“A faery told me. And then I stole a kiss from her.”
“You should be cautious of the Sidhe, Orlando.”
“But you—”
“Have a distinct relationship with their kind.” And not one he wished to cultivate. “A man unaccustomed to dealing with those who wield glamour had best stay as far from them as possible.”
“I kissed her once. Besides, I’ve my eye on the mortal pretties who prance about the Palais Royal and lift their skirts to show their unmentionables.”
Rhys shook his head. “Be careful there, too, boy.”
So Viviane LaMourette was a bloodborn vampiress. He’d thought only the created vampires required a patron. But then, this was the first existing bloodborn female vampire he had heard about in a long time.
“Bloodborn,” he whispered.
Constantine would be a fool to let so valuable a female slip from his clutches. Which would make Rhys’s successful seduction as a means to revenge all the more satisfying.
And aren’t you doing a spectacular job of that, man?
“I think the murders are in retaliation for the wolf slayer,” Orlando said.
“You do?”
A pack wolf had been murdered as spring had arrived. He had been found beside a toppled carriage, neck broken. Yet the killer had not been a mortal, for rumors whispered through the Salon Noir it was vampire.
The packs were careful to keep away from humans, yet the werewolf’s humanlike soul required a connection with the mortal world when the full moon insisted they mate.
Rhys, on the other hand, suffered moon madness. Normal werewolves sought to mate during the full moon; his werewolf—urged on by the vampire mind—hungered for murder.
“So how did it go with the vampiress? I thought you intended to seduce her?”
“We got on well enough.”
“Isn’t what I sensed.”
Cheeky boy. Rhys splayed out a hand. “Did you expect she would fall into my arms at first glance? I intend to call on her today. She must have information regarding her patron’s death.”
“I wager you are the only vampire who dares approach her.”
“Makes things more interesting, I suppose.”
“How will you take from Constantine the one thing he wants more than life? Will you kidnap and ravage her?”
“No.” Rhys chuckled. “It will be far sweeter to win her admiration, then see Constantine and know the woman he loves has been tainted by me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RAIN HAD STOPPED. Clouds blurred the moon.
Viviane navigated the slick cobblestones with airy steps. The women at Versailles had nothing on her balletic rush-walk.
A cat meowed. The creak of carriage wheels a street away slapped the hard stone.
The Dark Ones occupied these spare hours between the theatre and the dawn arrivals. Viviane mused the blood was fresher, healthier even, than from the languorous aristocrats.
A breath pulsed the night.
Viviane paused, but did not look over her shoulder. A survival trait, she never made herself obvious, be it walking through a crowd or alone.
Again a breath teased the air and tickled the base of her neck. Goose bumps tightened her skin. Normally she was the one to produce such a sensation in a victim.
She picked up her pace, clutching her skirt to keep it from the wet cobbles.
Tonight she craved … something. A bite from a stranger. The wanting brush of skin against skin. Sometimes, if the man were clean and reasonably handsome, she would allow his hand under her skirt, but that was rare. She kept her lovers separate from sustenance.
It is not blood; I want to be touched tonight. To feel passion. To surrender to climax.
A carriage rolled by, forcing her shoulder against the limestone wall of a three-story home. A nail jutting from a windowsill snagged her sleeve.
Viviane tugged and cursed as the lace at her elbow tore. She touched her abraded skin and sucked at the bleeding wound. The skin knitted together under her lips, and within a few breaths it had healed.
Moving briskly through an alleyway so tight her shoulders brushed the walls with alternating steps, the darkness overwhelmed. A whisper of wind brushed her ear so tangibly she felt sure someone had touched her.
She would not tolerate an untoward mortal man thinking he could seduce a lone woman this evening—that was an engagement she always controlled. However, if it be a cutthroat, then do follow; she would lure him to an unfortunate result.
Viviane stepped on a moving ropelike bit. Her ankle twisted and upset her footing. The kitten heels were not made for sure balance. Something squeaked. Dread scratched her senses.
“Sacre bleu.”
She could feel them teem about her skirt hem and across her toes. Slithering. Sharp, pin-quick claws. A silent swarm. So suddenly they’d come upon her. Had she wandered into a nest?
Odor of rot assaulted the soft tissues in her throat. Terror lifted in her belly. The intensity of her racing pulse hurt her ribs. Her shoulders dropped against the wall. Eyelids fluttered.
“No,” pealed from her mouth. “Please, I, cannot …”
Disgust and fear consumed her bravado. An agonizing moan keened from her lungs. Yet Viviane could not cry out for the scream lodged in her throat, clinging as if for safety from the horrible creatures.
Too many of them. The horde rattled.
Which way had she come?
Tiny fangs pierced her ankle. Viviane shook her leg violently. Her skirts hampered movement. The satin corset constricted. She lost balance and slapped a palm to something hard. Should she faint—
“I have you.” A man’s voice.
Lifted from the ground, her senses blurred. The something hard she’d grasped to steady herself was a man’s chest. She gripped him about the neck, trapping a ponytail tied with ribbon under her fingers. Earthy scent. Subtle vampiric vibrations shimmered under her palm.
Strong and focused, he carried her through the darkness.
Aware. So aware of his breath playing across her décolletage.
The heartbeat against her breast pounded steadily. He held her as if a child, secure in his arms. Viviane recognized his scent. Not a stranger.
Nor a friend.
Sacre bleu, she had fallen into his arms?
“You’re safe,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
He set her down. Clinging but a moment longer to his coat shoulders, Viviane ducked her forehead against his neck. Safe here. Nothing to fear.
Still she could feel rats teeming about her ankles. A prick of fang— She lifted a foot and slid it along her leg.
“No more of them,” he comforted. “I promise. They swarmed over a dog carcass at the end of the alley. I could smell it. You couldn’t have known.”
“I … hate them.” Humiliating, she could not find her breath or stand and face him calmly. But the memory …
The bodies of her parents’ victims, left behind after the Order had slain her parents. The dead mortals had not been buried, for she was too young to manage digging a grave. Swarming with rats.