Читать книгу Seducing the Vampire - Michele Hauf - Страница 12

Paris, 1785

CONSTANTINE DE SALIGNAC’S voice possessed a soft murmur and felt like warm syrup seeping into her skin. His very presence, taller than she by a head, with broad shoulders and long fingers moving expressively as he spoke, intrigued her.

When he stood near, Viviane could not look away from him.

And yet, she did not feel the necessary spark of passion. His closeness did not provoke desire, twinkle across her flesh, or vibrate throughout her body. Intimacy should be like that. A man’s presence should put a woman out of sorts in the best of ways.

Twice now, Lord de Salignac had kissed Viviane. Once in the garden behind the ballroom during a midnight salon. Last time had been four days ago in the planetarium amongst the squawking blue-and-emerald parrots. The kiss had invited their tongues to dance, and yet too quickly it had turned rough. Possessive. But hardly interesting.

Viviane knew what Constantine wanted. Eventually she must succumb. But if a man wished to keep her interest, she required passion. The man must convince her of his conviction.

Now Constantine coiled one long ringlet of her hair about his forefinger. “I am pleased you’ve attended this evening, Viviane. It is good you’ve not despaired in the wake of Henri’s death.”

She tensed. The man gained no regard with his callous prod at her most intimate memory.

A bird squawked nearby. “You’ve many birds. The peacock in the back courtyard is magnificent.”

“A gift from Marie Antoinette.”

“Does she know you are vampire?”

“The queen does not believe in the occult.”

Viviane recalled Madame du Barry had been ousted from court for her belief in the occult. It was never a good thing when those in power believed, be their beliefs real or superstitious. Always scandal followed. The mortal could be silenced, and usually such reprimand was ordered by the Council.

She strode the hall where earlier she’d met Rhys Hawkes. “Have you hummingbirds?”

“No.”

“I should think not.” She stroked the gathering of roses above her right ear. The pointed beaks on the skulls pricked nicely.

“What are these?” Constantine inspected the flower buds tucked along the side of her coif. “Rat skulls?”

“I abhor rodents. These are replicas of hummingbird skulls carved by a Venetian artisan.”

“Yes, the long beak …”

“I regard hummingbirds as my totem.” Always she felt as if she must stay one step ahead, her wings ever beating, to maintain life. “Pretty, yes?”

“They suit you. But one mustn’t overlook the value of a plump rat.”

“Do not tell me if you drink from them.”

The masterful tribe leader lifted a brow, but instead of proclaiming he did so, and completely horrifying her, he said, “I wonder if you would enjoy a stroll in the north hall where I’ve had the Tiepolo hung? It is a marvelously dark piece.”

“Perhaps a few moments,” she reluctantly agreed, while her eyes scanned the ballroom for the man with the graystreaked hair. “It is oppressive in here.”

A glance to Portia assured her she would return. Portia liked to wander the salon and figure who was mortal and who was not. The maid was safe from hungry vampires for she wore Henri’s mark. To them Portia appeared used, not worth a taste.

The north hall served as a retreat for a few couples walking arm in arm, admiring the massive fresco paintings, which would normally fill an entire boudoir wall. But on the two-story-high walls they appeared merely portraits, one lined after the other. An ostentatious display of wealth. Three candelabras marked the walls at distances, providing low, hazy light.

Viviane realized Constantine could tend all her needs. Save the most vital—freedom.

Constantine offered his arm, which she accepted. The lace blooming from the end of his sleeve spilled across her wrist. He smelled of lavender, wine and the slightest trace of blood. He must have fed before attending tonight, most likely from one of his kin.

Viviane had never bitten another vampire who was not Henri. The bite was very sexual, which had made her relationship with Henri unique. They’d never had sex. That he had respected her enough to allow her freedom, while both succumbed to the orgasmic swoon of her bite, was tremendous.

She would be bound to no man, vampire or otherwise. Yet she was not stupid. A patron was necessary to survival.

“You stand alone amongst the frippery tonight,” Constantine said. He placed a hand upon hers, which she curled about his forearm.

“I shouldn’t wish to be an oddity,” she said. “You don’t think I blend well?”

“You do, but your beauty blinds one and all to your true nature.” He paused before a velvet settee and Viviane tucked her skirts to sit. “Because I know what wickedness lives in your heart.” He leaned in and whispered aside her ear, “Wolf slayer.”

Spine stiffening, Viviane tightened her jaw. “It is not a title I admire.”

“But you should. The entire salon uses it with respect when you pass.”

“Only because you told them the tale of my encounter.” That it had already become a tale whispered amongst the throngs disturbed her.

“It puts you above all others. A strong, dangerous woman no man shall reckon with. Which reminds me, I have something for you.”

He slipped a ribbon from his sleeve. A curved white talon dangled from the length of blue velvet. Viviane touched it tentatively.

The sudden intrusion of warm metal brushing flesh startled her. Constantine stroked her cheek. One of his rings had sharp edges and she flinched, but it wasn’t from fear of being cut. All vampires felt the shimmer with contact, a glittery vibration coursing through their veins. It was the only way they could recognize their own breed unless they saw fangs or witnessed the other drink blood.

Was Hawkes really vampire? His otherness baffled her.

“From a werewolf,” Constantine said, confirming her suspicions. “One I slayed decades ago. This is the trophy I took. I want you to have it.”

“Oh, Constantine, I could not—”

“You must. It is a symbol of our similar spirits. We are both wolf slayers.”

Viviane sighed and clasped the dead relic. At least she’d the decency to wear facsimiles of hummingbird skulls. Yet she could not deny her macabre curiosity. Inspection found the talon to be like ivory, and the tip pin-sharp.

Yet what troubled her was his talk of werewolves.

“Henri was never cruel to a wolf,” she whispered. “He claimed no enemies.”

She wanted to learn more. Because something did not feel right to her. Who had been the wolf who murdered Henri? Was it a retaliatory move because she had slain the wolf in the country?

“Of course, Henri was kind to all,” Constantine offered quickly. “Too kind.”

“Do you think … Because of what I did?”

“Slaying the wolf? No, mademoiselle, a thousand times no. These things simply happen.”

The banal statement struck at her core. Constantine stroked her cheek again. The touch irritated more than comforted.

“For your reassurance, you must know I have already set my men to track the murderous wolf. Though Henri was not a member of tribe Nava, he was an honorary member. And we protect our own.”

If Nava were so protective of their own, Henri should not be dead, honorary member or not.

“His head will sit upon a spike in the Bois de Boulogne in no time.”

The city park was a sort of haven for Dark Ones after the prostitutes had left with their marks for the night. It was also the place where an example could be made of any who had thought to act against another tribe. Midnight executions were rare but not unheard of.

“Shall I tie it around your neck for you?”

“No.” She nestled the talon beside her breast, tucked behind the corset. “The ribbon doesn’t match my gown. But I promise I will wear it to the next salon.”

“That would please me immensely.”

She stifled a shiver to imagine pleasing this man. At this horrible moment she realized her future was tenuous.

“I wonder after your intentions?” she found herself blurting. Very well, so curiosity would kill this cat, or at the least, maim her. “Regarding your pursuit of me.”

“As I’m sure Henri told you—”

She put up her palm. “It is not something I can consider at the moment.”

Constantine audibly swallowed. “I understand. You and Henri were close. But marriage aside, you must choose a patron quickly. Henri’s blood is established in you,” he continued. “To take a new patron will require some … re-structuring. Time to adjust. You must be blooded anew.”

An emptiness eddied at the back of her throat. How much time did she have? She had only needed to drink from Henri twice a year. Yet she had felt his death as if he’d been ripped from her very soul.

“I will consider your proposition if you will show me how willing you are to have me in your life.”

“You’ve to ask me anything.”

“Understand, just because I am considering your proposal does not ensure that I will accept. But I find it would be extremely challenging, if not socially humiliating, to step under your patronage when you’ve already so large a harem. I feel I would become lost amongst the throngs.”

“They mean nothing to me, Viviane. I do not love any of them. My kin are there to serve a purpose.”

“Would I not serve that same purpose?”

“No, it would be different. Viviane, I love you.”

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled. What beasties snuck upon her heart?

She maintained decorum. “Then prove it. Send them away.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. Cease patronage to your entire harem.”

Taken aback, he thumbed the Van Dyke beard on his chin. “They would die without me.”

Viviane shuddered inwardly. She was only promising to consider his proposition.

“It shall be done,” he said.

ONCE RHYS TOOK A PERSON’S scent into his nose, he had it forever. A vampire, on the other hand, must be much closer, within hearing range to track the heartbeat of his victim. Thanks to his mixed blood, Rhys could track Viviane LaMourette anywhere in the city, if he desired.

That was the question. Did he desire to track her?

What was he doing? Seeking to revenge the vampire lord. What had become of his initial, and real, attraction to the vampiress?

Those whimsical blue eyes had captivated him. Too bright, too bold. And that mouth. So red, so soft. And that imperious command of independence he had found refreshing. The woman might well be a libertine.

And that teasing curve at the side of her mouth. Like a delicate petal, it begged plucking.

“And what is wrong if I wish to pursue fine things?” To take them, hold them in his hands and crush them against his skin.

What was wrong was he had veered off course. He’d come to Paris on a mission for the Council. And still, no word from William Montfalcon, which was beginning to disturb him.

Rhys had been suspicious of Montfalcon’s unlocked door upon arrival. It was as if the man had left for the day and intended to return—yet had not. So he and Orlando were staying in the man’s home with hopes he was merely away on holiday. Rhys knew Montfalcon would not mind, and if foul play had occurred, he felt sure Montfalcon would appreciate someone looking over his home.

He had not taken time to question any in the salon after the distraction named LaMourette had turned his head.

“Don’t allow her to change your course,” he muttered.

Yet his course had altered to include revenge against Salignac. That bit of side play he would enjoy.

Later that evening, Rhys tracked the vampiress’s carriage through the tight, dark streets until it pulled up at a stable behind a town house hung with red shutters. An oil lamp flickered above the front doorway, leaving the stables shrouded in shadow.

The maid stepped from the carriage and wandered into the stable, her heels clicking abruptly.

A cloaked figure emerged from the stables behind the maid, a man, perhaps a stable hand. He stepped into the carriage. Closing the door behind him, the maid tugged up her hood and loitered outside.

“The vampiress is out on the prowl.”

Vacillating whether or not to approach, Rhys decided he must attend his own neglected hungers, or meet the full moon with a raging madness he could not abide.

“Time to find a donor,” he muttered, hating the act as much as he needed it.