Reborn (Princess of the Blood Book 1)

by Jane Ederlyn

  “What do you see?” Marguerite asked in a shaky voice.

  Marie shook her head, not wanting to say anything to panic the girl. Teeth like that belonged on a predator? Who was he? What was he? Her hands closed into tight fists as terror clawed at her. She had to remain calm.

  “We have to go now!” Mathieu’s face was pale. Their eyes met and the bleakness in his eyes reflected her horror. “They are expecting us at the house. Cut through the trees. I will stall to give you time. Survive. Do you understand?”

  Her heart felt like it was in her stomach, but she nodded.

  He dipped his head and pressed a kiss against her mouth. “I love you.”

  “What is going on?” Marguerite complained.

  He dropped his face, his forehead touching his wife’s, and then straightened. “Follow Marie.”

  “But I cannot run.”

  “Do as I say.” He opened the door and after a brief scan of the area, hopped out and handed down first Marie then Marguerite.

  The horses lay butchered in pools of blood that glinted black in the wavering glow of a remaining carriage light. Next to the horses, sweet Pierre, whom she had known since childhood, lay on his back lifeless. Behind her Marguerite screamed.

  Another man in a black cloak leapt onto the carriage with a thud. He swayed back and forth. As he moved, the cab rocked and creaked. He opened his arms, exposed a white, blood-splattered shirt, and reveled in the moonlight. Then he pierced the air with a squall and jumped off, inky folds floating around him as if he were flying.

  “Go,” Mathieu rasped, and then drew his sword and turned. The creature landed and Mathieu thrust forward, sliding into his midsection, before withdrawing a bloody sword. The creature stumbled back and collapsed but quickly rose as if he hadn’t been stabbed.

  Marie grabbed her sister-in-law’s hand and dragged her away from the road and over low bushes. Before escaping into the sea of beech trees, she looked back one last time to see the silhouette of the creature hunched over Mathieu. She needed to bring back help.

  Their panic swirled around them like dissonant chords, their breaths like bursts of staccato. Marguerite tripped on a tree root and fell to her knees.

  Marie helped her up.

  “I cannot continue. The baby—”

  “There will not be a baby if you stop running.” Marie’s voice shook with desperation.

  When they started running again, something hissed, and the hairs rose on the back of her neck. She risked a look back. They were being chased.

  Marguerite shrieked.

  “Keep moving,” Marie urged through clenched teeth. She yanked on the girl’s arm. Finding resistance, she glanced back and choked back a scream. The peasant creature was tugging on Marguerite’s other arm.

  “No.” She jerked her sister-in-law toward her forcefully and managed to free her. But as they turned to run, he caught the girl again, snapping both women to a halt. Marguerite fell. The man grabbed her leg and pulled, sliding her across the forest floor and out of Marie’s grasp. Marguerite screamed and thrashed until he lifted her up effortlessly, pushed her head to the side, and sank his fangs into her exposed skin.

  He dropped the whimpering girl and she landed in a ball at his feet. Head cocked, he faced Marie and snarled. She scrambled back in terror.

  Then he fell on Marguerite like a starving vulture, sniffing and prodding. He came back to her rounded belly, over and over as if curious.

  Marguerite awoke from her stupor and flayed at his hands. In a dizzyingly fast move, he struck out and snapped her neck. It lolled awkwardly on her shoulders. He returned his attention to her stomach.

  Marie stepped back until she felt the solid mass of a beech tree and inched along the trunk until she was behind it. She tried not to think of Marguerite or the baby. Bile flamed in her throat, threatening at the thought of what the creature was doing. She had to think of her son and concentrate on surviving for him and for Mathieu.

  The bed of leaves on the forest floor drowned her feet, crunching and crackling as she ran. Cold, bitter wind bit at her face. Her heart hammered, frantic and deafening. She panted, loud aching gasps as her lungs burned with the need for air.

  She tore through brambles, ensnaring her skirts and sending her flying to the ground. She kicked the folds free, not wasting a precious second on pain. Arms scratched and bleeding, she kept going, adrenaline pulsing through her, giving her momentum.

  She broke free of the trees. The clearing. Relief surged through her. The vineyard’s north fence was visible and it called to her like a beacon of light.

  “Help,” she yelled.

  She glimpsed back and stumbled on a fallen branch, twisting her ankle and crashing down. Dragging herself up, she winced as acute pain stabbed her. She could cry later and promised herself a warm, lavender soak. She half-ran, half-limped toward the fence.

  A blur flew by in a rush of air and dragged her down.

  “No.” She kicked wildly and found the strength to rise and run.

  The cloaked man materialized in front of her and tackled her.

  She kicked and bucked, but he merely laughed at her attempts. She looked away from him and over her shoulder, reaching for the fence as if the movement itself could propel her in that direction. “Please.”

  The man opened his mouth and the silver light reflected on his canine teeth. He smelled vile, as of blood and human waste.

  “I can pay you,” she said between gasps. “The King is my cousin.”

  He hissed and rubbed himself against her, leaving no doubt that despite whatever diseased him, he was still a man. “Pretty, pretty. Smell good.”

  Moaning, he licked and sniffed the bleeding scratches on her heaving chest while he continued to move his erection against her.

  “Please, my child will be orphaned,” she choked on a sob. “I am a Granddaughter of France.”

  He went on oblivious to her words, sniffing at her hair and splaying out her curls. His eyes looked around as if searching for someone. Then fangs appeared, a mere breath before they sank into her neck.

  She beat him with her fists, but it was no use, he was unmovable. She grew colder and weaker. Even her tears left a cold trail against her cheek. Suddenly, the black mass disappeared and she was blinded by bright light. Had her prayers been answered? “Help me.”

  “Silence.”

  “Angel?” she asked, barely audible even to her own ears.

  A rich baritone voice rumbled in laughter. “Of death, perhaps. Do you want to live?”

  A halo of platinum-blond hair and white skin gleamed in the unfettered moonlight. She tried to focus her eyes, but the face blurred in and out.

  “Princess, do you want to live?” he asked again. “You do not have much time.”

  The demand in his voice tugged on her awareness. She had to survive.

  “Yes.” The word fell out of her in a hoarse whisper.

  The angel picked her up and brought her into the security of his chest. She shivered, every inch of her now cold and numb. A groan escaped her as his fangs pierced her jugular. She stiffened, then she felt nothing but a languid apathy as the last warmth of her body seeped out. Her eyelids grew heavy and her breath sluggish; her heart slowed and the sleep of death threatened to steal her away just as a warm drop of liquid fell into her open mouth.

  “Drink,” he commanded.

  Chapter IV

  Marie awoke with a start, unease trickling down her limbs like the retreating sun. She bolted upright, tossed apart the drapes of her canopy, and slid off the bed. The floor was cold and the room pitch dark. She switched on the electric shutters, and as they rose, dusk crept into the room like an unwelcome guest.

  Why was she uneasy? The previous night began to unfold, along with an increasing dread that something
was not right. As soon as the thought turned concrete, panic exploded in her gut. She was alone in the house. Preoccupied with the werewolf, she’d forgotten to tell Abby not to go out.

  She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and dialed. Where are you? She crossed to the window and leaned her forehead against the warm glass. She was about to hang up and re-dial, when Abby answered.

  “Good evening.” Abby said, imitating Béla Lugosi.

  Normally, Marie enjoyed Abby’s “Dracula” impersonations, but the relief at finding her, turned Marie’s knees to jelly.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the grocery store, but I’m on my way home now.” A door closed, then rustling carried across the line.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “We will talk when you get here.”

  “Okay. By the way, I found a new paranormal romance. Wait ’til you see the vampire on the cover.”

  “Don’t linger, Abby. Please.”

  “Sure.”

  Marie disconnected, ending the call along with her lingering reservations about meeting the werewolf. Although she’d originally agreed to meet him, the wisdom of that choice was questionable, especially given her reaction to him. She was vacillating on whether or not to go through with it. But she had no choice really. She needed to know if they captured all the rogues, if it was an isolated incident, or somehow reoccurring. More importantly, she needed to determine if Abby would be safe or if they needed to leave. As much as she loved the heat, Miami was still a city like so many others.

  As she walked downstairs, the silk of her floor-length nightgown flounced and caressed her bare legs. She dialed another number.

  “Yes,” said a voice that drew out the simple word as if were three.

  Marie didn’t have patience with dramatic vampires. “I need to speak to Etienne.”

  “Our Lord is not available.”

  Marie rolled her eyes. “Make him available.”

  “Your Grace, I am afraid that is not possible. He is not in the country, but we have orders to be in your service. Shall I get Elijah or Bartolommeo for you?”

  “When do you expect Etienne back?”

  There was a pause on the phone before he answered, “I cannot say.”

  She was hesitant to discuss the previous night with vampires she didn’t know. She’d have to handle this herself.

  “When convenient, please have him call me.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.” His words were so drawn out he could put anyone to sleep.

  “Good evening.” She disconnected the line.

  The house was comfortable, darkening by the minute and filling with shadows cast by overhanging tree branches. She went into the kitchen and found the coffee pot still on. She poured herself a cup, letting it warm her as she filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. When the kettle whistled, she poured steaming water into a bowl then gently dropped in a package of blood for a bain marie. She could use the microwave, but it changed the flavor and created clumps, so she preferred the water bath.

  A minute later, she replaced the coffee with blood, and padded to the library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the wall and an attached ladder slid across for access to older volumes on top shelves. Leather, mahogany paneling, lemon polish, and books, new and old, mingled into an inviting scent and comfortable old world space.

  She stopped in front of the French doors, observing the failing sun through the glass shield. What would she give to see a sunrise again, to feel it on her face, to walk through a vineyard in ripe daylight? She took a sip of blood, letting it sit on her parched tongue before swallowing. It blazed a warm trail down her throat and she quickly gulped the rest until every drop was consumed. Then she licked her mouth, satisfied. All haziness and sluggishness gone.

  She swung the doors open. Although she didn’t need to breathe, her olfactory senses worked with the precision of a predator. She inhaled deeply and exhaled. Storm clouds carried a promise of rain and filtered the light into multi-colored ribbons. She braved a step onto the terrace. Immediately, millions of tiny pinpricks assaulted her and she jumped back. Dejected, she closed out the sun. “One day, perhaps.”

  She turned to the bookshelves and scanned the top shelf. “I must have references here.” A cracked leather binding with a fleur-de-lis stamp caught her eye. Volume in hand, she returned to the kitchen, refilled her cup, and with the sun finally down, went outside.

  A petite island, big enough for two palm trees and a hammock, sat in the middle of an enormous free-form pool. She jumped the water, landing precisely on the island, placed her cup down, and fell back into the hammock. It didn’t take long to find mention of loup-garou, men who turn into wolves or wolf-like creatures during the full moon. The text continued with regional tales of the Louléerou and the Beast of Gévaudan.

  The latter made her pause, vaguely remembering sitting on her grandfather’s lap while he recounted stories of the Great Beast and its grand capture. Grand-père had tried to fill the void left by her mother and father, and she loved him dearly for that.

  Abigail was near. She could sense her. Although their connection was present from the moment of Abby’s birth, it intensified when she’d fed a dying Abby her immortal blood. Their bond was unique and it was one of the many secrets she guarded.

  Five minutes later, Abby dropped grocery bags on the kitchen counter. “I’m here.”

  “I’m outside.” Marie leapt back onto the terrace.

  Abby met her, greeting her with an infectious hug. “What are you reading?” She glanced casually at the open book and her brows creased. “Since when are you interested in werewolves?”

  “I encountered several yesterday.” Marie closed the book with a thud. “Did you finish your errands?”

  “Wait. Don’t change the subject on me. When were you going to tell me that werewolves exist?”

  “Did you have a doubt? Vampires are real, why wouldn’t werewolves be real?”

  “True.” Abby narrowed her eyes. “But what did they want with you?”

  “I don’t know yet. Now tell me, did you finish your errands?”

  Abby gave her a hard look, but let her change the subject. “Yes, I stopped at the bank and Publix. I bought lovely fresh fruit, veggies, and this.” With a flourish, she unveiled her latest book purchase.

  “Honestly, Abigail, another one? How many does that make now?”

  “Shush, you read what you want, and I‘ll read what I want. I love romantic tales of blood-thirsty, sex-starved vampires looking for mates.” Abby’s eyes twinkled and she giggled, but Marie didn’t laugh.

  France, 1788

  Anton Patin closed the door behind him and locked it.

  Marie rushed him. “Why are you keeping me here? Where is my husband?” She cried out and doubled over, clutching her midsection.

  “You need to feed,” he said.

  “Please, I want to go home.”

  “That life is over, Princess. You are now vampire.”

  “Vampire?” She blinked, not understanding.

  He took her hand. Bowing, he pressed his lips against the soft skin then grazed it with his teeth.

  She gasped and snatched it away. He straightened and smiled, baring long sharp fangs. Her eyes widened and she recoiled, retreating farther and farther into the room until her back hit the wall and there was nowhere else to go.

  “You were there,” she accused.

  “I saved you.” He ambled toward her, closing in on his prize.

  As if his words unlocked her memory, her eyes darkened and she released an anguished, mournful sob. “Mathieu!”

  Anton touched a wall panel and it swung around, revealing a full-length, gilded mirror. Grabbing her face, he squ
eezed her chin and forced her to look at her reflection. She stilled as if not recognizing the woman staring back at her. Her hair was a bird’s nest of tangles and ribbons of dirt streaked her face. She blinked back tears and tentatively reached up to touch the tip of a fang.

  “I have been waiting a long time for you to share my life. I will not lose you now.”

  She gasped. “I am a monster.”

  Another round of contractions seized her, her body shook, and pink froth spewed out of her mouth and down her chin. He released her and she swayed on her feet, collapsing into a heap.

  “You will feel better,” he assured in a soothing tone, “as soon as you drink.” He extended his wrist.

  She turned her face away and curled into herself.

  Anton’s eyes narrowed. “Drink,” he said, his voice brusque. “Drink and take your place at my side.”

  She shook her head.

  Anton bit back his frustration. Even disheveled, she was exquisite with large eyes framed by thin arched brows and long lashes. Her nose was straight, the tip round and softly pointed upward. Her complexion was porcelain smooth, and high cheekbones defined her features. Her perfectly sculpted mouth was full and intoxicating, especially now with blood crusted on her bottom lip. He wanted a mate, and if fortune had put her in his path, then she was his to take. He roared in triumph at the thought of her royal blood coursing through him.

  “These are dangerous times we live in, Marie Josette. The good people of France think your cousin is a fool and the queen a foreign whore and spendthrift.”

  “Falsehoods. All of it.”

  He shrugged. “They are hungry and it is only a matter of time before they turn on the monarchy.”

  She lifted her head, and he studied her as the reality of his words sunk in.