by Jen Colly
Gustav left, walking through the rain. He hadn’t been far from Rue Daru, a short street smack between Parc Monceau and the Arc de Triomphe. He’d known something was wrong the moment his weekly happy time had been shattered. Soren rarely came into Paris, and never called for help. This could be interesting.
* * * *
Soren picked up the purse, a bit tricky to do as he held her limp body, but he refused to set her down, to let go of her. Besides, the only place to put her was in a puddle.
She didn’t have much in her purse. He fished through the little thing, ignoring the English to French phrasebook, the lipgloss, and a small book entitled City Walks: Paris—50 Adventures on Foot. Opening her wallet, he removed her license. The outdated picture showed her hair at an odd, short length.
Faith. Her name was Faith. How very simple, demure. Human.
She was still unconscious, but beautiful. No specific feature drew him. He just couldn’t describe her any other way. And that alone made no sense.
Soren pulled stray pieces of her wet hair away from her face, smoothed it back with the rest. After he found the knot on her head, relief filled him. It did not bleed. She’d have a terrible headache, but would be fine.
He cursed himself. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to him. How could he have been so stupid? He hadn’t meant to frighten her. Should have taken the time to seduce her, to draw her in with sweet words and a gentle touch, making him easier to forget. He should be a distant memory, or at most, a story of a romantic encounter. But he’d craved a taste of her so badly he hadn’t attempted to soothe her fears. Fear heightened the senses. She was likely aware she’d been bitten. And that was impossible to explain away.
Not in all the centuries he’d walked the earth had he ever lost control.
“Lurking in alleyways, Soren?” Gustav scolded from the shadows, his off-kilter French accent bending his words.
“Gustav. What took you so long?”
“When all you give me is the name of the street, you’re damn lucky I’m here at all,” Gustav said, stepping into the alley. His goatee hid his face, keeping him blended well with the darkness. “Open your eyes and throw me a number next time.”
Gustav halted before the two bodies splayed across the cobblestones.
“Soren,” he said expectantly. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know. Both attacked her.”
Gustav turned his piercing gaze to him, and the woman he held. “I can see why. I would. So what’s the problem?”
“They’re dead. That might be a problem.” Growling his frustration, he tried to shield the woman from Gustav’s unhurried perusal.
“All right, then. Let’s see what we have.” Gustav lowered himself to the ground in a quick, fluid motion, balancing on the balls of his feet as he examined the two men. The first man’s face was bloodied and smashed. If he’d lived, it hadn’t been for long. But the second... “You shot him?”
Gustav had every right to question him. Not only was this out of character for him, but the entire vampire race firmly disagreed with taking a life.
“That one started moving not long after he hit the wall.” His tone was dark, accusing.
Gustav’s focus shifted sharply to the men on the ground. With the injuries sustained, neither man should have been able to wake. He pulled up the first man’s top lip. Fangs protruded, gleaming white. The man with the bloodied face was the same. Gustav touched the first man’s cheek with the back of his hand, then the second.
“Both are very warm to the touch, even with the chilled rain working hard to cool their bodies,” Gustav mumbled, talking more to himself than to Soren.
The heat should not be there. He silently prayed as Gustav lifted an eyelid on each man, checking the color of the iris.
Gustav shot to his feet, drawing out a short sword tucked under the folds of his coat. “Not in my city,” he snarled with teeth clenched. And with the accuracy of one familiar with killing, he stabbed both men through the heart.
“They were…”
“Yes.” Gustav wiped the thick, dark blood from his sword onto the shirt of one of the corpses. “It’s been two decades since I’ve seen more than one in the same place, and nearly a decade since I’ve seen any of those red-eyed devils.”
“I assumed they were vampire. They look like us. Strange.”
Gustav agreed with a nod. “They can appear either human or ghoulish, but the red eyes don’t lie,” he said as he searched the pockets of the fallen demons. Finding nothing more than cash, cigarettes, and a lighter, he stopped.
Soren was shaken, and though he tried to present a calm demeanor, his short answers and expression would be enough to alert his friend that he had sunk very deep in thought because of the demons, or the woman in his arms.
“And her?” Gustav asked, pointing a finger at the woman.
“She’s mine.” Soren pulled her legs up and cradled her. Now was not the time nor place to discuss what would be done with her. “We’ll talk at your home.” He walked past Gustav, his precious cargo’s limp arm swinging with each step.
“Very inconspicuous, Soren,” Gustav said.
“Let’s see how inconspicuous you are moving two dead bodies.” He left the alley, and his friend.
* * * *
Faith looked up at the silhouette of a man curled over her, his head barely blocking the raindrops pelting her face. She was moving, her feet were not, and the city was sideways. The foreign world passed by her, the images coming slowly, as if she were seeing everything through someone else’s eyes.
She was numb, her muscles from cold, her mind from shock. Her memories seemed intact, scrambled and hazy, but intact. She remembered being afraid of flying on the airplane, and the taste of the ginger gum that kept her nausea at bay. She’d been lost in the rain on the way back to her hotel. Then two men had trapped her in an alley.
Her shoulders and ribs shuddered with chills powerful enough to make her teeth rattle. She fought through it, lifted her head and looked down at her hands.
“My purse.” The words didn’t come out right. Her jaw refused to open, and her lips had difficulty forming the simple words. She tried again. “Took my purse.”
“I have it. You need to be warm and dry right now,” the man said, keeping up his pace, never once looking at her. By the sheer confidence in his husky tones, without a doubt, this was the man who had saved her. That intense look on his face was nearly the same as when he’d pulled the muggers off her, driven them into the wall. It was oddly comforting, at the moment.
Tall buildings, probably homes, surrounded her, swaying in her field of vision as he strode along. Light peeked through several arched windows, yellow and warm.
He entered one of the larger buildings as if he owned it and carried her past several numbered doors to the end of the hallway, where he started down a creaking set of stairs. Suddenly she feared falling down those stairs, but her shuddering muscles wouldn’t allow her to hold on tighter. She closed her eyes and trusted him not to drop her.
After the last step had been left behind, she took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and almost wished she hadn’t. The basement hallway was musty, and each bare light bulb they passed only revealed cracks chasing each other across the ceiling.
He stopped, pressed her against a green door as he fished for the doorknob with the hand supporting her legs.
“Put me down,” she said, trying to help, and fully expecting him to drop her to her feet.
He fought with the knob until it finally gave and carried her inside, then kicked the door shut behind him. Dodging an old green couch with sunken cushions, he swiftly took her to the next room. She caught sight of a small bed and a green dresser with blue splotches where the paint peeled away before she was swept into a bathroom and set on the toilet as if it were a regular chair.
He left her alone in the bathroom while he rummaged through the dresser drawers in the other room, but returned
quickly.
The light in the bathroom revealed him for the first time. Tall, but not towering, he stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his short hair. His straight, relaxed eyebrows followed the squared line of his forehead, giving him a very serious look.
He reached out, and she flinched. An automatic reaction, and unnecessary. His target hadn’t been her. He set a pile of clothes on the sink between them.
“Get out of those wet clothes,” he said.
She shook her head, her protest silent, but firm.
In a gentler tone, he tried again. “Look at your hands.”
She did, but only because he didn’t crowd her. Practically white, her hands shook badly.
“Dry yourself and change. You’re safe here,” he said, then shut the door.
She lifted the T-shirt from the top of the pile and held it up. A man’s shirt, the words across the front French, but she didn’t understand them. She set the shirt on the other side of the sink, and dug through the clothes. A thick pair of cotton socks and navy sweatpants, and beneath the pants, a towel. He’d given her a towel.
Smiling, she picked up the blue, fluffy thing and pressed it against her cheek. Never in her life could she remember being this happy to have a towel. Her excitement was misplaced, but she didn’t care. She leaped to the door and twisted the small lock securely.
She stripped off her sweater first, dried herself, and then threw on the T-shirt. It was comfortable, and almost fit. She struggled to pull the wet jeans from her legs. The heavy fabric clung to her skin. When she’d tugged them free, she lifted the sopping mass of clothes from the floor and tossed them into the tub.
Leaning back against the wall, she steadied her balance as she yanked on the sweatpants and socks. The sweatpants were too long. She rolled the waistband down a couple of times, which would keep the hem from getting caught underfoot.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and paused, not completely recognizing the woman looking back. Her mascara had decided to retreat from her lashes to give her those very lovely raccoon eyes every woman dreaded, and rightly so. But it wasn’t just that. Her face looked ashen. She must be much colder than she felt.
Holding her hair over the sink, she wrung out the water. What she wouldn’t give for her hairdryer, a big Remington running full blast on high heat. She’d probably give up on her hair and point it at her feet. Leaning against the wall again, she tipped her head upside down and rubbed the already wet towel over her hair vigorously, drying it as best she could.
Her breathing came in short, labored bursts. As she stopped drying her hair and lifted her head, her vision darkened, and she let the towel fall. Blindly searching with her hands for something solid, she fell against the wall with a thud and slid to the floor.
Meet the Author
Jen Colly is the rare case of an author who rebelled against reading assignments throughout her school years. Now she prefers reading books in a series, which has led her to writing her first paranormal romance series: The Cities Below. She will write about anything that catches her fancy, though truth be told, her weaknesses are pirates and vampires. She lives in Ohio with her supportive husband, two kids, one big fluffy dog, and four rescued cats. For more info please visit jencolly.com.