Seven bedchambers, a ballroom and a twelve-stall stable told the world Henri Chevalier could afford anything he desired. Yet he would never be so conceited as to state it himself. Flaunting one’s riches was considered lewd.
Blanche generously shared her wardrobe, and kept an entire room devoted to shoes. By delicious coincidence, Viviane wore the same gown and shoe size as her patron’s wife.
Viviane’s home in Venice was as richly decorated, but it was old. Most furnishings had been acquired in the sixteenth century, and were in desperate need of reconditioning. The plaster walls were cracked and water seeped in the north entry hugging the canal.
Alas, those repairs would never be made. Viviane kept her current financial condition close to heart. It was not dire, but could become so if she did not invest properly, and soon. Pity, the last notaire who had invested well for her had died of sudden blood loss.
Sometimes she simply could not control her hunger, especially when sated by a handsome young man.
Ah, but she had survived alone two centuries; she would beg no man for help now.
And no Casanova vampire lord would entice her to change those principles of independence with the suggestion of marriage. It mattered little that Henri had last evening suggested his approval for the union, if and when Lord de Salignac put forth the offer.
Viviane had attended the Salon Noir twice since arriving in Paris. The Salon Noir mirrored Marie Antoinette’s court with lavish clothing, jewels, courtly titles and decadence, save the attendees were vampires, werewolves, demons and other Dark Ones. Faeries from the Sidhe nation, and a familiar or two, attended in fewer numbers. The Light—the witches—kept away due mainly to their differences with the vampires. The vampires did not mind at all since witch’s blood was poisonous to them.
If you were dressed well, and not human, it was a given you’d been invited to the Salon Noir.
During her second visit to the salon, Constantine had been preoccupied with his patroned kin until she had sashayed past him. She had heard the thud of a woman’s backside hit the marble floor as Constantine pushed her from his lap and sauntered after Viviane.
When Constantine de Salignac walked through a room, all eyes followed his regal lift of chin, those steely gray eyes that saw things before everyone else, that compressed mouth, which could utter a biting jest, or indeed, bite.
Being a tribe leader, Lord de Salignac was expected to populate his tribe with bloodborn vampires. That was possible when a child was born to two vampires. So he blooded mortal women recently transformed to vampire in hopes they would be able to carry his child. It was a long process that could take years before the new kin could even conceive.
Viviane did not care to be another woman feathering his elaborate damask-and-gold nest.
As well, vampire lovers were risky. Most insisted on sharing the bite, which was a means of bonding to one another through the blood. Taking another vampire’s blood was something she had reserved, as most did, for one exquisite relationship that would bond them both in body and blood. It was not to be considered lightly.
Dragging her fingertips over the opalescent bathwater, Viviane sighed and dismissed the dread thoughts. The bath was two parts water, one part milk. Wine and mulled spices had been stirred into the exotic witch’s brew.
Portia, Blanche’s maid, popped her head inside the circular tepidarium. “What is your opinion, mademoiselle? Is the scent not divine?”
“Devastatingly indulgent,” Viviane drawled. “You were quite right regarding my pleasures, Portia. How is it you know so much about what will please a woman when you’ve led a subservient life?”
“Fantasies, my lady.” Portia winked, and dismissed herself.
Viviane wondered if Blanche would allow her to abscond with Portia when finally she returned to Venice. The attentive maid was a prize to hoard.
Viviane had skipped the Versailles soiree Blanche had pleaded she attend. Seeking the king’s eye, and Queen Marie Antoinette’s favor, interested her little. The gossip Blanche would report upon their return would suffice.
Stretching her arms about the curved marble pool, she closed her eyes. Tilting her hips, she let her legs float to the surface. Her toes popped up in the milky sheen, a string of pebble islands.
An acrid taste suddenly stung her throat. She pressed a hand to her chest and coughed.
That was odd. She wasn’t ill. Vampires rarely contracted a human malady. Must be the intense scent of the spices.
A convulsion in her gut forced up a hacking cough. A bead of crimson expanded on the white surface before her.
“What …?”
She touched her lip. Blood painted her fingers. Now she tasted it in her mouth, metallic and hot.
A spike of feverous heat clenched her heart. Sucking in a breath, she slapped her palms on the water. More blood eddied up her throat. She tried to call for Portia but, wrenched forward by the sudden sharp pain in her chest, her head plunged under the milky surface.
Viviane swallowed the odious blend. Surfacing, she choked up another throat-burning spasm. Blood swirled into the white.
She felt a stabbing pain at her breast.
“Portia!”
Thrusting her naked body aside, she landed on the ceramic-tiled floor. Heaving blood, she cried out as the pain ceased.
Three leagues west of Paris, en route to Versailles
THE STAKE BURST HIS HEART. Henri stumbled, groping at the thick wooden dowel. His attacker growled and slashed talons across his throat. Blood choked into his mouth and blurred his vision as he collapsed before the carriage. In eyesight lay Blanche, her head severed from her neck. Crimson spattered her blond ringlets.
The werewolf who had charged the carriage, leaping to grab the coachman from his post, stomped his paw on Henri’s head, crushing it into the soft mud.
NO FUNERAL WAS HELD FOR EITHER Henri Chevalier or Blanche. A team of four vampires had been dispatched to clean the scene of assault before dawn and collect the vampire ash. The carriage was burned. The ash was thrown into the Seine.
According to rumor, a werewolf had murdered the couple.
Viviane did not attend the Salon Noir for weeks. But though her heart ached for her patron she was not a woman to dwell in sadness.
Now, more than ever, she must be vigilant for her own future.
CHAPTER THREE
THE HôTEL DE SALIGNAC SAT at the west end of the Tuileries on the rue Saint-Honoré. Tonight the four-story town palace’s cobbled fore-courtyard boasted carriages parked tail to head. A blazing touchier, brandished by an iron Aphrodite, held reign center courtyard to welcome the Dark Ones.
It was rumored Lord de Salignac privately entertained the queen and her ladies on occasion. Marie Antoinette was said to be particularly fond of Salignac’s aviary, ill contained as it was. The birds had the run—or rather flight—of the palace.
Moving through the ballroom, Rhys Hawkes took in the faces. Among the crowd, the vampires were easy to spot. Pale flesh was not the most obvious giveaway—for mortals used cosmetic powder to achieve the same effect—but rather the imperious lift of nose as they practiced their ill-gotten aristocratic airs.
Rhys was thankful he’d not developed the snobbish mannerism innate to Parisian vampires, though at times like this he realized it best he at least adopt an air so he did not draw the sort of attention he abhorred—disdain.
He did not sense any wolves in attendance, besides his companion Orlando, and that put Rhys ill at ease. The Salon Noir was a sort of safe ground for all breeds of Dark Ones to gather, but Rhys knew well vampires had an irritating manner of labeling werewolves animals and claiming themselves the civilized breed of Dark Ones. As well, find a werewolf eager to embrace a vampire and you’d find an omega wolf ostracized from the pack.
He would stay so long as required to sniff out any suspicious sorts.
Two vampires had been murdered a fortnight earlier east of Versailles.
Rhys had been recruited by the Council, which had representatives from all the paranormal nations, to discover the culprit and the reason behind the heinous act. He would be accepted as a seated Council member after he’d solved the mystery. Field investigation was a lowly assignment, but he didn’t mind. A man should have to prove his worth if he wished to claim merit.
The black-and-white harlequin ballroom floor buzzed with an assorted enclave, ranging from the dourly macabre to the flighty giddiness of the Sidhe. A few pairings of four danced an intricate quadrille flowing from three violins and a boxy harpsichord.
Low, black wrought-iron candelabras flickered a circus ring of amber flames. Rococo frieze lined the upper walls with what appeared to be cupids vomiting roses and birds. Rhys noted bird guano smeared the black-and-silver-striped English paper on the wall to his left.
The ballroom was a bustle of animated expressions, studied smiles and practiced gestures. Men dodged powdered and beribboned wigs. Women tapped damask shoulders and the occasional cheek with a communicative flip of their lace fans.
