. Christian wasn’t a boy anymore. He’d definitely crossed over into qualifying as a man, and such a thing as this had never happened to him.

  “I have roast chicken and strawberries and wine waiting,” she said. “Will you not join me?”

  At the mention of meat and wine, any reservations fled. Would it be so wrong to go home with her, flatter her a bit, and do whatever she asked in exchange for a warm bed and a fine meal? He wanted to go with her. But some instinct inside him seemed to know that more than a nod would be expected by way of response.

  Although he admired her dress far more than anything else about her, he stepped closer and said, “You have beautiful eyes.”

  She smiled.

  Her name was Madame Bernadette Desmarais. She told him to call her Bernadette, and she took him in a carriage to her apartments near Versailles. When he entered her home, his reservations returned, and he was afraid to sit on anything.

  She smiled again and ushered him into a side room, where she opened a white wardrobe with gold inlay. “Here,” she said, taking out a red silk dressing robe. “Put this on while I order dinner to be laid out. You’ll be more comfortable.”

  She left him, and he fingered the robe. He’d never felt anything so soft. Within moments, his old clothes were lying on the floor and he was wearing the robe. A standing mirror across the room reflected his full image, and he saw himself clearly for the first time. He was startled. The whores had not been wrong.

  He was handsome.

  The red dressing robe set off the steel tones in his hair, and his eyes glittered.

  And in this robe, he no longer resembled a pickpocket. He looked like he belonged in this room.

  Perhaps he did.

  Bernadette came back in, and she seemed about to say something, but the words died on her lips when she saw him. She was quiet for a moment, just taking him in, and then she said, “My God.”

  She’d taken off her hat but still wore the powdered wig, and he wondered what her hair looked like.

  “Come and eat,” she said quietly.

  He was starving and followed her through the apartments to a room of burning candles and low tables—most of which were white with gold painted inlay. Two wineglasses, a full bottle, and a variety of plates waited on a table.

  “Go on,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  Fighting the urge to lunge, he sat down and began eating as politely as he could. He had no idea what the protocol was, but she didn’t seem to care. After pouring them both wine, she sipped at hers but did not touch the food.

  “You’re not eating?” he asked.

  “No, it’s for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  His gratitude seemed to please her even more than the flattery about her eyes, and though the chicken and wine were delicious, he did not stop taking careful note of anything that pleased her. His enjoyment of the food pleased her, and he thanked her for letting him wear the robe.

  “I have never been inside anyplace like this,” he said.

  “And you like it?”

  “Yes.”

  She kept watching his face by the flickering candlelight. He wondered what would be expected of him next, but he didn’t care. He’d do anything she asked.

  When he finished eating, she motioned him over to sit beside her on a different couch, but she also opened another bottle of wine and poured more into his glass. He’d already had three glasses and could feel it in his head.

  “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  He didn’t know what to say and looked into her eyes in confusion, asking without words. Whatever could he tell her that she might possibly want to hear?

  “It has been difficult for you, no?” she went on. “Struggling to exist among people little better than animals. The poverty. The filth. The petty squabbles that turn into bloody fights over a cup of ale or piece of cheese.” She paused. “And so you are astonished to be here now?”

  Her voice was husky as she spoke, and suddenly, he knew what she wanted. She wanted to hear the sordid details of his life on the streets, and after that she wanted his gratitude. He began to talk, weaving stories in small ugly increments as she poured him more wine and listened with her eyes closed.

  Occasionally, she asked a question or asked him to elaborate, but for the most part, she just kept pouring him wine and listening. Not long before dawn, she took the glass from his hand. Then a strange sensation began to wash over him, through him, dulling his senses. He felt so grateful to her. He’d do anything for her.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  Although he’d been expecting this, by now he was so drunk and his senses were so dulled that he forgot to be careful, and he made a demand. “Let me see your hair.”

  She looked at him in surprise and then slowly reached up and pulled the wig back. Her hair was pinned up, but he could see it was still deep chocolate brown.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered.

  She grasped the back of his head, running her fingers through his hair, and he kissed her. He knew how to kiss a woman softly. He knew how to use his tongue. Cecilia, one of the whores where he lived, had taught him.

  He expected this to progress rapidly. He understood why he was here. But after a few moments, Bernadette pulled away and drew his hand up to her mouth, turning it over, and kissing his wrist.

  That was the last thing he remembered.

  Late the following afternoon, he woke up in a bed. His head ached and his wrist hurt. Opening his eyes, he looked at his lavish surroundings and had no idea where he was. Upon hearing movement, he looked left and saw a man by a polished dressing table.

  Christian jumped down to the floor in a crouch, instinctively going for the knife that he always kept in his boot, but his feet were bare.

  The man by the table whirled and held up both hands. “It’s all right, sir. I am in the employ of Madame Desmarais.”

  Christian blinked. No one had ever called him “sir” before. Then some of the previous night came flooding back. He remembered everything up to the point where Bernadette had kissed his wrist…but nothing after that. Glancing down at his wrist, he saw it was bandaged. Had he injured himself? Such things could happen after too much wine.

  The servant cleared his throat. “Madame Desmarais has given instructions that you are to remain until she awakens.”

  Then the man paused, as if uncomfortable, and Christian watched his face, trying to read it. It seemed that the young men from the streets whom Madame Desmarais brought home were not normally asked to stay, and this manservant appeared put off by her instructions.

  But the man continued. “I’ve arranged for a bath and clothes.”

  Clothes? A spark of excitement ignited in Christian’s chest.

  “This way, sir,” the manservant said.

  For the next hour, Christian allowed himself to be bathed, groomed, and dressed. He could hardly believe the suit of clothing that had been laid out for him when saw it. There was a well-tailored gentleman’s jacket of amber brown, a cream silk waistcoat, white stockings, and dark breeches. He stared at a pair of low-heeled shoes.

  Once he was fully dressed, he turned to the mirror and barely recognized himself.

  “I hope you have no objections to remaining here and waiting for Madame Desmarais?” the manservant asked.

  Objections? If Christian had his way, he was never leaving.

  “None at all,” he answered.

  For the first few months, Bernadette kept him mainly to herself. She did take him out in the evenings sometimes to see a tailor for him or a dressmaker for her, and sometimes to shop for perfume or handkerchiefs. She showed him parts of Paris he’d never seen.

  But she also spoke of poetry, art, music, and politics, and she beg
an teaching him to read.

  He was never hungry again.

  There were oddities he did not expect. For one, she never asked him to share her bed, and at first this surprised him more than anything else. But later, other things seemed even stranger.

  She never ate. Not once had he ever seen her put a bite of food in her mouth. At first, he thought she was simply eating in private, that she had some feminine reluctance to eat in front of him. But after a while it began to bother him that she never once shared a meal with him.

  Also, he’d never seen her in daylight, and she kept her bedroom door locked. He was given strict instructions not to try to open her bedroom door for any reason, and she was so serious about this that he realized his place in her household depended on obeying that order. Again, at first he barely noticed this eccentricity. In truth, most of the affluent members of French society lived by night and slept by day, but as the weeks passed, he began to notice that she vanished before dawn and reappeared at almost the same time every night.

  He soon learned to live by her hours, and he did not ask any questions. Instead, he focused on playing his own role. He provided her with flattery and gratitude and company. He found he had a gift for keeping her happy.

  In midautumn, after giving him lessons on social etiquette and diction, she began to show him off, taking him to the opera or late-night dinner parties or gatherings in the salons of her friends. She made up a story that he was the fourth son of a minor nobleman from the south and that she had taken him on as a protégé, introducing him into society. She even asked him about his surname, but he didn’t know what it was, so she gave him one: Lefevre.

  Of course everyone believed he was sharing her bed—which was what she wanted them to believe—but on the surface, they all treated him as Monsieur Christian Lefevre, a young aristocrat she’d taken under her wing.

  He loved this. He loved the pomp of the opera. He loved the barbed verbal sparing matches at dinner parties. He loved listening to the discussions of art or politics in a salon.

  He especially loved the way the women looked at him, both with hunger and as if they somehow sensed he was different. This was how he figured out why Bernadette had chosen him when she might have chosen among her own caste.