Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark)

by Michele Hauf

  It had been more over a week since she had last seen her brother. While he cursed her and spouted mad diatribes to the few who would listen, she continued to visit him at Bicêtre, a hospital at the edge of the city that housed the sick and insane. She would not surrender hope for Damian’s sanity.

  Even if hope meant befriending the enemy.

  Consciousness seemed a new experience. Sounds were not immediately distinguishable, merely muffled fuzz inside his ears. Daylight filtered through the pale sheers strung before the ceiling-high windows topped with fluffs of officious crimson plumage.

  Gabriel blinked at the brightness. His vision, initially blurry, slid down a hazy rainbow pouring from the massive oculus window set into the ceiling.

  Cinnamon curled into his nostrils. That meant he was in bed. Toussaint instructed the laundress to use a cinnamon soap imported from India. It was one of many pleasures he entertained as part of the playacting he performed. A man’s home must match his personality because one never knew when one might bring home guests or a woman.

  But beneath the sweet fragrance lingered something…not right, almost vile. Musty? Yes, the smell of old things, of long forgotten and dusty attire. Yet at the same time that odor cloyed at him with a seductive invitation.

  He swished his tongue across his teeth. “Toussaint, wine.”

  Toussaint’s curly-topped head appeared above him. “Leo?” A strangely exuberant grin lifted the man’s thick black moustache on one side, and quickly vanished to a worried moue. “You are finally awake.”

  Finally? And why did he call him by that name? Toussaint knew better. Leo was his public persona; a façade he could not abide when at home in private.

  Gabriel winced and flicked his fingers toward the silver bed tray that, though he could not see it, should be within arm’s reach. A clean white handkerchief landed in his palm. He pressed the linen to his mouth and drew in the scent of orange. The acrid fruit oil pierced his numb senses and wakened his muddy brain.

  What had happened last night?

  It was difficult to order his memories from the chaos of shadows and screams swimming in his head. Shadows shaped like armed men. Shadows shaped like flying beasts.

  Why did he imagine a gargoyle taking flight from the Marmonte roof? Had he had a nightmare?

  The room moved into sharper perspective. Overhead, sunlight beamed through the oculus, painting the air with dusty swashes of indigo, crimson and subdued pumpkin. To stand amidst the silent colors made him feel more right than any other place. So far from the false society that frequented the salons. So close to acceptance.

  A familiar susurration steered his attention toward the end of the bed. Ells of fabric swished. Had he found a woman to debauch last night?

  Why couldn’t he remember?

  The most remarkable female stood at the end of the bed, framed between swaths of burgundy velvet that poured from the bed canopy like waterfalls of wine. Gabriel hated all the fuss and frippery, but endured it as part of the charade.

  But she was not a part of this charade.

  He shoved Toussaint aside. Streams of pale red hair spilled in loose curls over the woman’s narrow shoulders. Pink satin jailed in narrow brown stripes pushed a delicious bosom into enticing mounds and enhanced her petite yet curvaceous shape as exquisitely as the latest Pandora doll. A plain Pandora, for she wore no excess ribbon or lace, no hat or gloves, not even a wig.

  He lowered his head near the valet’s. “What—she—that woman—did I…?”

  “No, Leo.”

  Toussaint’s reply stung like a slap to the face. He had not slept with her? Pity. She was fetching in a fragile, pale sort of way.

  Not a hint of carmine brightened her cheeks. Everything about her, from her blanched strawberry hair, to the fine milky complexion seemed washed out. Drained. And yet, an intense energy vibrated in the wide eyes fixed to him.

  Not slept with her? The only instance that saw a woman in Gabriel Renan’s bedchambers—or rather, Leo’s—was that he had made love to her. But fact remained…

  “She’s dressed,” Gabriel said, a strange sadness staining his tone.

  “I said you and she”—Toussaint twirled a finger near his chest between he and Gabriel—”did not.”

  “I can hear you,” a delightful female voice sang.

  Toussaint winced, then straightened and turned to her. He splayed out an arm to present their guest. “Leo, might I introduce Mademoiselle Roxane Desrues.”

  “Roxane.” Gabriel worked the name on his tongue, rolling the ‘R’ as he often did with his own surname. Rrrrrroxane. A tasty name.

  “She accompanied you home Wednesday evening, and has been checking in on you every few hours.”

  “Every few—whatever for? The deuce, how long have I been asleep?”

  “Two days,” the woman offered with a bit more cheer than he preferred upon rising.

  He gaped at Toussaint, who nodded agreement. “It is Friday, my lor—er, Leo.”

  A swallow etched his throat. He clutched the side of his neck. Beneath his palm a thick cloth wad had been secured to his neck.

  “What has happened?”

  “Do you not remember?” Toussaint turned to the wisp of a woman. “He’s lost his memory?”

  “Hard to believe,” the velvet-smooth voice announced as she moved around the side of the bed. No, not moved, the woman floated on a swish of satin and fraises et la crème hair. “Loss of memory has never before been a condition of such an attack.”

  “Attack?”

  Gabriel swallowed again, only to make a face from the pain tugging at his neck. Attacked? He was skilled in the martial arts and could go to fisticuffs with the largest of men.

  Another swish of satin distracted him from his befuddlement. This woman had accompanied him home? Didn’t make sense. Two days? What—oh—

  Remembrance attacked with vicious accuracy. The sudden sensation that he was falling for endless parasongs pulled his thoughts from the pale beauty that leaned over him to the more troubling sensation of pain at his neck.

  Shadows and screams, indeed.

  Gabriel recalled the smug applause following his defeat over the idiot drunk. For but a moment he had felt uneasy about Monsieur Anjou. Ancient attire aside, the man had come off as whimsical. They had stared up at a gargoyle clinging to the edge of the Marmonte roof.

  Then it had all quickly changed.

  “That bastard bit me!” Gabriel struggled to sit upright.

  Toussaint propped pillow after pillow behind his back and straightened the lace around his nightshirt.

  “Enough, Toussaint!” He slapped at the valet’s fussing fingers.

  “But your lace is crinkled.”

  “Damn the lace!”

  Gabriel touched his throat. Morbleu. A lecherous chill curdled at the back of his throat. Did not the Ripper kill his victims? With a blade? The man had bitten him.

  The woman mustered her way between the valet and Gabriel’s bedside, filling the air with the aroma of something familiar, yet he could not place the earthy scent. “You mustn’t subscribe to the ridiculous rumor of a man slashing fops’ throats.”

  “Rakes,” Toussaint corrected from over her shoulder.

  The woman splayed an impatient hand through the air. “Fops, rakes, they are all the same. Leo, it was a vampire—”

  “A vampire?” Unbidden laughter spurted from Gabriel. He cast Toussaint a harried silent plea for sanity. “Mademoiselle, you would have me believe that a mythical creature attacked me? That is akin to saying stone gargoyles can fly.”

  Her eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to blurt that detail.

  “You saw a gargoyle fly?” she interrogated.

  “No. I—it was merely an example. Who are you, by the by?”

  “I am Roxane Desrues, as your valet has already introduced me.”

  “She’s come to hunt the vampire,” Toussaint cheerfully explained.

  Gabriel pinned the valet with a scathing sneer.
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  Toussaint shrugged and smiled, exuding more mirth than he’d displayed for years. “I was given the details the night we brought you home.”

  “Mademoiselle Desrues…” Gabriel muttered the name. “You don’t sound like any French woman I have ever met.” A touch of brogue tinted her speech. “You’re not French?”

  “She’s Scottish,” Toussaint offered gaily. “Er, half and half. Her mother was Scottish—”

  “—and my father French,” she finished.

  “It seems the two of you have shared much.”

  “Merely conversation,” she replied.

  “For two days,” Toussaint added helpfully. “During your convalescence.”

  He switched his gaze between the twosome. Toussaint savored every syllable of this exchange. The servant had a penchant for the occult, the unexplained, the downright unbelievable. The valet regularly visited Mesmer’s shop on the Place Vendôme. He was always so pleased to be involved in anything beyond the mundane. Poor, gullible man.

  “I’ve come to help you.”

  Gabriel angled a scrutinizing eye on the woman. Why would a strange woman—albeit, a gorgeous and enticing woman and smelling like what?—wish to help him? He had already been attacked. Help was too late. And he knew nothing of Roxane Desrues, save she was the loveliest scoop of strawberries and cream, and he should have been in bed with her two nights ago instead of falling victim to a vampire.

  Preposterous!

  “You are lucky, monsieur—er, Leo. Of a sort,” she said. “Few can claim their lives following an attack from the vampire.”

  The deuce! “Monsieur Anjou was not a vampire,” he spat.

  “Did you name the man Anjou?”

  Insistent eyes riveted to his face.

  “Yes, Anjou. Madame de Marmonte introduced us.”

  “He was in the salon?”

  “Yes. He seemed normal, save the antiquity of his attire. He appeared as though he belonged in the seventeenth century. What do you mean I was lucky of a sort?”

  “Bother that. You must tell me: the man introduced himself to you as Monsieur Anjou?”

  Gabriel nodded. He prodded the bandage on his neck. “Toussaint, take this off me. I want to see the damage.”

  “I’ll return shortly,” Roxane called as she strolled out of the bed chamber.

  “Where is she off to? Who the devil is that woman?” Gabriel twisted to follow her exit as Toussaint tugged at the bandages. A layer of lint clung to his wound and the valet picked carefully. “Has she really been here for days?”

  “Mademoiselle Desrues has come and gone most discreetly. Would you sit still? And leave the shirt on.”

  “It’s a monstrosity.” He tugged at the loose neckline, scratchy with adornment. “All this lace!”

  “There is a woman in the house, I will remind you.”

  “Why did you leave me in this awful fluff? You know I cannot abide such frippery. Leo gets left at the door.”

  “She would have questioned.”

  Gabriel sighed. Toussaint was more than just a valet; he was a capable ally who knew his weaknesses better than Gabriel did at times.

  That he’d been so out of his head he must have been carried inside…? The shame.

  “Very well, a fop I must remain until she leaves. She is lovely. If a trifle touched.”

  “She’s not to be trusted, Renan.”

  “Why not? And she smells like what?”

  “Rosemary,” Toussaint stated with annoyance. He pressed a wet cloth to Gabriel’s neck. “As for the vampire, I believe.”

  “Believe what?”

  “In the myth. Or rather, the truth. Just because you’ve not before seen one does not mean they cannot exist.”

  “You are a sorry bottle of spoiled grapes, Toussaint. You’ve dipped your brain into Mesmer’s magnetic tank one too many times.”

  “We do not put our heads in the tank, only our hands.”

  “No matter. And I will thank you to catch the Ripper next time I am—”

  “Indisposed?” The valet tossed the bandages onto the silver serving tray. “Now listen, Renan, the woman would not allow me to call a surgeon after your attack. You could have bled to death.”

  “And yet you, an able man, a full head taller than the delicate wench, succumbed to her wishes?”

  “Well, she…” Toussaint shifted his gaze up the wall to the oculus. “…touched me.” A mysterious grin curled the man’s lips, much as he fought it.

  Gabriel lifted a brow. “Touched you?”

  Toussaint leaned close to him as if to reveal a dark secret. “Yes, touched. She put her finger to my lips when I was frantic over you, and of a sudden I felt calm. Like I would do whatever it was she asked.”

  “I see. So she bewitched you?”

  Toussaint blew out a breath of frustration. “It is just, she is different. Why not call upon the surgeon? She made it clear she wishes to keep your attack a secret.”

  “Why reveal that what the authorities have on their hands, instead of a throat slasher, is really a mythical vampire?” Roxane said as she entered the room with folded bandages in hand. “They would think the two of you mad, as well as me.”

  Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest and leveled a hard gaze on the pale beauty. “You roam about my home as if it is your own?”

  “I brought supplies. I have been tending your wound for days, Monsieur Ungrateful.”

  He exchanged a look with Toussaint. The valet merely shrugged and mouthed the words, “Touched me.”

  “Now”—she set the medical accoutrements on the bed—“I’ve information you both will find valuable. But first, I wish to take a look at the wound. If you would allow?”

  “Allow such a gorgeous pair of hands to fondle my flesh?” He spread out his arms, opening himself to her. “Charge ahead, mademoiselle. I am at your mercy. Though it appears you’ve already had quite your way with me. Should I be ashamed?”

  “It appears the attack has done little to staunch your charm.”

  “How are you aware of my charm?”

  “Your valet has told me I should be honored to tread about your lair of—how did you put it—?”

  Toussaint begged indifference with a tilt of his head toward the ceiling.

  “Ah yes,” she recalled. “Leo’s lair of sensual delights.”

  “Just so.” Though, not so much a lair as a haven, Gabriel thought, despite the surrounding fluff. He’d not lived in such elegant means for over a decade and now it reminded him of growing up. “You must know it troubles me, the two of you talking about me while I lay dying.”

  “Death was not to be yours,” Toussaint reassured.

  Yet if it had been?

  Gabriel shuddered to think he’d not been on his game that evening. The duel with the sot had put him off when he should have remained alert to potential predators.

  Roxane sat on the bed near his shoulder. What he wouldn’t give to toss this lovely betwixt the sheets and prove to her the distinct difference between a lair and a haven. And yet, she was different, as Toussaint had pointed out. Touched? He felt inclined to tread carefully about her, lest she shatter like the pale glass she resembled.

  “Tilt your head for me, please. Losh, what a mess.” Her fingers touched up and down his neck on the left side. He might have taken pleasure from the warmth of her flesh, but the ache only reminded of the strange circumstances of his attack.

  “Marvelous.”

  Both Roxane and Gabriel looked to the voice of fascination. Leaning over the bed, Toussaint clutched his hands gleefully to his chest.

  Roxane flickered a pale look at Gabriel. “Your servant shows morbid fascination for your rather unfavorable condition.”

  “Disturbingly so. Toussaint?”

  “Hmm? Oh, sorry.” The valet straightened and took a step back, but could not disguise the glitter in his eye.

  Did he not have an appointment with Mesmer, or some place more pressing to be?

  Intent on her
medical discovery, a curl escaped from the mass of hair queued down Roxane’s back and swung across her cheek. Gabriel reached for the strand and twirled it about the tip of his finger. Not the unnatural dyed red so fashionable amongst the lie-abeds. This color belonged beneath the oculus with the rest of the muted rainbow.

  She looked at him, mindlessly twirling her hair, and he leapt into her eyes. “Celadon,” he decided.

  “What?”

  “Your eyes, mademoiselle. They are the delicate tint of celadon. Like an ice-frosted pine forest.”

  She smiled an unabashed smile, but too quickly her lips drew straight. “Your eyes are shot with streaks of red. Bring a mirror,” she directed Toussaint. “Proof will make you believe, Monsieur—er, Leo.”

  He liked that she was uncomfortable calling him by the singular name. What else hid beneath the surface of this pale beauty that could stir a soft blush to her countenance?

  She tilted the heavy pewter hand mirror toward him. Angry red flesh had formed a wide circle below the left side of his jaw. In the middle of that circle two swollen punctures sat like vicious boils piercing the line of his vein.

  Gabriel opened his mouth in amazement

  “Bite marks.” Roxane said. “Do you believe me now?”

  He fingered one of the wounds. A-a vampire? Impossible.