"Erotic death," Darci murmured under her breath, speaking her thoughts out loud.
"Yes, exactly, cherie." Darci jumped at the voice, not having heard Stefan come up behind her. "It is so nice to have one's work understood."
"The images are disturbing and yet strangely inviting at the same time."
"Oh, Will, wherever did you find this one? She's exquisite. Perhaps I should get her to model for me. She might enjoy assisting me—"
"No!" Will's vehement response startled Darci, but Stefan just laughed.
"I was only joking, my friend. Come, let us get these tedious interview questions out of the way. Ms Madison, Darci, pray excuse us for a moment. Continue to look at the photos at your leisure. If you like one in particular, tell me and I will happily make a gift of it to you after the exhibition."
Will followed Stefan out of the room, and Darci found herself alone, the only living thing in a room filled with death. She paced slowly, glancing occasionally at the images, as she waited for Will to return.
Chapter 6
"You are playing with fire, Will, an element that is none too friendly to our kind." Stefan had ushered Will into another room then launched into a tirade the second the door was shut.
"I don't know what you mean."
"This Darci, this ingénue of yours… Tempting as she is, she's a liability. You're going to risk exposing yourself. Do you want Draken to know of your presence here?"
"I am being careful. I've only met her a few times in the daylight." Will was trying to sound nonchalant, but deep down in his heart, he knew Stefan was right. He had survived this long by not flaunting his differences. Lately he had been reckless, but he had wanted to see her so badly.
"They only need to see you once and it will be over." Stefan came forward and placed his hands on Will's shoulders. "Do it gently if you must, but let her go. Perhaps you should go away for a few months, too, just to be certain no damage was done."
"Maybe you're right."
"You are not like the rest of us, Will, but you are not human either. Getting involved with them can only lead to trouble, unless you plan to turn her—"
"No! I would never inflict this on her!" Will pulled himself free from Stefan's grasp.
"Then you must end this and soon. We have been friends for many years now, Will, and when I found out about you, I kept your secret. But I will not risk my own life for you. If I think your actions are about to jeopardise my situation here, I will not stand idly by and watch you ruin everything I have worked so hard to achieve. Remember that. Now, let us return before your guest wonders what has happened to us."
* * * *
A feeling of unease descended over Darci as she waited alone in the room. The images on the walls around her seemed to crowd in, suffocating her. The photos had not worried her at first; they were not real. It was just art after all. But now that she was alone, they seemed gruesome and unnerving. She tried shutting her eyes to block them out, but then all she saw instead was herself within the images, her lifeless body draped provocatively in front of the dark death-like figure in the background, her eyes wide open, empty and unseeing.
"Did you want a drink?" Darci's eyes shot open, and her whole body tensed at the unexpected voice. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the girl added.
"That's okay," Darci said, taking the proffered glass. "I was miles away I'm afraid."
"I do that sometimes too." The girl wandered across the room and flopped down onto a chaise lounge, her long, skeletal legs sticking out. She gestured for Darci to join her.
"Stefan said you were his assistant, is that right?" Darci asked as she perched carefully on the edge of the chair.
"Oh yes, I help him with things."
"Like modelling?" Darci prompted, confused by the girl's cryptic answer.
"Oh, no, Stefan likes me too much." The girl seemed lost in thought for a moment. "I'm Liza by the way."
"Darci. If you don't mind my asking, how old are you? It's just that you seem pretty young to be…"
Liza laughed, though Darci noticed the mirth never reached her dark circled eyes. "Everyone thinks that, but I'm actually twenty-two. Hard to believe isn't it?"
Before Darci had a chance to say anything further, the door opened and Stefan and Will walked in. She could tell at once that something was wrong. Stefan smiled at them, but the gesture looked forced, unnatural even, and Will kept his lips tightly pursed, frown lines creasing his forehead.
"Are you ready to go?" Will asked her, eyes fixed on the ground.
"Yes, if you have everything you need."
"Let's go then." Will turned and marched out of the room, and Darci hurried to follow him.
"Goodbye, cherie. Perhaps we will meet again sometime." Stefan's voice floated after her as she half-ran down the corridor to catch up with Will.
They walked down the stairs in silence. Darci wanted to speak to him, to find out what was wrong, but she didn't know what to say, and his expression was black and forbidding so she kept her peace, waiting for the right opportunity to break the silence.
They reached the front door, and Will hauled it open. He took a step outside and turned to see if she was coming. At that moment, when his head was turned, a man appeared from nowhere and smashed into him, knocking him sideways and out of Darci's view.
"Will!" She ran forward, but before she could get through the door, she found it slammed shut in front of her.
Chapter 7
"Stay back, cherie," Stefan said, easing himself between her body and the door, blocking the way out.
"Will's in trouble. Someone just attacked him. We have to go and help!" She pushed against him, but despite his slim form, it was like trying to move stone.
"There is nothing you can do out there, believe me. There is nothing either of us can do until it is over, one way or another."
The cries and scuffling noises that had been coming from the other side of the door abruptly ceased. The silence that followed hung heavily and felt so absolute to Darci that the sharp knock on the door startled her. Her heart missed a beat.
Stefan listened for a moment, poised as if waiting for some kind of signal. Whatever it was, he must have received it since he stepped back and swung open the door. Will stumbled inside, and Stefan hastily slammed the door shut behind him.
"You are going to ruin us all!" Stefan folded his arms and glowered, stepping back to let Darci pass.
Her hand fluttered to her mouth, a gasp escaping her lips as she took in the horror before her. There was blood everywhere, spurting unremittingly out of a gaping wound in Will's neck. His shirt was ripped to shreds, barely clinging to his blood-smeared torso, and every inch of exposed skin was covered in cuts and scratches. His breaths came in heavy gasps, and his face was so pale and drawn that he looked like a spectre.
"Will, oh God, we have to get you to a hospital."
"No!" Will coughed, spluttering yet more blood, as he tried to give some force to his weak, thin voice.
"He is quite right, cherie, the hospital is not a good idea," Stefan chipped in as he lounged casually against the wall. "Are you going to take her then?" Stefan gestured in Darci's direction.
"Not… her." Will stumbled, pushing Darci away as she tried to step forward to help him, leaving a bloody handprint on her arm.
"Very well then, although I have no idea why I'm being so caring under the circumstances. Liza!"
There was a movement on the stairs, and Darci looked up to see Liza slowly descending. Darci's head was spinning and the sight of all that blood made her stomach churn. It was taking all of her mental strength to hold herself together against the light-headedness threatening to overcome her. Her mind couldn't come to grips with what was happening. Why had someone attacked Will? Why couldn't he go to the hospital? What was this slip of a girl expected to do to help him when he clearly needed a surgeon?
Stefan waited 'til Liza reached the bottom of the stairs before speaking. "Dear one, Will is hurt and needs to drin
k so he can heal. Would you oblige him? Not too much," he said, addressing the last comment to Will.
Darci watched as Liza approached Will. The girl's eyes were wide, but if she felt either horror or surprise at his appearance, she did not show it. She stepped close to his left shoulder then held out her bony arm towards him, her palm facing upwards.
What the hell is going on? The question had barely entered Darci's mind before she saw Will grab hold of the proffered, pale limb and bite into the girl's exposed wrist.
The stream of blood that dripped from Liza's wrist to the floor and the metallic aroma in the air tipped Darci's mind over the edge. Her eyes rolled back, her head lolling on her neck, and her body folded in on itself. Then she felt no more as she lost consciousness.
* * * *
The voices floated around her, snippets of conversations she couldn't get a hold on long enough to make sense of them. The sounds echoed around in her head, sometimes seeming close and other times at a great distance. Trying to latch on to them sent them spinning away, farther out of reach.
Finally, the echoing ceased, and the voices became focused. She anchored herself to them, pulling herself out of the blackness that had engulfed her. She began to gain awareness of her body once more and realised she was lying down. Stretching her fingers experimentally, she caressed the silky material beneath them. The cloth was luxurious and oddly comforting.
"What are you going to do with her now?"
She'd regained her senses enough to recognise Stefan's voice. Someone answered him, but that voice was too low and soft for her to make out the words. She focused on her last memory: Will drinking blood from that girl's wrist. Her instincts were trying to foist one explanation on her, but her reason refused to believe it.
It's just not possible! She needed to move, to do something, so she slowly tried to pull herself up into a sitting position. She hadn't been aware of anyone approaching until hands eased their way beneath her arms, helping to lift her upwards. With their support, she leant back against a sea of soft, pliable cushions and pillows.
Will's face appeared, his anxious ice-blue eyes boring into her. She found her own gaze travelling down and fixing on his neck where a gaping wound had been. Now only a pinkish patch of skin surrounded by white scar lines remained. She wasn't aware of her fingers reaching out to touch it until he caught her hand in his, leading it away from him and back onto the bed, where he continued to hold it, his skin cool against her clammy palm.
"How?" she said him. "How is this possible? Your neck…"
"You already know. You know what you saw."
She could hear the edge of bitterness and pain in his usually calm voice. A new wound had replaced those that had healed. She longed to comfort him. But now was not the time when she was still so unsure of her own feelings.
"What I saw cannot have been real; it's just not possible." She heard Stefan laughing in the background. She chose to ignore him.
"Tell me what you think you saw then."
"You were biting into Liza's wrist, drinking her blood."
"What does that tell you about me?"
"That you're a vampire. But Will, you can't be. You've walked around in the daylight. I've seen you. Assume for a moment that I go along with this, are you now going to tell me the myths are all wrong and that vampires can actually walk around in the sunlight too?"
"No, that is just Will," Stefan said, appearing by the bed. "I, for one, am very much bound to the night, as are most of our kind."
Darci squeezed her eyes shut against the onslaught of emotion and tried to gain control over her thoughts and feelings. Fact: Vampires existed. She had seen too much in the last few hours to think otherwise. Will was a vampire. Did that change her feelings for him? Her mind was telling her she should be afraid of him, but strangely, she wasn't. When she'd first seen him drinking Liza's blood, she had been horrified, but that feeling was gone. She remembered he had refused to use her blood to heal himself, and somehow she knew with absolute certainty he would never harm her.
"I think you had better tell me everything," she said, opening her eyes and looking into his.
"It is easier if I show you, if you will allow." Will released her hand and brought his own up to his mouth, nipping at his thumb.
Darci watched in fascination as a single crimson droplet formed, quivering on the surface of his skin. Then he slowly moved the hand towards her, careful not to spill the blood onto the bed.
"Take this one drop of my blood onto your tongue. Don't worry, it won't harm you in any way, but it will allow me to reach out to your mind and draw you into my memories. Do you trust me, Darci?"
She paused, turning her face from him as she considered his question. Over the past weeks, he had become a part of her life to such an extent that she couldn't imagine him not being there. They had been alone together on numerous occasions, and he had never done anything to hurt her. She didn't believe he would lie to her now. "Yes, I trust you." She leant forward and grasped his hand, holding it steady as she licked the tiny wound.
"Now, lie back, close your eyes and I will try to show you my past."
Darci did as he instructed, sinking once more into the luxurious satin bed. The blood on her tongue was coppery and warm. She could feel every tiny movement as it gradually rolled down her throat. Her eyelids began to feel heavy, lowering farther and farther, bit by bit, until her eyes closed. Something probed at the edge of her consciousness seeking entry, and she tried to relax her mind and let it in. Then the memories consumed her.
Chapter 8
Guillaume ducked into the narrow Parisian side street, hiding himself in the shadows as the tumbrel creaked past, heavy under the weight of its passengers—his friends who were going to their death. Most of them looked half-dead already. Maxime's jaw was held in place by a bandage, but the white material was sodden with blood from his wound and his eyes, staring wide and dull, showed his pain.
Weeks ago, days ago even, the crowds had cheered these men and praised their names and now those same people jeered at them and clamoured for their deaths. Had he been caught, he would be standing there with them now and on his way to face the guillotine's blade.
He noticed a face in the crowd looking searchingly in his direction, and he slunk back, retreating farther down the alleyway. He waited a moment, but no one followed, and he let out the breath he had been holding.
He made his way through the city, away from the Place de la Révolution, the noise of the crowd in dogged pursuit. A mighty cheer rose. One of his friends was now dead.
The stench at Les Halles—a pungent perfume of rotten food, vomit and urine—filled his nostrils and made him nauseous. A boy in tattered clothes approached and kicked him in the shins before running back to his friends, laughing all the way. Guillaume ignored the assault and soon the young urchins grew bored of him and took their game elsewhere.
Darkness fell across the city. The Parisian sky was illuminated by stars, pinpricks of light on which to make a wish. Somewhere a fire had been lit, and the smell of burning timber and smoke helped to mask the unpleasant odours of the quarter. Guillaume crept into a dark alleyway and settled down on the cold ground. Dampness seeped through his clothes, turning his bones to ice. He would try to get a few hours sleep and then he would attempt to get out of the city at first light. Maybe he'd head for England since France was no longer safe for him. With these thoughts, he slowly closed his eyes and began to drift.
The hand that grabbed him by the shoulder pulled him backwards as his eyes shot open again. They've found me! He stumbled, legs kicking, unable to gain a footing as he was dragged along the ground towards the darkest recesses of the alley.
Finally his captor ground to a halt and hoisted him to his feet as if he weighed nothing at all, pressing him against the wall. He had expected to see a grubby-faced sans-culotte, but the man appeared aristocratic. He was well-dressed in a burgundy frock coat and powdered wig, the latter showing no signs of disarray from his exertion
s. Guillaume panted and leant back against the wall. He was cold, hungry and exhausted and in no position to put up much of a fight.
He waited for the man to speak, to tell him what he wanted from him, but the only sound was a dog howling pitifully somewhere nearby until silenced by a sharp cry. The man continued to look at him keenly, peering into his eyes as if they held the answer to some vital question. Then the grip on his shoulders loosened, and he slumped down as the stranger pulled away and took a step back.
Guillaume turned, preparing to limp away. At that moment, the stranger attacked. The hand came down once again onto his shoulder, spinning him round and forcing his head to the side. Before he knew what was happening, pain exploded in his neck as the other man bit him, piercing the skin and drawing blood. He tried to fight, but his body quickly weakened, lethargy seeping through his limbs along with a feeling of weightlessness. He was only vaguely aware that he was sinking down towards the ground. He made a final effort to push against his attacker's torso, but his gesture was futile, and his arm flopped limply to his side. The last thing he remembered was a liquid being forced between his lips, a taste both unpleasantly metallic and yet like an elixir to his dying body. Then his eyes closed.
* * * *
The brightness hurt his eyes. He could feel the light against his eyelids, needles of pain, jabbing through the thin layer of skin. Still half asleep, he rolled over, trying to escape the discomfort. In moving, he found himself pressed up against something hard, and he blinked, trying to focus on it. He found himself looking at a patch of midnight blue velvet, woven with a golden thread that formed an intricate pattern of swirls.
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