by Michele Hauf
What else had Roxane protected him from for naught? Protecting him as a means to rescue her brother.
He strode past Anjou, his path for home.
I want to help my brother. Only the vampire can do that.
A decision came to him in the final strides that took him up the stairs to his house and down the mirrored hallway past Roxane’s room. Tonight he would take control of his own destiny.
Half an hour after the vicomte had stridden out of the Place de Greve those living in the apartments that bordered the execution square were woken from restful sleep by the sudden and joyous outburst, “Six hundred and seventy two!”
SIXTEEN
A violent stitch ignited in Gabriel’s side as he dashed toward the house. Swaying, he landed sprawled before the door, cringing against the peculiar sensation. Blood pounded in his ears and veins. It moved through his body as if fire, stabbing from within, swinging at him with Satan’s spiked mace.
The stone step, cold and moist from evening dew, ground into his forehead. He’d fallen in the center of the chalk hex mark. Pawing at his jabot he managed to loosen what had become a choking hold of Alençon lace. Morbleu, but he’d never wear the stuff again. Croaking out a gasp, he tugged at the ties and opened his shirt wide. He shrugged off his frockcoat from one arm, but another spasm rocked him. Slapping his palms on the stone he closed his eyes tight against the pain.
Not the madness. I do not want that. I cannot. I will not. I will…
…take the blood!
And when he opened his eyes and breathed out a heavy exhale the world grew silent. Overhead, the sooted drain spouts dripped moisture. The moon moved steadily to her zenith. Still, and now pain free, he stared at the chalk design beneath his palms. His struggles had marred the white patterns. Squinting to study the design, he wondered: Similar to the pattern on Roxane’s breasts? Curious. She had crossed this threshold many a time. A witch could not— Not that he gave any credence to Toussaint’s silly ravings.
He touched a line of the hex mark. It had been there so long it had become as if paint on the stone. No shock of repulsion, nor did he feel like cringing and scampering off. The symbol had no power over him. It merely served a means to comfort a superstitious soul.
Above him loomed his nemesis.
“You think a little pain is going to defeat me?” he spat at the wide white moon.
Another spasm coiled his belly tight, twisting his innards until finally a shriek of surrender escaped.
“Very well,” he huffed, defeated. “Very fucking well.”
He could endure the pain. But…did he want to?
You think you are so miserable? You haven’t begun to scratch the surface of life.
No, he had not. And now? Was there time to begin?
A vampire? Him?
“Everyone expects me to be bad. To be the rake. To make the wrong choices.”
He turned and sat, his back against the door. He wanted time. He wanted…life. He wanted to help Damian Desrues.
Should he?
“Aux grands maux les grands remedies,” he whispered. To desperate evils, desperate remedies.
“Vampirism is a deliciously bad choice.”
But he could not forget that Anjou had labeled it an addiction. He did not want what his parents had.
You can have love.
How he desired love, attention.
Just…see me, he thought. I don’t want to stand in the shadows. Life as a night creature would pound the cruelest nail to his desires.
Though Roxane had said vampires could walk in the daylight.
Roxane. Celadon and strawberries and cream. He wanted her to be happy. Yet she could not rise above sadness so long as Damian remained locked up. Gabriel could not guess if Roxane’s plan to have her brother re-bitten would be successful. But it made a strange sort of sense.
An acute flare of pain in his breast burned as if a poker withdrawn from his heart. Growls curdled in his throat, but he did not care, in fact he howled like a wild beast, feeding his courage the demand to continue.
This night he would seize Fate by the throat, crack it in two, and suck out the blood.
Standing, he kicked open the front door and strode inside.
“Renan?” Toussaint stood on the bottom stair, silver candle snuffer in hand and a wisp of smoke curling out from its bell-shaped head. Panic widened his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing at all.” He shrugged the frockcoat from his shoulder and let it fall at his feet. Kicking it aside, he raked his fingers through his hair and strode forward. He needed sustenance. He needed—to take control of his life. “Where is she?”
Toussaint stepped aside to allow him a wide berth. The valet shook the frockcoat and sorted through the inner pockets. “Your stake? It is gone.”
“Dropped it,” he called down as he made way up the stairs. Then a thought occurred. The valet should be elsewhere. He turned back and approached Toussaint.
“The fishing net as well?”
“Too damned frustrating,” he replied. Taking the coat and tossing it over his arm, Gabriel draped the other arm around Toussaint’s shoulder. “She is home?”
“Yes, but—”
“Marvelous. I’ve a favor to ask of you, Toussaint. It needs to be done immediately, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Inside the office a lacquered set of drawers held the business papers for the estate. He pulled open a drawer and drew out the key to his money box.
“Take two thousand livres from the safe and carry it to Monsieur LaLoux tonight.”
“But—”
“No protests. You’ll find him at the Palais Royale—”
“It is well after midnight!”
“I know for a fact the gambling den in the dungeon is open into the wee morning hours. The whores arrive and depart as if it is their own private boudoir.”
“Why the urgency? You’ve owed Monsieur LaLoux for months. I thought you’d decided the Dutch investment wasn’t sound?”
Gabriel shrugged and gifted Toussaint with a genial smile. “I have decided to put my affairs in order. There is not much time left.”
“Don’t say things like that. Can’t this wait until morning?”
He smirked at the valet’s resistance. “Like it or not, Toussaint, I may have mere hours before things drastically change.”
“The moon is nearly full. By tomorrow night for sure. You will succeed!”
“Success has no definition for me. Survival is more important. Now go. I will not abide your returning until Monsieur LaLoux holds the coin in his hand.”
Toussaint stared at the key in Gabriel’s palm. “That is a very lot of coin to travel the streets—”
“I trust you will be safe.”
“What of you, Renan?”
He hooked his hands at his hips. “I know you worry for me, Toussaint; there is no need. Whatever should come of my morbid situation, I am prepared.”
“Y-you are?”
“I am.” And he spoke the truth. Every fiber of his being felt it. His conversation with Anjou had introduced a new perspective. “Be on to the task, Toussaint. Do not set foot in this house until I am two thousand livres poorer, understand?”
Toussaint nodded, and with a sigh, began to count out coin.
Gabriel spun to catch a palm against the wall by the stairs. He closed his eyes, fighting the blaze of hunger that rippled through his heart. Clutching his chest he clenched his teeth. His heart? What an odd place for the sensation. And yet, where else should the craving for blood birth?
He could smell her. To the right and four long strides down the hall. Her scent teased as if he’d opened a perfume bottle beneath his nose.
Biting the inside of his cheek, he redirected the pain. But the scent of blood sweetened his decision. He wanted more. And he would have it.
The front door closed and Gabriel did not wait for the click of Toussaint’s heels down the steps. He strode down the hallway and spied the light
in the music room.
Moonlight flooded the room, illuminating it with a magical white glow. A stage set, waiting for prancing actors.
The audience would not be bored this night.
Roxane had commandeered a candle and lay sprawled across the red velvet divan, a heavy volume of Diderot’s Encyclopedia open on her lap. So intent in the book, she did not look up to acknowledge his presence.
Perturbed, he bit back a demand. See me.
Quieted by the eerie lighting, he strolled forward, noting moonlight splashed the pianoforte, the violin, the crystal candelabra centre of the arched ceiling. He scanned the darkened perimeter of the room for faces, the audience. Did anyone see him?
They will love you.
Mischievousness sprung loose, and he landed gracefully at the end of the divan, settling upon the hem of Roxane’s green skirt. She did not move. And so he leaned forward. Her peripheral vision could not disregard him.
“I am jealous.”
“Of what?” she said. A delicious smile tickled her soft pink mouth. She saw him.
“The moonlight romances you,” he said. “You have never looked more gorgeous than now.” Perhaps it was that moonlight flooded his senses, teasing him with its power. “La Luna beautifies you and only torments me.” He stared across the expanse of marble glittering beneath his feet. A sigh opened the emotion so oft fettered. “I am concerned, Roxane.”
“How so?”
“With the fact this madness you claim will be mine has yet to even tickle my senses. Are you so sure of yourself? What proof have you beyond your brother? Might he have been a lark? Perhaps the madness had been lurking in Damian’s soul for ages?”
“How dare you!”
“And with the vampire’s bite it was released?” He turned and placing a knee between her legs hovered over her, pinning her from struggling free. The book slid to the floor. Blood coursed through his system, firing his vigor and emboldening his manner. “Perhaps you want what the vampire can give you? Everlasting life. Is that what you want from me, my pretty country rustic?”
“Gabriel, you are mad!”
He caught her wrist. “You are the mad one, woman.”
“You are hurting me! Please,” she managed. Her bare foot slid along his leg, the fine silk hose would not allow her purchase.
He tightened his grip on her wrist. The pain distorting her face fascinated him. Intention drew his study to her mouth, tight and slightly parted.
“You tremble, lover. Is it me you fear?”
She shook her head negatively, but gasped when he squeezed her wrist. The sound of her pain—small and contained—intrigued. He drew closer, lingering but a kiss from her face. Pants hushed across his chin, his nose. Her eyes flickered between his. He could feel her heartbeats racing madly in the palm of his hand. The scent of life—so frightened—shimmered upon his tongue.
“Gabriel…”
Gripping her other wrist, he pinned them both high over her head upon the arm of the divan.
“You give that damned book more regard than you do me. You did not even lift your head when I entered the room. Why is that?”
“I assumed it was Toussaint,” she gasped. “Forgive me—”
“You were in your comfort,” he spat.
“No. I—Gabriel, please!”
The volume of her shriek snapped a twig inside his brain. Wrong. Pain. No.
He released her wrists and pushed up. Turning and pacing he scrubbed fingers over his scalp, fighting at the inner call to leap, to simply…succumb.
Distance yourself. Avoid yet another woman’s comfort.
His pace echoed across the marble floor. Passing the pianoforte, he pounded his fist upon the surface, setting the blue violin to a teeter and a boxy metallic chord vibrating into the moonlit air. Absently sliding his palm along the sensuous line of the massive instrument, he moved around the curved end, leering at the woman who clutched her wrist. A leap would place him upon her.
A bite would make her his.
He turned and pressed his forehead to the lacquered pianoforte. It felt as though tears poured from his eyes, but he could not cry. He had never cried. He did not know how. Tears never won attention; he had learned that early on.
The soft schush of satin brushed his calf. A gentle touch slid down his arm and traced the top of his palm.
Why did she care? Why did she not run from the room, abandoning him to his misery?
Why was this woman so difficult to expel to the ranks of his miserable past?
“Don’t tell me it is because of the moon that I rage,” he said, his head still down.
“Will you let me hold you?”
She was blind to the beast inside him. Thank God.
Surrendering an overwhelming need to pour out his pain, Gabriel lifted himself from the pianoforte, and going to his knees before Roxane, pressed the side of his face to her belly. Rosemary and a trace of cinnamon. Already she belonged to his soul, like a favorite scent that he ever relied on for security. He wrapped his arms about her hips and clung like a man lashed to the mast in a storm. He pressed against her body, wanting to step inside the woman and lose himself.
And he began to shake, his shoulders trembling and his body hiccupping as he cried a tearless storm into her embrace.
She did not say a word. She did not coo or whisper soft reassurances, as a loving mother should. Not that Gabriel would know the mien of a loving mother; he could only guess. Instead she stood there, tall, straight, her hands upon his shoulders, accepting his pain. Without question.
And for that moment he did not scent the cloying odor of temptation, nor did he gauge the beats of life pulsing her veins. He merely was. And the feeling, so different, so unique to his history, lightened him.
She did not want to use him for her own gain. She wanted to save another man who desperately needed that help. And only a vampire could provide the catalyst.
This woman is nothing like you have ever known.
Nor would he know anything like her again. He mustn’t lose her.
“Forgive my accusation. You would never ignore me for your comfort. It is just that I am accustomed to the like.”
“Tell me about it, Gabriel.” Her hand stroked his forehead, soothing. “Release it. Is it your parents?”
He nuzzled into her skirts. A sigh released memories. “They called it their comfort. The result of eating opium. The high that sailed them to the clouds, and then nestled them in a languorous reverie. Cecile and Juin-Marie were addicted. Nothing in the world mattered, save their precious comfort. Not even their son.”
Roxane’s fingers strode softly over his forehead and he turned his face into her palm. Safe here.
“She tried, my mother. In this very room. She would recline on that daybed, so oblivious—as you were just now. The opium took hold quickly, capturing her no matter my attempts to win her attention.”
“The violin?” she whispered.
He nodded. “I used to imagine, as I played, that the smile on mother’s lips was for my music. I possess the keen ability to fool myself into believing most anything.”
“I am sure they loved you.”
“Yes. So much so, that they left me. Abandoned for the quest. They could no longer remain in Paris, for father had insulted the king. Far as I know they are in the Americas, lost somewhere in the dregs of their comfort.”
“How old were you?”
“Old enough. I had returned from the Grand Tour. You may think I should have been capable of seeing to myself. Hell, they left me a fortune gained from the sale of opium overseas. That is why I try to every day give it away. Impossible though. The Renan name is spat upon in respectable circles. No one of import will associate with me, not even for my parents’ money. The salons I attend as Leo? Outcasts and former courtiers who have fallen from grace, yet still live for the fantasy of acceptance.”
Pressing his cheek against her stomach he held her endlessly. To have spilled it so quickly, and neatly, shocked and
surprised. Was it so easy as that to release the past?
But that day, the last day he’d ever looked into his mother’s eyes, was not easily put into words. How long had he stood before the closed door following his parents’ cold and final retreat? Stiff and stunned, he could precisely recall the tightness of his fists, balled at his thighs, as he stared at the door.
“Adieu, my son,” Juin-Marie had said, then kissed him on the forehead.
Adieu. Go with God. A final parting.
When Toussaint had finally roused him from his frozen state, Gabriel had literally fallen into the valet’s arms and allowed him to walk him upstairs to his bed chamber. He had not heard from either since. He did not care. Did he?
“Roxane, I have to ask you something.”
“Gabriel, I—”
“I want to know, I need to know—Can you love me?”
“What?”
Levering up by the pianoforte, he cupped her chin in his palm. “I must know.”
“Well, I…oh.”
He swept his tongue across her lips, tasting red wine. From the Renan private vintage, bottled deep in the lush valleys of Provence. He could taste the raspberries that had pushed up from the soil before grapevines had ever been planted in the field. The earth, rich and moist, and the spring rain that plundered the hard grape buds and the sun that sweetened and ripened them to a fat, rich fruit.
But the wine did not come close to the taste of Roxane’s blood. It could not.
You put them in a thrall. It is a mind thing…
He must know.
