It was nearly noon when the shrill whistle of the train pierced the air, followed by an echo. Luc sat up. A tunnel. He pulled his feet under him, preparing to spring as soon as the darkness surrounded him.
He’d been hoping for a longer tunnel than the one he got. By the time he gathered Daniela in his arms, the sting of the sun tore across his back, followed by the smell of smoke. He raced back to his shelter, tears burning his eyes and pain threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. Then the blessed cool of the shade bathed him.
Luc glanced at his shoulders. Smoke still rose from under his clothes, and every movement sent waves of agony through his body. He’d been burned, but he would heal given enough time and blood.
Blood. He looked down at Daniela and could practically taste her blood on his lips. Just a small sip could restore him to perfect health. He bent over her, staring at the faint pulsations of the artery in her neck. His fangs dug into his lip. Just one sip.
Luc jerked back in horror. What am I thinking? It was my own greed, my selfish lust that got us in this predicament.
He wrapped his hand around his cross and took several deep breaths. Just holding it reminded him of the man he once was and gave him the strength to keep his inner monster at bay. He could overcome his pain, his hunger. Right now, he needed to help Daniela.
She didn’t stir when he spoke to her, nor when he kissed her forehead. Her skin felt cold and clammy, and an ashen pallor leeched the normally healthy glow from her olive complexion. He could already smell the stench of death creeping in on her spicy vanilla scent. She needed blood, and soon.
He racked his brain for the memories he’d forced himself to forget, the events leading up to the one night where his life had been altered beyond repair. The night Marcellus had turned him into the creature he was now.
Night after night, he’d watched the red-haired woman sobbing in his church. The rich silks and velvets of her clothing proclaimed her to be a member of the aristocracy, but he had no idea who she was and what chateau she came from. One evening, he gathered the courage to ask her what was wrong.
“My lord and master holds me prisoner, torturing me if I do not bend to his will,” she replied, wiping the tears from her unusually bright blue eyes.
His tongue flapped in his mouth, unable to form a coherent word. She was too beautiful to be human. An angel. And yet, once he recovered from his initial awe of her, he saw the anguish that added decades of experience to her youthful face.
He sat next to her and noticed the tarnished metal band that dug into her ring finger. “Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps I should speak to him and remind him of his duties as a husband.”
She shook her head. “You do not know my husband. There is no honor in him, no kindness. But I appreciate your offer, Père Luc.”
A shiver coursed down his spine. How did she know his name when he knew nothing of her?
She stroked his cheek. “Do not be afraid. I have heard of your compassion. The people of this parish speak very highly of you and your work with the poor.”
Her words filled him with an inner peace, quelling any lingering fears. Yes, she had to be an angel. “But what can I do to ease your suffering?”
“Nothing.” She turned away, her dress rustling as she stood. “I’ve almost lost any hope of escaping him.”
He rose and followed her, amazed how quickly she moved toward the door. “There is always hope. To surrender to despair is to fall into the hands of the Dark One.”
“What do you know of the darkness?” Her reply seemed to catch even her off guard, and she gave him an apologetic smile. “Perhaps you are right. I should cling to hope, no matter how fragile it seems.”
“And if I can help you find redemption—”
Her laughter cut him off. She pressed the simple wooden cross around his neck into his chest. “You find hope in your faith, but I have seen too much to believe in anything anymore. There is only the here and now.”
She disappeared into the night, leaving Luc to ponder over their odd conversation. He found it difficult to believe that she didn’t worry about her afterlife, about her salvation, so when he saw her the next night, he asked her, “What about when you die? Where will your lack of faith lead you?”
“In death, I can find freedom,” she replied without a hint of emotion. “As it is, I’m living just a half life, a mockery of what my life was before he entered it.”
“And yet, you are free of him here.”
“For now.” She released a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’m waiting for some sort of sign, something that will let me know I’m still the person I was before he destroyed everything.”
He felt helpless. Normally, his parishioners came to him when their bellies were empty or when their clothes had been worn bare. She was more of a challenge. It seemed her soul had been worn bare, and that would take more than he could offer to repair it. “Then I will pray that you get your sign soon.”
Several nights later, she rushed into the church. The despair had melted from her face and the light had returned to her eyes. The transformation caught him off guard. She almost didn’t appear to be the same woman.
She smiled and took his hand. “I received my sign. Look.”
He offered little resistance as she dragged him outside. The chilly wind whipped at his robes, reminding him that winter would be here soon, bringing with it the hunger and disease that claimed so many lives during the long, dark nights.
She stopped in front of a dying rose bush. “Watch.”
What he witnessed that night made him want to run back into the church and pray for forgiveness, but his feet remained fixed to the ground while he watched. A yellow glow radiated from her hands, mimicking the warm rays of the sun. The faded blooms filled with color, and a summer’s worth of new buds appeared on the bush in the time it took him to draw breath. By the time she dimmed the light, the bush stood in full bloom, like it would in the height of midsummer. He backed away from her. “What kind of witchcraft is this?”
“The kind I thought died many years ago.” He tried to run back to the sanctuary of the church, but she moved faster than him, cutting him off before he reached the door. She placed her hands on his shoulders. Although he did not see the same glow, a wave of reassurance rolled through him, chasing away the dread that wanted to climb up his spine. “Please, do not be afraid. My hope has returned, and I only ask one thing of you.”
His voice shook when he said, “And that is?”
“Will you help me fake my death?”
“What?” He shrugged her hands off. She’d gone from being a suffering angel to bordering on madness.
“Gather a bucket of ashes and meet me back here in an hour. We have to do this before dawn breaks.”
Luc shook his head. “First you must tell me what you want with a pile of ashes.”
She was already halfway across the church yard. “I’ll tell you when I return.”
An hour later, she emerged from the shadows wearing men’s clothing. She handed him the dress she wore earlier and the tarnished ring. “Pour the ashes around these once the sun rises.”
He glanced down at the wound left by the ring. The skin looked like it had been cut away from her finger. What would possess her to inflict such pain on herself? Was her marriage truly that bad? “And what should I say when your husband comes looking for you?”
“Tell him I went into the sun. He’ll know what that means.”
His mind screamed at him to tell her he wanted nothing to do with her witchcraft, but when he read the inscription on her ring, he found his courage. Vos es mei tempero. You are mine to control.
He wrapped his fingers around the ring and took a deep breath. Although he didn’t understand anything of what had passed tonight, his heart told him she wasn’t a monster. The sweet perfume of the roses wafted toward him, reminding him of her request. She’d been granted her sign, and now it was time for him to help her complete her escape. When the sun rose, he did as s
he asked, scattering the bucket of ashes over her dress and ring in the middle of the church courtyard. He offered a quick prayer that she would have safe travels and find the freedom she sought.
Less than an hour after the sun set, angry voices filled the courtyard. He cracked the door open and saw three men—a lord and two servants—standing around the pile of ashes. One of the servants held out the ring. “It’s hers, my lord.”
Luc peered closer at the tall man dressed in rich velvet. His skin appeared waxen in the moonlight and cruelty twisted his mouth into a scowl. Without a doubt, this had to be the man the woman wanted to flee from.
The lord snatched the ring and held it up to his face. His frowned deepened. “I find it hard to believe Morwen would be so foolish. Or that you two let her out of your sights long enough to allow something like this.”
The other servant stepped forward. “She returned like she always did, my lord. We thought she’d retired for the night after talking to that priest.”
“Then you are a bigger idiot than I thought.” The lord grabbed him by his shirt and hurled him across the courtyard into the wall of the church. The building shook from the impact, and when the servant fell to the ground, part of the stones crumbled away, leaving a man-sized dent in the masonry. And yet, the servant shook his head and crawled to his feet as if he’d only tripped over a tree root.
Luc backed away from the door in fear. Something was wrong about this. First a witch who could revive rosebushes, and then a man walking away from an injury that would have killed most people. And if the lord could toss a grown man around like a bale of hay, what else was he capable of doing?
“My lord, the priest is near,” the uninjured servant said. “I smell him.”
The lord spun around and stared right where Luc stood. His amber eyes glowed with sinister intent in the darkness, and fear edged into Luc’s soul. He was looking into the face of death.
He tried to run, but something grabbed his robes and flung him into the courtyard. Pain exploded through his chest when he collided with the stone cross, breaking it in half. Ashes choked his lungs, and his stomach churned from the blood that filled his mouth.
The lord pulled him from the ground and gave him a cold grin. A pair of fangs pressed into the lord’s lips. “So you’re the meddlesome priest who’s been telling my wife to look for hope.”
Luc made a sign of the cross, thinking it would offer him some protection from the demon before him.
But the lord only laughed. “Your pitiful rituals mean nothing to me.” He pointed to the ashes. “Where is she?”
His mind raced to remember what she’d told him to say. “She went into the sun.”
“You lie.”
In the brief moment that passed, Luc weighed telling the truth against continuing her deception. Either way, he knew he would die. But there was one way to ensure her safety. “She did. I watched her burn into ashes.”
The roar that came from the lord’s chest quickly doused any courage Luc may have gathered. It was completely inhuman. And once again, he found himself flying through the air. The unmistakable crunch of bone filled his ears on impact. From his waist up, daggers of pain tore at his flesh, but his misshapen legs lacked any feeling at all.
The lord yanked him off the ground. “You shouldn’t have delved into things beyond your understanding, priest.”
Every breath Luc drew made his chest rattle. Death was so close, he could almost feel its dark embrace wrapping around him. “I know my soul will find peace in heaven.”
The lord’s eyes widened, and his lips curled up into a malicious grin. “No, you will be trapped in hell. I’ll see to it personally.”
The initial pain of the bite seem mild compared to the damage Luc’s body had already suffered. A sharp sting and nothing more. But as the lord began to drink, shadowy images flooded his mind. Images of blood, of bodies scattering fields and filling streets. They tore at his soul like a clawed beast, determined to rip it to shreds. And in those agonizing moments, he knew his tormenter’s name. Marcellus.
The darkness faded and Marcellus’s face hovered above his. “Yes, Père Luc. Now you know what I am and what you will become.”
The face disappeared, and a bitter liquid filled his throat. He choked on it at first, but when he swallowed, the pain receded from his consciousness. A new sensation burned through his limbs, one of power, of invincibility. His broken bones began knitting back together. His mind screamed for him to stop, but with each gulp, the feeling grew stronger. He no longer knew suffering. Just a thirst that could never be quenched.
Marcellus’s laughter mocked him. “Greed does not become you, Père Luc.”
The stream of liquid abruptly stopped, and Luc found himself staring at the stone tiles of the courtyard. Spasms racked his body. His pulse pounded in his ears at a frantic pace. The world began swirling, changing. The scent of the roses grew so strong, it sickened him. He gagged and tried to purge himself of the poison he’d been given, but his stomach refused to cooperate. Tears prickled his eyes as he curled into a ball. There was nothing comforting about this route to death.
And then it all stopped. His heart stilled and his vision cleared. He waited for the bright light, for the sensation of his soul floating up into Heaven, but it never came. Instead, his tormenter towered over him.
“Who’s the demon now?” he asked and lowered his lips to Luc’s ear. “From now on, you will fear the sun and crave only blood. You are now one of the monsters who plague this land, and you will have to choose to live this way or suffer the same fate as Morwen.”
“You’re wrong.” He managed to get to his hands and knees, wondering why he still moved when his heart no longer beat. “I will never be like you.”
“But you already are.” He turned to leave with his two servants trailing behind him. “When you accept what you’ve become, you can join my army.”
The words echoed in Luc’s mind as he sat there alone in the night. He pressed his hand against his chest, searching for the familiar thump, but felt nothing. Panic choked his throat. If he was dead, why was he still here? For what seemed like hours, he pondered this question, refusing to believe he’d been changed into one of them.
“Père Luc,” a child’s voice shouted from the other side of the church’s walls. “Come quick. My papa is ill.”
Luc ran through the church and opened the door to find Simon, one the village children, standing there. His mouth started to water as he stared down at him, and a dull ache filled his teeth.
Simon backed away. “Père Luc, what’s wrong with you?”
Luc stared at the boy’s neck. The increasing flutter of Simon’s heart filled his ears, and the earthy smell of fear tickled his nostrils. He took a step toward the boy and Simon screamed.
“Père Luc, don’t!”
But the thirst became uncontrollable. He snatched the boy into his arms and sank his new fangs into the soft flesh of his neck. Sweet blood flowed into his mouth while Simon’s cries grew louder. The burning in the back of his throat eased with each sip.
Simon tugged on the cross around Luc’s neck, breaking his bite. “No, please don’t,” he whispered.
Luc stared in horror at the blood that stained the boy’s neck. “Mon Dieu, what have I done?”
He pressed his fingers against the small wounds to staunch the flow of blood. Simon started up at him with heavy eyes, but said nothing.
“Please forgive me,” Luc begged. He wished that the boy would fall asleep and awake later, thinking this was all a bad dream.
“Take me home, Père Luc.” Simon closed his eyes and went limp in his arms.
For several minutes, Luc listened to the boy’s breath and the rapid flutter of his heart. Once he reassured himself Simon would live, he cleaned the blood from the boy’s skin and carried him back to his house. The distance seemed to vanish as he practically flew through the deserted streets.
When he reached the house, the smell of the others hit him, and the
thirst returned with a vengeance. He dug his fingers into his palms, refusing to harm another person. He laid Simon on the ground in front of the door and rushed back to the church. The sound of Marcellus’s laughter tormented him as he locked every door, every window. He crawled into a little ball in the center of the church and covered his head. He refused to give in to temptation. He would not become a monster like that demon, even if it meant shutting himself off from the rest of the world until he died of thirst.
Now, over six hundred years later, the memories of that night still shamed him, but Luc found what he was searching for. Vampiric blood had healing properties, and it would hopefully be enough to keep Daniela alive until she got a transfusion.
He bit his finger and smeared the blood across her lips. Her tongue flicked out and cleaned it away. A soft moan rose from her throat, the first sign of life he’d seen from her since last night. He pressed his finger against her mouth again. She drew him in, gently sucking on his finger in a way that made his cock stiffen.
He gritted his teeth. It would be so easy to let her continue to drink until he turned her. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about Colette’s threats or finding a way for Daniela to escape. She’s be safe, healed. His.
He yanked his finger from her mouth. No, he wouldn’t force her to change. He wouldn’t become like Marcellus, no matter how much he wanted her. As long as her heart still beat, he’d let her choose what fate she wanted.
Luc pulled her closer to him, ignoring the sting the movement produced in his charred back. The gentle, warm rush of her breath eased both his pain and his conscience. She would wake soon, and he’d find a way to get her off this train.
Chapter Nine
The earth rumbled under Daniela’s feet and a dark pillar of smoke erupted from the mountain. Her pulse quickened, impeding her ability to draw in air.
Luc grabbed her hand. “Run to the water.”
She looked at him in confusion. Yes, the man in front of her resembled Luc, but why was he wearing an outfit that belonged in Ancient Rome?
Kiss of Temptation: The Kavanaugh Foundation, Book 3 Page 10
