by Michele Hauf
A drunken squawk of surprise alerted him. Pale blue damask displayed runnels of burgundy wine down the left side of his coat. He stabbed the air with a finger, piercing Gabriel with an impotent dagger. His porcupine wig askew, and his wrinkled jabot undone, he spat out a spray of wine.
“You!” he managed with slippery lips and uneasy balance. “Her son. I saw you through the window! Oh,” he moaned and clutched his chest. “I loved her…my Juin-Marie. Juin-Marie!”
Gabriel rolled his eyes and shook his head. “What miserable remnant from my mother’s past has come to haunt me this day?”
“She was mine!” the drunk protested to the moon. “My Juin-Marie.”
Another outburst like that and the entire salon would crowd outside to witness the spectacle. Gabriel could not have that—nor could Leo.
He twisted the diamond head of his walking stick and drew out a rapier from the cherrywood shaft.
The man stumbled across the courtyard, but saw Gabriel’s intentions and, with a crooked wine-spattered grin, withdrew a rapier from the concealed folds of his sodden frock coat. Not so inebriated as he would appear then.
Gabriel tossed the walking stick to Toussaint, who expertly caught it, crossed his arms and cast an observant eye upon the match.
“She left me,” the drunk spat. He stepped forward a pace, wobbled, shuffled back two steps, countering his wavering equilibrium. Yet his weapon remained on the mark for Gabriel’s heart.
Not yet compelled to go en garde, Gabriel merely shook his head. He strolled a half arc, mirroring his opponent’s ridiculous challenge. To face one in his cups? Hardly a man’s match. And to do so in heels and lace? Bother.
“Tell me where she is! I die a new death each day that passes without my Juin-Marie!”
Yet another of his mother’s discarded lovers. Did they never learn?
A thrust of his arm placed the point of Gabriel’s rapier to the drunk’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Drawing his weapon arm straight, he looked down the blade of cold steel at his misshapen opponent. “Cease your idiot ranting. Go home. Sleep it off. If you do not, you will regret this foolishness in the morning.”
“You are no challenge to me, you frimpy bit of lace!”
Frimpy? Not even on his worst days.
Steel cut steel, dashing away Gabriel’s rapier. Quickly, he delivered a riposte. Sword blades clanged in the chill quiet of the night. Judging the man’s skill in the slight tremor as their blades kissed, Gabriel determined insufficient challenge.
“There is only one man—” he smashed the hilt of his rapier across the man’s right hand. His opponent’s weapon clanged to the ground. “—in all the world—” He pressed the drunk backward, stumbling toward the hornbeam wall behind him. “—who may use that name.”
“Juin-Marie?”
Gabriel prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.
The man thrust up his hands, palms out to placate. “Have mercy on a miserable sot, vicomte!”
Too late. Gabriel had touched rage. And this man had named his title correctly. He stabbed the rapier, missing the man’s throat by a hair—then swung up his left fist, connecting with the man’s jaw.
Gabriel toed the idiot heaped at his feet. “And that man is not you. Drunken sot.”
Juin-Marie had never been overly discriminating regarding choice of lovers. But this one did give him wonder.
He tossed the rapier to his valet, who resheathed it, returning it to an unassuming walking stick.
Stepping over the fallen man’s legs, Gabriel tugged at the lace about his neck and wrists. “This party has become dreadfully dull, Toussaint. Bring up the carriage, will you?”
“Of course.” Toussaint skipped around the trimmed boxwood hedge.
Tension slipping away, Gabriel leaned against the wrought iron gate that barred the servants’ entrance from the back courtyard. He drew in a deep breath, the exhale hissing out in a cloud of condensation. The moon expanded well beyond the half-rounded mark. No need for street lamps this night. Not that the miserly lamplighters ever filled the lamps with more oil than to serve a few hours.
A glance to the man sprawled in the thick, hornbeam shadows only raised his ire. He had named him vicomte. And he’d known his family. To be recognized, when he thought to remain anonymous in Paris, would not prove a boon to his covert affairs.
He went to great lengths to create a persona that the aristocracy and city officials would be willing to trust.
The click of a heel followed by a staccato of slow, heavy claps alerted Gabriel. A shadow in the shape of a man glided along the limestone wall of the carriage shed, stretching to monstrous proportions. It stopped over the fallen sot and the singular applause ended. A red-heeled shoe toed the inert body.
“I watched from inside,” Monsieur Anjou said. “Impressive.”
“Did anyone else see?”
“Not to worry. Your adventures were discreet. But tell me—” The man approached, hands behind his back, and dark wig obscuring all but eyes, nose and a slightly crooked mouth. “—why did you not kill him?”
With a shrug, Gabriel stated what should be obvious. “Life is precious.”
“Indeed? Some lives are.”
The man’s soft epitaph put up Gabriel’s hackles for reasons he could not touch. He was out of sorts, not thinking straight.
“It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Anjou paced closer. “I could not endure the stifling confines for overlong. Madame de Marmonte’s salon is notorious for—”
“—fainting women and swooning men. My valet has expired on occasion.”
Assuming Leo’s loose stance, Gabriel leaned against the iron gate, crossing his feet at the ankle. “The woman insists all windows remain sealed for fear the latest pox or plague will seep in. Pity the old bundle’s a-a-ddiction to vinegar will kill her more slowly and cruelly than any plague might.”
He always stumbled on that word—addiction. His second least-favorite word. The first? Comfort.
“You give her far too much credit.”
Gabriel chuckled at the man who had fixed his gaze high above the estate wall. “What is it that has captured your attention?” He scanned up two windows capped by smiling stone corbels.
“The gargoyle.”
Gabriel startled to realize the man’s whisper had been easily heard. Straining his peripheral vision he found Anjou stood beside him. Scent of something musty—perhaps the man’s clothing—taunted his nose. A flicker of caution traced his spine.
Toussaint had walked away with his rapier.
Good sense emerged and Gabriel shook off his wariness. He was merely an old man with horrible fashion sense. “Yes, that gargoyle. Interesting creature, isn’t it? Face like a mongrel and a body resembling a lion. With the damnedest set of wings.”
“Surprising,” Anjou rasped. “All the city’s sculptures are blackened with soot, but that one is not. The beast appears frozen mid-flight.”
“Fantastical notion.” Gabriel could not prevent a genuine smile. The man possessed a whimsy seldom seen in the social circle he navigated.
Closing his eyes, he took in the calmness of the evening, the crisp scent of dew and the fetid straw Madame de Marmonte kept strewn before her home to muffle the racket of carriage wheels. Tendrils of night jasmine permeated his nostrils, like a ghost beckoning him to follow the night, to surrender to the unknown.
Yet so close lingered that musty shroud.
“So, you are the hero this evening, eh Leo?”
Nearby, the man on the ground groaned once, lifted his head, and then collapsed.
“Hero?” Gabriel smirked. “Just what I most desire carved onto my tombstone.”
“You would prefer something else?”
“How about…” He fixed his gaze to the gargoyle. Scent of ancient dust mingled with jasmine. “He tried.”
“Very well, I shall remember that, and try to see it is done. Until then—”
A wide, gloved hand squeezed about Gabriel’s neck.
Reacting instinctively, he clenched his fingers and lifted his knee to connect with Anjou—right on target, yet unsuccessful in releasing the clutch. Strong and determined, his attacker.
Attacker?
The man possessed remarkable strength. Gabriel could not budge. The iron gate dug into his shoulders and elbows. He saw his own reflection in the metallic irises that held him a muffled captive.
“You see what you want, pretty one?”
The Rake Ripper attacks pretty young rakes…
He required a sword, for his strength was outmatched.
Something warm, moist, and sharp touched his neck. Anjou moved his mouth against Gabriel’s neck and began to feed upon him as if a ravenous beast.
Amidst the mystifying horror, a gargoyle swept down from the roof and skimmed over their wicked embrace.
And then…
…the strange suctioning kiss at his neck began to entice.
A kiss?
Just a little kiss. Strong and demanding. Controlling in a manner that diminished further protest.
A strange compliance hazed Gabriel’s mind. Rationale blurred. Enmeshed in an erotically macabre caress, he could no more resist or push away than he could call out.
You must resist. This embrace joining two men is unnatural. It must not be—
Gabriel’s eyelids flickered. His palm slid down the ancient frock coat. A wanting moan spiraled up Gabriel’s throat, escaping into the night on a canorous sigh. He curled his fingers, clinging to a forearm, and pulling the man closer.
He barely registered the shout of another.
“You have found the Ripper! We must call for his capture!”
His limbs numb and growing heavy, Gabriel answered the call to surrender. His body slid down the iron gate. Anjou moved with him, his tongue and lips sucking and drawing out his blood in an exquisite communion.
“Bastard!”
A heavy clunk preceded the tear of flesh. Teeth ripped from Gabriel’s neck, the sound, as if a knife cutting through leather. He slumped into a seated position against the gate and began to shudder at the loss of warmth, the absence of control—or rather, of being controlled.
“It is the Ripper!” he heard Toussaint shout. Another loud thunk—wood against bones? “Get off, murderer!”
Toussaint swung a walking stick at the beast.
“Deserving!” came the shout from the drunk crawling across the cobbles.
Gabriel’s head lolled upon his shoulder. He could make out blurry images of people. The swirl of red and gold. Parakeet Wing, what a ridiculous color…
A divine pulse within his veins pounded in rhythm to his heartbeats. Monsieur Anjou had awoken something deep inside his soul.
TWO
Roxane Desrues pushed the glass-paned carriage door open and jumped onto the cobblestones fronting the Marmonte estate. Thick straw frosted the cobbles, having softened the announcement of her arrival. She was late and—
“Make way!”
She withdrew from the open door just as the brass hinges split from the curved wood frame. A hand skimmed her gloved fingers. A bellowing groan erupted near her face. The source of the groan—a man running blindly—dashed off into the shadows of the rue de Temple.
“What the devil?” The driver jumped from his lofty perch and, wielding a lantern, held it high to study the damage. The carriage door hung from one bent brass hinge; the glass had cracked down the center. He swung the lamp close to Roxane’s face. “Are you harmed, mademoiselle?”
She pushed the lantern away from her face and tugged down the corner of her fur-trimmed tricorn. Then, noticing the smear on her tan kid glove she pulled up the lantern and studied the side of her hand. Losh! Blood. Yet most certainly not hers.
“Mademoiselle?”
“Not to worry. I am safe,” she assured the driver. Sliding a hand into the placket tied in the seam of her skirt she produced a silver ecu and pressed it into his palm. “Merci.”
A shout from the darkness alerted her. Roxane eyed the dodging shadow of the escaping man, now some distance down the street.
It is him! her instincts screamed. Her body wanted to pursue. This is the moment you have waited for. Never have you come so close.
However, another shout from the opposite direction vibrated through her veins. A cry for help. A familiar plea she had heard too many times since arriving in the ugly city of Paris.
Clutching her skirts, she dashed toward where she had heard the call for help.
“What is the trouble?” she yelled before rounding the corner.
What she saw around that corner stopped her cold. A sobbing man tricked out in yellow satin kneeled over a bepowdered and laced fop who bled at his neck like a holy miracle.
“Is he dead?” she called to the pair. She jerked her head around to scan the street down which the intruder had fled. She still had time to pursue if she ran right now. “Which way did he go?”
“Down!” the frantic valet insisted. “Do you see? He is down on the ground. The Rake Ripper has attacked my master. He is bleeding. Summon help!”
“H-he’s alive?”
“Of course he is alive!”
Drawn from the prospect of chase, Roxane strode to the victim and plunged to kneel beside him. The fop flickered open his eyes and groped his soiled neck cloth. Above the bloody lace sat two perfect wounds, half a finger apart.
The unthinkable had occurred. Again.
He was alive.
The last thing Roxane needed now was another “almost” case.
On the other hand, he was not dead. Since chase had not been possible, this may prove to her advantage. The victim may be able to provide her with important facts, such as the identity of his attacker.
Walking around the burst of color that beamed through a marvelous oculus window set into the domed bedroom ceiling, Roxane approached a lavish bed set upon a lacquered wood base. She had accompanied the victim and his valet to an elegant mansion clinging to the outskirts of the faubourg St. Honoré, and had waited while the valet put his master to bed amidst an explosion of lace, silk, satin and plumes, plumes, and more plumes.
Leo—that was his name—slept.
Roxane could not chase images of tonight’s attack from her thoughts. When she had come upon him, he had not been in his right mind. Mutters of ”sweet kiss“ and ”bring him back“ had whispered from the man’s lips.
She’d heard the same desperate murmurs but two months earlier. The memory cut like a machete to bone. For hours she had struggled to contain Damian’s ranting, to quiet him, and to convince him it had not been a lover who had left him for dead, but something unspeakably evil.
So much she had learned of the creature called vampire in the past months. A creature that usually served a boon to her very nature had now become a vile bane to her family.
Fighting tears, she had decided she could not leave this poor fop to his own fumblings; he would never get things right. He required guidance.
And she needed bait.
Despite the viciousness of the attack, the man slept peacefully. Gleaming chestnut hair had been smoothed across the satin pillow by the valet. A trimmed moustache drew her interest to his mouth. Full lips were underscored by the shadow of a rogue Van Dyke beard. An attractive man. High cheekbones could have cut through any female’s heart.
Such a thought startled Roxane. Attractive? This fop? She did not find vain, insouciant bits of lace and powder attractive.
She glared at the man’s mouth, compressed in a soft line. His lips were neither full nor thin, but possibly…inviting. And peeking out at the vee of his lace-berimmed shirt, a shadow of dark chest hairs intrigued enough that she could not take her eyes from the sight.
Hmm… Perhaps meagerly attractive, she decided.
The valet slipped in and trimmed the candle wick on the bedside table with an expert squeeze of the scissor, and then tapped a heel to capture her attention.
Roxane sensed the valet’s impatience with her
presence. Sternly protective of his master, the trait impressed her more than bothered. “I will leave in a few moments.”
“Very good.” Toussaint left the room but did not close the door.
Of course, she mustn’t be discovered alone in this man’s home so late at night. She could be compromised in ways that would only add to her struggles.
Roxane eyed the white marble floor, focusing on the frenzy of colors the stained glass window beamed upon the cold stone. One color in particular caught her eye, a deep blue. Simple and endearing. Like Damian.
In the five months she and her brother, Damian, had been in the city her younger sibling had flourished, taking to the rakish lifestyle as a flower soaks up the rain. For the first time, she had witnessed true happiness in his pale green eyes, and had regretted refusing him all those years he had begged to leave their country cottage for Paris. She had always thought it a ploy designed by their father to corrupt Damian. Destroy yet another piece of the precious remainder of family she yet retained.
Xavier Desrues had kept his distance since his children had arrived in Paris. Roxane had not once seen him. She did not care if she ever saw him. Mostly.
Happiness had not greeted her here in this city of debauchery and decay. The Gauls had christened Paris Lutetia, the city of mud—a fitting title. Lutetia’s dark evil had quickly caught up to Damian, snaking her dirty fingers about his neck and flashing her fangs in a most horrible way.
Do you know what happens when a swimmer stops paddling?
She smiled briefly to recall one of her brother’s favorite wonders. And his positive response. They float. Nothing could dim the smile on his face. Until he had ceased to float.