A red glow tracing the door ahead beckoned to him like something from a horror movie the protagonist should never open. Not if he wanted to continue breathing.
Johnny smirked at his crazy thoughts. He’d grown up watching late-night horror moviethons with his paternal grandmother. Viviane Hawkes was officially crazy, and the family tiptoed around her condition, and never spoke above a whisper around the touched one. That was a bunch of crap. Johnny loved her for the wild and wise woman she was. Wasn’t Viviane’s fault she’d been buried alive for two centuries in a glass coffin, rendered immobile yet conscience and completely aware by a witch’s spell. Anyone would emerge from that gripping the crazy stick.
As he stepped toward the door to grasp the red glass doorknob an apparition apported before him. Startled, he shuffled backward, thrusting up his fists in defense. A chill traced his veins so quickly he actually shuddered and tightened his neck muscles at the weird sensation. No fog of breath, though.
“Dude, what the hell?”
Filmy white and floating, it looked like a ghost. Transparent enough that he could see the red doorknob through the apparition’s ribs. He'd not seen a lot of ghosts in his short lifetime. Once or twice in old castles he’d visited with his parents. But since when had ghosts biceps the size of small tree stumps and a growl that revealed gold-capped teeth? Seriously, gold caps on a ghost?
“Was going to head in to chat with…” He had no idea what the singer’s name was. “Uh...the mistress of the dark.”
“Booked for the evening,” the ghost said in a too-solid voice that walked its way down Johnny’s throat to clench his spine.
“That’s unfortunate.” He wasn't sure if a ghost could take him on, but assumed he wouldn't be a bouncer if he could not protect his asset. “Tell her Johnny Santiago stopped by. She’ll want to know that,” he added.
No, she wouldn’t. But it didn’t hurt to try.
The apparition disappeared. To tell the singer Johnny Santiago wanted to see her? He could get so lucky. He wasn’t anybody special. He liked to keep a low profile. Important, when one had vampire hunters stalking his ass. A hazard that his breed routinely dealt with, as a natural part of life.
Winking at the camera above the door, Johnny shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather pants and wandered down the hallway, drawn toward the raucous club noise. He didn’t notice the chill anymore. Place was weird. But still not as freaky as the Lizard Lounge. That club wasn’t in FaeryTown proper, but it catered to the winged and the unusual. And when it came to unusual, faeries put to it an otherworldly spin that made even Johnny cringe.
When the thug ghost suddenly appeared before him, Johnny cursed and thrust up his fists again. His balled fingers punched through something cold and sticky. He pulled away, shaking his hand, but nothing was on his fingers. Ectoplasm? Isn’t that what ghosts were made of? Didn’t see any on his skin.
“She’ll see you now,” the bodyguard announced.
“Is that so?”
The smile returned. Johnny thrust back his shoulders and resumed his confident stance. She must have gotten a good look at him on the security camera. Either that or his name carried cachet after all.
Behind him, the door opened and out wandered a thin blonde man clad in black leather. The blood trickling down his neck soaked into his tee-shirt that sported a heavy metal logo. Johnny didn’t care for the scent of blood once it left the human body. Metallic and dusty, stale. He preferred the pure, barely-there scent of it as it flowed within the body. The most tantalizing perfume the Big Guy had ever created—life.
The bitten one cast Johnny a drunken grin and staggered past, unmindful of the ghostly bodyguard.
Johnny glanced at the open door. An unfathomable blackness filled the open doorway. The ghost had disappeared, as had the—no doubt—fang junkie.
Horror movie rule number one: When the door opened to darkness, the protagonist always ventured in.
Grin growing to bring-it-on-and-don’t-hold-back level, Johnny strolled through the doorway. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior. Pale red light highlighted an exotic boudoir. Mica glittered in black marble walls and floors. The sound of running water directed his attention to the side, where a Zen fountain trickled. The air smelled clean and vast, as if he stood in a meadow.
Like that blue police box on one of his favorite television shows, it turned out to be much bigger inside than outside. Disconcerting, but also, intriguing.
Beyond where he stood, sheer black curtains spangled with silver threading were drawn back to reveal a bed set upon a platform. Clothing hung on a rack at the wall. Accoutrements to the singer’s stage costume, including the demon horns she’d worn, were strewn at the end of the bed. A black wrought iron chandelier hung from the ceiling whose height he could not remark for the darkness. The flames topping the wax candles glinted red, as had all the lights in the club.
"Going with a theme, apparently," he muttered. “Morticia Adamms would be pleased.” His grandmother had introduced him to that classic TV show.
Johnny walked forward and glided his fingers down the sheer black curtain. It wasn't so dark he couldn't make out another person. Where was she?
A hush of cool air teased his neck. Johnny spun around. She sat…stretched like an exotic cat upon a black velvet couch he hadn’t noticed because everything was black. Too far away to have brushed close to him.
Should he have brought something? A gift or offering? Black roses perhaps, for her to decapitate?
“Hey.” Johnny struggled to maintain his cool.
She was a stage act, and yet, suddenly it seemed as though he were standing before some grand high mistress of the darkest desires he could possibly imagine. Perhaps he should bow?
Get it together, man.
* * *
The moment he entered her dressing room, the air had shivered and then lightened. A subtle change. She’d lifted her head and closed her eyes, scenting the new arrival. Smoke, whiskey, and wine cloyed about his aura. And there was something else. An indescribable something. Something so appealingly dangerous she wanted to crush it against her soul and hope the collision singed her.
He was clad in a black denim vest and tattered leather jeans that dusted equally shabby boots. His dark, shoulder-length hair was tousled off to one side to reveal he shaved his scalp above the ears. Smudged black guyliner surrounded bright blue eyes. A silver cross dangled from one ear. A fuck-you to those who believed religious symbols could harm bloodborn vampires. Nice.
The heavy-metal rocker look always knocked her off her stilettos. Dangerous and unkempt. Alluring, yet with a softness gracing his face that screamed for the angels to lift their heads in curiosity.
When their eyes had locked over the dancing, shouting, pulsating crowd, Kam had gasped. Perched high in the balcony, signing along with her and pumping his fist, she’d initially thought him another fan following the frenetic vibe of the club. But he was different. How, she wasn’t sure yet.
Perhaps it was because he’d made her a promise he didn’t know he’d spoken back in the main room. And she wanted to see if he was bold enough to learn that promise—and then fulfill it.
“Your show was fantastic,” he offered through the darkness, which wasn’t so dark now that Kam had commanded the lights up to soften the shadows with red.
“And you thought you’d come backstage to see if you could get some from the lead singer?”
“Huh? No.”
Liar. The thought had crossed his mind. At least, she hoped it had.
“I wanted to meet you.”
Oh. She suppressed a sigh. “And now you have.”
Kam flicked a glance toward the door. Her lips were still painted glossy black and she pursed them as she took in the man who stood there so boldly. So unwitting of the dangers that lurked deeper than the shadows.
Tall and lithe, a strong frame held his shoulders back and his pose was ready, not the hunched lanky, relaxed stance most rockers assumed. She’d been crus
hing on rock stars all her life, watching them prance through videos while they fisted the sky in defiance and screamed, yowled and wailed all in the name of rock n’ roll. This man epitomized it all.
“Johnny Santiago,” she repeated the name the apparition had given her. “So you’ve met me," she offered with bored resignation. "Now you may leave.”
“You have another suitor waiting in line?” he tried. “I saw the last guy. Human. Fang junkie?”
Yes. And his blood had been tainted with beer. She hated beer, so had only taken a sip from him. Just the same, the idiot had gone into gyrations of ecstasy when she’d sunk her fangs into his neck. Overkill never impressed her. She’d quickly sent him off.
“And you are vampire,” she said. “Is that what you bring to the table, then? Fangs? Not interested.”
“You’ve got me pegged wrong.”
“I don’t think so. No one comes back here without a reason, Johnny. The fang junkies want to get off. The vamps want to nail the dark mistress.”
“I’m not so crude.”
She yawned and drew her knees up to her chest. Dismissing the stage goddess she had been earlier, she let her head fall against the back of the couch, yet kept a keen eye on the curious man. Hell, she couldn’t look away from that pretty if her life depended on it.
He stepped forward, approaching with confidence as he scanned the room, which was always vast, the dimensions inexplicably impossible to those uninitiated.
“I’m a singer too,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his front pockets. The pose exposed taut ab muscles because his jeans hung low on his hips. Kam licked her lips. “Dark metal stuff like your band plays.”
“We’re not looking for another singer.”
“I’m not offering my services.”
“I’m tired, Johnny.”
“Right. Sorry. Shows do take a lot out of a person. I usually get psyched from a show, though. The crazy, frenetic energy feeds me like a blood transfusion to the soul.”
If only, Kam thought. Lately, it seemed the more blood she consumed the foggier she grew. Within her, she carried residue from all whom she had sunk her fangs into.
You are carrying around something even worse, and you know it.
Yes, but admitting it to herself was too terrible.
She tilted her gaze at him. The man had a switchblade smile, easy and genuine, filling his eyes. Slightly crooked on the one side. And he could flick it out like that. Yet was it for real? Or just a stage prop?
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Didn’t you read the marquee?" Resting her chin on her knees, she cast her gaze toward the lazy fountain, and declared softly, painfully, "I am the Dark’s Mistress.”
“Yeah. I got that. That’s not a name, it's a silly title created for optimal marketing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
She smirked and sighed, looking away from him. “I said I was tired.” And really? Perhaps he hadn’t made the promise she’d thought to have heard across the noisy club. Blame it on her hard-crushing heart. Always the bad boys appealed. “So if you’ll leave now.”
“Not until you give me your name. I need to know who I’ll be dreaming about tonight.”
“Aren’t you precious?”
Lunging to the edge of the couch, he grabbed her hand and sniffed her wrist. She didn’t pull away. He wasn’t rough with her, and his fingers tracing her skin were more affectionate than anything she’d felt in a long time. Had it been six months? Or so much longer?
The tenderness with which he took to draw in her scent spilled a luxurious shiver over her skin. As if she were feeding him delicate poison only he could survive, the feeling empowered her. And she felt the shimmer, the telltale vibrations two vampires experienced when touching one another.
And then she wanted him to kiss her so she could taste his alluring charm and bleed the poison back into her veins. Because she sensed he had lived a good life, one unhampered by pain. And she, well. So many things she did not remember.
“Kambriel,” she whispered. A caged dove's voice. A resignation to remain trapped.
Blue eyes twinkled with a charming smile. “That’s gorgeous. Sounds angelic. Kambriel. Do your friends call you Kam?”
“Friends?” She pulled her hand from his. The flutter in her heart beat angry wings. “I used to have friends, but…" Another heavy sigh. "I don’t remember.”
“I think you do need to rest, Kambriel,” he offered. “You look tired. I won’t stay. But first…” He closed his eyes and inhaled. “You smell like chocolate and cherries. I’ll never forget that scent now.”
Wrapping her arms about her lower legs to close herself into a ball, she tilted her head on her knees to regard him. Apercevoir. To regard, to notice something. It was a French word she’d known before coming to Paris because her father had taught it to her. Maybe? She remembered her father, a vampire… Only it was difficult to reason why she would ever forget him.
“You’re different than the rest, Johnny," she whispered. Her eyes traced his, falling across his broad shoulders, and along his arms to his wide yet gracefully strong hands, then back to his eyes. "Why aren’t you all over me? Trying to take what you want?”
“I may not know you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect you. I think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve seen. Honestly? I may be like the rest, because I’d love a bite. I bet you taste sweet and dark. You can bite me any time.”
“A bite from me will steal your soul.”
He smirked. “Why do I feel as though a soul sacrifice would be worth it?”
He’d never believe the truth. So many souls fluttered within her heart.
Now she looked at him, really looked beyond the pretty façade and the rock n’ roll appeal. Kam’s body moved inexplicably toward him, and she stroked her fingers aside his cheek, brushing the black hair over his ear. It was glossy, like raven feathers, but it also reminded her of another man’s hair. She liked hair so black it shone blue at times.
Narrowing her gaze, she suddenly said, “Tell me you are different, Johnny.”
“I’m not like any other,” he said. “I promise. Kam,” he said, the sound of his deep voice fixing into her being as easily as the stolen souls that entered her heart. “Kambriel, of the impossibly gray eyes who lives in the dark. I want to show you brightness. Tomorrow night. Will you meet me?”
“You mean like a date?”
He nodded.
She considered the request. She could do as she liked. So long as she didn’t step across the line. A dark line that tumbled deep into the bowels of Beneath. She would never do that, though she did like to push at times, hang her toes over the edge, so to speak.
“After midnight,” she decided. “Then I’m free to go where I wish.”
“Who keeps you reined in before midnight?” he asked.
“I am the Dark’s mistress.”
He chuckled, not believing the truth even when it was spoken so plainly.
“Meet me in the Tuileries,” he said. “By the octagon pond near the west end.”
“Why such a public place?”
“Because it’s spring and the trees and flowers are in bloom. It smells like heaven. Something, I suspect, you are sorely in need of experiencing.”
"Heaven doesn't exist, Johnny Santiago."
"Maybe. Maybe not. But this Hell you exist in? You need a break." He kissed the back of her hand, and stood. “I’ll be waiting for you.”
And he walked out without looking back at her.
Chapter Three
The Tuileries at midnight was prettier than Kambriel had expected. When she’d first arrived in Paris a few months ago—or had it been years?—she’d not visited this garden while in tourist mode. It had seemed large and daunting and oddly ungardenlike. Where were the flowers? It was principally carved shrubbery, espaliered trees, and marble statues. Pretty, but to her, gardens should burst with color and blooms.
While eager to escape the loving arms
of her family back in Minnesota and ‘discover herself’ she’d quickly realized that despite her father having spoken French to her often as a child, she didn’t understand the language. The cool yet snobbish Parisian natives had intimidated her, so she had fallen in with a ragtag bunch of English-speaking British vamps.
They’d spent most of their time at the nightclubs, stalking mortals for a bite, sleeping in dirty flats through the day then venturing back out at night with nary a bother over their appearance.
Kambriel preferred life’s finer offerings, such as showers, clean bites and pretty clothing and shoes. But spending Daddy’s money, while it had been endless, had felt wrong. She’d wanted to support herself, to show her parents she was a big girl and could live on her own. She’d hoped to find herself. To discover what it was within her that desired attention, needed feeding.
And then she’d met him. Or rather, Him.
She hadn’t known who or what he was during their initial courtship. And it must be called a courtship for he’d always displayed the finest manners and respected and treated her well. Anything she wanted, he gave her. Anything.
Kam now lived in a gorgeous flat off the Champs Elysees furnished with top-of-the-line appliances, furniture, fabrics and decorations. Including all the designer clothing she could shove into the massive walk-in closet that was as big as a normal living room.
The vexing thing was, the more she got the more she wanted. It could never be enough. Some days such materialism felt wrong, yet she quickly dismissed the feeling as soon as it niggled at her.
Yet other days it was too much for her to bear. A small piece within her that she suspected must be either her heart or her soul, wept with every day that passed while she remained under his thumb. His girl. The Dark’s mistress. The saddest truth of the matter was, she had surrendered to the title, accepted the black veil of her own free will, with very little resistance.
But she would never give him the one thing he most desired from her. And because of that, he would never release her.
Sitting on a bench beneath a fragrant blooming tree, Kambriel pulled up her legs and wrapped her arms about her knees, studying the mirrored reflection of the moon waver upon the octagon pond. Two ducks skimmed the surface. Tourists yet wandered the massive garden, and neon carousel lights glinted garishly in the distance.
The Dark's Mistress (The Saint-Pierres) Page 2