SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (111 page)

A rhythmic tapping started on the front windows and the roof. Rain. The cadence should have soothed me, but it only made the room melancholy.

Philippe stayed hunched over. “What I read in Etienne was powerful. I had to fight my way out of all the images and sensations, but he showed me a lot, starting with the fact that he isn’t from the past at all.”

This, I already suspected, but I didn’t volunteer that information. I listened while the vine pulsed warmth into the wound.

“He’s quasi-human,” Philippe said. “He was locked away in a room in a Garden District mansion for years upon years, since birth until his eighteenth birthday, when his full powers exploded in him. That’s when he became a murderer.” Philippe paused. “That was only a day ago. Only one day.”

It seemed so long ago.

A wispy memory that the boots had already given me resurfaced.
After the Meratoliages had retired me…living yet not living…awake but nearly dead until they had resurrected me…
Locked away, much like Etienne had been.

Sympathy curled in me, whether I wanted it or not.

It seemed as if even more weight had settled on Philippe’s shoulders. “Etienne’s mother was very young when she was impregnated, and her parents kept her in the house, because they already knew what Etienne was. She was a virgin, you see, at least in the normal sense.”

Now I had enough strength to sit up, my nails digging into my thighs.

“Etienne,” Philippe said, “is the spawn of something evil, crossed with his human mother.”

I gaped. “Are you saying he was part…What—demon?”

“Yeah, but only part.” Philippe stared straight ahead. “I saw how he killed his mother when he was born. Not on purpose, but the grandfather put the blame on him. The old man tried to strangle ‘the evil creature,’ but that didn’t work, and Etienne didn’t allow him to get near enough to make another attempt. Even as a baby he was stronger than most, so the grandfather put him away in the attic, hoping he’d die on his own. He wailed and wailed up there, and his grandmother felt guilty, so she brought him food and water, but she never showed him love or affection.”

Mind. Blown.

Philippe continued. “After he became a toddler, he developed supernatural abilities, and he would try to win her love by joining with the objects he saw in the attic—an old teddy bear, a rocking horse. Whatever his skin touched, he could fade into. But she was too fearful to be curious. She gave him a radio and records for company, and when he was old enough to teach himself how to read, she gave him albums that taught him French and the history of the old South. She gave him comic books and regular books—stories of old New Orleans, tales of duels and balls, all romanticized. There were vintage clothes in the attic, too—antiques—and he would play dress up with the high boots and the cravats. He locked onto these fantasies, fed himself on them, became them. He would look out the window of that attic, watching the neighborhood, seeing the pretty girls walking by with their boyfriends, and he would yearn. There was a neighbor girl in particular he fixated on, and he fantasized about dueling for her.”

Another wash of sympathy swept over me, but the vine pulled at my arm, reminding me of Matt and Michelle.

Stabbed by a saber. Tied to a tree.

A monster.

Philippe said, “All those years made the anger grow in Etienne. Why couldn’t he be normal? What made him so different from the people he heard on the radio or saw outside? Truthfully, he could’ve broken that attic window and run away when he was old enough, but by that time, fear and neuroticism had set in, because he knew he wasn’t like the rest of them. It was only on his eighteenth birthday that he realized he was strong and fast enough to kill his grandparents. When he crept out of the attic, they never knew what hit them. Then he stepped outside, dressed in his favorite clothing—his gentleman’s getup from the attic—because that’s all he had. It was all he loved, and he wondered if there was someone out there just like him who might understand his predilections.”

That sympathy wormed its way into me again. How would Etienne have known any better? He had never related to anyone but his guilt-ridden grandmother his entire life, and I’m sure being brought up by the radio in an attic was enough to warp anyone.

Hell, it was as if
I
was watching Etienne’s story from my own personal window, and I saw a little of myself in him. Both of us shapeshifters of a sort. Both of us beasts beneath our more pleasant facades.

But I
wasn’t
like Etienne. I was trying not to be a beast, a burnt and shriveled ex-Meratoliage.

Philippe stood and moved to the window, watching the rain. “After Etienne left the attic, he went next door, wanting to meet the pretty girl he had grown up watching. But the family had moved away, and the house was empty, so Etienne felt lonelier than ever. Even so, he still wanted the girl he had pined for, and when he spotted Michelle touring the Garden District with Matt that day, he couldn’t believe it. She looked like the girl he had watched for years and years, the girl he had longed for. So he followed Michelle and Matt to their bed and breakfast on Esplanade, making sure he wasn’t seen. He had decided that Matt was the only obstacle standing in his way with Michelle, and all his romantic sensibilities reared up at the thought of winning her to him. So he came up with a plan to show her he was willing to die for her, because what could be more romantic than that? All the old gentlemen in his books had shown their women that they would sacrifice their lives for them—why not him? So he collected old weapons that had been stored in a closet of his grandparents’ house and squirreled them away near the Dueling Oak. Then he waited for Matt and Michelle to go back to their bed and breakfast near the park.”

I laid a hand on my healing vine, feeling a warmth in it that Etienne had never found. “Didn’t anyone find his grandparents and think they’d been murdered?”

“While you were recovering, I checked online about that. An article from yesterday says that some friends of theirs discovered the bodies. The authorities are attributing the deaths to a break in. I mean, who would believe the truth, right?”

The rain continued, but now it sounded like heavy tears coming from fallen angels.

“So why do you think Etienne latched onto me?” I asked.

“Who wouldn’t?” Philippe’s smile was barely there.

“As much as I appreciate the flattery, there’s a better answer, Philippe, and I think you know it.”

The smile faded. “It seems you were right about him being drawn to negative energy. Etienne is part demon, and although he doesn’t have the full powers of one, he’s as attracted to aggression as he is to anyone who reminds him of his girl next door.”

“And I was never a girl next door.”

“True, Lilly. You look nothing like his youthful crush or Michelle.”

So I was a walking bundle of negative energy that attracted even more bad things to me?

Earlier tonight, I had wished I could erase some of my sins by redeeming myself, hunting down a killer and finding justice. But was I merely wishing? Was I born to be a beast…and to stay one?

“Lilly,” Philippe said, “odds are low that he would track us down again tonight. He was underneath the wheels of that cop car, and even if he’s still alive, he’ll have to recover. Besides, we don’t have time to hunt him down again—and we surely don’t want you to fall asleep in the middle of any confrontation we might find. You should rest until tomorrow night.”

Rest. It was all we had time for now.

I closed my eyes, allowing the vine to nurse me to health, and maybe chase out as much darkness as it could.

If it could.

I heard Philippe’s boot steps retreat out of the room, leaving me to my
own
haunted thoughts.

* * *

By the time Philippe brought me a muffaletta, I had absorbed Etienne’s story, coming to better terms with the affinity between myself and the monster.

As Philippe sat on the ottoman with his plate, I smiled at him. He smiled back, telling me without words that he, out of anyone else on this earth, understood all my concerns. But did he? Did he know how much I feared what he might think if he saw the burnt hag beneath my façade again? Or worse, if I really was a true beast, like Etienne?

Since Amari had said to wait until the vines were done healing me to soak them, we ate every bit of our sandwiches. He was done in a flash, though, leaving the room to take his shower while I lingered on my food, wallowing in the piquant tastes as my vine continued to work at healing my wound. When it finally slid back down my arm, its job done, I felt stronger.

Not as strong as usual, but it was a great improvement over earlier. My wound had even closed up, leaving a thick white network of scabs that resembled vines in and of themselves.

But my boots?

As I stood from the sofa with my plate and glass of water, I sucked in a breath at how the vines were even more shriveled, like an old tree’s branches, gnarled and almost branchlike. Now that they were done with healing me, it was time for them to get some tender love and care.

I took my plate and glass to the kitchen, then went down the hall, where I had heard Philippe taking his shower, then closing the door to his room. I knocked.

“Yeah?”

“May I take that bath now?” I asked.

“Go ahead.” He sounded so neutral, as if all the emotion had been wiped out of him after he had related Etienne’s pitiful story.

I laid the tips of my fingers against the door, wishing I could go in, hold Philippe in my arms and soothe him. But every time he seemed to get too close, he retreated, and I doubted he would welcome the heartfelt intimacy. Was he thinking about how I had only a short time until sunrise? Was he keeping his distance now because I was as good as gone?

I went across the hall to the bathroom, closing the door, running the water, then stripping off all my clothing—including my bloodied singlet. Philippe had left out shampoo, conditioner, and soap, plus a little, half-full bottle of bath bubbles he must have taken from a hotel room once upon a time. Either that or his mum used it when she was alive.

But I couldn’t imagine him hanging onto something like that from her. It would be too personal, too much of a fresh reminder that he hadn’t been able to stop her from dying, even if he had seen it happen beforehand.

When the water was ready, bubbled over and warm, I slid into the tub on a moan. Oh, this was nice. My boots even agreed, perking up against my legs like woodland creatures stirring in the morning.

Heaven
, I thought, sliding under the water, smiling as I came up and liquid rushed down me. After playing some, taking water in my mouth and shooting it out, I shampooed and soaped up, then reclined, giving my boots as long as they would need to drink up. I was certain I would have quite a sleep in store, as the boots would need all the energy they could pull from me.

My gaze traveled the room. A washboard served as a wall decoration, and there was a faded painting of a woman in petticoats, as well. Her corset was unlaced, revealing a hint of breast.

I skimmed my fingertips over my collarbone while a tiny thrill spun in my chest. A memory?

I had never considered that I might be a lady lover. Not when Philippe was pushing all my private buttons…

There was a knock on the door, and I tensed, taking my fingers away from my chest and resting my arm on the tub’s rim. “Yes?”

“I’m about to put in a load of wash,” Philippe said. “Can I take your clothes?”

Somehow, I had the feeling I wasn’t a prude about being starkers in front of anyone, although I had no memory to back that up. At any rate, the bubbles covered most of my body, so there was no danger of flashing my bits to Philippe.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened slowly, and when Philippe entered, he was dressed in blue jeans and a deep gray shirt. Dark was evidently his color. He was also holding a folded towel. “From the linen closet,” he said, setting it on the counter.

The entire time, he averted his gaze. How
gallant
.

“I wanted to check if you were okay, too,” he said.

“My boots certainly needed this long soak.” I lifted my leg out of the water, seeing that the vines were nearly green again.

Philippe grunted, and I supposed it was in approval, although it sounded far more like he was restraining himself from coming over to inspect that boot himself. Was he fighting his libido again? Had he purged me from his system yet?

“Amari was right,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “A good bath does wonders. Just think how quickly swamp water would help out, though.”

Still with the small talk. “We’ll see about that soon enough. Are you driving me back home before I fall asleep?”

“I don’t want to take a chance on the lack of time you have left.”

He didn’t go anywhere, and I certainly didn’t want him to. But we were at some sort of intimate stalemate, weren’t we?

Unable to stand the silence, I gestured toward the picture of the petticoat lady.

“Are you an artist, along with all your other talents?” I asked.

He seemed relieved to have something besides me or the mirror to look at. “Nah.”

“So you’re only talented when it comes to working with…wood.” Clever girl with the wanker reference.

He huffed out a breath, still locking his gaze on the artwork. “Stop it, Lilly.”

I shot him a
What, me?
look although I knew damned well what I was doing. I was lonely and frustrated by all the flirting with Philippe, and here he was in the same room with me naked and waiting in a tub.

I shifted, and the water lapped against the porcelain.

“That,” he said. “Stop
that
.”

“Taking a bath?”

He braced his hands on the counter, finally looking into the mirror at me. His gaze was deep with desire, as it was whenever I pushed his libido.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his tone scraped. “Dive into that tub with you? Give you something to…”

“Remember you by?” I laughed, and it wasn’t with amusement. I was almost irate at my boots, because why wouldn’t they be able to give me memories of Philippe when I awakened?