Unbitten

by Valerie du Sange

  Jo felt certain that Henri would not have brought her here if she were in danger, so she did her very best to get control of her fear. Henri needed her strength–imagine having parents like this? They made her own look like paragons of normalcy!–and her strength was what she was going to give him.

  Henri spent the visit talking calmly with his parents, as he always did, first holding Jo’s hand, then snaking an arm around her waist. It made being there much, much less of a horror, for both of them. Jo began to talk to Antoinette, using the same voice she used when gentling a young horse, realizing that the words she said didn’t matter, it was what she communicated in her tone that the old woman would respond to. Henri once again admired Jo’s courage–nothing seemed to faze her.

  Eventually, when Antoinette was calmed and Henri worried that le Seigneur might try lunging at Jo, they said their goodbyes. Without a word, Henri locked his parents in, and he and Jo walked the long way back up out of the dark, to the outside, where it was cold and clear with countless stars overhead. She had never been so relieved to leave a room. She held Henri’s hand as they came back up the staircases, thinking about what kind of fortitude a person would need to make that visit every week, on and on, practically forever. What kind of devotion.

  There was no need for them to speak. Jo stopped, and Henri stopped, and they turned towards each other at the same moment, and twined their arms around each other, and looked briefly into each other’s eyes before falling into a deep kiss. Henri moaned a little while he kissed her, and the vibration of his moan sent sparks of excitement through Jo’s trembling body. She put her hands in his hair and then held on to his massive shoulders, pulling him close as they kept kissing, and kept kissing, and only stepped apart when they could both hear someone coming down the gravel path.

  The next morning, the train pulled into the Mourency station and a short woman, a little on the round side, tumbled off with her bag dragging behind her. It was Marianne, who had come to see the vampire for herself, and of course, to make sure her friend was not in any danger. She brushed her wild, curly hair out of her face and looked around for a taxi, but there was none in Mourency save old Monsieur Rémy, who sometimes waited around the station in his old Renault, trying to make a few extra euros. And this morning, M. Rémy was with his wife at the dentist’s.

  Marianne was nothing if not resourceful. And her French was excellent. She asked at the station the way to the Château, and set out on foot; vigorous exercise was not really her thing, but she was excited to surprise Jo and in a hurry to get there.

  She admired the stonework of the village houses as she walked down the street, the deep quiet, the little river. Everything looked so solid. If she squinted her eyes and blocked out some lurid advertising and the cars, the street could have been a street of 1700. Or even earlier. The sound of her wheeled bag clattering over the cobblestones was incongruous, and intensely loud, announcing her passage to the entire village.

  She had done plenty of research after Jo had told her about being bitten and sucked by David. Thank God for the internet. She had even discovered a vampire museum in Paris, but had been in too big a hurry to see Jo to swing by for a visit that morning. Marianne had been shocked at how much information there was on a subject that most of the educated world dismissed as a myth. There were blogs; online stores to buy various supplies both for vampires themselves and for the people who wanted to kill them; endless treatises (apparently the academic wing of vampire society loved to drone on and on about themselves and every thought they’d ever had); self-help sites offering advice for the myriad problems of vampires, both within their own world and in dealing with the non-vampire world they had no choice but to live in; and even gift sites for the vampire who has everything.

  All in all, she felt ready. She had read everything she could get her hands on and she felt that at least she had a good understanding of vampire culture, their basic physical attributes and requirements, and how much of a threat they actually were (no way to tell since it depended on individual vampires and their circumstance and personalities). Yet Marianne was smart enough to know that book learning does not translate to the real world that easily. She was ready to be surprised, ready for the unexpected.

  She felt a little tingle of fear as she got closer to the Château. When she rounded the final turn and it loomed into view, she gasped, as many thousands before her had done at the same spot in the road. There were flags flying from several turrets, and it was easy to imagine, like she had in the village, that it was not the 21st century but the 17th. She pulled out her phone to call Angélique–even from a distance she could see that she was not going to be strolling through that gate without being buzzed in.

  “Ah, you are here!” said Angélique. “Jo is going to be so thrilled to see you, I am sure.”

  “I hope so,” said Marianne. “I can see the gate from here, what do I need to do to get in? Is there a guard?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that here in sleepy Mourency,” said Angélique. “Why don’t I hop in the car and come fetch you? I won’t be a minute.”

  True to her word, before Marianne had gotten much farther down the road, which was lined with fields of sunflowers, an older-model Citroën came racing around the curves, shot past her, turned around, and pulled up alongside. Marianne shoved her bag in the back seat and got in front, speaking French as fast as she could manage, which was extremely fast, as they made the short drive through the gates and up to the Château.

  “Where is Jo now, do you think?” Marianne asked.

  “Let’s see, midmorning? She is probably at the barn, working with Thierry or out riding. Shall I–”

  “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll find it,” said Marianne.

  Angélique did so, and took Marianne’s bag that seemed to be filled with hardcover books, or bricks, or just a lot of rocks, and went to make sure Marianne’s cottage was in order and welcoming.

  Marianne flew down the gravel path towards the stables. She could smell the earthy smells of hay and manure in the chilly air as she got closer. Then she heard her friend laughing, a real belly-laugh, and little tears sprang to her eyes; she was so glad to hear Jo sounding so carefree considering what she’d been through.

  “Jo!” Marianne shouted, waving.

  Jo turned and stared. It almost looked like–it couldn’t–Marianne! She bounded down the path and lifted her friend up in a gigantic hug.

  “You were so sneaky not to tell me!”

  “I didn’t want you to talk me out of it.”

  “Why would I ever do such a thing? Come, meet my great friend Thierry.” Jo pulled her along, inside the building where it was warmer.

  “Thierry! This is Marianne,” said Jo, beaming at both of them. “My dearest, best friend!”

  “Enchanté,” said Thierry, with a bow, and then a kiss on both cheeks.

  Jo had not seen this courtly side of him before and she almost teased him, then thought the better of it.

  “Would you like to ride?” Thierry asked Marianne. “We have several horses, suitable for any level of horsemanship….”

  “I’m afraid my level of horsemanship is zero,” said Marianne. “My level is Afraid of Large Beasts, if you understand.”

  “You can make jokes in French!” Thierry said, laughing. “I adore you already. Would you like a quick drink then,” he asked. “Just to counteract the nip in the air?” He rummaged on a shelf that was loaded with books, a bowl holding various kinds of teeth, notebooks with papers falling out, and behind all of that, a bottle of pineau.

  Marianne moved to look at some book titles and with the sleeve of her coat knocked a small vase off Thierry’s desk. It exploded on the floor in dramatic fashion.

  “Oh, dear,” said Marianne, bending to pick up the pieces.

  “Oh, please!” said Thierry laughing. “You have thankfully disposed of that hideously ugly thing for me. I will sweep up later!” He poured them each a thimbleful in a dusty little glass and
they made toasts.

  “To France!” said Marianne.

  “To Drogo’s future victories!” said Jo.

  “To Marianne’s first ride!” said Thierry.

  “Oh no you don’t,” said Marianne.

  Thierry made a show of looking her over, from feet to the top of her head. He made it quite obvious that he very much liked what he saw.

  “I know we have only just met,” he said. “But I wonder if you will allow me to make an observation?”

  Marianne nodded.

  Jo noted that she looked more…girlish? Flirty? than Jo had ever seen her before. Marianne eyes were actually sparkling as she waited to hear what Thierry had to say.

  “What I see,” said Thierry, “is a woman who was made to be on horseback.”

  Marianne tried to protest but he cut her off.

  “No, no, I am not teasing you. I would not joke about this.”

  Jo nodded.

  “I propose that after you have eaten, and slept, and adjusted to your new country, that you pay me the honor of a visit, and I will give you your very first riding lesson. In fact, come with me now, I want to introduce you to somebody.”

  Thierry took Marianne’s hand and led her down the center of the stable to the far end, where a gentle horse named Prunelle was nibbling on some hay.

  Jo watched them, curious. She knew that Marianne had come to see her, and to make sure she was all right, because Marianne was that way–sort of motherly, always looking out for her friends. Yet it appeared that she was being diverted from her mission, and for the best of reasons, Jo thought, smiling to herself as she waited, and waited, for them to rejoin her.

  38

  The night before, Pierre had taken Roxanne down the long road out of Mourency, towards the farm where he lived. As they walked, Roxanne chattered away about living in New York City, about the small town she had grown up in, and about anything else that popped into her head–the sunflowers, which she had never seen growing in a field before; the stars overhead, which in New York City are invisible because the city is lit up all night long. She was rough, and pessimistic, and rarely spoke a sentence without swearing. She had not been in France even twenty-four hours and had mastered the French manner of cursing quite admirably.

  Pierre was intoxicated by her. He kept turning to watch her face as she talked, her legs, the way she tossed that green-streaked hank of hair out of her eyes. He had never seen anything remotely like her. And unlike all the women he had found at the train station over the decades, she was his kind. A labri. She would understand how it felt to be on the outside of everything, how it felt to have blood-thirst be the central feature of your life, how it felt to live so long with nothing to look forward to.

  The little farmhouse of the couple who had so kindly hired him was tucked up for the night, all lights out, quiet. The dogs were inside and sleeping too, the roosters snoozing on their roosts, and so Pierre and Roxanne slipped by on the way to the barn without fanfare. They climbed up the ladder to the hayloft, where Pierre had not bothered to make much of a living space–he pretty much lived like a dog himself, just throwing himself down in the hay when dawn approached, digging in farther when it was chilly, and on warm days, pulling open the big door through which he tossed the bales to get a little breeze, while he slept back in the shadows.

  “Fucking awesome!” said Roxanne, and she sank down on a bale of hay, obviously exhausted.

  “Welcome,” said Pierre, and then he laughed darkly. His home had never been a point of embarrassment before. The only visitors he had had since living here were Dominic and Maloney. But tonight, he wished he could have brought Roxanne someplace nicer. Someplace that at least had furniture.

  But she wasn’t complaining. The plane ride, followed by the long night of chasing fun in Paris and not finding any, followed by the rather vigorous train ride and then the long walk all the way to the farm–Roxanne was obliterated by fatigue, and fading fast. She had already slid off her bale onto the floor, and was contracting into fetal position, no longer chattering.

  Pierre observed her. He felt, for the first time since becoming a vampire, protective of someone else. He wanted to scoop her up and make a nest for her, and shelter her from the cold. He wanted, more than anything, to let her suck from him, to give her some of his abundant strength, to make her happy.

  But how to bring it up again? They had just met. It’s not like stumbling on some chick in the alleyway and having a suck and a moan.

  He knelt beside her and pushed the green streak behind one ear.

  “Roxanne?” he said softly. “I know you need to sleep, but I wondered if…”

  He was too shy to say the words.

  Roxanne opened one eye, hoping. “If?” she said.

  “…if you just need sleep, or if…”

  “If fucking what, Pierre, just spit it the fuck out!”

  Pierre walked over to a corner of the loft where he kept his few things–a small pile of clothes, washed and folded by the farm wife, a few tools in a cardboard box. He took out a hunting knife that he had been given about ninety years ago, by a human friend long dead now.

  He came back over and knelt again next to Roxanne. They looked into each other’s eyes.

  “I want to do this for you,” he said, shrugging off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt. He took the tip of the knife and drew it across his chest, across his heart. His blood sprang to the surface, first in drops, and then gathering together, it began to drip down his muscular chest.

  “Drink,” said Pierre, opening his arms to Roxanne, who looked up at him with an expression of such gratitude that Pierre felt tears prickle behind his eyes.

  Quickly she scooched next to him and put her tongue on his chest, first licking the drips, and then she pressed her lips to the deepest part of the cut and began to suck–long, deep sucks, occasionally grunting with satisfaction.

  Pierre had never felt anything like it before. So this is bliss, he thought, leaning his head back on the hay bale, seeing the stars through the opening in the side of the barn, his arms around Roxanne, his brain and his body suffused with euphoric warmth. It was nighttime, but after Roxanne had finished sucking, the two vampires who had just met curled up together in the hay like a pair of puppies, and slept soundly all the way past dawn.

  Henri had spent the night working very hard in the lab. He was starting to make some progress on the formula for labri Hemo-Yum, having, he believed, made it past the first stumbling block in the project.

  One thing he was grateful for was that at least off the top of his head, he guessed that labrim were not going to require the insanely large number of flavors that male vampires did. Males not only wanted variety, they constantly wanted something new, and so any manufacturer of synthetic blood was going to have to continually bring out new flavors, even when the natural differences among human women had long been exhausted.

  Labrim seemed to have more sensible, practical tastes. He wondered, is it the same for human women? What were they looking for?

  And with that, all work stopped and he sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair, thinking about Jo. About how soft and warm her lips felt when he first kissed her. How he could feel her increasing excitement as they held each other. And how she had looked on Drogo, and how deeply attracted to her he was then, when she was on horseback leaping over those ridiculously high fences, fearless and intent.

  Sometimes, he thought, even scientists will agree that what seems to be the most reasonable course turns out to be a mistake. So she’s a human. Even if we only had sixty or so years together, that would be a whole lot better than nothing, yes?

  And it is possible, is it not, that she might someday consider drinking from me? Might consider, of her own free will, turning herself, so that she could extend her lifespan by hundreds of years? The life of a vampire it does have its benefits, he thought, fiddling with a pencil, and running his tongue along his extremely sharp teeth.

  A bang on the door. Henri now k
new perfectly well who and what. David, fresh from biting another drunken male guest, wanting to talk his ear off.

  He pushed a button, the door slid open, and David staggered inside.

  “My very dearest brother, the Marquis!” he said, and bowed.

  “You’re drunk, said Henri. “Again.”

  “I know!” said David gleefully. “Isn’t it wonderful?” He raised his arms up over his head like a ballet dancer and did a creditable pirouette. “The thing is, Henri, that–” he stopped pirouetting and collapsed in his favorite armchair, where he spun around with his head towards the floor and his feet in the air, as he usually did. “The thing is, it’s better this way. Not drunk is bad. Drunk is good. That’s about all you need to know,” and he laughed, pointing and flexing his feet and going into an upside-down second position.

  Henri was half-tuning his brother out. He had been showing up in this condition almost every night and Henri no longer reacted as though it were a crisis. It felt annoying rather than frightening. Very, very annoying.

  “I’m going to call Angélique,” he said, almost to himself. Half of his mind had already returned to his work, going over the latest data from the lab.

  “I’m not saying I was in love with her or anything,” David was saying. “But I wish she hadn’t told me not to come to her room anymore.”

  The interesting thing was at the third stage of the process, Henri was thinking. That’s where the process for labrim must take a different path than that for males. He made a note to call Claudine–

  –what was David saying? Who was he talking about?

  Henri walked around his desk and stopped in front of David. “Sit up,” he commanded his brother.

  “No, thank you,” said David. He was absorbed in letting his long hair fall to the floor and combing it through slowly with his fingertips. “My hair is standing upside down,” he said, giggling.

  “I told you to sit up!” said Henri, and there was no way not to obey, drunk or not.