Bete Noire

by Christina Moore

  He opened his mouth across the base of her neck and bit down hard, driving his teeth deep into her flesh. The little vampire cried out, tossing her head back, and writhed under him, not really trying to get away. She could, if she wanted really to, but she allowed herself to be violated under his wanton attentions. The falsity of her struggles only made him want to devour her more, body and blood. His fingers searched deeper, stroking with purpose as her labored breaths turned into moans. Teeth ground harder, angry and confused as to why her skin wouldn’t break, spilling forth what he longed for.

  Then, the little vampire spoke. Was that a name she just whispered? What did she just call him?

  “Tristan...”

  My name?

  Panic shot through Tristan and he gasped, releasing his hold on her neck and backpedaled until he hit the opposite wall. Wide-eyed and puffing for air he stared at Ash through a stream of cooling water. The back of her neck had faint teeth marks that were disappearing as he watched. Slowly she turned. Her face was clear of emotion, the mask she always wore to hide her true feelings. She licked her lips in a nervous gesture and took a small step towards him.

  “No!” He tossed a hand up. “Don’t—the fuck was—Just stay away from me.”

  Ash stopped and looked to him, expression still carefully neutral.

  “Wha—what was that?” he whispered. “What’s happening to me?”

  Ash frowned, her pale brows pinching, and reached out to him.

  “Please,” he said, lifting a hand to hide his face and his shame, “go.”

  The sound of bare feet against tile sounded away from him and he slipped to the floor, face in hands. Oh god. What happened just now? He—he felt like someone else. Something inside just snapped, switched off. Or on, as it was. He wanted her blood. Vampire blood. He could smell it, feel it flowing through her lithe little body. But more than that, he could feel her. The presence, life force, whatever you wanted to call it, that made her vampire. It was tangible, touchable. He felt as if he could reach out to that part of him that was wholly inhuman, the Uruwashi in him, and use it to grab ahold of her essence. And she would be his as a scion was to their Master. He could make her do whatever he wanted and she wouldn’t be able to say no. He had wanted her to give herself up to him in body and blood.

  That same essence he felt in Ash, he realized he felt in himself. There was no doubt about it now, the Uruwashi in him tasted of vampire. Yuki was right, he was part vampire. But what happened to bring on this sudden change in the way he’d been for the past twenty-four years? Only two months passed since he discovered who he was. Besides the knowledge of what he was or the possibly of what he could be if bitten, nothing has changed. Well, except for the fact that he’s added one more thing to the list of deplorable acts he’s committed since his parents died—he hunted and killed a man. Just because the asshole had been dead for nearly six-hundred years didn’t mean Tristan still didn’t take his life. And yet, in the end, he felt no regret in killing Malik. Was all of this his slow transformation into becoming a monster? Or did that princess actually have the gall do something to him while he was sleeping? Shit, who was he kidding, she didn’t know how to not poke at things. Dammit all, he was actually going to have to talk to her again.

  First things, first—deal with current events. This time though, it was his turn to apologize. He sighed heavily, thinking of what he was going to say as he finished his shower. He dressed quickly, barely drying off, and went out to the main room. “Hey Ash, I’m—” He stopped and looked around. The apartment was empty.

  “Shit,” he sighed and went to the kitchen. There he found a note from Ash. It said simply, “Good night” and nothing more. Angry with himself for attacking her like that, he tossed the note away and slammed a hand down on the countertop. This was the first time she’d gone out without him since moving in. Maybe, for once, she was going to fill her craving for blood by feeding from a real live person instead of those mixed drinks she got from her pythia contact. He drove her to this, he chased her away.

  He stretched out across the counter, face pressed to the cold laminate. He supposed it was better this way, they didn’t need to be around each other, in that moment or ever again. They were both just bombs waiting to go off. What was he thinking, hoping to have anything more with a vampire than the need to kill it? They may not have been meant to be together, but he didn’t want to kill Ash. Now was as good a time as any to get out. It was time they went their separate ways. He knew this, but could he really do it?

  4: Hands Around My Throat

  TRISTAN’S special friend visiting tonight was someone he quite possibly hated even more than Lucien—and he was going to kill Lucien. So as he stared at the bulky Scotsman, looking smug as ever standing in his foyer, he wondered why he didn’t just say fuck them all and go off to France on his own. Or better yet, back home to the States. Why was Lucien really his problem? Yuki was probably lying about the whole thing just to satisfy her stupid pride.

  The first time Tristan met Desmond was at Yuki’s home the night Ash took him to see Princess Crazy herself. Desmond was rude, arrogant and had his hands all over Ash. It was pretty fucking clear what sort of relationship they had. Ash confirmed it rather bluntly later, to his surprise. Tristan had to wonder if he just had to assume that Ash had slept with every vampire he’d met. Guess it didn’t matter anymore, she never came back last night after running away from Tristan and his super Uruwashi creepiness. He didn’t blame her one bit. He was a total asshole. Still, he’d hoped to be able to say good bye properly, make peace.

  Tristan listened, impatiently, while Desmond explained how Yuki, being the princess that she was, owned the private plane that would take him to Paris. Yuki had also gone as far as packing a trunk full of weapons, ordering a car for travel between the airport and hotel and renting a large private suite in an upscale hotel. She covered everything. All he had to do grab his bag and go. Now.

  “Everything es ready fur yew and Asta,” Desmond said in his thick accent. He was so damn hard to comprehend sometimes. Did he think anyone could actually understand him? It was like he had goldfish in there, fighting each other to the death and his tongue was their arena. Thankfully, he was done and now he could leave.

  “Yeah, it’s just me, mate,” Tristan said mocking the Scotsman’s accent terribly.

  “Oh aye? Wee tiff wit our lass, then?”

  Tristan only stared at the big guy. Desmond was tall, only an inch or two shorter than Tristan’s six-three, and big, at least twice as bulky as the American. He was the Hulk, less the green. But Tristan wasn’t afraid of the vampire. Stupid? Sure, but he couldn’t be afraid of someone who didn’t take anything seriously.

  Desmond gave a little sneer around his smile, stepping into Tristan. Tristan refused to give ground. “Dinnae ken, mate… we’d be ‘specially afraid of someone like that. Never ken when they micht go aff their heid.”

  “Yeah, like what, make a piñata out of my bed she—”

  Tristan couldn’t remember how it happened, but he was airborne, flying across the apartment. He didn’t have far to travel before slamming into the front door. His head smacked against the metal, sending spots across his vision. He slipped to the floor, disorientated and half blind.

  His vision cleared enough that he got a glimpse of pale flesh and crystal green eyes. He had only a moment to try to stand before the vampire was on him again. Tristan was too slow as a laugh rank with blood wafted across his face. Unbidden, Tristan’s stomach clenched at the scent, telling him he was hungry. A huge fist balled into the front of his shirt and he was yanked to his feet.

  His head swam and he groaned, pushing at the immoveable force of Desmond’s tree-trunk arms. The vampire grinned and pulled back his arm, hand balled up. Tristan gasped and jerked his head to the side only just missing taking a fist to his face that put a big dent in his metal apartment door. He swallowed hard, thankful that he avoided the blow. If that had hit him it’d have been lights out. May
be for good.

  Desmond laughed at the frantic thought and Tristan retaliated. He jabbed his right hand straight up into the hand fisted in his shirt, knocking it away. Feeling a little too overconfident at his small victory, he laughed and hit the floor, rolling away. He ended up in the kitchen on one knee, the other foot planted, ready to push up. Desmond dove and slammed into his chest. He cried out as the breath left him in a long gasp. His back hit the front of the refrigerator and he felt it give under their weight. Another dent for his landlord to bitch over.

  Steel fingers clamped around his neck and started to squeeze. His mouth opened for a gasp but there was no air to be had. Frantic for a breath, he looked around for something, anything to hit the big vampire with. There was nothing in sight, unless you counted shoes as a weapon. He was going to die and he wouldn’t even know why.

  He knew he couldn’t save himself from a monster more than three times his strength, but that didn’t stop the rage. Anger, hot and instant, filled him. He wasn’t going to let this asshole kill him. He’d seen too much, been through too much the past year of his life to roll over and die now.

  Who does this prick think he is? Fuck him!

  Desmond’s expression lit up and he laughed, spitting in Tristan’s face, fingers tightening. Tristan’s vision clouded, quickly becoming lost to him. His lungs burned with the need for fresh air. If he didn’t breathe soon, then he never would. He reached up and found the edge of a drawer over his right shoulder. He struggled to find the opening and when he finally did, he pulled too hard. The drawer shot out and broke apart as it crashed down next to pair, spilling all of the contents across the kitchen floor.

  Tristan fumbled blind for a weapon. At that point, he would have been happy with a spoon if it was enough to carve the vampire’s eyes out. Something cold and sharp cut into the tender flesh of his fingertips, drawing blood. They both smelled the fresh blood, but only one of them was fazed by it as Desmond’s grip faltered. Tristan groaned, feeling the strain on his vocal cords and ran his hand down the sharp metal until he found the roundness of a handle. He would have sighed in relief if he could.

  His arm felt like putty as he lifted it over his shoulder, knife in hand. Unsure of where he would hit, he drove the small blade down into vampire flesh. Desmond, having been distracted by the delicious smelling blood scrawled across the floor didn’t sense the attack in time. The blade sunk deep into the crook of his neck, cut the nerves of the arm he had at Tristan’s throat. The useless limb let go of the American and Tristan gasped in his first breath of fresh air.

  Desmond wouldn’t give him time to recover though and he knew the vampire wouldn’t. Desmond reached for him with his good arm, the other unable to repair itself fully with the knife cutting off his nerves. Tristan smacked his palm hard on the end of the knife and drove it in deep to the hilt. Desmond’s expression went as angry as Tristan’d ever seen the man as he screamed in a language that wasn’t English.

  Tristan kicked out with both legs, landing a solid, hard blow to Desmond’s chest. The big guy rocked back on his knees and Tristan lunged forward, tackling the vampire. He drove a knee into Desmond’s stomach, pulling a low grunt from him as he grabbed the knife and yanked it out, sending a stream of blood arcing to splatter the kitchen ceiling with red. Desmond groaned and reached for him again, going for his neck. The vampire wasn’t fast enough for once as Tristan dominated him. With his legs trapped under him at a bad angle, even with vampiric speed, Desmond couldn’t move away fast enough and Tristan pinned him, the bloody knife pressed to the front of his exposed throat.

  “Tag motherfucker,” Tristan said, his voice low and scratchy from being squeezed on. Desmond glared up at him, angry as shit as he started to wiggle his good arm out from under Tristan. He’d had enough though and pushed on the knife, drawing blood. “Back the fuck down already or I’ll fucking kill you just like I killed Malik—chopped his fucking head right off.” Granted, that was a joint effort, but Desmond didn’t need to know that.

  Desmond froze, blinking green eyes up at him as he processed his words. Finally, he grinned, his normal carefree amusement filling his expression. “Aye. Yew did guid… fur a human.”

  “That’s Uruwashi to you, pal.” He regretted saying it the moment it left his tongue.

  Desmond’s expression screwed up. “Whut?”

  There was a small noise to his right and the two flinched, looking up. Ash was standing inside the front door, watching wide-eyed. She was still in the clothes she had on yesterday. Tristan couldn’t believe she was there, he didn’t think she’d be coming back.

  “How long have you been watching?”

  She opened her mouth and took a step back. “I—well, only a moment.”

  Desmond laughed under him. Tristan looked down, giving him his own dirty look and the vampire roared louder. Pissed the fuck off, Tristan dropped the knife, letting it clatter to the floor and swung a fist into Desmond’s face. The vampire didn’t even bother trying to turn away, taking the blow to his nose. Even as his own blood poured into his mouth, Desmond continued laughed.

  “Dick,” Tristan hissed, shaking his hand. That really fucking hurt, but it was so worth it. The thought to kill the McBastard anyway, despite what the Snow Princess thought of it, had occurred to him. “Hey and thanks,” he said, looking to Ash as he stood. “You could have helped, just a little.”

  Feeling the sting of his snide words, Ash crossed her arms under her chest and gave him a dirty look. “You appeared to be doing just fine from what I saw.”

  “Aye,” Desmond drawled as he shifted to sit. “That he did. Goin’ against us, hand-tae-hand.” The vampire’s expression darkened and when he spoke again, his accent had softened to something considerably more understandable. “No human could have lasted that long against me.”

  Tristan had to stifle a sudden shiver at the look Desmond was giving him, like he was some sort of circus side show exhibit.

  “What are you?”

  “Shishō has not told you?” Ash asked before Tristan could in a less than polite manner.

  Desmond turned and glared at her. He didn’t like being left out of the know. This gave Tristan a petty satisfaction. But then, he was distracted by something he hadn’t noticed before. The vampire was standing very close to him, covered in his own blood. The cut and bloody nose he gave Desmond had healed already, but Tristan’s own fingers still wept with a slow trickle. But what bothered him was what he felt, inside. This close, he could feel the cold burn of his blood warning him of vampire, only this felt different from Ash, like Desmond had his own flavor, his own signature. Was it like this before?

  Desmond heard a little of his thoughts and turned, smiling in a way Tristan didn’t like. “Oi, boy.”

  Already injured, fingers throbbing, throat burning, Tristan knew better than rising to the challenge and kept his fat mouth shut. See, he did learn. Sometimes.

  “Master, she want tae ken if anything interesting happened yesterday… After she left.”

  Ash made a small noise of surprise and Desmond grinned harder. More devious than usual.

  “I... what?” Tristan let out a long breath, not happy. “Son of bitch...” Did Yuki mess with him before he woke up? What though, he could only guess. One thing was for sure, whatever it was, he wouldn’t have agreed to it if she actually asked. God, he knew her sudden appearance wasn’t a good thing. Guess he knew why now.

  Ash’s tone was angry as she asked, “What did she do?”

  Like she really cared.

  The look Ash gave Tristan on the wake of the thought was full of hurt.

  Desmond grinned, dark and secretive, his green eyes lighting up. “Whut dae we bloody look like tae yew then, a sodding journalist? Have tae ask Master.”

  “For a vampire you fucking suck at lying. Tell your Master that I’m not here for her personal amusement. I’m not a god dammed guinea pig.”

  “Tell her yur fooking self.” He turned to leave but stopped when Ash blocked the
way. “We can move yew. Your choice, lass.”

  “Tell me what she did to him,” Ash said. “I will not ask nicely again.”

  Desmond glanced back at Tristan, scowling at the others, and then sighed, turning back to go to the sink. He took a minute to wash off the blood that took too long to flake from his face and neck. He shut off the water and rested his hands on the side of the sink, leaning over it.

  “I don’t know,” Desmond answered in Japanese. His thick Scottish accent was back and when mixed with the native language, sounded like a whole new language in itself. Tristan was starting to pick up more words, thanks to Yuki, but didn’t understand enough to make out a whole sentences yet. “I don’t know” was only one word in Japanese and he knew that one well enough.

  “That es the truth.” Desmond turned to look at her, his clear green eyes serious and sad. “Do yew really—why are yew protecting that?”

  Ash straightened. “He can protect himself just fine.”

  Tristan smirked, looking smug. “Damned right I can.”

  Desmond didn’t even look at Tristan, just pushed right on past him, eyes fixed on Ash. He stopped close to her and leaned in, whispering something in Japanese, too low and quick for Tristan to pick up any of the words.

  Ash stepped back, her expression stern as she answered simply, “Yes.”

  “Bloody stupid if yew asked us, lass.”

  “No one asked.”

  Desmond gave her a small, crooked grin. “Aye. Right then, we’ll be aff.” He went to the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “Keep an eye on the wee lass, eh? Dinnae let that fooking psychopath touch her again or yew and me will have a few words… sharp words. Yew understand me, mate?”