Unbitten (18 page)

On Feeding Days, Angélique half-wished that she were
among those getting brainwiped regularly, that she were
also blissfully unaware of her boss’
status
,
as they called it. She and Albert were the only humans in
that category, as far as she knew. And while she took it as
the sign of great trust that it was, still, ignorance could
sometimes be a blessing, she thought.

Madame squeezed her hand even tighter. “My time is
coming,” she said, her voice rising with
anticipation, with a sound in it like a taut wire,
razor-sharp.

Angélique noticed that her hearing became very acute
down in the darkness of the dungeon. She could hear
emotions and tones that in daylight she could not.

The instant the second bag hit the floor, Madame let go of
Angélique’s hand. They could hear her moving
quickly, towards
le Seigneur
. They could feel her
urgency.

“It’s my time,” she said, murmuring, her
voice catching. “I’m coming,
chéri
,” she said.

“I’m not ready,”
le Seigneur
said, backing away. “I think it would be better for
you to wait until the next Feeding Day,” he said, his
voice trembling just a little although he still managed to
sound autocratic, which is no mean feat.

“
Chéri!
” said Madame, bearing
down on him.

“This is the worst part, no question,”
whispered Albert to Angélique, barely making any
sound, his mouth right at her ear. They found each
other’s hands and held tight. Angélique
nodded, knowing that Albert could not see her but it
didn’t matter, they were in complete agreement about
every moment of this horrible exercise. They were forced to
stay while Madame drank from
le Seigneur
, because
if somehow he managed to evade her, she would starve. It
was part of their job, keeping these two alive, even though
they were somewhere north of four hundred years old by now.

Vampires could use a Kevorkian, thought Angélique.

Some things are worse than death, thought Albert.

They stood in the abject darkness and listened to the sound
of the old woman sucking at her husband’s carotid
artery, to the sound of his groans, and to her moans of
pleasure. Madame always took her time, and never rushed a
meal, like the proper French aristocrat she was.

Jo walked back to the Château from
Mourency–already calling it
home
in her
mind–wrestling with a bit of disappointment that
David had not tracked her down in the village or called her
cell phone. She had fully planned not to answer when he
did, so she felt robbed of being able to ignore his call.

Not to mention, just being away from him for a matter of
hours, the sexual tension in her body was already building
to levels that demanded action.

What in the world does he
do
all day? she thought,
not for the first time. And where
is
he?

She loved the walk down the long drive with its straight
section lined with plane trees and then the curve towards
the Château. She imagined that she would never get
tired of it. Nor of the pastry she had eaten at the local
bakery. Slightly burnt apricots atop a sort of creamy,
sweet, vanilla paste, gathered up in the lightest, flakiest
pastry imaginable. It was worth coming to France just for
that one pastry. And the brilliance of the desire was that
all that was necessary to satisfy it was a few euros. No
complication. No expected phone calls that do not
materialize.

Jo stepped to one side as a car came up behind her. It was
a small Renault, the top piled high with luggage tied down
with a lot of twine. The couple inside and several children
all waved as they went past, the dog wagging its tail and
jumping up.

A happy family, thought Jo. Ugh. Nothing could tip her mood
from average to utterly depressed faster than the sight of
a happy family.

She made a quick plan for the next few hours: first, a
visit to the stables to check on Drogo and have a quick
chat with Thierry; next, to her room for a little nap and
freshen up. After that, she decided she was allowed to
search for David. He was her boss, after all. Not that she
fooled herself with that excuse. Or probably anyone else,
she thought with a sigh.

Drogo was fine and greeted her warmly, nickering at the
first sight of her. Thierry had nothing special to report;
in fact, he seemed notably unconcerned about readying Jo
and Drogo for upcoming shows. But Jo figured if he
wasn’t worried, then she wouldn’t be either.

That taken care of, she was back in her room, ready to sink
into her freshly-made bed, ready for a nap. It was the end
of the day, dusk already, but the Château served
dinner late so she had enough time. She stretched her arms
over her head and her toes as far down into the crisp
bedding as she could, then twisted, feeling the lovely
stretch all over. A wonderful horse and a talented lover
were having the effect of bringing Jo back into her body,
making her aware of it all the time, its kinks and
strengths, its warmth, tightness, power. She felt herself
drifting down towards sleep.

Faintly, distantly, she heard a door open. She kept her
eyes shut, letting her other senses take over. She heard
footsteps crossing the stone floor and then the rug by her
bed. She felt the covers being turned back, slowly. She
heard a zipper unzip, pants drop to the floor, the creak of
the bed as he slid in beside her.

And then. Jo smelled him, felt him, released herself to
him. He smelled like furniture polish, with just a hint of
the barn. Jo inhaled every molecule she could.

David murmured French into her hair, her neck, while his
hands went all over her, as though he had to touch every
single inch of her at once. Her whole body lit up like
strings of Christmas tree lights plugged in at once,
flashing, pulsating, intensely bright and joyful.

“I missed you,” she said, taking his face in
her hands, and then kissing him, kissing him as though
their separation had lasted for months across continents.

David was instantly hard, and wanted to take her
immediately, to pierce her, impale her, bite her, and
satisfy himself.

But he controlled himself. He rubbed his prick on her leg
and then on her mound, lifting himself on his elbows and
looking down at himself and at her. He felt his fangs shoot
down.

Jo was so happy he had come to her. That he had been
wanting her just as she had been wanting him. Just that
thought alone was practically enough to push her to the
brink of orgasm.

She wriggled out from under him, taking an appreciative
glance at his ever-impressive hard-on. David was sitting up
and she threaded her legs around him, sitting in his lap,
so that his mouth was right at breast-level.

“Your sucking,” she whispered to him, “is
something that belongs in the Olympics.”

David did not need a bigger hint. He let his lips graze her
nipple, then the other nipple, teasing her until she arched
her back, and when she raised her hips so that he could
enter her, he took one rosy tip deeply into his mouth,
sucking noisily, while with his hand he rubbed her on that
most intense place, her juices drenching his erection, the
two of them moaning together, crying out, delirious.

Tristan Durant got up from his desk and went to the window,
looking out at a rather poor view, just an unremarkable
side street and a sliver of trees along the river if he
looked all the way to the left. He sighed. He had allowed
himself to get sidetracked in Paris, terribly sidetracked,
and now he found himself back in Mourency with plenty of
unanswered questions and no one on his staff that he felt
comfortable enough to talk with openly.

But just thinking the word “Paris”, led him to
think the word “Jessica” and the words
“Hotel Dauphin” and his mind was flooded with
images of her in that place, Jessica with the sheet wound
around her lanky body, Jessica leaning out of the balcony,
calling to him on the street to hurry and come up, Jessica
stepping out of the bath looking like a goddess, reaching
for him.

Oh
stop it,
he thought, for about the two
thousandth time since boarding the train for home.

It seemed as though being cooped up made it even more
difficult to focus his thoughts on something other than
Jessica, so he gave the door a slam and went out, around
the corner to the street that followed the river. The trees
were bare of leaves, but at least there were trees.
Sometimes Tristan got tired of looking at old stones.

He ran down the list of his staff, all three persons of it,
trying to determine if any of them were trustworthy enough
to be part of his slayer team. Michel is only thinking of
who he can sleep with next. Louis? Eh. Maybe. He’s
reliable enough. He’s not a blabbermouth. But does he
have…what is it I am looking for? Tristan wondered.
Imagination, is that it? Possibly Roland is the better
choice. He is strong, but not headstrong. And not an idiot.
But is he too old?

Tristan realized that he was trying to imagine these men
performing the duties of a slayer, but beyond getting past
that first hurdle of being able to speak out loud about the
existence of vampires–vampires here, in
Mourency–and being brave enough to risk ridicule by
doing so publicly, he did not really have the details
straight on what exactly was required.

Yes, before going to Paris he had been all hot to wipe out
the vampires from his village. But now his mind naturally
began to explore the other side just a bit. Did every
vampire deserve to be killed? Were they by definition not
worthy of a trial, of any benefit of the doubt at all?

Did it count as murder if you killed someone who was not
technically human? Or already dead?

He stepped onto the footbridge going across the river and
stopped in the middle, resting his elbows on the railing
and looking down at the water slipping by. The talk of
wooden stakes and silver crosses had been interesting, in a
historical sort of way, but Tristan was a modern man. He
thought there must be modern ways to dispatch vampires.
Methods that were less medieval. And hopefully not too
messy.

Quickly, before he could talk himself out of it, he whipped
his cell phone out of his pants pocket and tapped in
Jessica’s number.

“Good afternoon,” he said, the tone in his
voice hearkening back to the days and nights they had spent
at the Hotel Dauphin.

“Hello there,” said Jessica.

Tristan could hear her smile, and here we go again,
immediately the fabric in his crotch tightened and he tried
to make discreet adjustments.

He cleared his throat. “I’m trying to do a bit
of work,” he said. “And I have more
questions.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Jessica. He could
hear that she was still smiling.

“One thing,” he started, desperately trying to
stay on topic. “All right, so the danger to the
community posed by…” he lowered his voice to a
whisper, “…vampires is that number one, they
can always choose to force someone into vampirism. And some
vampires actually delight in doing this.”