Out of a generous mood, he’d spared the last blood drinker—but no. The truth was even simpler. His mercy was a message, and the message was clear:
Let them know that I live. Let them know that I am as powerful and as ruthless as they ever feared I would be. May they never interfere in my affairs again.
They landed on top of one of the towers of Grace Cathedral, close enough to Marianne’s lair in Pacific Heights.
This time, Marianne held him longer after they touched the ground. As she glided away from his strong arms, Eirik’s hands touched hers—if only for a few seconds. His gaze locked on hers, and a genuine spark ignited between them in a moment that seemed to last an eternity. When she moved back, the spell was broken, and Time ran its course as normal.
Eirik stood on the verge of the tower. The firmness of his preternatural body steadied him enough to resist the cold lashing winds. Hundreds of lights flickered in the distance, and a heavy mist rose from the sea, threatening to swallow the city within minutes.
He slipped his hands into his jeans pockets; otherwise, he’d hold her tight and seal her lips with a dark passionate kiss. More than a century had passed since he’d experienced such happiness. His heart had awaken from its long stupor, and it was all because of her.
“This is a nice view,” Eirik said, staring at the horizon.
Marianne joined him. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “Your lair’s terrace has a much better view.”
Eirik gave her a short laugh. “Let me be clear,” he said, facing her. “This is a nice view, whereas the one you’ve mentioned is magnificent.
“It is the same with us, you see. There are those blood drinkers whom I would deem as nice—pretty, interesting now and then, but lacking substance and therefore, not worth studying for long.
“But then there are others, a rare deviation of our Kin. These are prone to greatness and deserve all the privileges our Gift of Darkness entails because they hold the world in their preternatural hands—sometimes without even realizing it. These are the magnificent ones. They are precious, rarely found amongst our brethren, which is why they are unique.
“And this is why I wished to meet you, Marianne. You are magnificent. Within you lies the potential for greatness, I recognized it as soon as I saw you.
“It was this that brought me to you—not boredom, you realize, for I do not seek entertainment. I seek a companion, one who’s willing to plunge into the depths of eternity by my side.”
Marianne’s delicate lips parted, but no sound came through. It took her a few minutes to collect her thoughts and speak.
“But you barely even know me…” she whispered, confused.
“Don’t be so sure about that,” he said. “I’ve known you for quite a while… This meeting has only confirmed what I knew to be true.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
“I don’t expect you to say anything—at least, not now.” He paused. “Please understand it’s up to you to know me and decide whether you accept my offer.”
“I can do that…” she whispered.
“I’m glad we’ve finally met,” he confessed, stepping an inch closer to her.
Marianne blushed and remained silent.
Eirik moved even closer, close enough to get away with his whims and steal a kiss off her crimson lips. His hand smoothed on her jawline as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“I’ll… see you soon,” he whispered. And taking one last look at her, Eirik Bjorn disappeared.
Mal d’amour
Three hundred years had passed since Ivan had received a Deveraux witch in his lair, and as fate would have it, history repeated itself tonight when he brought Cassandra to Villa Belle Vedere. What else could he do—leave her in Deveraux Hall, where the perpetrators of this crime might have returned? Ivan’s lair was sacrosanct, there was no better place to shelter a Deveraux witch.
Antoine had remained inseparable from her from the moment he’d laid her on the guest-room’s bed. He’d refused to hunt or sleep until Cassandra’s mother arrived. Fortunately, Ivan expected Denise within a couple of hours, so he wouldn’t have to endure this romantic nonsense a minute longer than that.
He peered into the room, and sure enough, there he was. Antoine knelt by her bedside, her hand pressed between his, whispering words of comfort in her ear.
“You’ll grow mad locked in here,” Ivan said, stepping into the room. “Do you want her to wake up to discover in you not only a vampire, but a famished one?” He pressed his shoulder. “Come on, Antoine. You must eat something and get some fresh air—some fresh clothes wouldn’t be so bad either.” He sniggered.
Ivan’s words finally sunk in, and Antoine turned away from Cassandra. “I guess you’re right…” he said. “I’ll take a quick bath and then I’ll hunt something—someone, I mean.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Ivan said. “Rest assured, Cassandra will be safe.”
On their way through the foyer, Ivan threw his arm over Antoine’s shoulders. “I’d normally advise against hunting in our own neighborhood but—there’s an old biking road just across the lawn, did you know? Lots of tourists there.”
Pale and exhausted, Antoine smirked. Without saying a word, he went through the deck, towards the gardens, following Ivan’s suggestion. Ivan stopped by the sliding glass doors, watching him walk away until he disappeared in the distance.
“Mal d'amour…” Lovesickness, he said, heaving a heavy sigh. Had he ever been sick with love? Of course he had. No matter how much he tried to bury those memories, Alisa’s troubles did everything to stir them back into his heart.
“That wasn’t love…” he mused, smoothing his fingers over the piano’s lid. “That was utter foolishness.”
Ivan sat on the bench and slid his fingers over the keys. Although he’d practiced enough during his mortal days, Alisa was the true musician of them both. For decades, she excelled at playing the virginalis, later on, the clavecin, and he was sure she must have conquered the pianoforte by now.
“I will find you, Alisa…” he said. “And when I do, I’ll let you go, once and for all.”
He pressed one key, and an imminent cascade of notes followed, and Ravel’s Pavane Pour Une Infante Défunte echoed in the hall. The song brought back fond memories of his years with Denise, quieting the turmoil of his heart for a moment.
Denise had been sixteen when they’d last met. Impassioned by the desire to trace her own destiny, she had defied the Deveraux’s conservative traditions by running away with her then boyfriend, André Reynaud. It didn’t help her case that she did so while being pregnant with Cassandra.
Dissuading Denise from her plans had been an impossible feat. And on her last night at Deveraux Manor, they extended their farewells. Nothing will ever change between us, Ivan, she had told him. I’m having a baby—that’s all.
But that was not all. Denise had moved far away from the Deveraux’s reach, she cut all ties with the family to raise a family of her own. A few years later, she married André. And though Ivan had kept a close watch over her during those first years of her voluntary exile, he never once interfered. Her happiness was all that mattered—and for a while, she was genuinely happy. Decades later, André filed for divorce and Denise was devastated. But by that time, Ivan already lived in Belvedere Island. Soon, he learned that André would be moving to America and that her eldest daughter—Cassandra—would be joining him as they installed their new home in none other than San Francisco.
It was meant to be. Fate had given Ivan another chance to make things right with the Deveraux’s. And now Cassandra was here, cursed by some low-life witch, and Ivan had failed the Deveraux’s one more time.
The Devil in high heels walked into his home. She stood in the foyer, leaning against the wall, listening as he played.
Antoine entered the living room. He closed the sliding glass doors behind him. The Hunt had restored the brightness to his dark brown eyes. He returned with rosy lips and
blushing cheeks, and even the hint of a malicious smile which made him so damn appealing.
“You sure look glamorous, Marianne,” Antoine said with a sultry voice, his senses still thrilled by the kill. “What’s the occasion?”
Ivan hadn’t even noticed her attire. She wore a dark blue sequined short dress—but was that glamorous? He wasn’t so sure.
Marianne blushed. “Oh, I’ve got this thing…” she said, fiddling her fingers around a lock of her hair. “It’s nothing, really. I just came to get my purse…”
“Phillip can never know about Michael.”
Interesting how Marianne’s thoughts betrayed her. Ivan caught them without even looking.
Ivan couldn’t help but smirk. He lived for this kind of games.
“And, who is this Michael?” Ivan sent her the question in silence and patiently waited for her reaction.
The sudden shattering of her poise confirmed it, Marianne had listened to his every word. Her widened eyes filled with dread and turned their gaze directly at him. Hmmm… this called for a more suitable melody. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata fitted the bill quite well.
This time, he scanned through her mind with merciless curiosity, picking from it every shred of information that suited his interests.
“Not Michael Reese—the singer?” Ivan added in the same silent voice, giving her a look of disapproval.
Marianne pursed her red lips, all but scowling as she sent her reply. “None of your business.” She grabbed her purse and went to the door, fast.
“Hey, Marianne…” Antoine said. “Be good… But if you’re bad, call me.” He winked.
Marianne smiled as much as she could, given the circumstances.
It was not so much as fun as it was disturbing to discover Marianne’s secret affair with that mortal rockstar. It would be a terrible blow for Phillip, and Ivan had no intention of delivering such upsetting news to his fledgling.
Closing that door behind her gave Marianne immediate relief. Shutting her eyes as she leaned against the door, she sighed. Wretched Ivan and his games—just how much information had he stolen from her mind?
Marianne felt rotten enough about seeing Michael behind Phillip’s back, but this was bad.
“Is everything all right, sweetheart?” He peered behind one of the front porch’s pillars, a hand in his jeans pocket, a lit cigarette in the other.
Thank heavens that being his maker Phillip wasn’t able to hear the mess that went on in her mind. Warm and loving, Phillip always had a kind word for her—she owed him her preternatural life, for Chrissakes.
How can you do this to him? That’s it—I’m ending it tonight with Michael.
Phillip put out the cigarette and moved towards her. He must have noticed her distress.
“Will you sit with me for a while before you leave?” he asked with the most charming smile at the end.
Gripping her arms, she nodded.
As they sat together on the front porch’s steps, like a pair of school kids, Marianne remained silent.
Phillip sniggered. “Do you remember when we first met?”
Marianne couldn’t help but smile. She had listened to this story coming from Phillip’s mouth time and time again, and she loved it more each time he told it.
“It was a rainy afternoon…” she said, quoting the beginning of this tale.
“I found you reading by the library’s bay window, and you were the most beautiful creature I had ever seen with my preternatural eyes…” He leaned closer, touching her brow with his. Phillip’s pupils widened when their eyes met.
“You were soaking wet,” she added, “standing in the middle of the library… I offered you my blanket.” Marianne blushed. “How naive was I?”
“Marianne…” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her jawline. “You were dying—slowly, painfully so. And still, your one worry in that moment was comforting me.”
“You looked so sad,” she said.
“I was sad and hurting. But all of that went away the minute I laid eyes on you.” He smiled. “You made me remember that nothing in this world can ever be so terrible—not for us vampires.”
Marianne knew where this was going.
“And I feel it’s now my turn to remind you of this…” He held her in a loving embrace. “There is nothing left to fear to those who are fear itself incarnate. Whatever troubles your heart, know that it’s never final. There are no endings for us immortal beings.”
As Marianne pursed her lips, she tasted her salty tears. She surrendered to the warmth of Phillip’s arms and the soft scent of his cologne—this was home. Was this love?
Though blessed with a youthful appearance, Phillip sailed into his eighth mortal decade, and she no longer was the girl of eighteen that had fallen head over heels for him. Her feelings had grown so much since that time although she hardly understood them now.
“I think I’m falling in love with you, Phillip Blackwell…” Marianne kissed his cheek. Phillip raised his brow, apparently pleased, and surprised as well.
A pair of headlights appeared in the driveway. Time to go. The chauffeur got out of the limousine and stood by the gate. Both of them got on their feet.
“Phillip, I—”
“Marianne,” he said, holding her hand. “Please, know this: I understand that you must step into the world and live the life you’ve chosen. I will never resent you for that. You are free to experience whatever your heart desires.” He paused, his gleaming blue eyes lost in hers. “I will always be here, waiting patiently for your return… whether it takes a day, a year, or decades to come.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Phillip hinted a smile. “Go on… Live a little,” he whispered in her ear. “You and me—we have all the time in the world. But the world won’t wait forever.”
His words granted her more peace of mind than he would ever know.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Denise asked the driver as she looked through the window. The limousine parked ahead of them finally moved, and now she was able to get a clearer view of the estate.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver said.
Impossible seeing the villa’s grandiose facade and not being reminded of Deveraux Manor—the big house with the big book of rules… It sent a chill down her back. Did Ivan follow now her family’s way of life? Dear God, she hoped not.
“Oh, well…” She sighed. “Then please, go through the driveway.”
When the taxi stopped at the manor’s entrance, she saw him—a man, standing at the front porch. He was a vampire. Denise could spot a blood drinker a mile away… They were beautiful pretentious creatures, but this one seemed rather gloomy.
“Hello, there,” she said to the sulking vampire.
The minute he laid eyes on her, the blood drinker readjusted his posture into a military stance—head, trunk, and thigh on a straight line, chin up and forward.
“Good evening,” he said with a velvety voice, relaxing a little. “Allow me, please.” He picked up Denise’s oh-so-heavy-international-flight-twenty-five-kilo suitcase as if it weighed nothing.
“Thank you,” she said, removing her gloves.
“You must be Cassandra’s mother.” The vampire opened the door, and it was only then—when the foyer’s light spilled over him—that she noticed his smooth skin and deep blue eyes. He was a very handsome man, but then, most blood drinkers were.
“Please, call me Denise.” A sudden agitation took over her as she crossed that threshold. It was like turning the clock back thirty-eight years, when her life was full of shadows cast by the Deveraux rules, and Ivan Lockhart was her only comfort and escape from the dreary reality.
“It’s nice meeting you, Denise.” The vampire led her through the foyer. “Although I wish it were under different circumstances… My name’s Phillip. Phillip Blackwell.”
She would have said some words of courtesy in reply, but the vast display of crystal chandeliers pending from the stuccoed white ceilings and t
he colorful arrangement of vivid red and green Oriental rugs were too distracting. But she had no time to appreciate every wonderful singularity Ivan’s home offered. She had to see her daughter.
Through the grand white hall, they came up to a spacious living room with impeccable white furniture, an inviting lit fireplace and sliding glass doors that offered the panoramic of a splendid garden. And in the corner, sitting behind a white pianoforte was the best friend she had growing up—the vampire Ivan Lockhart.
This must be what it feels like to see one’s childhood imaginary friend cut out in flesh and bones.
But Ivan was very real.
“Ravel…” she mused, and her heart pumped harder and faster.
Ivan stopped playing the pianoforte. His fierce green eyes turned to her. “Have I lost my touch with this thing?” he asked, pointing at the instrument.
Denise shook her head. The melody had the same solid feeling it had twenty-one years ago, just as he had the same bright green eyes, the same strong jawline and chiseled lips… Ivan Lockhart looked exactly as she remembered him—and perhaps even better.
“It’s been too long,” he said, placing his hand on the piano’s fall board.
“It has,” she said.
He got on his feet and went to greet her with a warm embrace. Denise closed her eyes, and in that moment, the clock turned back twenty-one years, and she was a teenager once more.
The warmth of his body pressed against hers and the alluring fragrance of his cologne made her knees buckle… Stop it, Denise. Remember why you’re here.
Stepping back, she slipped away from his arms. The spell was broken, and she was no longer the sixteen-year-old girl that dreamed of leaving Deveraux Manor. She was back to being Mom.
Denise took a deep breath. “All right. Where is she?”
“She’s upstairs,” Ivan said. “I’ll take you to her.”
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