by Barb Hendee
Her voice was sincere. Her expression was sincere, and moments later, once she’d stepped away, Demetrio took his hand and smiled with equal warmth. “Do you play chess?”
“I prefer a good discussion,” Christian answered, as he’d never played chess but did not yet wish to admit it.
Bernadette laughed, and for the first time, the sound of her voice grated on him. “Christian prefers a good party. He likes being the center of attention.”
“Truly?” Demetrio asked. “We do have some society here in Florence. Let us see what we can arrange.”
But Christian was embarrassed by Bernadette’s comment. He looked around, gazing through the dining room out over the terrace. These rooms felt real. This place felt real.
The calm, powerful aristocratic aura surrounding Demetrio felt natural and real.
Christian turned to look at Bernadette in her overly embroidered gown, tight at the waist, with its huge, oversized skirt billowing around her. He looked at her powdered face and rouged lips, and to his surprise, she seemed coarse and vulgar to him. When he thought of their apartments in Paris, with everything painted white and gold, the furnishings suddenly seemed cheap and false.
He didn’t understand.
Until this moment, Bernadette had seemed the finest creature he’d ever known. He’d loved their apartment in Paris. Now both she and their previous home seemed…beneath him.
Looking into his eyes, Bernadette froze, as if she could see what he was thinking, and he glanced away.
“Perhaps you could teach me to play chess?” he said to Demetrio.
“It would be my pleasure,” Demetrio answered. “Come this way.”
But as Christian walked out of the room, he could feel Bernadette’s anxious eyes follow him.
A week later, Demetrio arranged a gathering at the villa, and Christian was introduced to the society of Florence. Rather than a sit-down supper, Cristina had employed servants to walk around serving delicacies on trays. The guests were all mortal, and of course they did not know the truth about Demetrio and Cristina, and this method of dining made it easier for the four vampires to mingle without having to pretend to eat.
Christian drank wine as he read every mind around himself, reveling in the differences of their thoughts from those of his fellow Parisians. It wasn’t that the Italians of Florence had radically different thoughts on politics, music, art, or poetry, but rather that their opinions were their own, as opposed to whatever would achieve the greatest reaction or make them look the most informed. In Paris, image was everything and looking the fool was the worst thing anyone could endure. Nothing was ever said without careful consideration first.
Here, in this villa, Christian heard a number of people just saying what they actually thought.
This didn’t really affect him in his own right, as he had no real opinions on any of these topics. But on the whole, he was enjoying himself, and he was clearly admired by everyone in attendance, and that was all that mattered.
Unfortunately, Bernadette continually reappeared at his arm, and his feelings toward her continued to degrade. He’d begun to see her as more coarse and vulgar every night, and he had no idea what to do about it. He couldn’t leave her. No matter how many bills he charged to her accounts, she always paid them, but she’d made a point of keeping the coins in his purse to a minimum. He was beginning to understand why. Without her patronage, he would soon be nothing again.
And he had no intention of going back.
However, a few hours into the night’s gathering, something else took precedence over his internal struggles. He could feel the people around him becoming restless, even bored. Apparently, they all admired Demetrio a great deal…but he was not an entertaining host, and the gathering was becoming dull.
For once, Christian thought of someone besides himself. He was grateful to Demetrio for both his hospitality and his fine company and didn’t wish his new friend to have a reputation for dull parties.
Christian set down his wineglass.
“Might I suggest a game?” he said, and everyone began to turn toward him. “I have a great confession,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper that still carried. “My family line has a touch of the gypsy, and I can read minds.”
Everyone laughed, and he could feel a spark of energy growing in the room.
“I can tell fortunes and spill secrets just by looking into your eyes,” he went on, and the amused smiles gratified him.
“Prove it,” a young woman named Isabella challenged him.
“Ah,” he said. “She doubts me.” He turned a full circle. “I shall ask a question, and when she thinks of the answer, I shall pluck it from her thoughts.”
He had the full attention of everyone in the room by now, and some people were leaning toward him.
Looking into Isabella’s eyes, he asked, “Where is the most beautiful place a man has spoken words of love to you?”
She blinked in surprise at the question, and he immediately saw the image of an orchard beside a vineyard, and her first cousin, Lorenzo, was on his knees, gripping her arms, swearing his undying love. He was so unhinged in the moment that he’d knelt on an overripe plum and had not noticed. Then he stood up, gripping her harder, and pushed his tongue into her mouth. She could not marry him, as he was the second son of a second son with no prospects, but he was handsome and exciting, and she did not push him away.
But now, for Christian, came the tricky part. He had to do this just right. She was unmarried, and he wanted to give her a thrill and maintain the high energy in the room, but he had to do this without marring her reputation. Boring questions entertained no one, so he had to ask the spicier ones, but if he upset her family, he’d ruin himself.
He straightened. “Ah, I see a vineyard… No, you are in an orchard near a vineyard, and there are blossoms blowing in the air.”
She stopped smiling and turned slightly pale. Then she forced herself to smile again.
“There is a handsome young man on his knees. His hair is dark, and he is swearing his love for you so violently that he’s knelt on a plum and ruined his breeches and doesn’t know it yet.”
The people hanging on his every word all broke into laughter, and Isabella tried to laugh, but she turned even paler.
“Then you spurn him!” Christian exclaimed. “And you walk away, back to your father’s house, leaving the poor young man unsatisfied.”
Everyone laughed again, and Isabelle dropped to sit on a low couch in relief, but she was watching him warily now.
“Read me next,” a man named Francesco called out.
Christian turned to see him, glancing inside his thoughts. Apparently, Francesco was a well-known rake with no reputation to lose. “You?” Christian said. “I fear nothing in your mind will be suitable to share in the company of ladies.”
The laughter was louder this time, but Christian then asked him, “Did you ever have a mistress who left you first? Who broke your heart?”
Across the room, he could see Demetrio watching him with a slight smile. Bernadette was watching him with desperate eyes, but she attempted to look amused.
Christian kept up this entertainment for more than an hour and finally had to plead exhaustion even though his audience begged him to go on. Afterward, the conversations were all quite animated regarding his astonishingly close guesses.
However, he did notice another person watching him carefully through the entire hour. The Countess Catherine Passerini did not ask him to read her thoughts, nor did she laugh much. She just watched him. But something about her caught his attention. She was attracted to him, as most women were, but she was more guarded. Approaching fifty years old, she was a wealthy widow. Her hair was still pale blond, but it had lost much of its luster, and her face still held traces of loveliness, even though lines were beginning to form around her eyes and mouth.
She did not speak to Christian that night, but after the party was over and all the guests had gone back to Florence, for some reason
, she lingered in his mind.
The gathering was considered a great success.
Five nights later, Christian found himself in Florence at a dinner party hosted by the Countess Catherine Passerini. Of course, Bernadette, Cristina, and Demetrio had been invited, but only Bernadette attended, and no one had really expected Demetrio to leave the villa. His eccentricities were widely accepted there.
Bernadette spent the evening with a brittle smile on her face, and Christian was grateful that he’d not been seated beside her at dinner.
Afterward, the young women in attendance begged him to read their fortunes, and he took them each, one by one, to sit by the fire, and he painted their futures for them, reading their minds and telling them what they wanted to hear.
The countess paid only the barest attention to these entertainments, but as Christian was preparing to leave that night, she approached him.
“Several people in attendance here had already sent their apologies,” she said. “But when word spread that you’d been invited, their previous engagements all vanished.” She smiled ever so slightly. “I think everyone was here to see you.”
He offered a short bow. “I doubt that very much, and I thank you for the kind invitation.”
Bernadette said little on the carriage ride back to the villa. Perhaps she sensed they were beyond words.
But after that, the invitations began flooding in. Christian was in great demand, and Bernadette made one last desperate effort.
“I think we’ve been here long enough,” she said. “We are overstaying our welcome. I thought we might move on to visit some friends in Germany.”
“Germany? No.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying you wish to stay behind? Without me?”
Panic washed through him. He wasn’t ready to leave Florence yet. But then something Angelo had said back in Harfleur rang in his ears: Has he ever tried it on you?
Carefully, he flashed a single impulse into her mind, hoping she would not hear the actual words, but only feel the emotional impulse as a mortal would. He’d never tried this on another telepath. Stay a little longer. He will love you again. Just a little longer.
“Could we stay through the rest of the month?” he asked aloud.
She turned away. “Yes, through the end of the month.”
He kept his face still, but inside, he rejoiced. His gift worked on other vampires.
A week later, he was at a small card party hosted by the countess when she asked him to accompany her to a different drawing room to give his opinion on a new painting she’d acquired.
As soon as they were alone, she looked directly at him and said, “I think I understand the arrangement between you and Madame Desmarais.” She paused. “I wondered if you might consider a change.”
This offer was made so bluntly it caught him off guard, but at the same time, every muscle in his body tightened. She was asking him to become her own “escort.”
He wanted it. He wanted it as badly as he’d first wanted to stay with Bernadette. But there were complications now, and he feared the countess might expect more than he could give.
“There may be some difficulties,” he said, deciding to match her candor. “I find you beautiful, but due to issues regarding myself, I cannot share your bed.”
She didn’t even blink. “I’ve no wish to share your bed. I was done with all of that two weeks into my marriage. But I am not such an easy mistress in other regards. I would expect your strict attendance whenever it was desired.”
She wanted him at her side, and she was willing to bargain. He felt a sense of power.
“As long as you only expect my attendance at night,” he said. “I do not like the sun, and I tend to live at night.” This time he paused. “Also, one night a week I will need to go out by myself, alone…and I cannot ever share meals with you. I will gladly sit with you, but I will not eat. You may have noticed I do not eat in front of others.”
“Yes, I had noticed.” She tilted her head. “What are your other conditions?”
“Conditions? I have none. In all other things, I would gladly be your slave. I couldn’t stop staring at you that first night at Demetrio’s villa, but I couldn’t think of a way to speak with you.”
Her eyes widened, and he knew he’d surprised her. She was more than pleased. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Then,” she said finally, “we have arrangement.”
The countess was the first, and he stayed with her for seven years.
Given the fact that Bernadette had already threatened to leave him, he’d found separating himself from her far more messy and distasteful than expected, but in the end, she moved on to Germany. Demetrio didn’t hold this against Christian, as apparently he had left his own maker many decades ago.
He and Christian remained friends.
A year after Christian’s move to Italy, revolution broke out in France, and many of his old friends there lost their heads. He remembered the feeling of darkness that had loomed over him. But he was safe in Italy, and all was well, and he tried to forget the past.
He played his part perfectly for the countess. He showered her with the same gratitude and unadorned masculine flattery that he had once given Bernadette.
But then he met a wealthy, aging Spanish widow who offered to take him to Barcelona, and after seven years in Florence, he was drawn by the promise of someplace new. A pattern developed, and he learned to look for the right type of woman, one who wanted him on her arm but would not object to him sleeping alone and during the daylight hours. Someone suitable always managed to find him just as he was tiring of the last one. After spending eight years in Spain, he went to Austria and then Switzerland and then Belgium and then England.
Occasionally, he was challenged by a rival—as wealthy widows certainly attracted more attention than his—and he’d killed a few men in back-alley duels. But he never broke the first law. He never killed in order to feed.
Then in 1818, the world began to shift again.
He was living with a minor duchess on the south coast of England, when Demetrio wrote him a disturbing letter.
My friend,
You have not been one of us a sufficient time to be part of councils or privy to issues we discuss among ourselves, but something unprecedented has happened of which I must make you aware.
Angelo appears to have lost his reason and has broken the second law. He made himself a son at the turn of the century, and just this year has made another son, a Welsh lord named Julian Ashton, who is damaged. He has no telepathic ability at all and cannot follow the first law. We are hopeful that he will improve.
But this has caused concern among us, and I will keep you informed. Let me know how you are when you have the time. You are often in my thoughts.
Demetrio
Almost immediately after reading the letter, that same icy feeling began to grow in Christian’s stomach again. He tried to ignore it, to convince himself that nothing could touch him here on the coast of England.
Then, not quite a year later, he received a letter from Angelo—to whom he’d not spoken since 1788. He never learned how Angelo knew of his location, but the letter was a summons to Harfleur, along with a veiled threat and a reminder that a favor had come due. Christian immediately left for Harfleur.
What he found there filled him with disbelief and disgust. Angelo met him at a tavern in the village, as Christian did not want to go to the manor.
“I need your help,” Angelo said without even a greeting. “Come into the forest with me.”
What else could Christian do? He had promised a favor, anything that Angelo asked.
Not far into the forest, they came upon the sight of a shirtless vampire, with wild, filthy hair, drinking blood from the open stump of a headless woman.
He’d murdered her.
“Oh no,” Angelo murmured.
Christian stood frozen, but Angelo ran into action, grabbing the crazed vampire and pinning him down, sitting on his chest. “Philip,
stop!” he ordered.
“Kill him quickly,” Christian said, finding his voice and running to help.
Angelo looked up. “I can’t kill him. He is my son, my third son.”
Reality came crashing down on Christian. Angelo had made another son, less than year after this Julian Ashton of whom Demetrio had written.
Christian looked down at the blood-smeared creature twisting and snarling on the ground beneath Angelo. Even on the streets of Paris, he’d never seen anything so repulsive. What did Angelo expect him to do?
He walked over to look at the mangled woman. The sight made him feel ill. He didn’t feel pity exactly. Just revulsion. It was all so vulgar.
“Shhhhhhhh,” Angelo was saying, stroking Philip’s cheek. “Be still now.”
The sight of this seemed more macabre than the dead body. “Jesus Christ,” Christian said. “This is madness, Angelo. Do you see this woman? He’s torn her head off. You have to put him down.”
“No!” Angelo shouted.
“This is wrong,” Christian said, striding back. With the exception of the first law, he’d never paid much attention to them, but now he was beginning to see their importance. “And you know it. You’ve broken the third law, and this is the price. Is this why you lured me out here? To stop this slaughter? If so, we’re too late. He’s a danger to our secrecy, Angelo. Either you put him down or I will.”
Angelo sat straight, but he did not get off Philip’s chest. “I will not, and neither will you. You owe me, Christian.”
Both of them fell silent, and the uncomfortable sensation of ice began growing in Christian’s stomach.
“I make the demands here,” Angelo said. “Or you will become a new chapter in my book…and I have many details to include.”
“You swore you’d leave me out.”
“And in return, you swore to do me a service when I asked. I am asking now.”
Philip suddenly tried to pitch Angelo off again. But Angelo held him down.
“What do you want?” Christian asked raggedly.
“He cannot speak, so I have no idea how much he understands. Go inside and help him to find words. You’re the only one who can implant suggestions. Just help him to find speech. After that, I can help him myself.”
