Unbitten

by Valerie du Sange

  It was fiddly to get on though, and Henri was stuck in the hotel bathroom, leaning close to the mirror, for much longer than he wanted to be. Finally the thing was done, and he ate a quick breakfast and headed out, one eye out for Jo always. The arena was not far from his hotel, and he was happy to walk.

  Being outside in the middle of the day was still–and would probably forever be–a novelty, and he enjoyed the social contact of being in a crowd of strangers, listening to bits of conversation, watching them interact. He was an imposing man, tall, with his broad shoulders and chest, and strong bones in his face, and many in the crowd, especially the women, took a second look. With the new mask, he was tempted to forgo the hat, but even though his hair was very thick and long, he did not want to risk it. Instead of the wide-brimmed straw hat, he wore a gray fedora, which, judging by the expressions on the women who looked, had been a very good decision.

  Henri smiled. He felt expansive. Now that he knew he was going to be seeing Jo very soon, he didn’t feel in such a hurry. He could savor his first trip to the seaside in over two hundred years. He admired the pines, the huge hotels along the beach, and the wide expanse of sand bordering the sea. A few lone souls wandered along the beach, braving the November cold off the Atlantic.

  The stables were in state of hubbub, with horses being led from one place to another, groomsmen scurrying about, too many people with too much to say, and the air overall taut with the anxiety that comes before any great competition. Henri watched from afar for a good long while, to have an accurate picture of how the horses behaved before sensing him. He kept drifting back into memories of childhood, of playing in the stables with David, of his brother’s obsession with horses and watching him fly over fences, and then bringing himself back to the present moment and the job at hand. He walked a little closer, casually, just a curious tourist.

  “Well, hello!” said a voice at his elbow.

  Henri glanced over and then down, at a short woman who was looking up at him, beaming. “Are you speaking to me, Mademoiselle?” he asked.

  “You bet I am!” she said, continuing to speak English, with an American accent. She had a head of platinum-dyed curls, gleaming white capped teeth, and an appreciative look in her eye. “I’ve been here a week, going to nightclubs every night, and events all day long, and I don’t even know anything about horses!”

  Henri laughed. “Ah,” he said. “Just look there,” he pointed at the stable, as an enormous white gelding was being led out of his stall. “Now there is some horseflesh, Mademoiselle!”

  They shared a good-humored laugh, the laugh of people on holiday, enjoying themselves, with some expectation of something even better happening later on even if they did not know what it was going to be.

  “He’s a good-looking beast, no doubt about it,” the woman said, looking at Henri with frank interest. She winked.

  Winking made Henri very uncomfortable. He smiled and nodded, breaking away from her, and walked closer to the stables. He had been shut in the lab for so long he was not used to attention from women. He did not find it entirely unappealing, but he felt a little ill at ease, since his ability to flirt was so clearly underdeveloped. But instead of taking the opportunity to practice, he concentrated on the horses.

  Henri had not loved riding the way David had. He had been good enough at it, but horses were more of a scientific and emotional interest than a physical one for him. So far, no difference that he could see in their behavior. He checked wind direction to see if his smell was being blown in the opposite direction of the stable. The breeze seemed variable. He wasn’t sure what conclusion to draw from that. He walked a little closer. Just then, a gust swept through. The white gelding tossed his head and neighed, and Henri heard other horses in their stalls, kicking, neighing, sounding afraid.

  He turned and trotted back down the street, away from the stables, until he could no longer hear them. Then he kept walking, zigzagging through the crowd, before deciding to risk going to the show anyway. He had not traveled all the way to La Baule to miss seeing Jo perform. He would go to the farthest back seat possible, and be ready to jump off the back of the bleachers and run away if necessary.

  The sound of the frightened horses was like a stab to Henri’s heart, since of course he did not intend any harm to them, but there was no way to convince them of this. Centuries of hungry vampires feasting on horses meant that their fear was old, passed down from horse to horse over many generations, and no protestations of safety by this one vampire would make any difference at all.

  No matter how calm he was, how seemingly trustworthy, the horses were not going to be convinced. And maybe, thought Henri, that is how it should be. He should not get to be an exception to his race, just because he knew a few scientific tricks, or had more self-control than the average vampire. And he should not be thinking of being with a human woman, either. He should respect the old laws, the old rules.

  He said this to himself, nodding in agreement as though that would help him to believe the words, as he walked through the streets to get to the entrance of the stadium, then through the gate and up to the farthest-away seat he could find, at the top of the bleachers, where no one else was sitting.

  Flags from participating countries were flying around the top of the stadium, flapping in the breeze, giving Henri an easy way to keep an eye on wind direction. He walked around the top arc of seats so that the wind was blowing straight at him, and scientifically crossed his fingers that it would stay constant.

  The first event was about to start. Henri kept his eyes on the gate the rider would come through into the ring. The crowd became more focused, less noisy, and the seats were filling quickly.

  It was that same white gelding he had seen earlier, with a young man mounted on him. The rider was wearing cream-colored breeches and a navy blazer, dressed impeccably, his clothes so perfect you would never imagine they were used for something as sweaty and muddy and manure-laden as riding a horse. The rider’s black boots gleamed, the buckles polished just so. And the rider himself was a very handsome man, with aristocratic bearing, his ease in the saddle remarkable. Henri pulled out the program he had stuffed in a pocket and tried to find out who he was, and whether the family name was familiar.

  It was barely believable that any horse could get over the jumps, they were so very high–and some of them ridiculously wide as well. Henri watched the rider move with his horse through the course, over the water jump, the fake bricks, the pole jumps. For the really high ones, the horse would hesitate a moment, gathering himself, almost balancing on his haunches before bursting up and over. Henri wasn’t sure of the rules, but it seemed to be going very well until suddenly the horse bucked and the rider had to circle around to face one jump again.

  He continually glanced at the flags to make sure the wind was still keeping his presence a secret.

  The horses appeared to enjoy the competition. It looked to Henri as though one of the primary jobs of the riders was to hold their mounts back, to slow them down, rather than urge them on. The powerful animals wanted to surge over those jumps and show what they could do. Henri wished David could be here to see them.

  Then, finally, sixth in line came Jo. Henri felt a swelling pride when he saw her, looking so beautiful and connected with Drogo, reaching down to pat him and have a word in his ear before they came through the gate and started the course. Drogo seemed practically to be laughing at the jumps, as though they were absolutely piddling, as he flew over one and then another.

  Henri saw her toned legs gripping the horse, saw her perfect balance, her cheeks red in the chill air. She was achingly lovely, doing what mattered to her most, her expression intent, and deeply focused.

  Henri was so captivated, watching Jo, that he failed to watch the flags. The wind changed, not steadily, but in unpredictable gusts, making the flags snap and bunch up and snap again. Drogo tossed his head and put his nose in the air. Jo rose up on the balls of her feet, squeezing him with her thighs. Henri co
uld see her mouth moving as she murmured to him. The horse took the water jump, but just after landing, he reared up on his back legs, neighing.

  Henri startled when he heard the nearby flags snapping–then he saw them, flying full out in the wrong direction, the ones across the stadium facing away from him, his scent going straight to the horse.

  He hated to leave, but he did not hesitate. He swung under the metal bars at the very top of the stadium, and looked down. There was a small place he could land–a concrete abutment about halfway down. He jumped. And then jumped again, to the grass below, and quickly glanced around to see if anyone needed to be brainwiped after seeing him leap distances that would have broken a human’s legs.

  He would have to watch the rest of the show on his computer, in his hotel room.

  35

  In November, night came early, which for vampires was a pleasant extension to their waking hours. Roxanne was glad for darkness because she could leave her cheap hotel room and get on the train to Mourency, with the hope that things there would turn out better than they had in Paris.

  Number one, she thought, as she boarded and took a seat, that fucking shithole of a hotel shouldn’t be allowed to stay in business. The lumpy bed had been crawling with bedbugs and lice. For fucks’ sake, vampires are supposed to do the bloodsucking, not be the target of an army of parasitic vermin. She shuddered at the idea of her blood in the bellies of all those insects, and scratched her head. Then her groin. Then her armpit.

  Number two, this dude that Dominic is setting me up with–using me like a fucking piece of meat, really, is what he’s doing–this Pierre had better not be a troll. And something had better be going on in Mourency too. If it’s some fuck-ass dead town with nobody and nothing happening, I am turning right around and going back to New York, and fuck you, Dominic.

  Even as she delivered this speech to herself, she knew she wasn’t going to go through on any of her threats. It wasn’t a question of bravery, it was a question, as it often turns out to be, of money. Without Dominic, she had no way to get a plane ticket to New York. And once in New York, she had found no way to make it without her nanny job, and if there was any way to leave that behind for good, she was going to take it.

  Even if Pierre was a troll. Labrim, they didn’t have a lot of options.

  It had already been two and half weeks since the last time she sucked on her employer. She could feel her strength beginning to ebb, the way it always did, slowly at first, as she became more tired than usual, then wasn’t able to think quite as clearly. Eventually, by about the six week mark, if she did not find a male vampire to suck, she would be too debilitated to move much. And not being able to move, obviously, meant that she had no hope of finding anyone to suck, and she would sink into unconsciousness and die.

  As many, many labrim had done before her.

  Fucking men. They’ll bite anything in a skirt, but ask them for a nibble and it’s no fucking way. Selfish bastards.

  Roxanne leaned back in her seat and looked out of the window. She was on the slow train, to save money, and it made many stops, but the advantage was that she got to see all these small towns and villages, could have quick glimpses of a different kind of life than she was used to. Very often she saw a man get off the train, and walk into the arms of a woman waiting for him. Or a woman get off, and be mobbed by her children, with her husband smiling and waiting his turn for a kiss. Before long, Roxanne was having to brush tears away, and find something else to do besides watch this endless parade of homecomings and reunions.

  She got up and walked down the aisle, grabbing onto the top of seats as the train lurched, trying to find the refreshment car. One thing she had quickly learned to love about France was that the coffee tended to be excellent, and the croissants were delectable. Practically like sinking your teeth into flesh, they were so good. The refreshment car was crowded. Couples had taken all the tables and there was a line for buying snacks to go. She stood waiting, swaying with the movement of the train, not paying much attention to the other passengers.

  Then she noticed a presence behind her. She felt it without looking around. It was like a looming shadow of power, and he didn’t have to make contact for her to feel his intensity. On purpose, she did not turn around. The line moved up but she did not step forward. The man behind her–he came closer. She could feel him there, even though he still had not touched her. The anticipation of his touching her began to build.

  The line moved up again, and still she did not move. The man leaned in, close to her neck, her ear, and said, in something between whisper and growl, “You waiting for something?”

  She turned then, to have just a quick glance. He was smiling at her, his eyes roaming over her, taking her in. He licked his lips, slowly, pointedly. She turned back around, and took a few steps to catch up in line.

  He followed, and this time, she could feel his touch from behind. His face was close, right by hers, as though he were looking over her shoulder to see the menu items, and with one hand he was caressing her ass, faintly at first, but when she didn’t pull away, more insistently. The thin fabric of her skirt allowed her to feel his fingertips and palm as he moved them over her. He squeezed, he explored, he was doing things with that hand that usually were reserved for someplace private.

  Roxanne was totally turned on. Now we’re talking, she thought. Paris might have been a complete drag with no money, but this train ride is definitely looking up.

  “I have a private room at the end of the train,” he whispered in her ear with that rough voice.

  She found herself really loving the French accent. It made words sound like water going over rocks in a stream. She arched her back just a little in reply.

  “Small coffee,” Roxanne said to the girl at the cash register. “And a croissant, please.” She took the little cardboard box with her things, and again, had a quick look at the man. He was tall and muscular, his pants were tight and she could see he was hard. She gasped at his boner, then gave him a crooked grin.

  After he had gotten his drink, he guided her to the back of the train and into his private room. It was very small, so small they could barely stand without touching. But that was not the idea, in any case, as the minute the door was closed, they put down their snacks and forgot all about them, their lips greedily meeting, their clothes flying off, and the rest of the train trip spent fucking every which way, all to the helpful and soothing rhythm of the train, as it clackety-clacked its way along the route, taking Roxanne to a possible new life in Mourency, and the man to parts unknown.

  In the hotel bathtub, Jo went over and over her ride, picking it apart, trying to understand where things had gone wrong. But she could not understand it. About a third of the way through, Drogo had gotten upset, and Jo had not been able to calm him or turn his attention back fully to the course, and they had ended up being disqualified.

  Disqualified!

  She was mortified at her failure. She did not want to face David, Henri, Thierry, or even Drogo. It had been her job to win that event, and she had not even been able to stay in the running. The hotel room, small but quite nice, with a view of the ocean, made her feel undeserving.

  She dragged the soap over her body, not paying any attention to its lavender scent or the soothing warm water, but stuck back in the moment of her humiliation, when the judges made their pronouncement over the loudspeaker. It was not that disqualifications were that unusual. But it had never happened to her before, even during her first shows when she was very young and unseasoned.

  She rinsed off and stepped out of the tub, letting the water run off her body and soak the bathmat. She swept her wet hair back from her face, and then, still wet, put on her nightgown, a thin cotton one that Marianne had given her that was more suitable for hot summer evenings than November, but which Jo had considered lucky.

  Ha, she thought. Not lucky this time.

  A knock at her door.

  She had not called room service and had no idea who it
might be. And she did not want to see anyone–she had an important night of moping ahead of her, and did not want it interrupted. Jo sighed and walked to the door, slipping on a bathrobe as she went.

  She cracked open the door, keeping the chain in place.

  “Yes?” she said, allowing her displeasure into her voice.

  “Jo,” said Henri.

  She looked up into his eyes, his blue glinting eyes. She struggled to understand. Henri was standing just outside her hotel room. Her first thought was that he was there to fire her. Or maybe to yell at her. Then she collected herself, realizing that Henri was not a man who would do either of those things, not without warning, no matter what the circumstances.

  “Henri?” she said, because she had no idea what to say.

  “May I come in?” he asked. His voice was gentle, yet there was something in it, something Jo wasn’t sure of. He sounded as though…her answer mattered to him.

  She stepped back and slid out the chain, then opened the door wide.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, grinning. She realized, to her surprise, that she was very glad to see him.

  He strode in, grinning back at her, then pulled off his coat and tossed it on a chair. He turned to her and put his hands on his hips. “You were magnificent,” he said, smiling at her, and looking at her intently.

  “You were there?”

  “Yes,” he said. “For…part of it, anyway.”

  “Do you know…”

  “About the disqualification? Yes. It doesn’t matter. I had no idea what it was that you did exactly–I had never been to a show jumping event before, never seen anything like that. It–you–it was astonishing. You…were astonishing.”