Unbitten (23 page)

Jo, walking slowly, enjoying the brisk night air, wondered
about that plastic bag she had seen Henri hurriedly shove
into his pocket. It had looked like…no, that
doesn’t make any sense. It must have been a juice
pouch. Because what would Henri be doing with a bag of
blood in his pocket?

When David came down to dinner–cranky for sure, not
having gotten anywhere near the absolutely required eight
hours of sleep–he immediately sensed trouble. The
guests that night included a couple from New Zealand who
were ardent walkers, so they were gone all day and only
occasionally returned in time for dinner; Katarina, the
older woman he had spent a few nights with; a noisy family
of Britons, whose myriad children did not get along at all;
a young couple from Italy, who appeared to be in a constant
state of arousal and who looked, no matter when you saw
them, as though they had just climbed out of bed two
seconds ago and were positively drugged by happy sex.

Ten, altogether. They should all be sipping wine, nibbling
on something Marcel sent out, laughing and talking. David
was there to act the well-bred host, massage their egos,
and take their money.

But tonight, something was wrong. The Italians were
heatedly talking with Katarina, and the New Zealanders had
left their table and crowded around, following the
argument.

“I’m telling you,” said Arsenio, the
Italian, “she was supposed to go with us to the
cathedral today, and she did not show up.”

“Maybe she decided the cathedral was going to be a
bore,” shrugged Anne, the New Zealander.

“Why do you say something like that?” said
Marina, the other Italian. Anne made her angry. All that
walking, just to end up where they started! The New
Zealanders were idiots. Nothing but sheep in New Zealand
anyway.

Katarina, trying to bring the tone back to calmness and
reason, said, “There are a million explanations for
why she didn’t show. People change their minds all
the time, they get side-tracked, it’s not something
you have to take personally.”

“I’m _not_taking it personally!” shouted
Arsenio. "What I am saying to you people if you would only
put your forks down and listen to me, is that I am worried
about her! Callie Armstrong is not, what is the American
word, a flake. We have made excursions with her several
times, we have gotten to know her pretty well, and she is
not the kind of person to say she will do something and
then disappear without a word.

“I mean,
Santa Maria!
She has a cell phone.
Why not so much as a text?”

David listened to all this with terror growing in his
heart. Somehow he had convinced himself that if he just
made the girl disappear, that would be that.

But no, apparently, that is
not
that. Not at all.

Callie Armstrong. Is it possible he had never even known
her name?

“Good evening, everyone!” said David, hoping
that the utterly false cheer in his voice was convincing.
“Has Marcel sent out an
amuse-bouche
, any of
his sparkling little tidbits to get your appetites
tingling?” he said, with an equally utterly false
chuckle. He came over to Katarina’s table and put his
hand on her shoulder. He felt a little better, just
touching someone a little familiar.

“These little crackers with
brandade
are
possibly the best thing I’ve ever put in my
mouth,” said Katarina, giving him a wicked smile.
“How does Marcel make it so smooth, the flavor so
deep? It’s just salt cod, for Christ’s
sake.”

“Marcel is Marcel,” said David, smiling
expansively. "His favorite thing is to take the lowliest of
ingredients and make it taste like heaven itself.

“Does everyone have enough wine?” he asked.
“And the wine you have–is it to your
liking?”

David knew that almost all the tourists were a little nutty
on the subject of French wine. They tended to drink too
much of it, feeling that they had to indulge while they
could. And it occurred to him that perhaps drunk guests,
tonight anyway, might be less likely to make the kind of
trouble he was afraid of. Trouble would actually be
excellent, he thought, as long as it was something like
someone tipping over in his chair, sleeping with someone
other than his partner, or starting a political
argument–the usual effects of overimbibing that
they’d seen plenty of once they’d started
having paying guests at the Château.

He gave them all a beaming smile and ducked out, heading
for the wine cellar. This, he thought, is just the night
for a bottle or two on the house.

The wine cellar stairs came up into a narrow hallway just
off the kitchen. It was gloomy down there, rows and rows of
bottles covered in cobwebs, some of them laid down by
great-grandparents. And considering the lifespans in the la
Motte family, that meant some very old bottles. Bottles
with handwritten labels. Aged, ancient bottles that nobody
really knew what was in them.

It made David grouchy, being in the wine cellar. He still
liked the flavor of wine, and the smell of it, but of
course, being a vampire meant that he felt nothing when he
drank it. No moments of euphoria, no relief from stress. He
was amused by the pretensions of some of his guests, who
went on and on about various wines as though the taste was
all that mattered. It was important, no doubt. But when
wine doesn’t give you any kind of high at all? Not
really worth it. The taste all by itself was a little
hollow, though he drank it anyway. Partly because not to
would attract all kinds of attention.

He walked down the rows, picking a bottle here and
there–something good enough that the guests felt
taken care of, but not so good as to be squandering money.

Callie Armstrong. He shuddered again.

Moments after David left the dining room, Jo appeared in
the doorway. She had once more taken her time with her
bath, her hair, and her makeup. She had the glow that comes
from a day spent almost entirely outside, doing something
physical. Her hair was in a loose chignon and some tendrils
had already escaped, framing her face. A bit unusual for
her, she had put on very red lipstick, making her mouth the
center of attention.

“Jo! Come sit with us!” said the Italians, ever
convivial.

She smiled and walked over, trying not to look like she was
looking for David while, in fact, she looked for David.
Threading her way through the tables, she tripped but
caught herself, grabbing the back of Katarina’s
chair.

“Sorry!” Jo said. “Switching into heels
from riding boots always throws me for a loop.”

All the faces in the room suddenly left Jo and looked
towards the doorway.

“Angélique!” shouted Arsenio.
“Finally, you grace us with your presence!”

Angélique smiled, while glancing around, “No,
sorry, I can’t stay. I’m looking for
David?”

“He went to get us more wine!” said one of the
New Zealanders gleefully.

“Looks like you’ve all got a quite a party
going,” said Angélique.

Arsenio leapt up from his table and approached
Angélique. “Yes, yes, and you absolutely must
join us!” Arsenio was totally besotted with his wife,
but he found that having other very attractive women around
only made the sex with his wife that much better. And he
thought Angélique, with her no-nonsense clothes and
her clipboard and air of efficiency, was seriously hot.
Nothing better than a naughty librarian, in his mind.

Angélique paused, seeing all their faces turned so
hopefully towards her. “Let me check with Marcel to
make sure he has enough food,” she said.

Before long, the New Zealanders were dead drunk, the
Britons had told their children to go back to their cottage
by themselves, and the Italians were working steadily on
yet another bottle of Bordeaux. Katarina had eaten and left
early on, after barely saying a word to anyone. Jo had
stopped after two glasses, and was right at the point of
deciding that everyone else was so drunk they were boring;
she had sworn to herself
no David
tonight, no
matter how charming he was.

And, of course, he
was
charming. He kept catching
her eye and smiling private smiles at her. He did not move
to sit next to her, but sat across the table, watching her,
licking his lips, laughing at her jokes. Dammit, she
thought, feeling her defenses crumbling once again.

When Arsenio was telling an involved joke that required him
to speak at least four languages and stand up to make
various hand motions, Angélique leaned close to
David and whispered, “When this winds down, I need to
speak with you. It’s important.”

David was instantly filled with fear but did not show it.
“No problem,” he said, lifting his glass for
yet another toast.

The party went on for several more hours. Jo had gone to
bed, hoping David would follow, but he did not. Katarina
was long asleep, also having hoped David would follow, but
he did not. The New Zealanders collapsed on the table, and
the others left them there to figure things out on their
own. Arsenio was outside with Marina, singing gondolier
songs he was making up on the spot.

David stood at the foot of the stairs trying to decide
whether he could see Jo without biting her. He didn’t
fully understand why the urge was so overwhelming; he
hadn’t experienced anything like it before.

Callie Armstrong. He put his head in his hands for a
moment. Then stood up straight, flexed his powerful
shoulders, and walked outside.

As he approached the door of his lab, Henri had been
thinking about how warm the American girl’s skin had
felt under his hand. He stared into the iris recognition
device. The door had slid open, and he walked forward,
happily expectant, ready to immerse himself in the pleasure
of work.

Nothing could have prepared him for the state of things
inside.

Drawers open. Papers all over the floor. Nothing where it
was supposed to be. He quickly walked through to the back
room, where the actual lab work took place, and gasped.
Beakers overturned, puddles of strange-colored liquids on
the floor, smoke coming from one corner. And a very, very
bad smell.

Henri gagged and fled to the other room, closing the door
behind him. He had never allowed anyone inside, not even
David. But he was going to need help cleaning up this mess,
there was no way around it.

What is going on? he thought. It did not look like simple
vandalism. Rummaging around his desk, he found a tablet
under a stack of papers on the floor and a stylus in one of
the drawers. In his familiar scientific way of approaching
problems, he began by making a list.
POSSIBILITIES
, he wrote out, in his artistic
French script, and underlined it in red.

But there was only one possibility that made any sense at
all. Somebody wants my work, he thought.

The bandage file missing earlier must be part of the same
operation, by the same person or persons. Henri felt a
quick chill go through him, the chill of realizing that
someone had invaded his private space and gotten in all his
stuff, and was very likely prepared to harm him.

He stood up. No fucking way is this going to continue, he
thought.

He got his cell phone out and called David. No answer. He
saw the text about insomnia remedies, shaking his head but
smiling. He texted back asking David to call him. Then he
called the person at the Château who was best at
getting something done: Angélique.

“So sorry, I know it’s probably been a long day
for you,” he said.

“No worries, Henri. But I will tell you, I’ve
been at dinner with David and the guests and I can’t
claim to be perfectly sober.”

Henri was mildly surprised. He had never known
Angélique to do anything but work.

“There’s been a break-in at my lab,” he
said calmly. But his face looked deeply frightening, and if
Pierre had seen it, he might have considered relocating. To
another continent.