Oh, so good. She took a bigger bite, not bothering to savour the sandwich, but satisfying her grumbling stomach.
“Slow down or you’ll choke,” Cynthia warned, reaching for the bottle of water beside the bed. She twisted the cap and handed it over.
Brianna downed a few swigs before devouring the sandwich.
“As for your question, I didn’t know what to get you, but my human friend says the sandwich bar is the best.”
“Wait,” Brianna mumbled between mouthfuls. “Humans live down here? And did you say sandwich bar?”
Cynthia’s long dark hair bounced as she nodded. “Yes, hundreds of humans have done so for centuries. Not even the humans can bear being away from their moitiés, and of course vampires cannot go into the light of day, so the humans remain with their loved ones in Désuet, and yes,” she laughed, folding her arms over her chest. “I did say a sandwich bar.”
“And these humans survive off sandwiches?”
Cynthia chuckled. “We have a few restaurants down here. Besides, those with a human moitié have kitchens in their homes. Every week, a group of humans travel to the local town for fresh groceries.”
Who knew vampires lived so civilised. Amber had said she wanted to visit Désuet one day. If under different circumstances, maybe she would have wanted to explore this cave, too.
“Everyone is talking about you. You’re the main gossip.”
“Me?” Brianna asked between mouthfuls. “Why?”
“You’re the first ever unwilling moitié. And the fact you tried to kill your other half is absolutely scandalous. The vampires are having a field day with this.”
Incredible. They thought her a damn celebrity. “Look, I don’t know how this whole bonding thing works. But believe me when I say I can’t be Tristan’s moitié.”
“This does surprise me. So many women would be honoured to be the moitié of a Pure like Tristan.”
Brianna recalled Cynthia mentioning something about Pure and Impure vampires when they met. “A Pure? So that means Tristan would blister in sunlight, right? Or is that the Impure vampires?”
The gleam in Cynthia’s eyes displayed her amusement. “How much do you know about the history of vampires?”
“Nil. My cousin, Amber, is into that stuff, but it’s never interested me.”
“Well, to answer your question, you are right. A Pure, like Tristan, and the majority of the vampire nation do blister in sunlight. There are more Pure vampires than Impures.”
“Why’s that?”
Cynthia sat beside her on the bed. “Over a thousand years ago, a young man named Sylvestre Marcel lost his entire family to an army of Vikings. He sought to protect his village. With the help of witches, he held blood rituals and had his people drink each other’s blood on full moons. He did this to make them powerful and defend themselves against the enemy. Months had passed before the transition, but eventually their strength and speed doubled. After that, they only needed a handful to defeat an entire army. But then the people grew aware of other changes.”
Cynthia tucked a strand of dark silky hair behind her ear. “Half the townsfolk became liable on blood, the other found the urge to run with the moon; these were the first natural vampires and werewolves. The vampires asked the family of witches to correct their mistake with the werewolves, but they were unable, and this angered each of the species. And so began the first feud between werewolves, witches and vampires. The first generation of vampires is what we call Impure, because before the turn, they were human.
Brianna sighed. To think one man’s vengeance started the creation of these beings. For years she knew about the supernatural species and accepted their existence, but she never sought to learn the history or the reason behind what they were and how they came to be.
“As for the Pures,” Cynthia continued. “They are the progenies of two Impures, known as born vampires. Some countries learned of the blood rituals and also participated in the creation of vampires and werewolves. My grandparents are Impures, same as Tristan’s parents. One thing they all have in common was their struggle with the transition, which they have no problem bragging about.” She shook her index finger in the air. “You see, they remind us Pures how lucky we are to not have suffered like them.”
“Suffered how?”
“From what I’ve heard, it is unbearable changing from human to vampire. Some, fell into a strange dead coma for months. Most of them endured memory loss for a while, delusional thoughts, and fear of daylight. Of course, the worst was their unquenchable thirst for blood. But with time they controlled themselves, adapted to their new lives.”
“I can’t become an Impure…can I?”
“No. Witches forbade blood rituals a few centuries ago, and without their blessing, the transformation is incomplete. That is why there are more Pure vampires today.”
Relief dowsed her system like ice water over hot coals. “Good to know. Becoming a vampire is the last thing I want. I don’t fit into his world and never will.” Brianna threw the empty paper bag on the bed. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can do to help me?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could, but the risk…” she paused, as though gathering her next words carefully. “Besides, I would never keep anyone from their moitié.”
“But I don’t want to be Tristan’s moitié.” Frustration boomed through her tone.
“How can you say that? Don’t you feel the lure of wanting to be close to him? Or the connection you both share? I’ve never met anyone who repudiated their moitié.”
Brianna shook her head, denying the emotions he stirred whenever he neared. Tears stung her eyes, and she swallowed the scream building in her throat. She remembered the heat that infused her skin when she saw him in nothing but a towel, and how she yearned…the same way she ached when they met.
On the night she believed she killed him, she had almost backed out because it hurt so damn much knowing she was about to end his existence. But, then he had mentioned her sister, and she ignored the excruciating pain in her chest and kissed him. This wasn’t fair. These feelings for Tristan were cruel and unnecessary. Would life be so harsh, allowing her to want a man she could never be with? “The only thing I feel for Tristan is hate,” she lied. “I’m not afraid of him.”
“Why, Brianna? Why do you—”
“He killed my sister.” A sob gushed with the words. “He murdered her.”
Cynthia sat unmoving beside her. The vampire’s pale complexion grew stark white and her brown eyes rounded. Cynthia drew a shaky hand to her mouth.
A dark shadow flashed.
Brianna blinked.
Cynthia now knelt in front of her.
“Brianna,” she breathed. “Think about what you’re saying—”
“I know it was him.” Another sob scratched past her throat. “On the night of the gathering, he left me after we had sex in one of the office rooms, and I then searched for my sister. I eventually found her, up an alley kissing the man I had just given myself to. He bit her and…” She couldn’t speak through the hitching in her breath. “And…”
Cynthia hugged her tight. The comfort wasn’t expected, yet to her surprise, welcomed. Brianna laid her head on the organza-covered shoulder, allowing the tears to fall. The sobs kept coming, the memory replayed over and over again.
Cynthia edged back and swept the tears from Brianna’s face with her palm. “Listen to me carefully. You are certain Tristan murdered your sister?” The desperation in Cynthia’s tone matched the anxiousness of her eyes.
Of course. She frowned, recalling seeing his face beneath the streetlight. “Positive.”
“What time did this happen that night?”
“Late, maybe around midnight.”
Cynthia averted her gaze, her mouth pursed tight.
“Why? Do you know something?”
Cynthia met her eyes. “I’m thinking how unfortunate that your mate killed your sister. If you say you saw him, then it must have been him.” The vampire
stood and helped her to her feet.
Blood ran to her head, making the room sway.
Cynthia took hold of her arms to help steady her. “I think you should try to get some sleep. I’ll clean the mess on the wall.”
Brianna looked over at the long forgotten mash potato and steak.
Warmth spread across her cheeks from the embarrassment of her actions. “Please don’t. I’ll deal with it.”
Folding back the sheet, Cynthia patted the mattress. “You are so worn-out, you can barely stand. I insist, please get some sleep.”
With a sigh, she slid beneath the silk. Cynthia tucked the sheet around her, and her throat constricted. Amazing how some vampires were so caring, yet others—the one she was destined to be with—were cold, heartless killers.
“Do you see now, Cynthia? I can never be with him. I can never be his mate. I’m not his mate.”
“Your blood apparently says otherwise.” The vampire looked away; her pretty face held such sorrow. “Just get some rest.”
It wasn’t hard to do. She laid her head against the pillow. The heavy weight of her eyelids drooped, her breathing slowed, and a wave of sleep overtook her.
****
The hints of yellow-gold streaks contained in the large marble table brought an image of the fiery, blonde beauty to the forefront of Tristan’s mind. The voices of the council members waned in the background as his fingers strummed over the cool marble. So, the table not only reminded him of Brianna’s hair, but also of her coldness toward him.
What should he do with her? When he first took her, he intended on punishment, perhaps keeping her locked in one of the dungeons as payback for trying to kill him. Every thought twisted like a spindle on a spinning wheel of revenge and justice.
But, when he had brought her to his room… Dieu, the sight of her asleep in his bed—cheeks rosy with warmth, small lips soft and inviting—shot his plan for vengeance out the window. Brianna was where she belonged. With him. Always. Yet, she would no doubt try to kill him again before she’d allow him to lie with her.
He seethed, inhaled, and surveyed one grooved stone pillar of the colonnade around the chamber. The column began from the charcoal pebbled floor and touched the high ceiling. Several green stucco glass windows aligned the round room and shone with light from the torches in the hallway outside.
“Tristan?” Sylvestre, leader of the vampires, broke him from his mulls and brought his gaze back to those seated around him. Twenty-two people fit the round table. Thirteen members of the vampire council, and the other nine guests, a werewolf pack from America that came to declare peace, regardless of the recent tragedy that occurred at the Armistice Celebration.
Every pair of eyes fell on him. Dammit. He had not been paying attention. Too busy thinking about Brianna, hoping she’d open up, wishing she would admit she cared as deeply as he did.
“Please excuse me.” He straightened in his seat and cleared his throat. “What did you say?”
Lord Sylvestre remained still, regarding him; one hand lay flat on the table, and the other held his chin. “I said the celebration will take place two nights from tonight.”
Celebration? He might sound like a complete fool, but he had to ask. “What celebration are you referring to?”
Lord Sylvestre blinked, the corners of his mouth tweaking. He threw his head back and laughed, deep and loud.
Several members shot looks from Lord Sylvestre to him, making heat coat the back of his neck. The werewolf tribe did not seem fazed, except for the younger one with dark, long hair who cocked a brow and smirked.
“Oh mon Dieu. You must be impatient to return to your moitié. Don’t fret. The meeting will be over soon.”
“I’m truly sorry, my Lord.”
The elder waved his hand, disregarding the apology. “Nonsense. I’m sure you have plenty on your mind.”
That had to be an understatement. Dealing with the woman he wanted to spend eternity with, the same one who despised him, made him feel vertigo.
“As I was saying,” Sylvestre continued. “In two nights I will throw a traditional moitié celebration for you and the young Miss Johnson.”
A moitié celebration! That was ludicrous. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Miss Johnson hasn’t yet…” Dieu, how to explain? “Welcomed the idea of our union.”
Sylvestre’s thin pale fingers strummed the ends of his armchair, brows easing, and a look of pity filled his warm brown eyes. “I see.”
Murmurs arose around the table. His brother, Mikel, sat across from him, lips pursed tight at the mere mention of his moitié. Blood rushed to his cheeks. He had never felt so embarrassed in his entire existence. The prospect of a moitié harming the other was unbelievable for them. Hell, he found it hard to grasp, too.
The elder stood, long white hair falling over the front of his black velvet robe. “I insist, Tristan.” He held out his arms. “Let us throw you this celebration in honour of you and your mate. For our friends of the Wahyu tribe, you are most welcome to stay for the event,” Sylvestre said, nodding at the group of men across from him before returning his gaze to Tristan. “She may warm to you once she sees how welcoming we all are.”
It could not hurt. Then again, he might either gain from this or lose. Those around the table nodded and murmured their agreement.
“Bien,” Tristan said. “Brianna and I would appreciate that.”
“Good. Now that the meeting is over, you are all welcome to remain and join me for a drink.”
Tristan stood and gave a curt nod in his brother’s direction. Members of the council would stay back for a goblet of rose-brandy—a mix of blood and the rich brown spirit. The little after-gatherings sometimes carried on until the early hours of the morning, but he wasn’t in the mood. Not only did the sight of blood remind him of his hunger, but also of what would happen if he didn’t feed soon.
Headed for the exit, someone tapped his shoulder. He spun around, ready to snap at his brother for not butting out of his business. Not his brother, but a man from the Wahyu tribe. The werewolf had tan skin, dark, layered hair and even darker eyes. The same man Tristan noticed smirking earlier. He was young, perhaps around twenty-three. His features were not as pronounced as the others, making Tristan wonder about his background. “May I help you?”
“Actually, monsieur, I mean to help you,” the werewolf said in a deep tone. “I travelled through Knoxville before coming to France, sound familiar?”
Knoxville. The same place Brianna lived. Tristan relaxed his shoulders. “What is your name?”
“Chayton. Chayton Locklear. You should know there are many posters around the town of your mate. I didn’t realise the connection until you mentioned her name.”
“You know her?”
“Non, not exactly.” His half grin held no humour.
Brianna’s family searched for her, most likely worried. Tristan asked, “Do you plan on heading back there anytime soon?”
The young man’s brows furrowed. “It’s not too far from where I live, but before I leave I’m visiting my mother’s family here in France. Why do you ask?”
A French mother? That explained his mixed features.
“Please do me a favour and seek a member of Brianna’s family? Assure them she’s all right.”
“I don’t know…” He shook his head, hesitant.
“Please,” Tristan added. “Yesterday she mentioned a cousin’s name…” his gaze averted, hand on his chin as he recalled.
“Amber Johnson,” Chayton grated out.
Tristan beamed. “That’s the one. Just find her and tell her—“
“No way in hell!” Chayton interrupted. From the firm set of his jaw, and the slant of his dark eyes, he speculated the werewolf wasn’t friendly with the cousin.
“Let me guess? Amber is a past lover?”
The young man snickered, eyes widened as though it was the worst offence he’d ever heard. “I wouldn’t go a ten mile radius near that woman, let alone be her
lover. Amber Johnson and I haven’t crossed paths in years and I’d like to keep things the way they are.” The heat in his tone filled with anger. Why such animosity toward the woman?
Tristan shook his head. “Fine, you won’t approach her cousin. I’ll write an anonymous letter. Would you at least deliver it to her family?”
“A letter? This place may seem ancient, but don’t you have phones?”
“No! No phones.” He had a close call when he found Brianna calling her cousin. He didn’t think to check his pockets when tossing the jacket on the bed, a habit that almost cost him. He had to be more cautious. “If this cousin has missing posters up, who’s not to say she might trace the calls that come through.” Lucky the closest phone connection was in the main foyer.
Chayton crossed his arms over his chest. “So if she’s not happy with the bond, why not let her go. She’s a Johnson after all. She can’t be worth it.”
“Watch yourself,” Tristan warned with a tone of steel. “You may have conflict with her cousin, but you do not have a right to say anything against my moitié.”
“Sorry,” he said, head tilting to one side. “I was out of line.”
“As for your question…I can’t. She’s mine. Would you do the same with your destined mate?”
Chayton’s features softened, dark eyes darting to the floor. “I haven’t found my mate, yet” he said, his voice low, and underlined with yearning. “But I will, soon. And you’re right; I won’t let her go once I do.”
His point exactly. “So then, the letter?”
Chayton surveyed the ceiling, as though contemplating the request. “C'est bon, je vais t'aider. I’ll do it.”
“Je vais bien. Thank you.” He forced the sigh to remain in his throat. “Meet me in the foyer in the morning. I will have it ready by then. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
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