Unbitten

by Valerie du Sange

  Pierre sat back in his chair as though he had just recited an extremely long poem for his teacher.

  “Would you like something to drink, Pierre? A Hemo-Yum, perhaps? Have you tried one before?”

  “Never have,” said Pierre. “They don’t carry it at the bar I go to.”

  Henri laughed, then got up and rummaged around in a cooler by his desk. “What’s your pleasure? Minnesota Farm Girl? English Rose? Porn Star?”

  “Uh, I’ll have the Porn Star,” said Pierre, perking up considerably.

  Henri took one for himself too, Brazilian Bombshell. The two of them arranged their straws, relaxed back in their chairs, and began to suck.

  “Wow,” said Pierre. “This is the real thing?”

  “Not at all,” said Henri. “Synthetic.” He paused and took a long pull from his own bag. “Pretty close though, eh?”

  “Yeah no kidding! Sir!” said Pierre, barely able to take his mouth off the straw long enough to speak. Embarrassingly, the flavor was so erotic he was getting a hard-on. Not really what you want for an audience with the Marquis. He crossed his legs and tried to continue enjoying the flavor while willing his cock to settle down.

  “So what you’re telling me is that you were approached by some thugs. And these thugs want you to spy on me, to gather information, documents, that sort of thing, to give to them which they will deliver to someone at this nameless corporation. Is that it?”

  “Yes,” Pierre gurgled, putting his mouth right back on the straw.

  “Did they threaten you?” asked Henri. “Offer to pay you? What’s your incentive?”

  “Well, sir, it’s carrot and stick. They’re promising me things and threatening me. Both together.”

  “I see.” They both leaned back and sucked for a while without talking.

  Henri looked around his lab, conspicuously looked, so that Pierre would notice him looking. It was absolutely clear to Henri that Pierre had been the one who had gotten into the lab. That’s where the evidence pointed, although he didn’t need any evidence; with Pierre looking so guilty Henri expected him to blurt it out at any minute.

  “And so, here you are,” said Henri.

  “Here I am,” said Pierre, nodding. He sucked the last little wee droplets out of the corner of his bag, and just barely resisted the impulse to tear it open and lick the inside.

  “What I was thinking,” Pierre said, "is, listen, we go way back. I don’t want to cause trouble for you. I don’t even have any idea what it is you do in here. And documents, you know, documents are not really my thing. So I thought maybe the two of us, or you, could come up with a plan so I could be a kind of double agent.

  “You don’t want these thugs hanging around. You’ve gotta get rid of them. But if you just get rid of this pair, the corporation will send three next time. You’ve got to do something, ah, a little sneakier,” he finished. He gave a longing look at the cooler, hoping Henri would offer him another bag.

  “I see what you mean,” said Henri, stroking his chin, beginning a list in his head. For some reason, despite the seriousness of what Pierre was telling him and the plans that must be made, Henri felt a lightness, a lift of good humor that was almost adolescent. This corporation–we will make them very sorry, thought Henri, almost gleefully.

  Angélique had been trying to talk to David for days. It had not been a good month for the Château, financially speaking, and she needed to have an emergency session with him to discuss the budget. But, she thought, David seemed to have some kind of special sense that clued him in, because whenever she had to talk to him about money, he was nowhere to be found. Every time she entered a room, it seemed he had just left. They could go on like this for at least a week.

  He could keep a few horses, she thought, reviewing her list in her head as she was walking down the gravel path that went to the guest cottages. He could keep a few, and Thierry as well, if he would just sell that Drogo. He was worth a bloody fortune. She would very much like to get her hands on some of the items in the tack room as well, not to mention some of the antiques in those upper storage rooms, maybe an auction….

  She came around some bushes and found herself about twenty feet from Tristan Durant and Roland Morel, standing with the housemaid Marie-Louise. Angélique had been meaning to let Marie-Louise go for months, but had not been quite able to pull the trigger.

  When Tristan saw Angélique, he thanked Marie-Louise who picked up her cleaning kit and went on to the next cottage.

  “Bonjour, Messieurs!” said Angélique, in her welcoming-guests voice.

  Roland nodded. Tristan, an old schoolmate, kissed her on both cheeks.

  “Marie-Louise gave us a call,” said Tristan, sounding very off-hand, as though he and Roland were only here because they had nothing better to do.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Angélique, looking from Tristan to Marie-Louise, and suddenly deeply regretting not having fired her ass.

  “Your guest, a Callie Armstrong?” said Tristan, looking at his notes. Again, seeming as though he couldn’t be bothered to remember the details of this wild goose chase.

  “Yes, Ms. Armstrong,” said Angélique. “She came last week. Sporty type, college girl, I believe.”

  “Do you know anything about her plans for leaving, where she was going, anything like that?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I talked to her at length about the walking trails around here, and sent her to the _tabac_in the village for maps.” Angélique talked while looking up and to the left, as though more information was written in the rafters of the cottage roof.

  “But you can verify that she has left,” Tristan said.

  Angélique paused at the tone in his voice, which had seemed to veer into some new territory. Not so off-hand. Like he wanted to get her statement so that he could twist it somehow. It was much safer, she had thought since coming to work for the la Mottes, to keep any police away from the Château and any guests away from the police. She was not going to be able to relax until Tristan was gone.

  “I would have to check the records in the office,” she said carefully. “We have so much coming and going, you understand. But yes, I believe she has left. A few days ago? I’m not sure which day.”

  “Did you make travel arrangements for her?”

  “For Callie Armstrong?” Angélique laughed. “Oh no. She was not the type of girl who liked having things done for her. Independent. Sporty, like I said.”

  “Thank you,” said Tristan, smiling.

  He has such a nice way about him, thought Angélique. It’s like you instantly trust him, without having to think about it. She remembered him in school, awkward but sweet, sitting behind her in geography class, drawing cartoons and passing them up for her to look at. She had avoided him since she started working for the la Mottes, because it made her so uncomfortable to keep their secret from such a decent man. Her loyalty was complicated, however. She was not staying quiet simply because of her job, or because she thought the la Mottes had earned her silence. It was more complicated than that.

  As far as Tristan was concerned, her main job was the keep the guests away from him, by lying if necessary.

  “Angélique,” he said, “Would it be all right if Roland and I took a look around her room? Roland here needs some training, and I’m grateful to have an opportunity to put him through his paces.”

  “That would be no problem,” said Angélique, giving Tristan a warm look and walking them up to the cottage where Callie Armstrong had stayed.

  28

  It was dusk. David was already awake, his sleep a disaster. He had spent hours flopping one way and then another, with images swirling through his mind–Callie Armstrong greeting him at the cottage door, all rosy-cheeked and glad to see him; a dribble of blood on Jo’s neck; the expression on the witches’ faces as they took Callie’s body from him; Jo, telling him to leave her room.

  David tried remembering all the way back, more than two centuries, and he could not think of even one ti
me that David de la Motte had been asked to leave a woman’s bedroom. Not once.

  He did not like it at all.

  She asked me to leave, he thought, over and over, the words like a black ribbon winding around his head and getting tighter and tighter. An ugly sweat was glistening on his skin.

  Finally David gave up on sleep. The sun had dipped below the trees anyway. He got up and showered, then dressed carefully–his pants tight; his shirt a rich fabric, opened at the chest; a pair of supple black boots that smelled of saddle soap.

  He considered dinner in the dining room, but the thought of mingling with guests and having to be charming felt like a burden. On the other hand, he was extremely thirsty. He wanted to suck, to drink from someone, and he knew from experience that this degree of need was not going to be denied for very long. And whether Henri liked it or not, the guests were the perfect snack menu. He would just have to be more careful than last time.

  Marcel was in a fantastic mood for some reason, and had spared no trouble or expense on the night’s dinner. Figs and prunes stuffed with foie gras. Roasted duck, with a choice of sauces. Some kind of potato and mushroom gratin, made with the duck fat, that was inspiring swoons all over the dining room.

  Angélique was sitting at a table with David, the Italians, and the new guests, a couple from England, who looked a bit stodgy.

  Most of the time, Angélique kept thoughts of David, and memories of David, out of her mind, which was no small trick considering she worked directly for him and saw him every day. Now that she was at dinner, trying to relax and enjoy the company of the guests, and was on her second glass of wine…bits of memory began to flash through her mind whether she wanted them to or not.

  Mostly, David’s face as he descended on her neck, his fangs out.

  No, she thought. I am not going to think about that now.

  When the salad course came, she piled her plate high. It was a very simple salad, to counterbalance the complicated dishes that had come before and the extravagant dessert to follow. It was just lettuce in a mustardy vinaigrette, rather salty, but to Angélique the salad tasted like home, like her grandmother’s cooking, and she ate it as though it would give her the strength to keep her thoughts in check. Which it did.

  Dessert, an old-fashioned floating island, came and went with the usual oohs and ahhs and people saying they wouldn’t but then having just a taste, followed by large helpings. The mood at the table was amiable enough, but it lacked the high spirits of the other night, and Angélique felt a little disappointed. Abruptly, she stood up and said goodnight to everyone, and left the dining room.

  David watched her go, his expression inscrutable.

  The British couple was stirring now, getting ready to leave as well. David had a moment of panic, terrifically thirsty, needing to bite, and no prospects.

  There was always the New Zealand woman, who had a certain way about her, but–David stopped himself, shuddering. Too sporty, he thought. Too close to…the accident, as he had started referring to Callie Armstrong in his head.

  The bigger problem was Jo. His whole mind, his whole body was all wrapped up in one thought: that he could not allow her to reject him. And he felt sure that biting another woman would mean her door was closed to him forever.

  He should have brainwiped her. It was arrogant not to have done it. But David–David liked to be remembered. He hated the thought of having a night with a woman and then making it impossible for her even to know it had happened. That was why he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wipe Angélique, refusing to listen to Henri even though that whole episode had been a disaster from beginning to end. But he liked, sometimes, to look into Angélique’s eyes, knowing that he had once sunk his fangs into her, that he had had her, sucked her. And that she remembered too.

  Without his usual charm, David got up from the table where only the Italians were left to finish the good wine he had brought up. The British couple was ahead, the man weaving a little perhaps, having overdone it as so many of the tourists did.

  When David got outside, he saw the wife far down the path on the way to their cottage. The husband was sitting on a bench, looking out into the darkness.

  Seeing the man, David paused, his thirst overtaking him. He had never considered biting a man before. It was not exactly taboo, but it was certainly frowned upon–so much so that David could not remember hearing of anyone doing it. The man might taste bad. David might get a belly ache from his blood. There were a million reasons not to.

  But reasons not to had never stopped David before; if anything, they spurred him to do a thing regardless, giving him an extra thrill of going against convention, or against what Henri wanted, his parents wanted, a girlfriend wanted.

  He came up behind the man–did David even know his name? Was it Francis?–put a hand on his shoulder, and with vampire quickness, leaned down to his neck, fangs extended, thirsty, ready to suck. There was a cloud of alcohol next to the man’s skin. His blood tasted like wine. Not uninteresting. David noticed that the usual effect of his penis stiffening did not occur, and he was glad of that. He kept sucking, almost absent-mindedly, almost numbly. And before the line was crossed, long before the man was emptied, he pulled up, let the man go, and circled around to face him. The man (yes, it was Francis) was not really conscious–the effect of all the wine and then the sucking on top of that had pretty much pulled the rug out from under Francis.

  David lifted his chin, gently, and stared into his eyes. David’s irises changed, becoming fiery around the edges, and glowing. He stared a penetrating stare into the dulled eyes of Francis, brainwiping him, and then he backed away from him, staggered a moment, and began to walk away. Then he spun around and came back, digging in his pocket for a bandage. He had a bit of trouble peeling the backing off, cursing, but eventually got it off and the bandage in place, if a little askew.

  “Good night, old chap,” said David, and laughed as he trotted toward the Château, on the way to his bedroom.

  On the grand staircase, he tripped and fell. He rubbed his face. He had barked his shins on the stone stairs and they hurt. He got to his feet and kept going, his feet not feeling like they belonged to him anymore. Marveling at this odd sensation of walking on someone else’s feet, he changed his course to go to Jo’s room instead of his own.

  Jo had spent the day hard at work, taking Drogo through his jumps in the ring, rubbing him down, doing the exercises she needed to do herself to stay limber and in top condition for the upcoming show. She was grateful to have so much physical work to do.

  All day, the image of David with his bloody fangs out, dripping with her blood, kept coming into her mind. And she would gently escort that image right back out again.

  Now it was time for a bath. Jo planned to call Albert and ask him to bring some dinner to her room; she was still famished and had considered going to the dining room in her riding clothes, but was not ready to run into David.

  Always how it is, she thought. First all you can think about is how to run into the guy, and then all you can think about is how to avoid him.

  She had taken off her riding clothes and put on a thick terry bathrobe while she wandered around her room, organizing and neatening up. Outside, in the corridor, a loud thump. A low groan. Jo went to the door and opened it. David was sprawled out on the stone floor, unsteadily attempting to get to his feet.

  “Jo!” he said, beaming at her, and holding out one hand. Reaching his arm out seemed to threaten his balance, and he overcompensated, lurching one way and then another, and finally putting his hand on the wall to keep himself steady.

  Jo glared at him. Then turned and paced for a moment, finally sitting down on the edge of her bed, her mind spinning, her body feeling clammy and jangly.

  “Jo, Jo, Jo, Jo, Jooooooo,” said David, careening into her room and then standing there with one shoulder dipped down, leaning forward as though getting ready for a footrace, one arm dangling and the other holding on to the doorway, smiling at her, h
is eyes rather hazy, his eyebrows raised up.

  “You’re drunk,” said Jo, her voice flat.

  “Oh no, no, no,” said David. “Thas impossible,” he said. “Vampires don’t get drunk, my dear Josephine.”

  “My name is not Josephine,” she said.

  “You are the Empress of all of France!” he raised up one arm in some sort of salute. “Wife of Napoleon!” He went to bow, and keeled over in a heap.

  “Get out,” said Jo.

  David did not appear to hear her. He was mumbling something in a sort of sing-song, possibly in Polish.

  “David!” said Jo, her voice stern. “I want you to leave. Now.”

  He looked up at her as though he was having a hard time understanding what she was saying. “But I want to make love to you,” he said, with a leer, waggling his eyebrows.

  The leer was what did it. The penny dropped. All at once he was no longer the charismatic aristocrat whose attention she craved, but a man so wrapped up in himself that it made her literally a little sick to her stomach. Of course, she was also thinking of her father, nearly always drunk in those last years she was at home. Slurring his words too. Wanting her attention too. And yes, a few times, leering.

  Jo squeezed her eyes tight as if that would make the memories more tolerable.

  She moved past David into the hallway, and started walking down the corridor, talking quickly in an excited voice. David came after her, looking for all the world like a dog hoping to get a treat. When they were a little ways away from her door, Jo turned suddenly and ran quickly back past him, into her bedroom, and shut the door. She turned the ancient key in the ancient lock and went to run her bath.

  Because he was drunk, and because he was David, he did not give up easily. He stood in the hallway, beating on her door and bellowing. When that didn’t work, he tried knocking gently and murmuring. He piled on heaps of flattery that would make the stoniest heart blush and smile.