Tristan Durant got up from his desk and went to the window, looking out at a rather poor view, just an unremarkable side street and a sliver of trees along the river if he looked all the way to the left. He sighed. He had allowed himself to get sidetracked in Paris, terribly sidetracked, and now he found himself back in Mourency with plenty of unanswered questions and no one on his staff that he felt comfortable enough to talk with openly.
But just thinking the word “Paris”, led him to think the word “Jessica” and the words “Hotel Dauphin” and his mind was flooded with images of her in that place, Jessica with the sheet wound around her lanky body, Jessica leaning out of the balcony, calling to him on the street to hurry and come up, Jessica stepping out of the bath looking like a goddess, reaching for him.
Oh stop it, he thought, for about the two thousandth time since boarding the train for home.
It seemed as though being cooped up made it even more difficult to focus his thoughts on something other than Jessica, so he gave the door a slam and went out, around the corner to the street that followed the river. The trees were bare of leaves, but at least there were trees. Sometimes Tristan got tired of looking at old stones.
He ran down the list of his staff, all three persons of it, trying to determine if any of them were trustworthy enough to be part of his slayer team. Michel is only thinking of who he can sleep with next. Louis? Eh. Maybe. He’s reliable enough. He’s not a blabbermouth. But does he have…what is it I am looking for? Tristan wondered. Imagination, is that it? Possibly Roland is the better choice. He is strong, but not headstrong. And not an idiot. But is he too old?
Tristan realized that he was trying to imagine these men performing the duties of a slayer, but beyond getting past that first hurdle of being able to speak out loud about the existence of vampires–vampires here, in Mourency–and being brave enough to risk ridicule by doing so publicly, he did not really have the details straight on what exactly was required.
Yes, before going to Paris he had been all hot to wipe out the vampires from his village. But now his mind naturally began to explore the other side just a bit. Did every vampire deserve to be killed? Were they by definition not worthy of a trial, of any benefit of the doubt at all?
Did it count as murder if you killed someone who was not technically human? Or already dead?
He stepped onto the footbridge going across the river and stopped in the middle, resting his elbows on the railing and looking down at the water slipping by. The talk of wooden stakes and silver crosses had been interesting, in a historical sort of way, but Tristan was a modern man. He thought there must be modern ways to dispatch vampires. Methods that were less medieval. And hopefully not too messy.
Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he whipped his cell phone out of his pants pocket and tapped in Jessica’s number.
“Good afternoon,” he said, the tone in his voice hearkening back to the days and nights they had spent at the Hotel Dauphin.
“Hello there,” said Jessica.
Tristan could hear her smile, and here we go again, immediately the fabric in his crotch tightened and he tried to make discreet adjustments.
He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to do a bit of work,” he said. “And I have more questions.”
“I’m sure you do,” said Jessica. He could hear that she was still smiling.
“One thing,” he started, desperately trying to stay on topic. “All right, so the danger to the community posed by…” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “…vampires is that number one, they can always choose to force someone into vampirism. And some vampires actually delight in doing this.”
“Correct,” said Jessica.
He wondered what she was wearing, and whether she was sitting or standing.
“Because of this–is it your judgment that vampires are to be…terminated, whenever you have the chance? No evidence of a crime necessary, you just assume such crimes have taken place and the vampire should be killed?”
“That is what slayers do, yes, Tristan. We do not wait for more people to be hurt.”
“I understand. Also, male vampires frequently attack human females, and we think that the attack rate is actually quite a lot higher than the reported rate, for various reasons. Have I got that right?”
“You do.”
“One question is, why do we not simply bring them to justice? Arrest them, have a trial, put them in prison like any other criminal?” A chilly breeze had kicked up and Tristan left the footbridge and began walking back to his office.
“Well, several problems with that,” said Jessica. "First of all, how are you going to feed them? Is your office, or your government, going to be happy to provide warm-blooded animals for the vampires to drink from–for hundreds of years? That would be quite an undertaking. And frankly, what do you think would happen in the prison system if one small group of prisoners is getting live rabbits and everyone else is getting stale bread and gristly mystery meat? How are you going to stop the riots over that? Plus of course you would have to build separate quarters for them because if they are allowed to mingle with the other prisoners, they’ll be going on biting sprees.
“Yes, it’s true that most biting is male on female. But given no other choice, I have no doubt a male vampire would bite male humans. Their drive to bite and drink would override the cultural considerations. Sort of the way prison sex works.
“Maybe it is different in France, I admit I do not know a lot about your prison system here. But in the U.S., it would just be logistically impossible. We have enough problems integrating all the various factions of our population already, we don’t need a rich and dangerous vampire minority to add to the mix.”
“Say that again,” said Tristan, his voice deepening.
“What?” said Jessica, laughing.
“‘Add to the mix,’” said Tristan.
She laughed again. “Why, chéri?”
“I just liked the way it sounded when you said it.”
“Add to the mix,” she said.
“Mmm,” said Tristan, adjusting his pants again. “How soon are you going back to the States?”
“My plane reservation is for Friday morning. Alain and I have a few more days to work, and then we’re done. I will miss Paris terribly.” Somehow Jessica made it clear that by “Paris”, she meant Tristan.
“I wish you had time to come to Mourency,” he said, and then grimaced. He had not meant to speak so plainly.
“I wish I did too,” said Jessica. "Unfortunately, your problem in Mourency, troubling as it is, is a tiny thorn compared to what is going on back home. We have places now where vampires are on the verge of actually outing themselves, making themselves into something like local celebrities.
Tristan made a noise of sympathy.
“In the U.S.,” Jessica continued, “we have a long history of romance with lawbreakers and violence. Anyway,” she said, her voice turning brisk, "I’m afraid Alain is waving at me to come along to a meeting, and I must go.
“But I go reluctantly,” she said softly.
“Say that again,” said Tristan, “just the last word.”
“Reluctantly,” said Jessica, laughing.
“Goodbye, my love. I’ll speak to you soon.” Tristan tapped END and slid the phone back into his pocket with a sigh. Why is it that the pain of love almost always equals the pleasure, he wondered.
He entered the station and found Roland sitting at his desk working his way through a stack of files.
“Roland,” said Tristan. “I’ve got something to discuss with you, something rather important. What do you say we have dinner, something nice, perhaps at the Lion D’Or? And then afterwards, we will talk.”
Henri quite enjoyed his meetings with Claudine and her crew at PolyLabs, at least as long as they were talking about science and product development. The marketing part he had little interest in; in fact, it embarrassed him. In Henri’s mind, his products were so much better than anything else avail
able that vampires should just buy them and that should be the end of it.
Henri did not like anything that hinted of begging for attention.
Claudine was patient.
“Henri,” she said soothingly. "One thing you must understand. We are not at all saying that there is anything the matter with Hemo-Yum, not a bit. What we are saying is that without a campaign, without advertising and marketing, no one will know about it. If no one knows about it, how will they buy it?
“The issue of education is somewhat separate,” she continued. “First, we need to get the word out that another option exists. Then we need to educate, to explain, to allow our target demographic to sample–I am sorry it is so, Henri, but the fact of the matter is that most of us believe that synthetics suck.”
“Not funny, Claudine.”
“I did not mean to make a joke.”
Henri stood up and walked around the conference table, stretching his legs. His face looked clouded, his expression opaque. Claudine watched him, trying to read his mood.
“Let’s switch topics for a moment,” she said, a bit too cheerily. “I have a proposal to make, Henri, an idea that in my opinion is quite brilliant.”
“I’m all ears,” Henri said glumly.
“Hemo-Yum, without a doubt, is going to be the sensation of our time, I have absolutely no doubt of that,” she said. “You keep adding more and more flavors, and the depth and complexity of the flavors is only getting better,” she said.
Claudine had a bit of a talent for flattery–she knew exactly which buttons to push, and she knew how to be subtle enough that her targets never suspected what she was up to. Henri’s features began to soften.
“So what I propose to you is that we reach out for the untapped market. Instead of having a product that is only for men, we–that is, you–develop one for labrim as well.” She sat back in her chair, letting her words sink in.
Henri stood very still. He put his fingers on the long oblong table, pressed them down, looked out of the window, and then back at his fingers. He let out a long breath.
“Well,” Henri said.
Claudine was all business. And happily married. But she couldn’t help noticing, not for the first time, that Henri de la Motte was a beautiful and deeply attractive man, never more so than when he was deep in thought, his brow furrowed, his intelligence at work. She cocked her head. “What do you think? You see the possibilities? Both from a profit perspective and also a moral one? A cultural one?”
Henri was thinking of his mother. His mother who was forced to live underground in total darkness because she could not tolerate even the faintest light, even from the dimmest bulb. Forced to live underground because the sound of the world on the surface of the earth was also more than she could stand.
And the worst by far, at least in Henri’s mind, was that his mother was also forced, twice a month, to bite his father and drink from him, in order to stay alive. The thought of his father’s blood made Henri gag. He could imagine the feel of his father’s aged skin and his decrepit smell, could imagine his sad, hopeless mother bending to him one more time, endlessly, for one more drink, one more suck.
His next thought, after seeing that image in minute and disturbing detail, was why had he not thought of this before? How could he have failed like this? Certainly he respected and liked Claudine, but really–Claudine had thought of this product that would save his mother so much agony and give her pleasure instead? Claudine had thought of it and not him?
Claudine could read his feelings as clearly as if they were on the front page of a newspaper. “I am sure,” she said gently, “that you of all people will be able to come up with not only the correct nutrient profile, but also a flavor spectrum that labrim will go mad for.” She winked at him.
“Did you just wink at me?” asked Henri.
“I did,” said Claudine, winking again.
“Stop that,” said Henri. “I do not like winking!” but he was laughing, and so was Claudine. “All right,” he said. “Let me talk to your lab guy, I am always forgetting his name. I will need to order a long list of components–off the top of my head, I think the recipe for Hemo-Yum for labrim is going to be strikingly different than the one for males. Yes, strikingly different….”
Claudine could see that Henri had more or less disappeared from the conference room, not physically of course, but mentally. He was already skipping down the path to his new concoction, planning and mapping out a schedule, scribbling away in the spreadsheets of his mind.
That couldn’t have gone better, she thought, on her way out to a bar for a brief drink with a friend, leaving him alone, vacantly staring at a wall but working feverishly inside his head.
21
When Jo and David woke up, it was dark outside, with the moon nowhere in sight.
“I think we missed dinner,” said David, putting his face by Jo’s ear and breathing in deeply, trying to take in every last molecule of her scent that he could. Unfortunately, being so close to her neck made his fangs shoot down, tingling, and the languid pleasure of waking up after good sex was spoiled by the sudden intense desire to bite. He rolled away.
Jo sat up. “So what happens when we miss dinner?” she asked. “Will Marcel get angry if we go into the kitchen and rummage around?”
“Yes, of course, he’s a chef,” said David. “The kitchen is his duchy, his kingdom, and no one else is allowed.” He sat up and reached for his trousers. “Except, I am the brother of the Marquis and this is my castle, literally, so Marcel does not make the rules whether he likes it or not,” he said.
Jo looked quickly at David. She couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. He sounded both annoyed at her question and pleased at being able to do what he liked, no matter what anyone else felt or thought.
It is always a tricky moment, and a crucial one–the moment when a lover first does or says something that gives one pause. It is inevitable. But will the sultry, distracting haze of hot sex make the consideration of what was done or said get tossed aside? Or will true attention be paid?
Way, way back in Jo’s mind, very quietly, barely audible, her inner voice reminded her that Marianne had once talked about the importance of noticing how a man treats children, the help, and animals. Jo jumped out of bed, moving quickly to get out of the range of that voice even though the voice was in her own head.
In other words, no, true attention would not be paid, at least not now.
“I could cook something for you,” said Jo, pulling on a pair of jeans and a tight T-shirt that she knew showed off her breasts.
“Cook for me?” said David. He looked confused. He had never had anyone offer such a thing, not since he was a little boy and his mother would occasionally shoo the cooks out of the kitchen and make him something special, like a custard, which the two of them would eat together, still warm, sitting at the long wooden table in the kitchen many years ago, when the stoves were all wood-fired, there were no refrigerators, and the sounds outside the open door were all hoofbeats and roosters crowing.
“That would be lovely,” David said, regaining his manners, but still feeling a little unsettled by her suggestion. He quickly slid into his clothes and looked at himself in the long gilt-edged mirror. He was a stunning looking man, no question about it. His dark hair flopped over one eye like a forelock, and his shoulder muscles strained against the fabric of his shirt. He was powerful. Magnetic. He knew this about himself, and he liked it very much. “Shall we go then,” he asked, holding out his arm.
The walk to the kitchen was uncomfortable. David wanted to hold Jo close to him, to continue squeezing her in all those very squeezeable places of her lovely body, and to smell her intoxicating smell–but when he did this, his fangs began to throb. It irritated him that he had to work so hard to control himself.
So he pushed her away. Pushed her away and then pulled her back close. And again.
Jo did not feel any of this in words. The words in her head were all about the omelets
she planned to make. But this thing of being pushed away and pulled back–it produced a feeling that for her was old and familiar, so old and familiar that she didn’t even notice she was having it. Or notice that it made her feel deeply unwanted, and unworthy, and desperate. Like she would do anything to keep him close, to keep him from continually leaving.
Not that she ever thought anything like that consciously. Consciously, she was light-hearted, an omelet-maker, just a girl turned on by her hot lover.
“Just point me in the direction of the fridge,” she said, once they were in Marcel’s inner sanctum. “And is it too late in the season for herbs? I saw Marcel has a little herb garden just outside, I’ll go see,” she said, leaning in to give David a kiss, a proper kiss, with a bit of tongue, and a soft moan.
I could have another go, she thought. Right here on the stainless kitchen table. His lips were so, so soft, and tasted so good. She was drawn to keep touching, keep kissing, keep exciting him. She dropped one hand down to his crotch and felt him stiffening up. She thought, there is not really anything better than that, feeling how he wants me, how he responds to me.
“Herbs,” she said, using great willpower to break away. “I’m not going to let myself get distracted by your…magnificence,” she said, pointedly looking at the large bump in his pants and grinning. She found some switches for outdoor lights and let herself out the side door to the kitchen, on her way to herb garden just outside.
At which point David squinted his eyes for a moment at the doorway through which she had just disappeared, as though withstanding a physical pain. And then he turned, and quickly and quietly with vampire speed left the kitchen and went through many rooms to a door on the other side of the Château, and out into the moonless night.
Pierre got the final armful of papers up the ladder into the former hayloft that was his living quarters.
“What an epic pain in the ass this job has turned out to be,” he thought. He looked with satisfaction at the large stack he had piled against the wall, hoping that among them would be what Dominic and Maloney, and more importantly, their mysterious boss, was looking for.
Unbitten Page 12