The Maestro's Maker

Maestro’s Maker

A Ravenous Romance™ Wicked Pleasures™ Original Publication

Rhonda Leigh Jones

A Ravenous Romance™ Wicked Pleasures™ Original Publication

www.ravenousromance.com

Maestro’s Maker

Copyright © 2008 by Rhonda Leigh Jones

Ravenous Romance™

100 Cummings Center

Suite 125G

Beverly, MA 01915

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without

written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief

excerpts in connection with a review.

ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-004-6

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely

coincidental.

I was already a vampire the first time I met Claudio du Fresne.—my love, my savior,

my tormentor. He was a prisoner in the hold of the pirate ship captained by the albino

Gunnar, who had been alive more centuries than even he could count. Gunnar was the

one who had made me what I was nearly a year before. He was the cruelest man I had

ever met.

It was August of 1788.

My job was feeding and watering the prisoners and changing their chamber pots.

Gunnar reasoned that as a girl, I needed something to take care of. Besides: It was safer

for me, as a vampire to interact with the prisoners than it would be for Gunnar’s own

men. Many of them were only wild young boys, too stupid to avoid being hurt by the

desperate men waiting to become food for vampires.

On the night I met Claudio—then called le Compte Louis Claude-Michel du Fresne of

Paris—Gunnar and his Cockney went with me to see the new prisoners. It was Gunnar’s

ritual. The Cockney was most often the man in charge of procuring new prisoners, and

he liked to show off what he caught. Today, he had a violin with him, which he had stolen

from Claude-Michel.

Gunnar simply enjoyed striking fear into the hearts of new arrivals.

“God help us,” someone whispered when the Cockney opened the door. The prisoners

recoiled from the light of his lantern.

“My English friend, if I were not chained, I’d tear out your heart,” Claude-Michel

said.

The Cockney had led the party to capture Claude-Michel, his friend François

Villaforte, and his young servant, Jean. He sneered, then spat on the floor and pointed at

Claude-Michel with the violin. “Brave talk from a man who knows he’ll never get the

chance.”

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“Unchain me and find out,” Claude-Michel said.

I had to step around Gunnar to see the prisoner. Hearing his French accent—I, too,

was French—I looked immediately at Claude-Michel, ragged and noble in spite of his

chains. He held his head in such a haughty way I had to admire him. He tried to smile at

me. My heart broke.

I was sure Claude-Michel was the most handsome man I had ever seen. He was

43, but time had hardly touched him. His mischievous black eyes and full, shapely lips

were complemented by a strong jaw line and large nose. His hair hung loose about his

shoulders and threatened to curl on the ends. His blouse was loose and torn, revealing the

hair on his chest. Even then, I wanted to see more.

I was a young woman of 18 then, older than many of the boys on that ship but young

enough to dream of being saved from my predicament. Many men called my long, dark

hair and large eyes beautiful; but I did not feel beautiful that evening. Gunnar had become

angry that afternoon and broken open my lip. It had already begun to heal but was still

visible, even in this light.

Claude-Michel did not seem to notice. “There was a time,
Mademoiselle
, when I

would have given you a gallant bow and…”

Gunnar narrowed his pale eyes at Claude-Michel and smiled. “This one is much

better than the others, Johnny,” he said to the Cockney. “I may have to have him first.”

The Cockney laughed: a sickening, sniveling sound. He was a gaunt, stringy boy

baked by the sun; with limp hair so greasy it was brown instead of yellow. Most of his

teeth were already rotten. Even more than the others, he smelled of the slow decay of

mortality. “I told you we’d find something good, Captain,” he said. The Cockney had led

the band that had killed my family and captured me for Gunnar. I promised myself long

ago I would kill him at my first opportunity.

“You will wind up with something you did not bargain for,” Claude-Michel said,

wrapping his hands around the links of his chains and pulling hard. “Unchain me. Have

you any idea who I am?”

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5

Gunnar took the lantern from the Cockney and approached Claude-Michel slowly,

studying him with the unflinching intensity of a mountain. He was a large man, towering

a full head over the others. He wore a brown fur vest that revealed well-muscled arms.

His hair, a straight shock of white, reached to his chest, but was cut short on the very top.

His skin was as white as the long bone earring dangling from his right ear.

Claude-Michel’s eyes grew wide. “Albino,” he hissed.

“No,” Gunnar said conversationally, then stood. “I don’t know who you are. But

an interesting thing happens when you live to be as old as I have. You cease to care

what people call themselves, what part they choose to play. The masks rot as soon as

they die.” Gunnar nodded slowly, narrowing his eyes and lowering his voice. “Oh, their

descendants may keep up the ruse for a time. Mine did. But in the end it’s just ashes and

made-up stories to make the living feel better about their own dance with death.”

Gunnar returned to me and fondled my breast with his back to the prisoners. I

shuddered. He smiled at me while speaking to Claude-Michel. “Tell me,” he said, “what

role you played in life so that I may know what to pretend after your death.”

“I am le Compte Louis Claude-Michel du Fresne, a noble at the court in Versailles,

and owner of Du Fresne Shipping. You may be acquainted with my vessels.”

Gunnar seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head. “No. Can’t say that I am.

But a count,” he said, turning back to Claude-Michel. “Now that’s a prize. I’ll eat well for

a while at least. It’s so difficult to find a good meal at sea these days.”

Claude-Michel pressed against the wall, eyeing him warily. “What are you—

cannibal?”

Gunnar blinked and shifted his jaw sideways with a deliberate smile. “Before you are

lost to that land from whence no man returns, why don’t we enjoy a little entertainment?”

He turned briefly to the Cockney. “Return the man’s violin.”

Grinning ridiculously, the Cockney sauntered over with the instrument. Claude-

Michel sprang forward and grabbed him around the throat. “You idiot,” Gunnar muttered

and stepped forth to pull the Cockney from Claude-Michel’s grasp and rip the violin

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and bow from his hand. These, he thrust at Claude-Michel. The two men locked eyes

as Claude-Michel snatched the instrument away. He kept his mouth closed, breathing

heavily through his nostrils.

“You will do us the honor of playing it,” Gunnar said.

“Please,
Monsieur
,” I said, surprising myself.

He looked at me, as though he had forgotten I was there, then returned his gaze to

Gunnar. “For the lady, of course,” Claude-Michel said, and began to play a haunting

melody I had never heard. His chains rattled as he moved. He gave Gunnar a deadly

glare, then tore his gaze from him and looked at me instead.

I was taken away. For a few moments, I forgot I was on that ship, and I loved him for

that. He could have claimed me then as his and I would not have resisted.

When Claude-Michel finished, he tore the violin from his chin and stood swaying,

still weak from the poison that had been used to subdue him. His hands trembled. He

bowed. “What is your name,
Mademoiselle
?”

I glanced at Gunnar before answering. I felt as though I could barely speak, and was

filled with such a terrible sadness that this man was being destroyed. “Chloe,” I said.

“Chloe,” he repeated. “Very nice.”

Gunnar stepped in front of me. “And I am Gunnar. That was impressive, for an

amateur. Gypsies. Why not something a little more modern?” he asked, reaching out

his hand for the violin. Claude-Michel looked surprised. Gunnar nodded, once. I could

see the spark of curiosity in Claude-Michel’s dark eyes just before he handed him the

instrument.

In Gunnar’s hands, the Gypsy melody became organic, writhing around the room like

a newly awakened creature dancing with spooky precision. I had never heard him play

before. “How’s your Austrian?” Gunnar asked, letting the melody fade into “Claire de

Lune.” This, he ended abruptly, making the violin screech. “Name anything. I can play it.

Hum something and I will remember it a thousand years from now.”

“You’re mad,” Claude-Michel whispered.

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7

“Actually, I’m hungry,” Gunnar said, moving to the shadowy corner across the room,

where the line of prisoners began. Those on the far end whimpered and pressed against

the wall as though plagued by visions of demons.

“
Monsieur
,” said the servant Jean, pressing against the wall, his eyes crazed with

fear. Gunnar turned to him.

“Well. He speaks,” Gunnar said, his voice slithering out like snakes. “And such a

pretty one.” He bored his gaze into the boy until Jean lowered his head, causing Gunnar

to give a quiet chuckle and address Claude-Michel as he continued his slow walk along

the row of men. “Oh, you three are safe for now. The poison in your system tastes terrible.

You may be here an entire month before I decide to start the process of draining you, drop

by drop. Until there’s just a husk of the man you were.” He stopped, and looked down at

the man in the far corner. “It’s your turn, Father.”

The man shook his head. “No,” he begged. “Please. No.”

“What manner of man
are
you?” Claude-Michel asked.

“Yes,” Gunnar whispered to the prisoner. “I, too, was a priest in my time, in the way

of my people.” Turning back to Claude-Michel, he continued. “And a great warrior. But

that was eons ago. Since then I have been many things: prisoner, monster, farmer of

souls.” And here he smiled. “A god. At the moment, though, I’m captain of this ship.” He

turned to the cringing man. “Let’s have a little communion, shall we, Father?”

The man’s eyes widened. “Please…”

Gunnar looked at the violin and bow he held. “You won’t miss this one very much. I

hear Stradivarius is what people want now.” He crumbled the instrument and bow in his

hands like paper and spilled the pieces on the ground. My mouth opened in shock. I could

see the sickness in Claude-Michel’s face as he watched. The moment of peace had been

an illusion. Only that hold was real. That ship. That stench.

“Gunnar!” I cried. “How could you do this?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “One more word from you and I’ll leave you in the first

village I find. We’ll see if all the old stories are true, of how they drive stakes through the

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hearts of those like you.”

The threat made me go cold all over.

Claude-Michel struggled to his feet, and leaned his sweat-soaked body against the

wall. Jean looked from him to me to Gunnar.

“Don’t be so surprised,” Gunnar said. “I have no need of an amateur violinist.”

Ignoring Claude-Michel’s scowl, he turned to the cringing prisoner, removing the thin

strap of leather from around his own neck. “Now Father, hold still.” He unlocked the

priest’s shackles and made him stand. Then he motioned with his head toward Claude-

Michel. “This man thinks I’m a monster,” he said.

“Please, please don’t,” the priest said, and began to mumble something in Latin.

“Most of the people who find themselves in my hands start praying as though their

souls depended upon it,” he said. “I suppose we could say, then, that I am doing man a

great service. Or God—bringing Him clean, newly confessed souls. Of course it doesn’t

happen all at once. It doesn’t have to happen at all. Some choose to keep their meals as

chattel. But I am so easily bored. I’ve always killed. Why stop now?”