by Michele Hauf
Where was his home?
Taking everything in, the unbleached pine walls blurred out of his focus and he saw dozens of canvases in all states of the creative process stacked and propped and hung. The pictures depicted women in gorgeous eighteenth-century gowns that twinkled as if decorated with real jewels, so much so, Vail felt he could reach to a painting and draw away the necklace glinting at the model’s neck.
And there, a fine, dark-haired lord in silver damask frock coat and lace, revealed fangs within his wicked grin. Could that be his father?
The woman who had created these images, his mother, would know. She had known Constantine de Salignac, for good and for evil.
Had it ever been good for her?
Vail swallowed and ran a palm down the front of his shirt. He felt naked without the usual spikes on his clothing and faery ointment. Despite the lily bracelet, he had no armor to protect himself from this truth.
A truth he desperately wanted.
“Hello?” he called.
Rhys had said at her worst, Viviane would wail and beat her fists against the ground and then get lost in a silent stare. Those states were rare, and only if she had not fed the blood hunger for days.
He didn’t want to startle her. But what could be more startling than meeting the son you gave birth to twenty-eight mortal years ago after being buried alive for two hundred and thirty years?
He heard faint, musical humming, and guessed she stood behind the canvas propped on an easel to the left and at the back of the room near the bay windows.
“Viviane? It’s uh…Vail. Vaillant.” Your son.
No, he couldn’t say that. It didn’t feel right. He didn’t own that title. Not until his mother brought him into her arms and hugged him.
“Vaillant is a princely name,” came a soft voice. Melodic and bright. She sounded like the mother he had dreamed about.
“It was given to me by my vampire mother,” he offered, stepping closer but still uncertain about broaching the distance. His pulse pounded at his temples.
Was it too late to turn and dash out of here? Run into Lyric’s arms and hope she would forgive him his cowardice? She knew what it was like being at odds with her mother.
How could a man be at odds with someone he didn’t know?
“Rhys told you I wanted to see you?” he tried. Now the soft strokes of a brush across canvas touched his ears. “I’ve only been in this mortal realm a few months. I’m sorry I’ve stayed away. I didn’t want to do anything to upset you…” Mother.
No, it didn’t feel right. Viviane?
“Is it okay? Do you mind that I’m here?”
A clatter, perhaps a brush hitting the easel tray, made him flinch. And then a woman swept out from behind the canvas. A beautiful woman dressed in flowing black silk and with long curly hair as soot-black as his own. Her bold azure eyes were lined with kohl, and Vail smiled a little because the similarity struck him.
She stood proudly, shoulders straight and countenance demanding awe. Gorgeous and youthful, she appeared no older than he. A diamond hummingbird glittered in her hair. She’d stepped out from one of the paintings.
Vail’s heartbeat clattered, surprised and overwhelmed yet uncertain.
“You are Constantine’s son?” she asked, arms crossed, her nose tilted up. Not about to let down her guard. To be expected.
He nodded. He’d hoped to avoid mention of his father’s name. It couldn’t bring good memories to her.
“Step closer. Let me look at you.”
He took a few steps, too quickly, for she hissed and backed toward the canvas.
Vail stopped, putting up his palms. “Sorry.”
He tried a few slower steps until he stood about six feet from her. Now her fingers flexed at her sides, unsure. As did his. He should have worn a jacket, something to protect—
You don’t need protection from your own mother!
“Your paintings are incredible. You are talented.”
“Of course.”
Not chatty, then. What had he expected? That she’d wrap her arms about him and coo that everything would be all right?
Yes. Oh, yes.
“I’m Vaillant.” Duh. You said that already!
“Vaillant.” And then so softly he had to lean forward to hear, she murmured, “My dark prince.”
Vail swallowed. She had claimed him in some small way. Or did she mistake him for someone else? His father? Did he look like him? Dare he ask?
“Why have you come to me now?”
“I…” He had expected this reaction, but to stand here receiving her vitriolic question confused him more than he could have imagined. His sweaty fingers and racing heart gave away his nerves. At once he wanted to pull her into a hug, and yet keeping his distance felt wiser. Safer. “I wanted to look at you.” Mother. “To know where I came from. Forgive me.”
“Forgive you what? You’ve done nothing to me.”
“No, but…”
“That bastard.” She hissed and snarled at him. The diamond pin in her hair flashed angrily. “You look like him.”
“I do?” If he reminded Viviane of the one man she must despise most…
He could sense her agitation. The scent of anger always hit the center of his tongue with an acrid bite. He should leave. “I’m sorry.”
“You apologize too much. I hate you.” She flung up her arms and declared loudly, “I love you!” She slyly eyed him from over her shoulder. “You are pretty, my dark prince. Like me. You think me pretty?”
“Very.”
“Your eyes are bright.”
“Never so bright as yours…” Mother. The word dallied at the tip of his tongue. The notion to step forward and pull her into his arms—
“Go away from me. I don’t want to see you.”
Vail stiffened. For a moment his heart stopped beating. Go away echoed between his ears in a screeching red tone that scratched at his soul.
“Now!”
“I will.” He nodded and stepped back, grasping for security, yet his hands found nothing. He was stepping away from a tragedy he wanted to fix but could only further break beyond repair.
She did not want him. Could not stand to look upon the man who reminded her of her rapist.
“Sorry. Goodbye, Viviane. Mother.”
She hissed and clawed at him.
Vail retreated, leaving the gallery door open. The breeze from the patio wafted chlorine into his nostrils. He winced at the sudden plunge back to reality. Marching into the kitchen, he swerved as Lyric put out her arms to embrace him.
“I have to leave,” he growled.
“It’ll take a while,” Rhys tried. “She needs to get to know you.”
“She doesn’t want to know me!” He gained the foyer and turned, unable to look either of them in the eye. “Will you drive Lyric to her brother’s home? It is the only place she can be safe. I need to be away from here.”
Rhys nodded. Vail didn’t meet Lyric’s eyes, because to do so would reveal to her his failure. She’d had such high hopes for Viviane and him. He’d let them both down.
Turning and entering the cool night air, Vail’s boots dug into the pebbled surface as he raced toward the car. He shifted into gear and peeled out of the driveway. The security lights flashed on as he peeled down the long curved driveway.
He had to get away from it all.
Turning onto the main road, Vail jammed his foot on the accelerator and raced the car into the night.
* * *
LYRIC STOPPED HERSELF from running after her lover when he made his hasty retreat. She knew better. He needed to get away.
She glanced beyond Rhys, who leaned against the kitchen counter, then to the gallery, from where Vail had charged out as if hellhounds snapped at his ankles.
Was Viviane LaMourette so much the monster, then? To have made her son, a powerful, confident man, flee as if the devil Himself were on his heels?
“Sorry,” Rhys offered.
“He just want
ed to know his father,” she blurted out, feeling defensive for her lover. “Why won’t you give him the information to find him?”
“We have a deal.”
“A deal? You sound like the sidhe who won’t agree to anything without a return reward. You want the gown? I’ll hand it over.”
Rhys’s eyebrows lifted. Of course, both he and Vail had to have guessed she had the gown all along. Wasn’t as if she could have fenced it in the mortal realm.
“He’s in love with you,” Rhys stated.
“No, he’s not.”
“You are in love with him.”
A statement she couldn’t find words to deny, so she kept her silence.
“It would be a betrayal of Vail if I allowed you to hand over the gown.”
“How so? It would end this stupid deal the two of you made. End of story.”
“He needs to hand it over to me. To complete the quest, so to speak.”
“But I insist! I’ll go retrieve it right now. Don’t you see how hurt the man is? He wants connection with a family he’s never known.”
“He has family. I am his family. His mother—”
“Just sent a grown man racing out of here. What kind of monster is she?”
Her comment struck a painful chord in Rhys, and he turned away from her.
“Sorry.”
Rhys sighed and shook his head that it was all forgiven. “Do you know when I first met Vail, he sat down before me in my office, and said as a means of introduction, ‘I’m Vail the Unwanted.’ Just like that. And he believed it. So, no, I will not make this easier for him by taking away his opportunity to learn that he is truly loved and can become the vampire we all want him to be.”
“Thank you for telling me that. He’s getting better.”
“I hope so. He’s a fine man. Honorable in ways even he isn’t privy to.”
The front door opened and in marched a wild, red-haired man sporting two black eyes and a split lip. A gash cut across his nose, but he managed to smile with a wince and at the same time blatantly ogle Lyric.
“Who is this fine bit?” he asked Rhys, who had moved alongside Lyric protectively.
“She’s vampire,” Rhys stated.
The man stepped back and put up a palm. “Oh.” That one word dismissed her to the ranks of something vile and of small regard.
“What happened to your face, Tryst?”
“Tryst?” Lyric looked from him to Rhys. There was resemblance about the square jaw and eyes. “You’re Vail’s brother?”
“Who are you?” the werewolf asked defiantly.
“I’m Lyric Santiago,” she said, holding out her hand, which he almost shook but, at the last moment, flicked his hand away from her offer. “Vail told me the Unseelie got to you. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, man, faeries are after Vaillant. Because of her. I can see why, too. Nice. For a vampire.”
“Tryst, mind your manners. Lyric is a welcome guest in my home.”
“Yeah? I thought she was the one you were supposed to find for the client? Aren’t you going to hand her over and end all this?” He pointed to his bruised face.
“You can’t handle a few cuts and bruises?” Rhys chided teasingly.
“You know I can. But do you see the trouble my brother has brought to us? Where is he, anyway?” The werewolf sniffed. “Did he abandon her here like yesterday’s baggage? Because if he did, that bastard is luring the faeries right to my home, and I warned him not to.”
“That’s not it at all,” Rhys said. “He came here to warn me after I missed his phone calls. As well… Vaillant finally met Viviane.”
The wolf stilled and shoved his hands in his front pockets. “Oh.”
At that moment, Lyric sensed Trystan Hawkes was much more receptive to the idea of having a vampire brother than he wanted anyone to know. He didn’t hate Vail; he just acted the role he assumed others expected of him.
Rhys cleared his throat. “I was going to offer Lyric a ride into the city, but if you are able?”
She exchanged looks with the werewolf and suspected the last thing he wanted was to spend a moment with her. Yet she wanted to get to know the brother better. To determine the accuracy of her assessment of the brothers’ relationship.
“Good, then.” Rhys shuffled Lyric toward Trystan. “He can give you a ride into the city. Don’t worry, his bark is worse than his bite.”
“But I just got here,” Tryst said. “I was going to sit with Viviane.”
“She’s in a mood,” the old man said lowly.
The werewolf sighed, and cast his gaze down the hallway toward the gallery.
“Return tomorrow, why don’t you?” Rhys offered his son. “Bring her some of those white chrysanthemums she favors so much.”
“I can do that.” He flicked a gesture toward Lyric. “Come on, faery bait.”
THE MASERATI SKIDDED on loose gravel. Vail pulled up the emergency brake. The vehicle spun. The back tires left the ground.
He opened the door and flung out his body, hitting the gravel with a bounce. Stones spattered his face, hands and skull. The car door narrowly missed shaving his scalp. The car spun and went over the edge of the riverbank.
Water splashed over Vail’s dirt-dusted face. He tilted back his head to laugh.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RHYS HAWKES CLOSED the door behind Trystan and Lyric and turned into his wife’s embrace. Her frail limbs trembled against his body. It had been too much for her to see Vail. It tore his heart open that the two could not have a relationship.
Perhaps it needed time and patience. God knows, he had learned patience in this marriage. He’d once thought her dead, and to find her alive decades ago had put back together the pieces of his broken heart. He adored Viviane, even when she raged.
“You told me Constantine was no more,” she said, her voice warbling. “You told me, lover. Did you lie to me?”
Sometimes it had been easier to allow Viviane to believe what she wanted. He’d never told her as much, only that he had no idea where Constantine was—which was true.
“Never, my love.”
“Why has my dark prince only come to me now? Why so long?”
He swept the hair from her face and tilted up her chin to gaze into her lucid blue eyes. Lucid, but for how long, he could never know. “Remember when the faery Cressida chose one of your sons as payment for enchanting my werewolf?”
She nodded. “You promised your firstborn. She took him. We had the other. I know it broke your heart, lover. It did mine, too.”
“He’s always been in our hearts, even though he was gone. Vaillant wants to get to know you, Viviane. He needs a mother.”
“I like being a mother. Trystan was easy to raise. He takes after his father, so proud and kind. But my dark prince…he looks like him.”
Indeed, Vail had his father’s square facial features, and yet the dark hair and blue eyes had come from both his parents. Pray, he did not develop a malicious streak as Constantine had. And pray, the two boys, Trystan and Vail, could have a better relationship than Rhys and Constantine had.
“He is not his father, Viviane. Vail is quite new to the mortal realm. He needs guidance. But most of all, he needs family. Do you want to be his family, Viviane?”
“I could be. But my heart…” She pounded a fist to her breast.
“I know.” Rhys pulled her head to his shoulder. “Your heart bleeds for the travesties visited you by Constantine de Salignac.”
“I will kill him.”
Would that she could, and then perhaps Salignac would haunt her no longer.
Rhys had had opportunity when they’d been tracking Viviane after she’d been released from her centuries-long prison in the catacombs. He’d held Constantine by the neck, his talons emerging with anger. But no matter the evils Constantine had brought to Rhys and Viviane’s life, he could not kill his own brother. The past could never be erased.
In truth, Rhys did not desire a relationship with his brother, but
neither would he be the hand to bring him down, as was, he suspected, Vail’s focus.
“You’re hungry?” he asked, but didn’t wait for her answer.
Sitting on the chair, Rhys drew Viviane onto his lap and tilted his head aside. She stroked his neck. Her touch always sent shivers through his system and ignited desire. As a half-breed, his werewolf could not abide being bitten by a vampire. But he was in vampire form now, and though his mind was all wolf, the vampire always won the insistent desire to have his blood drawn out by his wife. It was a sensual experience they both enjoyed.
He gave Viviane strength, and in turn, when he took blood from her, it calmed his raging vampire.
They could not survive without the other.
* * *
LYRIC CLUTCHED THE EDGES of the passenger seat. Trystan Hawkes drove exactly like his brother. Did no one take driver’s education classes anymore?
The brown SUV sported red and orange flames along the exterior sides and laughing skulls across the back. A gold skull capped the stick shift. The interior was pasted with graffiti of skater logo stickers. All very colorful. As was Trystan.
The man was tall and built like Vail, but where Vail’s muscles were streamlined, his brother’s were meaty and imposing. As she would expect from a werewolf. One of Lyric’s friends was a werewolf—Blu Masterson; she spent the summers in Paris with her husband, Creed Saint-Pierre—but the female wolves, while muscular, were often slender and athletic in form.
Trystan cast her a sideways glance. “I can smell your fear, Lyric.”
“Yeah? Who’da thought, a werewolf capable of scenting out fear.” She wasn’t afraid of him. Well, maybe a little. Lyric had never been this close to a male wolf.
“Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t bite. You, on the other hand…”
“Wouldn’t dream to bite a werewolf. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
He shrugged, and turned onto a different road. “Vamps don’t scare me, though I am fearful of the blood hunger I could develop if one ever bit me. Keep your fangs locked and loaded, sweetie.”
“Will do. Surprised, though, you’d be offended by me.”
