Unbitten (32 page)

Tristan Durant had always been an early riser. He loved
getting up in the dark, now that it was November, making
his coffee, getting the wood stove fired up, and sitting in
his kitchen thinking over whatever needed thinking over,
while the sun slowly crept up over the horizon.

Lately, what had needed thinking over, with some urgency,
was Jessica Winston. Their time in Paris had been lovely,
but he had had no illusions about a future with
her–she was a dedicated New Yorker, and he lived in
tranquil Mourency that only had two trains a day and barely
five streets altogether. It was impossible. Yet every
morning, Tristan sat in the darkness, sipping his black
coffee, and tried to think up a way to bring her here, or
go to New York himself, and also, he conjured up more, ah,
intimate subjects, all Jessica-related.

He wanted to Skype with her right now. He didn’t care
how pixilated she might be, he just wanted to see her, to
hear her and see her animated face. It was not quite
midnight, surely she would still be up. She might even be
in a nightie, he thought with a groan. The nightie might
even be translucent, he thought, with a bigger groan.

But he stopped himself from opening his computer, knowing
that while some eagerness was attractive, too much
eagerness was definitely not. He sighed and looked out the
window, sipped more coffee, and turned his thoughts to
work. Before long he decided to get dressed and walk to the
gendarmerie
, where Roland, who also got up early,
was probably already waiting for them to get started.

Jo was up early, skipping downstairs in her riding clothes,
looking forward to breakfast with mouth-watering
anticipation. That apricot pastry, with the custardy layer
of pastry cream, and the apricots that were just slightly
burnt and caramelized–she was praying for that one
this morning. Not that she couldn’t manage if there
were only chocolate croissants. Or the almond ones. She
would survive somehow without the apricot, she thought.
Barely. But today she was leaving for the show, and she
wanted to start off with a taste of perfection–sort
of a good luck charm.

“Good morning, Albert!” she sang out, as she
passed through the grand foyer. “Wish me luck!”

Albert, always perfectly turned out and ready to help
guests with anything they could think of and even some
things they could not, grinned at Jo as she flew by. He
appreciated her enthusiasm for the morning and whatever the
day might bring.

“Good luck, Miss!” he called out as she
disappeared through the salons and out of sight.

The breakfast room was empty at that early hour. She had
just begun to pour coffee into her cup when Henri arrived.
He helped himself to a pot of coffee and stopped at her
table.

She took her first pastry, an almond croissant covered with
toasted almonds, still steaming hot. Her face was lit up
with delight at the prospect of gobbling it down.

Henri sat back and watched Jo eat, transfixed. He
didn’t know why it was so satisfying to him, but it
was. She had such appetite, such enjoyment, it seemed, for
everything.

“
Have
something,” she said with her
mouth full, gesturing at the plate of pastries.
“Really, how can you pass them up? It’s like
opening your mouth and putting in happiness,” she
said, choosing a chocolate one next. “I especially
like the apricot,” she said. “But it’s
not exactly apricot season, is it?”

Henri laughed. He did not know why, since what Jo said was
not even remotely funny. But when he laughed, she joined
him. And he decided for the first time since he could
remember, to eat something while sitting at a table with
another person, instead of eating while reading, or
working, or walking somewhere, off in his own world.

She talked to him about Drogo and her hopes for the show,
about when she had first started riding and how it had
taken over her life so that she spent all of her time at
the barn, mucking stalls and cleaning saddles and boots to
earn money for her lessons. Henri listened to every word,
fascinated by this modern girl with her American life, so
full of desires and enthusiasms, so…human. And, as
she was apparently unable to stop, she talked of apricot
pastries too, and how she did not think she was going to be
able to go back and live in the States if she could not
find anyplace there to buy them.

Her eyes were bright and shining, and to Henri, she seemed
more alive than anyone he knew or had ever known.

It would not be truthful to say that he did not notice the
color in her cheeks, and even, yes, the pulsing artery on
her neck, her lovely, uncovered neck. Henri did notice
these things. And it was becoming harder to ignore, as
well, the effect that she was having on body parts other
than his fangs. Years–more than a century!–of
pushing those feelings away in favor of scientific research
meant that Henri was in danger of being utterly overwhelmed
with lust if he allowed that door to open.

But how could he keep it closed? She threw her head back,
laughing at some little comment he made, and then she
looked at him, her eyes wide, and her mouth slightly open,
smiling an intimate smile, and said goodbye. Three days at
a horse show, plus travel on either end.

Henri was not sure he could last five days without seeing
her.

David was thirsty. He had skipped dinner with the
guests–he was in no shape to manage that–but
now he calculated that the guests would be ambling home,
their bellies tight, their defenses down. He didn’t
understand what had happened last night when he bit
Francis, that drunk and chubby British man who had been
resting on the bench, minding his own business–but he
did know this: that the hours after that bite were the only
respite he had found from the torments of Callie Armstrong,
and dammit, he was going to find that respite again, if
only an opportunity presented itself.

Yes, it was rather gross to be feasting on men. Disgusting,
really. Men having sex with men–eh, to each his own
taste. But a man biting another man, that was just nasty.
He would have been the first to look down on any male
vampire he knew that did it. God knows if his father found
out…David shivered. His father might be old and weak
and stuck in that dungeon, but this might be just the thing
to snap him out of it, and David did not want to spend a
second imagining what would happen then.

He shaved, washed up, brushed his glossy hair, and selected
his clothing carefully as always. David did not allow a
crisis, no matter how personal, to affect his presentation.
He checked himself out in the mirror, turned, and admired
his backside. Then with a speed so rapid he could barely be
seen, he was out the door and down the stairs and outside,
then walking slowly, playing the part of younger brother to
the Marquis, proprietor of the
chambre
d’hôte
.

Francis and his wife had followed their intended schedule
and left that morning, with no mention of any trouble, at
least that David had heard about, and he had no pile of
texts from Angélique so he felt safe on that score.
The thing now was to stroll along here in the chilly air,
until someone–oh, look here! It’s the man from
Brazil who only just arrived this morning. Doubtless he is
tired from all that travel, and the wine has gone to his
head. David watched the man stumble and weave down the path
on the way to his cottage.

At least it’s a relief not to have a wife to bother
about, thought David happily, walking quite slowly, letting
the man get to his door and fumble with the keys before he
stepped in to help, ever the genteel host.

He got the man inside and took a look at him. Objectively,
he was a reasonably attractive man in his early thirties,
his eyes glazed from fatigue and too much food and wine. It
was nothing for David to get him settled in an armchair,
and then come up behind him and bite, sucking, tasting that
heady flavor of wine in his blood, slurping him up. The
Brazilian man barely seemed to take in where he was or that
David was there.

For a moment, David regretted how it used to be, with
women–how wonderful it had felt to see their eyes
shining with desire for him. He did miss that. But the
moment passed, as they always did with David and regret.

Ah, he thought, finally lifting his head and wiping his
mouth. Blissful escape and deliverance. He could feel the
wonderful dullness set in, as his raw nerve endings were
gently assuaged, and the pain receded. Then he stuck a
bandage on the bite marks and said good night, reminding
himself to check and see whether this tasty guest might be
staying long enough for another bite later in the week.
David reeled out of the cottage, forgetting to close the
door.

Vampires don’t get drunk. Unless they do.

Two days later, Henri had slept during the train ride to La
Baule, and then after that in his very nice hotel room, and
so getting up before noon to attend his very first horse
show was no problem at all. He had his anti-sun gear, with
some new improvements, so that he could sit in the outdoor
bleachers and watch the action without fear of getting
burned up. The remaining problem–and frankly, Henri
was happy to have a problem to worry over, a nice,
uncomplicated scientific problem–was that he did not
know how close he could get to the horses without setting
off a reaction and possibly endangering the riders.

What Jo would think when she saw him, how she would
react–well, he couldn’t control that. He just
wanted to see her jump Drogo. He thought it was wrong for
the Château to hire her and send her to participate
in this prestigious, and potentially dangerous, event,
without anyone from the Château even in attendance.

At least, that was what he was telling himself.

He decided the safest thing was to go to the venue and make
his way near the stables, and he would be able to see what
effect he was having before any events were underway.
It’s mostly just a matter of distance, he guessed.
And smell.

Pierre had given him some ideas with his use of the
women’s green clay facial mask as a way to block the
sun. Henri had combined the idea of using mineral particles
with some of the principles behind his bandages, and come
up with a kind of mask that was virtually indistinguishable
from skin, not unless you were really right up close and
trying to see it. It moved like skin moved, so that it
actually looked more realistic than some of the faces at La
Baule who had gone in for perhaps more plastic surgery than
was wise.

It was fiddly to get on though, and Henri was stuck in the
hotel bathroom, leaning close to the mirror, for much
longer than he wanted to be. Finally the thing was done,
and he ate a quick breakfast and headed out, one eye out
for Jo always. The arena was not far from his hotel, and he
was happy to walk.

Being outside in the middle of the day was still–and
would probably forever be–a novelty, and he enjoyed
the social contact of being in a crowd of strangers,
listening to bits of conversation, watching them interact.
He was an imposing man, tall, with his broad shoulders and
chest, and strong bones in his face, and many in the crowd,
especially the women, took a second look. With the new
mask, he was tempted to forgo the hat, but even though his
hair was very thick and long, he did not want to risk it.
Instead of the wide-brimmed straw hat, he wore a gray
fedora, which, judging by the expressions on the women who
looked, had been a very good decision.