Seducing the Vampire (4 page)

Viviane desired action, a bold approach and a forceful insinuation of passion. Or rather, it was a fantasy she thought of often, but had never the pleasure of
experiencing. Rare did she meet a man to match her bold mien.

Pausing at the doorway, the man touched the cut on his cheek. She had marked him.

“But have you the daring to mark me?”

 

“T
HIS WAS A DELICIOUS IDEA
,” Orlando muttered as he joined Rhys.

Orlando tugged at the frockcoat the tailor had insisted be taken in at the arms. The green velvet transformed the pup into one of those Greek forest deities with powerful muscles and the face of an angel, or so the effeminate tailor had commented, much to Orlando's discomfort.

“My ideas are never delicious,” Rhys grumbled. “Reckless perhaps, but never bordering delicious.”

“Most certainly not wearing such plain attire.”

Orlando had taken on airs since stepping inside the Hôtel de Salignac. Rhys would allow the boy his vanity.

He had brought along Orlando, who was much like a son to him, because the two of them named a common friend in William Montfalcon, a werewolf who lived tucked on the left bank's boulevard Saint Germain. It was where they were currently staying, despite Montfalcon's strange absence.

Rhys smoothed a palm down his new coat, brushing at the clinging faery dust. Plain? The brown embroidered silk suited him. The tailor had insisted he call the color by its proper name
la chocolat
, after the queen's favorite drink. Though the ivory buttons were extravagant and over the top, the enthusiastic tailor had insisted they would draw attention in the wake of Rhys's regrettable decision to forego lace
engageantes
on his sleeves. The sky-blue waistcoat lent to what little vanity Rhys could muster.

And while he was a boot man always, the hose and
buckled shoes did not feel uncomfortable, only not quite masculine. Heaven forbid, he engage in swordplay on rain-slippery cobblestones.

At least he'd the principle to forego a powdered bagwig.

Rhys decided he would make no advances worrying about his attire. It was his carriage and attitude that would win him entrance into the secrets hoarded within the salon.

He leaned close to Orlando and said, “The rumor is that a werewolf murdered the vampires. Have you heard any interesting discussion?”

“Not yet, but I did spy Salignac. Over there.”

Following Orlando's nod, Rhys scanned the crowd of wigs dribbled with candle wax and bird droppings and saw, splayed across a red velvet chaise longue, the vampire lord and leader of tribe Nava, Constantine de Salignac.

Blood heated Rhys's neck and he clenched his fists.

Over the years, he and Salignac had traded the role of tormentor against the other. Whenever Salignac found opportunity, he went for Rhys's jugular. They got into rousing duels and malicious dupes. Constantine had even gone so far as causing the death of Rhys's only loved one.

Rhys did not believe in an eye for an eye. Senseless violence proved nothing. Yet the seeds of such violence were always cracked open whenever in Salignac's presence.

He took morbid delight in the idea of walking up to Salignac tonight. It had been a decade since they'd last spoken.

“Here's something you'll find of interest,” Orlando said. “Salignac is smitten.”

“Smitten? As in…?”

“In love. Or so the whispers tell.” Always so comically
dramatic, the young werewolf fit into this false society with an ease Rhys would never possess. “Seems there is a beautiful vampiress who was left without a patron after Henri Chevalier's murder. You know the females need to feed from a familiar blood source to maintain their life essence.

“The thought curdles my blood,” Orlando muttered.

Werewolves would never dream of drinking blood from humans, or consuming their flesh. It was abominable. Yet a werewolf bitten by a vampire would develop the gruesome need to take mortal blood.

“Salignac stumbles moon-eyed in the wake of her silken skirts,” Orlando reported. “The entire salon is abuzz with rumors he will patron her, perhaps even marry her. It is why no other vampire dares pursue her.”

“That is not love, Orlando.”

“Yes, but if ever an alpha existed in the vampire ranks, it is Salignac. If he strikes first, the other males cower. I hear the woman is indifferent.”

Rhys smirked. “A female not interested in Constantine? The illustrious leader of the failing tribe must be confounded.”

“Seems her former patron gave her unbounded freedom.”

Interesting. Rhys had never heard such a thing. Female kin were literal slaves to their patron.

“She attends the salon and boldly defies convention,” Orlando added. “She is wicked.”

“Wicked women are better left to other men to suffer their claws.” And yet, he'd never refuse a scratch or two, most especially one from an azure-eyed beauty.

“Perhaps so, but Salignac is relentless.”

Rhys had once been in love. With family. With the idea of serenity and an untroubled life. He still considered it
on occasion, despite Constantine's best efforts to excise that desire from his heart. The man had taken it all from him, and with a smirk and a nod.

“To each his own,” Rhys said.

Yet his tattered heart heaved to know Constantine was in love. And Rhys would ever be challenged to find a woman who could see beyond his darkness and into his heart.
You are not right
. The oath female vampires tended to pin on him with an indelicate stab. Not usually so quickly, though.

Hearing such words from the vampiress, issued with a biting cut, had been akin to pushing him facedown in the muck littering the streets of Paris.

The deuce! He did not require love. Lust suited him fine. And the sensual vampiress would serve that craving well.

Both men observed as a tall woman bowed before Lord de Salignac. Rhys noted it wasn't a complete bow, rather forced actually. She did not deem Salignac worthy of her submission.

Though he could not completely see her face, long curls of raven hair paralleled a slender neck. And the hair was teased, coiled and pinned up with—

“Red roses,” Rhys said under his breath. It was the blue-eyed woman who had caught his eye.

“What's that?”

“Can you see if there are skulls at the center of the roses?”

“In her hair? Can't see from here. But don't you adore how the women cinch their corsets so tightly their bosoms have nowhere to go but—”

“Orlando, watch yourself. Is that how you behave around women you do not know?”

“Yes.”

The boy's innocence would get him in trouble some day. “You are yet a pup. To win a woman's regard you must not be so vulgar.”

“And you are the master of wooing a woman? The last time I saw you with a woman—”

“I do not share all my liaisons with you, boy.” Nor did he discuss his affairs.

Rare was it Rhys left the country to seek amorous pleasures. The country women would not think to powder their hair or wrap themselves in ells of expensive fabrics. They appreciated the more rustic male, one whose appetites were fierce and less refined than the city fops.

“I've my eye on someone,” Rhys said. “And she will be in my bed soon enough.”

“Oh, yes? Which one?”

“The one with the roses in her hair.”

“Oh, but Rhys…” The werewolf swallowed audibly.

When Lord de Salignac lifted the woman's hand to kiss, Rhys sucked in a breath. The vampire lord's eyes closed. He lingered over her hand, inhaling her scent, consuming her in a breath.

Rhys knew that look.

“She is the one,” Orlando said. “Mademoiselle Viviane LaMourette. The one whom Salignac loves.”

Indeed. Rhys closed his eyes. He had chosen incorrectly.

And yet. Was it not his chance for love? Surely Constantine pursued her for one purpose, and that purpose did not require love.

A tendril of spite clutched Rhys's spine. It was always there, forced up by Salignac. What satisfying vengeance to take away from Salignac the one woman he loved?

Decided, Rhys nodded once and drew up his shoulders. “I want her. I will have her.”

Paris, modern day

“W
AS IT LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT?”
Simon Markson asked Rhys as they walked through Charles de Gaulle Airport.

“Yes,” Rhys said, smirking wistfully as he recalled the foolishness of his youth. And yet at that time every cut to his person had felt like a blade directly to his heart. He had
needed
revenge. And the opportunity had been too perfect.

“She was beautiful. She was like…a hummingbird,” he muttered absently.

“What's that?”

“She was a hummingbird—a woman who can never be caged. And should her wings have ceased to flutter she would have died.”

“She had wings?”

Rhys shook his head. Simon's head was a veritable database of all paranormal creatures; he'd taken it upon himself to research his employer's world after being hired a decade earlier.

“Why did you never tell me the legend?” Rhys asked his assistant.

“Never thought much of it.”

“But you've heard it before?”

“The Vampire Snow White? Once or twice. While on dates, you know.” Simon tapped away on his cell phone
with his free hand. “It's an urban legend for a reason, Rhys. It's fiction, a story created to titillate and you know how much the women like vampires nowadays.”

“I've told you my history. It could be true.”

“Yeah, I remember the day you told me everything.” Simon whistled. He tucked the phone in his breast pocket. The two walked through the sliding doors to the pickup lane outside. “Who would have thought werewolves and vampires were real?”

Rhys had hired the man as an assistant when he'd needed help adjusting to the technology that moved faster than a hyperactive hare. He'd surrendered to the learning curve with the introduction of the laptop and BlackBerry and the iPod. Now he gladly let Simon handle all the technical stuff.

While Rhys could function in this human-dominated realm without having to divulge his true nature, he was not a man to treat friendship lightly, and always revealed himself to his closest friends, even if they were mortal, which were few. Trust came with truth. Never again would he doubt himself or attempt to hide a part of his nature.

Didn't mean he flashed his fangs to anyone. The rule of discretion applied always.

Simon flagged down his driver three cars back in the queue. He'd contacted the Paris office of Hawkes Associates and made arrangements the moment Rhys had called him about the legend early this morning.

“I still think it'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Simon said. “There are over five hundred kilometers of tunnels beneath Paris proper. And some of those tunnels go down five, six, even seven layers deep.”

“You made contact with the man who claims to have mapped all those treacherous tunnels?”

“Right,” Simon said. “Guy named Dane Weft claims to
have made the ultimate tunnels map. But on his website, he admits the tunnels constantly change. And there are some inaccessible levels. I offered him cash. Didn't even have to break the bank.”

“Money does not concern me, Simon, but I do appreciate your frugality.”

Raindrops splattered their shoulders. A woman in heels with an immaculate coif stepped back from the curb toward the overhang and bumped into Rhys.
“Pardonnezmoi.”

Bright blue eyes held his for a moment and her cherry-red mouth slipped into a smile.

Not the same
. He'd never hold
her
again.

He stepped beside Simon as the car pulled up.

“I don't know what you expect to find, Rhys. Even if this glass coffin does exist, she could have escaped decades ago, centuries, and may have died—for real—when the glass broke.”

“If someone had a witch bespell her and the coffin, I can assure you it will be fail-safe against natural disaster.”

“I thought the legend said it was a warlock?”

“Witch. Warlock. Same thing, only one is a wanted criminal.”

Rhys sighed. Truly, he was jumping to conclusions. And yet, he couldn't
not
investigate. He'd never forgive himself if he ignored what felt so real in his bones.

Could it really be her? Shame on him if it were true.

It hurt him deeply to imagine her locked away, alive and aware, in a confining little box. It had been two and a half centuries!

Simon slid into the Mercedes's backseat and waited for Rhys to follow. “You okay?”

Rhys slid in and confirmed the driver knew his home address. Pushing fingers through his hair, he massaged his
pounding temples. “I won't be okay until I see her again, and know she is not damaged for my foolishness. Or…find irrefutable proof she died in the eighteenth century.”

If the legend was true, the enormity of the repercussions practically took Rhys's breath away. He was no man for abandoning her.

Don't get ahead of yourself. It is merely a legend.

“Is it possible you are reaching for chimeras?” Simon asked. “She's gone. I thought you saw—”

“I don't know what I saw now. Was it her? How can I be certain? Just think, Simon, if I have walked away and left her to suffer. Could she still be out there somewhere?”

“It's longer than a long shot. It's an infinity shot.”

“I have to pursue this.”

“You didn't know, man.” Simon slapped a palm on his knee in comradely reassurance. “Don't be so hard on yourself. But what if we do find her? I mean, you know what the legend says.”

Yes, that she would be mad. Locked away for centuries, aware of the dark, the insects and whatever horrors surrounded, yet unable to utter a scream? Rhys recalled her fear of rats. Her mind must be a macabre store of dread and terror.

Did he want to find the remnants of what had once been the most beautiful woman to ever touch his heart, to know him and accept him, even his dark side? And if he did find her, would he be far more kind if he killed her quickly to put an end to her suffering?

The chance he was merely chasing a phantom legend, a story conjured by firelight to entice and frighten, was great.

“No,” Rhys muttered. “I will find her. If I must die trying.”