Lyon (17 page)

He'd been asleep for
four
nights?!

The last clear memory he had was of his arrival in Paris on Thursday. He remembered stepping onto the Pont Neuf. After that, it was as though he'd entered a bank of fog.

The hotelier called to him again. “Do you require anything further?”

“
Oui.
A bath.
Merci.
”

“
Certainement, monsieur.
” Brisk footsteps faded down the staircase and then he heard the door to the exterior hall whisk shut.

He forced himself to sit up. His big feet hit the floor like thunder, knocking against a crystal wine glass sitting on the carpet and sending it rolling.

His memories of the past three days and four nights were a jumble of unnamed faces, obscure conversations, and vague locations. A vision of the Pompeii ruins flashed before him, and he shook his head, wondering where that had come from. The movement set off a new round of agony sparking through his skull.

His head fell into his hands, elbows braced on his knees. “Two thousand hells,” he groaned into his lap.

He remembered meeting a woman on the bridge the night he arrived in the city. A Human woman with brown eyes and a pink dress. That had been Thursday. Had they lain together?

Friday had been a Moonful night.

He clutched his cramping abdomen and found it smooth. There was no strangled knot struggling to erupt from it. His pelvic cock must've come and gone, ejaculating and retreating inside him again. Which meant he'd fornicated at least once under Friday's full moon. But with whom?

His head lifted as a pair of seawater green eyes swam into his mind. There'd been another woman since he'd come to Paris, besides the brown-eyed Human! He tried to recall her scent or her face, some memory of her. Nothing. Had she been Human as well?

Doubtful. The bodies of most Human women couldn't accommodate him during Moonful. Shimmerskins were his usual choice on such nights. In fact, on the journey to Paris, he remembered he'd contemplated this matter. Since he'd considered it unlikely he would find King Feydon's daughter in time, he'd planned to conjure Shimmerskins Friday night when the Calling overtook him. Is that what he'd done?

His palms ran over the bed linen. She'd been here, in his bed. That other woman. He recalled being with her here. Now that he thought about it, the signs of debauchery were everywhere in this room. Discarded clothing littered the floor and the bedclothes were a wreck. There were two wine glasses—one on the table and another on the floor. That eliminated the possibility he'd bedded Shimmerskins. He wouldn't have fed them wine since they didn't take any form of sustenance.

Sustenance. A memory flashed—of china and silver dishes bearing delicious delicacies and held by feminine hands. And of the moon rising through the window to limn long strands of pale hair. He'd dined with a woman here. Just prior to Moonful!

Thank the Gods. It was something to go on. Another vague impression came to him, of a female voice coaxing him to taste some French-sounding pastry. Had she drugged him with it? Or with the wine?

He stood then, intending to check the state of the dining room. But he'd risen too quickly and blood drained from his head. Feeling faint, he clutched at the bedrail.

He managed a few steps, but then pitched forward. Bracing a hand on the wall to keep himself upright, he inadvertently sent a framed watercolor tumbling. He gritted his teeth and fought the desire to retch, but lost. Crouching on all fours, he proceeded to stain the rumpled pair of his trousers lying there with his own puke.

Gasping in the aftermath, he rolled onto his side. Gods! Had he ever been so miserable? Apparently, he'd had no bath, no food, and no sex for three days and four nights. Yet the latter was what he craved most.

Spying the square of white the hotelier had slid under the door, he considered fetching it. Eventually mustering the wherewithal, he crawled the few feet necessary and then lay on his back to open and read it.

Fortunately, his eldest brother had been mercifully brief:

The paper fluttered to his chest.

“Bad timing, Nico,” he muttered. But his brother would never have called him away from his mission here unless it was for the most urgent of reasons.

With new strength born of sheer determination, he gathered himself from the floor, opened the door, and bellowed for the bath he'd ordered as well as assistance with his dressing.

If there was trouble at home, there was no time to lose. He would have to muster the energy to travel.

When his bath arrived, he would request a
petit déjeuner
—breakfast. He wasn't hungry, but maybe food would help him recover.

Food. Salivary glands twisted, moistening his mouth. Something clicked in his brain. The fact that he'd dined with the green-eyed woman was somehow significant.

Naked, he padded downstairs toward the dining room to investigate. With each descending step, his enormous cock swung between his legs like a pendulum with two gonads as its accompanying weights. Halfway down, he caught sight of the empty table below. Any dishes and aromas from their repast were long gone. So was the woman.

Reaching the dining room at last, he gingerly searched the air for any sign of the woman who'd been there with him. No more than the barest trace of residual feminine scents remained, but it almost seemed that there were two separate fragrances, which had somehow woven themselves together. Whether Fey or Human, Raine could've tracked them to their sources even though they were days old, but he was not so facile in that way and never had been. Only the freshest of scents were easy for him to discern. And Raine wasn't here.

Whoever his companion had been, he was certain she'd dined here at some point, in this room with him. He ran a palm over the glossy surface of the table, straining to remember.

Elusive bits of memory curled into his mind like ghostly objects visible when viewed from the corner of the eye, yet gone when fully faced: Flesh pressed to flesh. Feminine whispers at his ear. Soft hands cupping his face. She'd been inside his every orifice and he inside hers. He'd taken her here on the table, against the wall, bent over the basin in the kitchen. Other partners had joined them from time to time, and she'd brought devices of pleasure with her—a flogger, oils, and dildos of various shapes and dimensions. And…bananas?

His cock rose expectantly at the salacious visions and he took it in his hand, stroking. His other hand flexed, its palm tingling. He stared at it, remembering the poke of nipples. Nipples that had been unusually warm. Nipples his touch had caused to luminesce!

Satisfaction settled over him. It was a sign she'd been faerie. One with intriguing carnal inclinations, apparently. And he'd let her slip away.

Ten thousand hells
!

Holding onto a chair back, he sank onto its seat. With his head bent forward between his knees, he struggled to keep from retching again—a malaise brought on simply by the effort of standing for so long.

Why was he so exhausted? After a Moonful Calling, he was usually energized.

It hurt to think, but he forced himself to start again and review what he knew. Yet everything came back to one conundrum. If he'd passed the Calling with King Feydon's daughter, then why was he sick? And why wasn't he sated?

The “whys” came at him from every direction. Why couldn't he remember the precise physical details of her body's appearance beneath her clothing? Why couldn't he distinguish her from all the other generic females he had taken under him over the years?

It was both disturbing and confusing that his mind insisted he'd been carnally sated, yet his body raged that it had not. Why couldn't he recall the actual sensation of joining himself to her more clearly? It was as if someone else's sexual fantasies played out in his head, instead of a sequence of real events.

With the impact of a lightening bolt, the answer came to him. His memories of the liaison were vague because it
hadn't happened!
None of it. Or at least not all of it.

The flame of anger lit in him. The Faerie were notorious for their tricks. Feydon's daughter had come here, had used her ways to bespell him, and then she'd stolen his seed and left him to pine and sicken. The Calling ritual, which required that he engage in serial copulation for the duration of moonlight, hadn't been completed. The fact that his twin cocks had ejaculated once, but likely no more, lay at the root of his entire problem. He should be thankful he'd had that relief at least. Otherwise, he'd be dead.

Only another Calling night with the one who'd taken his first seed into her body would bring him fully back to health. But to survive the days and nights between now and then, his body needed to mate with hers, and often. He had to locate her.

His bath arrived and food. And sometime during his meal, from out of nowhere, three new clues leapt into his mind.

A gray house

A red door.

And a name.

Juliette.

“H
ave you seen Fleur this morning?” asked Juliette.

Lying in her narrow, rumpled bed in the room next to Fleur's, Gina shook her head, mussing her tangled auburn hair on her pillow. “She's not in her bedchamber?”

“
Non.
Nor anywhere upstairs.”

Gina stretched, wincing. “She was with Valmont last night. I think they went out.”

Juliette's hand tightened on the doorknob. “Do you know where he is?”

“You're full of questions this morning.
Non
, do you hear? If he's not in his study or the salon, ask the
majordome
. I fucked myself silly last night. So have pity and let me sleep, will you?”

She rolled over onto her stomach, displaying a backside striped with pink welts.

Juliette pulled her door shut and flew downstairs. In the past, other girls had left without a word. Theirs was a transient lifestyle. But Fleur wouldn't have gone without any explanation. Without saying goodbye.

Juliette passed a bleary-eyed Agnes on the stairway. “Did you seen Fleur last night? Or this morning?”

Agnes yawned. “She's gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone'? Gone where?”

“I don't know. Ask Monsieur,” she replied, referring to Valmont. “He's in the upstairs study, along with Monsieur Arlette.” She raised a hand to brush a wisp of hair behind her ear. Silver flashed on her earlobe.

“Those are Fleur's earrings,” said Juliette, grasping her arm.

Agnes wrested herself away and continued down the steps. “Monsieur told me I could take any of her belongings I wish. Lucky girl. Just out of the kitchens and one of her admirers must've already offered to become her protector. I suppose he was too jealous to let her keep any trinkets given to her by other men.”

Juliette whirled about before Agnes had finished speaking and hurried back upstairs, almost tripping in her haste.

Was Valmont behind Fleur's disappearance? Had he been so jealous of their friendship that he'd sent her away?

Male voices reached her ears from the direction of his study. She paused outside its door, listening. From the sound of things, Monsieur Arlette was in a fine mood.

“They liked what we sent,” he was enthusing. “They've requested another shipment. And we have the phylloxera to thank for that!”

“And for little else.” Valmont sounded irritated.

“Why do you dwell on the past, when our future shines bright?” Arlette chided. “Our factory in Pontarlier can hardly keep up with the new demand. As more vineyards fall to the pest, wine grows scarce and its cost continues to rise. We're ahead of any competitors with the idea of pushing absinthe to fill the void. Our business cannot help but thrive.”

“Who'd have thought the phylloxera would actually benefit us in the end?” Valmont mused, sounding cheerier. “It seems my family fortunes will soon be on the mend.”

Juliette heard the clink of glass as the men toasted their success. She glanced around to ensure no one had noticed her eavesdropping, then pressed her ear to the door.

“You don't look happy about it,” said Arlette. “It's that blond piece, Juliette, isn't it? Just take her cherry and be done with it, why don't you? Or I will.”

“I'll kill you if you dare,” Valmont said mildly. “Have you forgotten that if either of us were to dip our wicks in that one, it would be an invitation for her to toy with our minds?”

“So you say.”

Jars in the inkstand clanked together, informing her that Valmont had struck his desktop. “It's true! I've seen her do it, I tell you.”

“Simply fill her full of those drops of hers,” Arlette advised blithely. “A well-timed visit to her bed and your seed will soon be baking inside your pretty little cook's oven. That's what you're after isn't it?”

Inside the room, there was a considering pause. Horrified, Juliette put a hand to the fluttering beat at the base of her throat.

“Such an action would be risky.” Valmont again. “What if she were to elicit facts about a certain matter from me, even through her laudanum haze?”

“You refer to the murder?”

“Damnation, Arlette! That tongue of yours wags far too loudly,” Valmont hissed. His voice had lowered and she had to strain to hear. “Yes, it's what I refer to. All is well only as long as she continues to believe everyone thinks she was responsible. But if she sucks information to the contrary from me while I'm bewitched—well, that is quite a deterrent, wouldn't you agree?”

Out in the corridor, Juliette folded her lips between her teeth to keep from gasping. They'd as much as admitted she was
not
guilty of the murder in Burgundy three years ago! She wanted to shout for joy and to rage at them. But she did neither, and only listened on.

“I could wait outside the room while you get the deed done,” Arlette suggested. “Or better yet, I could watch you diddle her. If she manages to bespell you, I can later remind you of anything you've forgotten. And help determine if she learned anything she shouldn't regarding that other delicate matter I'm not allowed to speak of in a normal tone of voice.”

“What's to stop you from leaving me in the dark and taking Juliette for yourself as you did young Fleur?”

Without thinking, Juliette turned the knob and threw open the door so forcefully that it bounced off the wall. “Where's Fleur?” she demanded, striding into the room.

Both men jerked around so fast it was comical. They gawked at her for a second, then Arlette exploded into action. Moving to the door, he peered nervously along the hall in both directions before shutting it and barring it with his bulk.

Valmont favored her with a false smile and stood to beckon her nearer with a wave of his ghostly hand. “Do come in, my dear. How long were you listening?”

“Listening? To what?” She advanced on him, stiff with anger, but still smart enough to lie. “I only just arrived. I've spent the past half hour questioning the other girls about Fleur. According to them, she was with you last night, and now she has disappeared. Tell me where she is or I'll summon the gendarmes.”

“Police?” Valmont chuckled as he reseated himself. That he didn't even take her threats seriously enough to come out from behind the desk galled her.

Furious, she stalked toward him. “Where is she!?”

But he only smirked, which told her he was responsible for Fleur's removal as clearly as if he'd admitted it in words.

“Careful, darling, you're becoming hysterical. I'm sure she's only taken a fancy to one of her beaux and gone off with him. You know how these girls can be with their silly notions of true love.”

She knew he was lying, but if she admitted it, they would know she'd been eavesdropping. And she didn't want them to realize what else she'd overheard. Not yet.

“She wouldn't have gone without telling me,” Juliette insisted. “Not without taking all of her shoes and dresses and jewels. She valued that small collection of worldly goods too dearly.” She whirled around and headed for the door.

Arlette eyed her, still blocking it. But it was Valmont's voice that halted her, for it had turned silky as it did when he was at his most devious.

“What do you suppose will happen if you summon the police and tell them your preposterous tale,
ma chère
? Suppose they begin an investigation?”

She looked at him over her shoulder.

“You were particular friends with Fleur,” he went on. “M. Arlette and the other girls would attest to that with no urging from me. When it comes to light that we've
unwittingly
harbored you—a fugitive who fled Burgundy while under suspicion of murder—who would the gendarmes decide to suspect in Fleur's disappearance I wonder?”

“Who indeed,” Arlette seconded. “I'm sure I could arrange for a spattering of blood to appear on your rug if the inspectors need further convincing of your guilt.”

Juliette glanced between them, appalled. Moments ago, Valmont had intimated that they'd trumped up the evidence implicating her in the Burgundy crime. It had been he who'd tricked her into fleeing the charges, which she saw now had only added to others' suspicions. He had then proceeded to turn her into an addict and had encouraged her phobias. She was well and truly trapped here, for he'd cut off all avenues of escape.

“Come, come. Let's speak no more on this. Forget your little friend and calm yourself for we must speak on another topic. That of Lord Satyr.” He looked beyond her. “You may leave us, Monsieur Arlette.”

After a moment, she heard the door behind her shut. Valmont gestured toward the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”

Leery of what he would say, but needing to hear it, she took the seat he'd indicated.

He tapped the desk blotter with the tip of a fingernail. “You know I love you,
chèrie
. You know that, don't you?”

She only stared at him, refusing for the first time to give him the reply he expected. Three years ago she'd foolishly believed him when he'd said he loved her. Since then, she'd learned he was a monster. She could not stay here to bear the child of a monster. She'd kill herself—or him—first.

He sat back in his chair and went on, not seeming to notice she hadn't responded. “Tell me. If I were to lend you to Lord Satyr, could you remain chaste? Could I trust you that much? It would be the ultimate test of your loyalty to me.”

His question shook her out of her stupor. “What do you mean ‘lend' me to him?”

“You proved yourself resistant to him when you went to his hotel. He's primed for marriage, and besotted with you. If you gain his trust—”

She gripped the seat of her chair on either side of her knees. “Gain his trust? How am I to do that after I just duped him in the worst way?”

He fluttered his fingers in the air, brushing off her objection. “Use your tricks. You'll find a way to manage it. My material point is to suggest that you are to lure him into another proposal. And this time, you will accept.”

“Accept?” she parroted in dismay. “But you know I cannot marry him. It would be unlawful.”

“And you are something of an expert on unlawful matters are you not,
ma petite
murderess?”

“You promised not to bring up that subject again.”

He stood, reached across the desk, and calmly slapped her. “You're my property. I will speak to you as I wish and you will do as I tell you.”

Stunned, she covered her stinging cheek and watched with swimming eyes as he reseated himself and dipped his quill into the inkwell.

“Now, I shall pen a note to Lord Satyr at his hotel in which I will offer you to him. When he responds, you will see him. You will find a way to wed him, then you will go to the heart of the demon's lair. There, you'll be in a position to find out what they get up to, which you will then report to me.”

“As his wife, you'd expect me to remain chaste by ‘tricking' him, as you put it? Every night he wishes to bed me? Even if I could achieve what you're asking, I don't know what long-term effect such ‘tricks' might have on his mind. What if they destroy him?”

He only shrugged, continuing to write. “The price of Satyr wine is at an all-time high, did you know?” he enquired obscurely. “His family has benefited from the destruction of mine. Now I plan to benefit from the destruction of his.”

As Valmont scribbled away, Juliette's gaze drifted upward to the soulful eyes of the long-dead buck above his desk. Its eyes were vacant. Dead. The way she felt.

“It will never be enough for you, will it?” she whispered dismally.

He finished the letter with a satisfied flourish and blew on it. “Stop speaking twaddle, and make yourself useful. Bring me the sealing wax from my cabinet.”

Like an automaton, she rose and went to the cabinet, but what greeted her there shook her out of her daze in an instant. Beyond its glass, on the shelf positioned at eye-level, sat the odd little collection of feminine gewgaws.

Something new had been added to the very end of the row. A bracelet. The very one Fleur had adored. The one she'd been so proud of that she hadn't removed it since it had been given to her.

Yet now, here it was, displayed upon a slip of velvet in this cabinet. Like some sort of trophy! For that's what these items were, she realized in horror. Trophies. Mementos. All taken from women.

She reached out her hand.

“Hurry, girl! What keeps you?”

Quickly she stuffed what she'd stolen into her pocket and returned to him with the wax. She held her breath when he frowned at her impatiently, but he didn't seem to notice anything amiss.

“Go now. I'll let you know when I have his reply.”

Her mind and steps raced with new, terror-inspired determination as she departed his study. He would listen for the creak of the stairs to be sure she took the path to her attic room. To allay any suspicion, she did so.