Shadowing the Beast

by Beyond the Page Publishing

  No. D’Argent hadn’t turned the woman. Not yet. Louis would have sensed it if his victim had become a vampire. With jerky movements, for being outside in the dim light of dawn had burned away much of his strength, Louis straightened his legs and unclenched his right fist long enough to curl it around his useless prick.

  It felt soft, malleable, cool. Once it had been hot and hard.

  It had been the feast of the summer solstice, 1102. A mountain village in the Caucasus, a celebration of the series of successful raids that had filled each hut with food and drink. Much wine had flowed, so much that Louis had dared to rape the nubile daughter of a tribal chieftain in full view of all, including his own wife and the girl’s sister and brothers. The chieftain had whacked off his balls then buried him alive in the small town cemetery.

  Nine hundred years and more had passed since a vampire of the Reynard clan had plundered that village and taken refuge in the wooden coffin where Louis had lain. Louis still felt the fangs sinking into his neck, the slow return to consciousness, the agonizing pain in his groin from where the chieftain had castrated him several days earlier.

  The ghoul who had restored his life had laughed when asked to give him back his stones. “They’re of no use to the likes of us, my friend,” he said. “I’m called Igor the Fox. Come with me. We’ll wander the world in search of blood to drink. You’re now a creature of the night . . . a vampire whose only pleasure will come from the taking of life from mortals.”

  Nine hundred years. Nearly a millennium since Louis had swelled with sexual energy. Too long.

  For years he’d blamed Igor, wished the other vampire had let him rest in peace. He’d even rejoiced when his maker had been destroyed by a vampire hunter during the craze following the reign of Vlad Dracul. A lost soul, Louis had migrated with his clansmen, first to Prussia then to France, always seeking fulfillment that lay beyond his reach. Three useless brides. A string of dead humans on whom he’d fed had marked his path until he’d finally outlasted the others, ascending to leadership over his depleted clan two years ago.

  One of the leader’s supposed duties was to sire an heir, though none in his memory had ever accomplished that feat. Louis had gone to the eldest of his clan, a crone who’d been ancient when Igor had turned her centuries earlier, and sought her advice as to how best to make this miracle happen. She’d cackled and mocked him, told him what he asked was impossible, and so he’d tortured her. He’d broken her fragile bones and disemboweled her, yet refused to drive the wooden stake through her rotten heart and end her suffering until she told him what to do.

  Her eyes had turned dark as death, their fire extinguished by pain, but she’d summoned up enough strength to hold his gaze and choke out a few clearly audible words. “Go . . . find the queen of the born vampires, the d’Argents. Join forces with her, and you’ll be able to mate. Now, I beg you, grant me death, for the injuries you’ve inflicted on me will never heal.”

  Louis had believed her then and ended her suffering, certain she’d not have dared lie with her dying breath. He’d wondered, certainly, for the Reynard connection with the aristocratic d’Argent clan had been one of envy on the part of his clan, disdain on theirs. Over the centuries the d’Argents had blamed Reynards for the destruction of their elders—more often than not with justification. Still, Louis had trusted the vampire’s last words, done as she’d bade him do.

  Louis knew now. The bitch had lied. The more he’d hurt her, the more absurd lies she’d spun. Ha! The crone only thought she’d known pain. Pain he’d increase tenfold now if only he had the power to resurrect her from her grave.

  He’d gone to Paris with such hope, such joy. Practically prostrated himself before the snobbish beauty who headed the d’Argent clan. She’d laughed. Laughed at him, Louis Reynard. Her minions had barely been able to repress the looks of disgust, of disbelief that he’d dared to suggest . . .

  Alina had mocked him, tossed off his pitiful suggestion that they might join forces in governance if not in life. She’d live to regret that smile, that patronizing way she’d lifted one perfect eyebrow over one green d’Argent eye. Apparently the mere idea she’d sully her incomparable face and body on the likes of a Balkan-born peasant-turned-vampire had amused her.

  So what if she knew he personally had taken part in the series of vampire attacks that had brought disaster down on all vampires at the hands of the evil regent, Catherine de Medici. So she’d realized he’d had a hand in causing a bloody, painful death to her father and the elder one of her uncles. That was no excuse for the bitch to have treated him, head of the Reynard clan, with such disdain.

  Louis doubted Alina was laughing now that she knew twenty women had died because of her cruelty, her mockery. He reached between his legs, felt his flaccid cock and the empty space his balls had filled when he was mortal. Fuck, he’d not only kill Julie Quill but destroy her d’Argent lover too.

  “You’ll soon see just what happens, Queen Alina,” he muttered. “Nobody, not even the Queen of the Vampires, gets by with crossing the Fox.”

  First, though, Louis needed rest. Then a quick feed. To perdition with the moon cycles and the pattern he’d chosen to time his killings, creating a schedule of sorts that would keep Alina on edge, knowing when but not where he’d strike again. It was time now to alter his mode of operation, get his pursuers off balance. Keep taunting Alina as he’d vowed to do from the moment he’d walked out of her elegant Paris town house, ego battered but no more broken than his body had been when laid in that shallow grave so long ago. He’d sleep and feed, and then he’d confront the d’Argent whoreson in the arms of his mortal lover.

  As he was drifting into that shadow world between wakefulness and sleep, Louis remembered the dog. While he was at it, he’d do in that damned sausage dog of hers that had dared to bite him—the same dog he’d seen again this morning, frolicking peacefully at d’Argent’s feet.

  • • •

  Noodles laid her head on Stefan’s foot while he sat with Julie, watching her prepare her breakfast. The bowl of plump, dark red cherries and one creamy peeled banana let off an interesting fragrance—sweet-tart, in stark contrast to the slightly sulphur-like smell of the egg she was cooking on the stove.

  “I hope that tastes better than it smells,” Stefan commented when she scooped out the egg and set it on a slice of toast.

  “It does.” She set the plate on the table, then turned to the refrigerator and set out one of the carryout containers he’d brought home from the vampire bar. “Would you like a glass? Ice?”

  “A small glass, please. No ice.” Stefan had to give Julie credit. Not many mortals of his acquaintance would calmly offer to let him feed while they ate their mortal fare. “I don’t feed as often as I’ve observed that you mortals tend to eat, but I’ll sip a bit while you have your breakfast.”

  If he hadn’t been here, he imagined Julie would have pulled the shades open. The room would have reflected the bright outdoor light, patterned with the shapes of leaves and flowers from the plants she grew on the patio. As it was, the white walls reflected light, made it necessary for Stefan to keep on his dark glasses or risk contracting one awful headache. Still, this felt right, sitting in her kitchen, sipping his sustenance while she nibbled daintily on a juicy cherry.

  When a rivulet of succulent-looking juices ran down her chin, Stefan had a sudden urge to taste it. Temptation, much like what he felt when he was a child playing in the vineyards near his home, overcame him. “The juice of the grape is sweet, but not for us,” his mother used to say, her tone wistful. He’d dared taste the grape, suffered the bellyache, learned by doing so that mortal foods were not for him. Yet he leaned closer, stroked Julie’s cheek, licked the sweet intoxicating juice away.

  “Delicious. All the more so because it came from you.” Stefan expected a vague, passing sense of nausea from the small, careful taste, but somehow he was not surprised when it didn’t happen. It was as though his body knew and accepted this gift from his
mortal lover, as if all the gods of vampires were looking down, approving their liaison.

  She licked her lips where his had just touched her, smiled. Her eyes shone with passion, the way they did when they made love. Deliberately she reached on her plate, lifted the banana and brought it to her lips. “This doesn’t taste as good as you.”

  His cock swelled as she sucked the sweet-smelling fruit, her gaze fixed on his face. Every swipe of her agile tongue, each delicate bit of pressure she exerted on the banana rushed through his body, had the same effect on his cock. “Is doing that making you wet?” he asked in a rough whisper. He liked teasing her, sharing a simple, sensual moment free—for the moment—of more serious concerns.

  “Mmm.” Her nipples grew, hardened perceptibly beneath his gaze and her light cotton blouse. She drew her legs slightly apart as she slid the banana deeper into her mouth then withdrew it, only to slide it deeper yet. Stefan inhaled, savored the scent of her arousal that fed his own.

  She drew the banana from her mouth, held it to his lips. “I can’t,” he said, though his mouth fell open to taste the moist, smooth sweetness of the forbidden fruit.

  “Sorry.” Setting the rest of the banana on the table, she sank onto her knees and loosened Stefan’s belt. Noodles yelped, as though indignant that Julie had roused her from her resting place.

  He’d worried that she’d find his body odd . . . repulsive because of its paleness, the lack of hair. Not to mention his fangs. She seemed to like all the things that made him different from her kind, and that kept his arousal at a fever pitch.

  Stefan smoothed the curtain of blonde hair back from Julie’s face, watched her rosy lips encircle the tip of his penis, her delicate fingers cup his scrotum, then stroke gently along his inner thighs. When she looked up at him, he saw lust . . . but more. He saw love. Love that filled him with awe—and helped him steel his resolve not to let go of his tightly held control.

  The soft whisper of her breath tickled his belly when she took more of him down her throat. Cooling yet scorching a path along his body straight to his heart. Pressure built within his balls, tight, insistent.

  Not this way. Not now. Lifting Julie from her spot between his legs, he slid up her skirt, reached for her panties . . . found warm, damp flesh instead. “I like that you’re already wet and ready. I’m going to make love to you now.” He set her astride him, impaling her, sinking once more into her giving, heated core. Finding not just warmth . . . not only the prospect of release, but the promise of unconditional love.

  The colors and sounds and smells of the world—of mortals—surrounded them. He grasped the lush flesh of her hips, lifted her almost free, only to slam her down again and again. She felt good. Tight yet giving. She took the full length of him into her body, cradling his balls between her swollen outer lips. Every welcoming squeeze of her wet, swollen flesh felt right. Perfect.

  Stefan kept telling himself the feeling was only illusion born of long self-denial. As he held Julie’s trembling body, absorbed her climax into his own, though, he knew this was different. This wasn’t only sex. Not now. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to crawl into Julie’s mind and stay. Merge their lives as well as their bodies. As his orgasm began, he realized the truth with every spurt of heated life into her womb.

  He had to protect her from Reynard, but he yearned to claim her for himself.

  • • •

  Stefan had bathed, shaved and crawled into Julie’s bed exhausted after they’d made love in the kitchen. Even after she’d drawn the drapes, the room seemed bright—almost too bright for her lover’s sensitive eyes. Slipping out of bed, being careful not to wake him, she padded down the hall past the living room.

  Suddenly the roses she’d thought so beautiful made her stomach roil. The fragrance of the blossoms, now fully opened, overwhelmed her. Scooping them from their place on the table, she took them to the kitchen and fed them to the garbage disposal. Noodles barked as the disposal chewed the blossoms and stems, as though she understood and approved of what Julie was doing.

  “I have to find something to block the light so Stefan can sleep,” she said when Noodles trotted after her into the spare bedroom she used as a studio, sat on her haunches and looked up questioningly at her.

  What she needed was something dark and big enough to drape across the French doors that faced her bed. Certain she’d find something, she began rifling through her supplies. No, blank canvases wouldn’t do. Neither would the length of gossamer silk she first dragged from her stash of fabrics. It would let too much light through. There. She finally saw what she’d been looking for, folded neatly in the bottom of a large drawer. She fished out a large, dark blue linen rectangle she’d bought to paint on and make an Indian sari. It would work perfectly to keep the sunlight at bay.

  As she stuffed the other material back into the drawer, she decided she really ought not to buy any more until she used up all she had. More fabric than she could use in ten lifetimes, her father always said when he came to visit. Julie smiled at the thought of her dad, imagining how he’d react to Stefan.

  Sam would like him. He’d approve of Stefan’s protectiveness, his determination to take care of her. For a moment she shoved the truth of Stefan’s resistance to letting them be together to a far corner of her mind. They’d travel to New Orleans, meet Sam in the French Quarter town house he’d restored and now used as the offices for his importing business.

  Hugging the dark blue length of linen to her breasts, she let her mind wander. Fantasized about a wedding at the Garden District home where she’d grown up. Her father would hand her over to Stefan while her friends and his looked on. Sensual sounds filled her ears, sounds of a blues band playing the mellow music she’d known and loved all her life. Guests would mingle as they dined on jambalaya and étoufée—and crystal tumblers of fresh blood.

  Julie laughed. Before she planned her wedding, she must first persuade her lover she wanted him above all else. Beyond life as she knew it. Beyond mortal concerns like menus and seating arrangements and deciding upon the most flattering shade for her bridal veil.

  Tidying the canvases where she’d rifled through them, she scooped up the linen, looped it over her arm and turned for the door. It was then her gaze fell on the huge canvas she’d stretched and primed earlier in the week, without a clue as to what she was going to do with it. Inspiration and emotion swelled in her, fueling a desire to create. Strange, but Stefan had affected her that way almost since the moment they met, making her see things more clearly, feel them more deeply than before.

  The canvas stood on its easel, buffed and sandpapered and waiting only for a subject to be portrayed. Now she had it. She’d paint Stefan. The most beautiful male specimen she’d ever seen. If he refused her pleas to take her, she could preserve him with her art.

  He’d be hers forever on canvas, a frail reflection of the man—the vampire—she loved. She eyed the digital camera on the counter, but instead picked up a large sketchpad and a tray of colored pencils. She’d sketch him on paper while he slept, record his image with her own hand instead of the camera’s eye.

  Chapter Ten

  Back in the bedroom, where sunbeams now filtered gently through her makeshift drape, Julie pulled up a chair and stared at Stefan’s arresting features while her eyes grew accustomed to the muted light. The only flaw she noticed on casual observation of his face was the still angry-looking laceration that marred his left cheek. Louis Reynard’s work. The man who’d already murdered twenty women and now wanted to kill her too.

  While the horror of that thought shivered up her spine, Julie realized an even greater fear. God, but she couldn’t bear the thought of Stefan being hurt again. Couldn’t stand knowing the serial killer might destroy him while he fought to save her.

  No. That wouldn’t happen. Stefan would prevail. He had to.

  Julie settled in the chair, her pad on her lap. She sketched his face in half profile, eyes closed, dark, thick lashes shadowing his cheeks. Upo
n closer inspection, she saw a tiny scar bisected one nicely shaped eyebrow, dispelling her earlier impression that vampires had no blemishes or scars. Then her heart beat a little faster when she remembered. Only another vampire could leave scars. Stefan had put himself in harm’s way more than once. He’d do so again. That was the kind of man she’d fallen in love with.

  She looked more closely, noticed an almost imperceptible imperfection in the shape of his aristocratic-looking nose. Had he broken it long ago in some boyhood accident, or was it, too, a souvenir of another vampire fight? She sketched in the tiny details that made him unique, then set the pad beside him on the bed. Glancing at her work so far, she realized he’d inspired her in ways her teachers hadn’t. Her drawings, simple as they were, were looking vibrantly alive.

  He did that to her. The first morning she’d awakened with him in her house, she hadn’t wanted to work on restoring that painting. She’d wanted to attack the blank canvas, create something spontaneous and passionate. Something that represented her own maelstrom of feelings and emotions. She hadn’t done it then, but the urge was still with her, still just as strong. As strong as her desire to spontaneously, passionately commit her eternity to the man before her.

  The artist she’d longed to become was within her, had always been there. It had taken Stefan to come her way, bringing her innate creativity into full blossom.

  He looked so young, so vulnerable as he slept, uncovered but for the top sheet he’d apparently kicked off, now tangled around his feet. Long black lashes shadowed his pale cheeks. His sensual mouth was slack, relaxed, yet fully closed as though he were still concealing the only incontrovertible evidence that he was more than mortal.