Strictly gothic midnight.., p.12
Strictly Gothic (Midnight Rose Book 1), page 12
“Opportunity! Ah, yes. She certainly to the opportunity to wreak havoc on the locals the few times she escaped this comfortable prison,” Remy interjected. “It was fortunate the hurricane swept through when it did the last time, or we’d never be able explain the mass of bodies she left in her wake.” Remy shot a quick glance at Simon, and then addressed the noble physician. “Ruben, I applaud your effort, but we must not temp fate. Simon is our master; we cannot risk his being called before the council and given the ultimate punishment for harboring a revenant.”
“Enough!” Simon made a slashing motion with his hand. “I am not arguing that we end her existence. That is not why I called you here.” At his words, Ruben and Antonia gasped aloud and eyed each other with relief. “But hear me; there must be no more escapes, and absolutely no outside visitors to the cottage. What would have happened if the guests you enticed here to meet Arabella were Guardians? They would have killed all who abide here without mercy.”
Antonia’s eyes were shimmering with tears. Ruben took his daughter’s hand, patted it, and spoke softly to her. Simon understood her pain. Toni loved Arabella. Toni had grown up with Arabella as a beloved auntie. Ruben was right in one thing; it had been Edgar’s death that had affected Arabella’s mind. Her hatred of Simon began when he made her into a vampire, but that was not the cause of her madness. It was losing her beloved, and very likely, her true inamorato, that had unhinged Arabella and made her the dangerous creature she now was.
“As your maker, your liege lord, I must make decisions that benefit the entire family, not just for the good of the one. This situation has gone on for too long without change. It is only a matter of time before we are discovered. So, unless you have definitive proof of a treatment that actually works on vampires, Ruben, we will have a grim decision to face in the near future.”
“All I’m asking for is a little more time, my lord.” Ruben moved forward and bowed before Simon in the traditional manner. “I am close to reversing the process. And in the meantime, Antonia will work to help Arabella remember who she was before Mr. Poe courted her.”
“Oh, sure!” Remy scoffed. “Go ahead, make her remember being Arabella the Aristocratic Bitch who thought dying by the guillotine a far, far better thing to do than flee to a savage country to survive the Terror. We miss that sweet young thing, don’t we, brother?”
Remy knew Simon regretted the day he believed himself in love with Arabella Rabideaux, the daughter of a French Marquis. And he regretted the day he’d taken it upon himself to save her, by kidnapping her before the soldiers arrived at her family home take her to prison to await her appointment with Madame Guillotine. Simon had been full of noble and romantic notions as a newly made vampire. He’d been swift to turn his unwilling captive into an immortal so they might live in eternal wedded bliss far from the revolutionary madness in France. He deluded himself in believing that she would love him for giving her eternal life.
Arabella despised him for taking her from the glittering world of Paris, despite the revolutionaries lopping off aristocratic heads. She despised him for bringing her here, to a colonial outpost in the swamps, and for turning her into a demon, as she put it. Simon spent the past two hundred and fifty years paying for his mistaken infatuation. The result of his error was an immortal woman who had gone quite mad, a woman he felt ultimately responsible for.
He could not turn his former fiancée over to the Vampire Council.
Nor could he force her to be killed as Immortal Law dictated.
Simon didn’t love Arabella. He never truly loved her, he realized, after centuries of reflection. He’d been deluded in his own fantasy world, imagining the proud beauty falling in love with him for saving her from both the guillotine and her own mortality. He had been a romantic fool in his youth.
Now he saw her as a pathetic creature, the poor mad thing. He felt responsible in part for her madness, for he had made her a vampire in the first place. Simon owed Arabella the promise of a cure, if indeed there was one. He prayed Ruben was not deceived by hope.
He owed Arabella the chance of becoming whole again.
Twelve
“I was promised the gorgeous gothic redheaded photographer for my new painting.”
Lucien St. Clair shoved his latest victim aside with disgust. The blonde girl was not as resilient as he preferred in his human models. She was fading fast from his enthusiastic feedings and her cowering was wearing on him. He liked a concubine with a little more spirit. They were more of a challenge. “You sent me a text two nights ago promising fresh blood.”
“We tried, my lord, we tried to entice her.” Jasper had a corner in the art studio where he slept. The man was homeless, so he’d made a dirty little camp from a few stolen blankets and a sleeping bag in the corner of Lucien’s sub-terranean art studio.
The befuddled war veteran was a drunk, an outcast from society. Twenty years ago Lucien believed him worth the effort to keep fed and clothed. Now, he was just a flea-bitten old sot. Jasper clutched at his forearm, cradling it protectively as if it were made of fine china. The gaping bone protruding from just above the wrist was raw gore. “She took my hand,” Jasper whined through missing front teeth. “That bitch is back and she’s hell bent on revenge. She killed Eddie, ripped his throat out, and tore off my hand before I could get away from her.”
Lucien laughed at the absurdity of his servant’s report. “Destiny Le Beau is not a threat.”
“She’s dangerous, I tell you. She means to kill you, master. She means to kill us all.”
“She is a child. She will not be able to harm me. Stop cater-wailing and capture that delicious redhead you promised me.”
“I can’t, not without Eddie. We were a team, we was.” Jasper sat up from his dirty corner of self-pity where he’d been wallowing in whiskey since he returned to report Eddie’s demise yesterday morning. He struggled to his feet and approached Lucien in a respectful crouch. “Turn me, master. I will be stronger, better able to serve you if you make me immortal. If I was like you, my lord, I’d not need a partner to bring you pretty models for your paintings. I’d be stronger, even if I were missing a hand.”
For a sparse few seconds, Lucien considered the wastrel’s request. He’d had three human servants in this rural haunt, but now he had two. Jasper was only half a man, old before his time and with about as much verve and bite as a toothless old hound.
No, he would not make Jasper immortal. Any flaws in the human character were magnified when they were turned. Eternity was a long time to have to deal with one’s mistakes and turning Jasper would be another mistake. He didn’t need any more mistakes hunting him.
Several of his creations had turned on him. Disillusioned vampires who regretted exchanging their human frailties for immortality. And they were not the worst of his enemies. Lucien knew his activities would eventually attract the attention of the Guardians of Mankind. He moved frequently to keep his enemies confused. Even so, the Guardians could be counted upon to keep track of mysterious disappearances in rural areas. They studied patterns and plotted their movements like the true hunters they were.
This place had been his sanctuary. He built Bellevue Manor out of the wilds. Lucien mourned the loss of his Bayou paradise. He’d been forced to flee it in the early 20th century, when the Guardians started to get suspicious about the many missing girls in the area. He stayed away for 70 years. He lived in Europe, the East Indies and even in Central America.
And then, after the long separation from his beloved sanctuary, he believed he’d put the Guardians off his scent. 70 years was a long time of inactivity for the area. He’d deemed it safe to come back about ten years ago. He returned every couple of years for a brief time, a few weeks, a month, during which time he devoted himself fully to his art.
Sadly, the human models he acquired didn’t survive the creative process.
Ah, well, true art had its sacrifices. The loss of a few frail human models now and again was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Art patrons through the centuries marveled over paintings depicting deep pathos and raw human suffering. Little did his wealthy human patrons realize the inspiration for most of his images came from the true suffering of his victims.
He’d been an artist in the time of Botticelli, when it was considered a sin to dissect dead bodies in the quest to better understand human anatomy. His patron, a rich Florentine, had turned him into an immortal. Together, they had gloried in the carnal delights of the flesh—until that fanatic monk, Girolamo Savonarola began his malicious purges with his obnoxious Bonfires of the Vanities. Lucien’s prized paintings were burned in the street along with those of many other artists. Fra Savonarola had discovered a nest of vampires in Florence and sounded the alarm. Many nobles, including the Medici’s, were frightened by his growing spiritual power over the poor and uneducated. Florence became ruled by the mobs the monk stirred up with his hell and brimstone preaching. Savonarola had either been a Guardian or had contacts among them.
Many similar purges had taken place in history, often cloaked in religious fanaticism. Fortunately, Lucien had been driven out by only two historic purges by the Guardians of Mankind. First in fifteenth century Florence, then again in late eighteenth century Paris.
This wild remote place in the New World had been his sanctuary, his private preserve after the horrors of the French Revolution. The Guardians discovered many of the decadent members of the aristocracy were vampires and had taken violent measures to contain them.
The guillotine was not designed for a more humane form execution, as history claimed. It was in truth a swift and sure method designed by the Guardians of ridding France of his kind. There were only three ways to kill a vampire; piercing the heart with a stake—be it metal or wood, the substance didn’t matter as much as the piercing. There was burning them with fire (or exposing them to sunlight for several days or weeks at a time, hence the legends of sunlight killing a vampire—it took a very long time by that wretched method), or by cutting off the head.
Lucien had sponsored a small group of vampires to come to the new world during The Terror. There were eight of them in the beginning. He had hoped to create a utopia here in the raw and beautiful backwaters of the unspoiled frontier, far from the Council and the Guardian’s watchful eyes. One by one his devotees left, until only Simon and his lady remained with him. He goaded Simon into turning his lady love right after they arrived in the new world. He told him the girl would love him forever for giving her the gift of immortality. It had not gone according to plan. She hated Simon, blamed him for her foolish religious belief that she was damned by God for all eternity because she was vampire and no longer a human with a soul.
His dream of a vampire utopia was not to be. One by one, his followers left. Even Simon left him in disgust, taking his lady with him. Lucien devoted himself to his art, using humans as models, and then discarding them when he tired of them. He turned a few, and for his efforts, they, too turned on him and fled. The Guardians got word of his wicked appetites and placed Lucien on their most wanted list of dangerous supernatural creatures. As that group became more powerful with the growth of technology and social media, Lucien found the constant need to remain underground, away from civilization and discovery by his enemies.
He’d taken to travelling to remote regions of the world where there was less chance of his being recognized and his photo uploaded by watchers in the Guardian Network. He returned to his Louisiana home infrequently to keep his enemies confused. And even then, he had to rely mostly on his servants to bring him new models, as the Guardians seemed to be everywhere.
He needed a cadre of strong, young vampires to insulate himself from those wanting to destroy him. He needed new followers to hold him in reverence, as Simon Delacroix and his brother had when they were first changed. Back then, they revered him as their maker, their liege lord. Now, if either brother found him, they would stop at nothing to destroy him.
And this sickly, mewling creature wanted to be rewarded with the gift of eternal life?
Jasper would not be a strong ally against Lucien’s growing list of enemies. He would be a liability.
“Come closer,” Lucien soothed. He would let Jasper drink from him, a tiny sip. It would rejuvenate Jasper and keep him loyal—until Lucien no longer had need of him. “A sip of my blood will take away your suffering.”
He extended his hand. Jasper shambled closer and took it eagerly. Lucien bit into his free forearm, opening a vein near his wrist. He let the stinking, empty-shell of a man drink his blood for one minute and then he grasped Jasper’s skull, cupped his forehead in his palm and thrust him backwards, away from him as the man’s greedy, frantic sucking took more blood than he intended.
Jasper crumpled to the floor. Even so, his gaze was beatific, his lips turned up into an entranced smile. “Thank you, my master. The pain is gone.”
With a snarl, Lucien turned away from the servant he’d come to despise. His blonde model was crouched on the floor where he’d left her. She was rocking back and forth like a child, hugging herself. She had on the dirty white corset, the torn stockings and garter, but her sexual parts were nude and readily accessible, the way he preferred his concubines. As he drank in the sight of her pale flesh, he had a wicked-fun thought; her bare ass must be cold on the stone floor. Lucien knew just how to warm it. He hauled her to her feet with his hand on the back of her neck and bent her face down over the leather riding horse he used as a prop in his painting. “Don’t move, my pretty.”
She moaned. Compelled as she was, she couldn’t refuse his orders.
Seeing her posed with her derriere in the air made him hard.
Lust was his inspiration and in order to paint he must feed his muse. His paintings were in high demand by patrons who loved images depicting perversions of the flesh and the bold desecration of puritanical ideals. Humans with Angels; Humans with Demons, Humans with the Undead. A St. Clair original oil painting fetched a high price in the underground art world. Most of his patrons were outlaws to the Council, like he was, renegade vampires who didn’t believe in blending in and trying to play nice with the humans they considered their rightful prey.
He lived for his art. The process of making it made him feel alive and virile. The models he collected provided him with food and sexual pleasure. It was a good life, for the most part. He kept two to three playthings at a time. When he tired of them, he disposed of them discretely. Or, in rare cases he turned them if they intrigued him. That was a bad habit, and he knew it must come to an end. The women he changed usually turned on him.
Destiny Le Beau was one of the few models who escaped his atelier of pleasure and pain.
He thought she had died, as she was very weak, near death when she escaped. He thought she was dead all these years. But somehow, she survived. Someone had turned her immortal.
After almost a decade she was back, and she was looking for him?
The thought tickled him. She could come back to him if she wished. He’d make Destiny his slave for eternity; after he broke her.
Unless that young photographer proved a better choice as his immortal concubine.
Ah, just the thought of that one heightened his pleasure with his concubine. She whimpered. He’d been rough with her, but she was his slave, a thing to be used for food and pleasure. She slid from the horse where he’d bent her over and knelt on the floor, sniveling as she wallowed in her pathetic state. It was time for her to go.
Time to find another plaything, this one was too broken for his tastes.
That red head would do nicely.
Thirteen
Simon listened as Destiny told him her sad tale.
She kept begging him not to be angry. To forgive her for what she had done.
He couldn’t be angry with the dear soul, barely more than a child. She’d been nineteen when she was changed, and that was ten years ago. She was still a child to him, as he had lived over two hundred years.
“It’s all right, Cherie.” he soothed, squeezing her hand as they sat on the sofa.
Remy, who was standing at Simon’s bar at the other end of his living room, indulging his craving for whiskey and blood platelets, a drink he’d invented. He scoffed loudly.
Simon glared at him. Now is not the time, he directed the thought at his brother.
Remy tossed his long ash blond hair over his shoulder with a shake of his head and continued to glower blue fury in Simon’s direction. “An execution is one thing, I’m all for that. The perv deserved to die. But leaving the body behind for discovery by the Sheriff and the locals was not wise. Creates too much curiosity in the method of the murder, and that could be dangerous, for all of us.”
“I’m sorry!” Destiny turned to look at Remy. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“Sorry doesn’t change the situation. If the local law enforcement is aware of the existence of vampires, they may contact the Guardians. If a citizen of Harmony Corners is aware of vampires and has connections to the Guardians, all hell will descend when Special Forces engulfs the entire parish. Let’s hope that isn’t the case.” Remy tipped his head and sucked down the entire cocktail in one long pull.
Destiny had been silently weeping, but at Remy’s rebuke the dear girl’s tears intensified.
Remy, ever the hardened cynic, rolled his eyes to heaven for a moment, and then looked at Simon. “Care for a cocktail, brother?”
Much as he loved his younger brother, Remy could be a total ass at times. Remy had been a child when Simon left France. He’d been eleven years old. Simon went back for him when he was twenty-two and brought him here. Once in Louisiana, after their long voyage by ship, Simon had turned him. He didn’t wish to turn Remy as a boy, as a boy he would always remain. Vampires didn’t age, they remained in the state they had been in when transformed.
