Kiss of Temptation: The Kavanaugh Foundation, Book 3 (12 page)

Colette grabbed Daniela by the hair and dangled her like a rag doll. “You actually care for this little witch, don’t you? How pathetic.”

She snapped her fingers and another vampire appeared from the shadows to retrieve the headpiece from the fountain. She examined the golden bird, once a representation of Osiris that Octavius Caesar had transformed into a Roman eagle when he seized it. Her eyes widened and she licked her lips. He knew what she wanted, and he only hoped it would be enough to make her forget about the woman in her other hand.

Colette turned her attention to him. “So, what’s it going to be, Père Luc? The other half of the staff, or her?”

His heart, which had remained frozen in his chest for centuries, now wanted to lodge itself in his throat. His gaze travelled between the headpiece and Daniela. As much as he wanted to protect his lover, he also understood the consequences if Colette got her hands on the other half of the Staff of Octavius. But at least he could control how quickly she gained access to it. Maybe that would give Daniela enough time to find it first. “It’s in Romania.”

Colette started laughing so hard he wondered if she’d lost her mind. “How ironic. The next thing you’ll tell me is that you hid it in Transylvania.”

“I’ll lead you directly to it if you let her go.”

She dragged Daniela behind her, still holding a fistful of her hair, and leveled her eyes to his. “That’s too easy. There’s no leverage anymore. Why don’t we invite Daniela to join us? That way, if you’re lying, I can at least enjoy a little snack. Or better yet, I could make her my pet.”

Luc roared with fury and broke free of his captors. He closed his hands around Colette’s neck, determined to rip her head from her body.

A bolt of lightning arced off her skin and sent him flying halfway across the square. “You arrogant fool! Do you think you can defeat me? You don’t even have the strength to fight off my troops. Try that again and I’ll drain her dry.”

“Colette,” one of her men said, the light of his phone casting an eerie illumination over his face, “I can’t book any flights for us.”

She snapped her attention to him. “Why not?”

“Because we’re apparently on Interpol’s most wanted list for a terrorist attack on Gare de Lyon this morning.”

Now it was Luc’s turn to laugh. “Morwen’s craftier than you think. She has powerful connections.”

“She’s a fraud, and we both know it. Besides, Marcellus is just as well connected. This will be resolved by tomorrow night.” She tossed Daniela to one of her henchmen. “Let’s find a way out of here before the sun rises. That pathetic martyr may want to fry, but I have too much to live for.” She hugged the headpiece to her chest like a child’s teddy bear and grinned.

His captors pulled him to his feet and shoved him after her. He remained focused on Daniela. If he had a moment’s chance to help her escape, he’d take advantage of it.

Luc sat huddled in the corner of an open rail car, watching the mid-morning shadows flicker across the floor. The rest of the night had passed in a blur. He vaguely remembered stumbling through a train yard and being shoved into this car. Colette’s face loomed in front of him, her words humming together and lulling him into a trance. He remembered her asking him over and over again for the staff’s location, but as far as he knew, he’d revealed nothing. His continued existence testified to that.

He awoke just before the first rays of the sun rose above the horizon and ran toward the nearest shelter he could find—a broken crate with a torn tarp draped over it. It wasn’t until he peeked out of his makeshift tent that he realized he wasn’t alone.

Daniela lay in the center of the car, fully bathed in the bright sunlight. Even though she still slept, her presence taunted him. He longed to touch her, to reassure himself that she’d recover from her blood loss.

To beg for her forgiveness.

But to reach her meant battling the sun, so he sat there for hours, watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

He replayed the events of the last few days in his mind, wondering what he could have done to change things. Perhaps he should have left her alone in the catacombs. Perhaps he should never have offered to show her where the pieces of the staff were located. Perhaps he should never have tasted her lips.

His chest tightened. No, he wouldn’t trade any of those moments with her, save one. The day he gave in to his bloodlust. The day he drove her from his arms and opened the rift inside his soul that made him ache for her all the more.

And yet, he doubted he would change the course of that afternoon. He’d tasted perfection. The sweet moments of pure pleasure he’d found when joined with her on every intimate level possible was worth what he suffered now. He knew her better than he knew himself, and he’d caught a glimpse of what true happiness could be.

The steady hum of the diesel engine several cars ahead mimicked the whispered doubts in his mind, and he sought a way to push them out. He honed in on a different rhythm—the rapid pulse that beat in time to the dull thud inside him.

It was nearly noon when the shrill whistle of the train pierced the air, followed by an echo. Luc sat up. A tunnel. He pulled his feet under him, preparing to spring as soon as the darkness surrounded him.

He’d been hoping for a longer tunnel than the one he got. By the time he gathered Daniela in his arms, the sting of the sun tore across his back, followed by the smell of smoke. He raced back to his shelter, tears burning his eyes and pain threatening to overwhelm his consciousness. Then the blessed cool of the shade bathed him.

Luc glanced at his shoulders. Smoke still rose from under his clothes, and every movement sent waves of agony through his body. He’d been burned, but he would heal given enough time and blood.

Blood.
He looked down at Daniela and could practically taste her blood on his lips. Just a small sip could restore him to perfect health. He bent over her, staring at the faint pulsations of the artery in her neck. His fangs dug into his lip.
Just one sip.

Luc jerked back in horror.
What am I thinking? It was my own greed, my selfish lust that got us in this predicament.

He wrapped his hand around his cross and took several deep breaths. Just holding it reminded him of the man he once was and gave him the strength to keep his inner monster at bay. He could overcome his pain, his hunger. Right now, he needed to help Daniela.

She didn’t stir when he spoke to her, nor when he kissed her forehead. Her skin felt cold and clammy, and an ashen pallor leeched the normally healthy glow from her olive complexion. He could already smell the stench of death creeping in on her spicy vanilla scent. She needed blood, and soon.

He racked his brain for the memories he’d forced himself to forget, the events leading up to the one night where his life had been altered beyond repair. The night Marcellus had turned him into the creature he was now.

Night after night, he’d watched the red-haired woman sobbing in his church. The rich silks and velvets of her clothing proclaimed her to be a member of the aristocracy, but he had no idea who she was and what chateau she came from. One evening, he gathered the courage to ask her what was wrong.

“My lord and master holds me prisoner, torturing me if I do not bend to his will,” she replied, wiping the tears from her unusually bright blue eyes.

His tongue flapped in his mouth, unable to form a coherent word. She was too beautiful to be human. An angel. And yet, once he recovered from his initial awe of her, he saw the anguish that added decades of experience to her youthful face.

He sat next to her and noticed the tarnished metal band that dug into her ring finger. “Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps I should speak to him and remind him of his duties as a husband.”

She shook her head. “You do not know my husband. There is no honor in him, no kindness. But I appreciate your offer, Père Luc.”

A shiver coursed down his spine. How did she know his name when he knew nothing of her?

She stroked his cheek. “Do not be afraid. I have heard of your compassion. The people of this parish speak very highly of you and your work with the poor.”

Her words filled him with an inner peace, quelling any lingering fears. Yes, she had to be an angel. “But what can I do to ease your suffering?”

“Nothing.” She turned away, her dress rustling as she stood. “I’ve almost lost any hope of escaping him.”

He rose and followed her, amazed how quickly she moved toward the door. “There is always hope. To surrender to despair is to fall into the hands of the Dark One.”

“What do you know of the darkness?” Her reply seemed to catch even her off guard, and she gave him an apologetic smile. “Perhaps you are right. I should cling to hope, no matter how fragile it seems.”

“And if I can help you find redemption—”

Her laughter cut him off. She pressed the simple wooden cross around his neck into his chest. “You find hope in your faith, but I have seen too much to believe in anything anymore. There is only the here and now.”

She disappeared into the night, leaving Luc to ponder over their odd conversation. He found it difficult to believe that she didn’t worry about her afterlife, about her salvation, so when he saw her the next night, he asked her, “What about when you die? Where will your lack of faith lead you?”

“In death, I can find freedom,” she replied without a hint of emotion. “As it is, I’m living just a half life, a mockery of what my life was before he entered it.”

“And yet, you are free of him here.”

“For now.” She released a heavy sigh. “I suppose I’m waiting for some sort of sign, something that will let me know I’m still the person I was before he destroyed everything.”

He felt helpless. Normally, his parishioners came to him when their bellies were empty or when their clothes had been worn bare. She was more of a challenge. It seemed her soul had been worn bare, and that would take more than he could offer to repair it. “Then I will pray that you get your sign soon.”

Several nights later, she rushed into the church. The despair had melted from her face and the light had returned to her eyes. The transformation caught him off guard. She almost didn’t appear to be the same woman.

She smiled and took his hand. “I received my sign. Look.”

He offered little resistance as she dragged him outside. The chilly wind whipped at his robes, reminding him that winter would be here soon, bringing with it the hunger and disease that claimed so many lives during the long, dark nights.

She stopped in front of a dying rose bush. “Watch.”

What he witnessed that night made him want to run back into the church and pray for forgiveness, but his feet remained fixed to the ground while he watched. A yellow glow radiated from her hands, mimicking the warm rays of the sun. The faded blooms filled with color, and a summer’s worth of new buds appeared on the bush in the time it took him to draw breath. By the time she dimmed the light, the bush stood in full bloom, like it would in the height of midsummer. He backed away from her. “What kind of witchcraft is this?”

“The kind I thought died many years ago.” He tried to run back to the sanctuary of the church, but she moved faster than him, cutting him off before he reached the door. She placed her hands on his shoulders. Although he did not see the same glow, a wave of reassurance rolled through him, chasing away the dread that wanted to climb up his spine. “Please, do not be afraid. My hope has returned, and I only ask one thing of you.”

His voice shook when he said, “And that is?”

“Will you help me fake my death?”

“What?” He shrugged her hands off. She’d gone from being a suffering angel to bordering on madness.

“Gather a bucket of ashes and meet me back here in an hour. We have to do this before dawn breaks.”

Luc shook his head. “First you must tell me what you want with a pile of ashes.”

She was already halfway across the church yard. “I’ll tell you when I return.”

An hour later, she emerged from the shadows wearing men’s clothing. She handed him the dress she wore earlier and the tarnished ring. “Pour the ashes around these once the sun rises.”

He glanced down at the wound left by the ring. The skin looked like it had been cut away from her finger. What would possess her to inflict such pain on herself? Was her marriage truly that bad? “And what should I say when your husband comes looking for you?”

“Tell him I went into the sun. He’ll know what that means.”

His mind screamed at him to tell her he wanted nothing to do with her witchcraft, but when he read the inscription on her ring, he found his courage.
Vos es mei tempero.
You are mine to control.

He wrapped his fingers around the ring and took a deep breath. Although he didn’t understand anything of what had passed tonight, his heart told him she wasn’t a monster. The sweet perfume of the roses wafted toward him, reminding him of her request. She’d been granted her sign, and now it was time for him to help her complete her escape. When the sun rose, he did as she asked, scattering the bucket of ashes over her dress and ring in the middle of the church courtyard. He offered a quick prayer that she would have safe travels and find the freedom she sought.

Less than an hour after the sun set, angry voices filled the courtyard. He cracked the door open and saw three men—a lord and two servants—standing around the pile of ashes. One of the servants held out the ring. “It’s hers, my lord.”

Luc peered closer at the tall man dressed in rich velvet. His skin appeared waxen in the moonlight and cruelty twisted his mouth into a scowl. Without a doubt, this had to be the man the woman wanted to flee from.

The lord snatched the ring and held it up to his face. His frowned deepened. “I find it hard to believe Morwen would be so foolish. Or that you two let her out of your sights long enough to allow something like this.”

The other servant stepped forward. “She returned like she always did, my lord. We thought she’d retired for the night after talking to that priest.”