Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

éTIENNE

October 15, 1765

Chateau de Champs-sur-Marne

It was better than the dreams I was used to. Soft pink lips parted in ecstasy—heavy-lidded violet eyes glazed with desire—my throbbing cock sliding into warm, wet silk. Attempting to hold onto the blissful vision, I kept my eyes closed and snaked a hand beneath the sheets, intent on alleviating my growing need. A rough moan escaped my lips when I grasped my erection.

"I see you're awake."

My eyes flew open and I jerked upright— mistake . Blinding pain rioted through my brain. I clutched my head and fell back on the bed with a curse.

" Merde ," came the voice again. "Don't try to get up yet. The doctor said you would be weak for some time."

I took stock of my surroundings and the confusion only made my head ache more.

"Daphne?" I rasped. My parched throat felt like sand.

"I'm here, étienne," she said. "What do you remember?"

Things were fuzzy. I tried to piece together my remaining memories, but everything seemed unclear.

"Where am I?"

I closed my eyes to block out the pain. I was in a bed somewhere. The room was dark and cool, and smelled like damp earth and stone.

"You're in my wine cellar," she said. She came to the side of the bed and tipped a glass of water to my lips. I drank deeply.

"Should that mean something to me?" I grumped, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I felt several days' growth of beard. "I don't remember much right now, so I'd be much obliged if you filled in some of the blanks."

She busied herself at a small table by my bedside and returned with a shallow porcelain bowl filled with— it couldn't be .

"Whose blood is that?" I asked, surprisingly concerned given my weakened state.

Daphne's pale cheeks and tight lips expressed her disapproval without words.

"I haven't murdered anyone on your account, if that's what you're asking," she said tartly.

Questions formed in my brain, but the smell of the blood made me ravenous. I didn't know how long it had been since I'd fed, but considering I felt like I'd been run over by a stampede of horses, I assumed it had been a while. Normally I preferred to drink from the thigh veins of women in the throes of passion, but I supposed beggars couldn't be choosers.

"It's warm," I remarked, taking the bowl from her.

She sniffed haughtily. "Well, of course it is. My cook kept it at the proper temperature. I assume you don't eat it—drink it—cold."

My fangs distended and I drank from the bowl voraciously.

Never had I tasted anything so delicious. Good God. Rather than quenching my burning thirst and alleviating the painful hunger, I felt a bigger, more desperate need—lust. The desire for sexual release and more blood—no, more of this blood.

It must be because I haven't fed in so long, I thought, unsettled.

Already, I felt strength returning to my muscles. The ache in my head began to ebb.

Daphne took the empty bowl from me and set it back on the table. She crossed to one of the dusty crates, grabbed a bottle of wine, and uncorked it with practiced efficiency. She let out a shuddering breath and raised the bottle to her lips for a long swallow. She tilted the bottle in my direction, offering me a swig. I declined.

"Daphne, are you all right?"

With the sharpness of my supernatural senses coming back to me, I finally noticed her disheveled appearance. She wore a plain day dress of navy cotton that had smudges of dust and blood on it. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and several blonde curls escaped her lace cap. She'd been watching over me.

She cast me a withering look and chugged from the wine bottle again. When she was down a quarter of the bottle, her shoulders relaxed a bit and she came back to sit in the bedside chair.

Clearing her throat, she pointed at me accusingly.

"Now that you're not dead—or undead—re-dead?—you have quite a lot to answer for, Monsieur."

"I'm listening," I grumbled. Not like I had any choice in the matter. I was still too weak to leave and belatedly I realized I was naked beneath the covers.

She got up and strode anxiously around the room, like some kind of wildcat in a cage. I wondered how long it had been since she'd slept. She put the bottle to her lips again, but merely sipped at it this time.

"This is a fine Bordeaux."

Distracted, she offered me the bottle again. She obviously didn't want to drink alone. I took it from her and poured some into my empty water glass.

" Santé ," I toasted. It really was a fine Bordeaux.

Heaving a great sigh, she sat once more.

"I have broken so many oaths these last few weeks, I fear the punishments awaiting me—in this life and the next." She scrubbed one hand across her face, trying to wipe away some of her fatigue.

"Did you ever know my brother, Michel? Before he died, he was… He would have enjoyed your company, I think."

I shook my head. "No, I did not have the privilege. I returned to Paris some time after he died."

"After he was murdered," she corrected. She sipped her wine. "He was the Duc de Lorraine for such a short time. Less than a year. He inherited the title after both of our parents died from consumption. He had such plans, étienne. He was on his way to becoming a remarkable man and a dutiful steward of my family's title. His only worry was about siring an heir. He was never inclined to enjoy the company of women, even during his teenage years when all men are predisposed to—what is the phrase?— sow their oats . Not Michel. He was content with his books and his music and was dedicated to his duties. It never bothered me that he desired other men. I loved him so much—I didn't care. I only wanted his happiness. Things were simpler then, when we thought we had a lifetime ahead of us. But fate—she always has other plans for us, no?"

"Truer words were never spoken, Duchesse." Unease threaded through me. I worried where her recollection was going, and why she seemed compelled to share it with me now.

"Michel knew his duty. He did plan to marry and produce heirs. His predilections are not uncommon—he knew he could marry for duty and find a lover outside the marriage bed. He planned to provide for me, as well, because he did not want me to marry for anything less than love. If I cannot marry for my happiness, chérie, at least you shall , he said. My poor Michel! How I have dishonored his memory with my choices."

A tear spilled down her cheek and she swirled the wine in the bottle.

"When they found his body at the front gate of his chateau, he was naked—drained of every drop of blood. His lover—some vampire merchant, the gossips said—had killed him and tossed his body in the street like some piece of trash."

Christ. No wonder she harbored a grudge.

"I swore vengeance, of course. Against his lover—a man I still do not know the identity of—and against anyone who would prey on another's weakness. Against vampires. All vampires," she said with conviction. "It's one of the reasons I joined The Order. And yet, here you are. The most well-known vampire in all of Paris. Languishing in my wine cellar, drinking blood that I myself have served."

She said this last with only a slight hint of animosity, tilting her head at me curiously. She seemed struck by the absurdity of the situation. She chuckled to herself, but there was pain beneath it. Fresh pain, it seemed.

"Daphne." I reached for her, but she jerked her hand away. I cleared my throat again and ran my hand through my hair—unbound and tangled with the remnants of fevered sleep. "You could have staked me at any time, or allowed me to die, just like The Order commanded. Why didn't you?"

She was quiet for a long moment.

"I suppose…even though you are a vampire, it seems that perhaps you are the one being preyed on."

"Tell me what happened. How did I end up in your wine cellar, of all places?"

"You don't remember anything?"

I shook my head. Flashes returned to me—a young woman, a strange taste, then blackness. Anxiety knotted my stomach. I'd been unaware of any biological weaknesses brought on by the plague, save for the sensitivity to sunlight, garlic, and of course, wooden stakes. It seemed there was something else in this world that could wipe out my supernatural advantages—something unknown to me. The thought did not sit well. For someone who'd only just gotten used to the idea of immortality, I found myself remarkably concerned with it ending so soon.

"I sent you a message two weeks ago. You were to come here so that we could continue our investigation into Jeanne's death. Her missing ring. You arrived in the evening, but you were different—very unlike yourself. Your eyes were red, and your behavior was…" she trailed off, sounding wounded.

I'd hurt her . My dead heart clenched at the thought.

"I was what?" I pressed.

" Ungentlemanly ."

Hell. That could mean anything. I opened my mouth to find out more, but she hurried on.

"You were eventually overcome, and you fainted in my parlor. My staff helped me set up a bed here in the wine cellar—the only underground room in the chateau and the only place safe from the sunlight—and I sent for a doctor. I don't mind telling you that I had some time trying to find one who was familiar enough with vampire biology, but this doctor has proven to be very knowledgeable. She is staying upstairs in one of the guest rooms. I'm afraid I insisted that she remain on the grounds until you either expired or recovered."

I tried not to smile at her tyrannical tone. I was beginning to enjoy the high-handed way she managed her world.

At that moment, there was a knock on the heavy wooden door, and a curvy, dark-haired woman with spectacles entered. My brows rose in interest.

"Doctor Van Helsing," Daphne greeted. "Your patient appears to be recovering his faculties. I must congratulate you on your skill."

The doctor smiled and bustled over to me. She fussed about, examining my eyes and mouth, and pulled a red vial from her bag.

"Drink please, Monsieur," she instructed through a thick Dutch accent. "This should help."

"What is it?" I couldn't keep the suspicion from my voice.

"Virgin's blood. It will help restore much of your strength. Mind you, don't spill a drop—it's hard enough to find a virgin in Paris these days," she complained.

I tossed the vial back and felt a surge of euphoric power rush through my body. Mon Dieu . No wonder everyone was always banging on about drinking the blood of virgins. As restorative as it was, I still longed for more of the blood from the porcelain bowl.

"Now then," the doctor said. "Do you remember the last person you ate?"

Daphne was putting dishes on a tray, pretending not to listen. I felt strangely uncomfortable going into the details with her there, but I didn't think she'd respond well to my request that she leave. Merde .

"Vaguely," I hedged.

"Someone new?"

"Yes, why?"

"You were suffering from an acute attack of quicksilver poisoning. It enters the blood and affects the mind—usually resulting in brain fever and a kind of madness, which, when untreated, leads to a very unpleasant second death. Vampires seem to be more susceptible to its symptoms than humans, but not many people know that. The contaminated blood must be removed from the body of the infected, which is a very difficult procedure. You'll also feel weak, I imagine, for some time until you can feed enough to heal completely."

"How does one succumb to quicksilver poisoning?" Daphne asked.

The doctor handed me two more vials of blood.

"Take one vial just before sunrise for the next two days. You will recover entirely if you allow yourself the proper time to rest," she instructed. "As to the method of poisoning, I believe it was in the blood of the last person you ate, which means they deliberately ingested it before you fed on them. At the risk of sounding dire, Monsieur, I think you should make sure your affairs are in order. You seem to have a very formidable enemy who wants you dead."