Eternally Bound

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Oh, m’lord, yer home is just ‘eavenly! ‘Ey, who’s she?”

  Tatiana froze at the odd sound. That whiny voice of the London slums did not belong in the sanctuary of the French catacombs. She felt Marcello’s presence behind her like a cold chill. He’d been gone when she awoke, cramped and aching on the floor. It was just as well. She hadn’t been in the mood to see him.

  Tatiana slowly rose from the wardrobe where she’d just finished placing the last of Marcello’s clothing into place. The pale blue skirt of the simple gown she’d found in the wardrobe swished slightly as she moved. It was amongst many gowns Marcello had bought for her and by far the most decent of them. It covered most of her chest, all of her arms, and did not push so tightly at her cleavage.

  Tatiana took a deep breath, willing the voice away. She wasn’t so lucky.

  “Mm, a servant,” the whiny voice continued. Tatiana nearly threw up, as the woman again giggled. “I’ve always wanted a servant o’ me own.”

  Tatiana slowly turned, flinching at the giggling that ensued after the woman spoke. Marcello’s eyes were dark as they studied her. He ignored the brassy redhead he’d brought home, as he crossed the floor to where Tatiana stood.

  She tensed as he drew near. His hand lifted, and she trembled, momentarily lost in the depths of his piercing stare. His hand moved past her to the wardrobe, and she knew he went to inspect her work, looking for any excuse to show displeasure in her. She had not given him one.

  Tatiana frowned, hating herself for being disappointed that he did not come to her. The self-hatred didn’t last long as she again saw the prostitute. The woman was eyeing her with a menacing glare, chewing her thick bottom lip stained to the brightest of reds. Her pink and black gown was an awful affair of gaudiness and cheap taste. Tatiana let a small laugh escape her throat, pretending to be unconcerned by the woman’s presence.

  The woman misread Tatiana’s smile and returned one of her own. Tatiana guessed that this woman would have no problem sharing the handsome count as long as she was paid. Seeing the woman’s bold green gaze moving over her body with a look akin to a dog salivating over food, she shivered. No, this woman would definitely have no problem sharing the count with her.

  “I shall leave you, and your lovely guest alone, my lord,” Tatiana stated coolly. The wardrobe door shut with a decisive thud. Tatiana jumped slightly in surprise. Marcello only made such loud noises when he was displeased. Usually, he walked with no more sound than a ghost through the air.

  “No,” he commanded, his voice calm. He walked past her, and Tatiana saw that he’d changed to a long jacket of black silk. It buttoned at his lean waist and flowed open around his breeches when he walked, bellowing out beautifully in the air. The lapels fell open over his white linen shirt and red waistcoat. He looked elegant. His voice lowered into the timbre that sent chills over her spine. “You will stay. My guest may have need of your services.”

  Oh, so that is how you want it, vampire, Tatiana thought, gritting her teeth. Affecting a calm her racing heart did not feel, she stated, “Very well, my lord, as you wish.”

  Marcello’s eyes whipped around to her, searching and cold. Tatiana scratched the back of her head and yawned for good measure. She knew he had not expected her to react with such disinterest.

  “Oh,” the brassy redhead gasped, nearly trembling with excitement. Her round green eyes looked Tatiana over. The prostitute giggled as if she had suddenly been declared Queen of the underground crypts. “I should like some more wine, my lord.”

  Marcello let a smile curl the side of his mouth. His brooding expression stayed intact. His eyes looked almost bored as the turned to Tatiana. “You heard her, baldracca, go fetch my guest some wine.”

  “Bald’acc!” the prostitute with a snorting laugh shouted. “What sort of name is Bald’acc?”

  “Baldracca is what Marcello, sorry,” Tatiana bowed her head piously, though her eyes stayed with the challenge of Marcello’s gaze. “It’s what my lord the count calls all women. For we are all baldracca to him, are we not, my lord?”

  “Oh,” the woman bit her lip again, confused. She eyed Marcello and then Tatiana. “What’s it mean?”

  Tatiana’s lips curled into a smile, daring him to answer the woman. He stayed quiet, just watching her speak as if he waited to see what she would do. She suspected he’d brought the woman here to make her jealous. Damned if it hadn’t worked, but it didn’t mean she had to let him know he’d succeeded.

  “It means we are all lovely flowers—unique, fragrant, just waiting to be plucked,” Tatiana said poetically. Marcello’s eyes darkened, and she wasn’t sure if he was going to shout at her or laugh.

  “Oh, well I like that,” the woman said, her voice a mere purr. She moved against Marcello’s stiff body, curling her fingers onto the arms that were crossed over his chest. She didn’t seem to mind that he didn’t return her affectionate embrace as she began exploring the front of his firm body. And she definitely didn’t mind that Tatiana stayed to watch her.

  Tatiana’s eyes narrowed. His gaze lit with a challenge, a smile curling to the side of his lips. Slowly, he leaned down and placed a kiss on the woman’s lips. The prostitute moaned.

  Tatiana let the side of her lip curl up to match his expression. Not taking her eyes away, she curtseyed deeply as if to royalty. “If you will excuse me, my lord, my lady, I will go and see to the wine. I think something old from Tuscany.”

  The woman giggled, the sound a whiny, high-pitched annoyance. Marcello’s nostrils flared at Tatiana in warning. Tatiana saw the woman grab Marcello’s member, squeezing it boldly. Tatiana walked away, forcing dispassion in every step. As she opened the door, she swore she heard him, in her head, cursing at her in Italian. She pretended she couldn’t hear him.

  Once the door was shut softly behind her, trapping Marcello and his new woman behind the door, Tatiana began to pace. Her heart let loose in her chest until she wanted to destroy everything around her.

  By all that was undead! She was insanely jealous.

  She wanted to scratch out the woman’s eyes who dared to look at him. She wanted to cut off her unworthy hands that dared to touch his chest, his body. She wanted to rip out her throat for daring to talk to him. And she wanted Marcello to suffer her as she did it.

  Tatiana stopped. She wanted to destroy something, something beautiful, something that would make Marcello hurt as she hurt. Her eyes flew around the dining room. She skimmed the curtains, the candelabrum, the sconces on the wall. She eyed the portrait of Marcello above the fireplace. The painted eyes and brooding expression affected her almost as strongly as the vampire. Her body twinged, wanting him even as she hated and cursed him.

  She felt the roots of her hair beginning to tingle and stand on end. It was as if someone stood next to her, touching her shoulder, trying to give her comfort. For a moment, she thought it might be Cesare. She began to turn, needing to hug him, wanting to feel any type of comfort and contact, even if it was from a man who couldn’t see or feel her. She turned and blinked in surprise. No one was there.

  Tatiana let loose a heavy sigh and began rubbing her temples. She was so tired of it all—the unexplainable visions, the strange feelings, her dark attraction to a vampire who could feel nothing but contempt for her. She tried her best to rekindle her anger, fighting the sorrow as best she could.

  As she stared forward, her eyes saw the old wine bottle sitting in its place along the wall. Her eyes narrowed. Her fingers twitched. Glaring at the closed door, unable to see what Marcello was doing with his new woman, she hissed her breath at them. Her mind imagined them thrusting together. She clung to the thought, letting it spur her on.

  With a low growl, she crossed the floor to the old inlet. She reached for the wine bottle, ready to smash the relic into the stone. But, as her fingers curled around the neck of it, she gasped. Her arms pulled the bottle close, hugging it protectively as she fell onto the floor.

&
nbsp; Tatiana panted in shallow breaths. The vibration of the bottle was strong. She tried to drop it, but her fingers were frozen. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, drawn to the dark portrait of Marcello. As if watching a play, she saw the portrait move to look at her. She tried to scream, but her throat was tight, and all she could manage was a painful whimper.

  Slowly, his pale features filled with life. The brooding of his expression melted into a boyish smile of grace and utter beauty. She felt his youth, his life. Her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears. She heard the faint laughter of a voice in her head, so carefree, so light, so...so human.

  “No,” she croaked, closing her eyes to it, not wanting to feel the rush of emotion coming from the past. But instead of the relief of black beneath her lids, she saw a tall vista standing boldly within the mountains. As if she blinked, she saw a garden full of life, of beautiful young ladies of the gentry and handsome young men of refinement.

  She was like the wind, gently flowing past them, ruffling their skirts, round with thick petticoats, and decorated with ruche and pleated silk. The dress bodices were stiff and flat. Some of the women waved fans, some walked with stiff movements through the crowd, bobbing their heads adorned with tiny caps.

  Both the men and women wore wigs, with thick curls like two sausages held tightly to the head above the ears. The men carried walking canes instead of fans, leisurely swinging them back and forth, tapping them on the toes of their soft leather shoes. The tight fit of their breeches only extended to their knees and their calves were fitted with fine silk stockings.

  The laughter and talk played like a song in Tatiana’s head, with the old music of violins in the background. She felt the gaiety of the day, the warmth of the Italian sun. Suddenly, her body stopped drifting, and she felt herself collecting as if to materialize and stand on the rough stone. She looked forward, seeing the people around her fade like ghosts, translucent and pale, misty.

  In the garden lounging on a bench was Marcello. His long, dark blue coat with braided trim hung open with a practiced carelessness. His waistcoat was buttoned high, as was the fashion of the time, and was made of the palest of creams. Even as a human, he’d been well put together. He looked different in his wig, but he was still breathtakingly handsome. He spoke to a group of friends, all young and striking men of such an age and station as to be flirtatious and carefree. They were the type of men who always drew the eye at a party, always fluttered the heart of women young and old.

  Tatiana walked to him, drawn to do so. She wanted to touch him to see if he was real. His handsome face pressed up into a bright smile. He was untroubled, young, stunning. His dark gaze roamed about the garden, and he motioned at a group of ladies. When he spoke, his voice unhampered with the burden time would bring to it, the words sent a chill over her.

  Tatiana wanted to touch his face, to see what he would feel like with his tanned flesh warmed from the sun, prickled with just a hint of a shadowed beard. She reached for him as he tilted his head back in laughter. Her hand whispered over his cheek, falling through him, unable to detect more than a passing stillness. Marcello jolted slightly. His friends laughed at him. He smiled a wide smile, said something to make them laugh harder, and swatted the air by his face as if to be rid of a pest.

  Tatiana stumbled back from him, aching. She had no idea what this vision of the past was. Like all her visions, she had no idea what she was to do with it, what she was to learn from it. Perhaps she was being punished. Perhaps this was her curse for sleeping with the devil. Perhaps this was just another way for Marcello to torment her.

  Tatiana tried to leave, feeling the rush of the crowd around her as she moved, but she couldn’t escape. She detected Marcello walking toward her. His coat was now red, but his waistcoat nearly the same. She froze as he walked right through her.

  Tatiana gasped, opening her eyes. She trembled before the portrait of the vampire above her. It was as it should be, dark and brooding. She shook violently, trying to push up. She felt a hand on her arm, helping her. Thinking it again to be Cesare, she began to turn and mumble her thanks.

  Tatiana nearly screamed in fright, but her voice didn’t make it past her constricted throat. It was Alice on her arm, gripping her with translucent hands, holding on tight. Tatiana was too terrified to shake her off, so she sat still, frozen.

  “Run,” Alice’s voice whispered, though her lips did not move. Her wide blue eyes shone out in fear. The image of Alice faded, as if it had never been there, and Tatiana’s arm was released.

  Tatiana gulped, shuddering. Slowly, she crawled across the stone floor, clutching the old wine bottle protectively to her chest. She placed the bottle back in its spot, leaving it unharmed, and swore she would never touch it again.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Marcello pulled away from the annoying prostitute in disgust without bothering to touch her as Tatiana shut the door to his bedroom. His eyes burned with liquid fire. He glared after Tatiana. How dare she?

  Suddenly, he stopped, cruelly mocking himself for the thought. How dare she what? How dare she not be interested in the fact he was with another woman? How dare she not be bothered by the idea of him taking another woman to his bed? How dare she not be jealous? What had he expected? It wasn’t like she had tender feelings for him.

  “Is she yer wife, m’lord?” the brassy redhead asked. A frown was on her parted lips.

  Marcello turned his cold, dispassionate eyes to her. The woman came forward, lightly stroking his arm. She looked him over in appreciation.

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been used to make a frigid wife jealous, m’lord,” the woman said, her accent strong. “And it’s not the first time it didn’t work.”

  Marcello barely moved as she spoke. Suddenly, the prostitute was too unbearable. He’d picked her absently out of a crowd, hoping to make Tatiana envious. He should’ve known it wouldn’t work. Staring at the woman now, he only had one more use for her, and it wasn’t to sate the arousal Tatiana stirred in him.

  Marcello lifted his hand to stroke the woman’s painted cheek. To the outside world she looked young, beautiful, but Marcello saw more. She was so ugly, worn beneath her caking of powder and rouge. His eyes drifted to her stained lips, so unnatural. He smelled the overuse of her body, the dried sweat of her trade.

  The woman dreamily smiled up at him. Marcello’s gaze shifted, edging with green as he mesmerized her to him. His finger lightly pressed her cheek, and she instantly turned to offer her neck to him. He watched the artery beneath her skin, seeing the pulse beat in a beckoning rhythm.

  His mouth opened out of habit. He needed to feed. The hunger was beginning to bite at him. The prostitute made soft noises as his lips touched her heated skin. He bit, and she gasped, instantly moaning as if she climaxed in his arms. She began to pant. Marcello drank fast, leaving her head weak. Suddenly, he pulled back, hating himself, his desire for blood.

  The woman saw the red in his eyes that he didn’t hide. She saw his fangs and began to scream in terror. She lifted her hand to her neck where he’d touched her. Her shaking fingers came away covered in blood.

  Marcello let her scream. No one outside the catacombs would hear her. She stumbled, feeling faint. Her legs made a wide arch as she tried to rush past him to the bedroom door. She fumbled with the handle.

  Marcello lifted his elegant hand and motioned. The door flew open at his command. The prostitute gasped in horror but did not stop to consider it as she ran through.

  The count walked slowly behind her, like a stalking beast. The dining room was empty as she stumbled past. He frowned, his senses ignoring the potent smell of her fear. He searched for Tatiana.

  “Cesare,” Marcello yelled.

  The man instantly appeared in the curtained entryway, bowing low. The prostitute screamed again, high-pitched and piercing, when she saw the servitor’s milky white eyes. Marcello frowned in annoyance and waved his hand at her. The woman fell back, hitting her head against the brick wall and
falling unconscious to the ground. Marcello knew she still lived. He could tell by the beating of her heart.

  “Take her back,” he growled as he passed Cesare. The servitor nodded and went to gather the fallen woman into his arms. He lifted her dispassionately over his shoulder as if she were just another chore to be done.

  Marcello hurried into the front hall. In his anger, the candles lit with a passionate fire as he passed by them. His body flew through the passageway, smelling the remnants of a burnt torch. But, more potent, was the smell of Tatiana. He ran, looking desperately for her.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tatiana didn’t know where she was going when she emerged from the tunnels beneath the catacombs. But, as she wiggled through the little space she’d managed to create in the heavy blockade over the entrance, she was stunned. She never expected to make it as far as she had.

  Tatiana was again in Montmartre, close to the Moulin Rouge. She heard the loud celebration raging in the distance. Morning had to be close upon them if not a mere hour away. If she could last until sunrise, she’d have a better chance at escape. She frowned, glaring down the tunnel. Marcello might not even notice she’d left him, not with the things he was probably doing with the prostitute. Able to picture it vividly, she winced. It strengthened her resolve.

  The torch glowed on the bottom of the catacomb floor. She had to leave it, unable to climb her way out and carry it at the same time. Besides, once outside, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by carrying a large flame above her head like a beacon.