Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) (34 page)

“He has been with you in Paris all this time?”

“Enough chatter.”

Anjou approached her as a stalking panther. A deep darkness set within his eyes raised the shiver bumps at the base of her neck. And yet, a glint of something else lived in the dark orbs.

Her name floated through her mind. Rox
aaaaane
. So pretty. Dancing like a butterfly over a meadow of lavender.

“Yes, that’s it.”

And she felt her body stiffen. Inside, her blood hardened, momentarily, then grew thick and heavy, as if a paste. As her last conscious thoughts blurred she realized her defeat. The vampire’s thrall overwhelmed.

Henri pressed a finger under the witch’s chin and lifted her with ease, trapped within the thrall, bound to the wall like a mermaid to a ship’s prow. The manacles were unnecessary now, but he wouldn’t forego the additional security.

He stroked the soft mounds of her breasts rising from her dirty pink dress, avoiding the spittle of witch blood that crept down the fabric. The satin pushed up her bosom and the lace bordering the neckline invited him to slip a finger behind the bodice, and pinch her nipple.

He had an aversion to women—men were not so catty as females—but in fact, this woman smelled of rosemary and fresh air, and sweet, sweet blood.

Henri turned to find the tattered madman supporting his slight weight on one hand, his head tilted to reveal a bare neck. Such a pretty column for lace. And sharp kisses.

Seemingly lucid, the man stretched out his other hand and touched Henri’s shoe. “You are…my liege.”

A wistful sadness flushed Henri’s being. A faithful subject sought his embrace.

The witch left to wither in thrall, he bent and pulled Damian to him. Pale parched lips opened to his kiss. He had forgotten the sweetness of this one.

The kiss summoned desire to the surface. So sweet to be commanded by the vampire.

Master
.

To be drawn into his realm of tempting kisses. To toy with life and death.

Not so insane now.

Know what I want.

Roxane is in peril. Cannot survive on her own.

If he could detract Anjou from Roxane perhaps the vampire would glut his thirst on him, allowing his sister a chance for escape. Either way, Damian would succumb. To death. And this lucid nightmare would finally be over.

Clinging to the gargoyle’s neck, Gabriel prayed the beast could read his thoughts as it did Roxane’s.

The familiar circled high above the Marais, swooping low over the remnants of the city’s stone barricade, and skimming the sails of a nearby windmill before careening sharply and repeating the process.
Morbleu
, but the city looked a cartographer’s map, so tiny had everything become.

“Where is she?” he called. “Can you sense her? Does she call to you?”

Another swoop over a windmill that edged the city and Gabriel lifted his feet to hook his toes over the gargoyle’s tail. He’d almost nicked a sail. Did the beast toy with him? Or was he scenting out his mistress, homing in on her location?

Suddenly Charles plunged. Gabriel’s head aimed straight down. He clung with all his might, yet felt his body slipping, sliding forward upon the stone beast. And when he thought to become a victim of a gargoyle suicide, the familiar pulled up and soared through the air, a feather upon a wave.

His heel skidding across a ridged stone spine, Gabriel struggled for hold. An abrupt bank spun Charles in a spiraling descent toward the ground—Gabriel spiraled left.

The gargoyle swooped into the dark, close quarters of the city and landed on the cobblestones of a narrow passageway with a stone-upon-stone, pebble-crunching thud.

Slipping off, Gabriel stumbled forward and caught himself against the greasy wall of a limestone house. Right below the kitchen window, to judge from the crust of foul odors beneath his palms.

He clapped his palms together and strode out from between the close buildings toward the open street. “Time to slay the vampire.”

THIRTY-THREE

Standing in the cool black room, Gabriel stilled. The place was bare of furnishings. Lamplight glistened in a bare corner dirtied with centuries of dust and grime. Yet, did he—yes—he heard the rumble of voices. Below him.

Picking his way forward he navigated blindly toward the narrow beam of light that clued him to a door.

He kicked the iron door and choked as the entry of fresh air sucked out the smoke into his face. He immediately placed two figures in the center of the room and strode inside.

“A party? And no one thought to invite me?”

Anjou pulled himself up from leaning over Damian. A cocky sneer lifted his lip. “On the contrary, so kind of you to have arrived, vicomte. You are the prince of all gatherings, yes? But it is gauche to bring weapons.”

“Better gauche than dead.” Gabriel extended his arm, aiming the rapier at Anjou’s heart.

Now he spied another figure to his left. Heavy manacles held Roxane’s arms down near her hips. Her eyes were glassy. Hell, the bastard had put her in thrall. She hadn’t much time.

Anjou moved like the wind, slapping the hilt from Gabriel’s hand. The man’s shoulder plunged into his gut. They landed on the floor. Breath chuffed from Gabriel’s lungs. Briefly he touched unconsciousness. But with a shake of his head he came to and struggled with the man who tried to strangle him. Could taking away his breath kill him? Unlikely.

“It might put you out for a while,” Anjou hissed, as if he’d read Gabriel’s thoughts. “But it will not kill you.”

Drawing up his knee, Gabriel finessed a kick to the vampire’s groin. He gasped in smoky air as Anjou rolled off him. But he continued to roll, and before Gabriel could pull himself upright, Anjou grabbed the torch from the wall.

“Do you know the only way to kill a witch, my fledging foe?” Anjou swept the flames before Roxane’s skirt. Dirt on the hem kept it from bursting to flame. Captured in thrall she remained unaware.

“What do you want?” he insisted. The rapier lay near Anjou’s feet. He had no weapon to hand. The logs below the torch were too thick to serve as a stake, only a funeral pyre.

Anjou thrust the torch toward the shadows in the corner. The light fell upon Damian, who, bound by wrist and ankle, sat pounding his forehead against the wall. Dirty fingernails scratched bloody runnels down the stone wall.

Anjou’s lips curled into a hideous grin. “I want him.”

“Unthinkable,” Gabriel said. “Take your leave of Paris and I’ll consider you a man granted his greatest desire. That is all I will offer.”

“Leave Paris?” Anjou paced center of the room, the torch blazing at his shoulder. “This is my city. I have reigned here. And to know that the two of you live, minions of my blood? Too risky.”

“You started this!”

“The witch would not allow me to end it. She showed up before I had finished the task. Explain to me why you care so much for this…thing.” Anjou stretched the torch toward Roxane. “She is your death. Ah! I begin to understand. You possess some twisted carnal fetish that makes you toy with your own death as you climax above her. Tempting, I must admit. I’ve had liaisons with the enemy. Forbidden fruit is so delicious.”

A giggle from the shadows rippled through Gabriel’s blood. Unhinged, that voice.

The words the vampire spoke may very well be true. He dallied with danger.

No.
You love her
.
You have breathed her into your very soul, damned as it may be
.

He had sacrificed his mortality—perhaps his very soul—for the Desrues siblings. And he would see Roxane safe. As well, her brother.

He eyed the rapier, which lay but a reach from Anjou’s shoe. To his left, Roxane hung suspended. The ice queen had been usurped. So beautiful. Tragic. A spark sizzled at her hem and flame began to eat the tattered threads of her gown.

There was one sure way to kill a vampire—witch’s blood. He risked his own life. But to grant Roxane freedom?

A man has to believe in something.

Gabriel believed in Roxane.

He squinted to study the witch. The vial Roxane always wore around her neck was not suspended from the delicate gold chain. Where to get the blood?
So pretty, it stains your lace and seeps your very life…

“Roxane,” he called. “I love you!”

“Such theatrics!” Anjou declared with a dangerous sweep of the torch near Damian’s head. “The thrall masks her senses, vicomte. She wilts as we witness.”

“Hold!” Gabriel pressed the vampire to silence with a stiff palm out before him. He would have this moment to make her understand. “You do know, Roxane, that I love you? I would do anything for your happiness. Sacrifice…myself.”

The stillness was cut by an outburst from Damian. “Take the blood!”

Gabriel bowed his head. Take the blood? Indeed.

Using the moment to his advantage, he plunged against Anjou’s body. The torch flew to the wall, landing dreadfully close to Damian, who began to chant, “Burn the witch! Burn the witch!”

Gabriel felt flame singe his back and knew the madman had somehow gotten to the torch and whipped it across the room. It landed before Roxane’s feet. Anjou slammed a fist against his jaw. Blood spittle, sweet in his mouth, slid down the back of his throat. He struggled with Anjou, finding the old vampire’s strength greater than his own. It mattered little. He merely needed to position him a few paces to the left—

Damian’s maniacal laughter filled the room. Gabriel thumbed the cold, steel rapier blade. Flames burned near his head, the sound of crackling fire punctuating the cacophony of madness. He slid his fingers through the hilt and, using the moment Anjou took to recoil for another imminent punch, he rose. Anjou followed, wielding a fist.

Roxane’s skirts had taken the flame. She remained livid, oblivious. Gabriel kicked away the torch.

Anjou’s defiant stare glittered in the flames, devils dancing in his eyes. “Such a dilemma,” he said. “Do you save the woman, or yourself?”

“Not a dilemma at all.” Gabriel swung his arm, drawing the rapier across Roxane’s arm, feeling resistance as steel cut into her flesh.

Her scream would be the last thing he heard. And it cut much deeper than any blade ever could.

“I love you,” he whispered, as he felt the spray of witch’s blood splatter his face.

Bittersweet joy washed through Gabriel’s heart when he saw Roxane’s blood splatter Anjou’s shoulders and neck. Grenadine death cocktail. For all vampires present.

Anjou clutched his burning flesh. Yowls of agony clambered the walls.

It happened quickly. The witch’s blood sizzled over Anjou’s neck, working an acidic path up his jaw. It entered his flesh and gushed through his veins, racing up and down and filling his body. The explosion was sticky and wretched.

Gabriel turned his head into his elbow to avoid the rain of vampire. A heavy splat of blood and flesh hit his back. Droplets sprinkled his forehead.

One
vampire had been finished. As for the other…

Roxane’s sobbing ripped through the dull horror. The vampire’s death had released the thrall.

Gabriel twisted at the waist and leapt toward the fire. He clamped his arms about her legs, using his body to smother the flames eating her skirts. Vicious heat gnawed through his shirt and burned his torso. But he clung, knowing he would never again touch her, or hold her—for he tasted her blood in his mouth, could feel it slide down his face—

Any moment now.

Rip me asunder. I die loving you
.

Flame ceased to burn. Perhaps he had already disintegrated and could feel no pain? A blessed death if that be truth.

Still clinging to Roxane’s hips, he huffed in a cloud of smoke and coughed. He did not spit up blood or feel his body tear apart, or…melt.

He dragged a finger through the blood on his face. Not his own. Not Anjou’s, for he had turned his face away. Scent of witch. His
fraises at el creme
lover.

When would it happen? When would he combust into a puddle of bloody jelly?