Lyon (5 page)

“
Oui,
I've twisted an ankle, monsieur.” She had to shout in order to be heard above the din. “Can you assist me to my destination—the townhouse just across the quai there?”

“
Certainment!
” Her savior tucked her arm under his, giving it a comforting pat, then took the basket she nudged toward him with her foot.

Her legs quivered like wet pasta as she pushed off from the railing and she grasped him with both hands. They moved slowly at first as she tried to stave off any further transformation. Forcing her mind away from the scene she'd just witnessed would help, she was sure, so she counted her footsteps and ran mundane facts through her brain one after another trying to keep the memory at bay.

They passed King Henri and she informed her companion of every fact she'd learned about the statue over the past year. That he'd been cast from bronze obtained by the melting of two other effigies of France's former ruler, Napoleon. That official documents had been secreted within the statue's base. The man must've surely have thought her strange, but he only smiled and nodded, likely unable to catch every word anyway.

As her equilibrium returned, her legs firmed. They grew sturdy and dependable under her as they carried her away from the bridge and toward normalcy.

She had to get home. Once inside, the bizarre changes in her would reverse more quickly. Transformation was only possible to sustain under sky. Which was precisely why she preferred to spend her life indoors rather than out. Nothing suited her better than being neatly encased in a chamber constructed of brick and mortar topped by a slate roof.

Now they were moving along the Quai di Conti. Then she was up the steps, thanking her rescuer, and she was inside. Safe.

Or as close to it as she ever could be.

“Who the devil was that?” Lyon demanded. His incredulous eyes burned into Sibela's stunned ones.

“What?” she stuttered. “I don't know—”

He gave her a little shake. “That woman on the bridge. You recognized her. I saw it in your face.”

Sibela's mouth opened and shut like a mackerel's as she obviously sought a convincing fabrication.

“Save your lies.” He pulled from her channel with a lack of finesse he knew was appalling, but the sense of urgency that gripped him was so great that he did it anyway. In one lithe move, he was standing, straddling her with his feet planted on either side of her hips.

“I'll ask her myself,” he said, yanking on his shirt.

Sibela drew herself up to kneel between his legs and grip his thighs, her expression beseeching. “She is nothing to us.”

Lyon ruched up his trousers, wincing as he forced his still turgid cock inside and slid fastenings home. It had just achieved the most gratifying orgasm of its lecherous career, yet it was still angled high, at the ready.

Gods, what a night.
“Stay here until I return,” he grimly instructed his companion.

“Damnation!” Her angry fist aimed for his groin but was deflected and only hit his thigh when he jerked back in time. “I am your chosen one. Not her!”

He bent and lifted her so they stood eye to eye. “That remains to be seen.”

“Bastard!” With her coming, her transformation had concluded and she tottered uncertainly before him on newly formed web-toed feet. Were she to remain on land now that the change was complete, all signs of her origins would soon fade. Her scales and luminescence would recede altogether until she appeared completely Human. Or near enough to pass.

Sibela wrapped desperate arms about his shoulders and lifted her lips to his ear. “If you must go, just first tell me this,” she whispered. “Your seed. Was it potent?”

He wrested her claws from his neck and set her firmly away from him, giving her time to steady before he released her. “You know it wasn't. It couldn't be.”

His eyes lifted to search the bridge rail. Nothing made him more eager to escape a scene such as this than a woman who clung. She had a right to be angry. Such post-coital behavior on his part was beyond ungentlemanly, but something was wrong here.

She was far too determined to keep him from the mysterious woman on the bridge, and he was conversely filled with an intense, inexplicable determination to find her.

“Do you forget that tomorrow night marks the conclusion of Bright Half?” she went on, referring to the two weeks of the monthly cycle in which the moon waxed. “You will need me then, when the full moon comes.”

“Stay, Sibela. I'll return later.” He flicked his fingers toward her in a gesture that bolstered the magic surrounding her. “Until then you'll remain undetectable by Human sight. But when next we speak, I'll want answers. Truthful ones.”

“You dare speak to me as you would your dog? We have mated!” she shrieked. “You cannot leave me in this way. We are bound!”

Ignoring her, he turned and loped across the park. He'd already lost too much time and would not linger to untangle Sibela's lies now. Her claim to him was not as thorough as she might have wished and he suspected that, rather than any true feeling for him, was at the root of her shrewishness. For until they mated under the full Moon, any bond between them was not irrevocable.

By taking the southern staircase closest to the direction in which the woman on the bridge had gone, he avoided the crowds. But when he reached the Quai di Conti, her scent had already largely dissipated. He searched the air for the path she'd taken, for once wishing his olfactory abilities were as keen as those of his brothers.

Behind him, Sibela had commenced her screeching again. He grimaced. Bacchus, please let there be some mistake! Was he truly destined to be tied to such a female for a lifetime?

A door shut along the quai. He turned toward the sound and located the scent again. He tracked it past ten buildings and lost it just short of the stoop leading to a townhouse of plastered gray with a red door.

Had the pretty
voyeuse
he sought retreated here? Instinct had him taking the steps and rapping the knocker for admittance. If he was wrong, he was about to embarrass himself.

Almost immediately, the door was snatched open and a
majordome
appeared. When his gaze swept Lyon, his nose lifted and his lips curled into a sneer. He made to shut the door.

Lyon's palm smacked flat upon it, holding it wide. “I seek a word with the lady who just entered here…” Something beyond the man caught his attention. Just inside, a woman's wrap had been cast upon a hook. It was crimson red.

“Thee salon weel not beegin for one hour. At nine o'clock tonight,” the man informed him with a supercilious sniff. He eyed Lyon up and down. “And eet eez by eenvitation onlee.”

A rivulet of blood trickled down Lyon's neck and he mentally cringed, recalling his bedraggled state. His neck still stung from Sibela's claws and his shoulders were striped with welts where she'd gripped him as they'd mated. His shirt hung open and was sliced in ribbons, and his grass-stained trousers were damp with seawater.

He was probably not the sort of guest who normally called here.

The Human obstacle before him stepped back for greater leverage and again tried to close the door. Lyon's huge paw remained fast, preventing him. His other hand delved into his trouser pocket and whipped out an assortment of Tuscan
lire
and
soldi,
which he deposited inside the servant's vest without bothering to determine the amount of his offering. “I believe you'll find that to be adequate invitation,” he informed him. “I'll expect to be allowed in when I return.”

The
majordome
patted his bulging vest pocket, peeked inside it, and then favored him with a grudging nod. “Onlee eef you are suitablee attired. And do not bring your entourage.”

Lyon straightened and looked over his shoulder, surprised to see that an assortment of women loitered there, some openly ogling him and others doing the same in a more circumspect manner. Behind him, the door shut with a haughty
snick
.

He took the steps and strode back into the lane, sighing when his admirers decided to trail him. He was weary of this inexplicable Human attention and he had no time for it. He was a mess, and he had but one hour to get himself to his hotel, clean himself up, and return.

“I'm not what you want,” he murmured to the group at large. Sending a light mindspell over the women, he crossed the quai not waiting to see them disband.

At the park's edge, he glanced back toward the gray house. A curtain twitched at a window on the top floor. Someone watched him. Was it the woman from the bridge? Such an attic window would most likely open to servants' quarters. Was she a maid or a governess?

Was she the woman who'd just given him the hardest orgasm of his life?

He would find out at nine o'clock tonight.

R
eaching her solitary bedchamber in the rafters at the front of the house she so despised, Juliette soundlessly shut her door behind her. Without lighting a candle, she hurried to the single window along the wall and, taking care to keep herself hidden, pulled back the curtain's edge to peer down toward the quai.

She gasped. There he was! That man she'd seen from the bridge was loitering on the front sidewalk, studying the house. Now that he stood upright, she could see he truly was a giant. A disheveled one.

His tattered shirt was misbuttoned and damp with dew and sweat. It faithfully molded shoulders nearly twice as broad as her own and a muscled torso that rivaled the mythical statues carved on the Palais de Justice. Thoughts of that place sent a shiver over her.

Her breath hitched as she watched him disappear up the front steps and heard the door open for him. His coming here was no accident. He'd seen her on the bridge and followed her. Why? What did he want? Was it simple curiosity? Or, even worse, was it possible he was one of her persecutors and she'd inadvertently led him here?

In semi-darkness, she groped along the wall until she reached the washstand. Her hand found the vial there and by ease of practice, she splashed wine into a glass and squeezed a small dose of the vial's tincture into it. Though she craved more, she limited herself, for she'd need her wits later tonight. She swallowed it in one gulp and returned to the window.

Long moments later, the man reappeared below her again on the sidewalk. The servants had rebuffed him!

Her gaze followed him as he crossed the quai and continued on. Her emotions were in such a tangle that she wasn't sure whether to be glad of his departure or not. Then he paused unexpectedly at the park's edge and turned to look up at her window.

Swiveling on the ball of one foot, she fell back against the wall and put a hand over her thumping heart. How long would he remain out there?

It didn't matter, she told herself. She rarely left the house and Monsieur Valmont's watchdogs were fierce. That stranger could watch this window for the next year for all she cared.

Ridiculous. As if he would. He'd affected her far more than she'd likely affected him. She was glad he'd gone, she decided.

Sliding down the wall, she crouched on her heels hugging her drawn-up knees. The drops were already beginning to warm her, dulling the sharp corners of reality. As usual, they had another effect—making her long for what she would not seek. A man's touch.

Remembered sensation still hummed deep inside her most private feminine crevice. The wanting was worst than usual.

Because of him.

What had happened out there? How had it come to pass that she—the only female in the house who'd never had a man between her legs—had been violated by one tonight?

A horrible thought struck her.

Oh, God! Had he taken her first blood?! She hadn't even considered that possibility. Stupid. Stupid!

Her knees hit the floor. She hunched her back as one hand dove under her skirts. Gingerly, she slipped a finger high between her legs, searching. The private folds gating her channel were slick. Juices, sticky and heady, coated her inner thighs.

He'd done this to her, made her body sob for him. Her forefinger dipped inside, a little deeper. Oh, please, please, where was it? Then her fingertip gently butted against what she sought. The delicate membrane. Her hymen. It still held.

She slumped in relief, more confused than ever. Withdrawing her hand, she wiped it on the linen that hung from her washstand. Had his shaft—or something of him—truly come inside her or not?

Pushing from the floor, she stood to peek out of the window again. The man was nowhere to be seen. She pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, searching the quai more thoroughly. He was gone.

If only it had been possible to find out what he knew without a face-to-face conversation with him. But such a meeting would be impossible to arrange, even if he returned again.

She could just imagine asking Valmont's servants to question him: Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,
but could you tell me the identity of the woman you lay with tonight under the bridge? And also if you would be so kind, can you tell me if you are able to supply orgasms to women without touching them? Mademoiselle Juliette wishes to know.

Absurd!

Looking east, her eyes located a familiar building—the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés—The Hospital of Found Children. Its spires pricked heavenward like great thorns, prodding her with painful memories. She let the thin curtain fall closed to obscure them and stood very still, almost afraid to breathe.

“
Je ne suis pas folle,”
she whispered unsteadily. “I am not insane. I am not.”

It had been three years since most of the magic had left her.

Three years since she'd last transformed in the way her body had attempted to just moments ago.

Three years since she'd been accused of murder and lost the person most dear to her in this world.

Her gaze went to the second floorboard from the wall beside her bed. On legs that were still unsure, she went to kneel there. Darting a look at the door, she reassured herself it was shut. There was no privacy lock, so she turned her back toward it and listened for footsteps.

Pushing on one end of the wooden slat raised its other end revealing a leather pouch secreted below. She pulled it out, opened it, and lifted a strand of olive-shaped beads from among the coins within.

Raising one bent knee, she draped the necklace over it so its ends dangled on either side, then ran her fingers over each bone bead. There were precisely seventeen of them, strung on a long silken cord, which had looped her neck until she was sixteen years of age. When Valmont had bade her to put aside such things.

Her fingers found the thick pewter and iron medal tied at one end of the cord. A picture of Saint Vincent de Paul was engraved on one side and the flip side bore identifying information in the form of two numbers: 1804 and 8900.

In the year 1804, she'd been the 8,900th child abandoned at the Hospice des Enfants Trouvés. Though it was less than an hour's walking distance from here, she'd visited only once, during the first week she'd returned to Paris a year ago. It had been more painful than expected and she'd avoided it since. But every day it haunted her from where it stood in the distant shadow of the Cathédral Notre Dame.

That she was illegitimate was a virtual certainty. That her mother had never planned to come back to the hospital for her was as well. She'd left no notes or identifying tokens as had been tucked in the blankets of some of the other abandoned children. She had no way of knowing if her mother had done the deed alone, but she'd always assumed her father had not accompanied her, since that was the usual story with orphans.

Upon her arrival at the foundling hospital, the only known facts of her origins had been faithfully entered into the large recording book, the Registre d'Admission. Sex: female. Age: one day. Name: Juliette. There were also notations that included a brief description of her clothing and blanket. And she'd learned the actual day of her birth, something she hadn't known. She would be nineteen next month.

It seemed that sometime in the wee hours of December 20, 1804, she'd been birthed, bathed, and wrapped in blankets of fine wool before being deposited upon the hospital's infamous “tour.” This stone wheel lay flat on its side, serving as a rotating turntable set in an aperture in the building's exterior wall. A wooden box, which acted as a makeshift cradle, rested upon the half of the wheel that was exposed outside the wall. It would have been a simple matter for her mother to stealthily and anonymously place her there, inside the box.

Had her mother wept as she turned the wheel? Had she watched until the cradle—and her baby within it—had been entirely re-situated on the inside of the hospital? Before leaving, she would have rung a bell alerting the Sisters of Charity that yet another deposit of an unwanted, pink-faced infant had been made.

Juliette gathered the beads in her fist and held them tight. Her heart cried out for the loss of the page that had been stolen from her today. Not wanting anyone to question her about it, she had only quickly scanned it. Then she'd tucked it in her basket, planning to later scrutinize it at leisure, here in her private room.

It had been a silly, costly whim to have it stolen in the first place. But from the moment she'd learned of the book's existence, she'd longed to know whatever details of her beginnings it contained. Another orphan might've been allowed to view his or her personal information, but she dared not reveal her identity at the hospital and risk being turned over to authorities.

She had not expected to be surprised by anything she read on that page, but she had been.

For directly below her name, there had been another, familiar one.

Elise.

A sharp rapping came at her door, causing her to jump.

“
Mademoiselle
?”

“
Un moment!”
Juliette hastily replaced the necklace in its box and then the box in its hiding place. Her
domestique
had arrived to fuss over her. In less than one hour, she was expected downstairs. And then tonight's performance would begin.

“Sweet victory,” Monsieur Valmont murmured from beside Juliette.

Her breath caught as she peered at the new arrival through the decorative punched-metal screen. It was he. The man from the bridge. The one who'd given her her first orgasm.

Wasn't it? She leaned closer to the grillwork trying to get a better look through the perforations.

From the privacy of this upstairs nook, she and Valmont observed the golden giant who'd entered the salon below them on the main floor of the townhouse. Only snatches of conversation, music from the harpist, and tinkling laughter reached them here so they didn't hear his introduction. Two dozen other gentlemen had already gathered in the salon before him, and a dozen more would likely come before the evening was done.

Agnes, Gina, Fleur, and the other girls circulated among them, all brightly gowned coquettes who knew how to flirt, flatter, and fornicate. M. Valmont always sent them down first to work the group and build anticipation in preparation for her entrance. They were the appetizers, he liked to say. And she, the main course.

In moments Juliette and Valmont would join the assemblage and she would hold court under his keen supervision. But for now, they lingered here to discuss the patrons with a frankness that would have been impossible in a more public venue.

“I'd hoped he might come. But I dared not expect him,” Valmont continued as the new arrival made his way into the room.

“Who is he?” Juliette enquired, carefully concealing any sign of recognition. When her companion didn't reply, she glanced his way and saw he was so fixated on his surveillance of the man that he hadn't even heard her.

In the center of the room below, the giant paused to contemplate the bubbling of the marble absinthe fountain. Valmont had installed it when they'd arrived in Paris a year ago and it had become a popular feature of these gatherings. Since the blight had devastated vineyards throughout Europe over the last decade, wine was in short supply. As a result, its cost had risen and this had ignited great interest in the less expensive absinthe as a substitute.

When Fleur approached the new guest with an offer of refreshment, he allowed her to divert him toward the wine cart. Though she was but sixteen and was fairly new to the household, Valmont had recently decided to involve her in the business rather than keep her to the kitchen, much to Juliette's dismay. However, delighted with her new finery and increased income, Fleur had taken to the work of pleasuring men with surprising ease.

The man smiled indulgently down at Fleur as she filled his glass and chattered away. Grinning, she linked a hand through his arm and proceeded to flirt in her usual engaging manner, doing her best to attract him before one of the others did.

In profile, his features were strong—a granite jaw, straight brow, and prominent, well-shaped nose. These were only slightly tempered by sensual lips, cheekbones flushed with good health, and glorious disorderly hair of many shimmering golden shades that hung almost to the line of his jaw.

Juliette willed him to glance her way, so she might furtively study his face full on, but he didn't.

“Who is he?” she asked again.

Valmont twitched at the question and she realized he'd completely forgotten her presence until she'd spoken.

“Lord Lyon Satyr.” He tapped the fingertips of both hands together under his chin in tiny soundless claps. He sounded almost giddy.

“Lyon.” Turning back to the screen, Juliette tasted the name, exploring its shape and texture in her mouth and testing its flavor on her tongue. It suited him.

Valmont returned to his study as well. “Is the name familiar to you?”

He was testing her. The purpose for which they met here prior to these Thursday night soirées was to allow him to school her on the backgrounds of his guests. He made it his business to know every detail of their circumstances and fortunes. Operating on motives unknown to her, he was always ready with instruction regarding whom to flirt with and what information to elicit. It was usually left to her to determine the manner best calculated to achieve his goals.