“Yes, I did so on purpose. I think I should take you for a glass of wine, cheer you up.”
She tried to keep her eyes on the road ahead, and not to show her absolute elation. “That would be lovely. Thank you so much.”
The countryside could be very dark at night. Yvette frowned, wondering where they could be going. They had driven so far that she could think of little that was out here. Mainly, ruins of places abandoned after World War II, countryside, and more countryside.
And sheep.
It seemed that everywhere one went in this wretched place, there were sheep.
The car moved onto a rutted dirt road. She was thrown next to him. His arm came around her, then his hand fell on her knee to steady her.
“You’re all right?” he asked her.
“Fine,” she said softly. “With you ... well, I feel just fine.”
He flashed her a white and fascinating smile. She stared at him, wondering if she was falling in love. He could have taken her anywhere, done anything. She’d never felt such a rise of fascination and excitement.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a moment. She didn’t feel the slightest fear; she was merely puzzled.
“Right here. Come along.”
He parked the car.
They were far past the pasturelands, she saw with relief. Into the forest. At first she couldn’t see anything at all. Then she saw an edifice in old stone rising before her. Once, the place had been a chateau, something fairly grand, she thought, but it had been abandoned long ago. There was muted light from within, but she had barely seen it at first, the windows were so overgrown with shrubbery and ivy.
“You’re staying here?” she asked him.
“It’s really quite nice inside.”
She didn’t get out of the car, but stared ahead, a faint unease suddenly coming to her. But he stepped out and came around, politely opening the passenger side door for her. He reached in and took her hand.
“Come, my lovely little Yvette.”
She still felt the unease. But she was so aware of his hand, the way it felt where he touched her, and she was completely fascinated by his voice. She allowed him to draw her from the car. And as she stood before him, he drew her close, holding her to him gently, the suave lover of her dreams. His fingers moved over her hair. “My lovely, lovely, little Yvette,” he murmured.
She leaned against him. She could have stayed there forever. Had he wanted her to strip then and there in the dirt, she would have done so.
“Come,” he murmured.
She looked up at him and nodded. His hand moved then, over her face. His knuckles brushed her chin. She realized that she was staring up at him like a complete novice, lips parted, breath coming far too quickly ... she warned herself not to be a dolt. That she must be mature with this sophisticated man, that she must not seem too easy, and too eager.
Apparently she stumbled. They moved through the overgrown path to the house together, he supporting her. He opened the door, and they entered.
It was indeed beautiful within, if somewhat dark. A fire burned in a large hearth, and candles glowed from numerous tables about the large entry. The place was old, very, very old. She stood still, looking around her.
The candles created massive waves of shadows. They seemed to whisper, to dart about, to change angle, substance, and form with each flicker of the flame in the large fireplace.
The slightest unease touched her again ...
But then, his hand fell to the small of her back.
“This way,” he told her.
The hallway loomed dark before her. Alarm still rang somewhere within her, but she was equally convinced that she could do nothing but keep going. If she willed her legs to turn her around, to run, they would not do so. But she didn’t will it. She longed for the seduction of his whisper, his words, his touch.
“Here, my dear, my lovely, lovely, Yvette.”
They turned from the hall through a doorway. The room was magnificent. A huge carved bed was in the center. Another fire burned in a smaller hearth. Shadows played with little spurts of flame against the walls. A silver tray with a decanter of wine and crystal glasses awaited.
“Wine, my dear?”
She nodded. He walked away, pouring from the decanter into a glass. He brought her the wine, and she drank.
As she swallowed it, she closed her eyes.
And as she did so, a sense of panic suddenly filled her. For when her eyes closed, she still saw the place around her. And it seemed that it was filled with winged creatures. Demons with horns, with forked tongues and tails, and all in shades of flame red.
She opened her eyes, ready to discard the wine, to scream, to run at last ...
But he stood before her.
“We’re here, beautiful Yvette, because we hunger,” he said softly. “Soon, you’ll know what is wanted of you.”
She nodded. His hands were on her shoulders. He stared into her eyes, then turned and moved toward the fire. She was hot, so hot, and knew what was wanted of her. She shed the horrible shoes and then bit by bit, the cashmere sweater, her silly underwear. It might be strange here, even scary, but she had never wanted anything more ...
She crawled atop the massive bed with its mound of pillows on silken sheets. She stretched out on it luxuriously, a feeling of her own sensuality sweeping over her. This was so different, so exotic, so unlike anything she had ever known before ...
She closed her eyes for a moment to experience the smooth sensation of cool sheets and roaring fire.
But she was afraid she would picture eerie things in her mind once again and so she quickly opened her eyes.
And he was there, as magnificent and beautiful as he had ever been, far more real than the tricks of her mind, and coming toward her, standing before her.
Then, he stepped aside. There was someone else there as well.
Yvette started to scramble back on the bed, puzzled, horrified, and then angry.
What had he expected of her?
But he was ignoring her, his total concentration on the third party who had so silently joined them in the bedroom.
“I had thought we’d dine in tonight,” he said casually.
Then he did look at her.
Yvette started to scream.
And scream.
And strangely, the last thing that crossed her mind was the rueful reminder of what Paul had said to her today. “You’ll be sorry, you’ll be so, so sorry!”
Javet was hard at work, studying the lab reports from the Paris office on the forensic studies done in the tomb. Despite the incredible advances science had afforded law enforcement, there were times when science could still offer nothing, because there was nothing to offer science.
Every drop of blood tested had belonged to the victim. Not that there had been many drops of blood left. And there was the first mystery.
That’s when intuition came in. A police officer’s gut intuition.
There had been dozens of people in the tomb—workers, onlookers. Footprints in the dust and fingerprints could mean everything—and nothing. Javet hated Dubois, but hating a man didn’t make him guilty of murder.
He drummed the desk, then let out a long sigh.
Two things: Dubois needed to be questioned more strenuously.
And it might be time to arrest Jean-Luc’s coworker.
“Inspector! ”
He looked up from his desk. Millette, one of the his finest officers, was standing at his door, looking in. “What is it?”
“There’s a report just in from Edouards, sir. We’ve found a body by the Eau Gallie stream.”
Millette’s tense appearance told him there was more to it than that.
“And?” Javet said. “Man, woman, child? Is there an evident cause of death?”
“Woman. The coroner has just been called. But . . .”
“Yes?”
“The victim was decapitated.”
She wasn’t going to die, Tara determined
.
Not then, at least.
And with the pitchfork cast aside, she suddenly found herself moving forward, drawn inexorably toward her enemy, practically throwing herself against him. She was shaking still, ready to scream or cry and again deny every bit of nonsense this man was telling her.
But she was glad as well to feel the steely heat and security of his arms as they came around her. A voice of warning still screamed within her, but it was overshadowed by instinct and desire; since she had first seen him, this was where she had wanted to be. She was like a moth who had flown straight into the burning flame, but after a moment of being there—feeling enwrapped, ridiculously safe, and more than willing to simply melt into the fire—she drew away, staring at him again.
“You used me to get to my grandfather,” she said.
“No. I would have come to your grandfather no matter what after the night in the crypt.”
“You talked to him before the night in the crypt—you’re the one who convinced him that there are vampires lurking around Paris.”
He angled his head slightly, watching her. “I didn’t talk to him before the night in the crypt.”
“He knew you! ”
“We met—before.”
“When?”
“A long time ago. Having nothing to do with the current situation.”
“And what is my grandfather’s part in this travesty?”
“He is a member of the old Alliance.”
“And this Alliance?”
“It’s an organization that’s very, very old.”
“Oh, I see. The members of this Alliance are like Freemasons—who believe in vampires.”
“They’re guardians.”
“Guardians of . . . ?”
“Humanity, the sacred right of life. Good over evil. However you wish to phrase the terminology, that is the role of the Alliance.”
“And when was this Alliance formed?”
“There has been mention of the Alliance-sometimes obscure—in writings that go back to the Dark Ages.”
“All right,” she said, hearing his words, denying them still in her heart, and forcing her tone to be as rigid and scathing as any law official might utilize. “And you’re part of this Alliance?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what is your role here?”
“I’m on the outside,” he said softly, then shrugged. “I had heard rumors about the dig at the church, and through various legends and tales, I knew the rumors about Louisa de Montcrasset. I’ve studied a great deal of French history. I took the job with Dubois to make sure that I would be there when the coffin was opened.”
“But you ran into me instead.”
“Yes.”
She started to walk by him. “You don’t have to feel compelled to hound and protect me because I happened to be there at the time—or because of my grandfather.”
He caught her arm. “I am compelled to protect you.”
“I can handle myself.”
“Well, you can’t, not yet, anyway. But the fact that you feel I’m hounding you ... well, that has nothing to do with your grandfather.”
She stood very still, torn between her desire to cast him off, to run away, and to throw herself against him once more.
“You’re lying,” she said.
“You know that I’m not.”
Once again, she paused. Then she could pause no longer. Outside, the day had gone. Within the stables, the shadows were misting and thick, yet they offered no hint of menace. She slowly took a step toward him, and even more slowly, reached out to touch him. Fingers and palms coursed over the shape and structure of his face. She edged ever closer to him. He held very still, allowing her the exploration. Then she found herself pulled into an embrace so close that it defied the thin barrier of cloth between, found that she was being kissed with an open-mouthed passion that rendered her instantly reeling, blood rushing hot to every extremity, hunger suddenly something that shuddered and thundered with every throbbing beat of her pulse. She kissed back, lips and tongue aggressive, nearly desperate. His mouth drew the total focus of her attention, his kiss in the shadows, in the midst of the stables in the growing mist of the night. She was heedless of her own reckless movements, drawing ever closer still, fingers upon his shirt, seeking buttons, shoulders shrugging from the constraints of her own silk blouse. Then there was a moment of total, staggering awareness when his hand first fell upon her naked flesh, at her waist, fingertips traveling along her rib cage, palm and touch molding over her breast. She made little sounds, desperate little sounds. She wasn’t sure when she lost everything else—shoes, jeans, undergarments—only that there was a trail along the scattered hay and grain on the stable floor, leading to the soft stacks of hay. Shadows and mist . . . both of which had been tinged with shades of danger just the night before, now seemed like a surreal blanket of the sweetest privacy. He threw horse blankets over the bed of hay, and as she came down upon it, she felt as if she had never known a softer mattress, never lain upon a surface so welcoming. He was everything she had sensed from the beginning, smooth, sleek, agile, so tightly drawn and hewn, flesh searing, each movement vibrant, every brush against her body by every part of his like an awakening of fire and need and more, a coming together destined by eternity. Something she had waited for all her life.
He was a practiced lover.
His mouth moved over the length of her. Subtle, seductive, aggressive. She drifted on waves of sensation, inhaling the rich clean scent of hay, and that of the man. There were moments so intense and acute she lost all thought except that of the carnal pleasure, and there were those brief seconds when she thought she had lost her own mind, because nothing would ever be the same again, she could never be touched so again, so completely that the liquid spiraling heat could enter and touch what was ethereal as well as flesh and real, and that she was desperate for cataclysmic union with a madman, and no one could ever make her want or hunger in the same way again. And yet, in those brief moments of sanity, there was something deeper as well. The birth of her own madness, for she knew as well that, somewhere in her heart, in the depths of her soul, she was very, very afraid that she believed . . .
Then all thought was gone again. She burned from the center of her being to every extremity, felt the red flame of hunger lapping at her ferociously, intimately, lips, breasts, thighs, sex, stripped, bare, throbbing, waiting. Then they were together at last, in shadow, in shades of fog. She was entwined, tight, surging, close, shuddering, trembling, straining. He seemed to fill her, a part of her, hard and strong, and she longed then never to let go, hungering and desperate, yet ruing the very explosion she sought so fervently with every twist and surge.
In the end, the night itself seemed to conclude with them, shadows burst to light, darkness to implode, mist to shatter into crystalline motes. Again, the rich scent of the hay came to her, along with the dampness of her own flesh, and at last, the prickles of the hay piercing through the blankets here and there. Reality. The stables, the night, her nakedness, her arms twined around the bare muscled torso of a near stranger.
But it didn’t matter. There was no going back.
She didn’t know what to say then.
That didn’t matter either. He was the one who spoke.
“It’s full dark,” he said, and kissing her forehead, he rose. “I have to go.”
Ann stopped back into the office for only a moment. Henriette had gone, and most of the workers were leaving. She didn’t care that she might face a severe reprimand from the publisher for missing the meeting. She spent extra hours in the office every week. She took work home every night of her life. She was good at her job, and she knew it, and she would defy anyone who said differently.
The art director popped his head in her office. “You missed the meeting,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry—we decided on the plain design and coloring for the new American novel that had been your suggesti
on. It was no big deal.”
“Thanks!” Ann said. “That sounds great. I am sorry.”
He shrugged. “I think it’s the first meeting you ever missed.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.”
He walked away. Ann moved around her desk and pulled open her top drawer, looking for a rubber band to bind a manuscript to take home with her.
“Where the hell were you?”
She looked up. Willem was standing there.
“Out,” she said.
“Where? With whom?”
“None of your business,” she told him irritably. What was his problem? Willem hadn’t been part of their meeting today anyway—unless he had decided to horn in on it just to make her miserable.
“It is my business,” he told her.
“And why is that?”
“Because—because I love you. And because there is a crazed murderer out on the streets of Paris.”
She snapped the rubber band around the manuscript. “You don’t love me. Certainly not as much as you love yourself. You’re merely aggravated because you’re not so wonderful that I’m willing to take you back after you’ve made a fool of me. And because I might have other interests in life. And there is a greedy murderer out there who wanted to steal the riches from a corpse,” she said flatly. “Excuse me. I’m going home.”
“Wait, you must wait.”
She sighed. “Why, Willem, why must I wait?”
“You mustn’t be led astray right now, Ann. This is a dangerous time in Paris.”
“Willem, it is dangerous for me to care for you. And the amazing thing is that as much as I loved you, I’m over you.”
“Ann, I am begging you to forgive me a moment’s folly that meant nothing, that was nothing. The girl asked for help.”
“Um,” she said dryly. “Well, you see, I’m afraid there may be so many more women out there who might need your help in the future! Now, I’m tired. I want to go home. Excuse me.”
For a moment, she felt real fear that he wasn’t going to allow her to pass through her own doorway.
Then he stepped aside slightly. She meant to march by him, head high, indifferent. She was afraid, though, that he was going to be like a bridge—closing upon her just as she crossed it.
Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance) Page 20