Chapter Three #2
And, wow. He wasn’t kidding. They’d already created a weight-lifting area with old paint cans raided from the garage, along with two rows of tires to run through. Roux was doing his best to direct the others, but it seemed more like an every-man-for-himself operation.
Henrik had hammered a series of knee-high posts into the ground and was stretching wire between them, creating one of those low, crawl-through-the-mud obstacles the Marines used.
He stuck to shaded areas as much as possible, like all vampires.
The creatures of the night myth only applied to recently turned vampires.
The older they were, the better they could tolerate sunlight.
Marius was combining several old horse-jumping standards into one tall structure. Was he planning to shimmy over or leap in a single bound, like Superman?
Then again, he was a dragon shifter. Why even bother, unless to train his human body?
Not that it appeared to need much training. He’d stripped out of his jacket and was down to a snug black T-shirt that showed off line upon line of muscle and a broad chest that tapered down to—
—a place I was not interested in, I reminded myself and whirled away to dress.
A thud sounded, and I peered along the length of the building, where something dangled.
My mouth fell open. Bene stood casually at the very edge of the roof, not at all concerned by the drop-off.
Turning his back to the forest, he grabbed a thick rope and rappelled down.
No safety equipment, no belay buddy. He touched down smoothly, then stood beside Roux and gestured back at the roof.
Had he discovered how saggy it was or was he suggesting anchor points for more ropes?
Backing away from the window, I speed-combed my hair, pulled it into a ponytail, and headed to the kitchen just as Madame Picard chimed to summon everyone.
The men filed into the dining room politely, then devoured the meal like ravenous animals — except Henrik, who took neat bites and dabbed his lips like a seventeenth-century gentleman.
Madame Picard hmpfed, reading my mind.
Sixteenth, at least. That is, before he became what he is now. You watch yourself around him, she warned, shooting her harsh whisper directly into my mind.
Not exactly a news flash.
I will, I assured her.
Then Madame Picard sighed to herself. I’ll add more meat to the menu.
Apparently, the more meat a vampire consumed, the longer he could go without blood. The rarer, the better.
Good idea, I agreed. As in all the carpaccio and steak tartare we could get our hands on. But for now…
The meal started with onion soup topped with hearty Gruyère, followed by a main course of fresh-out-of-the-oven quiche Lorraine — two huge ones the men devoured within minutes.
“Good thing I held back a smaller one for us,” she murmured as we passed, bustling in and out of the kitchen.
Happily, lunch was a hit, right down to the cheese platters served — and decimated — for dessert. But food was going to take a bigger chunk of my budget than I’d anticipated.
“Delicious.” Bene kissed and flicked his fingertips.
“Quite good,” Henrik agreed, folding his napkin.
“Can’t wait for dinner.” Roux leaned back from the table.
Marius jerked his chin in a faint nod. That was it. But, hey. He looked slightly less disgruntled than usual.
They lingered around the table for a long time, sipping drinks and generally settling into a post-meal stupor, like lions in a savanna surrounded by the bloody carcass of their latest meal. Marius’s eyes took on a faraway look, and Henrik stared into his wineglass. Even Roux looked a little sleepy.
Bene, bless him, scored major brownie points by helping carry dishes into the kitchen.
“Wow. Is this place for real?” He looked around the massive space.
I grinned. “Nice, huh? It’s the oldest room in the house.”
“You could film a medieval banquet scene here.”
I laughed. “They did, back in the 1950s. Le Fripon de Rougemont.” Sadly, the grainy, black-and-white epic was now forgotten except by members of my family.
Bene nodded, translating the title. “The Rogue of Rougemont. Love it.”
“You speak French,” I observed.
He nodded. “I do.”
“But you’re not French?”
He shook his head. “My parents kept moving. Zimbabwe, Canada, France, England… But I’ve never seen a kitchen like this.”
I moved to the sink, which was big enough to rinse several grouse in — something I’d witnessed Madame Picard do when I was a kid.
A stone fireplace with space to roast an entire ox took up most of the far wall, where a chain still hung, part of a mechanism to turn the spit.
Wooden counters ran the length of each wall, while pots and ladles hung over the center island.
“I’m hoping to rent the space out for filming,” I said. “Movies, commercials, whatever.”
Madame Picard looked scandalized, but Bene nodded readily.
“Good idea. This is amazing.” Then he shot me a wry look. “If only it came with a half-decent coffee machine.”
I ignored that, using his previous comment to segue into a different topic.
“Where are the other guys from? Roux is French, right?”
He nodded. “Marius is Swiss-German, but he’s lived all over.”
Now that was a surprise, but maybe not such a surprise. I loved the tidy perfection of Switzerland, but I knew it grated on some people — especially people who didn’t like to play by the rules.
“And Henrik… He said, the Duchy of…?” I asked.
Bene shrugged. “Part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth that no longer exists,” he said, inching toward the macarons cooling on a counter.
Madame Picard smacked his hand. “Those, young man, are for after dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He hung his head and retreated to the dining room.
I sighed. I could do bossy, but Madame Picard could be downright menacing.
“It comes with age,” she chuckled, reading my mind. “Now, run along and leave me in peace.”
That was one of many qualities that made Madame Picard a godsend — she was happy to rule the kitchen single-handedly, and I was happy to leave her to it.
I took off for a round of errands in my battered old Citroen afterward, stocking up on more groceries, more napkins…
more everything, including enough red meat to feed an entire coven of vampires.
I even wandered through the appliance section of the huge Hypermarché in Auxerre, the nearest town of notable size.
But one look at the price tag of the espresso machines had me scurrying back to the discount aisles.
I made a last stop for more bread at the bakery in Auberre, then halted on my way back to the car.
“Shit,” I muttered, spotting Clement beside it. He pulled out a little notebook and checked the license plate. Oops. Had I parked illegally?
“It’s mine.” I hurried over, adding a meeker, “Sorry!”
Clement looked up and broke into a smile. And I mean, a smile. One so radiant, it made my heart flutter.
Apparently, he was just as single as I was and just as lonely.
“Mina.” Just two syllables, but they rolled off his tongue like poetry.
“Bonjour.” I waved, suddenly self-conscious. “I guess I was in a hurry. No parking here, huh?”
He put away his notebook. “Now you know.”
“You’re not going to ticket me?”
“Now, what kind of welcome home would that be?” His sparkling eyes implied he would be happy to welcome me into his home just as warmly.
Tempting, but I had a house full of shifters — and a vampire — to tend to. And Clement was a police officer, while my guests were definitely on the sketchy side.
My stomach clenched when he eyed the bags rammed into the hatchback.
“Expecting company?”
I gulped and tried to wave it off. “Just a small group renting a few rooms. You know, to offset costs.”
He nodded unenthusiastically. That was the thing with wolf shifters. They were very loyal and very territorial. Inconveniently so, especially since territorial covered places and people.
The way he looked at me made heat pool in my core. That was another thing about shifters — they drew you in, especially when they wanted you.
And, wow. Clement Dulaire, chief of police and studly homegrown son of Auberre, wanted me. There was no mistaking it.
Did I want him? Yes? No? I wasn’t sure.
Either way, my godfather had made it clear he wanted his group to fly under the radar. I couldn’t afford to get involved with the local police chief — a shifter, no less — at a time like this.
“I guess I should go. Unless you’re going to book me,” I joked, jingling my keys nervously.
He grinned. “Not this time.”
But next time… His eyes danced, telling me he wouldn’t give up easily.
Yikes. I sensed trouble, not just over the horizon but galloping right up to the front steps of the chateau.
“à bient?t.” See you soon, I said, opening the car door.
Clement stepped aside, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “See you soon.”
* * *
I barely had time to unpack the car before dinner — another feast, thanks to Madame Picard.
It started with potage Crécy — carrot soup with fresh herbs — followed by a main course of steak au poivre served extra rare, paired with our vineyard’s very own Pinot Noir, and chased down with mousse au chocolat.
Even Roux smacked his lips when it was over. “Delicious.”
“Is there more?” Bene asked after two helpings.
There was, but I was saving some for myself, dammit.
“No.” I shook my head sadly.
Bene consoled himself with half a dozen macarons.
“Sublime,” he announced, stacking his plate with another four and following the others to the drawing room. I cringed, picturing crumbs all over the furniture.
Too tired to protest, but too wary to leave them unsupervised, I followed. But the guys must have been equally tired, because they were surprisingly quiet, each quickly settling down to his own pastime.
Roux and Henrik played chess. Bene looked on, munching away. Marius stood gazing out the window, pointedly ignoring me.
Clearly, he hated me. Which shouldn’t have felt like such a blow, but it did.
I sat for a while, flipping through a faded art picture book while surreptitiously keeping an eye on him — er, them.
The book was one of my father’s — a picture book on masterpieces of post-Impressionist art — and marked by scraps of paper with notes in his tight, slanted script.
I ran my finger over one note, drifting away on memories.
Then I sighed and stood to go. I couldn’t keep an eye on my guests twenty-four seven, and I had to rise early to set up breakfast.
“Good night. See you tomorrow,” I called from the doorway.
“See you,” Roux murmured, barely looking up from the chessboard.
Bene waggled his fingers. “Nighty-night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
Or other things, I thought, spotting Henrik.
“Good night.” His lips curled in a small, dangerous smile, and his voice was as smooth as the fine whisky he’d helped himself to.
Whisky I would definitely add to the running tab Gordon had okayed for incidentals.
Marius didn’t so much as look away from the window.
“Good night,” I grumbled, staring at him.
Something I instantly regretted, because the moment our eyes met, a warm, pulsing force throbbed through my chest, and my lungs squeezed. Time stretched, and warning lights flashed in my mind, blinding me to everything but the bluish-black of his eyes.
Blue like the sky at twilight. Like fresh ink over parchment.
Blue like a day-old bruise, something in the back of my mind whispered. Tread carefully.
And yet, my foolish heart beat wildly, and an inexplicable yearning resonated in my soul — far, far more than Clement had ever inspired.
Far, far more than Clement ever will, my heart whispered.
I blinked, and Marius looked away, grunting, “Goodnight.”
So, there it was. The very first — and only — word he’d ever uttered to me.
I unwrapped my fingers from the doorframe and walked mechanically down the hallway. Fifteen minutes later, I was in bed with a book I didn’t bother opening.