Seducing the Vampire

by Michele Hauf

  A strange elation eddied through his system. It could really be her!

  He took in the surroundings. Blood everywhere. Ancient skulls were tucked in the walls and strewn on the cave floor. It looked a slaughter, not a simple killing. Whatever had done this…

  He could think what had done this, and it hurt his heart to imagine it.

  All these years, Constantine must have reveled in the notion that he had achieved the greatest and most devastating triumph between the brothers.

  “Rhys?” Dane swung around the corner. She seemed comfortable with the body and smell, and he gave her credit for that. “This way. I suspect Marcus found it and broke the glass.”

  Dropping the small wood piece into his breast pocket, he followed her down a passage. Her lamp lit the narrow tunnel. Spiderwebs glittered with blood droplets.

  A small cove was blocked off with limestone blocks. Looking at the fallen blocks and glass shards wrenched his soul out through his pores.

  Emitting an agonized cry at sight of the broken glass coffin, Rhys caught a palm against the limestone wall. He leaned forward, knowing he would not find anyone inside, for it was obvious whatever had been inside had escaped.

  Breathing deeply through his nose, he separated the blood and sickness from the humid air. His vampire picked out the metallic taint of mortal man’s blood glimmering on the glass shards.

  Rhys rolled his shoulders back, stretching his muscles to stay relaxed, in control.

  No other scent lifted beyond the blood. He slapped a palm to his forehead and clenched his jaws. What had she smelled like? It had been so long. Curse him, but he had forgotten what she had smelled like.

  Concentrate. Give yourself to her memory.

  Soft, silken hair veiling his face after they’d made love. The warmth of her skin steeped in the luscious aroma. It had been…like summer fields and rich, sweet grapes.

  “Wine,” he gasped, recognizing the smell. “Yes, it is her!”

  Clamping his hands to his shoulders, he moaned at the horror of it, unable to celebrate the fact she may still be alive. He had done this to her! He had abandoned her after the fire, fully believing she had perished in it.

  He had seen the burned body. Who had been the one wearing the hairpiece with the tiny skulls? Constantine was a foul bastard.

  “Ouch! What the hell?” He spun to search the dim light where Dane stood. Rubbing her arm, she bent to inspect something on the floor.

  He didn’t care what it was. His world had changed. His soul had been wounded. Hell, it had been torn out and slashed to ribbons. No matter the remnants of violence surrounding, he could not get beyond his futile abandonment of the woman he had loved.

  Still loved.

  “It’s some kind of necklace or medieval choker thing. Black stones on it. Lots of dried blood. It’s sharp.”

  Swinging around, Rhys gripped the metal choker Dane dangled. It pierced his palm. Traces of what had once been ribbon fluttered from each end. As he touched it, the blood coating the filigreed iron permeated his skin, and her scent flooded him.

  “Viviane.”

  He had never tasted her blood. What a fool he had been. Things could have been different for them. He could have patroned her. Hell, she could have survived without a patron. The centuries had taught him that.

  “Here’s something else,” Dane said. “Nah, it’s a bunch of rat skulls. Probably died ages ago.”

  Clutching the choker to his chest, pressing the sharp points through his shirt and flesh, Rhys fell to his knees and howled. “Viviane!”

  CRESSIDA RUBBED HER BARE ARMS against the chill of the tunnel. All this strange talk was unfamiliar. Was she still in the mortal land of Paris?

  The fresh blood scent sickened her. But more so, it angered. Grim’s spell and the enchantment had bound her to the vampiress the moment the warlock had spoken the Latin words. She had been ripped from Faery.

  Constantine de Salignac had stolen so many years from her. She and the vampiress were bonded in a means that had initially pleased Cressida—until the years had started to pass.

  She stomped the ground fiercely, centering all her rage and vitriol into the ground. The stone rumbled with her fury, shaking and loosing pebbles from the ceiling.

  Yet finally, she would have her boon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  RHYS HELD OFF TEARS until they’d reached the estate. He had brusquely told Simon and Dane to give him peace, and had insulated himself behind locked doors in his room.

  He wept now. Not loud, but a silent mourning of constant salty pain sliding down his cheeks.

  Opening his palm he dropped the choker onto the table. Blood puddled on the wood laminate. His palm was pocked with crimson holes as if he’d slammed it upon a bed of nails.

  As the wounds closed and pushed out drops of blood, he felt the greater wound expand and bleed profusely. His heart had fissured the moment Simon had called about the find. At first sight of the broken and blood-stained coffin, his heart had broken into pieces and fallen into his gut.

  The choker had been tied around her neck backwards, so the metal points pierced flesh. The dried blood was proof of that.

  He rubbed his knuckles. They still ached from the blow he’d delivered Constantine. He’d once considered his brother may have started the fire, but he’d never approached him about it. As the French Revolution had begun, Constantine had been ousted as tribe leader. Creedence Saint-Pierre assumed control.

  All those decades—centuries—of exile and confinement in the coffin. She had suffered so much!

  He’d promised Lepore he would walk away from his brother if he found Viviane alive. And he would. But he had not found her yet.

  He bowed his head. Legend told the spell had kept the vampiress conscious but frozen. Feeling, as well?

  He remembered the wood piece and dug it from his pocket. It was the beak from the hummingbird.

  “Forgive me, Viviane. I should have known. I should not have walked away from this city without viable proof of your death.”

  Yet he’d thought her ashes proof enough.

  Moaning, Rhys dropped his head. While he knew no time must be lost in tracking the vampiress, he could not rally himself from the deep misery that racked his muscles and reduced him to a whimpering soul.

  AN HOUR LATER, SIMON opened Rhys’s door and peered inside. Dane followed and the two cautiously entered. The gentle vampire-werewolf sat by the window, hands flat on his thighs.

  “Sorry to intrude,” Simon started. “But Dane and I have determined there may be a time issue here. Hmm, how do I put this?”

  Dane jumped in. “If she’s topside, we’ll want to find her before morning, and before someone else does. Like the media,” she added. She spied the choker on the table. The blood scent was vile. “There’s already a story on the news about the body found in the tunnel. They’re spinning it as one friend who attacked another, and now he’s hiding out. No references to an attack from something other.”

  “Which is good,” Simon said. “Until the bodies start piling up.”

  “Bodies?” Rhys asked quietly.

  “I hate to be so blunt,” Dane said, “but she ripped out Marcus’s throat. Obviously, she needs blood. And you know she’ll be drawn to it. And what will her mental state be? She hasn’t seen the world for centuries.”

  Rhys swiped his hands over his face and sighed. “Enough.”

  Simon crossed his arms, defiant in his stance, but he didn’t say anything. Dane’s job was done. She could take the money and leave. But she didn’t want to leave now.

  Rhys looked to her. “I’ll have Simon open a bank account for you today. Switzerland, of course. You’re free to go.”

  “I’ll stay and help, if you’ll have me. I’m not as keen topside, but another set of eyes in the search can’t hurt.”

  “I don’t think I can afford you anymore.”

  She grinned, pleased he could find humor. “We’re good, Hawkes.”

  “Ve
ry well, then I would like you to help us. I want a team sent out through the Boulogne park. She may have surfaced there. Another team should start in the eighth arrondissement. Perhaps I should put teams in other surrounding neighborhoods.”

  “I’ll track the media,” Simon said. “If word of any strange attack gets out, I’ll find it. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a vampiress who must be wearing a dress from the eighteenth century.”

  “The fabric would have decayed,” Dane decided. “There were fibers and threads on the glass. She could be half naked.”

  Rhys slapped his arms across his chest. “I need to go out now. I can’t sit around wondering. Tune the walkie-talkies to the same channel, and Dane keep me updated as you disperse the teams, yes?”

  “I’ll have them out within the hour.”

  He strode through the room, lifting his leather jacket and checking it for the walkie. “Simon, keep me posted.”

  Dane followed his swift pace to the elevator bay. “You should eat, perhaps rest before going out.”

  “No time. And I have rested. She’s out there, alone, likely manic. She needs me.”

  “Do you think you can catch her scent?”

  He nodded. “I caught traces of it. If she’s topside, I may be able to track her.”

  The elevator pinged, but Dane grabbed Rhys’s arm. “This isn’t your fault.”

  He pressed the heel of his palm to the doorway, and let the doors close. “I buried her, Dane. I believed her dead.”

  “So you see? Not your fault!”

  “I found her in the ashes of William Montfalcon’s home. When I touched her bones they disintegrated to ash. A human would not have completely ashed like that. The skull and the femur and hip bones would have remained mostly intact. I had every reason to believe it was her. Do you know, I sat there all day, carefully plucking her ash from the building remains and placing it upon my frockcoat. Then I bundled it up and took it to a mausoleum in the Boulogne. I spent the next three days in there, crying and asking her forgiveness.”

  “But it wasn’t her.”

  “He planned this so well!”

  “The evil vampire from the legend?”

  “That bastard Constantine.” He chuckled. “Yes, the evil vampire from the legend. He must have found a vampiress who looked like her. Or made one. Poor thing. She could not have known what her new patron’s evil plans were. But do you think he bespelled Viviane and buried her that same day? Or did he keep her awhile?”

  “Don’t think about it. Just concentrate on finding her.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  STEVE MONROE BOUNCED on his sneakers toward home, a backpack slung over his left shoulder. He’d been in Paris six months thanks to an exchange-student program. His major was cryptozoology. So long as he kept his nose to the books and didn’t flash his Dracula T-shirt or his chupacabra obsession he was cool. And, okay, historical studies was what was listed on his syllabus.

  It was late and the sun had set an hour ago. His stomach growled. “Hope Jack remembers it’s his night to buy pizza.”

  He heard a noise at the end of the alleyway edging his building.

  He hated the end. It was dark. Not that he feared the unknown. Hell, he wanted to find the unknown. But the neighbor’s cats always pissed on the garbage bin and left half-eaten rats and mice strewn at the end.

  Someone was crying and sniffling. A woman?

  Sneakers squidging the wet tarmac, Steve set aside his distaste for the smell and peered around the narrow metal bin. A woman sat huddled there. Dark, disheveled hair spilled over shoulders and chest. With minimal illumination from a distant streetlight he saw her face, arms and legs were dirty. Was that blood on her face?

  “Lady?” His voice warbled when he was nervous. Dude, he could handle an encounter with a ghost or shapeshifter, but a pretty woman? “Lady, are you okay?

  “Uh, do you speak English? I am an American,” he explained stupidly and then realized he’d better speak to her in French.

  Wide blue eyes set in a dirt-and-blood-smeared face peered up at him. He glanced over and saw a man’s body. His legs were hidden behind the garbage bin.

  His neighbor? He’d never met the neighbors who lived below him, but he’d heard the brutish husband yelling to his wife on occasion.

  “Oh, hell. Did he hurt you? Lady? Are you— Come here, let me get you out of there. Is he—is he dead?”

  No. Duh. What woman could do something like kill a guy?

  “You knocked him out?”

  She nodded and reached out a hand, which he clasped to pull her up. When she stood before him, Steve slapped his palms to his chest and took a step back.

  “Oh, hell, you are naked. Did that bastard…?”

  He didn’t want to think the dastardly stuff that could have happened to this chick. Her body was dirty, and her hair hung over bare breasts. She wasn’t wearing any pants and he could see everything. Yet there was some wispy thread stuff hanging from her arms and waist.

  “Okay, let’s get you out of here. You beat him off? Good for you. Dirty bastard deserved whatever you gave him.” He glanced down the alleyway. “Did he throw your clothes somewhere? In the trash? Clothes.” He patted his shirt and pants.

  She must not understand French, either. Or else he was conjugating the wrong words.

  She nodded and patted her arms as he did. A dash of her tongue tested what looked like a bloody split lip.

  Tugging off his T-shirt, Steve held it out with both hands. “Put this on.” He shook it, but she merely stared at it. “Come on, it’s one of my faves. The Wolfman—1941, directed by George Waggner. It’s long so it’ll cover your, uh…”

  Her tongue swept out to lick the corner of her mouth. He hastily tugged it over her head but she didn’t stick her arms through the sleeves. He wanted to help her, but, man, she was so naked.

  And had probably been attacked or raped by the asshole lying on the ground. She must be traumatized. And the police would want to do whatever they did, so he shouldn’t touch her too much.

  Don’t leave your prints on her, man. He wasn’t that stupid.

  God, she was beautiful, in a bruised-and-battered kind of way.

  “Your arms,” he directed. “Stick them in the…push them up and out. Right. Good.”

  She clutched the shirt against her chest. A weary innocence danced in her bright eyes. She had cut her hand and he saw something on her palm.

  “Looks like…a little bird?”

  She nodded and clutched it to her chin.

  “Nice. Uh… My apartment is up those stairs. I could call the cops for you. You need the police. You want to come up with me? I won’t hurt you. Promise. Well, you can sit on the step if you don’t trust me.”

  Her smile stopped him cold. Definitely blood at her mouth. Whatever she’d done to the bastard on the ground—kicked, punched, clawed—he deserved worse.

  “Um…” Her weird smile made him feel cornered by a cat and he the rat. “I think I have some sweatpants that’ll fit you, too. I can get those for you while we wait for the cops. You don’t have to come in if you’re scared. I’ll hand them to you out in the hallway.”

  When he walked she followed him up the stairs, her eyes scanning everywhere. As if she’d never seen this alley. Could she have been attacked and left here?

  The outer door led into a hallway and six apartments. Steve slammed a shoulder against the door. “It always sticks,” he explained.

  Her eyes flickered along his neck. “Hungry.” She spoke French.

  “Hu—you’re hungry? Okay. Uh.” Steve scratched his neck. “Did you just—” She had not just gazed longingly at his neck. He had watched too many horror flicks. “I’ve got some day-old pizza you can nosh on while we wait for the cops.”

  “Cops?”

  He had to stop mixing his English with French. “The police. Authorités?”

  A door down the hall swung inside. Madame Nesbitt’s cat meowed and poked out its scraggly black head in tande
m with its owner. The old woman stepped out, always on the alert for intruders. She kept track of everyone’s coming and going.

  “She could work for the CIA,” Steve muttered sotto voce as he led the tattered woman toward his door. Aware he was half dressed—and more embarrassed for that than the naked chick—he slapped a palm across his chest. “Hey, Madame Nesbitt.”

  “Hungry.” The woman approached Madame Nesbitt.

  “Who is this, Monsieur Monroe? And why is she wearing but a shirt?”

  “She’s my friend. She’s hungry.” He smiled sheepishly. He’d never had a girl in his apartment before. How to explain that one?

  Madame Nesbitt cried out. Steve froze at the old woman’s utterance. A scream was abruptly cut off. Her body went stiff.

  The cat yowled.

  The chick from the alley was—was she biting Madame Nesbitt?

  “No, this isn’t right. You said you were hungry, but, dude— Are you a zombie?”

  Madame Nesbitt slumped in the doorway. The chick wiped her lips of blood and smiled proudly at Steve, revealing fangs.

  “Oh hell. Not a zombie.”

  Aware he was stepping backward as she took steps toward him, Steve calculated how fast he could run, stick the key in his door and slam it in her face before she might latch onto his neck.

  He’d studied paranormal creatures. It was more fascination than scholarly. He’d watched every version of Dracula; including the one with Gerard Butler, which had been a total chick flick—

  Focus, Steve!

  “Don’t get too close, lady. Keep the shirt. It’s yours. Did you—hell, did you bite the guy in the alley?”

  She nodded. Another smile. Only it wasn’t a sweet smile, it was wicked. Wickedly sexy. Because now those bright blue eyes twinkled as if she’d been revived by blood.

  “Are you a…vampire?” It sounded ridiculous. He’d seen people biting others and drinking their blood—in the movies.

  “I am. Vampire.” She tapped the door. “You…know about me?”