by Lorelei Bell
Saint Germain said something to him.
“Bon, d'accord!” Jacques said, then spun on his heal and made his way quickly through a legion of small tables, merrymakers camped around each and every one. It looked as though there were no tables to be had.
“There's no empy tables,” Zofia observed.
“Do not worry, my dear,” he soothed. “I have a private room I keep for myself. Jacques is making sure all is ready. For now—ah! Zoltan!”
A man, cradling a guitar bullied his way through the crowd toward them. Saint Germain greeted the man heartily. The two spoke energetically in an entirely different language. The man with the guitar pressed his instrument into Saint Germain's hands. He repeatedly refused, but having no luck, politely took the guitar from him. Looping the strap around his neck, he positioned his hands at the neck and body and strummed a chord or two.
Unbelievably, the place went still, seeing that he was about to play. Saint Germain's strumming evolved into some darkly romantic tune. A Gypsy woman with long raven hair and a violently colored dress, twirled up to him, clicking castanets in both hands. She began to dance, keeping a slow cadence with his music. Her eyes held a fierce zest in them as she twirled, her skirts billowing out, showing bare legs, and when she bent and sailed around the men, her cleavage pulled appreciative gazes. Meanwhile everyone clapped along with the music, watching either the dancer, or Saint Germain, depending upon their sexual orientation.
Zofia found herself clapping and tapping her foot to the beautifully seductive tune. Just when she found herself a little more than amazed by Saint Germain, he swapped the guitar for a violin and began playing that with as much gusto and flair. She joined the crowd in a round of applause. Saint Germain seemed to be talented at anything and everything he attempted.
Someone offered her a chair. Without glancing back, Zofia settled into the proffered chair. “Thank you,” she said, unable to take her eyes off Saint Germain.
“Saint Germain shows off,” a deep and familiar voice said into her ear. Startled, she jerked her head around, realizing too late that the man who had offered her the chair wasn't a man, but a vampire. Myron smiled down at her. She took him in with shocked silence. His dimples deepened with his smile. He sipped from a small sherry glass, and licked his red lips. Blood substitutes were available, since they were needed to rehabilitate vampires, so this was not unusual. But not all taverns liked the clientèle who would order it. Apparently Ravenwood was host to a variety of unusual visitors.
“Myron! What are you doing—”
“Be careful, my love,” he said with a smirk. “I plan on stealing you away from Saint Germain.”
“As if! Go away.” She turned her back on him.
He tapped her on the shoulder. She looked back at him. “What?” she snapped.
He pointed across the room. Zofia looked, trying to ascertain what he was pointing at. It only took a few seconds and she found someone's eyes staring right into hers; a woman with straight black hair and exotic features.
“Zofia,” Myron's voice entered her head. His breath feathered against her neck. A strand of hair tickled against her cheek, and then she felt a startling sensation beginning from the vampire bite, slipping down her spine to end at her groin. “Let me taste you, Zofia. I promise it will be good. Very good.”
“Goddess,” the word slipped from her, as she strove to gain control. But she was in a loosing battle. The room spun. Her body went slack as she fell back into his arms. The throbbing at her womanhood deepened. The ideas Myron was sending to her mind overwhelmed her.
Myron lowered her naked body onto a large bed with snowy linen and lots of lace hanging from a canopy. Mounting her, his sharp teeth penetrated her skin at the neck; his shaft entered her like a blazing lance…
Chapter 20
In an instant, out of the blue haze, there came a torn, throaty hiss, a flash of bright silvery light, fangs and more hissing. Zofia felt as though dropped from a height more than just the few inches she was presently levitating off the chair. Her head bounced against something solid—the wall? The table? She tried to focus on the shiny thing before her, she couldn't bring it in. Giving up, something across the room sharpened into view.
Myron's face. His eyes blazing. Red like hot coals. His mind wasn't touching hers any more. Everything was back to normal. She felt his heated glare, though, and yet it wasn't exactly on her. It was on someone beside, and behind her.
Myron was seated at the table across from her, she slowly realized, along side his mistress of the dark. He looked pissed, and his partner looked terribly disappointed. Myron was aiming daggers, not at Zofia, but her savior, Saint Germain.
Looking up at Saint Germain she found he held something in his hand. A round medallion hung from a silver chain. She realized that he'd used it successfully to chase Myron away, as well as the female vampire.
“Are you alright, my dear?” Saint Germain was asking her. He bent to her, examining her neck, just like a doctor might examine his patient.
“What?” she said, glinting up at him. His face was so close.
“Those bites,” he said. “I hadn't noticed them before. You have been bitten by a vampire in the past week, I'd say. I had no idea. You should have said something.” His voice low, rumbling in her ear.
Automatically, she put her hand to her neck. “Oh, uh, yeah. I, uh—” was all she managed. The story she had invented for this—if the subject ever came up—had fled her mind, momentarily, because she realized the amber and silver necklace was gone. Dragon nuts.
Saint Germain nodded congenially. “Never mind,” he said as though coming to his own conclusions. “Here.” He draped the silver chain around her neck. The heavy medallion had some strange runes written around it. She was familiar with the Runic alphabet, but not the language, or each Rune's meanings.
“Wear this always,” he said.
“What is it? Silver?” she wondered.
“It is made of the best, most purest silver produced anywhere,” he explained. His quelling gaze rose to take in Myron and his female consort. “It is quite obvious that Myron is very intent on sipping on you as his repast before the night is over. I'm afraid I must object.” He straightened. “Are you able to stand?” he asked, and held out his hand to her. She took it and unsteadily rose with his help. “I have a room at the top of the steps,” he went on, one arm going around her to steady her. “Can you make it ?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
“Good,” he said and before she knew it, he swept her around a table of rowdy drinkers, whisked her past the twirling Gypsy girl—noting that the music had been taken up by the Gypsy men—and then slipped her through a crimson partition. Finally they surged up a narrow set of wooden steps. Their heels clacked hollowly as they ascended through the deepening gloom. Only now did Zofia realize candlelight was all that eased the darkness of the dingy inn. There were no electric lights here as there were at Dark Castle.
Unable to see through the gloom, Zofia took the steps one at a time, trusting Saint Germain's ability to guide her. One hand at her back, the other at her elbow, he pressed her on just ahead of himself. Was it her, or did he seem just a tad in a hurry?
Amber light suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Zere you are!” Jacques gushed, his form emerging from the gloom where a wedge of amber back-lit him from some room at the head of the stairs. “I thought zat you might 'ave to play for zem. Ho-ho, ze people, zey cannot get enough of his playing, Madam Zofia.”
“We were only detained for a while,” Saint Germain quipped, still guiding Zofia up the stairs until they made the landing.
“Who was that woman with Myron?” Zofia wondered, her breath caught in her throat as she was moved expeditiously as though he feared a sneak attack from the vampires. She didn't think she would ever be able to get the woman's face out of her mind.
“Ommetress Chillingworth. A very cunning, very seductive vampire. I knew what they were up to a
s soon as I spotted Myron with you. It is very fortunate that I always carry a charm or two with me.”
“Yes, a very good thing,” she agreed. And now she was with Saint Germain, leading her to some private room. She had to wonder at his motives. Her stomach in knots, her nerves jumping as they entered a tastefully, yet elegantly decorated room. She felt as though she were a newly wed just shown to a honeymoon suite. And it didn't help at all that the scene Myron gave her now played like a loop in her head. The bastard! She couldn't get him out of her mind, either.
“Merci,” Saint Germain said pleasantly, interrupting Zofia's thoughts. He inclined his head toward Jacques. Then asked him something in Arpiesian, but with a lowered, somewhat unctuous voice.
Jacques replied in similar low tones, and then drifted like smoke back down the stairs.
Zofia's eyes, meanwhile, took in the upholstered maroon sofa with a camel back. A small marble fireplace where a low fire snapped cheerily behind an iron grate lent warmth and light to the intimate room. An Oriental rug was positioned dead center between a small table and the rest of the room's decor. Candelabra were placed strategically throughout, along with two hurricane lanterns on either side of the mantle, glowing warmly. The quaint, round table was covered in fine linen and set for two.
The touch at her neck startled her and she jumped, taking in a gulp of air. She stared back at Saint Germain.
“You are on edge, my dear,” he observed as he slipped the cloak from her shoulders. He strode ahead of her with it, and deposited both their outerwear over the couch. Tapered fingers arranged the ruffles at his neck and wrists. Rooted to the spot, she watched him. He had an air of amusement about him. His gaze flicked up to catch her staring at him, and she averted hers. She noticed that the room was curtained off from the next room. Through drapes, elegantly hung and tied back with a gold cord, she saw a bedroom. It was covered in white silky comforters with three tears of ruffles no less along the bottom. She found herself wincing with sudden panic.
Eyes flicking back to Saint Germain, she noticed he looked terribly comfortable, as though he had done this dozens of times in the past. Perhaps he had. She replayed his paying the bar girl back rent. It suddenly all made sense. Why else would he have a place like this, away from his castle, and yet not that far away? A widower did have needs, after all.
Mind working at warp speed, she had to eliminate several scenarios, and speeches to explain why she couldn't become his lover. Squeezing her eyes, she reminded herself she was a Knight. Here to find out everything she could about Saint Germain and report back to Stephen. Sex was optional, but at the moment, it didn't look as though she was going to get out of it tonight. The complaint of a headache didn't always work with a man. It hadn't for Dorian, anyway. Saint Germain knew she no longer belonged to anyone. Would he be so bold to suggest a lover's tryst tonight, after they'd only just met?
Saint Germain strode the floor, stopped at the table and seized an upholstered chair, drawing it away from the table, he invited Zofia to have a seat.
“Thank you,” she said, the words coming out dry as sawdust. He took the only other chair, and settled across from her. The intimate table had barely enough room for the white bone china, various glasses and flatware. If they were a couple, they could easily hold hands across the table.
The spidery feeling that Saint Germain was setting her up for something more than an innocent dinner cloyed the room as much as did the aromatic fire. This was what she wanted wasn't it? How easy had he made this, after all? She realized she would have to go along with this, and once he was comfortable and trusting of her, she could begin asking him all those hard questions which he'd been avoiding. The one which stood out, she wanted to ask it while it burned in her mind.
“This is very nice,” she began.
“Thank you,” he said, glancing around, looking utterly calm. “I've had this for some time. I come down here to rub elbows, as it were.” He paused, eyes settling on hers. “They have mostly simple single rooms with the beds for over-night travelers, but this is the only one with a parlor.”
“But why would you have a room here, when you have the castle? I mean, it makes no sense.” She felt it was a good argument. But even as her mind worked on it, perhaps he picked up the local strumpet for a night of revelry and debauch, bringing her up here, instead of in his castle. That made sense in a way.
“I do not entertain… often,” he began to answer her question as he reached for a bottle in a silver bucket of ice, next to the table. “Champagne?” The bottle, she noticed had been corked. She put it all together while he poured some wine into her glass. Jacques was his utility man. He did a few odd jobs, and this was one of those jobs he would trust to no one else. “I hope it is not too dry.” He poured just a small dose into his own glass and placed it under his nose. He hummed delightedly, as though the bouquet was to his satisfaction, but he never took a sip. He placed his glass back down on the table.
Champagne did not come from Euphoria, but from France. As in First World.
Well, why not? She feigned stupidity, and didn't ask what she probably should have at this point. Again, moot point.
“Percival tells me that he's lived here for twenty years, and you have been here much longer,” she began, lifting her glass and held it in two hands before herself. “You don't look old enough to have been here much more than thirty, unless you were born here.”
He chuckled at this, as he replaced the bottle back into the ice bucket. “No,” he said in a low purr. “I was not born here. I was born a great distance away.” His eyes were commanding. Like two chips of black marble they reflected all the candle and firelight in the room. She couldn't yank her gaze away. Sensual and hypnotic, his penetrating gaze made Zofia feel more than slightly uncomfortable. He was not a vampire, he was not a sorcerer, and yet he had powers that mortals couldn't possibly possess in one lifetime. If he willed it, he would be able to seduce her easily. She could see how it all worked, now.
Willing herself to blink, she broke his hypnotic hold on her. Glass still in hand she took a swallow of the champagne. It went down like bubbles on a crisp autumn sunset. It scorched her throat a little, but not all that unpleasant. It might not be wise for her to get plastered, but somehow plastered, she decided, may be the only way she could stop the rattling knees beneath her skirt, and the racing heart. The roiling of her stomach was another matter entirely.
Saint Germain's hand went to a golden goblet, next to his wine glass. She hadn't noticed this until he wrapped his fingers around its short, stubby stem. The ruby ring on his index finger shimmered back at her.
“What is that?” she asked.
“This is the drink I prefer,” he said evenly, an odd half-smile crimping the corners of his lips. He took a few healthy sips and set it back down. Licking his lips, he quickly dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin to hit the residue.
Zofia wanted to believe it was some other drink. And then she remembered Stephen telling her about people donating blood to him. If he was not a vampire, then why would he need blood? Was that what he drank now? She had been with too many men, as of late, that preferred blood as their meal of choice. This really had to stop if she wanted to have a normal relationship, and a heartbeat. But she knew he could not be a vampire. Everything she had seen up to this moment eliminated it. I've got to get a grip!
Just as she was about to ask him what he was drinking he said, “Pray join me. Let us drink to something.”
“Ah—um, to life?” she said timidly.
“Ah, yes. Excellent,” he said, smiling wide enough to expose his even, white teeth to her for the very first time. Lifting his goblet out in the toast he said, “To life.”
“To life.” Zofia took a sip and then another. She wasn't crazy about champagne, and couldn't understand why other people liked it. Of course, on Euphoria, they had their own sparkling wines. Most of them were much better tasting than this.
A chuckle rumbled from Saint Ger
main as he watched her. Leaning a cheek into a fist, elbow on the table, he was a study of a man enjoying himself.
“What's so funny?” she asked.
“You must forgive me, Zofia,” he said. “It has been a while since I have had the privilege of entertaining the opposite sex.” He still leaned into his hand, gazing across at her. “And I find you a delight beyond my wildest imaginings.”
Another complement. He was slathering it on just a tad too thick. Maybe he was a little out of practice. Like most Ugwumps he worked too hard and couldn't keep a relationship. He obviously relied on the occasional strumpet to keep him from remaining celibate. Or, the occasional female employee—ahem.
Stifling a sudden shudder just then, she pushed herself back on task. Knight Code # 124 says : Ask innocent questions, act interested. Get information.
“I can't possibly quell my burning curiosity,” she said with a smile and a small fluttering of eyelashes, just for good measure. “You aren't drinking the champagne. What's in the goblet?”
His smile faded as he seemed to wrestle with the idea of telling her. He heaved a sigh of surrender, and lifted the goblet. “My elixir,” he said at last. “I drink this exclusively.”
“Elixir?” She couldn't even begin to guess what he would have in this mysterious drink. She was quickly reminded of the jab he'd taken from the dueling foil earlier today. It had healed unusually quickly. Did this mysterious drink have something to do with his healing abilities? Could she wrangle one little secret, one shred of truth from him tonight?
“Sounds intriguing. What's in it?”
He gave her the full force of this dark, enigmatic eyes. “The ingredients are my most guarded secret,” he said, “and I shall not divulge it to anyone.”
Keeping her gaze steady, while her heart thundered, she forged on. Instinct told her this was as close as she could ever get to finding out who, and what Saint Germain was. “What sort of Elixir?” she asked.
“I am not at liberty to say,” he said in a drawn out way.