My Immortal (21 page)

“Why should I waste my breath telling you when you’re not going to believe me?”

Marley drew her knees to her chest and dropped her chin down. “I want to know. I would appreciate it, Anna.” Maybe there were no answers as to why she’d found herself here, as to why she’d met Damien and fallen in love with a man she couldn’t have, but she wanted to hear the story. The secret.

The plantation, Damien, both had a whole closetful of skeletons, and before she left Marley wanted to see them.

“So, you know then, that Death’s Door was your Damien, but in those days he was wild, like we talked about earlier. He wanted to die, but he couldn’t, so he took risks, and that was part of the appeal for Marissabelle. He was exciting, thrilling, he allowed her to forget about all her responsibilities and all her worries, and he took her with him into his lifestyle. Late nights, elegant sensual parties, fast carriage rides, and a sexual voracity that matched her own, that piqued and intoxicated, that spurred her to new daring, exploration. Nowadays you all would call it kinky, and maybe it was, but for Marissabelle it was just damn good sex. Feminists talk about liberation. Well, honey, let me tell you, this was liberating loving. She felt freedom for the first time ever in her life.”

If Anna was inventing this story, she was doing an amazing job of touching on everything that had relevance to Marley. She heard Anna’s words about Marissabelle and figured she might as well be talking about her. Her experience with Damien had been the same. She had done things sexually she’d never dreamt of before, but it had been liberating, powerful, freeing.

But she didn’t want to talk about it with Anna, not now.

“I can understand that.”

“But she didn’t know the truth, didn’t know about Damien and the demon until Rosa appeared.”

There it was again. That name she was growing to despise. “The same Rosa? The one who had long black hair and was Spanish the first time around, or the now Rosa with curly hair and an African heritage?”

“Same one. But in those days Rosa had the creamy white skin of the Irish, and rich auburn hair. It is her talent, you know, to take on the personality, the appearance of a city. And in those days New Orleans was bursting with European immigrants and for a while she was white. Marissabelle was jealous of that, envious of the purity of Rosa’s skin, her dusting of pretty freckles, the way she could walk into a room and turn every man’s eye. The security of a mistress lies in ensuring that she is a man’s carnal desire, that she satisfies his every licentious need, his every urge to misbehave. If his eye is turned by yet another woman, her control is lost completely. It was obvious to her that Rosa already knew Damien, that they’d had a relationship, and it bothered her.”

That sounded familiar. While Marley didn’t think it bothered her that Damien had a past with Rosa, given the annoyance he clearly felt when she was around, it did get on her nerves that Rosa popped in whenever she felt like it. And she had a whole new perspective regarding Rosa’s friendly overtures the morning after the last party. At the time it had seemed so nice, but now Marley could only remember that Rosa told her that Damien never stayed over with the women he slept with. Like she was trying to hurt Marley’s feelings. Out of jealousy.

“What did she do?”

“She tried not to show her worry, her fear, but he was pulling away from her and she was starting to get desperate. So when he suggested it might be rather amusing to bed both her and Rosa together, she agreed.”

Marley gasped. Well.

“Shocked you, did I?”

Uh, yeah. Marley nodded. Anna looked downright pleased by that. She leaned closer to Marley.

“But what shocked Marissabelle was how much she enjoyed those random nights, how she liked the soft feel of a woman’s lips, how she liked to taste between her thighs while Rosa did the same to her. And in one of those pleasure-drenched moments they told her the truth about Damien, about Rosa, about the father and his quest for human servants. Marissabelle thought about the power of immortality, thought about the fragility of her life, and wondered what would happen to her son if she died or wasn’t able to sell her charms any longer as she aged. She thought about endless life and endless pleasure and the strange attraction Damien held for her. She would gain that devotion from men, all men, that instant longing, that drooling, desperate desire, and that appealed to her vanity, her pride. Four men had used her body and left her, and she wanted to do that herself, hurt the way she had been hurt. So she asked for a place in the demon world, requested the same bargain that Damien had—immortality in return for sexual servitude.”

Marley was starting to feel a little ill. There was something about the gleam in Anna’s eye that was disturbing. This story wasn’t real, couldn’t be real, but Anna spoke with such passion that Marley was starting to feel uncomfortable. Scared. “Did they give it to her?”

“Yes, only she didn’t understand they were playing her off against each other. That Damien had in mind to switch himself for her, to gain his freedom by promising her. Or that Rosa had guessed Damien’s intentions and was maneuvering so that she would gain Marissabelle, but not lose him. Rosa won that little game, and when Damien found out, he left Louisiana and didn’t return for fifty years. Marissabelle did what was required of her, and she became quite the favored whore of men throughout the city, and many of their wives as well. And when that son, who she did it all for, grew up, he left, casting her aside in shame and disdain for what she was, turning his nose up at her love, and making his way north to where he could be a free man of color and pretend his mother had never existed.”

“Another betrayal.”

“Yes, another betrayal, and another hard lesson about men and their selfishness. And yet when he died in a fire, she mourned the loss all over again.”

“You know this story well.” It was surreal, eerie, how Anna was looking at her.

“That’s because this is my story, Miss Marley. Don’t tell me you haven’t figured that out yet. I’m Marissabelle, and this house was given to me by my rich white lover, Damien du Bourg.”

She hadn’t seen that one coming, and a shiver raced through her. Anna seemed so together the first few times she’d met her, not at all delusional, but she was different today, wilder, unrestrained. “But you said 1833…there’s no way…”

“Oh, yes, there is. I served Rosa and the father for a hundred years until I gained my freedom and started aging, changing my name to avoid questions. Damien wants to know how I broke free, he burns with the need to escape his immortality, but I’ll never tell him. The hell with him. He set me up, manipulated me, and left me high and dry, and now he can want answers, but I’ll never give them.” Her nostrils flared in anger, spittle appearing in the corner of her mouth. “Not when I sit here rotting year after miserable year, too old to do a goddamn thing, unable to die. This isn’t escape, this is worse than servitude ever was.”

Marley stood up quickly. “I, uh, should get back to the house.” Anna was scaring the crap out of her. She looked fierce, feral, and her words were jumbled, made no sense to Marley. She could not be over 170 years old for obvious reasons, and she’d clearly lost her grip on reality.

But Anna grabbed her arm in a steely grip that was way too strong for a such an old woman. “They want
you
, you know. Not your sister. You, because of your goodness and innocence. They love that you’ve gotten Damien to break his vow, and they love that he’s leading you from right to wrong. It doesn’t feel wrong, does it, not when it’s one small step at a time, easing you in so you hardly notice, until in two years you’ll find yourself fucking anything that walks for him, and you’ll love it at the same time you hate yourself.”

Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, Marley yanked her arm back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? Then you won’t see it until it’s too late. And I hope you sink fast and hard because then I get my body back all that much quicker.”

Marley stumbled down the steps. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Go on, go to your sex party. See how it makes you feel, see if you’ve already gotten used to it. See what a dirty little whore you are, just like I was.” Anna cackled in laughter, voice high and unnatural.

Giving in to her urge to run, Marley jogged over the grass, the gravel, feet flying, that horrible sound ringing in her ears.

“It’s too late to run, you know,” Anna screamed after her. “You’re too late. You’ve already served yourself up on a platter.”

The guests had already arrived. Marley saw the cars with dismay and veered off to the back of the house. She didn’t want to see anyone except Damien. She needed to talk to him, have him hold her, assure her Anna was crazy. Not that she believed any of Anna’s ramblings, but it had made her feel unsafe, unprotected, unsure that she knew what was going on, ashamed that Anna had guessed at her lustful relationship with Damien and smirked at it.

While Marley had been feeling empowered, Anna had told her she was being used, and it scared and worried her, made her wonder who was right. Especially since she was living in Damien’s house and wearing a skirt, tank top, and shrug sweater that he had bought for her in the French Quarter, including a very expensive coral necklace and earrings. Everything on her body had been purchased by him, right down to the mango-colored seamless bra and matching thong.

Before it had felt thrilling, romantic to have him giving her gifts, but now she felt…kept.

Determined to find Damien, see him smile at her, reassure her, whisper words of affection and banish all the uncomfortable, icky feelings she was having, Marley went in the back door and quickly ran through the rooms on the ground floor. No one was down there, so she went up the stairs to the main floor.

This party was even more crowded than the last, and Marley squeezed past people gathered in the center hall, moved through laughing couples, into the salon that Marie had called the morning room. She scanned quickly, ignoring a few glances in her direction, turning away quickly when she realized there was a man standing in front of the French antique mirror she’d always admired, watching Marley in the reflection as a blonde gave him oral sex. Her gaze shifted, landed on a woman who was sitting on a dark-haired man’s lap, her skirt lifted to her thighs as she rode him, head back. Another turn, another set of bodies, flashes of skin, sounds of moaning, hot breathing, candles and sex scents floating through the air, and Marley felt panic rise like bile in her throat.

This was wrong. This was wrong, and this was all done by a man she said, thought, felt she loved. How could she have ignored this, convinced herself that Damien was removed from these parties? He created them, nurtured them, encouraged them. Must enjoy them.

She turned quickly, needing out, and her arm brushed a man’s bare ass as he thrust into his partner, who was bent over the antique Sheraton desk, its hand-carved cherry legs shaking from the jarring motion.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Instead of being annoyed, he smiled at her, hips still moving. “No problem.” He looked down at her chest. “Hey, stick around for a second. She’s almost done here.”

Marley realized the bent woman was moaning quite vigorously, her voice rising.

“Then I’d like to get to know you.”

They were having this conversation while he was having sex with another woman, and Marley didn’t know whether to laugh or throw up. “Oh, uh, no thanks, I’m looking for someone…” She trailed off as the woman went into frantic mewls.

On that note, Marley turned and left the room. She just couldn’t do this. Trying not to make eye contact with anyone, touch anyone, or see any more body parts, Marley moved past through the opposite salon, the dusky room quieter than the last, conversations, intimacies more muted, couples tucked into corners, on couches, but no Damien.

Deciding she just wanted to go upstairs and get the hell away from all of this, Marley eased toward the door. And nearly bumped into her sister.

“Lizzie!” Her sister was leaning against the wall, a man bent over her breasts.

Her eyes popped opened. “Hey, Mar.” Her voice was languid, aroused. “Great party, huh?”

No. In fact, she didn’t think she could stand one more minute and she’d only been there for five. “I’m so glad to see you! Come upstairs with me so we can talk.”

Lizzie looked down at the man. “Alex, can I go upstairs with my sister to say hi?”

His head lifted. “No.”

Lizzie shrugged. “Sorry, Mar, Alex says no. Maybe later.”

Marley stared at her sister. “Lizzie.” She hadn’t seen her in almost three months, and she wanted to talk to her. And who the hell was this guy?

He turned and Marley instantly disliked him. His expression was amused, arrogant, disdainful. He didn’t say anything to her, just raised an eyebrow. Then pulled Lizzie’s shirt back over her breasts.

“Elizabeth, I want you to give that man oral sex.”

“Which one?”

“The short one next to the fireplace, looking lonely. Go now.”

Lizzie started to walk toward him, then turned and asked, “For how long, sweetie?”

“Until I tell you to stop or until he comes in your mouth.”

“Okay.” Lizzie blew him a kiss, went up to the guy standing by himself, said a word or two, than went down on her knees.

Marley watched in disbelief. What the hell was Lizzie doing?

Alex smiled at her, like this was perfectly normal. “She likes being told what to do. It makes her feel safe.”

Marley gasped in disgust. Horror, panic all had her choking on a gag. She couldn’t look at Lizzie or this guy, and she pushed past him, tears in her eyes, through the archway, down the hall, out the front door. She ran down the two dozen steps, her sandals slipping, nearly sending her face-forward down the stairs.

Where was Damien? She’d left her phone in her room, so she couldn’t call him on her cell. Nothing could induce her to go back into that house until every last human being was gone. Heading toward the
garçonnier
, she wiped her eyes and took deep, shuddering breaths to get ahold of herself.

Maybe if she asked, Damien would cut the entertainment short and ask everyone to go home. But that wouldn’t fix what had her feeling shattered, pummeled, disillusioned. What the hell was the matter with her sister? Marley didn’t understand how anyone could possibly be happy doing what she had just seen her sister do. And Damien. What did Marley do with Damien in her mind, her intellect, her heart, and all her feelings for him?

She knocked on the door, then pushed it open. With a huge sense of relief, she saw Damien immediately, sitting on top of his kitchen table, of all places, bare feet on a wooden chair. His shoulders were slumped and he had a piece of paper wadded in his hand.

“Damien. What’s the matter?” He didn’t look right, and for a split second she thought he was dead. But he was sitting up, he couldn’t possibly be dead.

His head lifted and she saw his eyes were red, swollen, bleary. “I thought it couldn’t hurt anymore,” he said. “It’s been so long, but then I read what she wrote, and God, Marley, I can’t take it. Marie was this sweet, innocent wisp of a woman when I married her, and I didn’t appreciate that.”

“What are you talking about?” His wife’s name had been Marie? The panic was rising again, like a furious hot air balloon inside her chest, pushing up, shoving, threatening to take her head right off her shoulders.

“I didn’t know about this confession she wrote. I can’t believe that she thought any of that was her fault…it was me, all me. And it’s my fault she died.”

“How did she die?” He stared at her for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. And when he finally did, she almost wished he hadn’t.

“She killed herself.” Damien spoke the words for the first time in two hundred years, forced them past his teeth, out into the air, knowing he was ruining his relationship with Marley, but certain the truth had to be told. Marie deserved the truth.

“Oh, God,” Marley said, tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

Her compassion always got to him, touched pieces deep inside he thought were gone, obliterated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I talked you into staying here, Marley. Sorry that I pulled you into the mess that I am. You deserve better.”

“I stayed because I wanted to stay. I care deeply about you. But I think you need to tell me everything…for both of our sakes. Anna was, well, she was acting crazy tonight, Damien. She said all these insane things about immortality and you and how she is really someone named Marissabelle.”

Marley looked worried, and she clearly wanted him to tell her that Anna was indeed a lunatic. But his old mistress and nemesis had actually perfectly paved the way for him to tell Marley the truth about himself. “Anna isn’t crazy,
ma cherie.
She is Marissabelle, and I am the first Damien du Bourg, the
only
Damien du Bourg. I am over two hundred and forty years old, and I cannot die.”

Her head went back and forth. “Don’t…don’t say those kinds of things. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Watching her eyes dart wildly back and forth, running up and down over him, her expression horrified, Damien was sorry for what he had to do, what he was about to put her through. But Marley had the right to the truth, and part of him understood that he wanted Marley, wanted to keep her and the future she represented, take the love she offered and return his own. He wanted to let go of the past, move forward like she had asked him to.

He wanted out one way or another, once and for all.

She clearly hadn’t noticed the gun sitting behind him on the table until he lifted it up, because her eyes suddenly went wide with alarm. Damien settled it into his hand and spoke to her, hoping she could hear, could understand how earnest, how serious he was. “I just want you to know the truth, because I have fallen in love with you. I want you to understand that it is an honest feeling, even though I haven’t been honest with you. I hope you can forgive me, and understand why I couldn’t tell you about me before.”

The color drained out of Marley’s face. “No,” she whispered, fingers lifting up.

Damien smiled at her. She was amazingly beautiful, so vital and good and sweet. “See you in ten minutes,
ma cherie.
”

And he put the gun to his chest and pulled the trigger.

Marley screamed and screamed, feeling it rise up and out of her throat and mouth, wrap around her head, echo on all sides of her, smother out everything except for the terror and the hideous sound of her own agony.

It had happened so fast. Suddenly he had a gun, and before she could process what he meant to do, think how she could stop him, he had shot himself, the sound deafening, his body falling backward on the table.

She ran over to him, her shriek trailing off as she forced herself into action. There had to be a phone, his cell phone somewhere, maybe in his pocket, and she had to call for help. Blinking back tears, she fought the urge to give in to hysteria and tried to think, tried to figure out what to do. He was on his back, his left shoulder slumping over the side of the table.

As she scanned from head to toe, she couldn’t see where he was injured, couldn’t see any blood. There was a blackish dust on his hands, but no other obvious wound. That wasn’t right. Didn’t make sense.

“Damien,” she said in frustration and helplessness. What the hell had he done to himself? Patting his pocket, she found his cell phone, was trying to pry it out of his jeans, her damp hands slipping and sliding across the plastic.

His chest was moving, so he was breathing. He wasn’t dead and he wasn’t bleeding. Getting the phone out, she paused for a second, staring hard at his shirt. There was a hole, a small jagged tear, in the center. Marley grabbed the bottom of it, gently eased it up. His chest was covered in blood, the room having been too dim for her to see it soaking through his dark-colored shirt. She could hear his labored breathing, see his chest rising up and down rapidly, like he was in pain. Yet she still didn’t see an obvious wound.

“Marley.”

Marley snapped her head up, found herself looking into his green eyes, open and alert. “Damien? What the hell happened? I can’t see where you’re bleeding from…I saw you shoot yourself. God, you must be in so much pain.”

Shaking his head, he pulled himself to a sitting position. “Listen to me. I’m fine. I cannot die, do you understand? I am immortal, servant to the Grigori demons.”

“That’s not possible…you shot yourself. I saw it.” Marley touched his chest, smoothed her hands over his unblemished flesh, ran her touch across tendons and muscles and paused to feel his heartbeat. She was losing her mind. She had seen and heard that gun go off. Yet there was absolutely no evidence of that.

His arms came around her, his warm lips pressed to her forehead. “I shot myself so you would believe me when I tell you this. I was born in New Orleans in the year 1765, the Creole son of Phillipe du Bourg, a wealthy indigo planter, and his equally wealthy wife, Serena Beaumont du Bourg, the daughter of a French landowner. In 1789 I married my wife Marie Bouvier in France and brought her here to Rosa de Montana after the death of my father. In 1790—”

“That’s enough!” Marley cut him off, yanking back out of his arms.

“Marley, it’s the truth. You need to know who and what I am.”

Thoughts colliding, Marley pressed her eyes closed, picturing the gun going off, seeing in her mind him falling backward, remembering the hideous laugh of Anna on her porch, Rosa’s knowing, helpful smile…everyone knowing, knowing, while she knew nothing, while she stumbled around in the dark, falling in love with a man who was not, could not, be over two hundred years old.

But was. Backing up, she stared at him, knowing the truth, hearing it, feeling it, despising it. While her brain revolted, screamed that it was illogical, impossible, the core of her knew the truth. Believed. For if God existed, which she knew He did, so did demons. And for whatever reason, Damien had signed on to serve the side of evil, and his life was unnatural, without positive purpose.

“No, this isn’t happening. This isn’t real.” She shook her head, stared again at his chest.

“It’s real. I’m real. Immortal.”

Marley felt a hot, sick taste in her mouth. The truth was before her, no matter how much she didn’t want to believe it. And if he was immortal, if he had been the first, the only Damien du Bourg, those letters from Marie were real. All that pain, all that suffering had been endured.

And like Marie, Marley had fallen under the spell of the demon servant, had given her body, her heart to Damien, had let him strip her of her inhibitions and boost her up the ladder of sin one rung at a time.