this glass coffin does exist, she could have escaped decades ago, centuries, and may have died—for real—when the glass broke.”
“If someone had a witch bespell her and the coffin, I can assure you it will be fail-safe against natural disaster.”
“I thought the legend said it was a warlock?”
“Witch. Warlock. Same thing, only one is a wanted criminal.”
Rhys sighed. Truly, he was jumping to conclusions. And yet, he couldn’t not investigate. He’d never forgive himself if he ignored what felt so real in his bones.
Could it really be her? Shame on him if it were true.
It hurt him deeply to imagine her locked away, alive and aware, in a confining little box. It had been two and a half centuries!
Simon slid into the Mercedes’s backseat and waited for Rhys to follow. “You okay?”
Rhys slid in and confirmed the driver knew his home address. Pushing fingers through his hair, he massaged his pounding temples. “I won’t be okay until I see her again, and know she is not damaged for my foolishness. Or … find irrefutable proof she died in the eighteenth century.”
If the legend was true, the enormity of the repercussions practically took Rhys’s breath away. He was no man for abandoning her.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. It is merely a legend.
“Is it possible you are reaching for chimeras?” Simon asked. “She’s gone. I thought you saw—”
“I don’t know what I saw now. Was it her? How can I be certain? Just think, Simon, if I have walked away and left her to suffer. Could she still be out there somewhere?”
“It’s longer than a long shot. It’s an infinity shot.”
“I have to pursue this.”
“You didn’t know, man.” Simon slapped a palm on his knee in comradely reassurance. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. But what if we do find her? I mean, you know what the legend says.”
Yes, that she would be mad. Locked away for centuries, aware of the dark, the insects and whatever horrors surrounded, yet unable to utter a scream? Rhys recalled her fear of rats. Her mind must be a macabre store of dread and terror.
Did he want to find the remnants of what had once been the most beautiful woman to ever touch his heart, to know him and accept him, even his dark side? And if he did find her, would he be far more kind if he killed her quickly to put an end to her suffering?
The chance he was merely chasing a phantom legend, a story conjured by firelight to entice and frighten, was great.
“No,” Rhys muttered. “I will find her. If I must die trying.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Paris, 1785
CONSTANTINE DE SALIGNAC’S voice possessed a soft murmur and felt like warm syrup seeping into her skin. His very presence, taller than she by a head, with broad shoulders and long fingers moving expressively as he spoke, intrigued her.
When he stood near, Viviane could not look away from him.
And yet, she did not feel the necessary spark of passion. His closeness did not provoke desire, twinkle across her flesh, or vibrate throughout her body. Intimacy should be like that. A man’s presence should put a woman out of sorts in the best of ways.
Twice now, Lord de Salignac had kissed Viviane. Once in the garden behind the ballroom during a midnight salon. Last time had been four days ago in the planetarium amongst the squawking blue-and-emerald parrots. The kiss had invited their tongues to dance, and yet too quickly it had turned rough. Possessive. But hardly interesting.
Viviane knew what Constantine wanted. Eventually she must succumb. But if a man wished to keep her interest, she required passion. The man must convince her of his conviction.
Now Constantine coiled one long ringlet of her hair about his forefinger. “I am pleased you’ve attended this evening, Viviane. It is good you’ve not despaired in the wake of Henri’s death.”
She tensed. The man gained no regard with his callous prod at her most intimate memory.
A bird squawked nearby. “You’ve many birds. The peacock in the back courtyard is magnificent.”
“A gift from Marie Antoinette.”
“Does she know you are vampire?”
“The queen does not believe in the occult.”
Viviane recalled Madame du Barry had been ousted from court for her belief in the occult. It was never a good thing when those in power believed, be their beliefs real or superstitious. Always scandal followed. The mortal could be silenced, and usually such reprimand was ordered by the Council.
She strode the hall where earlier she’d met Rhys Hawkes. “Have you hummingbirds?”
“No.”
“I should think not.” She stroked the gathering of roses above her right ear. The pointed beaks on the skulls pricked nicely.
“What are these?” Constantine inspected the flower buds tucked along the side of her coif. “Rat skulls?”
“I abhor rodents. These are replicas of hummingbird skulls carved by a Venetian artisan.”
“Yes, the long beak …”
“I regard hummingbirds as my totem.” Always she felt as if she must stay one step ahead, her wings ever beating, to maintain life. “Pretty, yes?”
“They suit you. But one mustn’t overlook the value of a plump rat.”
“Do not tell me if you drink from them.”
The masterful tribe leader lifted a brow, but instead of proclaiming he did so, and completely horrifying her, he said, “I wonder if you would enjoy a stroll in the north hall where I’ve had the Tiepolo hung? It is a marvelously dark piece.”
“Perhaps a few moments,” she reluctantly agreed, while her eyes scanned the ballroom for the man with the graystreaked hair. “It is oppressive in here.”
A glance to Portia assured her she would return. Portia liked to wander the salon and figure who was mortal and who was not. The maid was safe from hungry vampires for she wore Henri’s mark. To them Portia appeared used, not worth a taste.
The north hall served as a retreat for a few couples walking arm in arm, admiring the massive fresco paintings, which would normally fill an entire boudoir wall. But on the two-story-high walls they appeared merely portraits, one lined after the other. An ostentatious display of wealth. Three candelabras marked the walls at distances, providing low, hazy light.
Viviane realized Constantine could tend all her needs. Save the most vital—freedom.
Constantine offered his arm,
