Forbidden (The Gabriel Lennox Series Book 1) (3 page)

The pianist gave Gabriel’s hand a good, firm shake. “Thank you, Monsieur—” he replied, deep blue eyes on Sevien’s as if pleading for assistance in the formalities.

“Lennox,” Sevien answered. “Monsieur Gabriel Lennox, this is Michel Delechevalier, and this is his wife Genevieve.”

Gabriel kissed her upturned hand. “A pleasure, Madame.” Still holding her hand, he added, “You played Parfit?”

Genevieve’s face flushed noticeably as she nodded. “Yes. I miss the black locks, though. And please don’t be a stranger. You may call me Genevieve.”

A soft laugh spilled from her husband’s lips. “Stranger? How can he be anything but? We’ve only just met him.”

Genevieve nodded, took the tasseled pink-and-white fan dangling around her slender wrist, and fanned herself furiously. “
C’est vrai
,” she replied, agreeing with her husband. “But would you ever intend such a horrible thing to remain, Monsieur Lennox? Or may I call you Gabriel?”

Michel and Sevien looked at her, eyebrows raised, but only Michel looked annoyed. “Please excuse my wife’s boldness. We’re French, as you know, and for some peculiar reason, she just hasn’t developed the docile and sweet heart of your English ladies.” He sighed and gave a pained smile. “
Mais oui
, didn’t you say that you were on your way? We’d hate to keep you,” he added, his deep blue eyes widening with what looked like hope. Certainly, hope that Gabriel would leave.

“But he hasn’t formally met the other musicians,” Genevieve protested, glancing around. Her eyes were blue too, but tinged with a pale green.

“You can meet the other musicians later,” Michel retorted. “I’m afraid that Adele and Louis have wandered off somewhere.”

“I hope that my sister isn’t alone with the Whitechapel murderer on the loose. Sometimes, she can be so empty-headed.”

Michel looked at his wife, sudden tenderness in his eyes. “Don’t fret. There haven’t been any murders for weeks. Adele will be fine. Remember, Louis is with her.”

Genevieve covered her mouth with the fan, maybe to hide an unladylike look, for the words that came out were anything but lovely. And even though the curses were uttered in the romantic French tongue, they still didn’t sound pretty to Gabriel’s trained ears.

“With Louis, eh?” she asked in English. “She might as well be alone then. He’s such a daydreamer. My fears have been confirmed.” Bowing her head, she shut the fan with a sharp flick of her wrist. Her pink lips pressed into a grimace. “I must go and find her.” She curtsied slightly to them and marched away.

Michel watched her go and returned his attention to Gabriel. “My wife,” he began, chuckling softly, “is quite the,
er
 . . . spitfire.”

Gabriel nodded politely. “The night is young and beautiful. I’m certain that your friends are safe.” He bowed at the waist. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed again before walking past them and into the garden of statues and flowers under the silhouetted trees and white, twinkling stars. He lingered there for some time staring at the statues. He gazed at the statue of a lovely woman, a mixture of innocence and seduction, obviously a metaphor. But for what? Power? Love? When he started caressing her hard, cold, unmoving face, he knew that it was time to go for a walk and clear his mind.

He slipped through the wrought-iron gate and strolled down the cobblestone street. His shadow served as his only companion, weaving and gliding along.

Gabriel heard the echo of a shoe against the cobblestone street from behind him. He tried not to think of what lurked in the shadows. However, if any person or creature was fool enough to attack him, they would be in for an unpleasant surprise.

Something caught his attention, causing him to draw up short, as shock froze him in midstride. Though he stood still, his shadow continued moving and growing wider, like a black hole stretching to pull him in.

“HE HAS
THE FACE
of a philanderer,” Genevieve remarked to her sister, concerning her young husband. The two fell silent as Genevieve mused upon Michel’s face.

He had the most amazing hair. In the evenings, he would awake, often from a drunken stupor and neglect his locks, and his hair simply fell back into large, lustrous, strong curls. His lashes, too, were perfect and thick. His classical nose straight and narrow with a slight, adorable curve, looked perfect, too. His mouth, soft and sensual, had kissed many girls (before her) and most likely made them weep with joy.

The face of a love god.

Adele shook her head in bewilderment. “Michel is a romantic, Genevieve. A gentleman. Does that not please you?”

“As romantic as a derelict,” she replied.

“Michel is beautiful inside and out, sister. You’re lucky to be his wife. He adores you.”

“
Mon Dieu
! He has the face of an effeminate bore. Such men are conceited. If I wanted a face as pretty as mine, all I need do is look into the mirror.” Genevieve knew that her features served as her strongest assets. She used them to get whatever she wanted, and as an actress, they worked wonders. But those charms appeared not to work on her husband, who wanted for nothing. His charm and good looks had attracted her to him. At first. She was merely an actress and he the son of a count and heir to wealth, title, and estates. At parties, his aristocratic friends spoke in hushed voices about her, calling her an upstart and beneath him in every way. How dare she let
him
court her. Drinking water and breathing air were simple, easy things. And giving into Michel, a man accustomed to getting each and every thing he wanted, held no difference. And he had wanted her.

Like an enchanter, as soon as he touched those piano keys, one had to listen. When he moved or laughed or made some trivial gesture with his hands, one had to watch him. All one had to do was look into Michel’s eyes, and his or her problems became simply an afterthought. Forgotten. And he always got what he wanted. Favors? It was an honor to any and all to yield to Michel’s needs. Money? It simply flowed gently into his account. Women?

She mustn’t think of that.

His perfection intimidated her. It needed to be marred. Somehow, some way—then she could love him. Truly love him.

Adele burst into laughter. “You’re so cruel!” She gasped and her face flushed. “You are jealous? That’s it then.”

“Cruel? Jealous? Please. And he acts like such a fey with his blithe mannerisms and words. He is, I am afraid to say,” she paused, the back of her delicate hand against her forehead, “not masculine in the slightest.”

“What about the red-headed gentleman in the audience? Is he manly enough for you?”

“The one with the fawn-colored suit?” Genevieve sighed longingly, a warmth spreading over her bosom and neck.

“Poor, poor Michel. Only married for a month, and his wife has already reserved her bed to another.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “By the way, where did you and Louis disappear to?” she asked. “And in view of the Whitechapel Murderer?”

“We went for a stroll. That’s all.”

“Strolls are for lovers, sister dear.”

Rising from her chair, Adele patted the side of her sister’s face. “Don’t try to divert me. Louis and I are friends. You know how he feels about marriage.”

Genevieve smoothed a hand over the skirt of her gown. “And how is that again? He changes his views so often.”

“That isn’t fair to say. Marriage is so important to him that he wants to be sure he’s with the right woman so that it will last. Not shrivel and die.” Adele narrowed her eyes. “It’s unfortunate that few can make such convictions.”

“I’m tired. Good night.” Genevieve stood up and leaned over to kiss her sister on the forehead, but Adele held up a warning hand, stopping her.

“Wait just a minute. This conversation isn’t over. This Englishman,” she continued, “you are not serious about him, are you? I saw the way you blushed when I merely mentioned him now. . .”

“His name is
Gabriel
,” Genevieve replied, enjoying the way her tongue touched her front teeth before subtly brushing against the roof of her mouth whenever she spoke his name. “Gabriel.”

“Please, sister, answer the question.”

She let out an exaggerated sigh and hurried toward the door. Standing in the doorway, she frowned and glanced over her shoulder, at her sister. “Want to know so that you can go tell Michel?”

Adele fell silent.

She turned around to face her fully. “
Well
,” she snapped. “Would you?”

Her sister clasped her hands over her heart. “I’m obligated to, if you can’t be honest with your own feelings.”

“No, you’re obligated to
me
. You’re
my
sister. Or does this ‘obligation’ of yours get you in my husband’s bed?” She didn’t wait for a reply, but stormed down the hallway and into her bedroom.

GABRIEL STEPPED
BACK
, and the shadow moved with him. He turned to run, but the thought of him fleeing into the night, heart pounding, body trembling and breathless, made him decide otherwise. Better to stay and face it—whatever it was.

“Go on. Show yourself,” he whispered, voice so soft he thought only he could hear it.

The black hole, denser than darkness and shadows, yet strangely comprising these, rose and shaped into a standing figure inches away from him.

“Who are you? What do you want?” He stared at the hooded figure.

It reached out to him with two long-fingered hands and reached for his face, but he side-stepped just out of reach. The hood fell back to reveal a painfully familiar face. It resembled his face if he had been born a girl: fine-boned and fair, but narrower at the chin where his was more angular.

“Abigail?” he asked, blinking hard. Seeing her, vague memories washed over him, drowning him, leaving him delirious like a lost child.

“I’ve missed you, Gabriel.” She reached out her pale hands to him again, and he didn’t step back to avoid her touch. Her fingers were warm—warm with life. His heart trembled. Bloody hell—had someone given her the fruit? Had someone brought her back to life? But why?
Why?

To mock him.

“I was scared and so alone. It made sense to come and find you.”

“Abigail . . . “You’re dead.”

Her lips peeled back in a hard smile that showed her strong, ivory teeth. “Silly brother, you know better than anyone that death is a lie. Come, take me by the hands and we shall be together forevermore.”

He brought up a warning hand to slash the air between them. “No! You’re dead! You died! I remember you in the tree—”

She laughed then in her pretty, musical way. “Oh. You mean this?” she asked, pulling down the high collar of the cloak to reveal the awful scars around her neck. “Don’t fret. They’re not as painful as they appear.”

For a moment, a veil of clouds draped over the full moon, darkening the alley further, but when it lifted, he and Abigail were no longer standing there.

An oak tree’s heavy branches swayed ominously overhead. He knew that on the lower part of its trunk, lovers had carved their initials. An illusion. Covering his eyes with a spread hand, he released a shaky sigh. He knew of no Chosen who had the power to bend reality at his or her will. He sensed something vibrating through the air and ripple over his skin. Magic?

Abigail’s creamy skin glowed in contrast against the black cloak. Powerful magic had transformed the night into an illusion of daytime. The sunlight heated her red hair so that it looked as if it were on fire. “It’s been so long since you’ve held me. Why do you hesitate? Didn’t you miss me?”

“You’re not real. You’re not alive! You’re dead. Dead!”

“Oh Gabriel,” she said in a high-pitched, singsong voice. “You’re so cruel.” She skipped toward him, long wavy hair streaming behind, hands clasped in front of her. “If you had loved me as much as I loved you, I wouldn’t have died.” She pirouetted on the balls of her feet until she stood behind him, laughing. “Murderer. You’re nothing but a bloody murderer.”

This couldn’t be his sister. No. “Whoever you are, you’ve gone too far,” he declared, the words sharp as a sword, past angry, verging into rage. He swung around, drawing his hands back and against his body, taking the surrounding energy in the air into himself and releasing it against her. Like a solid pillar, it thrust her back several feet, where she landed in a sprawling heap. He stalked toward her, but before he could reach, she disappeared.

He heard laughter that couldn’t have come from the throat of a human but rather something otherworldly. The sound set the hair on the back of his neck on edge. “What do you want,
Lilith?”
He hissed the name like a curse.

She pulled the hood back to reveal her oval face framed by black hair inset with blacker eyes shining with interest. With lightning speed, she grabbed him by the throat.

He sighed. “Release me.” He tried to move, but her hold grew more constricting. She leaned forward and kissed his mouth.

Gabriel felt his lips being pried open with her tongue. The more he struggled, the tighter her grip became.

“I can taste your fear, fair prince,” she said. “And it is oh so delicious.” Her black eyes bored into him and suddenly became fluid, like dark, treacherous waters.

He felt himself falling into the pools of blackness. His body paralyzed. Helpless and unable to move, he couldn’t fight as she sucked his life away, his essence. A blue light emanated from his lips and into Lilith’s open mouth. A sudden fatigue deluged over him, drowning him. His knees buckled under him and he fell to the ground.

Lilith had released him.

He managed to raise his eyes to her.

She loomed over him, a peculiar look on her face. Was it fear? Fear from the Lady who drank it? Her eyes glanced past him, into a distance that he couldn’t see. She turned around and began to walk away.

Over her shoulder, she threw him an indifferent glance. “That little bit with your sister was a demonstration of my power. What came afterward is simply a taste of what I can do to you. Sweet dreams.” Then she vanished.

Gabriel’s eyes grew heavy, losing consciousness. Farcical. If he had the strength, he would laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. He, who didn’t need sleep and never tired;
he
, who knew the secret of immortality (supposedly—a sardonic voice reminded him) had fallen in a dirty alley unable to move, while his senses surrendered to oblivion. Gabriel would’ve laughed if he had the strength.

Sweet dreams, indeed.

* * *

By the time the sun had set, Michel had already drunk eight glasses of wine. Genevieve hadn’t come down to join him. Her absence neither disappointed nor pleased him. Indifferent to the solo evening, he played a few more ditties on the piano. Golden and blithe Mozart concertos deepened and darkened into Beethoven sonatas. Michel rose from the piano and entered his bedroom.

Genevieve sat on a satin-covered stool. Her saffron hair fell in heavy curls as she removed the pins. She placed teardrop earrings onto her dressing table. Dressed in a pale blue sleeveless nightgown, white slippers that he had given her, she glowed in the thick flaxen light. While she brushed her hair, she glanced at him, and he held her gaze until she turned away. How pretty she looked. What a blessing it would be if she just remained quiet so he could admire her. But no. She’d spout some poison. He could hear her complaints already: I saw you looking at that servant girl. Or: You’re such a child, Michel. Maybe she
wanted
him to hate her.

The alcohol hadn’t affected him as much as he
thought. He should’ve been passing out. His body must’ve been building resistance. Pity. Michel undressed himself and slipped into a dark blue robe. He sat down on the bed and waited.

Without looking at him Genevieve asked, “Are you sober?”

“I don’t know. Come closer and find out.”

She set down the brush. “Will Monsieur Lennox and Monsieur Gray be visiting us? You know how I love having guests. Tomorrow evening would be divine.” She chattered on about Nathaniel’s crude behavior and Gabriel’s grace. He noticed a small smile on her lips as she spoke about the latter. A little girl’s blush put color in her cheeks.

Michel shrugged. “Invite them, if you desire. But you haven’t found out if I am sober or otherwise.” He crossed his arms against his chest. “I wonder what Gabriel would prefer?”

In two footfalls, Genevieve sat down beside him. She placed her hands on his arms. “You’re drunk. You really must stop doing this. Honestly, you’re drinking yourself to death. All I love is you. From the bottom of my heart. You, darling. Please.”

Michel nearly broke into laughter. His wife, an amazing actress, had performed all over England, and audience after audience spoiled her ego with lofty praises and showers of roses after every show. Her blue eyes gazed at him with feigned remorse. While she fussed over him, he suspected she only moved closer to smell the wine on his breath and to confirm he was a drunkard, a wastrel. Instead of facing the real issue at hand (her philandering heart), she set the spotlight on him and his flaws. When she kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair, he wasn’t certain of her sudden affection. He smothered his face on her shoulder, crooned that he knew she loved only him, while his mind screamed
“Lies! Lies!”

Pulling away from her, he protested that he had a headache and wanted only to sleep—finally, she left him. Michel lay and chuckled to himself, curled on his side like a child, at last laughing at Genevieve, for a long while. Silly Genevieve, if only you knew my secrets.

Then, he found himself crying.

He felt arms embrace him from behind. Perhaps Genevieve had never left the room. He asked her to bring him more wine. Four glasses later, he realized he was going to do something outrageous.

Making love to Genevieve this drunk was much easier. He felt detached, barely there, lying on top of her, scarcely feeling the warmth of her body and the pull of her sex as she wrapped her arms and legs round him, caging him in her pale, slender legs. All the while he knew that she thought of an emerald-eyed man.

* * *

Gabriel woke to find himself in the carriage, Nathaniel sitting across from him.

“You were foolish to have gone alone. Why? Because you didn’t believe me about Lilith and her plans?”

Gabriel clasped his hands in his lap. “When Lilith released me, she looked almost afraid. Was it you?”

Nathaniel nodded. His blue eyes dulled noticeably.

“How long have I been unconscious?”

“An hour.”

What in the hell had Lilith done to him? He wanted to ask, but he feared Nathaniel wouldn’t give him any straight answers. Pretend not to care to know, that’s the best way to find out.

“You’re angry with me?” Gabriel almost wished that he hadn’t asked. Since when did he care what Nathaniel thought of him?

The other man nodded again. “Yes and no.”

“You want an apology. Is that it?”

“Not necessary. Your trust is more important. I saved you from her. Now you know what she’s capable of and where I stand.”

“You stand by me. That’s no mystery.”

“But you have your doubts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in this predicament, now would you?”

“Why exactly is she after me? The nonsense about me Enlightening others—that couldn’t be all, eh?”

Nathaniel leaned back and crossed his arms. “Of course it is. You do as you’re told, or you suffer the consequences. It’s quite simple, really.”

He seethed in silence. Consequences. He wondered how Lilith could kill him if he were indeed immortal.

Immortal?
Maybe I’m not immortal after all.
I didn’t choose this, he wanted to tell Nathaniel.
I didn’t choose to be anyone’s messenger.
But instead he closed into himself as a child closes his eyes to the surrounding darkness until morning comes and with it a solution to its monsters. He stared at the velvety night framed by the carriage window. His gaze traced over his faint silhouette against the glass. He wondered how the rumor about vampires not having incarnate . . . whatever that meant. Was that blue light that Lilith had sucked out of him somehow a part of his soul? If so, it could explain why he had fainted. She could weave illusions. She could suck him nearly dry.
You know no Chosen like this
, a dark voice nagged at him.
Perhaps
, the voice went on,
she is something more
.

He focused on Nathaniel’s reflection and flinched when he saw his friend staring at him.

“What are you thinking about?” Nathaniel asked.

He made his face a blank mask. “Nothing.”

Nathaniel shrugged and rolled his eyes. “While you were ‘sleeping,’ our driver informed me that we received an invitation from Michel for a late dinner tomorrow night. At midnight. Will you go?”

Midnight. Late dinner indeed. “I suppose so.”
As if you have a choice. As if
.

Nathaniel uncrossed his arms and smiled. “Good.”

Gabriel breathed in deeply. He had a feeling there would be nothing good about it.