by Anna Lowe
Trembling, she inched forward, holding her makeshift weapon. It took her a solid minute to work up the nerve to peek around the corner of the alley — a minute that felt like an hour. But when she saw Tristan slumped against a wall, alone, she dropped the bottle and rushed to his side.
“Tristan! Tristan?” She crouched beside him, her heart hammering. “Are you all right?”
He mumbled incoherently, and she shook his shoulder. Well, she tried to. But his muscles were the size of boulders — too wide and solid to get her hand around.
“Oh God. Are you all right?”
His lips were chapped, and blood leaked from a dozen wounds. When he stirred and raised his head, images from a zombie movie rushed through her mind, and she half expected to see horrible, bloodshot eyes and a foaming mouth. But, no. His eyes were a clear, startling blue — like the summer sky — and she exhaled.
“Tristan…”
He dipped his head and groaned.
“Police…”
His eyes slid shut, drawing Natalie’s gaze down. So much blood — too much.
“You’ll be okay,” she said, trying to convince herself. “The police will be here soon.”
But Tristan groaned and slid his heels along the ground, trying to stand.
“Wait, you’re hurt.”
He rolled to all fours. “We have to go.”
Still, he stopped and hung his head, too injured to go on.
She wanted to run a hand over his back, but there was blood there, too. The jacket he’d discarded earlier was lying on the ground, and she threw it gingerly over his shoulders.
“Just wait. The police are coming.”
He rocked back to sit on his heels, grimacing. “You want to explain the vampires to the police, or do you want me to?”
She bit her lip. “But your wounds…”
“Will heal.” He extended an arm — a long, muscled arm, like that of an Olympic swimmer. “Help me up. We need to get out of here.”
We. It was the second or third time he’d said it, and the word warmed her. We meant she didn’t have to face this nightmare alone.
As the sirens grew louder, she looped Tristan’s arm over her shoulders and heaved. For one hopeless moment, she didn’t think she could help him off the ground. But her necklace fell free of her shirt and swung between them, glittering with golden light, and she tried again. Tristan scuffled and slowly rose to his feet, where he wobbled uncertainly, staring at the necklace.
Brakes squealed, and car doors thumped. The flash of police lights illuminated the end of the alley with bursts of blue and red.
“That way,” Tristan muttered, tilting his head in the opposite direction.
How Natalie got him all the way to the street, she had no clue. But somehow, she did, half guiding, half dragging him along.
“Metro,” he said through clenched teeth. “Keep an eye out for vampires.”
Which made every shadow loom and every passerby look like a cold-blooded killer. On the other hand, everyone gave her and Tristan a wide berth, as if they were the suspicious ones.
“B line toward Orly,” Tristan murmured as she helped him down the steps to the Metro. “Just a few stops.”
Natalie wanted to protest that lots of stops would be better, but she was too busy getting him through the turnstile — a tricky operation since there wasn’t space for two. Luckily, there was no attendant on duty to stop them, just an older couple who shot her disapproving looks.
“Give me a break,” she muttered.
As far as she knew, vampire was vampire in French, and she was tempted to explain. But they’d just think she was crazy — or worse, drunk, as Tristan appeared with his stumbling step and stooped shoulders. At least the drunk look kept people at arm’s length, and his jacket covered most of his wounds.
“Are you okay?” she whispered, helping him into a corner seat on the train.
He slumped. “Been worse.”
Worse than after a vampire attack? He was kidding, right?
“Where did you get that?” He jutted his chin toward her necklace.
“This?” She cupped the citrine crystal in one hand. “At one of those vendors along the Seine.”
Tristan didn’t look convinced, but then again, he probably wasn’t seeing — or thinking — straight. His chin dipped, and he seemed to drift away again, but when a garbled announcement sounded, his head jerked up. “Next stop is ours.”
Ours. Natalie hesitated. Where was he taking her?
Then it struck her that she was the one taking him, and she relaxed a little. Plus, she was convinced he meant her no harm. His eyes were too sincere, his touch too careful. And heck, he’d saved her from vampires, right?
So she helped him up at the next stop — a feat that seemed even harder than before — and stepped out onto the platform.
“That way,” he said, leaning on her.
A vaulted roof stretched overhead, and the exit seemed miles away. But there was an escalator to street level — thank goodness — and when they exited, Natalie sucked in a lungful of fresh air. A tidy row of trees lined the boulevard, and more swayed gently behind a gated park across the street. She squinted, getting her bearings. The Luxembourg Gardens? Boulevard Saint-Michel? A swanky address, indeed. Did Tristan live there?
“Number 71C,” he mumbled.
Wow. Apparently, he did. Not only that, but 71C turned out to be a gorgeous, century-old building right across from the park. One with a doorman and everything. The gray-haired gent pulled the double doors open and didn’t bat an eye as Tristan staggered in. He didn’t look twice at Natalie either, which gave her pause. Was the doorman that unflappable, or did Tristan regularly stumble in with a lady on his arm?
“Monsieur Chevalier,” the doorman greeted Tristan in a tone that gave nothing away. “Mademoiselle.”
“Merci,” she mumbled, making for the elevator.
Luckily, the doorman helped with that, too, because it was one of those antique elevators you had to pull a gate across and lock down. Gears turned, and the elevator rose with a grinding lurch.
“Bonne nuit,” the doorman called.
Natalie clutched at the handrail. So far, her nuit hadn’t been all too bonne. But unless Tristan took her to a dark, creepy apartment, things could hardly get worse.
Chapter Four
The elevator rattled along, and Natalie fully expected it to break down between floors. But it chugged up and up, taking her all the way to—
The penthouse? She looked Tristan over. Really?
“This is it,” he said, fumbling with the latch.
“Are you sure?”
He didn’t answer, but his key fit the door, and it turned smoothly. There was a second lock, and a third, and he cursed over each. Finally, he pushed the door open with a weary sigh. “Home.”
He said it the way a soldier might after a long tour of duty, and she wondered why. But then she spotted a pair of glittering eyes and jumped back, ready to scream.
“That’s Bijou,” Tristan sighed. “He came with the place.”
Natalie stuck a hand against her thumping heart. A cat. It was just a cat. A slim, black feline who arched and hissed at Tristan. Tristan cursed back in French and weaved down a narrow hallway. Natalie helped him along until they reached a huge, arched doorway, where she couldn’t help but pause.
Wow.
That was the penthouse, all right. A span of four gilded rooms formed the front of the apartment, with floor-to-ceiling windows framing views of the Luxembourg Gardens. She could see the palace, the tidy tulip beds, and even the pool where kids sailed model boats by day. Beyond the park, the lights of Paris stretched in every direction, some in neat rows, others curved. A dark, serpentine line marked the course of the river Seine, and when Tristan leaned left—
“Wow,” she breathed, staring at the Eiffel Tower.
But Tristan nearly toppled over, and she rushed to help him to the next room. All four were connected by wide, graceful archways
, giving the place an open feel. But the apartment echoed with every step she took, and her reflection ghosted through a series of mirrors that reflected the dim light from outside. The bedroom was the last in the row of four, and when they got there, Tristan collapsed onto the unmade sheets of a huge four-poster bed.
Natalie bent over him, wringing her hands. “What should I do? Can I get you something?”
His deep voice was muffled by the sheets. “Nothing. I just need some rest.”
Carefully, she peeled back his jacket, afraid it might stick to his wounds. But any blood on his shirt had already dried, and the gash across his back didn’t look quite as bad as before.
“I should clean the wounds…”
He shook his head, then groaned, and his voice grew fainter. “Don’t do anything. It’ll be fine.”
She bit her fingernail. Should she help or leave him be? What exactly was the protocol for dealing with vampire cuts?
“I could look for some bandages.” She motioned vaguely. There had to be a twenty-four-hour drugstore somewhere, right?
He clutched the sheets. “Not safe out there. Not now. Stay here.”
Staying here meant staying the night, and her heart pounded as she looked around. The tiny place she rented was all the way out in the seventeenth arrondissement, and the thought of traveling across Paris alone terrified her now. On the other hand, she could hardly spend the night with a perfect stranger.
“But your wounds… They won’t make you turn into a vampire, will they?”
He gave a shaky chuckle. “No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” His voice grew weaker with every word. “I promise I’ll explain…tomorrow.”
Natalie stood, totally at a loss. Should she clean his wounds? Run for her life?
She settled for touching his shoulder and murmuring, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Tristan barely dipped his chin. Was that a nod?
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
He flapped a hand as if vampire attacks were an everyday occurrence in his life.
She stepped back. “I’ll be close if you need me.” She cocked her head, and even though Tristan looked out for the count by then, she whispered, “Bonne nuit.”
Something brushed against her leg, and she jumped. But it was only Bijou blinking up at her with huge, green eyes. The cat opened its mouth to meow, revealing laughably thin fangs.
Natalie bent to pet it. “Nice kitty…”
To her surprise, the cat was friendly — to her, if not to Tristan. And boy, was it comforting to run her hands over that soft fur. Soon, the cat’s eyes closed in sheer pleasure, and Tristan’s did in sleep. Natalie crouched, holding her breath, watching him.
Strangely, it all felt very déjà vu. As if she spent every night in a fancy Paris apartment watching a wounded warrior sleep. As if she’d known Tristan for ages and belonged at his side. Watching over him… Watching over Paris, even. She closed her eyes, letting her senses drift away.
And zoom! Just like that, she was flying like a dragon — in her imagination, at least. High in the air, with Paris laid out before her in a dazzling pattern of lights. Swooping over the streets, she would keep a keen eye below. Vampires would take one look at her and flee, and the City of Lights could truly slumber in peace.
She sighed then sniffed. Was it the rose-laced scent of the sheets that seemed so familiar? She could have sworn she recognized the chevron pattern of the hardwood floors and the vines shaped into the fine plaster ceilings. Even Bijou felt like an old friend.
Then a car horn tooted in the street below, and she puffed out a breath, ruffling Bijou’s fur. Who was she kidding? She’d helped an injured stranger home, not moved in with him.
Still, she remained at his side for a good half hour. Watching. Thinking. Wondering. Tristan’s breath was like a metronome, and it eased her ragged nerves to see his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Other than the hum of cars on the street, Paris seemed totally at peace.
Except Bijou, who meowed and stepped away in a hint. Natalie followed the cat through the echoing apartment. The place was stunning, but there wasn’t a stick of furniture apart from the bed at one end and a red velvet couch all the way at the other. No paintings. No carpets. No chairs or tables. It was as if Tristan had just moved in — or was about to move out. She couldn’t tell which.
He came with the place, he’d said of Bijou.
That suggested Tristan had recently moved in, she supposed. But still. So many mysteries remained…
Meow, the cat called, urging her along.
Natalie sighed, tagging along. The only thing that made sense to her was the cat’s name. Bijou — jewel — was fitting, given those luminous eyes that kept turning back to check if she was following him into the kitchen at the back.
Natalie clicked on a light and looked at the empty bowl that stood on a gleaming tile floor. “You hungry, kitty?”
Bijou meowed as if to say, Mais oui — but of course. He wound around her legs, a soft figure over the strict pattern of black-and-white tiles on the floor.
The first cabinet Natalie tried was empty. The second had a single pack of spaghetti. The third held a set of gleaming cutlery — solid silver, from the look of it. The fourth practically overflowed with packages of snack food — mountains of it. Enough to feed a dozen hikers for a week in the woods. At the fourth cabinet—
She smiled. “Jackpot.”
Stacks of aluminum cat food tins filled the entire space. Apparently, Bijou ate better than his master. Or did Tristan dine out?
Natalie grabbed several tins and turned them in the light.
“You want poulet, boeuf, or saumon?”
Bijou meowed.
Whether that meant chicken, beef, or salmon, Natalie wasn’t sure, but she went with chicken, and Bijou gobbled it up. While he did, she ran warm water over a kitchen towel, returned to the central room at the front, and gazed out over the city. Then she tiptoed over to Tristan. The poor guy was out like a light, but he couldn’t be comfortable. So she eased his shoes off and dabbed gently at his injuries with the damp cloth. Every bit of exposed skin was smeared with blood. But once she cleaned that off, his wounds were minimal — or they’d already healed, which was strange. Very strange. On the other hand, her whole evening had been strange. And since he didn’t seem on the brink of death, she left it at that.
Then she paced through the apartment. Every room had a view of the Eiffel Tower, Sacré-Coeur, and the Louvre. Views you saw in postcards but never in real life — not unless you had millions to spend.
She glanced back at Tristan. Had he inherited the place? Was he borrowing it from a friend? And, wait. Did the man patrol Paris every night looking for vampires?
Quietly, she peeked from room to room. The apartment was sparkling clean but totally empty — even the single closet she peeked into. The bathroom could have housed a family of four, but all it contained were the basics for one — a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a shaving kit. No perfume, no second toothbrush, Natalie noted with some satisfaction. Apparently, there wasn’t a woman in Tristan’s life. Not at the moment, at least. Then again, a man like him probably didn’t suffer long dry spells between hot dates with rail-thin, supermodel types. She frowned into a mirror, plucking at her wrinkled shirt and ragged hair.
The entry hallway had a narrow table where he’d thrown his keys beside a jar that gleamed with coins — a miniature treasure trove of copper, silver, and gold.
She wandered the apartment a few more times, wondering what to do. It was late — very late — and since she wasn’t going home…
“Do you mind if I, um…” she whispered, slipping Tristan’s jacket away from where it lay under his arm. Then she covered him with a blanket and stood at the bedside, whispering, “Good night.”
Good night, she imagined Tristan saying, though the silence of the apartment was undisturbed.
Finally, she took his jacket,
walked to the velvet couch at the far end of the apartment, and sank down onto it. The couch was set at ninety degrees to a fireplace — a mirror of the hearth at Tristan’s end — and angled to face the lights of Paris. Natalie lay down and curled up, soaking in the view. The city looked peaceful, but somewhere out there, vampires roamed.
Shivering, she pulled the jacket around her shoulders. It smelled of leather, smoke, whiskey…and Tristan. She snuggled inside it, trying to block out fear so she could sleep.
Moments later, she opened her eyes, sensing someone watching her. But it was just Bijou, gazing up from the floor.
“You want to join me?” she whispered.
Bijou jumped up, landing smoothly in the space between Natalie’s knees and arms. Then he curled up, rearranged his paws and tail just so, and settled in.
Natalie smiled. If only it were that easy to curl up with a friend. Unconsciously, she glanced over at Tristan and all the space in that huge bed. Then she forced her eyes back to the design molded into the plaster ceiling.
Go to sleep. Relax. Tristan wasn’t far, and she was safe. Or so she hoped.
But a short time later, her mind filled with ugly visions. Men with fangs reached for her, calling her name. Tristan groaned, still covered in blood. She watched her own hands fend off vampires and heard her screams filling the night. And those weren’t even nightmares, because she was still awake. Were they visions of the future, or was she imagining things?
She curled up tightly, trying not to shake. Counting seconds, minutes, and what felt like hours. Praying for dawn and salvation. But Olivier’s voice cackled in her nightmares, and she kept nodding off then waking in a cold sweat. Bijou had moved over to the windows and was sitting silhouetted by the lights of Paris, not moving except for precise lashes of his tail. She watched for a while, telling herself he was a sentinel. Eventually, she fell asleep again, and in her dreams, she ran. On and on, running for her life. But no matter how fast she went, she couldn’t outrun the vampire’s voice. The one that kept insisting, You are mine.