by Jane Ederlyn
“I can take you.”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not that.”
He stepped forward. “I would like to see you again.” He bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I wanted to do that all night.”
She put her hand on his neck and pulled him close.
He slid his hands into her hair and kissed her.
Abby walked back into the house with a bounce in her step.
“I think he likes me,” she said aloud.
“Of course he does,” Marie said, passing through the kitchen on her way outside. “Why wouldn’t he?”
Abby jumped. “I hate when you do that.”
“Do what?”
Abby sighed. “Just show up.”
“If you were paying attention, you would not be surprised.” Marie opened the door, stepped onto the grass, and turned to add, “He does like you, very much. Come, join me on my sentinel.”
Abby followed on her heels. “What if—”
“You could have beautiful babies with him?” Marie interrupted.
They walked in silence as Marie scanned the property methodically.
“I can hear you, ma chérie. You are thinking very loud.”
“You’re walking too fast. Please slow down.”
“As you wish.”
“What if . . .?” Abby trailed off.
Marie stopped and turned to face her. She had never deceived her and would not begin now. “What if he finds out?” she finished for Abby.
“Yes.”
“It will all depend on his reaction.”
“It’s going to change our lives.” There. It was out in the open. As much as Abby wanted to have a family and give Marie an heir, part of her didn’t want their lives to change. And as far as boys, she had boyfriends in college, at least friends who were boys, but hadn’t taken anyone home for that reason. It was a lot to think about. “I’m going back to the house.”
She opened the door and was embraced by the rush of light and the lingering smell of coffee. She heard Marie’s unmistakable French accent from somewhere in the darkness wishing her a good night.
Abby tossed and turned fitfully. Sleep was proving elusive. She finally sat up in bed and reached for a paperback. She read a few paragraphs and slammed it shut. She wasn’t in the mood for fictional vampire angst. She turned the television on, but muted it, not wanting to disturb Marie if she was in.
On the news, the distraught parents of missing girls pleaded for their return. Abby imagined Marie in their place. Tears threatened at the thought and she blinked them back. If something happened to her, Marie would be devastated and left alone. And who would take care of her? A hot tear escaped and she wiped it away. She was being silly. Nothing was going to happen. She would always be around to protect Marie.
As if Abby’s thoughts had called her, a door clicked closed and shutters thrummed into place as Marie closed her wing against the sunrise.
Chapter X
France, 1789
Marie and Anton fell into a routine. At first wake, they dined privately from their reserve of servants. Then they bathed and dressed for the evening. Orpheo, the Master from Italy, visited often. When he did, Anton hosted extravagant parties. When the parties were costumed, she was at his side. Otherwise, he entertained alone. Not enough time had elapsed since her turning, and he couldn’t risk her being recognized by the aristocracy whose attention he coveted.
One evening, she awoke to the sounds of weeping and carriage wheels bumping along the road. When she tried to open her door, she found it locked. She wondered what game Anton was playing, but with nothing to do, she watched the moon dance in the sky, counting its every movement. Just before sunrise, she heard a shuffle at the door and leapt off the bed. “Anton?”
“It is I,” he said.
“The door is locked. Let me out.” She tried not to sound haughty or disagreeable, but she was hungry and impatient.
“My princess, I came only to tell you that it is time for your next lesson.”
“But—”
“I shall be back tomorrow.” With that, he was gone.
She didn’t understand but feeling futile was a useless expenditure of energy.
The following evening, he returned as promised. The smell of blood on his mouth and fingers was overwhelming and she struggled not to beg.
“This is for you,” he said, handing her a small bundle. “I will be back after you feed.”
He closed the door with a thud that made her jump.
Marie pulled back the swaddling blanket to find a sleeping baby. He looked so much like Marcel. She bent her lips to his forehead, kissed his pink flesh, and inhaled, taking in his scent. He smelled clean of roses and dewy sunshine. He fidgeted and opened his eyes.
“Where is your mama?” she asked him. He didn’t cry, just looked at her with big blue eyes. Sometimes when Anton was busy, she went home and watched Marcel from the window. How long had it been since she held her own child? Life had become endless and almost uncountable.
She kissed the baby again. Her mouth lingered, pressed to his warm, tender skin. She became conscious of his heartbeat pounding in her ears and it made her lightheaded. She opened her mouth and felt the tip of her fangs with her tongue. She nudged his little head to the side and positioned her mouth. The baby whimpered and the realization of what she’d been about to do, what Anton wanted her to do, hit her with a force that made her drop to her knees. “No,” she cried out.
Two days later, the door opened again. Marie was barely aware of the movement so concentrated she was on the baby, kicking and screaming. He must be cold and hungry and dirty, but she didn’t trust herself to be near him. Gaunt and dehydrated, she huddled in the opposite corner of the room, hands to her ears to block the sounds of his pain and hers.
“I told you to feed,” Anton said. His voice held no edge of emotion, but his eyes were steely cold with displeasure.
“I cannot,” she said, her throat dry and hoarse.
Anton strode to the bed. He picked up the baby with a single hand and shook it until it stopped wailing. “Do it now.” He put the little body in her face.
“No.”
“You will die if you do not drink.”
“Then I shall die.”
He shook the baby again, letting her smell the blood so close to the surface.
Marie grabbed Anton’s wrist. “Please.” She managed the strength to sink her fangs into his wrist.
He struck her, and she flew across the room. “You look like a mad woman. Pull yourself together.”
Her tongue darted across her mouth to lick up the drops she had sucked.
“Children are a delicacy. This is a royal bastard offered to the gods for forgiveness. You do his mother an injustice by refusing.”
She shook her head, seeing with fresh eyes what a monster Anton was. “He is just a baby.”
He stepped in front of her, filling her eyes with his body.
She knew that she had disappointed him, failed another of his tests, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t hurt the infant.
He bent down to meet her eyes and the iciness of his glare burned her. “Drink your fill. He is dead anyway.”
“I cannot.”
“If you do not drink from him, I will be insulted and take my compensation by drinking from your son.”
“No!”
He held the baby to her.
“Please. I am not a monster.”
“But you are, my princess. Now drink.”
As she drank from the unconscious little body, salty tears spilled down her face and into her mouth, mixing with the sweet blood of innocence. A life for a life.
/> A fortnight later, Marie was able to get away. With the memory of the dead baby fresh in her mind, she was determined to see Marcel.
Rain fell softly and quietly, absorbed by the fertile soil. She wrapped the folds of her cloak around herself. The midnight-blue satin disappeared into the night, turning her into a shadow. She riffled across the grounds. She couldn’t put her finger on what was wrong, but she felt the pallor of emotion that had settled over her had also settled over the estate. She shook her head. She didn’t have time for regrets. She was what she was.
Knowing that at the height of the moon everyone would be asleep, she slipped into the house and crept up the stairs, her hands sliding across the wall, comforted by the texture, the paintings, and the familiar creak of the stairs. At the top, she turned left and followed the patterned floor to the end of the hall, letting herself into Marcel’s room. She approached the bed and leaned over the prone toddler. He was sleeping on his back and his chest rose and fell in small spurts. Emotion welled inside of her and she resisted the urge to touch him, to take him into her arms and lather him with kisses. She’d been so afraid for him, but here he was, safe and sleeping. She could leave now and continue watching him from afar.
Alarm shot through Marie’s senses. The silent awareness of intrusion came a split second before the actual sound.
“You can’t!” said a shrill voice from the other side of the door. She recognized it as the new nurse.
“He is one of them,” returned a man whose voice she did not recognize.
“He is just a baby.”
“Not just any baby,” the man exploded.
“Be quiet or we will be heard.”
“He is one of them, Juliette. His mother was a Bourbon whore and he needs to be taken to Paris and imprisoned with the rest of the royal family.”
There was a scuffling noise. “I will not let you.”
“He belongs to the Citizens of France. Do not sell yourself to royals.”
“It is not like that. You know it is not. They were good people.”
“It does not matter. Stand aside, sister,” ordered the impatient voice.
“No.”
There was a pause before the door shook.
Her fangs lowered. She stepped back from Marcel, dissolving into the corner of the room where the streaming moonlight wouldn’t touch her, and melted into a guise of nothingness.
The door flew open. Juliette hung on to her brother, pleading for the child. He slapped her and she reeled back, falling to the floor in a heap. She struggled to her feet, but he kicked her. She scurried backward and he shut the door, bolting it. She pounded on the door and pleaded with her brother, but he ignored her. Finally, she gave up and ran for help.
The commotion woke Marcel and he began crying.
“Quiet!” The man’s lip curled in disdain.
Marcel, whose eyes were blue and intense like his father’s, stared back with mature distrust.
“Quiet!” He raised a hand to strike.
“Do not touch him.” Marie stepped forward, chin down and eyes pinned on the servant’s brother.
A sliver of apprehension crossed his dark eyes. Then it was gone, drowned by blind anger. She glided to his side and dropped the hood of her cloak. Moonlight caught her white face and glowing eyes. He shivered and made an unintelligible sound.
“What do you want with my baby?”
His eyes shifted back and forth.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Philippe,” he stammered as fear edged his voice in and out. “Are you a ghost?”
“No ghost.”
From the crib came a sweet voice she thought she’d never hear again. “Mama.”
Marie turned to her son. His face was alight with recognition and his hands opened and closed, gesturing for her to pick him up. A wave of emotion coursed through her.
Philippe took advantage of the reprieve, but she sensed the movement of air as his arm ascended. She hissed, exposing her extended fangs. There was a brief glimpse of wide-eyed horror and understanding on his face before she sank her teeth into his neck. He groaned and struggled meekly to shake her off, but he was as powerless against her strength, as the baby would have been against him.
She closed her eyes to the dirty hair and unwashed skin and thought only that he would not live to hit her son, or anyone, ever again. She felt the heartbeat slowing and with that, the blood rushed slower and thicker.
“What are you?” he asked in a final flicker of awareness before sliding down into merciless darkness.
She unhooked her fangs, licked the puncture wounds closed, and with a swift twist, snapped his neck. She dropped him and straightened. Sated, she found the taste of his blood suddenly bitter and repugnant.
“Mama.” Marcel’s voice was petulant, but his eyes were trusting.
She lifted the precious bundle into her arms, burying her face in his, smelling and kissing him. “Marcel.”
He tapped her cheek and grimaced at the coolness but showed no signs of fear.
He pointed to her eyes. “Eh?” They were no longer glowing and he was disappointed.
The door shook.
“Please,” Juliette urged from the hallway. “We have to save him.”
Marie returned Marcel to his bed and his little body sank into the mattress. As she arranged and tucked his blanket around him, she paused to caress the gold fleur-de-lis embroidery. The royal linen had once been hers and now belonged to her little prince and the heirs he would have one day.
Marcel kicked it off. “No,” he cried and motioned to be picked up.
She smiled and waved a finger at him. “No, no, Marcel.” She removed her lace fichu and covered him. “Shh.”
The door vibrated, almost giving way to the assault. With a last look to Philippe’s discarded body, she slipped out the window.
She needed to take Marcel away before someone else thought to claim him for the revolution. She would do whatever she had to do, but she refused to abandon her son, like her mother abandoned her.
Chapter XI
Marie surveyed Odin’s neighborhood, pleased to find no foot traffic, only an occasional car whose occupants were too busy on their smartphones to notice her.
His building—a modern, multi-level structure with floor-to-ceiling glass doors and windows that offered panoramic views of South Beach—sat on the corner of Jefferson and Fourth. After several days of spying, she’d deducted that he inhabited most of it, if not all of it. More importantly, only Odin had come and gone.
She watched him stride back and forth, talking and gesturing on his cell phone. He seemed restless, even upset, and she couldn’t help wonder who he was talking to and about what.
She was about to finally make her presence known when a girl with a miniature Yorkie turned onto the block. Marie sank back into the shadows. The dog yapped and pulled on the leash as they passed, but the owner didn’t glance up from her phone.
When the street was once again clear, her attention returned to the apartment window. Odin still paced, phone crushed to his ear. He tore off his tie, shrugged out of the dark gray jacket of his suit, and discarded his shoes; pausing momentarily to run his hand through his hair, before continuing to undress. He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it carelessly onto a leather ottoman. Just as he was about to take off his pants, his movements stilled as if he were concentrating on his exchange.
He ascended the stairs to the loft portion of his unit, and dropped the screens. Blackouts. What a shame. She’d enjoyed watching him strip.
Marie crossed the street and made her way to his front door. Finding it unlocked, she helped herself and slipped in. He really should lock his doors. Then again, werewolves had nothing to fear except maybe a thirsty vampire.
The entire firs
t floor was a large, open space with concrete floors—sparsely furnished and uber-modern. An eating counter and galley kitchen occupied one side while the other was sectioned off as a living room by a plush sofa sectional and large white leather ottomans. Mounted on the wall, he had an impressive flat-screen television and multiple surround-sound speakers.
Despite a sterility that didn’t say anything about the occupant, she liked the room and its airiness. And she liked his apparent ability to adapt and accept new styles and new times, the polar opposite of Anton who lived as if the revolution had never happened. Making herself comfortable, she sat and crossed her legs.
Odin’s voice trailed from the upstairs bedroom. Although she couldn’t make out the exact details of his conversation, she could smell emotion rolling off his body and gliding down the stairs with almost tangible legs.
He went silent for a breath before uttering a terse, “I have to go.”
She smiled. It hadn’t taken him long to sense her presence.
He swallowed the stairs with a leisured gate that contrasted with the energy he emitted. Pausing on the last step, his eyes pinned hers. “Come in.”
He was still shirtless, though he’d changed from dress pants into jeans that were zippered but unbuttoned. They hung low on his hipbones, exposing a chiseled torso and an interesting lack of underwear.
She stood. “Good evening, Odin. I was in the neighborhood.” Her head tilted as she returned his stare.
His eyes shifted from wary to hungry as he raked her body from head to foot. When he finally spoke, his voice was gruff. “I’m glad you came.” He motioned for her to sit back down. “I don’t think I have anything to offer you to drink, from a bottle that is. Do you mind if I do?”
“Of course not. Please.” She watched him intently as he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a cold-frosted bottle.
He glanced at the sofa, but instead of sitting next to her, he repositioned an ottoman in front of her. Then he sat facing her with his legs positioned one on each side of her knees like armrests.
