But, dude, so not true.”
“Tell me about it. Vampirella gone mad.”
“I’d offer my neck to Vampirella any day. She is so sexy.”
“She’s a cartoon, too.” The storyteller swiped an arm across his lips. “You going to put it on the blog?”
“Yeah, we’ll see. Buy me another beer, dude, this one’s tapped. So what’s with the man who was a vampire or maybe a werewolf?”
“I don’t know. That’s how I heard it told.” “So you mean he’s different, like, where his hand should be—” the guy assumed a melodramatic tone “—was a stainless-steel hook!” Rhys winced.
“No, dude, he was … not right.” The crystal bowl in Rhys’s grip cracked in half. The men turned and delivered him wonky looks. “Delicate,” Rhys offered sheepishly. Not right. The words stabbed Rhys’s heart with bittersweet memory. He could hear them spoken in her voice. He pushed the mess aside. “Interesting story.”
“Yeah, dude, it’s an urban legend. You can read all about it tomorrow at my blog.”
One guy handed Rhys a business card that simply read: UrbanTrash.com.
“Wouldn’t it rock if werewolves and vampires existed? We could all like, live forever.”
“Forever is not always appealing.” Rhys strode away. The Vampire Snow White. Once loved by an evil vampire and another who was maybe a vampire or maybe a werewolf. An urban legend? It was rumor.
But the details were too familiar to disregard. “Mon Dieu, I thought she was dead.”
CHAPTER TWO
Paris, 1785
THE PERILOUS JOURNEY THROUGH knee-high snow ended when a rider galloped alongside Viviane. He literally swept her into his arms to sit before him on the horse’s withers.
The warmth emanating from his thighs and chest told her that he was mortal. The desire to bite him did not rise. All that mattered was getting warm and shaking the feeling into her left foot. A hasty “merci” spilled from her lips.
“The sun will beat us if we do not hurry,” he said.
How could he know the sun would prove her bane? “Who are you?”
“They call me the Highwayman. I know you are not human.”
“But you are.”
“Not like most humans, though.”
They made Paris as the sun traced the horizon, and he left her at her patron’s home.
As she entered the warmth of the marble-tiled foyer, Viviane tumbled into Henri Chevalier’s arms. Shivering and sniffing tears, she took a moment to glance outside. The Highwayman had heeled his mount down the cobblestones toward the pink sunrise, his leather greatcoat flapping out like wings.
She dropped the pistol in her pocket and listened to it clatter to the floor.
“Viviane, what has happened? Where is the carriage?”
“Uh …” Pulled into Henri’s welcoming hug, she melded against her patron’s body. Henri was all muscle and hard lines and smelled like cedar and lavender. “The Highwayman found me.”
“I’ve heard the legend. He is a good man.”
“Like us?”
“No, but immortal. He’s no grouse against vampires— but rather demons—fortunately for you. We didn’t expect you until tomorrow evening.”
“Henri? Oh, dear.” Henri’s wife, Blanche, touched Viviane’s shoulder where wolf blood stained the fabric.
Two years earlier while in Paris on an annual visit to her patron, Viviane had met Blanche and decided to like her. The petite blonde stood like a bird next to Henri’s towering build. She gave to Henri the one thing he had never asked of Viviane—intimacy.
“Have the maid boil water and fill the bath,” Henri directed his wife. “And draw the curtains in the guest room. Quickly!”
It felt decadently blissful to nuzzle against Henri’s chest and cling to the heavy brocade robe that hung upon his broad shoulders. He must have been preparing for sleep. He always did greet the dawn in his dark bedchambers. Vampires required a quarter as much sleep as a mortal did.
“The carriage tending me here … broke a wheel three leagues out,” Viviane whispered. Exhausted and starving, she could but speak in gasps. “A wolf … killed the coachman.”
“And you managed to escape?”
“I … broke the animal’s neck.”
Henri’s chuckle rumbled against her cheek. “I should not doubt it.”
“It was a werewolf.”
“Ah?”
She knew well he held no resentment toward werewolves, unlike most vampires. Henri did not take sides, nor did he hate—unless given reason.
He toed the pistol. “Not yours.”
“Belonged to the driver, who is dead. Sacre bleu, Henri, I did not wish to harm the beast, but I prefer life over mauling.”
“Pity the man—or beast—who forces Viviane LaMourette to do anything. You are fortunate the Highwayman happened along.”
He kissed her cheek and carried her up the curving marble stairs to the guest room. Half a dozen candles glowed upon a writing desk. Two mortal maids—enthralled by their master—bustled about, pouring boiling water into the copper tub. White linen lined the tub; a frill of lace dancing along the hem dusted the floor.
Before Henri could set her on the bed, Viviane clutched his robe. “I’m unsure if I can wait until you rise later.”
He nodded and instead of setting her down, carried her into his bedchamber. Blanche, with but a nod from her husband, whispered, “Bonjour” and took her leave, closing the door behind her.
“I shouldn’t wish to impose upon her,” Viviane said, as Henri set her on the bed. Leaning back onto her elbows, she spread out her hands, crushing the decadent silk bed linens between her fingers.
“It is not an imposition. Blanche will sleep in her private chambers this morning.”
Shrugging off the robe, Henri then tugged the gauzy night rail over his head and dropped it onto the bed to stand in but chamois underbreeches. Built like a Roman gladiator, the man’s broad shoulders never did align straight across. He’d broken his collarbone decades earlier after falling from a cliff in Greece and it had never healed properly. It gave him little worry, but he did wince when raising his left arm over his head.
He stretched out on the black-and-gold-striped chaise longue positioned before the hearth
