Book One: The Girl (The Sanctum)

by Blaylock, Madhuri

  Dev tried his doorknob and finding it unlocked, walked in and closed the door quietly. She tiptoed down the hallway, past the living room and to the threshold of Wyatt’s bedroom without making a sound. It made no difference whether she was silent or not; Wyatt was wide awake and watching her as she approached his bedside.

  She stared at him for a moment, wondering why she suddenly doubted every move she made with him. A few hours ago, everything between them seemed instinctive, organic even, as if they moved and thought as one. And although Wyatt had left his door unlocked specifically for her, Dev still wondered whether he was pleased by her presence.

  “Sorry. I can’t sleep,” she explained.

  Wyatt moved over in his bed, making room for her next to him as if it was the most natural thing he could do. As if he expected her and yet, Dev hesitated, unsure whether this was what he really wanted or he just could not say no to her.

  “Don’t be sorry. I can’t sleep either,” Wyatt offered.

  Dev crawled in beside him, watching him all the while. She made sure to keep her distance, not trusting herself to touch him, just satisfied to be near him.

  "I'm not going to bite you," Wyatt promised.

  "But I might bite you,” she explained with a slight curve of her lips, “so I think I'll stay over here.”

  As much as she wanted to cross the space between them and curl up in Wyatt’s arms, Dev remained on the far edge of the king-size bed. Realizing she wasn't going to come any closer to him and fully aware that he would never be able to relax with her so near and still so far away, Wyatt pulled her into his arms, curling her body to fit perfectly into his. He affectionately nuzzled her neck, happy to have her to himself, certain he would be able to sleep now that she was next to him. With Wyatt’s arms around her, Dev relaxed and gave into her exhaustion. Curling closer to him, she tangled her long legs with his, Wyatt held onto her a little tighter and they both fell into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The strikingly handsome vampire slipped into the lower east side lounge unnoticed by most, but she saw him. She figured he was glamouring himself otherwise there was no way, with his bedroom eyes, full lips and perfect behind that he would get very far without every head turning in his direction. Darby stopped feeding on the girl seated next to her in the red, leather booth, touched the puncture holes on the girl’s wrist with a little of her own saliva and sent her on her way. The girl was a pretty little thing with her big eyes and French schoolgirl bangs, but Darby was far more intrigued by the sexy vamp.

  She knew he knew she was there, so Darby waited. This was, after all, her city. Although she didn’t abide by the rules governing vampires, the ludicrous insistence upon living together like a bunch of bats, serving one master, avoiding the light, they respected her nonetheless. And no one came or left Manhattan without her approval, for doing so could have deadly consequences as Darby had no problem killing her own kind.

  The vampire spotted Darby in the back of the dark lounge and tipped his head ever so slightly before stopping to speak to the bartender. Moments later, with drink in hand, he headed straight for Darby's back booth, never taking his eyes off her.

  "Darby Winthrop, I presume," he stated with a slight accent she could not place.

  "Sweetheart, that depends who's asking," she replied.

  "Olivier Thaskins,” he smiled and bowed slightly, “but my friends call me Ollie."

  Darby studied him for a moment then held out her tiny hand to him. Olivier bent low and kissed it.

  "Charmed, Mr. Thaskins," she replied.

  "May I?" he asked, gesturing to her empty booth.

  "By all means," Darby smiled seductively, "please do."

  Olivier slid into the booth, resting his arm across the top, and smiled lazily at Darby. Running her finger around and around the edge of her martini glass, Darby wondered at his cockiness, intrigued but not quite interested enough to make a move. She knew good sex a mile away, and this vamp screamed a night of nothing but good sex, but he would have to work for it. She wasn't easy.

  "No one mentioned you were quite so fetching, Ms. Winthrop," Olivier stated in what could only be described as a purr.

  Darby tossed her head back and laughed.

  "Oh, honey," Darby began, "I am an old bitch. This little game you’re trying to run on me, it ain’t gonna work.”

  Olivier grinned, charmed by Darby’s devilishness. For all her Southern breeding and charm, she was still a feisty thing, always itching for a fight. Olivier was definitely game to the challenge.

  “Ah, Darby. May I call you Darby?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied, “all my friends call me Darby.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong. Let us start again, no?”

  “And how exactly have I got you all wrong?” she wondered.

  Olivier took his time answering her question, contemplating her all the while. Although he tended towards dark skinned, dark haired women, he could see how Darby’s blonde hair and doll-like features drew in both men and women alike. She was beautiful with her slightly almond-shaped, green eyes and perfect, pink pout. She was precious and terrifying at the same time. And she smelled like heaven.

  “I think you have my intentions all wrong. I simply wanted to pay my respects, seeing as you are the dark queen of this fair city. That is all. I am most certainly not trying to play any kind of game with you.”

  “Well, Mr. Thaskins,” Darby stated as she stood to depart, “that’s a shame because I was most definitely in a playful mood. Enjoy that drink, sweetheart.”

  Darby swung her purse off the table and exited the lounge, pausing on the sidewalk before turning and heading home. It had been a fun night, Olivier paid his respects and now she needed some shut-eye. She considered taking a cab home, just to amuse herself, but when none passed, Darby continued walking along Avenue B, her tiny, black-garbed figure barely visible on the dark street.

  “Darby,” Olivier called out to her as she turned onto 4th street.

  She turned back towards the sexy vampire, hardly surprised to find him following her.

  “Mr. Thaskins, what a lovely surprise,” she lied.

  Olivier approached her slowly, a sly smirk curving his luscious lips.

  “Please do call me Olivier, I insist,” he stated as he came to a halt in front of her.

  The hairs on Darby’s arms rose with the thrill she felt go through her at being so close to him. She stepped around him and continued on her way home.

  “I will call you whatever I please, Mr. Thaskins, thank you very much,” she called as she walked away.

  Olivier smiled as he watched Darby for a few steps before running to catch up to her. He could not resist the challenge she presented but even more than that, he wanted her. Like a hunger. Reaching her easily, Olivier grabbed her hand, spun her into him and kissed her hard and deep, grabbing fistfuls of her hair while he pressed her against the wall of a building and she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer. She ran her hands under his shirt, raking her nails along his back as he kissed her neck, teasing the sensitive skin with his fangs.

  Darby would have let Olivier take her right there, against that building were it not for the drunk college students that passed them and shouted, “get a room!”

  The audacity of the act enraged Olivier and he set after the kids, determined to do god-knows-what. Darby rolled her eyes, straightened her dress and reapplied her lipstick before taking off after the young vampire, wondering why she even bothered. She caught him steps from her home, mercilessly torturing the boy who so rudely interrupted them, savagely feeding on him as his friends stood and watched in horror. Sensing the life was quickly slipping from the young man, Darby attacked, catching Olivier by surprise just as she hoped. Holding the vampire around his neck, Darby attended to the injured boy as his friends scattered. She would deal with them later. She fed him some of her blood, closed up his gruesome neck wound and took off for the waterfront with Olivi
er in her arms.

  Tired of listening to his constant bitching and moaning as she searched for the building address, Darby stopped, reached into Olivier’s pretty mouth and pulled out his tongue, the very same tongue that just minutes earlier was tasting every inch of her mouth.

  “I am sure you are wondering to yourself right about now,” Darby explained as she walked along with the wounded vampire, “what ever have I done to make Ms. Winthrop so very irate? Well, don’t you worry your pretty little head over that one, Mr. Thaskins. I’ll explain everything soon enough.”

  Finally stopping in front of a nondescript building with a red door, Darby reached into her bra and pulled out a key. Unlocking the door, she pushed Olivier through the threshold and followed after him, making certain to lock the bolts behind her. The bottom floor of the building was in a complete state of disrepair, having suffered massive damage after the hurricanes that ripped across the island, but that mattered little to Darby. All she needed was the chair in the middle of the room. She pushed the sometime-wimpering, sometime-roaring vampire into the chair and before he knew what was happening, Darby ripped off both of his arms at the shoulders. She tossed the limbs aside like they were trash as Olivier howled in agony.

  “Sit down, Mr. Thaskins,” Darby instructed.

  Olivier writhed in pain, but sat, just as Darby demanded, looking upon her with fear and loathing.

  “Ou itch,” Olivier growled.

  “Hush now,” Darby shook her curls at him, “that is no way to talk to a lady. Didn’t your mama teach you any manners.”

  “Uck ou!” he spat.

  Darby tossed her head back and laughed.

  “You pathetic little boy. You thought you were gonna trot into my town with that pretty face of yours and what? Run your hands over my panties and I was going to do your dirty work? That I wouldn’t feel that mark at the base of your hairline? The Breslin brand?

  “You must take me for a fool.”

  “I admit, that little bit back there against the wall was hot and you coulda totally had your way with me. You totally were having your way with me, running those hands of yours all over me like that and using your tongue with the fangs. Hot damn, I’m getting hot just talkin’ about it, but I guess you won’t be doing that anymore, now will you?” Darby asked as she looked over at his dead arms lying a few feet away.

  “Oops,” she said with a wicked grin.

  “I suppose if I really wanted to know what you’re up to, I wouldn’t have ripped out your tongue, but I kind of already have a hunch so I don’t need you explaining a thing to me. I bet it has something to do with that hot ass girl running around Manhattan, getting Breslin all up in a tizzy. Am I right, honey?” Darby asked as she grabbed his face in her hand and made him look at her.

  “I am, I know I am. And guess what? I have seen her, you bet your butt. Girlfriend is hot, I mean like fire hot, like you want to take her clothes off and just do all kinds of things with her hot. But let me tell you, she is also wicked strong and crazy powerful and that lunatic Breslin is right: she is coming for him and it’s going to be ugly.”

  “Just like what I’m about to do to you right now, you nasty traitor, getting in bed with that cretin.”

  Darby then reached for the canister of gas sitting in the window sill, doused Olivier as he screamed, stood back, calmly lit a match and set him on fire. She smiled as she watched him burn to death, certain she hadn’t made him suffer enough but satisfied with his fiery demise. As his body turned to dust and the fire disappeared, Darby turned to leave, then stopped, suddenly sensing she was not alone.

  “Tsk, tsk, Darby,” a voice called from the shadows, “shame on you, killing mon cher, Olivier.”

  Before she could run, Luc Arseneault had her in his grasp and there was little Darby could do to escape.

  “Luc,” Darby gasped, doing her best to keep her voice steady, “goodness, how are you?”

  Luc grabbed a fist of Darby’s hair and dragged her to the still smoldering chair upon which Olivier had just been seated.

  “Have a seat, Mademoiselle Winthrop,” Luc instructed, menacing without raising his voice.

  Darby hesitated so Luc pushed her into the chair, burning through her dress and melting the skin on the backs of her thighs, but she knew better than to make a sound for this was only the beginning.

  “Just get this over with, Luc,” Darby hissed.

  Luc glared down at her, shaking his head slowly, laughing at Darby.

  “Ahhh, ma petite belle de la Sud, you are in no position to make any demands of me. I will do with you as I please and what pleases me right now, at this very moment, is to watch you sit in that chair and burn for a while. I can smell your skin frying to a crisp, like mon cher, Olivier."

  "I had no idea you held that boy in such affection. It's quite unlike you," Darby observed.

  Luc laughed, not amused one bit by Darby. He had always hated her, with her American deep South sensibilities and her wretched accent. He never understood why Claude was so taken with her and he would always blame her for Claude's death.

  During the early 1600s, as Paris was in the midst of a great expansion and rebirth, Luc first spied Claude at a party thrown at the Arseneault family estate. Luc was young, disaffected, bored with his charmed life and even more so with his endless supply of Arseneault family money. Claude, with his royal African lineage, good looks and vampire charm was something of an anomaly for the times, ensuring his status as a fixture on every guest list throughout the city. It would not be a party of worth if he did not make an entrance. Which was how he wound up that fateful night at the Arseneault Chateau.

  Fitfully going through the motions of his life, forever bemoaning his lot, Luc was the epitome of bourgeois ennui.

  “These damn fools, moving from party to party, never doing a thing that matters, forever talking about what everyone else is doing,” Luc muttered under his breath to no one in particular.

  His eyes sparkled with irritation as he shook his head of dark curls in disgust. He wanted to be outside, climbing a mountain or rafting down treacherous rapids, fighting a war or discovering lost treasure, not rotting with this lot of worthless simpering nits. He threw back his drink and closed his eyes, but not before a glimpse of something dark caught his attention.

  Across the room, just standing to the outside of a conversation that plainly involved him, surrounded by women who could not stop laughing and touching him, but to whom he was clearly not paying attention, stood the most beautiful being Luc had ever seen. Otherworldly beautiful. He was tall, darker than anyone Luc had laid eyes on, with a rich laugh and mischievous, brown eyes. He caught Luc staring at him and winked.

  Then just like that, he grabbed his hat and vanished into the night.

  Luc stood frozen to the spot for a moment and then took off after the mysterious guest, determined to search all of Paris if necessary to find him. Luc didn’t have to go far as Claude was waiting for him outside in the gardens.

  “Monsieur Arseneault, oui?” Claude asked as Luc went running past.

  Seated on a stone bench with an air of expectation, the vampire grinned at the beautiful, reckless youth.

  “Yes,” Luc replied as he slowly approached, “and you might be?"

  "That is of no import," Claude haughtily replied, his eyes twinkling. "Come, sit down, cher."

  Luc had never been spoken to so seductively by another being, had never been so taken with another being, it was all he could do to stop himself from running over and complying with Claude's request. Instead, he collected himself and casually sauntered over, sitting as far away as possible from Claude.

  "I am Claude."

  "Family name?" Luc asked.

  "None that matters, cher. Suffice to say, I come from a long line of African kings and killers," Claude replied.

  "Ah, the dark continent," Luc responded, as if suddenly it all made sense.

  "You arrogant fool,” Claude laughed at him, “as if this place is so bright. Your
beloved Paris is a cesspool and all of you are simply floating in the muck."

  Luc could not agree more.

  Claude turned to the youth and marveled at his virile beauty, his intense energy, his need to be free. It had been so long since he had a partner, Claude yearned for a companion but did not want to take someone against his will. It wasn't his nature; no matter how brutal and deadly he could be, he did not want an unwilling partner.

  Claude caressed Luc's cheek, running a gloved finger down his prominent cheekbone and into the hollow created along his strong jaw. The deep pink of his lips was a sharp contrast to his dark eyes and hair; Claude had the inkling to kiss them right then and there.

  "You desire something different, cher?"

  "Oui," Luc answered.

  "I am something different."

  "That much is evident, Monsieur," Luc stated with a smirk.

  Claude smiled.

  "If you like, I could give you a life unimagined, beyond your wildest fantasies. A life of no end. Power. Beauty. Riches. But only if you like," Claude emphasized.

  Luc wanted whatever life involved Claude.

  "Think on it, cher. And then find me."

  Claude moved to depart, but Luc stopped him, not willing to take the chance he might never see him again.

  "I want that life. Now. Maintenant! I do not want to wait. I have waited long enough, Monsieur. Please," Luc pleaded.

  "Be careful what you beg for," Claude warned, displaying his fangs for Luc to see.

  Luc moved closer to Claude, thrilled to be in his proximity, even more intrigued by Claude's offer. He fully understood Claude was a l'enfant de la nuit, the beautiful, deadly beings whispered about here and there. More importantly, he wanted exactly what Claude was offering him.

  "Monsieur, Luc Arseneault always knows exactly what he wants."

  Before Luc finished his sentence, Claude was on him, feeding on his sweet blood, taking his time, enjoying himself. And just at the right point, that line where life crosses to death, Claude stopped. He found a secluded area of the garden, buried Luc and waited. When Luc arose, Claude whisked him away to his home along the Seine, where they lived happily for many years, sometimes together, other times apart but always returning to one another.