Seducing the Vampire (5 page)

Paris, 1785

C
ONSTANTINE DE
S
ALIGNAC'S
voice possessed a soft murmur and felt like warm syrup seeping into her skin. His very presence, taller than she by a head, with broad shoulders and long fingers moving expressively as he spoke, intrigued her.

When he stood near, Viviane could not look away from him.

And yet, she did not feel the necessary spark of passion. His closeness did not provoke desire, twinkle across her flesh, or vibrate throughout her body. Intimacy should be like that. A man's presence should put a woman out of sorts in the best of ways.

Twice now, Lord de Salignac had kissed Viviane. Once in the garden behind the ballroom during a midnight salon. Last time had been four days ago in the planetarium amongst the squawking blue-and-emerald parrots. The kiss had invited their tongues to dance, and yet too quickly it had turned rough. Possessive. But hardly interesting.

Viviane knew what Constantine wanted. Eventually she must succumb. But if a man wished to keep her interest, she required passion. The man must convince her of his conviction.

Now Constantine coiled one long ringlet of her hair about his forefinger. “I am pleased you've attended this
evening, Viviane. It is good you've not despaired in the wake of Henri's death.”

She tensed. The man gained no regard with his callous prod at her most intimate memory.

A bird squawked nearby. “You've many birds. The peacock in the back courtyard is magnificent.”

“A gift from Marie Antoinette.”

“Does she know you are vampire?”

“The queen does not believe in the occult.”

Viviane recalled Madame du Barry had been ousted from court for her belief in the occult. It was never a good thing when those in power believed, be their beliefs real or superstitious. Always scandal followed. The mortal could be silenced, and usually such reprimand was ordered by the Council.

She strode the hall where earlier she'd met Rhys Hawkes. “Have you hummingbirds?”

“No.”

“I should think not.” She stroked the gathering of roses above her right ear. The pointed beaks on the skulls pricked nicely.

“What are these?” Constantine inspected the flower buds tucked along the side of her coif. “Rat skulls?”

“I abhor rodents. These are replicas of hummingbird skulls carved by a Venetian artisan.”

“Yes, the long beak…”

“I regard hummingbirds as my totem.” Always she felt as if she must stay one step ahead, her wings ever beating, to maintain life. “Pretty, yes?”

“They suit you. But one mustn't overlook the value of a plump rat.”

“Do not tell me if you drink from them.”

The masterful tribe leader lifted a brow, but instead of proclaiming he did so, and completely horrifying her, he
said, “I wonder if you would enjoy a stroll in the north hall where I've had the Tiepolo hung? It is a marvelously dark piece.”

“Perhaps a few moments,” she reluctantly agreed, while her eyes scanned the ballroom for the man with the gray-streaked hair. “It is oppressive in here.”

A glance to Portia assured her she would return. Portia liked to wander the salon and figure who was mortal and who was not. The maid was safe from hungry vampires for she wore Henri's mark. To them Portia appeared used, not worth a taste.

The north hall served as a retreat for a few couples walking arm in arm, admiring the massive fresco paintings, which would normally fill an entire boudoir wall. But on the two-story-high walls they appeared merely portraits, one lined after the other. An ostentatious display of wealth. Three candelabras marked the walls at distances, providing low, hazy light.

Viviane realized Constantine could tend all her needs. Save the most vital—freedom.

Constantine offered his arm, which she accepted. The lace blooming from the end of his sleeve spilled across her wrist. He smelled of lavender, wine and the slightest trace of blood. He must have fed before attending tonight, most likely from one of his kin.

Viviane had never bitten another vampire who was not Henri. The bite was very sexual, which had made her relationship with Henri unique. They'd never had sex. That he had respected her enough to allow her freedom, while both succumbed to the orgasmic swoon of her bite, was tremendous.

She would be bound to no man, vampire or otherwise. Yet she was not stupid. A patron was necessary to survival.

“You stand alone amongst the frippery tonight,” Constantine said. He placed a hand upon hers, which she curled about his forearm.

“I shouldn't wish to be an oddity,” she said. “You don't think I blend well?”

“You do, but your beauty blinds one and all to your true nature.” He paused before a velvet settee and Viviane tucked her skirts to sit. “Because I know what wickedness lives in your heart.” He leaned in and whispered aside her ear, “Wolf slayer.”

Spine stiffening, Viviane tightened her jaw. “It is not a title I admire.”

“But you should. The entire salon uses it with respect when you pass.”

“Only because you told them the tale of my encounter.” That it had already become a
tale
whispered amongst the throngs disturbed her.

“It puts you above all others. A strong, dangerous woman no man shall reckon with. Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

He slipped a ribbon from his sleeve. A curved white talon dangled from the length of blue velvet. Viviane touched it tentatively.

The sudden intrusion of warm metal brushing flesh startled her. Constantine stroked her cheek. One of his rings had sharp edges and she flinched, but it wasn't from fear of being cut. All vampires felt the
shimmer
with contact, a glittery vibration coursing through their veins. It was the only way they could recognize their own breed unless they saw fangs or witnessed the other drink blood.

Was Hawkes really vampire? His otherness baffled her.

“From a werewolf,” Constantine said, confirming her
suspicions. “One I slayed decades ago. This is the trophy I took. I want you to have it.”

“Oh, Constantine, I could not—”

“You must. It is a symbol of our similar spirits. We are both wolf slayers.”

Viviane sighed and clasped the dead relic. At least she'd the decency to wear facsimiles of hummingbird skulls. Yet she could not deny her macabre curiosity. Inspection found the talon to be like ivory, and the tip pin-sharp.

Yet what troubled her was his talk of werewolves.

“Henri was never cruel to a wolf,” she whispered. “He claimed no enemies.”

She wanted to learn more. Because something did not feel right to her. Who had been the wolf who murdered Henri? Was it a retaliatory move because she had slain the wolf in the country?

“Of course, Henri was kind to all,” Constantine offered quickly. “Too kind.”

“Do you think… Because of what I did?”

“Slaying the wolf? No, mademoiselle, a thousand times no. These things simply happen.”

The banal statement struck at her core. Constantine stroked her cheek again. The touch irritated more than comforted.

“For your reassurance, you must know I have already set my men to track the murderous wolf. Though Henri was not a member of tribe Nava, he was an honorary member. And we protect our own.”

If Nava were so protective of their own, Henri should not be dead, honorary member or not.

“His head will sit upon a spike in the Bois de Boulogne in no time.”

The city park was a sort of haven for Dark Ones after the prostitutes had left with their marks for the night. It
was also the place where an example could be made of any who had thought to act against another tribe. Midnight executions were rare but not unheard of.

“Shall I tie it around your neck for you?”

“No.” She nestled the talon beside her breast, tucked behind the corset. “The ribbon doesn't match my gown. But I promise I will wear it to the next salon.”

“That would please me immensely.”

She stifled a shiver to imagine pleasing this man. At this horrible moment she realized her future was tenuous.

“I wonder after your intentions?” she found herself blurting. Very well, so curiosity would kill this cat, or at the least, maim her. “Regarding your pursuit of me.”

“As I'm sure Henri told you—”

She put up her palm. “It is not something I can consider at the moment.”

Constantine audibly swallowed. “I understand. You and Henri were close. But marriage aside, you must choose a patron quickly. Henri's blood is established in you,” he continued. “To take a new patron will require some…restructuring. Time to adjust. You must be blooded anew.”

An emptiness eddied at the back of her throat. How much time
did
she have? She had only needed to drink from Henri twice a year. Yet she had felt his death as if he'd been ripped from her very soul.

“I will consider your proposition if you will show me how willing you are to have me in your life.”

“You've to ask me anything.”

“Understand, just because I am considering your proposal does not ensure that I will accept. But I find it would be extremely challenging, if not socially humiliating, to step under your patronage when you've already so large a harem. I feel I would become lost amongst the throngs.”

“They mean nothing to me, Viviane. I do not love any of them. My kin are there to serve a purpose.”

“Would I not serve that same purpose?”

“No, it would be different. Viviane, I love you.”

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. What beasties snuck upon her heart?

She maintained decorum. “Then prove it. Send them away.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. Cease patronage to your entire harem.”

Taken aback, he thumbed the Van Dyke beard on his chin. “They would die without me.”

Viviane shuddered inwardly. She was only promising to
consider
his proposition.

“It shall be done,” he said.

 

O
NCE
R
HYS TOOK A PERSON'S
scent into his nose, he had it forever. A vampire, on the other hand, must be much closer, within hearing range to track the heartbeat of his victim. Thanks to his mixed blood, Rhys could track Viviane LaMourette anywhere in the city, if he desired.

That was the question.
Did
he desire to track her?

What was he doing? Seeking to revenge the vampire lord. What had become of his initial, and real, attraction to the vampiress?

Those whimsical blue eyes had captivated him. Too bright, too bold. And that mouth. So red, so soft. And that imperious command of independence he had found refreshing. The woman might well be a libertine.

And that teasing curve at the side of her mouth. Like a delicate petal, it begged plucking.

“And what is wrong if I wish to pursue fine things?” To take them, hold them in his hands and crush them against his skin.

What was wrong was he had veered off course. He'd come to Paris on a mission for the Council. And still, no word from William Montfalcon, which was beginning to disturb him.

Rhys had been suspicious of Montfalcon's unlocked door upon arrival. It was as if the man had left for the day and intended to return—yet had not. So he and Orlando were staying in the man's home with hopes he was merely away on holiday. Rhys knew Montfalcon would not mind, and if foul play had occurred, he felt sure Montfalcon would appreciate someone looking over his home.

He had not taken time to question any in the salon after the distraction named LaMourette had turned his head.

“Don't allow her to change your course,” he muttered.

Yet his course had altered to include revenge against Salignac. That bit of side play he would enjoy.

Later that evening, Rhys tracked the vampiress's carriage through the tight, dark streets until it pulled up at a stable behind a town house hung with red shutters. An oil lamp flickered above the front doorway, leaving the stables shrouded in shadow.

The maid stepped from the carriage and wandered into the stable, her heels clicking abruptly.

A cloaked figure emerged from the stables behind the maid, a man, perhaps a stable hand. He stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind him, the maid tugged up her hood and loitered outside.

“The vampiress is out on the prowl.”

Vacillating whether or not to approach, Rhys decided he must attend his own neglected hungers, or meet the full moon with a raging madness he could not abide.

“Time to find a donor,” he muttered, hating the act as much as he needed it.

C
ONSTANTINE DE
S
ALIGNAC
settled onto the tattered velvet divan, hastily untying the jabot at his neck. He was eager to slip into oblivion. But it was difficult to concentrate after what his man Richard had reported.

“That bastard is in town,” he muttered.

He swiped his palms over his face, and scratched the small patch of dark stubble on his chin.

Richard had reported seeing Hawkes lurking about, sneaking through the salon as if to spy.

“Rhys Hawkes, will I never be free from you? Do you walk this earth only to torment me? To show me what others must never know?”

Richard popped his head into the study. “She's on her way, Salignac.”

“Properly spiced, I hope,” he snapped.

“Drank the whole bowl of opium,” Richard offered with his usual lascivious glee. “She can barely walk.”

Constantine's fangs descended in anticipation. Normally Richard waited until he'd been directed to prepare the evening's repast, but for some reason Sabine had gotten into the opium early. She'd cast him a stabbing glance when he had greeted Mademoiselle LaMourette.

Sabine had no right to jealousy, and yet rarely did his glossy-eyed kin ever show signs of fight over him. Pity.

Sabine was his oldest and favorite. He had a few dozen female kin that he blooded regularly in hopes of eventually
getting them with child. A mortal woman-made vampire required five to ten years of blooding from her patron before she could accept his seed and grow fruitful. Sabine had been carrying his child for five months now.

Finally, some success.

If she could give him a male heir, a bloodborn vampire to carry on his name, the tribe would be most pleased. His position as leader was tenuous. The ailing tribe needed new blood to grow stronger. Constantine had been named leader two decades earlier, and he'd expressed the dire need for the male members to gather as many female kin as they could in hopes of producing viable male bloodborn vampires. Yet nothing had come of it.

His greatest hope rested upon securing Viviane LaMourette as kin. She was the diamond amongst the rubies. The only bloodborn vampiress in Paris, she was the key to his remaining leader of tribe Nava. Finally!

Yet she asked him to give up his kin? A bold request.

A petite blonde, wearing a gossamer night rail that revealed her tumescent belly, stumbled against the door frame. She grinned drunkenly at Constantine and brushed the loose hair from her face.

He gestured for her to come to him. Candle glow exposed the road map of blue veins beneath her pale skin. She was growing more delicate as her stomach expanded. He made a note to find her a proper maid who would tend only her. He must not risk his child's life.

She collapsed on him more than sat. Though she was his favorite, he'd gone beyond desire for sex now that she was expanding. Still, her blood was the finest vintage.

“You could not wait for me?” he wondered as he stroked the hair from her neck.

“I thought I was your favorite,” she pouted. “I saw you leaning so close to that wolf slayer.”

So she was jealous. “You are my favorite, Sabine.” For now.

He kissed her neck, grazing a fang along the vein. No passion required, only hunger for solace. Ever polite, only a small cry from her. She clutched his jabot and cooed as he extracted the hot blood from her vein. Laced with opium, it relaxed him and dizzied his world. Made him forget things.

He sucked the sweet wine of oblivion, yet she began to struggle. Normally she slipped into a weak reverie.

Constantine caught Sabine's wrist. “Settle. I am not finished.”

“Oh!” Such a shriek could not be because of his ministrations. Sabine squirmed on his lap and slid off, landing on the floor, her head tucked. “It is like knives!”

Licking the blood from his fingers, Constantine stopped and noted what he was doing. He was never so messy. Where had it come from…?

A smear of blood across his lap trailed over the chaise longue. He startled. On the parquet floor, writhing in pain, Sabine bled from her loins.

“Richard!”

Jumping off the chaise and over his kin, Constantine wobbled to catch his balance. The opium hazed his perception. He wanted to recline and drift away, to annihilate the nasty foreboding Rhys Hawkes's presence had embedded.

“Hell, she's losing it,” Richard hissed. He plunged to the floor and lifted Sabine by the shoulders. “What should I do?”

“Get her out of here!”

Unwilling to look upon the wailing female, Constantine turned and smashed his fist across the candelabra. Half a dozen tapers clattered against the wall. Flame ignited
the English paper but quickly burned out. “Damn it. Will I never have what I desire?”

 

R
HYS HAD TO ADMIT THE HAWKER
down the street offered excellent pheasant legs. Roasting for hours over applewood chips gave the meat a soft, sweet flavor. He set aside two cleaned bones on the paper they'd come wrapped in and started on his third.

He preferred meat to blood. Or rather, his werewolf did. And though he was vampire right now—and vampires could not abide meat—the werewolf ruled his thoughts. He would regret this when the vampire retaliated during the full moon.

But until then—his werewolf mind urged Rhys to tear another strip of savory meat from the bone.

Setting aside the cleaned pheasant bone, Rhys scanned the copy of
Journal de Paris
he'd unfolded on the table, yet found he wasn't in the mood to read about the queen's curious involvement with a priceless diamond necklace.

They'd been in Paris a week and William had not returned home. Montfalcon was young, strong and bold, yet he was also gentle and discerning.

Rhys could not figure what would have led a wolf to take Monsieur Chevalier's life, and that of his wife.

Indeed, could it have been William? Certainly would give a man good reason not to be found.

No, he was forming conclusions with little basis in truth.

Nefarious deeds had occurred within the vampire and werewolf communities. Suspicion should point to the Order of the Stake, a covert organization of mortals intent on slaying all vampires.

Mortals or a werewolf? Rhys would rule out neither.

If she had been patroned by Chevalier, perhaps Mademoiselle LaMourette could provide some insight.

“Oh, did I tell you?” Orlando said, interrupting Rhys's thoughts as he grabbed another pheasant leg from the diminishing stack. “I learned something about the slain vampires last evening after you went off to stalk the vampiress.”

He would hardly call it stalking. Mild interest, perhaps. “Yes?”

“Seems they were a husband and wife, and…the vampire…”

“Henri Chevalier.”

“Yes, he patroned only his wife and one other vampiress. Viviane LaMourette.”

“Yes, I know.”

“But did you know—” the boy leaned in dramatically “—she is bloodborn?”

Rhys sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs. Bloodborn female vampires were rare, a prize to snatch and hoard. If two bloodborn vampires were to procreate, the offspring would be very powerful.

Lord de Salignac was bloodborn. Rhys was also aware tribe Nava was desperate for new blood. The tribe was in danger of extinction for a mere dozen or so males remained.

“You are sure?”

“A faery told me. And then I stole a kiss from her.”

“You should be cautious of the Sidhe, Orlando.”

“But you—”

“Have a distinct relationship with their kind.” And not one he wished to cultivate. “A man unaccustomed to dealing with those who wield glamour had best stay as far from them as possible.”

“I kissed her once. Besides, I've my eye on the mortal
pretties who prance about the Palais Royal and lift their skirts to show their unmentionables.”

Rhys shook his head. “Be careful there, too, boy.”

So Viviane LaMourette was a bloodborn vampiress. He'd thought only the created vampires required a patron. But then, this was the first existing bloodborn female vampire he had heard about in a long time.

“Bloodborn,” he whispered.

Constantine would be a fool to let so valuable a female slip from his clutches. Which would make Rhys's successful seduction as a means to revenge all the more satisfying.

And aren't you doing a spectacular job of that, man?

“I think the murders are in retaliation for the wolf slayer,” Orlando said.

“You do?”

A pack wolf had been murdered as spring had arrived. He had been found beside a toppled carriage, neck broken. Yet the killer had not been a mortal, for rumors whispered through the Salon Noir it was vampire.

The packs were careful to keep away from humans, yet the werewolf's humanlike soul required a connection with the mortal world when the full moon insisted they mate.

Rhys, on the other hand, suffered moon madness. Normal werewolves sought to mate during the full moon; his werewolf—urged on by the vampire mind—hungered for murder.

“So how did it go with the vampiress? I thought you intended to seduce her?”

“We got on well enough.”

“Isn't what I sensed.”

Cheeky boy. Rhys splayed out a hand. “Did you expect she would fall into my arms at first glance? I intend to
call on her today. She must have information regarding her patron's death.”

“I wager you are the only vampire who dares approach her.”

“Makes things more interesting, I suppose.”

“How will you take from Constantine the one thing he wants more than life? Will you kidnap and ravage her?”

“No.” Rhys chuckled. “It will be far sweeter to win her admiration, then see Constantine and know the woman he loves has been tainted by me.”