As they watched, the curtain drew back slightly. Marcello stepped through, only to turn and leave his witch lover hidden safely behind. Leandro saw her hand briefly as she followed Marcello’s arm out of the curtain.
“Why don’t you go and greet our old friend, Broderick? It would be rude not to pay our respects whilst in Paris,” Leandro mused, his eyes narrowing in on the curtain. “I should like to get a closer look at this witch.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Don’t take too long, my lord,” Tatiana whispered, following Marcello with her eyes as he stepped into the opening of the private alcove. They were again dressed, looking as if nothing had happened, except for the rosy hue to Tatiana’s flushed features. But, the heat of the club could’ve easily explained that away.
Tatiana’s eyes shyly dipped down when he turned to study her. When she looked back up, she swore she detected a ghost of a smile on his handsome face.
“Stay, bella mia. Here you will be safe,” he promised. He leaned down to brush his lips against her softly before pulling back.
Tatiana moaned lightly, reaching to him for more, but he was already ducking through the curtains. With a dreamy sigh, she patted her cheeks. Seeing one of her gloves still on the floor, she laughed and threaded it on her hand. Her body sung with pleasure and she felt better than she had in a long time. She felt calm.
Lifting the wine bottle, she began to pour. The curtains ruffled behind her, and she smiled. Turning around, she expected to see Marcello coming back to her.
“My lord, back so soon—?”
“Mademoiselle, comment j'ai voulu vous recontrer!”
Tatiana felt herself shiver in apprehension. She gripped the wine bottle in her hand. The Frenchman looked vaguely familiar. His gaze raked boldly over her form. She looked carefully at his face, and then suddenly, she knew. He was the man who had winked at her from the other booth, the man who watched his gentleman friend with the prostitute.
“Sir, I am afraid you have the wrong—” Tatiana tried to speak, but his chuckle of amusement cut her off.
“Ah,” the man said. His accent was thick as he spoke the English words. “You English women are all alike, eh? Always the business first and the love later. So be it, English flower. How much—?”
“Get out,” Tatiana ordered. She didn’t move. The man swayed dangerously on his feet before her, looking as if he was ready to pounce should she try to run past. Marcello had pushed the table during their love play, and now it blocked her only other escape route. She could already tell she wouldn’t be able to overturn the thick wood.
“Ah, how I do enjoy these games, flower.” The man’s laugh grated her nerves, sounding more like a crow’s squawk that a man’s laughter. His hands went to his pants, and he began to undo them. “Come, I can pay you well, eh?”
“Get out,” she croaked, not as forceful as before.
Tatiana tried to brave a step forward but, as she suspected, he moved into her way, refusing to let her pass.
“Monsieur,” she warned. “My lord, the count, will not like this.”
“Don’t worry, chéri.” The man pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it on the table. “I can well afford you. And your count is busy with another woman. He will not be back soon.”
“Marcello?” she whispered, horrified. She didn’t want to believe him. Marcello wouldn’t go to another woman, not now, not after what they just did. Questions raced through her brain. But, then where did he go? Why did he have to leave her alone? He never said where he was going or why, just that he had to go and for her to stay here. Did he send this man to her? Did he think to sell her as a whore to the highest bidder? Is that why she was brought here tonight, dressed up like a doll for his amusement? Did he sell her like a whore? Is that how this disgusting pig of a man knew which alcove was hers? Is that why he didn’t look scared of Marcello’s wrath?
Tatiana felt sick, but she turned it into fire, calling forth all her energy as she gripped the wine bottle and swung it over her head. With a clink, the bottle hit the man across the temple. Red wine ran cool and sticky down her arm, staining her white glove like blood. The man looked dazed, his drunken mind reacting slowly to her rejection. His eyes rolled, and his body crumpled on the floor.
Tatiana gasped in fear, panting wildly for a long moment. Then, propelled into action, she rushed to the curtain, drawing it back slowly. She knew she couldn’t stay by a fallen nobleman, not with the evidence of her attack staining her gloves. Outside, the chaotic world of the Moulin Rouge raged on.
As she left the booth behind, she pulled the curtains shut. She stood for a moment, looking around. Her heart pounded in fear, choking the air from her throat. The dance floor was a circus of pandemonium. Tatiana felt dizzy. Remembering where the door had been, she started for it.
Then, seeing the unconscious gentleman’s friends emerging from their alcove, she decided to switch directions. Her heart pounded as she worked through the crowd. She walked with purpose.
A hand reached out to pinch her backside, and she turned in affront. The man, a harmless little drunk with a long beard and paint covered shirt, lifted his hands and murmured to her in drunken French. His friends clapped him on the back, hauling him back into his seat with ease. Tatiana, seeing a woman flirting with a table and not wanting to draw attention to her escape, tried to smile as she mimicked the woman’s teasing wiggle of the finger. The bearded painter laughed, clutching at his heart as a comrade handed him a glass of the bitter green drink. Their eyes all turned from her to the dance floor.
Tatiana breathed a little easier, trying her best to blend in, but acting as if her steps had purpose. When, in fact, they did. Their sole purpose was to get her out of the music hall with much haste.
Suddenly, she came to a halt. Her face paled dramatically. Her green eyes widened, and she blinked, trying to erase the vision from them.
Marcello was at a nearby table, in the corner, partly hidden by a falling shadow of a curtain. She would know his face anywhere. A petite blonde with painted features sat firmly on his lap, wiggling her backside invitingly against him. The woman’s dress had worked down from her shoulder, baring a plump round breast for all to see. Marcello’s hand cupped her breast, kneading the naked globe in his hand. His long dark hair spilled over her shoulder as he sucked on her neck.
Tatiana couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The pain of seeing him with another woman hit her like a blow to the gut. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t real, and that it didn’t feel like Marcello. But her eyes did not deceive her, for no matter how many times she blinked he was still there.
As if sensing her, Marcello looked up. His eyes filled completely with red, demonic in appearance. Tatiana heard the woman’s lusty laughter, heard her cry of pleasure as Marcello continued to drink and massage. He looked right at her, and he dared to smile against the woman’s throat. A trail of blood made its way from the woman’s neck at his slight movement, running crimson down her collarbone to the valley of her breasts. He wanted her to watch him, wanted her to see. She saw it in his red eyes. Audaciously, he winked at her.
Tatiana gasped, spinning on her heels and running in the other direction. She found herself lost amongst the flinging bodies on the dance floor. She pushed through the women, wanting to be free of the nightmarish dance hall. She hated these women. She hated that Marcello had turned her into one of them. She wanted to faint, throw up, call on her powers in anger. Instead, she wept.
Suddenly, a chill went up the back of her neck, and she stopped amidst a sea of moving skirts. Her eyes shot over the floor, looking around. She could see no one. She glanced over her shoulder. The petite blonde was still in her seat, looking dazed, smiling. Marcello was gone.
Tatiana began to run, desperate for escape. She pushed rudely through the crowd. They didn’t pay any attention to her, continuing what they were doing. She made it across the hall, only feeling mildly molested by the bodies on the crowded floor. When she reached the ent
rance, the man in the checkered waistcoat stood. He tipped his head, watching her with bolder eyes now that Marcello was gone from her side. She nodded her head, as regally as she could manage in her panic, before rushing past.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Broderick,” Marcello stated by way of greeting, coming up against the bar. He turned, sitting down on one of the cushioned stools. The bartender came toward him, but Marcello merely waved his hand. The bartender’s eyes became glassy, and he looked away, not seeing them anymore.
“I don’t favor this hall of music,” Broderick stated. The man sighed, turning his blue eyes to Marcello. His dark brown hair was cut in the height of fashion, and his skin didn’t look as pale as the old vampire next to him. “What brings you to Paris, Marcello?”
“I live here,” Marcello answered. His words were light, but he didn’t completely trust Broderick.
“Ah, I am merely traveling through on my way to meet up with my clan. Heard of this…” Broderick paused. He slowly waved his hand to encompass the club, as he finished, “This club of barbarians and wanted to see for myself.”
“They are bohemians,” Marcello corrected. He liked the music hall. It was his fascination. Well, it had been until he’d met Tatiana. Now she was his fascination, his obsession.
“If you say so,” Broderick laughed. “They are all barbarians to me. So primitive and short-lived.”
Marcello didn’t answer.
“Ah, but I am old, tired. Many of my clan are going into a sopor, hibernating. I have been elected to stay awake, guarding the den. They weary of the new century upon us, and it hasn’t even begun.”
“It is a time of change,” Marcello admitted. He played with the ruby on his finger.
“It has been prophesied that the new era will bring death for all of us,” Broderick said. “A great wave is upon us, a wave of advancement and the death of the old. We, my friend, are the old.”
Broderick turned. He grabbed up a little glass of stout liquor and drank it. Marcello watched in silence.
When he’d finished the drink, Marcello asked him, “Is Leandro journeying with you?”
“No, I travel alone,” Broderick said. His vivid blue gaze looked over to the vampire at his side.
“Have you seen him recently?” Marcello asked. His eyes were dull, almost sad, but he kept his expressions blank, his voice bored.
“Yea, recently,” Broderick answered. He would say no more and Marcello didn’t pry. “Ah, I should go. I travel by train and don’t wish to miss the next one out of Paris. I already grow weary of this city.”
“You must visit if you get back this way,” Marcello offered, knowing Broderick would never take the offer. He preferred to sleep away from other immortals.
“Thank you, my lord,” Broderick said with a bow. “The offer is very kind.”
Broderick’s eyes flashed with golden fire. In an instant, he was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Tatiana ran out of the music hall. Her lungs panted as she tried to catch her breath. The tight corset pressed into her skin, making her feel faint. Or was it the memory of Marcello with another woman that left her faint? The memory spurred her on, and she began to run faster. She caught the blurring lights from the giant windmill overhead and ignored them.
It was late, but the streets were even more crowded with prostitutes and drunken men. Shouts sounded, laughing ensued. It was all chaos in her brain, making her head pound and swim. The sounds stretched and muffled wildly inside her, like a scratchy phonograph she had once heard in London. A familiar sensation washed over her, and she knew what was to come. She was about to have a vision, and there was no way in hell she was going to be able to stop it.
Tatiana panicked. Recognizing the street leading to Marcello’s home, she began to run anew. Her heart beat violently. She vaguely heard a carriage coming up fast behind her. She saw the alley and ran straight for it, not knowing what she would do once she made it below to the pitch-black catacombs. She didn’t want to go back to Marcello’s home. She wanted to run away, far away from him. But this was Paris. She couldn’t speak the language, couldn’t prove her name or station, especially not in the dress she now wore.
Suddenly, a horse neighed loudly, and a shout sounded. Tatiana turned, just in time to see a team of horses about to run her over. The vision loomed closer, blocking everything from her eyes. She froze. Out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands gripped her, and she flew through the air into the alleyway.
Her body landed with a sharp thud, crashing into a warm chest. Instantly, she knew it wasn’t Marcello who held her. The body was too warm and smelled slightly muskier than Marcello’s. She struggled to be free. The man let her go. As she crawled off him, her hand splashed into a puddle. She flinched in horror as the smell of urine wafted up from it. She gagged, instantly pulling on her glove. The vision had subsided in light of their fall.
When she looked at her rescuer, he stood above her. She was stunned to find the most vivid pair of blue eyes she’d ever seen. There was something animalistic to his nature, to the rough stubble on his face. Tatiana pulled off her wet glove and tossed it on the ground. The man held his hand down to her, and she gladly took it.
As their skin touched, the chill that haunted her since the dance floor raced up her skin. She gasped for breath. A vision of the past hit her in the gut. She stared at the man’s face, too afraid to move. No longer did he appear handsome to her. He snarled in anger, his blue eyes churning with liquid gold. Right before the vision took her completely, she uttered in horror, “Esprit Malin! Evil one!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Marcello stretched out his senses, ignoring the unconscious nobleman on the ground. He knew well the man would be taken care of by the owner of the club. Fear leaped in his heart as he wondered what had happened to Tatiana. Feeling Tatiana’s call to him, he stiffened. She was in danger. A coldness hit his flesh, chilling the old vampire to the bone which should’ve been impossible since he was naturally cold.
He sped from the club. Closing his eyes outside the entrance to the Moulin Rouge, Marcello searched for the smell of his marks on Tatiana’s body. He caught her scent and sped with supernatural speed to the alley leading to his home. It didn’t take him long to see her, lying on the pavement, her red dress ruined by mud, her glove discarded. Wisps of her hair had come loose and were strewn lightly over the pavement like rivers of black silk. He heard her heart beating a steady pulse and relaxed to some degree. She was alive.
His eyes scanned the alleyway, but it was empty. He could sense that someone else had been there, but it was too faint of an odor to tell whom. Rushing to Tatiana’s side, he lifted her into his arms. The necklace glittered on her neck, and he knew that a human couldn’t have accosted her. If they had, the necklace would’ve been gone. It could only mean that she’d been accosted by an immortal.
Marcello couldn’t know what had happened. Maybe she wasn’t attacked at all. Maybe she was just running from him, again. His eyes scanned her body for injury and couldn’t see any. Her gown was wet and ripped. Her bodice was torn in such a way that a breast was close to falling out of it and he could see the material of her corset. With one hand, he moved the opening to the catacomb. Holding her tightly in his arms, he climbed down the steep stairs. He managed to maneuver the lid over them once more without letting her go.
Within moments, he whisked her down the black passageways of the catacombs to his home. He did not bother to light the torches, seeing his way easily in the dark. The front door to his home opened by the will of his mind and he rushed Tatiana down the stairs.
“Cesare, a bath,” he yelled, as he crossed the front hall, not bothering to use the mind link in his haste. “Now!”
Marcello rushed Tatiana to the safety of his bedchamber. Only when he moved her draping body before the fire, did he allow himself to feel. Remorse flowed over him as did fear and relief. He urged the fire higher until it burned hotly at her side. He lightly laid her do
wn on the fur rug. Her skin was cold, too cold for a mortal woman. Her lips were edged with blue.
Marcello stripped her of her stockings and shoes, throwing them into a pile behind him. Cesare came in with the tub and, as Marcello worked to get Tatiana out of the red dress, the servant filled the bath with hot water.
“That will be all,” Marcello said as Cesare finished. The servitor bowed, his white eyes not taking in the scene before him. The man quietly left the bedchamber, shutting the door behind him.
Marcello pulled out of his clothes until he too was naked. Then, lifting Tatiana up, he set her before him in the tub. He washed her body with great care, looking for wounds. His fingers couldn’t ignore the soft texture of her flesh as he touched her. The memory of her sweet taste, of her body convulsing around his, was still too new. He wanted her again, always. She stirred lightly but did not wake.
Marcello felt as if his heart was in his stomach. He thought he’d lost her for a moment. Something happened to her that shut her off to him completely. It left him feeling hollow and alone. He squeezed her tighter. He never wanted to feel that way again. For better, and most likely for worse, she was his. She belonged to him. He needed her more than he needed to feed on blood. He knew that now. She was the only thing keeping a dying part of him alive. She was the only thing connecting him to the last thread of his humanity. If he lost her, he would lose that. And then he would truly be what she thought of him, a demon.
When he’d assured himself she was unharmed except for a few minor scrapes and bruises, he lifted her out of the tub, dried her off, and carried her to bed. Stroking back her wet hair, which he combed for her, he whispered to her in his native tongue. His words were soft, calling to her, urging her back to him, trying to lead her mind out of whatever vision kept her trapped.
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