“I like to hunt,” said le Seigneur, his eyes glowing. “I am extremely good at it.”
Henri allowed le Seigneur to reminisce to himself, thinking of the many conquests he had made over the centuries, the long, long list of necks he had bitten, how he had lifted his head with blood dripping from his fangs, licking his lips, laughing, eyes fiery around the edge of the irises, reveling in the surge of power that drinking gave him.
It was not hard for Henri to imagine what his father was thinking about, as they sat in silence, in the dark, but his own mind was headed in another direction, not past, but future. Warmer, braver, and altogether more blonde.
“Just stay for a minute,” David said to Angélique. She was touching the doorknob, ready to go. “You know how much I love having you here.”
“It’s late, David.”
He came to her and put his hand on hers. “Just for a minute,” he said, looking deeply into Angélique’s green eyes.
She had to force herself to turn away. When David got that close, he was very hard to resist when he wanted something. And he always, always, wanted something. He squeezed her hand, and then reached up to her face, brushing a lock of hair back from her face.
“Don’t touch me, David,” she said. “Please.”
“Please what?” he said, smiling as though she had asked him to touch her, not the opposite. The drunken feeling was passing quickly now. He no longer felt silly. But oh how he wanted sex. He wanted it now.
Angélique was utterly torn. The last thing she wanted was anything to do with David, beyond having her job managing the Château, a job she loved. But at the same time, undeniably, being the object of this much desire–it was sort of intoxicating, no matter whether she wanted it or not. She could feel his craving, feel how he trembled when he touched her; she could smell his amazingly appealing smell that was somehow better than all the other smells she loved–better than vanilla, than jasmine, than lemon blossoms, lavender, better than anything. Part of her wanted to keep standing there, almost hypnotized, inhaling his scent, basking in his attention.
She had made that mistake once before, and Angélique, ever the good student, was not going to make it again.
“Good night, David. Let me know, of course, if there is anything that needs my attention in the morning.” She stepped away from him and opened the door.
“I need your attention, Angélique. Right now,” he said, reaching for her, a note of pleading in his voice.
But she was gone, and he stood in the doorway listening to the clatter of her heels on the stone stairs, getting fainter and fainter.
33
She was gliding along the endless escalators at Orly, having just arrived from New York City.
“And they give me fuck-all for coming all this way on that shit-box of a plane, oh my GOD it was the most uncomfortable fucking endless day of my life...” she said, not to anyone in particular, and without her usual pep. “Jesus, I am so. tired. I am not getting on any damn train, I’m going into Paris for a few days, and that scumbag Dominic can just wait for me,” she said, to herself this time.
Roxanne was not a good traveler.
Using her vampire facility with languages, she boarded the correct bus to take her into Paris, but the bus was crowded with tourists, and her mood did not improve. She was left without a seat and stood in the aisle, holding on to a thin strap, swaying as the bus lurched its way onto the autoroute and towards the city.
“Can you move your bloody leg?” she said to a very tall man, another American, who had stuck a leg into the aisle.
“Sorry!” he said cheerfully, and smiled at her.
She gave him a look of disgust. Human men, she thought, are absolutely with. out. clue. She glanced around the bus, trying to adjust her senses, and checking to see whether any other vampires were riding. There was something in the back, some sort of…disturbance…she could detect. It didn’t feel like vampire though, and she couldn’t even guess what it might be. Roxanne had never been to Paris, but she had heard the stories. Crazy shit. Shapeshifters. Weird drugs. Week-long suck-fests at country houses with servants.
A different world from the scrubby New York existence she led, living in a tiny maid’s room in the apartment of a cheap vampire family whose children she took care of. Paid like crap, and plus she had to drink from the husband every month which was only about the most disgusting thing in the whole fucking world. She had to do it, and she had to feel grateful for it too, which–could anything be worse than that?
The reality was, being a labri totally sucked. No doubt about it.
She craned her neck but saw nothing except tired-looking, badly dressed people, bedraggled, clutching their bags and fiddling with their phones. She had expected France to be more exciting right from the minute she arrived. But, she realized, the glamorous people are not taking the bus. They are in limousines or taxis or cars. She felt so sleep-deprived and irritated at the world that she gave the American man’s leg a sharp kick.
“Hey!” he said, “Sorry! There’s not enough legroom, I can’t help it.”
“Well, if you don’t fit, maybe you could let someone else sit there,” said Roxanne, glaring at him.
“Good idea,” said the man, getting up, and standing in front of her while motioning to another woman standing father down the aisle to take his seat. The man glared back at Roxanne and moved to the back of the bus.
“Shithead,” muttered Roxanne. She ran a hand through her hair, which was shaved on one side and spiked up on the other, although the spikes were sagging after the long plane ride. A streak of bright green flopped down into her face, which was heavily made up in anticipation of Parisian clubs. Smoky eye, greenish-black lips.
One side of the bus let out a collective whoop–the Eiffel Tower had briefly popped into view before sliding behind some buildings.
Roxanne was in Paris. The night was young. And she was going to make the most of it.
It was five in the morning. Henri had said good night to his parents and left the dungeon a few hours earlier, and headed back to the lab to work. But the work wasn’t happening. He was having difficulty focusing on the problems at hand. His mind kept drifting back to the sound of his mother’s voice, so ghostly, really, so alone and desperate. And when he would shake that thought out of his head, what would swoop in was…Jo.
She is so excitable, he thought, trying to think up criticism but smiling about the image it brought to mind instead. I have no room in my life for a relationship anyway, it’s never been that important to me, he told himself.
But no matter what he told himself, the truth was that Jo had awakened him to the fact that he was terribly lonely, and no amount of work or success at work was ever going to able to fix that.
He was supposed to be working on the most important project of his life, but he was checking the clock every few minutes, waiting for dawn, and the chance to meet up with Jo in the breakfast room.
He felt like he was eighteen, instead of 208.
She had wrapped her arms around him that day he had come for her in the forest. It hadn’t been an electric touch, or anything like that. Sparks had not flown out in a trail behind them. So why did he keep thinking about the way her arms had felt? Why did he keep going over it, and over it, imagining that as she was riding behind him on the moped, she had leaned her head against his back, and then…Stop it! Why couldn’t he let it go?
It occurred to him that he would probably still be tinkering with the design of the anti-sun suit, if she hadn’t needed him to go outside in broad daylight immediately, and he had had no other choice. She had needed his protection, and she had forced him out of his logical complacency. In his scientific way, Henri could see himself and Jo as a perfect equation, which was deeply appealing to him. Not to mention the fact that her physicality, her bounding energy, her strawberry-blonde hair–all of that about Jo had been kindling something in Henri that equations had nothing to do with. His body had woken up, and there was no lulling it
back to sleep with work, no matter how important it was to him.
Except, she was human. And for a vampire who had devoted his life to supporting the vampire world, no matter how ambivalent he might be about belonging to it, Jo’s being a human meant the subject of any relationship was closed. Period.
Tristan Durant had always been an early riser. He loved getting up in the dark, now that it was November, making his coffee, getting the wood stove fired up, and sitting in his kitchen thinking over whatever needed thinking over, while the sun slowly crept up over the horizon.
Lately, what had needed thinking over, with some urgency, was Jessica Winston. Their time in Paris had been lovely, but he had had no illusions about a future with her–she was a dedicated New Yorker, and he lived in tranquil Mourency that only had two trains a day and barely five streets altogether. It was impossible. Yet every morning, Tristan sat in the darkness, sipping his black coffee, and tried to think up a way to bring her here, or go to New York himself, and also, he conjured up more, ah, intimate subjects, all Jessica-related.
He wanted to Skype with her right now. He didn’t care how pixilated she might be, he just wanted to see her, to hear her and see her animated face. It was not quite midnight, surely she would still be up. She might even be in a nightie, he thought with a groan. The nightie might even be translucent, he thought, with a bigger groan.
But he stopped himself from opening his computer, knowing that while some eagerness was attractive, too much eagerness was definitely not. He sighed and looked out the window, sipped more coffee, and turned his thoughts to work. Before long he decided to get dressed and walk to the gendarmerie, where Roland, who also got up early, was probably already waiting for them to get started.
Jo was up early, skipping downstairs in her riding clothes, looking forward to breakfast with mouth-watering anticipation. That apricot pastry, with the custardy layer of pastry cream, and the apricots that were just slightly burnt and caramelized–she was praying for that one this morning. Not that she couldn’t manage if there were only chocolate croissants. Or the almond ones. She would survive somehow without the apricot, she thought. Barely. But today she was leaving for the show, and she wanted to start off with a taste of perfection–sort of a good luck charm.
“Good morning, Albert!” she sang out, as she passed through the grand foyer. “Wish me luck!”
Albert, always perfectly turned out and ready to help guests with anything they could think of and even some things they could not, grinned at Jo as she flew by. He appreciated her enthusiasm for the morning and whatever the day might bring.
“Good luck, Miss!” he called out as she disappeared through the salons and out of sight.
The breakfast room was empty at that early hour. She had just begun to pour coffee into her cup when Henri arrived. He helped himself to a pot of coffee and stopped at her table.
She took her first pastry, an almond croissant covered with toasted almonds, still steaming hot. Her face was lit up with delight at the prospect of gobbling it down.
Henri sat back and watched Jo eat, transfixed. He didn’t know why it was so satisfying to him, but it was. She had such appetite, such enjoyment, it seemed, for everything.
“Have something,” she said with her mouth full, gesturing at the plate of pastries. “Really, how can you pass them up? It’s like opening your mouth and putting in happiness,” she said, choosing a chocolate one next. “I especially like the apricot,” she said. “But it’s not exactly apricot season, is it?”
Henri laughed. He did not know why, since what Jo said was not even remotely funny. But when he laughed, she joined him. And he decided for the first time since he could remember, to eat something while sitting at a table with another person, instead of eating while reading, or working, or walking somewhere, off in his own world.
She talked to him about Drogo and her hopes for the show, about when she had first started riding and how it had taken over her life so that she spent all of her time at the barn, mucking stalls and cleaning saddles and boots to earn money for her lessons. Henri listened to every word, fascinated by this modern girl with her American life, so full of desires and enthusiasms, so…human. And, as she was apparently unable to stop, she talked of apricot pastries too, and how she did not think she was going to be able to go back and live in the States if she could not find anyplace there to buy them.
Her eyes were bright and shining, and to Henri, she seemed more alive than anyone he knew or had ever known.
It would not be truthful to say that he did not notice the color in her cheeks, and even, yes, the pulsing artery on her neck, her lovely, uncovered neck. Henri did notice these things. And it was becoming harder to ignore, as well, the effect that she was having on body parts other than his fangs. Years–more than a century!–of pushing those feelings away in favor of scientific research meant that Henri was in danger of being utterly overwhelmed with lust if he allowed that door to open.
But how could he keep it closed? She threw her head back, laughing at some little comment he made, and then she looked at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth slightly open, smiling an intimate smile, and said goodbye. Three days at a horse show, plus travel on either end.
Henri was not sure he could last five days without seeing her.
34
David was thirsty. He had skipped dinner with the guests–he was in no shape to manage that–but now he calculated that the guests would be ambling home, their bellies tight, their defenses down. He didn’t understand what had happened last night when he bit Francis, that drunk and chubby British man who had been resting on the bench, minding his own business–but he did know this: that the hours after that bite were the only respite he had found from the torments of Callie Armstrong, and dammit, he was going to find that respite again, if only an opportunity presented itself.
Yes, it was rather gross to be feasting on men. Disgusting, really. Men having sex with men–eh, to each his own taste. But a man biting another man, that was just nasty. He would have been the first to look down on any male vampire he knew that did it. God knows if his father found out…David shivered. His father might be old and weak and stuck in that dungeon, but this might be just the thing to snap him out of it, and David did not want to spend a second imagining what would happen then.
He shaved, washed up, brushed his glossy hair, and selected his clothing carefully as always. David did not allow a crisis, no matter how personal, to affect his presentation. He checked himself out in the mirror, turned, and admired his backside. Then with a speed so rapid he could barely be seen, he was out the door and down the stairs and outside, then walking slowly, playing the part of younger brother to the Marquis, proprietor of the chambre d’hôte.
Francis and his wife had followed their intended schedule and left that morning, with no mention of any trouble, at least that David had heard about, and he had no pile of texts from Angélique so he felt safe on that score. The thing now was to stroll along here in the chilly air, until someone–oh, look here! It’s the man from Brazil who only just arrived this morning. Doubtless he is tired from all that travel, and the wine has gone to his head. David watched the man stumble and weave down the path on the way to his cottage.
At least it’s a relief not to have a wife to bother about, thought David happily, walking quite slowly, letting the man get to his door and fumble with the keys before he stepped in to help, ever the genteel host.
He got the man inside and took a look at him. Objectively, he was a reasonably attractive man in his early thirties, his eyes glazed from fatigue and too much food and wine. It was nothing for David to get him settled in an armchair, and then come up behind him and bite, sucking, tasting that heady flavor of wine in his blood, slurping him up. The Brazilian man barely seemed to take in where he was or that David was there.
For a moment, David regretted how it used to be, with women–how wonderful it had felt to see their eyes shining with desire for him. He did miss that. But the moment pass
ed, as they always did with David and regret.
Ah, he thought, finally lifting his head and wiping his mouth. Blissful escape and deliverance. He could feel the wonderful dullness set in, as his raw nerve endings were gently assuaged, and the pain receded. Then he stuck a bandage on the bite marks and said good night, reminding himself to check and see whether this tasty guest might be staying long enough for another bite later in the week. David reeled out of the cottage, forgetting to close the door.
Vampires don’t get drunk. Unless they do.
Two days later, Henri had slept during the train ride to La Baule, and then after that in his very nice hotel room, and so getting up before noon to attend his very first horse show was no problem at all. He had his anti-sun gear, with some new improvements, so that he could sit in the outdoor bleachers and watch the action without fear of getting burned up. The remaining problem–and frankly, Henri was happy to have a problem to worry over, a nice, uncomplicated scientific problem–was that he did not know how close he could get to the horses without setting off a reaction and possibly endangering the riders.
What Jo would think when she saw him, how she would react–well, he couldn’t control that. He just wanted to see her jump Drogo. He thought it was wrong for the Château to hire her and send her to participate in this prestigious, and potentially dangerous, event, without anyone from the Château even in attendance.
At least, that was what he was telling himself.
He decided the safest thing was to go to the venue and make his way near the stables, and he would be able to see what effect he was having before any events were underway. It’s mostly just a matter of distance, he guessed. And smell.
Pierre had given him some ideas with his use of the women’s green clay facial mask as a way to block the sun. Henri had combined the idea of using mineral particles with some of the principles behind his bandages, and come up with a kind of mask that was virtually indistinguishable from skin, not unless you were really right up close and trying to see it. It moved like skin moved, so that it actually looked more realistic than some of the faces at La Baule who had gone in for perhaps more plastic surgery than was wise.
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