by Michele Hauf
“Of course you can remember, Damian. It wasn’t less than a few months ago we lived in the parish. Remember how every morning you strolled through the fields to bring me a bouquet of wildflowers? Bright yellow coltsfoot and those white daisies that always made me sneeze. I-I want to take you home, Damian. I want things to be the way they were.”
His clutch grew tighter and Roxane impulsively pulled away.
But one eye was revealed between clumps of Damian’s hair. Was it pale celadon, the color of a fop’s whimsy, or had the madness muddied it to seaweed? No sparkle, not a single glint. Indeed, his face had grown gaunt. Roxane sensed it was not from hunger, but the insanity that taxed his soul. “You dare to take me away from here?”
“When you are better—”
Malice curled Damian’s thin mouth. “I see. When they have finally spun my brains into position? Is that the way of it?”
“Damian, I am doing what I can to help you.”
“A little late for that.”
His sneering retort cut to her bones. She did not deserve forgiveness. But had he chosen the other option would she have regretted the monster?
Why should it have been your choice?
Indeed, it should not have been.
He’s a google-eyed moon hunter. Ever gazing to the sky. No hope for him, love.
“I’ve met someone,” she said, hoping to make Damian smile. To let him think of things other than the bars and the filth and whatever hells infested his mind. “Of a sort.”
“Is he pretty?”
She lifted her head at his interest. The charming rogue wanted to hear some gossip. “Yes, he is handsome. A fop, but—”
“Oh, oh, oh! A pretty man for my pitiful, penniless whore of a sister!” Damian announced grandly. A splay of his arms was silently mimicked by the man standing behind him. “Triumph! Triumph!”
The spinner spun into a new dance of mumbles and pleas for his favorite pleasure.
“Damian, please,” she pleaded over the idiots’ rants. “It is not like that. It is…he is in trouble. I have been following the creature that did this to you. This man…he may be the key to attracting the enemy. I feel it, Damian. As soon as I’ve the vampire—”
As she spoke the word, Damian’s head jerked violently. He flung himself backward, as if to splash into a pond. The man behind him caught him with an expert lunge and a gleeful giggle.
“My liege!” the one huddling in the corner rushed forth. “He has taken ill!”
“He is not your liege!” Roxane’s anger unloosed. “Let go of him. Don’t tear at his clothes! Step away, dotterels!”
She pressed her forehead against the bars and concentrated. Mental magic was difficult for her without preparation, and she could use very little, but success came and she managed to part the two imbeciles from her brother with sheer will power.
Damian landed on the stone floor, and curled into a ball of limbs but two feet from the iron bars. She slid down to squat and stretched an arm through the cold iron.
“I’m sorry, Damian. It was my fault.”
“It was your fault,” he hissed, his head tucked into a curled arm. He began to rock back and forth. “Do not touch the royal flesh!” he snapped at the idiot crawling closer. He lifted his head and pierced Roxane with a flat stare. “Wait for the moon? Ha! You should have run a dagger through my heart.”
“No!” And yet, she wondered now if perhaps she should have. “This man I’ve met, he was bitten, like you.”
Damian twisted his head inside the curve of his arm. A cruel smile taunted her like no spoken admonishment could.
“He did not die,” she offered. “His valet rescued him before the vampire could finish. He has but days before the full moon.”
“You’ve done it AGAIN,” Damian growled in a voice that clutched her heart. “You’ve DONE it again.” His rocking increased pace and he moved up to his hands and knees. “The bitch has done IT again. Dancing between death and madness, she spins a mighty reel! Dance with me, my loyal subjects! Whirl me upon my spinning chair.”
He sprang up and his long legs skipped like a spider dancing across its web. The two men joined him. Every time they collided with the spinning man his path was redirected, which he assumed without protest.
Roxane pressed her back to the opposite wall.
“Come, my subjects!” Damian called, “Let us dance for the witch. Follow me, skip and twirl! Spin, spin, spin!”
She had done it again.
NINE
Breakfast without Roxane felt peculiar. In two days, Gabriel had grown accustomed to the pale beauty’s presence. Odd. He knew the dangers of establishing emotions for women. To summon hope. He hadn’t the time or luxury for that with Roxane. So why did he already notice when she was absent?
Perhaps because he missed her kisses?
“You are too soft, Renan.” He slunk in the vanity chair, stretching out a leg and staring at his lazy sneer in the mirror. “Take it like a man. Stand up and show it your teeth.” He leaned forward and bared his teeth.
“You would make a splendid creature, yes?”
His reflection snarled back.
Certainly well dressed, but hardly frightening.
“What a pitiful madman you would make, pacing your cell in tattered lace and obsessively counting the minutes on your cracked gold watch.”
He sighed and bent forward, placing his forehead on the vanity, and stared down at his feet, slippered in indigo damask. Only the finest for Leo. When taking on the role of Leo, he’d thought enhancing the façade would prove himself more attractive to the upper echelon Gabriel so hoped to crack. How difficult must it be to give away money? Tainted or not, it could only help others.
“I am…” Another sigh forced his private confession. “Frightened. I don’t want to change. Yes, yes,” he defied his reflection, “I know that is all I have dreamed of for years. Change. A life of domesticity. Someone to care for, to spoil, and to make happy. Someone to cherish, as I have never before been cherished. Someone to”—a swallow lodged in his throat— “see me.”
Toussaint entered the room with a tray of shaving utensils.
Gabriel tilted his head, studying the damage on his neck. “They haven’t begun to heal. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Maybe.” Toussaint glanced at Gabriel’s neck, then, with a double take, really looked at the wounds.
He read the valet’s surprise. “You do find it odd.”
“Do you think you will change? That you will suck another person’s blood and become immortal?”
“Must you be so bloody morbid?”
“Forgive me, but is not immortality a marvelous future to imagine?”
“Your mind dabbles with strange ideas far from my imagination. To drink another man’s blood can only be a curse.”
“Of course.” Toussaint’s tone did not at all agree with his agreement. “But if it is to survive and if you did not murder…”
Gabriel caught his forehead in his palm and closed his eyes. “As pitiful as it sounds, I have begun to question that very thing, Toussaint.” He picked up the stake and spun it round between his fingers. “What could be so terrible about immortality? It would be a hell of a lot more favorable than Bicêtre.”
“You would make an exquisite hunter of the night, Gabriel. Elegant and mysterious; you could lure women to a ravishing swoon. And just think—to walk through the ages, witnessing the world as it changes.”
“That would be a remarkable feat.” Something he’d not considered. What a joy to witness the changing times. To experience different cultures and lifestyles because he had been afforded the time to do so? On the other hand… “You forget one thing, Toussaint, the vampire kills. Murder is not my mien.”
“Monsieur Anjou did not kill you.”
“And look where that has gotten me. If I should not kill I would leave a trail of helpless lackwits in my wake. Mad minions roaming the city in search of blood. I could not justify that.”
&nb
sp; “You’re the furthest thing from a lackwit, vicomte.”
“Madness yet threatens,” he muttered.
“What if there was a way to drink blood without killing and without risk of creating a minion?”
“Do you know of such ways?” Tapping the stake against his jaw, he peered into Toussaint’s reflected eyes. “Does Mesmer know things about the vampire?”
“Would you consider it if there was a way?”
Gabriel stared at the vicomte in the mirror. He would make a delicious creature. He certainly had the finances to afford a long life. And to experience the centuries….
Travel, adventure, and education called to him. He could learn so much. Grasp new ideas and see them through. And the women, ever a new supply to slake his lustful thirst.
But wouldn’t loss be all the more painful to carry it so long? And what of the domesticity he craved? If he were ever to marry, his wife would die while he lived on. Could he fathom such a life?
A man has to believe in something.
“I don’t know, Toussaint. I want this to all be done, one way or the other.”
“Then I will go to Mesmer this afternoon and see if he can answer some of your questions, yes?”
“Fine, but do not allow Mademoiselle Desrues to know what you are up to.”
The last thing he wanted was for Roxane to learn his fortitude had begun to falter. Because he knew without doubt, such a fine woman could never love a creature.
It was a relief to return to the vicomte’s home. Roxane needed to be with someone mentally sound. Someone male and charming, and capable of seducing her up from the bitter emotions that yet clung to her soul.
Toussaint directed her to the music room where Leo was seated before the pianoforte, using it as a desk as he paged through a stack of documents. He covered them with a leather folio as she strode in.
“Ah, the vampire slayer returns to her nest.”
“Sarcasm does not suit you, vicomte.”
“But the autumn air suits you, mademoiselle. Have you heard the term blowsabella?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Italian, I think. Your cheeks are flushed and you are radiant. Gorgeous.”
Yes, a male’s charming presence; just the thing to feed her starving soul.
“Where were you all day?”
“I stopped by my apartment this morning to visit Ninon.” Partial truth, for she had stopped by before coming here. “She has no other friends in the city. As well, I enjoy her company. She seemed a trifle…changed.”
“How so?”
“I’m not sure.” She thought about Ninon’s cotton dress and the lightness with which she had carried herself. As if the world had been lifted from her shoulders, or rather, a really big wig. “She offered me fine pastries. I was surprised because she has so little. I wonder if she’s been to the coiffures again?”
“What did her hair look like?”
“That is the surprise, it looked rather plain. As though it hadn’t seen curling rod or pins and powder in weeks.”
“Did you ask her about it?”
“I did, but she merely shrugged.”
“Then you mustn’t worry for her.”
Roxane admired the pianoforte. White lacquer sported pastoral scenes in oval vignettes around the sides. On top sat a dusty blue violin.
“So you only went there this morning?” he prompted.
“Er…yes.”
Please don’t ask about the remainder of the day. It wasn’t that she couldn’t reveal her troubles; it was that she wanted distance right now. The seduction.
She leaned over and studied the violin. “This is lovely—”
“Don’t touch it!”
The violin’s hollow body echoed as it teetered. She pressed her fingers to her mouth as if she’d been singed. A narrow fingerprint on the belly of the stringed instrument disclosed her folly.
“Sorry.” Leo stood and eyed the instrument. “Too damned many memories in that violin. I’m not sure why I don’t have Toussaint pack the thing away.”
Dare she delve into his horribly masked emotions? She wanted to learn more about him, the enigma. The man who could change her heart with but a kiss. And yet his future spoke sure tragedy.
“Time for a conversation switch,” he tossed out. “Beyond your penchant for chasing creatures of the night, I know little about you. How long have you been in Paris, Roxane?”
“Four months.” She slid into an armed chair. The chair wrapped its damask arms about her, a lush repose within a boudoir.
Leo twisted around on the stool before the pianoforte, catching his palms on his knees. “You came from Scotland?”
“Never been there.”
“And yet, you’ve a definite brogue. Did not Toussaint learn you’ve Scottish ancestors?”
“Yes.” She dipped her head in a sweet blush. “I long to visit someday. I grew up listening to stories told by my granny MacTavish. Tales of Scottish highlanders, fierce, brawny warriors. My granddaddy used to wear his plaid, be damned the regulations, he’d say.”
“I’ve never seen a Scotsman in plaid.”
“Plaids have been banned for decades. I don’t understand why. It is a fine look on any man.”
“You fancy a man in plaid?”
She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Hmm… Well, I hope you find your tartan-draped Highlander someday.”
“I won’t hold my breath. But I don’t dislike frock coats and lace.”
Leo tugged at his lacey sleeve. “Just not quite so much lace, eh? No swishes for this lady?”
She didn’t reply because the man was not a swish, and he certainly landed on her interesting list. Not that there was a list. He was the first man she’d had a relationship with, so everything about him fascinated and intrigued.
“Where did you live before Paris?”
“Villers-Cotterets, a village at the edge of the forest.”
“About an hour out of Paris?”
“Yes, you know it?”
He shrugged. “I have passed by to and from Versailles. What drew you to Paris?”
“I moved here with my brother. He’s always been drawn to this society of riches and manner. He is a gentle man by nature, yet loves elegance and propriety.”
“A man of my own heart?”
“A swish in training, you might say.”
“I would never say.”
“Yes, well…” Her smile fell as quickly as it had formed and images of the man spinning about her brother’s figure returned. “Damian had been easily tempted by our father’s spectacular description of Paris. The city tainted father, and drew him away from mama. We’ve lived alone, just the two of us, for half a decade now. Much as Damian desired Paris, I would not allow that same taint to harm him. I was successful in swaying his desires for years. Until this year.”
“He convinced you to move to the city?” Leo said softly.
“After much begging. Each summer after father’s visit Damian would say, ‘Let’s be off for Paris. Father already has an apartment for us; we’ve only to claim it.’ He would finger the tatty lace that circled his threadbare shirt and say in the most wrenching plea: ‘I must go, Roxane. Paris calls.’
“And I would refuse. Someone had to maintain a level head. We did not live in poverty. The fieldstone parish the Desrues family has lived in for centuries was large and spacious, and the gardens out back were shaded by walls of hornbeam. But this year, after I had refused and turned to my gardening of simple herbs, thinking that was it for the summer pleading, Damian resolutely pulled back his shoulders and stated, ‘Very well, I will go to Paris myself.’”
Leo offered a consoling nod and smile.
“And I knew he would.” She traced the curve of the chair arm with a fingertip. “My heart speeding with apprehension, I packed up my belongings—very little—and journeyed to Paris at my brother’s side.
“Immediately upon our arrival he took our inheritance and bough
t himself fine clothing, wigs and pretty jewels. He was so happy.”
“Was?”
She nodded and glanced toward the paned window, not eager to go on.
“You wish to return.”
Was her sadness so obvious? “Enough of my family. I have not had opportunity to ask how you fare today?”
“Me? I am a bit tired, but all in all, I feel rather well. Madness be damned, eh?”
“Was Toussaint able to clean the floor in your bed chamber?”
“He scrubbed away the smell.” Almost. “Terrible how I can scent blood from across the room. Yours is sweet, by the by.”
“You—you can smell it from there?”
He nodded. Her posture stiffened upon the chair.
“Don’t worry, I won’t attack. At least, I don’t think I will. Roxane, I was making fun. I promise I will not bite you.”
“What if the madness won’t allow you that choice?”
“You think I am going insane?” He pressed forefingers to his temple, and, closing his eyes, rubbed in circles. “I don’t feel it.” He flashed open his eyes to look at her. “Does it strike so quickly, then?”
“I cannot know.”
“You didn’t witness it with this other survivor you will not name?”
