Seducing the Vampire (21 page)

“And it is my wolf you should fear.”

“No, I—” She shook her head, but could not find words to protest.

“Wolf slayer,” he recited acidly.

Viviane's heart cracked open. She should have told him before this. She'd wanted to. Now she understood how he had been unable to present his complete truth to her. “The wolf killed the driver,” she whispered. “It was rabid.”

“It—he—was not rabid,” Rhys pronounced fiercely. “And his name was Pierre Rebeaux. He was upset over the recent death of his wife and stillborn child.”

She did not like knowing the name or the wolf's
circumstances. It made him real. A thinking, feeling being.

Two werewolves she had killed now. What monster had she become?

Truly, she had won the right to wear the wolf's talon. Perhaps if she wore it still, Rhys would stay away from her. She would infect his life with her darkness.

“And you think I will take your heinous act as retaliation? You know me so little, Viviane. I love you. I would not harm you.”

“So many secrets revealed lately,” she said, her mind aspin with so many different perspectives. “I know you love me, but…”

“Constantine wants you to believe I would use you. Well, it did not start out that way. The first time I saw you in the ballroom, I fell in love. Your eyes, so deep and blue, they spoke for you before you could open your mouth. I had to have you. I spoke with you not long after, and became more determined to have you. Later, Orlando mentioned he'd heard Lord de Salignac was in love—with you.”

“You learned that
after
you saw me?”

“Yes, after we'd spoken in the hall. The relationship between my brother and I has been a constant battle over who is better, who can win the most, who has all the gold, so to speak.”

He propped an elbow on the shovel.

“We have, through the decades, beaten one another down, taken from the other, tricked and stolen if it would see the other in misery. A wicked sort of game I'm sure you believe vulgar. It is, but it is all I know, to go to heads against Constantine over the years.”

“What has this to do with me?”

“The moment I learned he was in love, I decided I
would take that love away from him. It would be my next turn at revenge, for the last time I saw Constantine he had stood over my murdered lover.”

Viviane turned away and clasped her hand to her breast.

“It mattered not to me who the woman was, what she looked like, or that she was a vampire,” Rhys continued. “I simply wanted to hurt Salignac. And what better way than by aiming directly for a man's heart?”

Viviane pressed a palm to the windowsill.

“And yet I had already fallen in love with you. What to do? Revenge or love? I knew revenge would be much sweeter for your beauty rivals all. What a tremendous prize for Constantine to lose.”

“Say no more,” she insisted.

“It began as revenge, but I think my heart abandoned vengeance even before my mind understood the futility of such a ruse.”

“I don't want to listen to this. I've heard quite enough.”

Rhys slammed the windowsill with a dirty fist. “You promised to listen until I was finished.”

“I promised nothing. I never promise a thing to any man! And you are finished. We are finished.”

“There is a we, Viviane.” He grabbed her wrist and would not relent. “You cannot deny it, nor can I. I had thought I could simply seduce the girl and she would not look twice at Salignac. Yet revenge lost its sweetness. Viviane, please, I have fallen in love with you. I am in love with you. Please hear my truths. I have never wished to harm you. That is why I am confessing. I want you to know what brought you to me, and now I know you better, understand I cannot continue to deceive.”

Claiming the frockcoat from the ground, he drew out the small wood carving from the pocket. Grasping
Viviane's hand, he placed it on her palm and folded her fingers over it.

“No jewel would do you justice. But this—this is your heart, Viviane. Wild, steady, ever beating. I love you.”

She opened her fingers. A tiny wooden hummingbird wobbled in her grasp.

A woman should be devastated when the man she has realized she wants more than life itself has confessed to betraying her.

While Viviane's heart thumped with the words Rhys had unleashed upon her, she remained surprisingly rational.

She stroked the smooth bird's body.
Always, she must beat her wings quickly, to stay one step ahead.
He knew her heart well. Better, perhaps, than she did.

“Leave me to finish,” he said softly, his attention on the open grave. “Close the window.”

“We must talk.”

“Not tonight. I must away…from here,” he said. “I need to breathe. And I must go to the Marsauceux pack to tell them about Orlando.”

Bowing her head and nodding, Viviane stepped back and shut the window.

She had lost him.

 

C
LAUDE
M
OURREIGH STOMPED
the loamy earth beneath a willow tree. “You are positive it was the vampires?”

Antoine nodded. “She stabbed Orlando before all. They cheered her! The bloody mortals were cheering a vicious longtooth for slaying one of our own. And then Hawkes arrived.”

“What did he do to her?”

“He scooped up Orlando and the vampiress followed
him as they ran off to her home. He buried Orlando in her courtyard!”

Claude stopped his erratic pacing. “That is most offensive. You can bring me to her home?”

Antoine nodded.

“If the vampires think to take justice upon themselves for the murder of their own, then we, too, will show them we will act swiftly should any deem to murder our own. Let's go.”

R
HYS TAMPED THE DIRT
over the makeshift grave. His arms ached from digging. His heart had been shredded and buried alongside Orlando's torn body.

The summer night had turned cold and threatened rain. He shivered and stumbled backward to sit on the stone bench hugged by frothy night jasmine.

“Forgive me, Claude,” he muttered. “Pray the entire pack can forgive me.”

Yet he did not expect forgiveness. It was not owed him.

He had been Orlando's guardian. Instead of allowing him to gallivant about the city seeking pleasures in all the wrong places, Rhys should have accompanied him to the inns. Rhys could have pointed out those women he'd felt were safe.

Rhys had failed the one person he'd ever felt was his family.

The loss strangled his breath. He heaved, seeking air and fighting sobs.

Tilting his head, he let out a long and mourning howl. He cared not that he sat in the center of Paris and the neighborhood would surely think a real wolf was again stalking the streets. A few dogs joined his miserable tone with yips and howls.

Rhys pulled his palms down his face. His vampire
prodded at him; it wanted blood in the form of revenge. He swallowed to keep back another howl.

An odd thought occurred. If Orlando had been sleeping with Annabelle, and she had also slept with William Montfalcon—could Montfalcon have developed the same affliction and gone mad, thus killing the vampires?

No, Rhys knew differently. He'd been bought by Constantine. But what if Montfalcon had required some nudging to do the heinous deed? Would Constantine go so far to ensure his wicked plan succeeded? How could he know the whore would cause the werewolf to rage? There were yet questions he wanted to press upon his brother, but would it matter?

William was dead. The vampires were dead. And Orlando was dead—at the hands of the wolf slayer.

Anger twitched his muscles. Rhys felt the uncomfortable shift in his bones. The werewolf wanted revenge for what had been done to his companion. It mattered not the vampire had been sated a few days earlier with the blood of an unsuspecting mortal. Together, werewolf and vampire would be avenged.

“No.” Rhys winced and clutched the bench, straining against the powerful darkness, struggling for release, for vengeance. “Can't…”

With the stroke of a blade the vampiress had destroyed his family.

Rhys's arm jutted out and his skin crawled as the flesh prickled. Fur grew beneath his sodden breeches. He kicked off his boots, anticipating and cursing the imminent shift.

This could not happen here. In the city. So close to her. The woman he loved despite her mindless cruelties.

She had been protecting an innocent.

Orlando had been innocent
.

A throaty howl curdled in Rhys's throat. His ankle bones popped and the marrow liquefied. He tore at his muddy breeches. Fingernails grew into adamant talons. His chest expanded and fur pelted his skin.

As his werewolf mind struggled to hold to one last vestige of sanity, the vampire within scented the betrayer's blood.

 

V
IVIANE CLUTCHED HER NIGHT
robe close to her body and scurried through the dark hallway toward the music room. She could not sleep knowing Rhys was outside. Even if he had left, knowing a dead werewolf was buried in the courtyard disturbed.

The estate felt wrong as she moved through its cool confines on a ghostly stride. No longer did it welcome her as Henri had by sweeping her into his arms and offering her his redeeming blood. The walls and quiet air pressed against her skin and made her wish to be away, far, far away.

With Rhys.

Could he forgive her the horrible crime she had committed tonight?

“I would not expect it—”

She pushed open the music room door—at the same time the window across the room shattered. A massive shape leaped inside and scrambled over the glass pieces on the floor.

The werewolf stood on its hind legs and stretched out its arms, talons cutting the air. A rangy howl clutched at Viviane's heart. Never had she seen a shifted werewolf. Her legs wobbled.

Rhys had not forgiven her.

The beast sighted her and snarled, revealing long, sharp fangs.

She screamed. Scrambling away, her low-heeled shoes slipped on the marble floor. Stumbling, she slapped the wall and managed to stay upright.

Behind her, the werewolf careened out of the music room. Claws and padded paws slapped the floor. Heavy, grunting breaths punctuated its loping advance upon her.

The tepidarium door was open. It was not an escape, Viviane realized at the worst moment. As the wolf's talon tore through her robe, she scrambled across the tiles and tripped, hitting the floor with a bone-jarring shock.

The wolf leaped over her, landing at the pool's edge. It growled and snarled.

Viviane backed away, her voluminous silk robe impeding and slipping from her shoulder. Rhys had said his vampire mind ruled while in werewolf form. The vampire should not be so angry over Orlando's death as the werewolf, but she could not reason that right now.

She did know one truth. The vampire wanted blood. And it would not take a sip, but rather influence the werewolf to take her head from her body to get at the blood.

Talons clutched her ankle. Blood scented the wine-drenched air. Viviane's body dragged across the tile floor. She dug in her fingernails, clutching the slick tiles, but they bent. Kicking backward, she managed a heel to the werewolf's maw.

She had kicked her lover!

Did some part of Rhys know who she was? Please, let him see her. To believe her as he'd once said. He must believe she would never mean him harm.

Turning, she darted away and reached the wall where she fit herself into the corner.

The wolf growled and slapped a paw onto the water's surface. Cold white droplets spattered her face.

“Rhys, it's me!”

Another howl felt as if the blades of her fan were fixing into her spine, one by one, burrowing deep.

Viviane eyed the doorway. The wolf crept toward her, blocking a straight retreat to freedom. Its gold eyes raged. Talons cut through tile. If she ran left she'd be caught in the corner. To the right, the vanity with fresh linens. She could shove it at him, and hope for a moment's distraction—

The wolf lunged.

Her foot slipped in a puddle and she toppled, landing in the pool of cold water. Her head went under. Flailing her arms and kicking at the pool's bottom, she struggled to surface. Her feet slipped and she swallowed the horrible mix of water, stale milk and wine.

Something sharp cut into her gut. Blood bubbled on the surface. A taloned paw dipped in and scooped her around the waist. Viviane's body went flying and she landed against the wall, her jaw clacking and arms flinging out as if boneless. Sinking to the floor, she sputtered out the offensive water.

The wolf landed before her, crouched like a man. Its wet nose touched her shoulder. Fur tickled along her jaw. Its head was exactly as the wolves in the wild, with long snout, vicious teeth and ears pricked high. Only at its neck did it form into man shape, though broader, more muscled and furred.

But he was no man right now. The paws and talons, the shape of his legs, formed for fast running, were all wolf.

A scream hummed in her breast. Some part of her denied fear. She pushed against the beast's muscular neck with ineffectual fists.

The werewolf roared, exposing its thick, long teeth. Made for tearing meat, not piercing a vein for a polite drink.

“I…” Viviane gasped, unsure words could still the beast.

It sniffed at her. One paw landed upon her thigh, the talons cutting through her sodden robe and into flesh and opening up streams of blood. Growls, low and warning, continued.

“I love you, Rhys.” Oh, that she'd not the courage to admit her heart until she thought to lose that precious life. “I'm sorry.”

The wolf slammed her shoulders against the wall. The tongue lashed under her jaw. The
vampire
tasted her blood. Could her blood—somehow—tame this beast? She had to try.

“Take what you must from me,” she warbled. “Anything. All of me. I am yours.”

The werewolf reared onto its hind legs. The size of it was surely two or three heads taller than Rhys normally stood, the shoulders twice as broad. It was a creature to fear. Not a man to love.

And yet, its gold eyes glistened with Rhys's truths. He believed her when he looked at her now. And she believed him. He was a man who wanted a different reality. A man tortured by a darkness that would never loosen its grip on his gentle soul.

Turning and leaping across the pool, the werewolf took off, leaving Viviane against the wall, her heart racing, and tears pouring down her cheeks.

 

W
HEN FINALLY SHE MANAGED
to stand, Viviane tore away the tattered remnants of her night robe. It was soaked, as was she. The tiles beneath her feet were cracked from the werewolf's weight. She wrapped a linen about her torso.

Hair dripping down her back and tears still spilling, she took trembling steps down the hallway. Realizing her
entire body shook as her fingers fluttered over the walls, she sought calm, but could not find it.

Her lover had stolen her bravery. She did not fault him.

Stunning what she now feared most, she also loved.

Ahead, three slashes cut through the wall. The music-room doorway was torn apart, the wood frame hanging. She did not go in. The glass would cut her feet, and while she wanted to feel the pain, she did not want to track blood through the house.

She paused at the stairs. Dawn must be so close. She should secrete herself away in her bedchamber and draw the bed curtains. Yet she walked to the servant's door and opened it to a whisper of cool air.

He sat outside on the bench before the grave. He'd shifted to man form, and had tugged on his breeches, though they were split down one side to reveal thigh. A tattered shirt hung on his shoulders, yet covered little.

Clutching the linen about her chest, Viviane padded out, barefoot, across the loosened dirt courtyard. He sensed her, lifting his head, but didn't turn to acknowledge her.

“It's almost dawn,” he said.

She touched his shoulder, but he flinched, nudging her away. Viviane sat beside him on the bench and he moved aside so they would not touch.

“Did I…” He sighed heavily, and sucked in a breath. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she said quickly. Her thigh hurt, but it had already healed. “Though you had every right.”

He turned to face her, his expression stabbing her as no talon could. “Do not say that.”

“It is true. I killed Orlando.”

“Be quiet, LaMourette.” He beat the bench with a fist. “The vampire,
my vampire,
wanted blood.”

“And yet when your werewolf scented my blood, it did not harm me. Rhys, your werewolf would not—”

“You know not what I may or may not do to you! What I am capable of. Do not think to understand me. This is wrong.”

“What is wrong?”

“Us!” He stood and grabbed the shovel stuck into the dirt, and thrust it toward the stables. It hit the wood with a clatter. “Do not accept what little I can offer you. Hold yourself to higher standards.” He thrust an arm out, pointing. “Go to him. Go to Constantine if you want to live.”

Viviane swung about to reproach his ridiculous suggestion, but Rhys gnashed his teeth at her and swiped the smear of blood from his cheek. He thrust his bloodied fingers toward her.

“Do you see? This is what the vampire wants from you. He wants it all. To drink you dry, to crack your bones and suck out your marrow.”

“Don't say that.”

“It is true! I will never rise above the darkness clinging to my soul.”

“That is an excuse. You can be as good or as evil as you desire. The werewolf in you demands you choose well. You are not a monster, Rhys.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Don't you see me?”

Viviane calmly said, “Yes. And I believe you.” She placed her palm over his heart. So frantic, the pulse racing.

“Do not believe this,” he spat and shoved away her hand. “Go to him! I demand it of you.”

With that, he tugged from her and marched out of the courtyard, picking up to a run by the time he rounded the stable.

Falling to sit on the bench, Viviane could not find tears now. She did believe him. His real truth. And she would not deny her love.

He thought himself a monster. She knew better.

But he was not wrong when he claimed Constantine could give her a better life. Did she want the safety of a patron or the danger of true love?

 

R
HYS WANDERED THE STREETS
, a soused man who had not consumed spirits. His clothing tattered from the shift, he kept to the early-morning shadows. Ahead, the cobbles were dusted with fine white powder. A rotund pastry chef walked out and around the corner, a load of empty flour sacks in his arms.

Rhys's vampire stirred.
You still have not fed me. You denied me the vampiress's blood.

Rhys turned the corner. He hated doing this.

You need this. Me, your vampire. Do not deny me!

And why not? He'd already made a mess of things by chasing Viviane, scaring the hell from her, and then demanding she go to Constantine.

His grand design to get revenge upon his brother had turned itself on its head, and now he had become the recipient of the vengeance. Served him right for dallying with the ruthless plan in the first place.

Viviane must hate him now.

The more the better. It would make it easier for her to go to Constantine.

“What's that, then?” The chef turned to look over the sorry man, clutching at his breeches to hold them up. “I don't have any scraps this morning. Be gone with you!”

Rhys lunged, his fangs sinking into the dry, dusted skin of the tumescent neck.