Part 9 (1/2)

He wasn't a vampire used to denying himself or his pa.s.sions.

Inside the carriage, Tatiana heard the roar of the beast. She had no doubt that the Count spoke the truth. Gulping, she huddled on the floor, wrapping her arms around her legs in the black tomb of the carriage. Supported by the seat, her head rolled back, weak, feeling completely drained. Refusing to cry, Tatiana sat, having no choice but to obey her new master.

Chapter Five.

Paris, France

Tatiana was too tired to pull back the curtain to the carriage window and look outside. She stretched her legs out on the seat as she lay motionless. Darkness surrounded her, always surrounded her until she grew used to the blindness. Marcello sat across from her, silent and unmoving. He was always silent and unmoving, but she could always feel him as if he was next to her. And she hated him.

Marcello barely talked to her, except to give her commands. She obeyed in silence. Going to where he told her to, sleeping where he told her to sleep, which was always next to him. They spent the days in catacombs and graveyards, inside mausoleums and coffins. She would find herself pressed close to him, her back to his back as they slept. He didn't touch her in pa.s.sion again.

Tatiana didn't know how many nights had pa.s.sed since he locked her in the carriage. When he came back, his face had calmed, the demon had faded from his eyes. She'd seen him briefly in the moonlight as he stepped into the carriage with her. His lips had seemed almost crimson. She imagined it to be blood.

Tatiana heard the carriage wheels rolling over the unevenly paved roads. The steady clopping of the horses' hooves beat in a lulling rhythm. She'd always heard stories of Paris and the dreadfulness of their uncouth Bohemian movement, but at the moment she didn't care to see it. France had looked much like England to her. She would've been disappointed if she wasn't so hungry and tired.

Outside the carriage, Tatiana vaguely heard the calling of foreign tongues, not understanding any but the most basic of French phrases. The sound made her feel even more isolated and alone. It was in the middle of the night, but the large city didn't sleep. Music from seedy music halls drifted over them in uneven waves, faint and distant.

Suddenly, an eerie glow invaded the dark tomb of the carriage. A thin trail of gold streamed in from outside, caressing Marcello's face as he looked out to the city. His jaw was stiff. His eyes were hard. Tatiana gasped, amazed each time she saw him, to see how beautiful he was.

At the light sound, Marcello's eyes turned to look at her. He didn't lower his hand, letting the light remain on him. Their gazes locked, held.

”Come,bella mia , come and see your new home,” Marcello said quietly, motioning his head to the window. The long strands of his wavy brown hair spilled freely over his shoulders. His dark brown eyes called to her, flickering with depths of green.

Tatiana had come to realize that his eyes turned in such a way only when he tried to read her thoughts or control them.

Tatiana blinked, her body too tired to move from her spot. Her stomach had long since stopped twitching in hunger and now sat hollow and small beneath her ribs. Her fingers moved ever so lightly, as if to obey him. Then, as the carriage b.u.mped over a rough patch of road, she began to roll. Her eyes took in the carriage floor coming hard toward her face before a bright, consuming light flashed.

Tatiana gasped, sitting up. Her body was no longer weak. She felt young, carefree. The sun was warm on her face, the air sweetened with the perfume of flower. Birds and insects chirped happily all around her. Her eyes squinted in the bright light, looking about. She was home.

Hearing a faint giggle, she turned. Behind her, dancing like a wood sprite, was Alice. Tatiana froze. She remembered this day and suddenly knew that she was dreaming again. Alice stopped and smiled at her. They were alone, at a picnic, hiding from Henry and his boisterous friends, who had taken over Eastwich Manor for the weekend.

Tatiana couldn't move. Seeing Alice, she could no longer feel young and happy. Her skin chilled, even though the sun still shone full upon them. Alice stepped near, holding out a garland of plaited flowers for her. Tatiana stiffened, s.h.i.+vering now as the maid knelt before her.

Alice's blonde ringlets stirred in the breeze. Her bright blue eyes lost their natural gaiety. Suddenly, the woman frowned. She lifted the flowers as if to put them over Tatiana's shoulders. A petal touched Tatiana's cheek and dissolved into nothingness.

The sky became dark, stormy. Alice's hands fell to her lap and her features began to pale and gray. The maid's mouth opened to speak. Words sounded, fast and high, garbled as if the maid spoke in tongues. Alice cried, screaming so loud it shook them both, as her blue eyes filled with red. Her face caved in as if it struck by invisible blows.

Tatiana couldn't understand what Alice tried to tell her. She pulled back from her, scared. She jolted to her feet, turning to run. Her body was like lead. As she spun, she was no longer in the field but in the forest, standing in the doorway of the abandoned cottage. She got a glimpse of Alice's pale corpse and heard a voice whispering.

”Che macello, bella mia.What a mess.”

”No!” Tatiana screamed.

Again her body jolted. Tatiana's eyes blinked. Overhead she saw dark gray stones, flickering with the orange glow of firelight.

Wondering if she was again in another dream vision, she laid perfectly still.

Her body was surrounded by softness, comforting and cool. She had the odd sense of being safe, protected. There was a familiar comfort to her surroundings, to the look of stone, to the soft, enveloping feel beneath her. She was happy to be out of the bouncing carriage. Her arm moved slightly and she felt the coolness of silk along her skin. A calm sigh left her lips and she was contented.

When several minutes pa.s.sed and nothing around her changed, she slowly pushed herself up. She was on a large, rectangular bed. The sheets were a blood red silk, the coverlet a thicker black. Many decorative pillows, some with embroidery, some with yellow fringe, covered a good portion of the top. Everything was rich, elegant, and instinctively she knew it was very Marcello.

Gothic sconces were attached to the wall. Large, matching candelabras stood freely about the room. Long tapering white candles were in them, unlit, but with bits of dried wax curling over their sides. Nowhere did she see gas lamps or other devices of modern convenience.