Fascinated by both French history and her own genealogy, Amanda had researched her family tree back to a Monique Moulin, who had been born in California in 1842. She had married Charles Devereaux and come to New York at the turn of the century, where she died in 1901. Amanda knew nothing more about Monique except what a New York census could tell her. Her relatives were names and dates on a page, and for some reason the trail had gone cold with Monique. Though Amanda had no proof, she sensed her family had fled France and gone to England during the French Revolution.
“Where are you living?” She asked impulsively.
“There’s this place in the West Village I’ve been hanging out—”
“A halfway house, I hope.”
“Well, not really. Ryan sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He began to walk toward the tunnel as a couple passed them.
Amanda followed hesitantly.
“There’s this club …” He stared straight ahead as he walked. “I give blood and I get paid so I can buy—”
“What do you mean, you give blood?” She stopped him. “Ryan, what the hell are you talking about?”
He seemed distracted, more distant than she remembered.
“Here.” She reached into the side pocket of her leather purse for a fifty-dollar bill. “This is all I have.”
“Thanks a lot, ’Man. You always come through for me.” He gave her the same line every time.
“Yeah.” She fought back tears, promising to make this short and sweet. “That’s my lot in life, I guess. Always there for you.”
There was so much she wanted to say, but then, what was the use of it?
“I’d better go now,” he announced, giving her a weak smile.
“What are those marks, Ryan? She noticed marks on his neck, just below his left ear. They looked like puncture wounds.
“I told you I give blood to …” He reached up and touched the wounds.
“Ryan, who are these people you are hanging out with?”
“No, it’s what are they … they’re … beautiful and different, Amanda.”
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight, let me help—”
“I gotta get back. One of them owes me money. He promised to pay me later.”
“Where is this place?” She ran her hand through her hair, something she did when she got angry. “Who are these people?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, baby sister. I am well taken care of.” He glanced off into space, and at that moment Amanda felt afraid for him. There had been a time when they could read each other’s thoughts, and then it had stopped. She blamed it on the drugs.
“You don’t appear to be well taken care of, Ryan. Let me get you cleaned up and—”
“I can’t, Amanda. I give them my blood and … it doesn’t hurt and—”
“Ryan, you aren’t making sense. Why would anyone take your blood?”
“They are vampires, man. In fact, the guy I was just with was asking about you. He musta read my mind.”
At that moment, she thought he was delusional. Later she would think about their conversation often, replaying it in her mind.
“Ryan, you aren’t making any sense.” Panic gripped her as he pulled away.
“You’re a great sister.” He smiled and tried to hug her again. “I gotta go.”
“Fine. Keep in touch.” She choked back tears.
Their eyes locked, and for brief second she recognized him, which made the moment all the more painful. She turned, listening to her footsteps on the pavement. Amanda tried to put him out of her mind. It wasn’t like she was responsible for him, but he always haunted her. She was almost out of the tunnel when she decided to turn back. Maybe she could catch him, and maybe it could be different this time.
Suddenly, the echo of his screams filled the tunnel.
“Ryan?” She ran back into the darkness, away from the crowds at the Boathouse.
In the streetlight she saw them, but it took a second for her mind to wrap around what was happening. Ryan was flailing, pinned up against the wall, held up by his throat by a tall figure in dark clothes. It took her another second to realize that he was dangling about two feet off the ground.
“Amanda, run!” Her brother screamed, flailing his arms and legs at the man who held him.
She heard a snarl and then the dark figure pulled out what looked like a hunting knife. Ryan tried to pummel the looming figure while she watched in horror as in one sweeping motion, he slit Ryan’s throat from ear to ear. Ryan gurgled as blood poured down the front of his gray T-shirt, spreading out like a dark fan covering his chest. Amanda tried to scream as her brother was dropped to the ground in a heap, his blood gushing onto the sidewalk as the dark figure knelt over him. She felt something warm running down her leg and realized she had just wet herself. The murderer turned toward her, snarling through what looked like exposed fangs.
Sweat trickled down her face as he came toward her, catlike and graceful. Amanda tried to see his face in the shadows. She glanced at Ryan, not moving on the ground. He’s dead, oh my God, he’s dead.
Her legs would not move; they felt like concrete. I am going to die here with him.
“Antoine, get away from her.” A man’s voice rang out. The figure turned toward the voice in the darkness.
Amanda heard a swooshing sound and froze, as Antoine’s head separated from his neck, momentarily suspended in the air before dropping and rolling toward her brother. His body crumbled, falling on the pavement going up in flames. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
Another figure emerged from the shadows. He seemed shorter, with shoulder-length brown hair. Like the other man, he too was dressed in black. He hovered over her brother’s body, dabbed Ryan’s blood onto his finger, and licked it, like a cat lapping a bowl of milk.
Oh my God. She heard the words echo in her head, but had she said them aloud? Is he going to kill me, too?
He hovered over her brother’s body for what seemed like forever. Amanda watched him, wondering what he was doing, then he looked up at her and snarled, slowly getting up off the ground, his face covered in Ryan’s blood. He had something in his hand, a jar perhaps, that he shoved into the inside pocket of his coat.
“There you are my beauty. Come to me, child.” He called to her in a voice that caressed her, and it seemed as if he recognized her. She could not hear his footsteps as he came toward her. It was as if he floated above the concrete. He reached out his hand, and she saw his eyes, dark and bottomless. Something caught her eye as another figure came out of the shadows. He was tall and thin, and wore a flowing black coat. She noticed that his golden hair hung down his back in flowing waves. He was beautiful, and she sensed he would not harm her.
“Get away from her, Lucien, unless you want your head to roll,” the blond man hissed vehemently, his deep voice strangely comforting. He gracefully stepped toward her. Sweat trickled down her face as he studied her. It seemed as though he were making sure she was okay.
The other one hissed at the tall blond figure. Then he was gone, melting into the evening shadows. She stood alone with the mysterious man. She wanted to thank him, but then she noticed the bloody machete in his right hand. Is he going to take my head, too? She felt weak as darkness descended.
Chapter Four
GAÉTAN STOOD AT the salon window of the apartment he had once shared with Gabrielle and stared down at the Saturday night traffic on the Rue de Rivoli. The lights illuminating the Louvre reflected back into the room. This had been his residence since the turn of the nineteenth century, when La Révolution Française had finally ended and the arrogant Napoleon had come to power. Gaétan folded his arms across his muscular chest and debated whether summoning Gabrielle had been a good idea. They had not spoken since the night he brought Solange back to Paris in 1814. Taking Solange as his lover had infuriated Gabrielle, and had been the final blow to their already stormy relationship. To this day, they shared the city in an uneasy truce. Yet she has agree
d to come here tonight.
He listened for Solange’s return from the Bois de Boulogne. She had gone hunting in the park for the usual fare: a prostitute, a drug addict, or one of Paris’s many homeless. The Bois was one kind of park by day and an infamous red-light district by night. Prostitutes were a dime a dozen; easy prey for his kind. He had not told her about the meeting, fearing her typical reaction: rage. He ran his hand through his sandy brown hair and fought his own hunger. Though he was older and needed less blood to survive, tonight’s meeting worried him and he could not afford to lose his focus. A quick drink would take the edge off, but there was little time to hunt. Just a sip, he thought, fighting the urge.
He threw open the French doors and breathed in the late summer air. His sense of urgency grew with each passing night. A warm breeze blew his shoulder-length hair away from his chiseled face and creamy skin. Lucien had returned to him and reported that Antoine had slit the young mortal’s throat, but paid with his own life. Lucien had barely escaped with his own life, yet he had done the unthinkable. He had taken blood from the dead mortal, scooping it up into a vial before the retched Christian had chased him away. When he dangled the blood in front of Gaétan, the older vampire saw no other way. Luring him into the Bois, he had chained him and left him to die in the late summer sun, not before he learned where Lucien had hid the precious blood. When he returned two days later, only ashes remained.
Gaétan reached for the warm vial around his neck and shut the window. He appeared odd, surrounded by feminine finery; the room had been decorated by Solange in Chintz draperies, upholstered chairs, white overflowing book cases, and a white marble mantle adorned with English porcelains. Even the oriental carpet was in pink and blue hues.
He dashed into the masculine master bathroom. Turning on the hot tap, he methodically removed his Rolex watch and numerous silver rings as the sink filled up. Bending over the bowl, Gaétan splashed hot water on his face in an attempt to calm himself and to focus on the task at hand. A million thoughts raced through his mind, most revolving around the vial of blood dangling at his neck.
Solange had been a child when he had seen her for the first time, after following Christian and Michel to London. He had to admit that he had been just as curious about her as was Gabrielle. In all his life, Gaétan knew of only one instance in which a mortal and a vampire had produced a child; that child had died shortly after birth. But Solange had been a miracle. He had kept a watchful distance, intrigued by Christian and Michel’s roles in her life, as well as the little girl.
As he dried his face, he recalled going back and forth between Paris and London under the resentful eyes of Gabrielle, as Christian and Michel had settled into a new life in London and Solange had grown up. Many French aristocrats had fled there out of necessity, yet he found the city unimaginative and boorish. He squirted on his favorite French cologne and studied himself in the bedroom mirror. It is only Gabrielle you fool, so why are you preening like a teenager on his first date?
Black jeans hugged his thin, muscular legs, and his black shirt lay tucked in at his narrow waist. His black Harley Davidson boots with silver buckles and a high heel gave him the illusion of being taller than his 5’8” frame. Let Solange comb Rue du Rivoli and Avenue Foch for haute couture. He preferred jeans and a T-shirt to the ruffles, great coats, and knickers of centuries past.
He took the vial from around his neck and buried it in his dresser drawer beneath his neatly folded socks. Then, changing his mind, he impulsively grabbed it from the drawer, twisted off the cap, and tapped the vial on his tongue. Easy there, just a little this time. The warm blood oozed down his throat, igniting a fire in his veins. Gaétan sat down on the king-size bed, suddenly dizzy; his head reeled with the now-familiar images from the boy’s life.
He lay back and closed his eyes, clutching the sheets as a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds filled his head in a rush. The vampire felt his limbs melt into the mattress as his senses heightened, yet his mind felt calm and at peace. I have not felt this way since I was a mortal man, he thought as the blood inside him brought forth the mortality he had long ago lost and strangely missed.
He rolled onto his side and clutched his stomach as pain burst through his guts. He broke out in a sweat, feeling weak and vulnerable. He knew it would pass and the feeling of humanity rather than his predatory nature as a bloodsucker would fill him up. He felt inhumanly powerful, yet mortal again; a hypnotic, seductive combination of sensations.
The images of a young girl morphed into a beautiful woman, both elegant and erotic. She stood with her brother in the park, the night he was murdered. He could see the worry and fear on her face. He fought his erection and ejaculation as her voice and smell caressed him, wrapping him in feelings of acceptance, love, and comfort like nothing he had ever known. Her dark green eyes smiled up at him as she bent her neck for him to drink.
Whether it was the boy’s blood causing these hallucinations or his heart, lonely and desperate for love, did not matter to the ancient vampire. Irrational or not, he had already made up his mind to go to New York to find her.
I don’t care if Christian is guarding her night and day, he thought as he tried to sit up on the king-size bed. She will be mine.
Chapter Five
GAÉTAN SAT UP and glanced at his watch. It was midnight. He jumped up to get ready for Gabrielle’s visit. As he passed Solange’s dressing table, he took note of all her perfumes, makeup, and jewelry haphazardly strewn on the tabletop. She never had been a neat person. Even as a young married woman living in London in the early nineteenth century, she had been a slob. Thankfully she had married well and had household servants. He picked up one of her hairbrushes and ran it under his nose. Just then he heard the lock click, the front door open and close. Like a cool breeze, she enveloped him in her thin arms wrapped around his waist. He let her hold him for a moment.
“You seem pensive of late, my love.” She whispered into his back, her upper class British accent as sharp as a knife.
Gaétan closed his eyes, feeling her warm body engorged with blood from feeding pressed up against him. She would want to make love before their night at the opera, and afterward wander the Champs-Élysées until dawn.
She slipped past him and sat down at her makeup table to brush her thick, brown hair. Turning first one way and then another, she studied her impish profile in the mirror. Gaétan knew she was not sure if she liked either her new bob haircut or the highlights the Avenue Foch salon had convinced her were stylish and made her look younger. The torches burned low, giving her alabaster skin a yellowish tint. She applied a pale pink lipstick, and then blotted her full lips before brushing on mascara and a smoky brown eye shadow that accentuated her luminous brown eyes. Her high cheekbones were flushed from feeding.
She began to play with the chain of her heart-shaped necklace a gesture Gaétan knew meant she was impatient. Gaétan followed her into her walk-in closet but said nothing as she began flipping through the hangers, eyeing first one gown and then another. Finally she settled on a strapless black satin Dior.
“Solange, we must talk,” he whispered, checking his watch again. Gabrielle would be there any minute. Taking the hanger out of her hand, he put it back on the rack. “We are not going to the opera tonight. Dress simply and meet me in the living room.”
“What’s going on, Gee?” She asked, using her nickname for him as she followed him into the living room. She was never one to take orders from anyone, even him, without an explanation.
“We have company coming tonight. I need you to be civil, listen, and keep your wits about you. Now please, Solange, get dressed.”
She replied with her usual pout and folded her arms over her chest.
“Pray tell, Gee, who is—?”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
“It will be a surprise.” He smiled and headed toward the foyer with a knot in his stomach. He knew how much she hated surprises.
Gaétan took a deep breath before opening
the front door. He could feel them standing just inside the shadows on the pavement, visible to the vampire eye but never to mortals passing by. She stood in a long red gown. She looked just as he remembered her: wild, dark curly hair flowing over her broad shoulders, wide set dark eyes, fleshy lips, long legs, and voluminous breasts. It was not regret, he told himself, but nostalgia for the beautiful and tumultuous eighteenth century.
Then he noticed Étienne; tall and commanding, towering over Gabrielle. Like Solange, he had chosen the path of the nightwalker willingly. Although it was Christian and Michel who had found him on the streets of Paris, it was Gabrielle who had turned him, on his sixteenth birthday, before taking him as her lover. Gaétan wondered if she still pined away for her beloved Christian. Is that why she has come?
It was Étienne who first stepped into the light, dressed entirely in black. His once long hair was now cropped short, his blue eyes both woeful and intense. They reminded Gaétan of Christian’s eyes; deep and bottomless, hypnotic and unyielding.
“We got your message.” He spoke, his lips barely moving.
“Please come in, both of you.” He turned both palms up in a common gesture meaning no malice. “It is only Solange and I.”
Gabrielle stepped into the light next to Étienne. “How do we know you do not mean to slaughter us as well, Gaétan?” Gabrielle’s voice wrapped around him, feeling painfully erotic and soothing, as it had always been between them.
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