Chapter 22
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I stand on a cobblestone street, staring at the shop. White stone, dirty and cracked, as if the building knows it’s been relocated to a back alley. But it’s not the location that surprises me most.
A carved wooden sign rests above the door. My French is amateur level, but one word is unmistakable.
Vampyre.
Scenes from Carmilla creep into my head. A delicate young woman masquerading as a friend, as a lover. Slipping through night shadows in search of blood.
Vampires. Murder house. Monsters. My time in Paris is supposed to be a retreat, and the mansion a sanctuary.
Not a house of horrors.
Wind gusts down the alley, making the sign swing back and forth. The chain squeaks in the metal brackets, an ominous sound shivering through my veins.
I roll my shoulders and take a breath. What did I expect? I’m here because I need a costume, one suitable for a monster-themed ball.
But after last night’s reading and this morning’s nightmare, I prefer a different category. Why not witches, mummies, or Frankenstein?
At this point, I’d even take werewolves.
I push the handle, and the door opens with a sigh, as if the air is welcoming me. When the door closes again, it’s like I’ve stepped into a different world.
LED lanterns flicker on vintage wallpaper, a damask design of red and black. Shelves and tables fill every space, mostly dark wood with old-world carvings.
Each surface displays a collection of oddities—stuffed ravens, silver goblets, miniature skulls. Arranged in no apparent order.
I’m taking it all in, when a framed portrait on the wall piques my interest. I move to study the picture up close. A signed photo of Bram Stoker.
With a price tag to match.
Despite a few mass-produced items, the store holds an air of authenticity. And judging by the cost, many of the items are rare finds.
Stopping at a bookshelf, I tilt my head to read the titles. French, French, French. Words I can’t translate. But then English jumps out at me.
Essays on the Undead: A Survival Guide.
The dramatic title seems appropriate for the stiff yellow pages and faded blue binding. The book looks ancient, weathered and worn.
Sliding it gently from the shelf, I open the cover, spine cracking like a dry bone. Ghoulish headings fill the table of contents, but the vampire section takes up most of the book.
I flip the pages gently, careful with the old paper. Every so often, black sketches help illustrate the text. A man in a graveyard, plunging a stake into an open casket. In another, a child cowers in a corner, shrinking back from a dark shape.
The next drawing catches my eye, because the scene doesn’t make sense. A man in a cloak holds a vampire’s arms while another shoves an object in the creature’s mouth. Rectangle and thick. I can’t tell—
“A brick to stop the bite.”
I jump and shut the book with a whump, whirling to face the man who crept up on me. He sports a gray ponytail and tiny glasses. Spectacles. The word suits them better—small and round and wire-rimmed.
“Hello…uh…bonjour,” I stutter, my brain racing for simple phrases as I take a step back.
“You are American?” He smiles and nods, gesturing to the book in my hands. “Which is why you have found one of the few English titles I own.”
“It grabbed my attention,” I say, folding my arms but holding on to the book. “I was just browsing.”
“And you are welcome to continue.” He bows slightly, the perfect gesture for his late nineteenth-century attire. In addition to the glasses, he wears a ruffled shirt and shiny vest, as if he’s channeling the character Lestat.
“I am Beno?t, and this is my boutique. Please, enjoy.”
Before he walks away, I step forward. “I was told you have costumes?”
“Yes, madam. This way.” He extends his arm in invitation and winds through the furniture to a door in back.
I follow him to a separate area where racks of clothing fill the space. A partial wall divides the room into female and male attire, both equally eclectic in style and color.
He steps to the first rack and pulls out a dress. The lace bodice and capped sleeves remind me of an old-timey milkmaid. A very sexy milkmaid.
“I don’t think that will work,” I say. “I’m attending La Danse des Monstres.”
“Ohhh. At Maison Marteau?” He makes a face, but I can’t tell if he’s shocked or impressed. “Then you are right. This won’t work at all.”
“I’m staying there. Temporarily,” I add. “I’m renting one of the apartments.”
“La Danse des Monstres is a coveted invitation.” He nods and puts the dress away. “I have what you need.”
He guides me to another section where the pieces are of better quality fabric and embellishments. I run my hand along rich red silk. “I want to dress as a monster, but do you have anything besides vampires?”
“Yes.” He chuckles. “You will see several Draculas and other fanged creatures at the dance, but many avoid those costumes. Especially at Maison Marteau.”
I let go of the rich fabric. “I don’t understand.”
“The summer ball was always a tradition, but the name and theme changed some years ago. From what I’ve heard, it was a way for the family to . . . poke fun at some nasty stories being whispered at the time.”
His explanation is similar to what Luci said, but I still can’t make the connection. Why would dressing like a vampire be a problem?
Feigning interest in a dress, I turn my attention to the rack. “Stories?”
He crosses his arms and leans in, as if preparing to share a juicy secret. “The hearsay is based on old accusations about the Marteaus. It’s said they gained their money through wicked means.”
My laugh is light, but a weight lands in the bottom of my stomach. “As in what, dark magic or something?”
He moves his head side-to-side. “Or something.” He stands back and opens his arms, his eyes tracking me up and down. “You are a size six in the USA?”
I blink at the rapid change of topic. “Yes. Size six.”
“And you prefer to be a monster?”
“Sure,” I say with a shrug.
He curls the finger resting against his chin. “Excellent.”
Tapping his hand along the rack of clothing, he names off options as he goes. “Grim Reaper, demoness, wicked witch.” He glances back at me. “Because not all witches are bad.”
Finally, he stops, gives me another once-over, and whips out a dress. “How about this?”
As soon as I see the bodice, I know he’s found a winner.
He shows me to the dressing room, pulling the curtain closed and leaving me to change. I place my clothes on the small bench provided before gently removing the dress from its hanger.
It slides on easily and fits just right. Black satin and lace, fitted long sleeves, beads trailing up the arms and along the hem. And the bodice of the dress—a mysterious yet regal high neck with an embellished waist.
I admire myself in the mirror, grinning at the ironic choice. Not a vampire. But still a beast.
One that bites.
If I’m going to a party with the wealthy, the elite—and Ric—the last thing I want is to appear weak.
Like a victim.
Or prey.
Satisfied I’ll be neither, I step out of the dressing room ten minutes later and find the store owner at the checkout counter.
“You liked it?” he asks with a smile, taking the dress and slipping it into a zippered bag.
When I nod, he taps buttons on a brass cash register and tells me the price. “Cash or card?”
“Card.” I blink at the number and open my purse. The rental amount would get me three sexy milkmaids, but at least I have a costume worthy of a Parisian chateau.
“And the book?” he asks.
I’m still holding the collection of essays on the undead. A prickle of instinct has me setting it atop the glass counter. “Yes, please.”
As I sign the receipt, I say, “You never told me what the stories were. About the Marteaus.”
“Couldn’t you guess?” His grin is feral. “They’re vampires.”
Surprise squeezes a breath from my chest. “What?” My laugh sounds weak and watery. “But that’s crazy.”
He lifts a shoulder. “As I said. Stories.” With a serious expression, he holds up the book. “But if you’re interested in the family history, you might enjoy a visit to Père Lachaise Cemetery.”
“A cemetery?”
“Oh, yes. Parisian cemeteries are world-renowned, and the Marteau enclosure is truly something special.” He looks at me intently as he slides the book across the glass. “I think it will interest you.”
He takes a business card and writes on the back. “I can hold the dress until you return.”
He hands me the card, and I get the feeling he wants me to visit the cemetery. I stare at the name and address he wrote down, along with Metro directions.
“You must send a lot of tourists there,” I say, trying to make sense of his odd suggestion.
“Only those who need to go.” His expression is suddenly grave.
“Surely, you don’t believe the rumors,” I say. “They’re ridiculous.” Crossing my arms, I hold the book to my chest. “There’s no such thing as vampires.”
Placing his hands on the counter, he leans in and whispers, “No. But the question isn’t whether or not the Marteaus are vampires.”
His gaze flits to the book and then back to me. “But why the rumors started in the first place.”