by Ivie, Jackie
Until now.
She exited the subway after the fourth circuit, slowly climbed to street level, blinked her eyes to bright sunlight that managed to find its way through all the skyscrapers, and still couldn’t experience much. Concentrating got her little more than a hum of sound where blaring horns and sounds of the humanity bustling about her should be interfering. She stepped around a crowd about a hotdog cart. Lunch? They were already going about their lunch hour? She’d spent the entire morning on the subway?
Lethargy dogged her next, making it a chore to take the steps to her flat, all five floors of them. She never used the ancient box they called an elevator. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust it, it just took too long. Her two-room apartment was just as non-welcoming as always. And just as sparse. She dumped her bag on a table situated against the wall, and headed for her mat. A bit of meditation was in order, and for that she’d need complete clarity of mind.
Complete and total clarity. Takaiya altered her breathing, modulated her heart rate, untensed and flexed every muscle. Concentrated…
Again.
Takaiya stood, glared at the blank wall before her, and settled back onto her mat to begin anew. She needed complete clarity of mind to handle the emotion attached to her failure, and at the thought the gray wash and feeling of disassociation cracked.
A flare of emotion sparked deep within her, taking her from her meditative stance into an aggressive and angered one. She’d failed. That was unacceptable for the most meticulous translator of the Japanese embassy in New York. For a member of the Hisushu Clan, it was impossible. She’d been trained for nearly twenty years in the Japanese art of weaponry and killing known as Budo. Nothing interfered with her concentration, or her expertise. Not human frailty like emotion, not physical ills such as fatigue and injury, not even the environment. Nothing came between a Hisushu Clan member and their objective.
Nothing except a jackanapes dressed in a velvet coat, ruffled shirt, thigh-high boots, and skin-tight pants.
She’d rarely seen such a spectacle, and he’d complained about the damage to his outfit? She’d done him a favor. Coats that were nipped in at the waist like his deserved to get shredded. And the sleeves? What fool designed a coat with sleeves that ended at the elbow, allowing a huge mass of shirt to billow out? As for his profusion of ruffles? Not only had his cuffs been nearly obliterated by them, but ruffles as large as those gracing his shirt placket belonged on a society matron at a benefit ball, not on a man who’d give her the first failure she could remember.
And such a man.
Takaiya’s mouth parted slightly at the memory. He might be dressed in the epitome of bad taste, but he had strength to every line of him. Those pants of his hadn’t hidden muscle, nor had the coat done anything to disguise the width of his shoulders. And she’d personally watched him collapse a man’s chest with the pressure of one hand. Such power. Such presence. Such ability. Such masculine perfection…
What was she thinking?
Takaiya groaned the disgust and kicked at her mat, both signs of a cluttered mind and off-balance soul. She needed to work out this anger and frustration, and she had little left save her long stick known as a Shinobi-zhu. She’d lost all her weapons to that effeminate-looking buffoon. She’d have to fetch more before tonight. Takaiya did a cartwheel to fetch her stick, disguised among the broom and mops and started working with it. She moved to a rhythm only she heard, soundlessly utilizing the span of floor, until it worked at clearing the confusion of her mind. Oh yes. That was it.
She stopped and regarded the blank wall, awash now with a haze of red, pumped to her eyes by her heart and her anger. She was Takaiya; warrior of the Hisushu Clan. That man was going to give up the ceremonial sword to her tonight, and then he was going to die. And she was going to enjoy every moment of it.
o0o
A splash of cologne, and he was ready.
Comte Jean-Pierre de Margolis hoped she appreciated the trouble he’d gone to. He moved and posed in various angles, watching the folds of his new coat glide and drape as he did so. Drat this afterlife sometimes! There wasn’t any way to check his appearance, so he had to trust the word of his valet de chambre. He wanted everything to be perfect. He’d even had his eyebrows plucked and waxed, despite how it had pained, and the fact they’d probably grow back before morning. He didn’t care, a perfectly groomed and coiffed man was a mark of good breeding. And Jean-Pierre had worked long and hard at achieving that.
Anyone with knowledge of the noblesse d’epee would know the Margolis line was false. There wasn’t a title behind the Comte de Margolis, no lands and estates, no wealth…nothing that existed prior to the French Revolution. One thing about that little episode of history - a man could invent whatever background he wished. He didn’t have to stay ‘stable-yard scum’ unless he wished it. It fit nicely into Jean-Pierre’s one wish, one goal, and one purpose: Revenge.
That’s what came of being knifed in the back on a dark Paris street; set upon by thugs sent by his one-time employer, the Comte d’Antilli; all because he’d had the bad luck of catching the Comtesse’s eye. Jean-Pierre hadn’t even got to perform the act before paying for it! Luckily, he’d still clung to life when approached by Akron, promising an eternity of life and all the revenge he wished.
That was what had decided him. It had been perfection, itself. The Comte d’Antilli had paid for his crime, over an entire evening spent draining the man’s blood and weakening his heart, while his wife cavorted with some lover. Never could it be Margolis. Non. Akron hadn’t told him that side of this coin: that he’d be bereft of physical love should he accept this afterlife. No…that part he had to discover for himself. He got to linger upon the centuries of time - chaste and unmoved - unless and until he found the one creature destined as his mate. It might take centuries. It might never happen.
And they called Jean-Pierre Margolis melancholy.
Random thoughts went through his mind as he’d prepared, putting on his French court attire with the same satisfaction as always. It was his pleasure to caricature them, each and every time he went on assignment. It was his look. His brand. He tried for the ridiculous, because that’s what that bastard d‘Antilli had been.
But he was wasting time, when he could be with her: the woman who was potentially his mate. He felt like a child again on Christmas Eve. Better yet! He felt like a young man again, readying for his first assignation with a woman.
She wasn’t there when he arrived, floating above the area, testing for her essence. The waters of Central Park Lake lapped at the shoreline, the rustle of leaves lifted with his passing, the glimmer of moonlight created shadows and havens for lovers. It was the perfect location for a rendezvous…or a duel. That reminded him. He’d brought his dueling rapiers. He wore the Samurai sword strapped to his left side, tucked out of sight, but carrying anything else ruined the drape of his coat. He spent some time finding the best place for the long wooden sword case. After several attempts, he decided it made a grand leaning post. And then he worked at finding the perfect pose, ending up propped by the case, one leg crossed in front of the other, showing off his calves to advantage.
Where was she?
His impatience grew as midnight approached. He studied his manicured nails for a bit, and then checked the diamond cufflinks on first one sleeve and then the other. He wasn’t used to wearing quite this much finery. The wig beneath his hat tickled. The close fit of his clothing irritated. Even the powder on his hair had him holding back sneezes. He must also have forgotten how much this particular false mustache itched.
The elements shifted the instant she arrived. The earth beneath him throbbed with a pulse that got larger and harder and deeper as she neared, using the shadows for cover. Had he been human, he’d have missed her approach. She was that good. Perfect. She moved like a wraith of time; breathing with a softness that matched the night, disguising every motion with the slightest huff of wind. And that’s when he was certain. She was his mate. Jean-P
ierre’s entire frame trembled with the scope of this gift. He felt like tossing his head back and crying the emotion to the sky. After all the centuries of longing and loneliness and yearning—
His posing was for naught. The case fell as he swiveled to face the first projectile she threw at him - another razor-edged star. And then she tossed three at once, and then three more. Then he got a small blade. He caught them all, easily and cleanly, situating them in his pockets as he did so, first the right side, then the left.
By the fifth item, he was chuckling.
By the ninth, he erupted with laughter.
She didn’t like it. Her displeasure was in the cry she gave before launching a sickle-ended thing at him. It was his pleasure to take that from her as well, and then he got to catch three little darts, sent lightning quick; each destined for his chest. Or perhaps his throat. They ended up in the left breast pocket of his jacket. All of this weaponry was ruining the drape of his elegant ensemble. He wondered if he’d show to better advantage without the coat. The ladies were forever impressed by his physique. At least…they’d always told him as much. He was still deciding the merits of disrobing when she stopped, lowered her head, and glared at him through the little eye slits of her mask. Apparently, he’d angered her. He could tell by the sounds attached to every one of her heavy breaths.
“Finished?” he asked with a nonchalant air.
Not yet, obviously. Jean-Pierre caught a dagger next, and then four little spikes, one in each finger of his right glove, pricking the soft, supple leather. He clicked his tongue at the damage as he pulled them out.
“Ah, Cherie. Must we always be at odds? Without so much as a greeting?”
“Give me the katana!”
“Give me one good reason why.”
Merde! He hadn’t disarmed her completely, and the slice of a blade across his inner thigh not only stung momentarily before it started closing, but would probably stain his new silk knee breeches. Jean-Pierre sighed heavily and crossed his arms. Not only did that show her how little her attack mattered, but it was bound to show off his upper arms and chest to advantage. And if it didn’t, he’d take it up with his tailor later.
“Are you ready to discourse in a civilized fashion?”
She ground out a tight-lipped scream. Ah…he was finally getting to her.
Jean-Pierre sighed hugely, hoping it showed off his manly size and frame even more, while thoroughly enjoying the way she sucked in air through her clenched teeth.
“Is that a yes?” he asked.
“I want the sword.”
“I feel I’ve already given my answer to that, Cherie. So, I’ll attempt to steer the conversation in the direction I wish it to go. Such is the art of repartee.”
“You want to talk?”
“Oui.”
“Give me the sword first.”
Jean-Pierre tipped his head as if considering her demand. “Perhaps if you asked nicely…or if you had a reason for such a demand?”
“It was stolen!”
He uncrossed his arms and lifted his right hand, index finger up. He’d worked especially hard to achieve an elegant carriage and that extended to his hands. Even with damaged gloves. He hoped she’d see well enough in the dark to notice.
“Untrue. This sword was purchased at auction three weeks ago. For the princely sum of 4.8 million Euros. I have the receipt.”
“It was stolen…and I want it back.”
“What if I say ‘nay’?”
He got a cut-off cry of sound, while she flexed something, drawing his eye. The woman had a fantastic figure. Petite. Shapely. Jean-Pierre had it imprinted on his senses with a long glance all along her. She stiffened before he finished. He licked his lips. She shouldn’t run around in a skin-tight catsuit if she didn’t want him to notice.
“It appears we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Allow me to introduce myself. Comte Jean-Pierre de Margolis. At your service.” He pulled the large chapeau from his head and held it to his chest - feather outward - before bowing. If she knew anything of court protocol, she’d be impressed.
She didn’t and she wasn’t.
“I don’t want your name. I want the sword.”
“What would you do to gain it?”
She sucked in breath. It would have been visually stunning, if she wore an open bodice dress. As it was, it was still impressive. And if a voice could castigate, hers did.
“You insult me?”
“I offer a bargain.”
“Never.”
“You might hear it out before answering.”
“Very well, here is my answer. No.”
“I was merely suggesting—”
“No. Not with you. Never.”
“And…just why not, s’il vous plait?”
Jean-Pierre smirked. She obviously had the wrong impression. It was going to be vastly entertaining once she realized her mistake. He moved a step backward and nudged the case with a foot without looking.
“When I bed a man, I want a real man. Not some painted-up freak in a circus suit.”
Even if he’d aimed for such an effect, it still stung. Strangely enough. Jean-Pierre could feel the wave of flush rising from his chest, pulling fluid from other parts of his body for the effort. And worse. He could feel a tremor overtaking him, sending red-hot fury to lick at his extremities, clench at his gut, and sear his eyes into slits. He bent and smacked the wooden case. It splintered, offering up the matched set of razor-sharp epees with intricate wrought handles fashioned of gold smelted with silver. He’d seen to their manufacture himself. He flicked one her direction, and didn’t particularly care if she caught it.
“I was offering a duel. Not affronts.”
“You want to…duel?”
“My expertise against yours. Right here. Right now.”
“To the death?”
“Non. First blood.”
“For the sword?”
“What else?” Jean-Pierre carefully unfastened the scabbard containing his Samurai sword and set it reverently atop the remains of the wood. He kept his voice perfectly modulated. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t dare. Not until he had this reaction glossed over and tamped.
“And if I lose?”
Jean-Pierre stood and slashed the air with his epee a few times before finding her again. She’d moved when he wasn’t looking, thinking he couldn’t follow. She also had the other sword and was testing the weight and balance. Good…
“You do not wish to know what I will require,” he informed her.
Her immediate response was a gasp, and then she did a split maneuver, curving the blade in an arch over her head as she did so, demonstrating flexibility and strength, and everything womanly he’d been denied for so long. It was too intense an experience! Everything in him ratcheted into awareness.
“Very well. I accept.”
Jean-Pierre closed his eyes and bowed his head on the ecstasy of images flooding his mind. If he didn’t get this reaction conquered, he was afraid of what he might do. Any slip of the sword might damage that perfect feminine body, and that would be beyond contemptible and detestable. Against everything he held most sacred. Words flailed him, hampering his recovery. This new sensation needed an outlet. Pen. Parchment! Ink! Not combat.
He was afraid of hurting one hair on her head. He wanted to scribe words of worship…heap adoration at her feet; revere her very essence. Such an awakening as this needed release! Not calculated swordplay. He would just have to parry, not attack. Anything else would damn him worse.
He lifted his head at the exact moment she slam-kicked his chest, sending him right out into the lake.
CHAPTER THREE
Murky water completely filled his clothing, and that, combined with the weight of her weaponry, dragged him down, making it take some time before he could give chase. And if she hadn’t just ruined his entire appearance, he’d have been on her heels like a burr. No. If she hadn’t called him a painted-up freak, or referred to his attire as a circus su
it; or…if he could wipe this gooey mess of wet powder from his eyes, get this wig off, and toss the false facial hair. Then, he’d be pursuing.
Damn.
Jean-Pierre flew straight up out of the water, hovering several yards above it as he honed his senses, looking for her. Gone. The woman and his sword. Vanished.
The cheat! Regardless of her gentle, fragile gender and the fact she was his mate, she deserved his ire and punishment. And she was going to get both. Jean-Pierre reached shore, pulled the sodden wig, mustache, and goatee off, and then the coat, slapping them to the ground in disgust. Then he ripped at his shirt, making strips of the broadcloth in order to wipe at his face. His ego smarted. And there was only one thing to do about it.
o0o
The countryside surrounding their rebuilt Tirgoviste Castle looked deserted. It wasn’t. Nothing about the Vampire Assassin League’s headquarters was as it appeared. That’s how they kept it hidden. Jean-Pierre strode right through the forest fringe, jumped the three hundred meter abyss to an access point into the mountain, and then tripped on the circuit of steps down to the base, ending up swooping down in a mess of tattered shirt and water-damp velveteen coat. He suffered soul-sapping exhaustion, the kind that took his strength and left him vulnerable. He’d barely made daybreak, and he’d spent a good portion of the night getting here. There was only one taxi that would pick him up in Central Park at that time of night, and he didn’t blame them. He hadn’t even reacted when the cabbie called him a drag queen knock-off.
Humanity. Scourge of the earth. About the only good thing about them was the taste of their blood.
Jean-Pierre straightened his back and tapped on the comlink button to the inner office, expecting a voice. What he got was the stout forms of both Icelandic twins, Athlerod and Ethelstone. Their appearance was enough to make a surly vampire bare his teeth. For a humbled Comte de Margolis, it was just another affront in a world of new ones. And it would just have to be borne. He hadn’t fared well the last time he’d challenged them.
He cleared his throat. Both men pumped up their chests.