Killer Temptation (17 page)

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the ball.”

She shrugged, and the small, unconcerned movement made his palm touch her shoulder. The warmth of his breath ventured over her ear.

“It doesn’t matter now,” she replied, not hiding her emotions. But, that was it; no passion possessed her insouciant voice.

She waited to snap out of it, expected it when Cynthia applied her makeup and helped her dress, but hadn’t. A part of her, though, didn’t want to lose this bewildering numbness. It blinded her mind, controlled her body in an unnatural way, but it was better than the pain, nicer than the sorrow, and healthier than the truth.

“We have so much to discuss, Brianna. About—”

“Don’t!” she rushed out. “Please, just don’t. I can’t do this right now. I can’t become emotional, not when we’re about to face a room full of people…vampires, whatever. Just, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

Heading for the door, he cleared his throat, snagging her attention. He pointed to the several pair of shoes near the sofa. “You forgot footwear.”

“Oh.” She chose a pair of high, black heels. A warm hand wrapped around her arm to steady her while she slipped into the shoes. Her gaze shot up and met with his. He observed her in silence. “Thanks,” she mumbled. As she eased her arm out, he laid his hand over her own, securing his hold.

She shot him a look for the sly move, but the severe expression on his face told her he wasn’t flirting. His eyes were shut, breathing uneven, and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. If she didn’t know any better, she guessed he wanted to puke. “Hey,” she said. “Are you okay?”

He sucked in a quick breath, opened his eyes and nodded. “Fine. Shall we?”

They headed out the door in silence, making their way down the long, torch-lit passage. She could never acclimate to the eeriness of the place, in particular the maze-like hallways extending for miles. Its length did not scare her, but the darkness abounding them reminded her of something in a horror film; the sort she rolled your eyes at when the two clueless sorority sisters enter into that same gloominess. She felt like one of those girls.

The orange-yellow glow from the lit torches shed light between the splotches of black along the wall, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand. What if a threat awaited her within the dark silhouettes? Perhaps a colony of bats?

“Are you cold?”

“No, I’m fine.” She must have shuddered at the thought of bats. They turned a corner, leading to an open area. Several stalagmites stood amid the centre and they passed them to make their way down a small staircase. The soft sound of a violin resonated from a distance.

Wasn’t this place creepy enough, did they have to top it off with music?

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the tiny drops of sweat on his forehead. He looked worse than he had this morning. “You’re not coming down with something, are you?” she asked, breaking their silence.

Tristan cleared his throat. “Maybe I am,” he muttered.

She snorted a laugh. “Vampires don’t age, but they manage to catch the flu? Go figure.”

“We do age, but our growth from child to adult is a slow process,” he confirmed.

Past the stairs, they strode through another long hallway; this one wider and lit with several two-tiered candle chandeliers in a row along the ceiling.

“Why is that? Why don’t you age past thirty?”

“We have the Impures to thank for that. When they transitioned from human to vampire they were all between the ages of twenty-five and thirty, and have remained so since. Their offspring grow to the same age, continuing to live but never growing older.”

Strange, but fascinating. To imagine never aging after thirty was impossible. Growing old was part of life.

The music grew louder with each step. Passing yet another hallway, a set of glossy maroon doors stood within a small foyer.

Tristan took the iron ring handles and drew them back. The music from the violin poured out of the room, a grand room with thousands of stalactites lining the high vaulted ceiling, a spacious dance floor, and hundreds of vampires.

A visible shiver ran through her, jolting her from the blissful detachment of emotions and forcing the reality of the here and now. She expected a room full of vampires, but not this abundant amount of bloodsucking killers, and she was what? Celebrating with them?

More chandeliers hung by chains from the ceiling. Everyone wore black, dark violet, and navy blue clothes; the women in long gowns and lace chokers similar to hers, and the men had dark pants, V-neck jackets—some with shoulder chains—and velvet or lace vests. Burnt frankincense filled the air, giving her the impression of medieval times. The buzz of conversation and laughter hummed against the music, only softening to a murmur when all eyes fell on them.

“Come,” Tristan said, traipsing them further into the room. Applause broke out, and he nodded a greeting to the vampires on his left, then his right. She spotted a pale-faced violinist in one dark corner.

“Do you like the music?” he asked, looking at where her gaze directed. She didn’t expect the softness in his eyes or the stiffness of his body, as though he was beyond nervous and sought her approval. Could that be why he asked the pointless question with a little hesitancy? Did he care about her opinion of this place, of his people?

No, she didn’t like the old music. In fact, she considered old music Elvis, Johnny Cash, and The Beach Boys. The only time she heard an ancient melodic violin like this was at Aunt Taylor’s country club.

“You should have hired Skrillex for the occasion.”

Wouldn’t that be a sight? Watching the vampires squirm like a bunch of seniors, their faces twisting with a sour expression at the sound of Dubstep ringing in their ancient ears.

“Skrillex? I don’t believe I’ve heard of them.”

He no doubt thought she spoke about a symphonic band. “Don’t fret. I don’t think he’s heard of you either,” she teased.

A couple stepped in front of them; a tall man with dark hair in a ponytail, arm around a woman in a velvet, navy blue gown, and a smile that exposed the small points of his fangs.

“Councillor.” He gave a short nod to Tristan. “Miss Johnson.” Then one to her. “I am honoured to share in this celebration. My wife and I would like to be the first of many to congratulate you.”

“Thank you, Anton,” Tristan said to the vampire. “How is the construction you’re working on?”

Brianna lost interest in the conversation, distracted by the smile Anton’s wife gave.

“Hello, Miss Johnson.” She clasped both hands around one of Brianna’s and stepped to the side. “My name is Rosina. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Hi, Rosina,” she greeted, forcing a polite smile.

“I know this place must be unusual for you. I felt the same many years ago when I first arrived.” Rosina waved her hand. “But, it’s not as scary as it seems.”

Wait one minute. “Sorry,” Brianna blinked. “Are you…human?”

“Yes. I met Anton in 1815 at a masquerade in Venice, and as they say, the rest is history.” The woman chuckled, nose wrinkling in amusement. Brianna just stared. Too shocked by the fact the woman had lived down here for almost two hundred years.

“You look so young,” she blurted out.

“Yes, well.” Rosina patted her smooth cheek and leaned in close. “I take my daily dosage, but that’s just me. Whether once a day or once a week, still does the trick,” she whispered the secret. Of course it was a secret. Why else would Rosina grin as though they were two girlfriends sharing personal sex stories over a coffee and muffin? “I guess whatever suits you, so don’t feel like you have to double your intake or anything…I just happen to enjoy the added benefits.” She added a wink with that last part.

Dosage of what? What did this woman take? “What do you mean?”

“Ladies,” Tristan stood beside her, cutting her off. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone important I wish for Brianna to meet.”

“Of course, enjoy your night, Miss Johnson. I hope to catch up with you soon. Maybe we can plan a lunch date sometime.” Rosina waved as Tristan led them away.

“Tristan.” She leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “That woman is two hundred years old.”

“Yes.” He nodded in agreement.

She cocked a brow. “And she’s human. She said something about a regular dosage, dose of what?”

He passed the crowd a guarded look, lowering his mouth to her ear. “It’s a very private and intimate matter, but a dosage of her husband’s blood,” he whispered with careful precision, as though he spoke of something taboo. “That’s how humans become immortal.”

The room spun. She caught his arm before falling on her ass from the sudden dizzy spell shooting through her like a dodge ball.

“Are you all right?” he asked in a gentle tone, gaze darting over her with worry.

“No. I’m not.” Just the thought of drinking from him made her want to puke.

“It isn’t as bad as you think. Many humans say vampire blood is just like a fine wine.”

“Not helping,” she muttered.

“Try not to think about it. You’re turning green.”

She inhaled and exhaled, repeating the action until the churning in her stomach eased.

A man on a throne at the back of the room rose from his seat when they approached. Long white hair flowed to his waist, and he wore a dark green, ruffled ascot shirt with billowing sleeves. His pale, smooth skin held no difference from the other vampires, but his eyes revealed his age and captured her; brown and kind, with a heartbreaking loneliness that had no doubt seen many horrible things throughout the centuries.

A black cape hung off one shoulder, fastened by a gold chain at the collar. He must be someone of importance to sit on a throne. Tristan bowed, and held up her hand. “Lord Sylvestre, I would like for you to meet my
moitié
, Brianna Johnson. Brianna, this is Lord Sylvestre, leader of the vampires.”

Oh, so this was the ringmaster who ran this circus. She remembered Cynthia explaining the history of vampires, about the young man named Sylvestre Marcel who lost his family and wanted to defend himself and his village by taking part in blood rituals. The leader took her hand, and she sucked in a panicky breath when he brought it to his lips.

Don’t bite me. Don’t bite me.

Firm lips pressed against her skin in a chaste kiss. “How wonderful to meet you, Brianna.” His smile filled with warmth, nodding in Tristan’s direction. “I have known Councillor Delacroix a long time, he is a great man.”

Wait a sec. She thought vampires did not age. “Your hair is white as snow. I don’t understand. Is this a new style you’re trying out or natural?”

“Brianna,” Tristan protested, but the laughing leader waved his hand, unfazed.

“You are refreshing,” he chuckled. “The white hair was a hex given by a witch many centuries ago.”

Lost for words and feeling obtuse, she stared at the young-looking vampire, who, for some reason made her want to weep. Damn those eyes; too much sorrow lay in them. Her gaze travelled to the spot beside the throne. A tall, muscular man stood with his arms crossed. A security guard? No other sat with the so-called leader. Sylvestre did not have a wife…
moitié
, whatever. He ruled the vampires alone.

After releasing her hand, he gave one loud clap, which silenced the room. “Tonight we celebrate Tristan and Brianna.” A short applause followed his introduction. “Please feel free to join the couple for their first underground dance.”

A dance? Would this be the vampire’s tradition of a bridal waltz? “I don’t think we…”

Tristan didn’t seem to hear her protest, or perhaps chose to ignore it, and led her onto the dance floor. Other vampires joined them as a new violin tune began. He took her hands, placed one on his shoulder and held the other up high. His free hand then flattened against the small of her back. Taking the lead, he danced them around the room and she struggled to mimic his moves.

At the age of thirteen, her parents took her and Rachel to a school that taught traditional ballroom waltz, but their relentless complaining made their parents give in, and they were in the end placed in a hip-hop class.

Brianna fought hard to remember the few dance steps she’d learned in the first week at ballroom dance school. She stepped on Tristan’s foot, and bit her lower lip. Who was she kidding? She could not remember any lousy steps. So, unless the violinist played some old-school Run-D.M.C, she was doomed.

He squeezed her hand. "Would it hurt to smile? All eyes are on us. After all, this celebration is in your honour, my people want you to feel accepted."

Accepted? By blood drainers? That had to be the dumbest thing she ever heard. He was wrong. They threw this party because he’d found his
moitié
. To everyone else, she represented a beating pulse, an essential vein. Why should she appreciate or be polite to the very beings who’d killed her sister?

A storm of turbulent fury swept over her. He might be able to pretend, but she couldn’t. She wondered if fire shot from her eyes when she stared at him. She didn’t want to be here, around all these vampires, to celebrate something she found abhorrent. All rational thought scurried from her mind as ominous words danced on her tongue, ready to erupt.

"You can tell your people they've wasted their time. I’ll never accept this...this legion of demons!”

The music quieted just as she tossed the insult. He stepped away as if he’d been shocked with electric force. Echoes of gasps and groans reverberated around the room. The vampires openly stared, some in shock, some in anger, and some even with disappointment. They did not intimidate her, not anymore. None of this was her fault. The fact her sister died, the reason they kept her here. The vampires were to blame.
Not her
.

But when her eyes met Tristan’s, a shiver trailed down her spine. Her mouth dried and her heart pounded against her chest at the livid look in his eyes. His green eyes loomed with shadows, a scowl crumpled his features, and she didn’t miss the threatening promise it gave. She was screwed.