Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) (25 page)

She had vowed to protect Gabriel. This night she would.

TWENTY-TWO

Gabriel studied his gloves. Alençon lace flowed to his knuckles.

“Vicomte?”

The wench he’d chosen from amongst a throng of pretties removed her laced bodice and peeled away a thread-bare chemise to reveal tiny breasts with wide red aureoles and hard nipples of deepest cherry.

He leaned a shoulder against the wall and removed his tricorn with a flare. The woman arched her back and snaked her body into a sensuous stretch. Appealing, and yet, he suspected, not smelling of rosemary.

With a seductive slide of her hand down her stomach and over her hip, the whore leaned back on the narrow rope bed and drew up her skirts to expose the pad of dark curls between her slender legs. So she was not a genuine redhead. The only true redhead he knew sat back at his home.
Fraises et al crème
. Waiting for him.

Do not mix that pleasure with this necessary act.

“Oh, vicomte,” she sing-songed, “come and get me.”

His heartbeats shimmied to a tribal beat, lurching into the fray before his rationale could follow. The blood hunger demanded to be fed.

A sniff yielded her salty aroma, reminiscent of the sea and passion. Pain tingled in his mouth, anchored at the root of his fangs. His body knew what it wanted. He had only to agree.

“I had not heard that you are so shy, vicomte. Come.” She patted the bed and followed by drawing her finger over a nipple. The rosy bud ruched.

Gabriel’s pulse increased and his blood rushed to the fore, not in anticipation of the carnal pleasures, but for the sensory feast. The sound of her blood sliding through her veins purled like a brook over smooth summer stones, tempting him to lean forward and sup.

And yet, he remained by the door, a hand clinging to the cracked wooden door frame. Outside, the sounds of minstrels and singers loomed above the note of bustling shoppers and café-goers. The Palais Royale was the place to be seen after the theatre. It was also the place to gamble, to eat, to shop, to rent a room—by the minute—and to dive into debauchery without fear of drowning. For someone would pull your head up just high enough to wrench another
sou
from between your teeth before pushing you back under.

An ache in his gut, reminiscent of the incessant hunger pains he’d thought he’d vanquished, made him grimace. It was more pronounced this time. Not an alien attack from within, but a feeling, a command to the front.

Very well. He would master this hunger.

He strode to the bed and fingered the diamond buttons securing his waistcoat.

She will be jealous.

He must erase thoughts of Roxane from his mind.

“I want to look at you,” the woman whined and pursed a pouty moue of carmine lips.

“I’m paying by the minute, dear fuck.” He leaned over her and kissed a rosy nipple. “We’ve no time for a strip show. Let’s see what we can do about getting you off.”

“You care for my pleasure? You are a unique man—Oh!”

He slipped his finger between her legs and began to kiss her nipples.

I will not kiss her on the mouth
, he thought.
I cannot breathe my soul into her. That is for Roxane.

Nor must he use his teeth. Mustn’t risk leaving her with such knowledge.

What to use? Hadn’t thought about that.

His eyes landed on the ruby ring he wore. Perfect. While tending the wench deftly, the silver prongs scraped against his prying tooth. The jewel dropped onto the bed near her neck, a solidified droplet of crimson.

Within seconds she was moist and ready to come. He pressed his mouth over the thick vein on her neck and the inexplicable feeling of rightness chased away reluctance. As the pretty whore began to writhe and spill out her pleasure he dug the ring into her flesh and then drank away her giddy passion.

Do not take too much.

The thought discomfited him. He was not a killer.
Could I become a monster?
Had he control over the hunger?

He did not know.

He drank for a few moments. Not so sweet, this drink. Her sighs of pleasure whispered to silence. Her head fell heavily on the flat, musty pillow. And when he felt the pangs of hunger subside, he pulled away. Tugging out his handkerchief, he carefully wiped the few spots of blood from the victim’s neck. She did not rouse, but with his direction, she turned onto her side, as if in peaceful sleep. Not dead then.

He pulled down her skirt to cover her exposed pretties—sweet dimple right there—but recoiled from touching her. He had—in all senses—violated her. Would she run to the streets and scream out that the Vicomte Renan had sucked away her blood?

Morbleu
! He should have used a disguise, but he was tired of Leo. He would no longer hide. Let the world beware the vampire Renan.

Stepping backward, he stumbled against the door, and it opened out to the hallway. The strains of an ill-tuned hurdy-gurdy jangled up from below. Laughter and shouts for more ale signaled the night had merely begun—debts to be incurred, marriage vows to be broken.

“Come quickly,” whispered close by his ear.

Gabriel spun to find Roxane standing there, her face cloaked by the hood of a black velvet cape—his cape. He licked his lips, tasting for blood, and was thankful that he had not been caught with his hands under the wench’s skirts.

Rosemary infused his already giddy brain. “Roxane.”

“We’ll talk later.” All business, her manner. “You must flee.”

“Flee? Yes. Wise. But…” He turned to the sleeping whore. He supposed Roxane could guess exactly what had happened. “I did not have sex with her.”

“As I’ve said, there will be time later to talk. Right now we must be gone from here unless you wish someone to investigate with you in the vicinity.”

“Very well.” He tugged her hand to make her stay one more moment. A glance to the bed. Snores grated the air. “Will she remember?”

The twosome held each other with defiant stares. She had caught him out, but he wasn’t so much guilty as relieved. She must know him completely in order to trust him. And love him. Gabriel was the first to soften his gaze.

“Now,” Roxane said, “follow me. We’ll go out back and onto the roof.”

“The roof? But—”

A tug from his stalwart witch whisked him down the long hallway. They cleared the roof. Wide silver urns sported pruned orange trees, sans fruit, but the lush glossy leaves danced in the breeze. Wooden benches were littered with bird droppings, a tipped candelabra sported a broken taper and wodges of white tallow.

A line of stone gargoyles guarded the roof, their massive wings folded against heavy bodies. Gabriel leaned against one and brushed the hair from his face. He couldn’t help a proud smile. “My first time with a stranger.”

“You’ll have to be more careful. Practice concealing yourself. Unless you want to be written up in the
Paris Gazette
.”

“Most definitely not. The
Mercure de France
is more distinguished.” He noted Roxane no longer smiled. “You’re right, I did not plan this evening well. I strode from my home the elegant monster. I hadn’t a clue how I would go about things until I’d gotten her to the room.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to hear the details.” She strolled to the gargoyle next to the one he leaned on and propped her elbow on a wing, her back to him.

“I couldn’t. I…you—” He strolled around in front of her, forcing her to look him straight on. “If I could drink only from you, I would. But there is this dilemma of me not being able to bite you. Or so you say. You don’t know how badly I want to do it. You tempt merely by existing. The scent of you intoxicates me. You epitomize all I have ever desired. You really are a witch, for I am ever beguiled and bewitched in your presence.”

“How else could I take her blood? I had no intention of pouncing upon her and tearing at her neck.” He shuddered. “Sounds hideous to speak it.”

“No,” she said softly, resolute. “You would consider all the possibilities. It is your manner to think of others.”

“I respect you, Roxane. And I don’t want to make love to any other woman. I only brought her to a climax so she wouldn’t notice when I cut her.”

“I—” He could not confess he’d spoken to the one man Roxane had been trying to locate. A man who had become a strange ally in his journey to the night. He shrugged casually, tossing a glance toward the moon. “Just a guess. An innate knowledge that accompanies vampirism.
Morbleu
. I am ashamed that you saw me in such a compromising position. You should not have—”

He reached for the ends of her hair and twirled them about his forefinger. “To kiss a woman is to breathe in her soul. And in turn, give away a bit of my soul.”

She bowed her head and he moved in to kiss her, to steal a morsel of her soul and secret it away inside his heart, there, where the other portions resided. Soon he would have all of her, an icy forest so lush it would overwhelm his being. He wanted to own her, to have her, to know she was only his. “Kiss me, please?”

“What
have
you heard, vicomte?”

“Well, rather it is from the faerie stories I was read as a child.”

“I see. Tell me what you know about witches.”

Her question piqued his call to challenge. A play at her secrets. For surely she yet held a few secrets close. “Let me see… I am sure witches ride broomsticks and stir in their cauldrons as they cackle at the moon. They are hideously ugly and have warts everywhere, even on their derrieres.”

“Oh really?” She stifled a laugh behind a sweep of the cape. “Did you see any warts?”

“It strikes me suddenly that I have not taken the time to really study your bottom. Though believe me it will be first on my list next time the opportunity presents itself.”

“What else do you think I should be?”

“It’s not what I think you should be. Heaven knows, I’ve come to a whole new set of beliefs these past days. Vampires exist and witches can be the most lovely things.”

Drawing her into his embrace he kissed her cheek through the laughter. “This is not a mask of bewitchery. Your beauty is bone deep. I know.” He smoothed a finger along her cheek, soft, like his heart. “My territory, this.”

“Mmm, I like being your territory.”

He leaned in to kiss her mouth, but recalled her reluctance. So instead he kissed the side of her cheek, a slow and lingering touch. He could sense her heartbeats and—the devil take him—her blood scent infused his senses. But he was full, the hunger sated; easy enough to avoid the temptation.

“Of a sort. There are feline shifting familiars, but others begin their lives as inanimate object. There is an animation ritual witches use to claim those familiars.”

“I seem to recall Toussaint mentioning something about that. But hell.” Toussaint had explained how witches use vampires to work an immortality spell. It had involved witches drinking blood from vampires, hadn’t it? “You don’t need blood to claim a familiar, do you?”