I did not know, she offered, nervous suddenly, whipping her head about to scan the periphery. No wolves lurked nearby.
The weres eyelids shuttered. His head sank into the snow and his muscles relaxed with death. Blood spilled from his mouth to stain the scrap of white fabric hed torn from the coachmans neck.
Minneapolis, modern day
RHYS HAWKES MOVED THROUGH the Irish-themed pub with a swaying stride. It was past midnight, but OLearys stayed open until two. The owner, not an Irishman but rather a German whod married into the family, granted him carte blanche. The high-tech, temperature-controlled cellar was always open for Rhys to select a bottle of wine, whiskey, or to relax in the cool darkness after a long day at Hawkes Associates.
More than just a bank, Hawkes Associates stored treasures, housed certain volatile objects of a magical nature and offered the various paranormal nations, Light, Dark, Faery and otherwise, a safe and lasting place to keepand exchange for new currencytheir money and valuables as they passed through the centuries.
His firm was the only of its kind and had offices in New York, Minnesota and Florida, four more in Europe and one in China. The Paris office served as his home base.
He didnt own this pub, but he was considering buying it.
Rhys didnt get involved in the daily management details of the clubs he collected as if they were baseball cards. They were investments. And rarely did he mingle with the crowds. He was a lone wolfmake that vampire.
Still clinging to the same excuses.
Not an excuse, just an easier summation.
Tonight he was in business mode, eyeing the place for potential.
At the blue neon bar, two college guys exchanged what Rhys had decided were urban legends. The one about the man with the hook instead of a hand was common. But hed never heard the one about the mermaid swimming the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn. He kept the mens conversation in peripheral range for the humor.
A waitress clad in a shimmy of green satin and beads snuck past him and slipped behind the bar. The scent of alcohol made Rhys nostalgic for the real whisky hed once drunk in Scotland. Not his homeland, but a safe hiding place when the vampires had sought to extinguish the werewolves from France during the Revolution. He hadnt been hiding; hed been in mourning.
The world had evolved over the centuries, but the disease between the wolves and vampires could never be healed. Most days Rhys was fine with that. Other days he wished he could have done more.
Of course, his situation was the stickiest. There was no definite side for him. He had once been persecuted for his differencesby those of his own blood. He and his nemesis had battled for decades. Neither had claimed victory.
Until she had become involved. She had changed everything. And since then, nothing had been the same.
It was rare Rhys thought of her, and always those azure eyes.
But for a man who had walked the earth two and a half centuries it was easy to pine for a long-departed lover who whispered ghostly sonnets in his thoughts.
Rhys smirked at his wistful memories.
Heartbreak, he muttered. It clung like a bitch with fangs.
With one ear taking in the legends, Rhyss ears perked up when he heard the men start talking about a Vampire Snow White.
Yeah, you know. The chick buried in a glass coffin by some prince.
That was a cartoon, dude.
I know, but listen. They say a vampire chick fell in love with a man who was a vampire or maybe he was a werewolf. Im not clear on that detail, one of them said.
Rhys slid onto a bar stool. He smiled at the men and pushed the crystal peanut bowl between his hands. They regarded him with nods.
Vampires and werewolves are fiction, one man said.
Whatever. So are urban legends, but you wanted one youd never heard for tomorrows blog.
All right, give it to me. So she fell in love with a guy who might have been a vamp
Or maybe a werewolf. But she was being courted by a vampire, too. An evil vampire.
Rhyss fingers curled into a fist. He felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten. He wanted to grip the man and shake the rest of the tale out of him, but he checked his growing urgency.
Anyway, so this vampire chick falls in love with the man who wasnt what he seemed and they get married or something. I dont know. Im foggy on that detail. Only the evil vampire is pissed, see. So something happens to separate the twothe chick and her loverand the evil vampire locks her away in a glass coffin and buries her like some kind of Goth Snow White.
Thats a dorky legend. Couldnt she have broken the glass?
No, dude, get this. The vampire had a warlock put her under a spell. She couldnt move, but would live forever. So she can see out the glass coffin, but cant move or scream. So the legend says she went mad, and shes probably still buried somewhere beneath the streets of Paris. You know they have all those tunnels under Paris. Huh. So what if she escaped? Dont know, man. Thatd be one freaky bloodsucking chick.
The men tilted back swigs from their beer bottles.
Sweet. But, dude, so not true.
Tell me about it. Vampirella gone mad.
Id offer my neck to Vampirella any day. She is so sexy.
Shes a cartoon, too. The storyteller swiped an arm across his lips. You going to put it on the blog?
Yeah, well see. Buy me another beer, dude, this ones tapped. So whats with the man who was a vampire or maybe a werewolf?
I dont know. Thats how I heard it told. So you mean hes different, like, where his hand should be the guy assumed a melodramatic tone was a stainless-steel hook! Rhys winced.
No, dude, he was not right. The crystal bowl in Rhyss grip cracked in half. The men turned and delivered him wonky looks. Delicate, Rhys offered sheepishly. Not right. The words stabbed Rhyss heart with bittersweet memory. He could hear them spoken in her voice. He pushed the mess aside. Interesting story.
Yeah, dude, its an urban legend. You can read all about it tomorrow at my blog.
One guy handed Rhys a business card that simply read: UrbanTrash.com.
Wouldnt it rock if werewolves and vampires existed? We could all like, live forever.
Forever is not always appealing. Rhys strode away. The Vampire Snow White. Once loved by an evil vampire and another who was maybe a vampire or maybe a werewolf. An urban legend? It was rumor.
But the details were too familiar to disregard. Mon Dieu, I thought she was dead.
CHAPTER TWO
Paris, 1785
THE PERILOUS JOURNEY THROUGH knee-high snow ended when a rider galloped alongside Viviane. He literally swept her into his arms to sit before him on the horses withers.
The warmth emanating from his thighs and chest told her that he was mortal. The desire to bite him did not rise. All that mattered was getting warm and shaking the feeling into her left foot. A hasty merci spilled from her lips.
The sun will beat us if we do not hurry, he said.
The sun will beat us if we do not hurry, he said.
How could he know the sun would prove her bane? Who are you?
They call me the Highwayman. I know you are not human.
But you are.
Not like most humans, though.
They made Paris as the sun traced the horizon, and he left her at her patrons home.
As she entered the warmth of the marble-tiled foyer, Viviane tumbled into Henri Chevaliers arms. Shivering and sniffing tears, she took a moment to glance outside. The Highwayman had heeled his mount down the cobblestones toward the pink sunrise, his leather greatcoat flapping out like wings.
She dropped the pistol in her pocket and listened to it clatter to the floor.
Viviane, what has happened? Where is the carriage?
Uh Pulled into Henris welcoming hug, she melded against her patrons body. Henri was all muscle and hard lines and smelled like cedar and lavender. The Highwayman found me.
Ive heard the legend. He is a good man.
Like us?
No, but immortal. Hes no grouse against vampires but rather demonsfortunately for you. We didnt expect you until tomorrow evening.
Henri? Oh, dear. Henris wife, Blanche, touched Vivianes shoulder where wolf blood stained the fabric.
Two years earlier while in Paris on an annual visit to her patron, Viviane had met Blanche and decided to like her. The petite blonde stood like a bird next to Henris towering build. She gave to Henri the one thing he had never asked of Vivianeintimacy.
Have the maid boil water and fill the bath, Henri directed his wife. And draw the curtains in the guest room. Quickly!
It felt decadently blissful to nuzzle against Henris chest and cling to the heavy brocade robe that hung upon his broad shoulders. He must have been preparing for sleep. He always did greet the dawn in his dark bedchambers. Vampires required a quarter as much sleep as a mortal did.
The carriage tending me here broke a wheel three leagues out, Viviane whispered. Exhausted and starving, she could but speak in gasps. A wolf killed the coachman.
And you managed to escape?
I broke the animals neck.
Henris chuckle rumbled against her cheek. I should not doubt it.
It was a werewolf.
Ah?
She knew well he held no resentment toward werewolves, unlike most vampires. Henri did not take sides, nor did he hateunless given reason.
He toed the pistol. Not yours.
Belonged to the driver, who is dead. Sacre bleu, Henri, I did not wish to harm the beast, but I prefer life over mauling.
Pity the manor beastwho forces Viviane LaMourette to do anything. You are fortunate the Highwayman happened along.
He kissed her cheek and carried her up the curving marble stairs to the guest room. Half a dozen candles glowed upon a writing desk. Two mortal maidsenthralled by their masterbustled about, pouring boiling water into the copper tub. White linen lined the tub; a frill of lace dancing along the hem dusted the floor.
Before Henri could set her on the bed, Viviane clutched his robe. Im unsure if I can wait until you rise later.
He nodded and instead of setting her down, carried her into his bedchamber. Blanche, with but a nod from her husband, whispered, Bonjour and took her leave, closing the door behind her.
I shouldnt wish to impose upon her, Viviane said, as Henri set her on the bed. Leaning back onto her elbows, she spread out her hands, crushing the decadent silk bed linens between her fingers.
It is not an imposition. Blanche will sleep in her private chambers this morning.
Shrugging off the robe, Henri then tugged the gauzy night rail over his head and dropped it onto the bed to stand in but chamois underbreeches. Built like a Roman gladiator, the mans broad shoulders never did align straight across. Hed broken his collarbone decades earlier after falling from a cliff in Greece and it had never healed properly. It gave him little worry, but he did wince when raising his left arm over his head.
He stretched out on the black-and-gold-striped chaise longue positioned before the hearth fire.
Viviane found her place and nestled beside him, chest to chest, kissing his cheek.
Ive missed you, she admitted. It had been five or six months. Have you gained another line near your eyes? You are such a handsome man, Henri. So kind to me. I can never thank you for the freedom you have given me.
Then do not speak, he said. Take what you need.
Candle glow licked teasingly upon Henris neck. Viviane tongued his flesh, then pierced skin and the thick, pulsing vein to slake the thirst she could only satisfy with Henri, her patron, a friend and mentor, but never her lover.
He was, quite literally, her lifeline. Without him she would be lost.
Two weeks later
VIVIANE LANGUISHED IN THE SPA. Henri called the room a tepidarium after the Roman baths hed once enjoyed in Greece. The stone floor was always warm due to an underground pipe system. Istrian tiles lined the walls and glossy crimson squares glinted amongst the pearly white squares. A constellation of crystals set in a white iron candelabrum reigned over the round pool, which was as wide as Vivianes length should she float across it.
She visited Henri twice yearly, and did like to spoil herself amidst the luxuries of his home.
A map room appealed to her desire for knowledge, though she could not read the words, only trace the snaking rivers and marvel over the shapes of so many countries. The spa and music room strummed her sensual ribbons. Viviane devoured all things sensory and erotic. She was a woman, after all, and would not be kept wanting. Men overwhelmingly agreed, and when she desired pleasure, she took it.
Seven bedchambers, a ballroom and a twelve-stall stable told the world Henri Chevalier could afford anything he desired. Yet he would never be so conceited as to state it himself. Flaunting ones riches was considered lewd.
Blanche generously shared her wardrobe, and kept an entire room devoted to shoes. By delicious coincidence, Viviane wore the same gown and shoe size as her patrons wife.
Vivianes home in Venice was as richly decorated, but it was old. Most furnishings had been acquired in the sixteenth century, and were in desperate need of reconditioning. The plaster walls were cracked and water seeped in the north entry hugging the canal.
Alas, those repairs would never be made. Viviane kept her current financial condition close to heart. It was not dire, but could become so if she did not invest properly, and soon. Pity, the last notaire who had invested well for her had died of sudden blood loss.
Sometimes she simply could not control her hunger, especially when sated by a handsome young man.
Ah, but she had survived alone two centuries; she would beg no man for help now.
And no Casanova vampire lord would entice her to change those principles of independence with the suggestion of marriage. It mattered little that Henri had last evening suggested his approval for the union, if and when Lord de Salignac put forth the offer.
Viviane had attended the Salon Noir twice since arriving in Paris. The Salon Noir mirrored Marie Antoinettes court with lavish clothing, jewels, courtly titles and decadence, save the attendees were vampires, werewolves, demons and other Dark Ones. Faeries from the Sidhe nation, and a familiar or two, attended in fewer numbers. The Lightthe witcheskept away due mainly to their differences with the vampires. The vampires did not mind at all since witchs blood was poisonous to them.