Le Remède

by Densie Webb

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Densie Webb

  Le Remède

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  50 Years Later

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  My starched white shirt was torn and streaked with blood. I leaned in for a closer look, but stumbled back, unable to reconcile the image staring back at me. My face was as colorless as my hands. The scar above my eyebrow, where I had fallen from a swing at the age of six—gone. My eyes no longer a deep, dark brown, but a brilliant azure blue. I stared disbelieving at the swollen scarlet marks on my neck standing out in high relief. And I knew. My life, as I had known it for twenty-seven years, had been violently taken from me. Tales of blood-sucking monsters, the Kindred, living among us, feeding off of us, passing as one of us—all true.

  And now, God forgive me, I was one of them.

  On the bureau, jewelry pieces sat neatly lined in a row—a man’s ring, gold cufflinks, a sapphire necklace and—I reached out to pick up Danielle’s locket, the one I had given her on our anniversary. Inside a lock of baby’s hair. Next to it a tiny tin soldier. The full memory assaulted me and the sickening awareness that they were dead brought me to my knees. Fueled by hatred I rose, sweeping everything from the bureau. As I watched the remnants of my happy life soar across the room, the heat of my fury threatened to combust and a chilling, guttural growl emanated from my throat. I was in the midst of a nightmare.

  Praise for Densie Webb

  “You’ll Be Thinking of Me” is a thrilling ride from start to finish that will have you double-checking to make sure that your windows and doors are all locked.

  I love a book that draws you in only to take you places you never expected. It will be a long time before you forget “You’ll Be Thinking of Me.”

  I don’t regret a single minute of the sleep I lost, staying up until the wee hours to finish this book. Ms. Webb has taken a popular romance theme–the fan who meets the celebrity of her dreams and forms a relationship–then finds ways to make it fresh and new. And disturbing. It’s definitely not your typical celeb/fan romance, and you won’t soon forget Rachael and Mick’s story.

  ~*~

  Finalist in the Colorado Romance Writers 2016 Award of Excellence.

  Le Remède

  by

  Densie Webb

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Le Remède

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Densie Webb

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2191-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2192-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This story has gone through countless iterations to bring it to this point. I have to thank my writing soul mate, Wila Phillips, who never hesitates when I ask her to critique, even if it’s the thousandth revision. Her investment in my story and her input has been invaluable. I would also like to thank Tiffany Yates Martin of FoxPrint Editorial, who is always honest in her assessment of what needs to be done to make it a real story and for her generosity and support. The advice and camaraderie I have received from my writer peeps at Women Fiction Writers Association and Writer Unboxed is priceless. Also, a shout out to my life-long friend, Danna Lynn Walker, for her “go-get-ems” and to Mary Kilpatrick, who is always enthusiastic and ready to read for me. And, of course, I would like to thank Black Rose Press for saying “yes” to Vincent and Andie’s story.

  Prologue

  Vincent

  Paris 1865

  It was the desperate sound of despair that roused me. The cries blurred the line between slumber and awareness. I willed myself to open my eyes. As my consciousness clarified, flashes of fear, anguish, pain flooded in, yet I felt more alive than ever before, my senses heightened.

  A blast of color from the tapestry hanging on the wall, the amplified sound of the wind flowing through the trees like a stream, the diffusion of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Unidentifiable scents mingled with the sight of my unfamiliar surroundings. It felt as if a thousand tiny spiders raced through my veins.

  I pushed myself upright, swung my feet onto the rough wooden plank floor, and was slapped with a sickening vertigo. Gripping the edge of the mattress, I surveyed the room—the canopy bed draped in white linen, the washbasin and pitcher painted with scarlet rosebuds, the portrait on the wall. Like the portrait of Danielle that hung in our parlor. I lowered my head into my hands to unleash tears, but none came.

  My hands—I held them out in front of me, slowly turning them over, examining them. Normally olive in hue, my skin was the color of fresh cotton, smooth and unlined. Energized as never before, I stood, all the while berating myself for feeling so well in the wake of my tragedy. My gait was unsteady, like a child taking his first awkward steps, but I righted myself against the plaster wall, my fingers sensitive to the subtleties of the mason’s trowel, and I mentally cataloged each irregularity. I made my way to the bureau and glanced at my reflection in the oval mirror.

  My starched white shirt was torn and streaked with blood. I leaned in for a closer look, but stumbled back, unable to reconcile the image staring back at me. My face was as colorless as my hands. The scar above my eyebrow, where I had fallen from a swing at the age of six—go
ne. My eyes no longer a deep, dark brown, but a brilliant azure blue. I stared disbelieving at the swollen scarlet marks on my neck standing out in high relief.

  And I knew. My life, as I had known it for twenty-seven years, had been violently taken from me. Tales of blood-sucking monsters, the Kindred, living among us, feeding off of us, passing as one of us—all true.

  And now, God forgive me, I was one of them.

  On the bureau, jewelry pieces sat neatly lined in a row—a man’s ring, gold cufflinks, a sapphire necklace and—I reached out to pick up Danielle’s locket, the one I had given her on our anniversary. Inside a lock of baby’s hair. Next to it a tiny tin soldier. The full memory assaulted me and the sickening awareness that they were dead brought me to my knees.

  Fueled by hatred I rose, sweeping everything from the bureau. As I watched the remnants of my happy life soar across the room, the heat of my fury threatened to combust and a chilling, guttural growl emanated from my throat. I was in the midst of a nightmare. A nightmare from which there would be no awakening, no relief, no respite.

  Someone called my name—a woman—summoning me as if we were lovers. “Vincent, mon chéri, I have a treat for you. Come, I think you will be pleased.”

  Her voice was alcohol poured over a glistening, gaping wound.

  I shot into the adjoining room, intending to exact my revenge. There, curled up on the settee, lay a young woman in ripped, blood-soaked clothes, weakly mewing, begging for her life. I smelled the salty, sweet sweat of fear. It was the scent of a sensuous perfume, but far more intoxicating. I hardly took notice of the monstrous creature hovering, staring at me, her red lips shimmering, smiling as if bestowing me with a gift and waiting for me to express my gratitude.

  “She is yours now. Take as much as you like.”

  Rational thought and reason left me; I heard only the insistent demand of my thirst. The sensation that my throat was lined with sand overtook me. I couldn’t swallow. My head pounded as I leaned over the girl. Never had I encountered anything so richly enticing, so seductive. As the horrid creature urged me on, thoughts of my beloved family disappeared, replaced by a single thought—I need. I need. I need.

  I was driven to fulfill this tortuous need; only then would I feel whole again.

  Standing outside myself, watching this macabre show play out, part of me became audience, part of me thespian. But the strongest part was beyond caring right from wrong, beyond moral judgments, beyond guilt. I was transformed into something powerful and pitiless, compelled to quiet the unrelenting screech in my head or go mad.

  I lunged at the girl, as she made a last futile effort to scramble away. The sound of her snapping bones barely registered, and I took what I needed.

  Until there was nothing left to take.

  Chapter 1

  Vincent

  New York, Present Day

  I walk up Broadway with Nicholas to the florist shop we’ve owned for the last ten years. Always a small business. The last thing we want is a growing enterprise that requires a large staff. More people to ask questions we can’t answer. More people to let go when we move on. We don’t need the money—investments made decades ago have paid off—but owning a business helps us blend in. More important, it gives us purpose as the days, the years, the decades, the centuries slowly unfold.

  Nicholas is my dear friend and business partner. Before the florist, we owned a bakery; before that a coffee shop; before that a print shop and before that—I can’t remember. Maybe we were in Europe then. Everything begins to run together after a while—faces, dates, places. Since we’ve been in New York, each business has been in a different borough.

  I don’t want to leave Manhattan, but we always must—eventually. I’m thankful we have another year or two before someone notices our appearance hasn’t changed with time and we’re forced to obtain new documents and move on. We’ll probably never leave New York. The city provides us with unparalleled anonymity, a never-ending source to meet our needs and enough of a European flair that it has come to feel like home. By the time we make the full five-borough rotation, everyone who might recognize us will be dead.

  Nicholas unlocks the shop and enters, oblivious to his handiwork in the store window. It is his creativity that entices customers to come inside and leave with bouquets as unique as the one who created them. I turn the sign from “Closed” to “Welcome!” and stand back to admire the display of orchids, freesia and roses as I remind myself to remove a wilted stem and check the temperature in the refrigerated display case. Nicholas goes around back to begin unloading the day’s delivery. I’m about to enter and close the door when I feel a presence behind me.

  “Nice place you have here, Vincent.”

  I recognize the unsavory voice. My hackles rise and my throat rumbles.

  I brace myself and turn around. “Gus, what are you doing here?”

  “Wow, that’s how you greet me after more than a century?”

  I look up and down the street to check for prying ears. “Keep your voice down,” I whisper, as I motion for him to follow me inside, turn the sign back to “Closed,” pull the shade, and lock the door behind us.

  I had hoped to never lay eyes on him again. The last time was London, 1895.

  ****

  Paris, my home, had become a scrapbook of tortured memories that stubbornly refused to fade. I couldn’t stop obsessively flipping through the pages, returning to the university where I worked, to the gardens Danielle and I frequented, to stand across the street from our home and remember my last few moments of happiness.

  So, I made my way to England in a desperate attempt to leave it all behind. Surrounded by hopeful, excited faces as the ferry chugged through the English Channel, steam rising to the skies, I had hoped that leaving Paris would dull my pain and alleviate the ache of loneliness that was my constant companion and which grew exponentially with each passing decade.

  I wandered the dodgy streets of the East End of London, working odd jobs, satisfying my cravings. The area was a simmering cauldron of humanity with countless unlit passageways and dark cobblestoned corners to serve my purposes.

  For years, I had managed to maintain control over my appetites, monitoring my cravings, and sparing lives with my self-taught survival skill to take only what I needed. No more, no less. For that I was grateful; it made my pallid existence slightly more bearable. But I had honed that skill only after several murderous decades into my Kindred existence. Decades that haunt me still.

  It was a busy Friday evening, pay day for most, as I sat in a crowded pub in the center of London, sipping a draft to squander one small sliver of my never-ending time. The scent of hops, sweat, and the wheaty smell of straw that lined the floor hung thick in the air, all hinting at the drunken confrontations yet to come, when a Kindred approached.

  “I don’t remember seeing you in here before,” he said. “Are you claiming this territory? If so, I would advise against it.” He boldly leaned in, “It belongs to me.”

  I had no intention of competing with him or anyone else for “territory.”

  He pulled up a chair from the next table and sat down, accepting an invitation I had not extended. “I’m Gus, by the way.” Upon closer inspection, I could see that this was but a boy—a razor had yet to touch his silken skin. His body may have stopped aging, but his manner, his speech suggested he had lived more than a single lifetime. Dressed dandily in a tweed jacket, breeches and leather boots, he straightened his back, making him appear taller than his arrested development allowed.

  “Vincent. Vincent Dubois,” I said to maintain a tone of civility.

  “French? I was born in Paris, but I haven’t returned in decades. What brings you to our fair city?”

  “Just needed a change of scenery.”

  “What do you think of London’s ‘scenery’ thus far?”

  “I’ve been mainly in the East End. Overpopulated tenements overrun with rodents, stunning poverty. It’s rather depressing, actually.”


  His expression was one of surprise or perhaps shock. “Why would you even ponder such ills? All that misery is behind you. We are the ones in control.”

  Strange words coming from the mouth of a boy, barely fifteen, if a day. I downed the rest of my beer and shouted at the bartender over the deafening din. “Scotch whiskey, a double.”

  I had witnessed evil up close, many, many times. But, even in his youthful appearance, there was something about Gus, something bitter, something malicious, something—familiar.

  “After you finish your drink, why don’t you join me and my Kindred? There will be plenty there for you to quench your thirst.” His smirk was unsettling.

  “I appreciate the offer, but—” I had yet to explain to another Kindred the way I survived without killing and I found myself stumbling over my words. “It’s…it’s best if I keep to myself.”

  He raised his eyebrows and stared at me in silence. Anyone seeing him at that moment would take him as an innocent.

  I shrugged. “It’s quite complicated.”

  “You will come.”

  A young girl, even younger than Gus had been when he was transformed into the creature sitting across the table from me, approached with my drink. “That’ll be two bob, sir.”

  Gus turned his attention to the girl. “A bit pricey, eh love?”

  But she was looking at me. “Price jumps on pay day.”

  “I think she fancies you, Vincent,” he said. It was too dark to see her blush, but I sensed the blood rush to her face and she cast her eyes downward.

  “Look at me. Girl, look at me.” She turned to him.

  “What’s your name?”

  Her eyes had glazed over. “Fiona.”

  “Well, Fiona, my friends would love to meet you. And Vincent, here, will be coming along too. Won’t you, Vincent?”

  I could have declined his “invitation,” but I sensed it would result in a nasty confrontation. I decided to go along and devise a plan to help this young girl escape his lair.

  I stood. Gus threw some money onto the table, a condescending gesture, and rushed her out. I heard the tavern owner behind us yell, “Fiona, where you think you’re off to? We got paying customers.”