Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast (29 page)

Read Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast Online

Authors: Immortal_Love Stories,a Bite

Tags: #Young Adult Fiction, #Vampires, #Juvenile Fiction, #Paranormal, #Fantasy & Magic, #Fiction, #Interpersonal Relations, #Children's Stories; American, #Supernatural, #General, #Short Stories, #Horror, #Love Stories

BOOK: Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast
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Judging from the noises she'd sometimes heard from her mother's room during Mr. Broussard's visits, quiet didn't come easily at such times. But Patrice felt she could acquit herself better than Althea.
Then she thought of Amos's broad, callused hands upon her—without even her nightgown between them—and realized remaining silent might be a challenge.
Patrice sucked on the corner of her sheet, a nervous habit from childhood that she still slipped into from time to time. She did not want to admit that she was nervous, that she could ever be frightened of Amos. Yet her heart raced, beating so hard that her breasts trembled with every thump. Her breathing was fast and shallow.
The shutters over her windows showed thin stripes of moonlight. She watched them, eyes wide, waiting for some shadow or movement.
A sharp squeal outside made her jump, but Patrice almost instantly realized it came from the side gate. No doubt the stray cats were fighting again.
She wondered if Julien Larroux would allow her to keep a cat.
Within a few weeks, Patrice would live in a stranger's house. He would want to touch her, and she would not have the right to say no. She'd grown up knowing that this would be her fate; once, she'd believed that if the man in question
were only young and handsome, all her dreams would come true. How empty those dreams seemed now.
Downstairs, on the back porch, a board creaked.
Amos
, she thought. And yet Patrice did not feel her heart leap with gladness. Instead, she clutched her sheet. Her ears pricked, almost painfully, in search of another sound.
It had to be Amos coming to see her. This was what they had planned, the time she had told him. Who else could it be?
Yet Althea had always warned her to keep the shutter doors latched. Otherwise, anyone could get in. Absolutely anyone.
It's Amos. Don't be silly.
The side beam of the porch groaned with new weight, and then she heard the unmistakable sound of someone taking hold of the iron scrollwork that bordered her balcony.
Latch the shutters
, Patrice thought.
Wait until Amos says his name. He can whisper without being heard, and you'll be right there. It's him—it has to be him—but just in case—
At the last possible moment, she leaped out of bed and ran on shaky legs toward the window. The thin slits of moonlight through the shutters suddenly broke into a shadow shaped like a man. Footsteps on the balcony accompanied the shadow getting bigger, getting closer. Patrice reached for the latch—she still had time—
Her longing for Amos overcame her, and she hesitated for only an instant.
The shutters flew open. There stood Julien Larroux.
Patrice sucked in a breath to scream, but his pale hand shot out to clasp her mouth. “Silence,” he murmured. He no
longer wore the charming smile he'd used at the ball. His grin now looked more like the bared teeth of a feral beast.
She jerked her head to the side. “You get out,” Patrice whispered. Her voice trembled. “Get out this instant or I'll scream.”
“Scream?” Julien's angular face lit up, as though she'd suggested a delightful surprise. “Yes, scream for your mother. When she comes in, I'll explain how you left the shutters unlatched for me. How else could I have entered your bedroom? What an—
obliging
girl you are, to have helped me.”
“I'll take a caning if it means getting rid of you.”
His bottle-green eyes blazed. “When I called you a fighter, I spoke the truth.”
“You'll get a fight if you don't leave.” Patrice balled her hands into fists. She took some comfort from the fact that Amos would arrive any moment now, and when he saw what Julien was trying to do—
Amos would fight him. He might try to kill Julien Larroux—a white man. And for that, Amos would be hung, either by the law or a lynch mob.
Patrice whispered, “What do I have to do before you'll go away?”
“How unromantic you make it sound.”
“Can we just get it over with?” She might have to endure Julien Larroux's touch, but she'd be damned if she'd pretend to enjoy it.
Julien tilted his head, considering. “Only one very simple thing, my fierce Patrice. Allow me to kiss your neck.”
“. . . what?”
“One kiss upon your throat.” Julien's long, pale fingers stroked the line of her jaw, then dipped lower until they rested upon a vein. His eyes darkened, and Patrice knew he was reveling in her quickened pulse. “Allow me that—with no struggle, no cry—and afterward, I shall leave. You and I will not be alone together again until you desire it.”
That will be never.
Although Patrice doubted this evening's transaction would be so simple or painless, she could not refuse while Amos was at risk.
“Very well.” Patrice took a small step forward. “Go ahead.”
Julien smiled at her. “Tilt your head backward—yes, like that—and pull at the neck of your nightgown.”
Patrice trembled so violently that she thought she might fall, but she shook from suppressed rage as much as fear. Her fingers fumbled at the neck of her gown as she tugged it down, exposing her throat.
Then Julien clasped her shoulders and pulled her close. He smelled—strange, not exactly unfamiliar, but not like anyone else she had ever met. Something metallic had seeped into the air, and the odor reminded her of—of—
Of a butcher shop
, her mind supplied.
Patrice's eyes opened wide. Her soul understood something her brain could not yet comprehend. In that instant, she would have screamed—but Julien's teeth sank into her throat.
Then there was only darkness, and pain, yet something sweet within the pain.
Patrice awakened to a scream.
At first, as she pushed herself upright in bed, she thought she must have dreamed the sound. Hadn't she just been having a nightmare? None of the details were clear; like most dreams, they were dissolving in the bright light of day.
Blinking at the brilliant sunshine that flooded through the glass doors to her balcony, Patrice thought that Althea had kept her promise and let her sleep awfully late that day. Yet she still felt exhausted, almost weak. She hoped she wasn't getting sick. This was the time of year when yellow fever often struck.
Patrice frowned. The glass doors were unlatched. Didn't she always remember to latch them?
(
Amos's eyes, soft in the night, shining with love for her. “I'll come to you.”
)
Yet he had not come.
Her confusion grew. Surely, if Amos had not come to her, she would have stayed up all night fretting about it, or worrying that he'd been caught out after curfew. Yet she lay in her bed, all tucked in. The only thing out of the ordinary was the open neck of her nightgown.
It seemed as if she were forgetting something—something important. But what?
My mind is clouded
, Patrice thought.
Maybe I'm taking sick after all.
Then she heard the scream again, and this time she knew it was real.
“Mamma?” she cried, as she grabbed her silk wrapper. Her feet, swollen from dancing the night before, jolted with
pain on every step. Slipping into her wrapper as she headed downstairs, she corrected herself. “Althea?”
Patrice flung open the side door and saw that a small group had gathered around the side gate. Althea leaned against a lamp post, half in a swoon, while a small child fanned her with his hand.
“What's happening? Is Althea sick?” Patrice hurried closer, but even as she did so she realized the crowd was not paying attention to her mother, but to something outside the side gate.
Mr. Ebbets, who owned the next house, said heavily, “Child, this is nothing for you to see. Someone has been killed by dogs.”
“Dogs?” It seemed too shocking to believe. Or was there some other reason she didn't believe it? Patrice felt herself flashing back to her nightmare—not images or sounds, because she could not remember, and yet there was some kind of connection.
“We've sent for the police,” Mr. Ebbets said. “Get your mother inside. Ladies shouldn't be exposed to such as this. That poor boy's throat had been ripped out. Had to be dogs, or some other kind of wild animal.”
Patrice slowly said, “But who—the man who died—”
“The blacksmith. That free boy from the Marigny. Didn't he shoe your horse last winter?”
On the ground, amid the feet of curious gawkers, lay a long, well-muscled arm as thick and dark as cordwood.
By the afternoon, the police had taken away what was left of Amos. Althea acted as though nothing had happened.
“You've cried all day,” she said crossly, snatching the coverlet off the bed so that Patrice lay uncovered. “Your eyes will bulge as big as a cow's.”
“I don't care.”
“What are you carrying on for? It's not as if that blacksmith was anyone to us.” Althea paused at the foot of the bed. Her looped braids framed her narrow face, the style too girlish for her years. “Was he, Patrice?”
“No,” Patrice said, because the time for telling Althea the truth was long past.
Althea took Patrice's pale yellow dress from the closet. “Let me do your hair, and we'll get you dressed. I suppose we'll be late for tonight's dance, but it can't be helped.”
Patrice squeezed her eyes tightly shut, willing herself to be somewhere else, or someone else. She rubbed at her neck, where one spot was incredibly tender. Was she imagining that pain, because of what had been done to Amos's throat last night? “The shock—it's too much, Althea. Couldn't I stay home tonight?”
“And run the risk of Julien Larroux setting his cap for another girl? You're crazy. Get out of that bed.”
Julien Larroux. Patrice's eyes flew open as memory returned.
(
His teeth in her neck, the metallic smell of blood, the sickening slurp as he swallowed, Patrice struggling against him all the while, unable to fight—
)
She put her hand to her throat again. The skin beneath her fingers felt raw, as though she'd splashed herself with the laundry lye.
Old women told stories about such creatures. Patrice had never listened to those stories—it was just more silliness and superstition, like Marie Laveau's tales about voodoo. Or so she'd always believed.
(
“That poor boy's throat had been ripped out. Had to be dogs, or some other kind of wild animal.”
)
Patrice pushed herself upright in the bed.
“That's more like it,” Althea said briskly, as she set hairpins out on the vanity table. “I see I only had to mention your beau to get you going.”
“Yes,” Patrice murmured. “I think I need to see Julien Larroux again.”

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