SEDUCTIVE SUPERNATURALS: 12 Tales of Shapeshifters, Vampires & Sexy Spirits (116 page)

Well, since I had started this, I might as well carry on. “I had to know how disgusted you were when you saw my burns. The vision my boots sent me…” I pushed out a breath. “In it, you were holding your revolver on me and there was
no
emotion, Philippe. My boots couldn’t show me what you might have felt at that moment at all.”

I peeked at him, seeing something in his eyes—a splinter of memory from when he had witnessed my shriveled body. Now I saw what the boots couldn’t reveal.

There was no repulsion. No horror. Only something much, much worse.

Pity.

I knew without a doubt that I had never been comfortable with that emotion above all others and, now, more than ever, I felt as if I were a pitiful thing, an aberration.

That final word echoed inside me, as if I had heard it many times before. Then I realized my boots had shared it with me during a Meratoliage vision.

“You’re an aberration, Lilly. A failure…”

I cracked inside, but I wouldn’t allow Philippe to see it.

“Lilly…”

He reached for me, but I dodged, walking ahead of him.

Behind me, he said, “There’s more to you than a face!” Now he sounded brassed off.

But this wasn’t entirely about my face. Pity had no place in my world, and even with my mental difficulties, I grasped that strong and clear.

Thankfully, we weren’t far from the park and I was a bloody fast walker, so by the time he caught up with me, he had no choice but to go silent as we entered the spooky surroundings, lorded over by those ominous oaks.

I beat myself up. Dammit, I just
had
to have answers to all my questions, did I? I’d needed to solve all my issues right at that moment. Brilliant, because now I was unfocused, addled by emotion. No wonder my boots had deemed memories about Philippe nonessential. It was easier to survive without them.

We stopped near a small cluster of fat yet elegant trees whose branches curved downward, toward the grass. Here, we had a good view of another oak by a museum, and Philippe crouched by this trunk, surveying the empty park. I joined him, still keeping distance between us.

I needed to cut the sulkiness.
Immediately
. But disciplining myself didn’t make the ache go away from my throat or my chest.

“That’s the Dueling Oak,” Philippe finally said, gesturing toward the other tree. “Looks like they took away the crime scene tape, and I bet cops are on the other side of the park, where Etienne attacked that couple earlier.”

Was he testing me to see if I was still being a pouty bitch?

I had a feeling Lilly Meratoliage never had a problem diving into business, so I relied on instinct to pull me through this emotional muck.

It was time to be bait for Etienne.

As I stood, Philippe grabbed my hand, looking up at me. My heart nearly slid out of my chest, but I kept control of it. I had no other choice.

He didn’t say a word, only gazed at me with eyes full of affection. But I couldn’t forget that momentary pity I had seen tonight.

Would I ever be able to?

I smiled down at him, the tips of my mouth quivering. Then, before I broke down like a twonk, I pulled away and walked toward the Dueling Oak. Philippe didn’t call me back. I was relieved he didn’t coddle me.

Business
, I thought. There was no time for anything but that now.

“Etienne!” I called.

Yelling into the night felt wonderful, a fine release, so I did it again.

“Etienne!” I turned round, scanning the park. The streetlamps made everything seem jaundiced. “Have you been looking for us?”

Philippe was in back of me now. “Etienne!”

We approached the oak, circling it, and I tried to not glance at Philippe, because I would lose what little concentration I had gathered.

Later
, I thought.
We
will
have the time later
.

The phrase echoed in me, familiar and not familiar, as we kept calling for Etienne. Finally we stopped.

“This isn’t working,” I said.

“It was a crapshoot anyway.” Philippe held the revolver to his side, his arm curved and ready, the rest of him wired tightly.

“Do you think he’s licking his wounds somewhere no one would think to look for him?”

“Maybe.”

The smell of must whooshed from nowhere. A voice followed.

“Well, well, well.”

It was coming from the tree, and Philippe and I sprang away from it. He raised his revolver while I wielded the one St. John had lent me.

Suddenly, Etienne exploded away from the Dueling Oak’s saber-scarred trunk, flaring out his arms and knocking the weapons out of our hands before we could fire.

“Hah—so easy!” Etienne said, standing fully in the sick glow of the streetlamps, daring us to dive for our firearms. “Haven’t you two learned a thing about me yet?”

A standoff
, I thought. If we went for our weapons, he might get to them faster. I’d been told how quick and strong he was.

But I had noticed something about Etienne tonight. He wasn’t
as
speedy as he was built up to be. Was it because of the injuries he had sustained from being hit by the police car?

When he limped a couple steps forward, my suspicion was confirmed, but then I saw how he was holding his stomach, too. Internal injuries?

If those tourists earlier tonight had escaped, then Etienne wasn’t quite the scary story he used to be.

He smiled at me, his eyes glazed. In pain? “Why, hello,
my love.
”

It was not a term of endearment. “Hello, Etienne.”

He stiffly craned his neck to gaze at Philippe. Couldn’t he move his body well enough?

“And you,” he said with a sneer.

That was all Philippe got from him, and as Etienne looked at me again, I thought of the story Philippe had told me on his video. Etienne, in an attic, hated by his grandparents, raised to be insane.

I was certain the shapeshifter caught the momentary pity in
my
eyes, and he didn’t appreciate it, either. We were one and the same.

He scowled. “Do you feel sorry for the gimp? Are you going to put me down like a rabid dog because of my injuries?”

No French accent tonight, only Etienne in his frayed, old-fashioned clothing.

Philippe’s tone was even. “If we could avoid the killing, we would, Etienne.”

“Good
answer.” He laughed then held his belly, grimacing. “But I’m not going to give up my honor and allow you the pleasure of killing me anyway.”

Honor. I also knew about Etienne’s need for it.

I seized the opportunity to use that. Could Philippe sneak to his revolver if I distracted Etienne?

“What do you think honor is?” I asked him. “Because hearing you speak of it, I’m not sure you have a firm grasp on the idea.”

Etienne started to talk, but a cough interrupted him. Specks of blood flew out his mouth before he cupped a hand over it, and when he finished spasming, he raised his chin.

“Honor is a man’s reputation,” he said, rubbing the blood off his fingers. “Without honor, the world crumbles. Honor is order.”

Philippe had barely moved toward his revolver, but I thought he had made progress.

“Order,” I said. “Just like the order in the attic where you were raised?”

His spine straightened. “Mademoiselle, you overstep.”

The French was back.

“Enough games,” I said. Suddenly, I was so weary. It seemed this conversation was doomed to go in circles, with everything rotating back to Etienne’s sick mind. Only a few minutes with him told me that.

Philippe shifted closer to his revolver.

Etienne raised his voice. “I
like
games!”

“No one wants to play them with you.” Sympathy was jabbing at me, but I was too cautious and reluctant to give in to it. “Matt and Michelle didn’t like your games. Neither did the couple you accosted tonight—the ones who got away.”

“But you,” Etienne said. “You like fun and play. That’s why you’re back, isn’t it?”

The hope in his voice nearly undid me. Was this pathetic creature looking for someone to play with him, to understand him—a half-demon child in a man’s body?

When I didn’t accept his invitation, his shoulders sank. “I only want to have what they do—fun, happiness. You understand, don’t you? You’re different, too.” He motioned toward my boots.

“Yes,” I said, debris cluttering my throat with emotion. “I am different.”

Out of my peripheral vision, I saw that Philippe was almost to his revolver…

Desperate for more of a distraction, I reached out a hand to Etienne, as if I could help him in some way. But was it strategy or the sympathy that urged me? Because I knew we might be too much alike, both trapped in our own ways, both monsters…

Etienne’s eyes brightened, and he began to hold out his hand. But then he looked to Philippe to see if he was offering the same consolation.

Philippe, who was so close to his revolver. Dammit.

With a mad screech, Etienne pointed at him, then at me. “Just like them!
Just like them!”

Did he mean his grandparents? Everyone else?

Philippe backed away from his revolver, his hands up. I would’ve jumped for my firearm except I still feared Etienne might beat me to it.

Also, there was the flamethrower in my bag…

Etienne’s anger eroded his voice. “A duel it is then. And I believe,
my love
, we agreed that
we
would face each other last night.”

I was up for it. I even wondered if Etienne had a death wish of some sort. Had he always nursed one, or did he know that his car accident had inflicted more damage than he was willing to show?

Or
was
this merely about honor?

I opened my mouth to accept when Philippe spoke first.

“No!” In a couple long strides, he blocked my body with his own. “I’ll duel for her.”

I shook my head, hard. No.

With a flare of emotion, I knew this was a nightmare unlike any I had experienced—it couldn’t even be as terrible as my time in retirement, when I had been turned into a revenant and flamed in a bonfire because I had been such a bad Meratoliage.

“Philippe—” I began, pulling him back from Etienne, but he wasn’t budging.

“I’ve got this, Lilly.”

He looked over his shoulder at me, and there was no pity in his gaze now, only a truth much more devastating—that he was willing to die for me.

The wrenching fact twisted my gut. I had been robbed of every memory that had brought us to this point. When had he come to feel this strongly for me? It wasn’t fair that I couldn’t relive our first meeting in my mind, our first kiss, our first…

Everything.

I wanted the chance to experience all of it, every day, and I gripped his shirttail. “Call this off, Philippe. There’s got to be another way.”

Etienne’s giggle interrupted us. In what seemed like only a few seconds, he dove to my revolver, then Philippe’s, grabbing them and whooshing out of sight, popping back near another oak. There, he bent, depositing our weapons on the ground and picking up something, then disappearing and blowing back into existence in front of us.

He was panting, doubling over, coughing again, as if the exertion had taxed him. But when he straightened, he was also holding two rusted swords, wide at the bottom and tapering to deadly points.

Had he been keeping them there for the couple who had escaped?

He laid one down on the ground, then backed away with a sweep of his free hand. But all this activity must have hurt, because he clutched his stomach again.

“Your weapon, sir,” he said to Philippe, his slight accent back in full force. “Unfortunately, I cannot present you a choice. My pistols were stranded at the cemetery and, of course, the sabers are gone, no thanks to the other night. I did get hold of rat poison, though, if you prefer to see who can tolerate the most.”

“I’m good with swords,” Philippe said.

As he walked forward to claim the weapon, I still held to his shirt. It slid out of my grasp.

Before he picked up the blade, he smiled at me in a lopsided way that tweaked my heartstrings. Even my boots despondently prodded my skin.

He would die for me…no matter what he had seen with my boots off. A hag…a Meratoliage monster.

He met Etienne under the sprawling branches of the Dueling Oak where so many had died.

“Side by side,” Etienne said, “five paces between.” He marked off five steps from Philippe, as giddy as a schoolboy. “To the death!”

Then the creature raised his sword, his other arm curved upward for balance. Philippe bent his legs and did the same.

Panic attacked me, but my tired boots shot me with Philippe’s voice:
“It’s only too bad Etienne doesn’t want to duel me with swords, because fencing was a class I took in high school...”

The sound floated away as my vision focused on the two duelers, ready to go at it.

I opened my mouth to stop this insanity, but with a burst of action, Etienne lunged and Philippe parried.

I held my breath, adrenaline tearing me apart. It was clear that Philippe was rusty with his skills, but Etienne’s technique was suspect. He had more enthusiasm than finesse, and as Philippe beat him back, hope kindled in me.

Then, as quickly as it had come, it was snuffed out as Etienne called on the obvious bit of super strength he had left and slashed at Philippe, driving him toward the tree.

The little bastard was having the time of his life—at the cost of Philippe’s.

I reached into my bag for the flamethrower.

I had to be close enough to a target for it to be effective—I had tested it before leaving the house—yet what if Philippe got in the way?

Shite
, but it was my best bet.

Getting it into position, I grasped a lighter in my other hand, taking a few steps toward the duelists, targeting Etienne, who nearly had Philippe’s back to the oak.

Dammit all. I raised the tinfoil-covered water gun, using a lighter to put flame to the small candle on the end of the metal bracket, then pumped the action to get the lighter fluid in position, waiting for a clear shot, my hands shaking.

Kill him or watch Philippe die
. I had one chance.