Unbitten

by Valerie du Sange

  Maybe Henri has been right all along, he was thinking. I should get rid of the horses. That’s what’s gotten me into this mess. No horses, no Jo. No Jo, no wild desire to bite her.

  Just thinking the words “bite” and “Jo” in the same sentence made something unmanageable boil up inside him. He had the sickening feeling that he might not be able to master the urge, that he might lose control. Not that he had had the least qualms about biting women, usually. His two hundred and four years as a vampire would attest to that.

  If he got rid of the horses, he thought, it wouldn’t matter if he bit her. He would not have to worry about draining her and taking her strength so she could no longer ride well, or even got herself killed. But if there were no horses, that wouldn’t be a problem. He started to smile, already anticipating her exposed neck, until he realized that if there were no horses, she would have no reason to be at the Château.

  Oh, the torture of conflicting desires!

  David’s love of horses dated from 1817, when he was eight, and given his first pony by his doting mother. He had learned to ride much younger that that, and his happiest childhood times were on horseback, flying over jumps and galloping through the fields and forests. He had been an excellent rider and won ribbons all over the département. He spent all his free time at the barn, talking with the men there who knew everything there was to know about caring for horses, understanding them, and getting the most out of riding them. Thierry’s great-great-great-grandfather in particular had been a close friend and a mentor.

  But then, David’s father had, without any warning, without much explanation at all, turned him. And after he became a vampire, any time David got anywhere near a horse, the horse reared up, showing the whites of its eyes, and made horrible noises of the deepest sort of fear.

  The thing about horses, and something he had loved about them, is that they are sensitive. They understand emotions. And what they understood now about David was that he was not human, that they were now prey to him, and there was not a single thing he could do to change their minds.

  Henri needs to get busy in that lab and make a decent sleeping potion, thought David crossly. Not being able to sleep is horrible. I just want to ride again, he thought longingly, and hopelessly. I need to bite, he thought, over and over. I want to bite her.

  Eventually, after he had gone around the same circle of thoughts hundreds of times, he was too worn out not to sleep. Sitting in the moiré-covered English armchair, his head tipped back, his body relaxed, and the room echoed with impressive vampire snoring.

  18

  “This is not my favorite part of this job,” Angélique said, as she and the butler, Albert, were on their way to one of the small rooms behind the kitchen that housed several large refrigerators.

  “Nor mine,” said Albert, sighing.

  They waved at Marcel, the cook, as they came into the main kitchen. He was sitting on a stool at an enormous table, books open everywhere, his head in his hands.

  “I’ve completely run out of ideas,” Marcel moaned. He jumped up and grabbed Albert by the lapels. “What should I make?” he said urgently. “If you could have anything, anything at all, what would you want for dinner?” he said, his voice getting perilously close to a sob.

  “Sweetbreads,” said Albert without a pause. “Madeira sauce. Potatoes Anna. Green salad. Flan.”

  “I love you,” said Marcel, putting his hands on either side of Albert’s face and kissing each of his cheeks.

  “Yes,” said Albert with a smile.

  He and Angélique continued through, passing through a big pantry that was beautifully organized and kept neat as a pin, and then through another storage room that held pots and equipment not used every day such as an industrial-sized juicer, the copper pots for making jam, and molds for special desserts. They stopped in the room after that. Three refrigerators in a row, all stainless steel, restaurant-sized, hooked up to generators in case the Château lost power.

  Two of the refrigerators were Henri’s. One contained an enormous number of substances in various stages of completion or investigation or fermentation. The other refrigerator was dedicated to Hemo-Yum, and that is the one they opened.

  “One of the things I hate,” said Angélique, surveying the boxes with different labels, “is picking out the flavor. I really, really hate picking out the flavor. It feels so…”

  “Intimate? I feel the same way, Angélique,” said Albert. “Actually,” he said, “it feels sordid.”

  “I know,” she said. “It does to me too.”

  They stood together, reading. “Indonesian Beauty.” “Italian Tigress.” “Statuesque Ivory Coast Maiden.” “Mississippi Prom Queen.”

  “Looks like Henri has gotten some marketing help,” said Angélique, laughing but making a face. “Mississippi Prom Queen? I don’t even know what that is.”

  Albert smiled, but it was only his mouth that was smiling. The rest of his face stayed grim. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, reaching in and gathering up two bags without paying attention to the labels.

  They left the kitchen by the back way and walked down a gravel path to the other side of the Château. Underneath a stairway that curved up to a terrace was a small door, a door crisscrossed with iron straps. Albert produced an old key and let them in.

  Immediately the dark enveloped them, along with a musty, dank smell of wet things that are never allowed to dry. Angélique took a deep breath anyway and tried to steel herself for what was coming.

  Albert stopped for a moment and put on a headlamp so they could see where they were going.

  Their footsteps echoed off the stone walls and low stone ceiling. They came to a narrow spiral staircase that only went down.

  “I’ll go first,” said Albert, as he always did. He took Angélique’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “We’ll be out of here in a jiffy,” he said, in that encouraging, jolly butler’s voice of his.

  Angélique appreciated the effort, but could not summon even a molecule of jolly herself. They only had to do this twice a month, and she managed to push it out of her mind most of the time, but oh, the dread she felt when it was a Feeding Day. The horrible, unstoppable dread.

  The darkness, once they got to the bottom of the spiral staircase, was complete. Albert’s headlamp made a small tunnel of light, enough for them to see well enough not to run into walls, but no more. It was a darkness unlike anything else, though Angélique. Like being blind. Like losing touch with the actual world.

  At the end of a long, damp corridor, they came to another, even narrower staircase, this one appearing to be carved out of stone that had never been taken from the earth. It was barely wide enough to get down. Angélique put her hands on Albert’s shoulders, as she always did, the two of them stumbling a little, sometimes leaning into the wall for balance.

  When they reached the bottom, they could hear the noises. It was something like the sound mice might make if they were caught in a trap. No, not quite that, larger than that, way worse than that. It was a sound of panic, yes, but also of need, of thirst, of depraved desire.

  Albert shone the beam of his headlamp on a door on their right. Instead of a thick old wooden door, this one was sleek and modern and made of metal. Instead of a rusty key, this door was fitted with an iris recognition device like the one on Henri’s lab. Albert stared into the camera, there was a series of beeps and clicks, and the door slid open.

  The main thought in Angélique’s mind was turning right around and getting the hell out of there, no matter how much trouble that would get her into. She pushed the thought away and stepped into the room. The darkness felt like something alive, like something that was actively trying to suffocate her.

  Just breathe, she said to herself, over and over. All you have to do is breathe.

  “Bonjour, Seigneur,” said Albert, with a small bow that no one would be able to see.

  “Turn that off,” said a gravelly voice, peremptory, with a note of impatience.


  Albert reached up and turned off the headlamp. Now the darkness was so total that Angélique was not sure if she was right side up or upside down.

  Breathe, she said to herself.

  “Hurry up,” said the gravelly voice.

  Another voice, a female voice, began to mew like a cat. The voice came closer until it was right in front of Angélique. Gathering all her courage, she reached out her hand until she felt someone take it, and grip it, astonishingly tight and strong.

  “Bless you for coming,” said the female voice. “The last days, as you know, are difficult. Le Seigneur becomes weak–in his head as well as his body. Sometimes he does not know me. He calls out, making my ears ache.” She let out a long cry, something like a cat crossed with a bat, a starving animal with food in sight.

  By feel, Albert took the plastic straw and pierced the bag with it, just like he was readying a kid’s juice box. Then he reached out, groping for le Seigneur’s hand.

  Le Seigneur was clawing at the air, impatient, ready to suck. Their hands found each other and he snatched the bag from Albert. Everyone could hear the loud, greedy sucking as he drank from the bag.

  “Too loud, chéri,” said Madame.

  Le Seigneur paid no attention. They could hear the bag when it hit the floor and le Seigneur, with more strength in his voice now, asked for the second.

  “I do not think that flavor was at all good,” he said, waiting for Albert to put in the straw. “It tasted…underdone. Too young. Undeveloped. Why have you not told Henri to come visit? I need to talk to him about numerous things, including this travesty he is forcing us to exist on. Where is he?”

  “I am sorry,” said Albert, “but I’m afraid Henri is out of the country at present.”

  Angélique admired his easy lie, and the way the tone of his voice contained just the right amount of compassion.

  “Is there anything you need?” Angélique asked, praying they would say no.

  “Actually, chérie,” Madame said, tightening her grip on Angélique’s hand, “The housekeeper must come more often. I am having trouble with my lungs down here, and it would help if our quarters were cleaner.”

  Angélique made a face since she knew no one could see it. First of all, the quarters were clean, Henri would never have allowed otherwise. And second, having the quarters cleaned was something of an ordeal–they had to move the old couple into temporary rooms in the dungeon, so those had to be cleaned first as well as afterwards. They had to bribe several housekeepers with extra money because no one liked coming down here. They had to set up temporary lights so the housekeepers could see what they were doing. And finally, Henri had to brainwipe them all the minute they got back upstairs. It was a lot of work with not any piece of it the tiniest bit of fun or even giving a sense of accomplishment.

  On Feeding Days, Angélique half-wished that she were among those getting brainwiped regularly, that she were also blissfully unaware of her boss’ status, as they called it. She and Albert were the only humans in that category, as far as she knew. And while she took it as the sign of great trust that it was, still, ignorance could sometimes be a blessing, she thought.

  Madame squeezed her hand even tighter. “My time is coming,” she said, her voice rising with anticipation, with a sound in it like a taut wire, razor-sharp.

  Angélique noticed that her hearing became very acute down in the darkness of the dungeon. She could hear emotions and tones that in daylight she could not.

  The instant the second bag hit the floor, Madame let go of Angélique’s hand. They could hear her moving quickly, towards le Seigneur. They could feel her urgency.

  “It’s my time,” she said, murmuring, her voice catching. “I’m coming, chéri,” she said.

  “I’m not ready,” le Seigneur said, backing away. “I think it would be better for you to wait until the next Feeding Day,” he said, his voice trembling just a little although he still managed to sound autocratic, which is no mean feat.

  “Chéri!” said Madame, bearing down on him.

  “This is the worst part, no question,” whispered Albert to Angélique, barely making any sound, his mouth right at her ear. They found each other’s hands and held tight. Angélique nodded, knowing that Albert could not see her but it didn’t matter, they were in complete agreement about every moment of this horrible exercise. They were forced to stay while Madame drank from le Seigneur, because if somehow he managed to evade her, she would starve. It was part of their job, keeping these two alive, even though they were somewhere north of four hundred years old by now.

  Vampires could use a Kevorkian, thought Angélique.

  Some things are worse than death, thought Albert.

  They stood in the abject darkness and listened to the sound of the old woman sucking at her husband’s carotid artery, to the sound of his groans, and to her moans of pleasure. Madame always took her time, and never rushed a meal, like the proper French aristocrat she was.

  19

  Jo walked back to the Château from Mourency–already calling it home in her mind–wrestling with a bit of disappointment that David had not tracked her down in the village or called her cell phone. She had fully planned not to answer when he did, so she felt robbed of being able to ignore his call.

  Not to mention, just being away from him for a matter of hours, the sexual tension in her body was already building to levels that demanded action.

  What in the world does he do all day? she thought, not for the first time. And where is he?

  She loved the walk down the long drive with its straight section lined with plane trees and then the curve towards the Château. She imagined that she would never get tired of it. Nor of the pastry she had eaten at the local bakery. Slightly burnt apricots atop a sort of creamy, sweet, vanilla paste, gathered up in the lightest, flakiest pastry imaginable. It was worth coming to France just for that one pastry. And the brilliance of the desire was that all that was necessary to satisfy it was a few euros. No complication. No expected phone calls that do not materialize.

  Jo stepped to one side as a car came up behind her. It was a small Renault, the top piled high with luggage tied down with a lot of twine. The couple inside and several children all waved as they went past, the dog wagging its tail and jumping up.

  A happy family, thought Jo. Ugh. Nothing could tip her mood from average to utterly depressed faster than the sight of a happy family.

  She made a quick plan for the next few hours: first, a visit to the stables to check on Drogo and have a quick chat with Thierry; next, to her room for a little nap and freshen up. After that, she decided she was allowed to search for David. He was her boss, after all. Not that she fooled herself with that excuse. Or probably anyone else, she thought with a sigh.

  Drogo was fine and greeted her warmly, nickering at the first sight of her. Thierry had nothing special to report; in fact, he seemed notably unconcerned about readying Jo and Drogo for upcoming shows. But Jo figured if he wasn’t worried, then she wouldn’t be either.

  That taken care of, she was back in her room, ready to sink into her freshly-made bed, ready for a nap. It was the end of the day, dusk already, but the Château served dinner late so she had enough time. She stretched her arms over her head and her toes as far down into the crisp bedding as she could, then twisted, feeling the lovely stretch all over. A wonderful horse and a talented lover were having the effect of bringing Jo back into her body, making her aware of it all the time, its kinks and strengths, its warmth, tightness, power. She felt herself drifting down towards sleep.

  Faintly, distantly, she heard a door open. She kept her eyes shut, letting her other senses take over. She heard footsteps crossing the stone floor and then the rug by her bed. She felt the covers being turned back, slowly. She heard a zipper unzip, pants drop to the floor, the creak of the bed as he slid in beside her.

  And then. Jo smelled him, felt him, released herself to him. He smelled like furniture polish, with just a hint of the barn. Jo inhaled every
molecule she could.

  David murmured French into her hair, her neck, while his hands went all over her, as though he had to touch every single inch of her at once. Her whole body lit up like strings of Christmas tree lights plugged in at once, flashing, pulsating, intensely bright and joyful.

  “I missed you,” she said, taking his face in her hands, and then kissing him, kissing him as though their separation had lasted for months across continents.

  David was instantly hard, and wanted to take her immediately, to pierce her, impale her, bite her, and satisfy himself.

  But he controlled himself. He rubbed his prick on her leg and then on her mound, lifting himself on his elbows and looking down at himself and at her. He felt his fangs shoot down.

  Jo was so happy he had come to her. That he had been wanting her just as she had been wanting him. Just that thought alone was practically enough to push her to the brink of orgasm.

  She wriggled out from under him, taking an appreciative glance at his ever-impressive hard-on. David was sitting up and she threaded her legs around him, sitting in his lap, so that his mouth was right at breast-level.

  “Your sucking,” she whispered to him, “is something that belongs in the Olympics.”

  David did not need a bigger hint. He let his lips graze her nipple, then the other nipple, teasing her until she arched her back, and when she raised her hips so that he could enter her, he took one rosy tip deeply into his mouth, sucking noisily, while with his hand he rubbed her on that most intense place, her juices drenching his erection, the two of them moaning together, crying out, delirious.

  20