by Michele Hauf
Hell, he could take a rapier to his heart and be free of it all. But he’d had to see, to observe the other option. And it wasn’t a pretty one.
That look in Damian’s eyes—the man had wanted, and had been denied. He hadn’t been able to fight the madness for the blood.
Gabriel clenched his shirt, fingers digging into his ribs. How did one fight an attack to his very soul? Roxane’s brother was now sentenced to eternal unrest. Much like a vampire?
“Please, Roxane, sit by me.”
“I’d rather stand and stretch my legs. Walk with me?”
He could refuse her nothing. Gabriel stood and walked her down the hoof-pounded street under the blessed shade of a row of cypress boughs, horse following behind.
“Do you think I am slipping?” he asked. “Tell me true, Roxane. I must know.”
“You face a strange future. One you did not ask for.”
Not an answer. So she did think as much.
“Your brother,” he said. “Was his slip…noticeable?”
“Yes.”
“He was determined to avoid vampirism?”
“He didn’t think much on it. I—he trusted me. Oh, Gabriel, haven’t you figured it out? It was I who encouraged Damian to endure the wait for the moon. I influenced him. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I am wrong to suggest the same for you.”
She strode ahead, grasping the air near her head. Struggling with something that wanted to break free from her soul.
“A remarkable suggestion, my lady. Do you want to exchange the vicomte Renan for the vampire Renan?”
“It is not my place to say. And I will not!”
“You think vampirism a better choice than mortality?”
“What if the madness strikes? I want you to be safe. No matter what happens.”
He stopped near a closed hawker’s cart and leaned against it. Ragged red flags decorated the four corners and a sign scrawled in fading chalk advertised oranges. He swallowed but tasted only dryness and the lingering reminder of the stinking cells.
He touched her wrist, and when she did not flinch he curled her fingers into his. “I value your opinion. You are the only friend I have.”
“What of Toussaint?”
“Yes, well, you are the only friend I desire to kiss.”
She lifted a brow.
“Looking at you makes me hungry.”
She blushed, the color in her cheeks frothing to a delightful bloom.
He sensed the inner stirring, the craving for more than a simple kiss, and fought it back. What if the madness strikes suddenly?
Caution must be abandoned now, before it was too late.
“I need to kiss you, Roxane.”
“Your kisses are rather favorable.”
“I give them freely.”
He swept an arm around her waist and pulled her against him. As he kissed her, her throaty moans fed the desire, the passion, the need to hold and touch. He dove deep into her mouth, feeding upon her taste, upon her willingness to look beyond the evil that loomed over his head. He held life in his arms, he mustn’t stain it, mustn’t damage the innocence.
But certainly he must own it.
“You taste like goodness,” he murmured into her mouth. “More.” He wanted to own her, to possess her.
Take the blood.
The thunder of her heartbeat bellowed inside his skull. Taste, sound and smell combined in a heady miasma that shrouded him like a rain-heavy cloud. The satin dress curved out from her waist and he followed the rounded swell down and squeezed her bottom.
She pushed against him. “You hold me too tightly. Relax, Gabriel, I’ll not run off.”
“Would that you did, and I could chase you.”
Her lips were hot. Swollen and slippery, succulent fruits to be plucked and devoured. The taste of her made him want more. The thick sweet wine of life.
“No,” she said. “You mustn’t, Gabriel!”
The tear of her nails across his neck jerked his senses to the moment. Roxane stumbled away from him. He touched a finger to his neck, the opposite side of his bite wounds. Blood. So red and lucid. Even pretty.
Hmm… Impulsively, he raised the blood-stained finger to his lips.
Roxane tore his hand away. “Don’t do that!”
“It is my blood. It should not count to the change, should it?”
He resisted as she tried to wipe his neck with the lace scarf she tugged from around her bosom. In that moment he noticed, in the generous swell of her bosom, a red mark. Or was it a blush?
“I do not know what is required for the change,” she said, pressing a palm over her breasts, effectively concealing the telling color. “Your blood, someone else’s blood, you cannot know until it is too late.”
A red smear imbued the whorls of his fingers. Such a marvelous red, so full of life. He’d stained the innocence. Didn’t feel a whit of guilt about it either.
“Please,” she said, touching his hand. “Trust me.”
“In other words” —he wiped the blood across his coat hem—“choose madness?”
“No, that’s—”
“Exactly what you asked your brother to do?”
“Oh!” She caught her forehead in her palms.
He paced before her. Rationally he knew the hunger was winning. But he yet could determine the difference between need and mere want.
“Forgive me, too easily I jump to cruelties against you. Morbleu, I really am going insane. I would never treat a woman so horribly. To frighten her so. There is no excuse. Not even the blood hunger will suffice.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. Take things as they come. Trust me.”
“I will trust you. For as long as I am able. But should the madness arrive, all wagers are off. Do you understand?”
Tears painted trails through her road-dusted flesh. “I do. It is your life, you must choose of your free will.”
He touched her cheek, brushing away a tear. Unaware of her exposed décolletage, she still breathed heavily. Each breath lifted that interesting red mark into view for but a moment. It was a pattern, yes?
“If I did change…” He trailed a finger down her chin and across the fine silver chain about her neck. “Would you chase after me with this vial of witch’s blood?”
She clutched the vial, which, he noticed, had been refilled. “I don’t want to think of such things.”
“But you may have to. If I become a creature you will want to destroy me to protect others from falling to such a curse. In fact, you must.”
“Please don’t make me choose.”
In other words, Don’t do it, for I will pursue you.
What a match the two of them would make: the vampire and a vampire slayer.
“I’ll try not to, Roxane. I favor you. Hell, to be truthful, I desire you. I want you. I know that I could...”
Love you.
Incessant hope could never completely be set aside. Could a man become addicted to a woman? To rosemary and strawberries and long lingering kisses?
“For some reason it matters very much that you see me in the best light possible. I want you to want me, Roxane. Morbleu, that sounds so needy.”
“It’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Roxane, know that I want to fight this. Because…” He removed the blue spectacles and looked her full in the eyes. “Because I want you to have a chance to love a man, not a beast.”
So he had put it into words. He did want this woman. To see him. To know the real Gabriel Renan.
And who the hell was that? What fool had he become? Madness is yours if you believe this country rustic could ever love you.
She leaned in and kissed him, and all doubt fled Gabriel’s heart.
TWELVE
Gabriel slipped his arms into a damask night robe and sat before the vanity to allow Toussaint to unroll the paisley turban wrapped about his head. Wet hair spilled onto his shoulders releasing the aroma of cinnamon. It felt good to bathe and wash away the re
mnants of Bicêtre. Though parts of the day’s adventure yet clung to his soul. What that poor woman must feel to know her brother suffered so.
He stared into the etched vanity mirror. His eyes were drawn and tired, his downturned mouth pale beneath his moustache. Exhaustion, or perhaps age? Did vampires age? What an elixir of youth they must possess. But at a dreadful price.
He thought of Anjou, dressed in an ancient frock coat. Had it been his own? How long had he walked this earth? Surely the man adjusted to the changing fashions so as not to draw attention? Or did he seek attention for an ancient and wanting heart, as only Gabriel could understand?
He leaned onto his elbows and asked, “Mesmer know of the vampire?”
“Oh yes, I was able to learn a few things. He once staked one, and then escaped a rabid band of minions by forging through the treacherous Carpathian mountains.”
“Really? So stakes are the thing?”
“Yes, and garlic, wild roses, and holy water. It is all true.” Toussaint’s eyes glittered with proud possession of a remarkable knowledge. “Wild roses laid across the coffins of suspected vampires keep them down should they try to rise as a night creature. And garlic repels.”
“Well, that covers the killing part. What of the living? Must a vampire lurk in the shadows? Follow the night?”
“Unnecessary. They are fully capable of moving about during the day, though weaker and more susceptible to defeat. The females rely on the males for sustenance. Call them patrons.”
Gabriel glanced at the blue spectacles. “And their eyes?”
“What about their eyes?”
It was not imagination that his eyes had been light sensitive today. Though why it should matter—he was not a vampire—bothered him. “Never mind. What of their powers, if they have any?”
“Supernatural strength and the ability to enthrall their victims.”
“Enthrall? Hmm… So does Mesmer concur that vampires don’t need to kill?”
“I did not think to ask. Sorry. He doesn’t much favor them. Though he did explain a bit about the witch/vampire relationship. Mademoiselle Desrues’s vial of blood is an excellent deterrent due to the two species being enemies.
“Seems in order to obtain immortality a witch must perform a ritual of blood and fire,” Toussaint explained. “It takes blood provided by an unfortunate vampire. She must drink the warm blood from a vampire’s heart, then offer herself to the flame.”
Their eyes met in the mirror and Toussaint nodded. “You heard correctly. Said blood being ripped from the vampire’s chest leaving him, er…well, dead. The witch then bares herself to the flame and is marked by some goddess. Because the witch’s blood has been tainted through the centuries with vampire blood it seems their blood has become poisonous to the very life that provides them immortality.”
“Like acid,” Gabriel muttered, recalling the horrendous death of the vampire minion. “Has the vampire no recourse against the witch?”
“Oh, indeed. To enthrall a witch will draw away her immortality.”
“Hardly compares to literally exploding to death.”
Toussaint shrugged. “It involves blood sex magic. Mesmer explained.”
Gabriel lifted a brow.
“An enslavement thing involving sex, blood and magic. If you decide to accept the change you might find a way to dispose of Roxane’s little trinket.”
Toussaint’s casual suggestion that he accept the change shuddered up Gabriel’s spine.
Could he do it? He’d had but a few warning pangs so far, accompanied by the sensation that he could actually see and smell the blood of any person, or creature, close by. Surely by now he should be suffering greatly? Did not madness require suffering? Or did one simply wake one morning in a strange and macabre mind?
It made little sense. And yet, what in the past days had made sense? He had almost completely secluded himself from society. There was a young, beautiful, unmarried woman living under the same roof as he. And he’d spent the entire day on a trip to an asylum to stare into the eyes of his future.
What is becoming of you, man? You’ve but a few days to live your life. To mine passion. To step beyond all that has held you back, shivering for fear of addiction, of being discarded and abandoned.
He was not an idiot confined behind bars; his life shone in comparison. Life felt precious. The correct choice could either extend it for an eternity, or cut it abruptly short.
Gabriel did not want to wager on the odds that everything would turn out fine—that he could successfully fight the blood hunger and retain his sanity—for Roxanne had made it apparent such an outcome was not likely.
When you stop floating…you sink.
The look in Damian Desrues’ eyes—the man had known freedom, had made the wrong choice, and now wanted death.
Only a fool would waste his final moments, yes?
A decisive nod reflected at him.
“Toussaint, is the mademoiselle bathing?”
“Yes, I requested the maid make her bath water extra hot because I know the ladies like to linger and soak. Do you wish me to shave you?”
Gabriel turned his head side to side before the mirror. “I don’t think I need it.”
“No, perhaps not. Strange.”
“How long has it been?”
“Since your last shave? Every Wednesday.”
“And today is Sunday. No stubble whatsoever. Hmm…” And still the bite marks had not healed, or even formed a scab. How curious.
“Do you think you are becoming the vampire?”
He glared at Toussaint’s eager reflection. The man’s macabre curiosity would be the death of him.
On the other hand…
Gabriel opened his mouth and Toussaint leaned over his shoulder. Both searched the mirror for pointed or elongated canines and found none.
“Foolishness. I need blood for the change,” he said.
He recalled Roxane’s attempt to stop his aggressive kiss in Gentilly. He had been so close to tasting blood. At that moment, he would have done so without second thought. No regrets. Forge on into the future.
He must not dwell on the unforeseeable future.
Time was precious. Life must be lived.
Decided, he stood and shook his fingers through his wet hair. “I think I will check on our guest, Toussaint.”
Determined strides moved him silently down the hall. Live your life, his conscious hummed. Before it is too late. He may never again have a woman. At least, not in his sane mind.
Roxane pressed the slippery ball of soap to her nose and drew in the heady lavender. Her plan to use Gabriel as bait had proven useless. It was back to deciphering Anjou’s trail. Could she pick up his scent again? Decisive, she nodded.
The door to the guest bedchamber swung open and in marched Gabriel bedecked in striped satin robe and pointed Turkish slippers. A devil-may-care smile curled lazily below his seeking eyes. Whiskey eyes slowly took her in as if to draw her in his thoughts.
She sunk into the bath water, dreadfully aware that the clear water hid nothing from the man who stopped directly above her with a triumphant grin.
“Mademoiselle Desrues.”
“What in hell are you doing?”
He mocked a pout at her abrupt tone. “I wanted to ensure my guest was enjoying herself. See that you had everything you need. You are pleased with the bath?”
“Stand back, will you? Or hand me a towel.” She pressed both palms over her breasts. “You are a cad, Renan.”
“I thought I was a swish?”
He turned and paced away, but remained within a leap of the tub. The cocky bastard.
“I am accustomed to such a sight,” Renan drawled sweetly. “You needn’t be a prude.”
“I am not a prude. Nor am I an exhibitionist. Don’t stare!”
“Why not? If you’ve seen one naked female, you’ve seen them all. Don’t worry, I won’t bite. At least, I don’t believe I will. There is always a chance…”
“S
it!” she demanded.
He plopped onto the wing-backed chair five paces from the tub, lazily dragging up one leg to prop over the padded arm. Dark-haired legs were revealed as his robe parted, so masculine so…bare.
Roxane realized he could be naked beneath the robe. Heat rushed to her bosom and cheeks. The water was not cool enough to bring down the flush. And whenever she blushed it only brought up the telltale mark. She could not risk him seeing the mark. He would have questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.
“It would be better if you would leave.”
“You just commanded I sit. Do you wish me to sit or leave? Sort out your mind, woman.”
“Leave.” From the corner of her eye she saw him consider her request—for but a moment.
“Not a chance.”
Losh! He was making her uncomfortable, and reveling in it. “You are a voyeur! Where is that towel?”
A small hand cloth plopped into the water. She pressed it over her breasts. “What do you want?”
Closing his eyes and pinching the air with his forefingers, Gabriel expressed a fine impatience. “I want to do something.”
“Right now? With…with me?”
“Such as making love?”
How to respond? The situation absolutely screamed for seduction with both of them bare of clothing and she so vulnerable.
