Rachel Caine & Kristin Cast & Claudia Gray & Nancy Holder & Tanith Lee & Richelle Mead & Cynthia Leitich Smith & P. C. Cast (30 page)

They arrived with the ball already in full swing, pushing into a room already full of laughing young people and the sounds of fiddlers playing. The candles on the walls had half-burned down, leaving ripples of melted tallow on the catch-plates below. Patrice still felt weak, and every sensation was too intense: the body heat of the party's crush, the scratchy lace around her throat, and the scent of the camellias pinned in her hair.

As Althea waved to Mr. Broussard, Patrice stepped away from her. At that moment, Julien's eyes met hers.

He looked even more unearthly than he had the night before. His bottle-green eyes flashed with excitement at the
sight of her, and his long chestnut hair hung free past his shoulders. Julien gave her a dark-lipped smile.

By all rules of propriety, Patrice ought to have waited for him to come to her. Instead, she weeded her way through the party, on the outskirts of the whirling dancers, to find Julien first.

“You look lovely tonight,” Julien said. He seemed to be enjoying some private joke. “It doesn't seem as if it's been a whole day since I've seen you. Maybe you've been in my thoughts so much we might as well have been together all night.”

“I want to talk to you,” Patrice said. “Alone.”

Sometimes, when the candlelight caught them just so, Julien's eyes seemed to have no color at all. “Shall we take some fresh air?”

They stepped outside. Clouds covered the moon that night, so the only illumination came from the windows of the Salle de Lafayette, where the dancers were silhouetted. One of the chaperons stepped forward as if to warn them back inside, but Julien gave him a piercing look that seemed to make the old man forget all about the young couple stealing into the back garden alone at night.

“Here we are, my dear Patrice.” Julien laid his hands on her bare shoulders, just above the lacy sleeves of her dress. “Did you miss me too?”

Patrice said, “I think you came to my house last night. I think you killed Am—the blacksmith. I think you tried to kill me too.”

“An interesting set of assertions.” Julien's thumb made little circles against her skin. She felt a strange pull toward
him, as though they were tied together in a way that left her unable to run. His lips were very near her hair. “Why would I want to do any of those things? Besides coming to your house at night, of course. Any man would want to be near you.”

“I remember you being there. I remember that you bit me.”

She whirled to face him, eager to see him caught off-guard. Instead, Julien smiled, and for once his delight appeared to be genuine. “Extraordinary! Most people can't remember it, unless they're kept awake, and I tucked you in safe and sound. And, if you were curious, quite as much a maid as I found you. Though I was tempted.”

“Then it's true.” Patrice covered the tender spot at her throat with her fingers. “You're—you're a vampire.”

“And I want you to become one too.”

Patrice tried to think of a reply to this, but could not. Words and imagination had both failed her. More than anything else, she wanted to run, but she remembered what Althea had told her that time they saw a mad dog on the street with foam flecking his jaws:
Don't run. If you run, that just gives him a reason to chase you.

She closed her hands around the branch of a nearby tree, as if to steady herself—then quickly snapped off a length of wood, perhaps six inches. “I've heard stories about your kind. I know what to do.” With that, Patrice brandished her new stake.

He merely laughed. “You've heard stories. Not the truth. For instance, stakes don't kill us.”

Was he lying to save himself? No, Patrice realized. Julien remained completely unafraid of her. She felt small and foolish, and slowly she let the hand with the stake drop to her side.

“Fire, now—fire is dangerous. Beheading too.” His silky chestnut hair streamed behind him, caught by a sudden breeze. “I tell you these things because you'll need to know them to be by my side. And also because you have no fire and no blade.”

“Oh, God,” Patrice whispered. She had always thought she had no choices in life, but she hadn't truly known what it meant to be trapped, not before this instant when she was caught in a vampire's thirsty gaze.

Julien took her hands in his. “I knew the moment I saw you that you had the spark. The strength. Our world is not for the weak, Patrice. Besides, this shallow, empty life of disguised servitude—you hate it. That hatred burns inside you like a bonfire. I want to give you power like you've never imagined. Together, we could make the world our feast.”

In an instant, she knew she had one choice left. She intended to make it.

Patrice tilted her head back. “Drink.”

“My beautiful girl.” Julien's grin changed as his canine teeth shifted slowly into fangs. Despite a terrible shiver of fear, Patrice did not flee. It occurred to her that if the legends about vampires were true, she was about to die. If Amos had been alive, she could never have surrendered her life so easily. Without him, her path was clearer.

She glanced upward at the moon, silvery and shrouded
with thin clouds. It was strange to think that this was the last thing she would ever see in her life. The moon had never looked so beautiful before.

Then Julien pushed her against the nearby tree, with his hands clamped around her arms like irons, and tore open her throat.

Pain eclipsed everything else, even Julien, even the moon.

Silence.

Patrice had never known that quiet could be so overpowering. She had never realized that she could hear her own heart beating, or that all the sounds she normally heard were filtered through the soft rush of blood in her eardrums. Now that was gone.

Her eyes fluttered open. She lay upon the ground, her pale yellow gown stained with mud. Julien stood above her, watching avidly.

I'm dead
, she thought. Something vital in her—something strong, something good—was gone, and she felt hollowed-out. As though every sound she would ever hear from now on would only be an echo, as if everything she touched would be only an imitation of reality. The pure river of constant change that ran through every living being had been stilled in her, forever.

It did not hurt. Even the pain of dying had been better than being dead.

“You won't miss it for long,” Julien said. “Not when you see what we can do.”

Patrice slowly sat upright. Petals from the crushed camellia she'd been wearing fluttered down onto her dress. She could only think of one thing to say: “I'm hungry.”

Julien grinned. “We all awaken hungry. Let's find you a snack, shall we? Ah, look, there's someone now.”

Into the garden staggered Beauregard Wilkins, obviously quite drunk. For the first time Patrice realized that she could hear no music or hubbub from the party within; she must have been dead for at least a few hours.

Beauregard clutched his ample belly, obviously in danger of losing control of himself, but he seemed to forget his own distress when he saw Julien standing above Patrice. “What's this?” he said. “Larroux, old boy, no need to be rough with the ladies.”

“You needn't worry about Patrice,” Julien said. “She's better than she's ever been. Aren't you, my darling?”

Patrice cocked her head. Somehow, she could hear Beauregard's heart beating. Every single thump was like a drumbeat summoning her. Within Beauregard, blood flowed—hot, living blood—

She pounced at him with strength she had never before possessed. He fell back beneath her, staring at her in horror as her fangs slid forth for the first time. It hurt, and yet it made her shiver with pleasure. It felt right.

Then she bit him, tearing into warm flesh to get at what she needed: blood. It flowed into her mouth, rich and hot
and good, and Patrice swallowed eagerly, desperate for the taste of life again. Beauregard struggled for only a moment before he sagged to the ground, unconscious.

“That's good,” Julien said. “My savage little Patrice.”

When she could drink no more, Patrice sat up. Blood was sticky on her lips. Beauregard still breathed, which surprised her until she realized it shouldn't. “He'll forget he was bitten.” Her own voice sounded strange to her now. “Just like I forgot.”

“Undoubtedly Mr. Wilkins will awaken tomorrow in the belief that he passed out drunk, as he no doubt would have had you not come along. The scars from your bite will have all but faded by then. No evidence left behind. It all works very well, you see.”

“It doesn't kill, then. Our drinking.” How strange, to say “our” and mean vampires.

“Not unless we want it to, the way I wanted it to for you.”

Julien helped her to her feet and offered her a handkerchief. She dabbed at her lips, staining the white linen red.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

“Now, my dear, we turn New Orleans into our play-ground. We could live together openly, if you choose. Shock the populace. Or there are other places we can go—places where no living creature could find us. I have so much to show you. So much for you to learn.” His fingers traced along the low neckline of her dress, leaving no doubt as to what he wanted her to learn first.

When he offered her his arm, she took it. Her legs were unsteady—not from weakness but from the unexpected power flowing through her.

“Let's walk out the front door,” Patrice said. “It's not as if the slaves will dare to say a word.”

Julien smiled a slow, hot smile. “Excellent idea.”

They walked back into the Salle de Lafayette, which by now was nearly deserted. A few flower petals from ladies' nosegays littered the floor, and half the candles had burned out. An elderly slave woman, her back bent with age and care, tottered around, blowing out the rest. A bucket and rags in the corner testified to the scrubbing she would have to begin soon. It had to be nearly dawn. One lone oil lantern flickered near the front door.

“Where do you want to go next?” Julien said.

“My mother's house.”

“You weren't that fond of her, were you? I suppose she's about to get a lesson she'll never forget. I can't wait to see it for myself.”

As he opened the door and strode onto the front stoop, Patrice paused in the doorway. “You won't be coming home with me.”

“What do you mean?”

She grabbed the oil lantern and threw it at his face.

The glass lantern shattered, mingling the fire with the flammable oil that had splashed all over Julien's body. He screamed—a terrible, animal sound. His entire body was a mass of flame as he staggered backward, then fell onto the walk.

As firelight flickered upon Patrice's face, she thought of Amos and how long and hard he'd worked to be free. She thought of the good strong arms that had held her, and how
Julien had left Amos crumpled in the alley like garbage. She thought of their last kiss.

The old slave woman appeared behind Patrice. When she saw Julien burning, she didn't shout for anyone to come help. She simply watched by Patrice's side.

Once it was over, and the charred thing on the walk would clearly never move again, Patrice said, “I'm Patrice Deveraux. If they need proof it was an accident, you can tell them I saw the whole thing.”

“Drunk as those young bucks get, nobody will doubt it.”

The two women shared a glance, and then Patrice began the long journey back home.

In her crumpled, muddy dress, Patrice suspected she made quite a sight. Fortunately, the streets were all but empty. Althea would be furious when Patrice got home, thinking that she had been giving Julien Larroux favors that he ought to have paid for. Patrice did not intend to put up with that kind of talk for long. She thought she would finish out the season by pretending to be human, drinking when she wished, learning about her powers. And how lovely she would look in silk and satin, her hair fixed just so. Julien had called her beauty her armor, and she intended never to be without her armor again. When you were beautiful, you could charm the people around you so that they never saw the darker truth.

After a few months, Patrice would know how to handle her new abilities. Then she could set out on her own.

“You there! Girl!”

Patrice stopped walking and turned. A group of lanky white men strolled toward her, half-incredulous, half-gleeful.
They wore shabby overalls and tattered straw hats. She realized they were the patrollers who kept black people from walking around after curfew—the ones who assumed that anyone who wasn't white was a slave. “Can I help you?” she said coolly.