by PG Forte
“So, you’re actually an artist then?”
“As opposed to what?” she asked as she joined him at the window. “A hobbyist? A wannabe? Just another pretentious dabbler lucky enough not to need to work for a living?”
“I didn’t mean anything like that,” Marc protested. “You could simply be someone who likes to paint, couldn’t you? Do I get to see some of your work?”
“Maybe later.” She cocked her head to the side and studied him curiously. “Are you always so cynical, or do you just not trust me?”
“Why cynical?” he asked in surprise.
“Oh, please.” Sliding her arms around his neck, she gazed up at him mockingly. “‘Are you actually an artist?’”
“I already explained that,” he replied, shaping her waist with his hands, enjoying the feel of her body, warm, solid, inviting. “And, as far as trusting you goes, well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Mm, so you are.”
She leaned in, obviously intending to kiss him, but he stopped her before she could fit her mouth to his. “I’m here to find out about scar-face. Remember?”
“Is that really the only thing you want from me?” Her smile said she already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from him anyway.
“No,” he admitted with a small shake of the head. “You know it isn’t. But I can’t let what I want get in the way of what I need. I need to find this guy, Elise—soon. And I need your help to do that. I need you to tell me everything you can about him.”
Elise nodded. “I can tell you his name and who he is. I can tell you some of his story. I can even hazard a pretty good guess as to what might have prompted him to attack your sister—assuming he did. Would that help?”
“Can you tell me how to find him?” Marc asked
“Possibly. But, before I do that, I’ll need a little something from you.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll need to be sure I can trust you.”
“You can trust me.”
This time, when she moved in close, he made no move to stop her. He let her capture his mouth in a kiss that set his heart pounding and made his head reel. The taste of her—earthy and intoxicating—was everything he’d hoped it would be. Growling in satisfaction, he clasped the back of her head with one hand, banded his other arm around her waist and took control, loving the way her hands fisted in his shirt, as though she wanted to rip it from his back.
When she pulled away, it was all he could do to let go. His soul was screaming for him to take her, to make her deliver on everything she’d promised. But the look in her eyes, hot and demanding, said she wanted that too. He tried to be appeased with that.
Her hand fumbled for his. “What are we doing?” he asked as she drew him back toward the entrance. His voice sounded as leaden as his footsteps. “You’re not trying to kick me to the curb already, are you?”
Amusement danced in her eyes when she turned her head and smiled at him. She pointed to a short staircase he’d missed seeing on the way in. “Bedroom.”
“What about the information you promised me?” he asked, even as he followed her up the stairs to a rose-curtained aerie set high above the rest of the loft. Ars longa, vita brevis, read the legend stenciled over the bed in foot-high sepia letters. Life is short, art long. The words filled his soul with foreboding. Were they a warning, and, if so, for whom?
“All in good time,” she murmured, pushing him onto the bed, her teeth already bared, as she followed him down. “Love first.”
Love? He took hold of her hair, pulling her head back and forcing her to meet his gaze. That’s not exactly what I would have called it. “But, afterwards,” he insisted. “You will tell me. Everything.”
“I’ll tell you,” she promised, hunger burning in her eyes. “I’ll tell you everything you need to hear.”
Then her teeth found his throat and he let her go. He gasped in surprise as dark waves of bliss rocked through him and his eyes rolled back. Vita brevis. The words mocked him from the wall above his head. Life is short. He feared it might be true. He just hoped it would be long enough.
Chapter Twelve
This place is positively a warren, Julie thought, frowning as she searched the house for her brother. She was seriously regretting not having taken Armand up on his offer of a tour. It might have helped if she at least knew where she was going.
Where the hell could he be? All week Marc had been on her case, anxious to leave the house as soon as the sun went down, begrudging her every second she spent with Brennan. Tonight, with the fear that time might be growing short for Conrad nagging at her conscience and the dread of having to face her attacker eating at her nerves, her brother was nowhere to be found.
Didn’t that just figure? And after all the work she’d put into getting herself ready.
She’d gotten up early—well before sunset—and bribed one of the gardeners into going into town and purchasing a couple of burgers for her so she could surprise Brennan with breakfast in bed before he had to be on duty. She’d been feeling really good when she got back to the house, after that. Confident. In control. Grounded. All set to take on almost anything, even a half-blind, homicidal vampire with a serious grudge on.
Now, her resolve was already beginning to fray around the edges, and her confidence was definitely on the wane. If she didn’t find Marc soon…
Maybe he’s taken my advice, she thought hopefully. Maybe her brother was fortifying his own nerves with a little last-minute, pre-rumble snackage. With that in mind, and in hopes of catching him unawares, she eased open the next door she came to as noiselessly as possible and peeked inside.
Her eyes widened. No Marc. Instead, she’d stumbled into the most amazingly well-equipped home gym she could ever have imagined, with weights and mats and racks full of weapons, and all manner of climbing apparatus. Big to begin with, the room appeared even more immense thanks to the addition of several floor-to-ceiling mirrors.
On the wall across from the door, a ballet bar had been installed. Armand, with one leg extended along the waist-high bar, was warming up. Eyes closed, he hummed quietly to himself, stretching, bending, reaching, all with such fluidity and grace Julie found herself unable to look away.
In general, she tended to favor guys who were big and buff—a la Brennan. But, watching Armand, she had to admit that lean, lithe and compact was not without its own very special appeal. The sight of him sent a small shockwave through her system. He was beautiful. There was just no getting around it. He was lean, graceful, strong, and, as she’d already observed, so definitively male that every female fiber of her being once again stood up and took notice.
Wow. She almost breathed the last bit aloud and for a moment she feared she had, because Armand’s eyes opened suddenly and met hers in the mirror. Her cheeks coloring, she fumbled for the doorknob. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your workout. I was just looking for Marc.”
“Wait.” Armand turned from the bar. “Don’t go yet.” Pretending not to hear, Julie closed the door, intent on making her escape. He must have flown across the room, however, because she hadn’t taken more than two steps when the door opened again. “I wanted to ask you something,” Armand said, following her out into the hall. “How did you know about Brennan?”
“What about Brennan?” Instantly on the defensive, Julie spun around to face him. Why shouldn’t she be with him? Damian had said she could. Besides, Brennan was hers. That’s all there was to it. No one was going to take him away from her…except maybe Conrad.
“How did you know he was being bled too often?”
The question caught her off guard. “That is not my fault—it’s all the rest of you guys. I’m the one trying to get him to pace himself.”
“I know,” Armand replied hurriedly. “I know. You are. But, still…it’s not the kind of thing everyone would notice. I mean, obviously it’s not, since no one has. You and your brother did. How come?”
Julie shrugged. “I guess we were paying at
tention.” Then her eyes narrowed. “And, speaking of which, how did you know about me and Brennan, anyway? Have you been spying on me?”
“No!” Armand’s face turned crimson. “Of course I wasn’t…spying. It was no such thing.”
“You have. You’ve been spying on me! No wonder Damian told me not to trust you.”
“Oh, like he should talk,” Armand snapped. “And I was not spying. It’s just a habit with me, that’s all. When I was in charge of running the household, it was my job to keep track of what everyone was doing. Sometimes I just…I just notice things, that’s all.”
“You used to be in charge of this place?” Julie gazed at him with increased interest. “You didn’t tell me that. When?”
“Before Damian came back,” he replied sounding more than a little bitter. “What I like to refer to as the good old days.”
“How much before?”
Armand sighed. “I guess…about forty or fifty years ago. Why?”
“No reason. Do you miss it?”
Armand snorted derisively. “Miss what? Being Conrad’s favorite? Why wouldn’t I? I certainly don’t miss all the work that went with the job though, that’s for sure. I don’t think I ever slept in those days. Day or night, there was always something that needed doing. You know how you hear the humans joke about how they missed out on the sixties because of all the drugs they took? Well, with me, it was all the work I was doing. I’ve never worked so hard in my life and I pretty much sleepwalked through the entire decade as a result.” He smiled and added, “Don’t ever let anyone tell you vampires can’t suffer from sleep deprivation because it’s just not true. I can’t think of anything else that would account for all the mistakes I was making toward the end.”
“Yeah, so, the sixties—what was that like?” Julie asked, trying to sound as offhand as possible as she added, “I mean, San Francisco, and everything…I guess that was the place to be back then, huh?”
“You could say that, I suppose.” He looked at her curiously. “Why? Where were you in the sixties?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about my past,” she said edging away from him to glance into the next room. Part of her was wishing Marc would turn up already. Part of her hoped Armand would keep talking. Maybe he could tell her something about her mother.
“What do you mean you’re not supposed to talk about it,” Armand asked. “How come?”
“I don’t know why, exactly,” Julie said, moving down the hall toward the next door. “It’s just what I’ve always been told.”
“Oh.” Armand’s voice went cold. “Damian, I suppose? That figures.”
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” She opened the door to yet another room. Still no Marc.
Armand trailed after her. “I wouldn’t say that.” She glanced back, shot him a skeptical look and he shrugged. “Okay, so maybe I would say that. He’s just… Je ne sais quoi. Shallow. Irritating. Pompous. Arrogant. A show-off.”
“He’s not like that at all,” Julie responded hotly. Her anger at the injustice, at the mere idea of anyone thinking so little of Damian, made her forget that her goal was to elicit information, not start fights. “He’s just…” The words failed her. It was impossible. How could she describe Damian without betraying their relationship, their history, without saying anything at all about her childhood?
Armand watched her, amusement—and something that looked uncomfortably like understanding—gleaming in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I suppose I shouldn’t be talking to you about him like this, should I? I forget he’s your sire. But you did ask.”
She nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. It’s just that Damian’s one of the best people I know. It pisses me off to hear you talk about him like that.”
“Fair enough.” Armand inclined his head and they continued walking, both of them glancing into empty rooms now. “I guess there must be something I’m not seeing there, since both you and Conrad hold him in such high regard. Perhaps it’s just jealousy on my part. Although, I’m sure even you won’t try and pretend he’s actually made Conrad happy since he’s been back?”
The bitterness underlying Armand’s words surprised her. It had never occurred to Julie to wonder very much about Conrad’s happiness—especially not in connection with Damian—so she had no idea how to answer the question. “Was he happier before? You know, back in the ‘good old days’?”
“I always thought so.” Armand shrugged. “He seemed to be. He was…different then, a little more carefree. Perhaps I’m mistaken in thinking the change in his temperament has something to do with Damian. It could have been…a lot of other things, I suppose.”
Julie eyed him curiously. Could her mother’s death be one of those things? She wished she could just ask him outright, but that couldn’t happen.
She pushed open the next door and instantly knew she’d made a mistake and somehow blundered into someone’s private quarters. The small sitting room was sleek and spare, its navy and white decor accentuated by framed black-and-white dance prints. “This is your place, isn’t it?” she asked taking a quick breath, filling her lungs with his scent, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
Armand’s eyes twinkled. “It is. Won’t you come in? Perhaps we’ll find your brother here. He could always be hiding under the bed, I suppose.”
“My, you are funny.” She was turning away when a slight movement caught her eye. A delicate stained-glass wind chime hung from the ceiling in the center of the room. Little iridescent glass doves, in all shades of white and blue, and tiny, rainbow-colored peace signs revolved on the faint air currents, as though dancing to inaudible, ghostly music. It was the only thing in the room that spoke to Armand’s more whimsical side and Julie would have bet anything he hadn’t picked it out himself. “That’s really pretty,” she said, almost mesmerized by the sparkling glass.
“Oui.” He sighed, his voice sounding suddenly much softer, much younger than before. “Very pretty. Given to me by a lady who was herself very pretty. So, it fits, does it not?”
There was a hint of real regret in his tone, maybe more than a hint. An unguarded tenderness shone in his eyes. Julie laid her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
Armand glanced at her in surprise. “For what reason?”
“You looked so sad just now. I assumed you were speaking of someone you’d…lost.”
“And you would like to help me become less sad, yes?” Smiling wickedly once again, Armand gestured toward the room, inviting her inside. “I, too, would like this.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Nice try,” she said as she shut the door. Remembering the pictures on his wall, she asked, “So are you a dancer?” She eyed his apparel—white T-shirt, black tights, toe shoes. He certainly looked the part. “Or is that a stupid question?”
Armand glanced down at himself. “Not stupid. I’m a vampire now. Everything else is in the past. But, yes, in my previous life, I was a danseur with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. I suppose I still could call myself one, if I wanted, but it seems a little silly. Don’t you think so? After all, it’s not like I can make a career of it anymore.” He smiled, but, once again, Julie was sure she could detect a certain sadness lurking just beneath the pride. “I bet I know what you’re thinking now.”
He did? “And what’s that?”
“You’re thinking, perhaps, that the time to have thought of these things was before I was turned, yes?”
Julie shook her head. “No, not at all.” It had never even occurred to her. Being vampire was all she’d ever known. Never having had a choice in the matter herself, she often forgot that wasn’t always the case.
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? I’m so much better now than I ever was when I was still alive and yet the world can never know.”
Alive. Julie’s eyes widened as the word caught her ear. She’d never considered herself to be anything but alive. Was it really that different for all the others? It had to be, didn’t it? “Do you miss it? Being alive, I mean?”
The sadne
ss left Armand’s eyes. His smile held a tinge of malice now, as he shook his head. “Ah, non, Mademoiselle, you can hardly expect me to continue to bare my soul to you, in this fashion, when you will show me nothing of your own.”
“Can’t. Not won’t.” Although, if she were really being honest with herself, even if she could have told him more about her past, she wasn’t altogether certain she’d be comfortable doing so. Not with him. Or maybe not just yet.
Armand inclined his head. “I stand corrected. But, if you can’t talk about your past, what about the present? Can you not at least tell me what you and your brother are doing here in San Francisco, and why you’re so anxious tonight? He’s a big boy, perhaps he wanted a night out by himself? The two of you are not conjoined. Must you do everything together?”
Frowning, Julie angled her chin at him. “No, of course we don’t. As it happens, we’re just here on a little visit, that’s all, and I’m not anxious. It’s just that we were supposed to hit some clubs tonight and Marc’s the one who usually complains about me making him late—not the other way around.”
“Ah, I see.” Armand smiled slyly. “So, it must be the clubs you two are here to visit, then. Is that it? Tell me, who, or what do you expect to find there? How do you even know where to go? You’ve never been here before…have you?”
She shook her head. “Nope. First time on the West Coast.”
“Strange,” Armand mused, his eyes narrowing. “Because you seem so familiar.”
“Really?” She leaned her back against the wall, trying hard to look only mildly curious. “Familiar how?”
Armand moved closer, still eyeing her thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I get sometimes. I feel like I know you, or maybe that I’ve seen you somewhere before. However, since I haven’t been off the West Coast in several decades, I don’t suppose that’s very likely, is it?”
“It’s not even possible,” Julie said, shaking her head and wishing she didn’t have this wall at her back. “Besides, I’m sure I’d remember if I’d met you before and I don’t. So you must be mistaken.”