By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories)

by Christine Blackthorn

  Her eyes tracked upwards on the large, elegant building with its neo-classical columns and the hidden touches of playful Rococo. Three hundred years ago it had been purpose built for the vampire court of Paris, its elegant simplicity in intentional contrast to the human court, which had established itself in the exile of Versailles. The paranormal court’s then modest look had been an intentional slap at the human king who had to leave the field to the paranormal Lord after the accord of Poitiers. Jen had always thought it ironic that the young Louis XIV, who had had to hand his capital over to the reign of the paranormal courts in order to keep his nation from disintegrating into bankruptcy and rebellion, had gone on to become the most powerful European king in human history. She would have loved to meet that man, was almost certain she would have liked him. To pick yourself up and make the best of what you are given, showing all you could prosper where others thought you would fail, that was a characteristic she could admire. It was still the same paranormal Lord who held sway in this building three hundred years later.

  Her steps sounded loud in the deserted foyer, bare of any sentient presence. If not for the distinct signs of recent inhabitation, the running computer at the front desk, the untidy stack of magazines on the little table by the armchairs, the scent of perfume and coffee, she might have thought the building abandoned. A chill travelled up her spine and she halted to take a deep breath. Something was wrong here, something was seriously off in this court. Even at her own … no, she needed to stop thinking of it that way. The court of Tirana was not her home anymore. The thought hurt, but everything had for so long now, the instinctive defence of hiding behind walls of disinterest and dispassion, came easy. Even Fabian’s court, a young court, bustled with activity at this time of the night.

  Here, however, her breath echoed loudly under the high vaulted ceiling of the entrance hall. For a moment she felt disoriented, her eyes skimming the opulent gold fretwork, the deep colours of the tapestries displaying a level of luxury and wealth matched by few courts, not even Justitiana’s. Before her the two graceful staircases curved towards the arch of the first floor, their light wood in harmony with the intarsia of the floor below her. She had expected stone, granite and marble, instead the wooden curves and beams harked back to a time far older than the lavishness of the furnishings, or the lines of the facade.

  Out of the cold February wind she could feel the uncomfortable heat under her skin. Whoever had set the thermostat on this building had seriously overestimated the necessary power of the furnace. To distract herself she let her hand caress the smooth surface of a cabinet, admiring the artist’s representation of a mythical picnic complete with fauns chasing centaurs inlaid in the wood, when the quick staccato of hurried footsteps reached her ears.

  “I am so sorry, Miss Ashbourne, I was held up by an urgent matter and therefore am inexcusably late to greet you. I am Julien Rousseau, Lord Adrian’s Second. Welcome to the court of Paris.”

  Jen turned to her right, facing the man striding towards her from the eastern hallway. He was tall, almost gaunt, his brown hair and almond shaped eyes making a striking image. His presence also made her grumpy. She had not expected to be greeted by the Lord of the court in his entrance hall, or at all, but being greeted by his Second was almost as bad without giving her the right to be annoyed. Where was her right to rage against the arrogance of the Lord if he sent his Second, a position she herself had held in Tirana, though there were mountains of difference between the two courts and the standing the two positions conveyed on their owner, to greet her?

  She was tired and cranky, grimy as one only ever felt after twenty-three hours travel and a night spent curled up on a train seat. The back of her shirt was sticking to her spine, the ten minutes with her emergency makeup she had smuggled into her pocket, even though she had been told not to bring anything, had done little to cover the grey tiredness on her features and underneath the scent of Chanel No5, she feared a vampire would be able to smell her less than fresh skin. She wanted to be annoyed. In her state of physical and mental uneasiness she wanted the outlet to rage against the Lord’s arrogance and was deprived of that relief by the mere presence of his Second greeting her will all appearance of politeness and respect.

  Fortunately, Rousseau provided her with the perfect excuse to get angry with his next sentence.

  “The Lord is expecting you. If you would please follow me to his study.”

  He turned without waiting for an answer and she could not help glaring at his retreating back. Her nails left red, little half-circles in her palms and she had to remember to unclench her fists. Jen did not feel the pain, not now. She had managed to divorce herself from her sensations, was taking the step away from her emotions. She needed it in order to function, in order to keep her mind operating with some illusion of rationality, especially here. It might be why she could not hate Fabian. Somewhere in her mind she found the pain of Fabian’s action almost salutary. She had not thought she could still feel that much pain and not get lost. She also had not thought she could still be insulted — or annoyed.

  Julien Rousseau remained oblivious to her glare at his back, or at least pretended to be. She knew better, of course. He would be aware, not only of her tensed muscles, but of the sweat sheen on her skin, the speed of her breathing, even the tiredness weighing down her limbs. He was vampire, one of the ultimate predators, these perceptions would be a matter of course to his superior senses without him even having to try. She hated knowing it, hated the loss of the little dignity she had in this farce. It was like resenting a snake’s ability to read its surrounding by the vibrations in the sand; and still she resented it.

  She wanted a shower, a bed and, could have lived entirely without the dubious honour of meeting the Lord and Master today, or tomorrow, or even next week. Ten seconds ago she had wanted to be angry about his arrogance of not meeting her; now, she would have been happy with simply being assigned a nondescript duty by an underling. From the way Rousseau strode off, in the secure knowledge she would follow him, indicated quite clearly she would not be getting her wish. With a sigh she followed him.

  Through antechambers covered in blue velvet, along passages decorated with ivory and mahogany, under the eyes of long dead masters, they wandered through a court building seemingly deserted in its entirety. At one point she thought she might have heard the shuffle of feet, but the sound disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The silence was becoming oppressive.

  “This court is very quiet.”

  There was something guarded, something hidden in the look he threw her. Worse, there was something quietly amused. The automatic superiority of the powerful, and he was powerful in order to act as the Second of this court, or something more? She could not decide, his answer not providing any true illumination to her question either.

  “Only today, Mademoiselle. Most are occupied in preparation of the celebration taking place tomorrow.”

  “You celebrate Valentine’s Day with a court holiday?” She knew the traditional court festivities differed across the countries, and even among courts within the same nation, and it seemed strangely appropriate for Valentine’s Day, the day of courtly love, to be celebrated grandly in France. Though, for a vampire, Valentine’s Day had a more mystical, a darker meaning too.

  “Tomorrow, we will celebrate.” Now there was open satisfaction in his tone.

  Something seemed off to her in his answer, an evasion she could not quite grasp, but as they had come to the end of their journey she ignored her suspicion, attributed it to her rusty grasp of French and prepared to meet the Court’s Lord and Master.

  They had reached a small room, opulent as the rest of the house had been, but its luxury had an atmosphere of waiting, of cooled heels. There was only one exit from it, across from the archway they had entered through. She knew it must be the Lord’s study behind that door. It made her hands slick with sweat. There was no way to hide the coffee stain on her jeans, or to smooth the wrinkles in her shirt, no
matter how much she pulled on the seam. Jen tried to calm herself in the knowledge it was his own fault — he had demanded her immediate presence; he had been the one to insist, out of some medieval Lord of the Manor sentiment, she leave behind all her possessions. It did not help. She was just vain enough, just woman enough, to cringe in mortification under the state she found herself in.

  Her unhappy thoughts had distracted her for a moment so that she was surprised by the small wicker basket appearing in her field of vision. She looked a question at her guide.

  “The Lord asks you to hand over all jewellery and other personal items on your body before entering his chambers.”

  Her face must have shown the incredulity, the absolute incomprehension at the edict, for he gave the little basket a gentle shake as if to make sure she understood he expected her to divest herself of her earrings, necklace, presumably phone, keys and wallet into it. Anger rose hot and fast.

  “Would you like me to leave my clothes out here too?” Sarcasm might only be second to wit, but it was the best defence she could muster at the moment.

  “That won’t be necessary. His Lordship did not leave any orders regarding your clothing.”

  He seemed absolutely unflappable, merely holding out the basket for her perusal as if he would be willing to wait a decade for her to drop her belongings into it. And he might be, for all she knew. She was the only one with a limited lifespan here. Her anger broke on that wall of quiet calm. Where was the point? She might not have seen one single person on their way here but he was perfectly capable of subduing her on his own were she to resist — and he would be in his rights to do so. Her fealty contract lasted for another three months.

  With slow, deliberate movements she pulled her thin wallet, her phone and the keys she would never need again from her pocket to drop them into the basket. Her necklace, her earrings, her bracelet followed. Her only hesitation came over the small amber ring on her right hand, the only piece of jewellery with any sentimental value. It had been a present from Fabian to her eighteenth birthday, its stone reminding him of her eyes when she laughed, or so he had said. She had never taken it off. There was a strange irony in taking it off now, here, for the first time. She dropped it into the basket with a sense of finality.

  Her gaze rose to his, the challenge in them unhidden. It was easy to identify the emotion in his as their eyes locked. It was pity.

  “We will keep them safe for you, Mademoiselle.”

  Jen knew his voice was designed to soothe her, to reassure, but it left her cold. She was too tired, too hurt, and too familiar with the cold detachment of emotional despair for it to touch her. She remained silent as he opened the door and indicated for her to precede him inside. What was there left to say?

  Taken

  The room she entered surprised her, whereas the man behind the desk did not. Jen expected to meet the Lord of Paris, and her liege for the next three months, in his public study - or possibly another of the official court rooms used for public functions in the normal course of days. This chamber was something more intimate, more relaxed and visibly more lived in. It was a place to work unobserved and undisturbed, a place to relax and, if not outright remove himself, distance himself from the official side of court life. The room also held the clear stamp of the man before her in every piece of furniture, every clean shape, every bold fabric. He was not a stranger to her, even if she would not have called him a friend either.

  Though, entering, it was not the man who drew her attention, or at least not the reality of him. It was the painting. Larger than life it hung over the desk, the first impression any visitor would receive upon entering the room and the only part the occupant, seated behind the desk, rarely ever saw from his official position. The composition of the painting was typical for the time, it was the subjects that were arresting. A boy of around eleven, in the frills and lace of the early seventeenth century, his hand firmly wrapped around the pudgy fist of a toddler. The younger child might have modelled for cherubim in cathedrals everywhere, eyes forget-me-not blue, huge in their simple trust of the world, and golden locks to frame a fine-boned face. But it was the older who had captured her attention, the young face already showing the shadow of the man he would become. The dark locks were without powder, the green eyes screamed a challenge to the world, the unshakable confidence in his power to gain all, to win all, in every line, in every inch. It would have been arrogant without compare if not for the smile, warmth and humour, a promise of grace in victory. She could see him take the world and she could see the world loving it. She doubted even enemies would have been able to resist that smile.

  The man moving towards her, rising from his position at the desk below the image, had the same dark hair, the same green eyes, the same smile. But whilst she fell in love with that child a little, the man she distrusted with all her heart. Few managed to grow to adulthood, definitely did not rise to the level of a Vampire Lord, without learning the ruthlessness that could leave the weaker broken under their feet. Jen did not intend to be one of those bodies on the ground.

  She bowed as etiquette dictated, and met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, a challenge of her own. It was impossible not to let her eyes flicker between painting and man, to search out the commonalities and the differences.

  “A vanity.”

  He said it with a half-smile, self-depreciation in his tone, even a hint of embarrassment underlying the words. She expected him to lower his eyes bashfully, stroke his hand in an absentminded fashion over his head, just to make the farce complete. For it was nothing but a farce, absolute codswallop.

  “Vanity would not be the word I would have chosen. How about love?” Her gaze flickered back to the painting, then returned to the man. “Who are they? Your brothers?”

  Jen answered the challenge she was not sure he was aware he had set her. It might simply have been habit on his part, though it had been a test of a kind without doubt. An appreciative smile stretched the wide mouth, with lips just a shade less full than the child’s, a shade less bowed.

  “My sons, now long dead.” She heard the wistful memory, the yearning and the acceptance in that sentence but he left her no space to react to it before he continued. “You have no idea how many people fail to look close enough.”

  She could have made a comment on the difference in the shape of the mouth, the ears — but she was honest enough to tell him what had alerted her long before she had looked at the image in more detail.

  “You are not that kind of man.”

  “Vain?” The amusement was now plain in his tone. It had a sharp edge. A more cautious personality type would have been careful not to cut herself on that edge.

  “Oh, no doubt you are vain — but not self-involved enough. And I think you enjoy testing, and mocking, your visitors.”

  His grin was open and wide, no trace of challenge or disdain left. It was the most dangerous smile she had ever seen, it lit his eyes and left her breathless, wrapped in a warm coat of laughter and shared intimacy. A deceptive familiarity, one better not depended upon.

  Suddenly she could not stand the heat pressing on her. This room seemed to be even warmer than the entrance hall, or the train. Her coat felt oppressive, the soft fabric of her shirt abrasive against her skin. Jen squirmed, feeling as if hot needles were attached to the inside of her clothes, pricking her skin with every breath she took. She wanted it gone, wanted to scratch her skin until she had removed all the prickling, all the stinging. She wanted a cold shower. She wanted to be away from here

  She must have moved, a sound escaping her lips, for he asked, worry evident in his voice:

  “Are you feeling all right, Jennifer?”

  He was one of the few people who, having met her first as a child, still used her full name, Jennifer, rather than the more common diminutive, Jen. His French accent turned the harsh sounds of the English vowels into something softer, something closer to the old form of Genevieve. She loved the sound and, for a moment, she was too caught
up in listening to the disappearing notes to comprehend the meaning of his question.

  Then her rational mind caught up with her. Why was he asking if she was feeling all right? On second thought, how was she feeling? The question gave her pause. She had been hot, almost feverish for hours now, days really, if one counted the waves of heat coming and going over the last week or so. Jen had been so tense, so concentrated on her anger, her pain, she had only vaguely allowed herself to feel the rising ache in her head, tremors travelling along her skin, shaking her body in small, almost imperceptible quakes. She was so used to the constant mental discomfort of overload, she had ignored the other pains. But thinking about it now, she had to admit that no, she was not all right. What she had attributed to her emotional state, to the awareness of the power of the man she had been given to against her will, had truly been physical in nature. She felt sick.

  “No, I don’t think I am quite all right.” Now that she had become aware of her own indisposition, had allowed her body’s reactions to imprint on her mind and not pushed them down as a nuisance with her usual ruthless determination, she suddenly felt faint, weak and shaking.

  “I think I might have to lie down a little.” Jen had never heard her own voice tremble before.

  She almost missed the quick move with which he stepped closer, reached for her. In confusion, she stumbled back, afraid his touch would shatter the calm she tried to preserve with all her strength. Her skin felt fragile, like spiderwebs vibrating under the rising wind. She knew her mind would not be able to filter out the all consuming force of sensation. She took a breath, exhaled and took another. Concentrating on the air travelling through her lungs gave her a small measure of control, enough to make her realise she needed to get to somewhere private, somewhere alone, to settle her mind.