The Vampire's Angel (2 page)

“Come, I’ll show you.” He grabbed Thomas’s hand and pulled him up a stairway and into a dimly lit room. “I assume you know that this will cost you, and that I don’t play the passive role.”

“Quite the entrepreneur. I can pay what you charge.” Thomas closed the door and embraced the youth as he kissed him passionately. With great speed, he threw the youngster onto the bed and tore off their clothes.

“Slow down, monsieur,” the young man pleaded.

Thomas did so, then kissed the back of the boy’s neck. Slowly, his fangs descended and he softly pricked the dirty skin to taste the blood before he took this further.

“Do you enjoy biting?” the boy asked.

“Only momentarily,” Thomas replied before he plunged his fangs into the vein.

As the hot liquid flowed across his lips, images of the boy’s life saturated Thomas’s mind. The vision confirmed what Thomas had already ascertained. The young man prostituted himself part-time and was a useless degenerate who attacked and robbed innocent people. He assaulted children, including his brother, merely for sport. Ah, yes. And of course he had already killed. The world did not need him, though he satisfied both of Thomas’s current needs.

He grabbed the young man’s hair and kissed him violently then rolled him over, against his will. He struggled for the first time but Thomas held him tightly.

“I told you,” he said, “I don’t—“

Thomas clamped his hand over the victim’s mouth to muffle his cries. He thrust inside of him and pounded. The young man wriggled and squirmed, crying in pain, but nothing stopped Thomas until he had finished, his tension released as he exploded inside.

Sated, he released the lad, who pushed him off, cursing. “I told you, and I warned you, you ass.” He scrambled off the bed and snatched a knife from under the mattress and in his nakedness came toward Thomas.

When the youth tried to stab him, Thomas grabbed his wrist and squeezed hard until the blade dropped to the floor. He pulled the young man toward him and stared into his eyes, the young man’s expression now terrified.

“You can’t win. You won’t haunt this city anymore. Go peacefully.”

Thomas bent the boy’s head to the side, exposing his neck, and plunged his fangs into the flesh again. He drained him until the youth’s heart stopped and then he consumed the blood as the dreadful life beneath his lips passed again through his mind.

Thomas kissed the puncture wounds to heal them and flung the corpse to the floor before dressing, loving that a city this size meant no one questioned yet another death. He brushed his clothing off, sexually satisfied and fed, before he hurried down the stairs and out the door without anyone noticing. The night breeze felt good on his skin, and total darkness surrounded him as he continued walking through Paris, taking in its vibrancy.

15 May 1789 Mid-evening

AS CATHERINE WAITED, she thought about how nothing in her thirty-one years had ever excited her so much as the past few months’ political events had. True, famine and unrest accompanied the changes in Paris, but she relished anything new or intriguing. She had heard all too often from most of the men in her life that a proper woman of her noble stature should not speak of revolutionary ideas about liberty, equality, and egalité. Her oldest brother, Michel, had said recently that her fierce independence and refusal to marry gave people pause. She responded to all of them that such decorum bored her and they could either accept her passion or leave her presence. She was not about to miss the excitement of what was going on in France because of her sex. She had even considered converting their family home into a salon, where anyone could come and talk about the revolution and politics freely.

“Abbé,” she exclaimed as she jumped out of her chair. “You’re late, and it’s already dark. But come here, I’ve a lot to tell you.”

Xavier smiled as he walked into the room. She saw her brother almost every day but never stopped marveling at his beauty. He had the face of an angel, his dark hair and hazel eyes sparkled, and the garb of a priest added a forbidden allure to his demeanor. Her friends often lamented his entering the priesthood because they wanted a chance to marry Xavier Saint-Laurent. Catherine, however, suspected that his sexual longings required something else.

“Oh, stop it. Would you please just call me Xavier? I can’t be your abbé, I know too much about your sins.” Xavier held his cross to his chest as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he sat opposite her and smiled again. “I see that the unrest of Paris excites you? Those blue eyes are blazing with intensity this evening.”

“Of course. This is the dawn of a new era in France. Women may be able to vote. Did you see the riot this morning?”

“I heard about it. People protest the famine. They won’t starve quietly.”

Catherine listened thoughtfully. Regardless of the topic, he always worried first about how it affected others, especially the poor. She sighed. He fretted too much, consumed with anxiety and seldom able to relax or enjoy himself.

“You worry too much,” she said aloud.

“Perhaps we’ll see something new now that the Estates General is meeting at Versailles after all these years, especially since Louis doubled the Third Estate to include more of the masses,” Xavier continued.

“Well, these bread riots can’t continue forever.” Catherine smoothed her dress over her abdomen. “The king and church had better pay attention. And can you forgive my denunciation of your precious church?”

“Ah, the lovely church in Rome,” he said wryly. “How I love that it ignores the poor and supports the elite. God didn’t give Louis some ordained right to reign, and I have always found the sentiment preposterous.”

“Still defiant after all that training. So you don’t mind the changes taking place in the church?”

“Stop teasing me. The church owns too much land. It makes too much money at the expense of commoners. And even the common curé suffers in poverty while the church hierarchy lives in luxury.”

Catherine understood the plight of the common curé. Xavier’s own parish failed to pay him enough to survive and he had to come here to eat with her or starve to death.

“Regardless, this unrest alarms me. The king has already sent troops to quell the riot at Faubourg St. Antoine when the workers rebelled in April. Will more violence follow?”

“How else will change occur?” Catherine asked, arching an eyebrow. “On the bright side, Louis must listen to everyone now. Can you imagine what Michel must think?”

“Still laughing at our brother’s expense? I’m sure he abhors all of it.”

She shrugged. “I only hope that this broadens his horizons. Since father died, he takes such responsibility in caring for us, in acting like the patriarch. He should restrict his ordering people about for the military.”

“But he does have charge over us. It’s custom. What can he do?”

“He can
pretend
to lead us and do his responsibility without pushing,” she said, irritated. “Who ensures the family investments? Who meets with the financiers and managers? Who pays the bills? I do. So what gives him the right to appear three or four times a year and pretend that he rules the house?”

Xavier nodded without a word.

“I’ve thought about opening the doors of this house to anyone who would like to discuss the current political situation. What do you think Michel would have to say about a Saint-Laurent salon?”

“I’m sure he’d relish the idea,” Xavier said sarcastically.

“And he still frets about your choice to serve in that god-awful parish.”

“That god-awful parish deserves God’s guidance as much as those who parade off in the finest clothes once a week to pretend to follow His word while they exploit people the rest of the week,” Xavier snapped.

Catherine scurried over to him and gave him a hug, then pecked him on the cheek. “Got you. I knew that some passion hid in that black finery somewhere. Come, let’s go to the terrace.” She turned without waiting and walked toward the wall of windows and doors that led to a large veranda overlooking Rue St. Denis. The Saint-Laurent compound—the largest on the street—housed only Catherine and servants now that Michel served in the military and Xavier slept in his rectory. But guests frequented the place and all assumed that she or Michel would some day raise a family there.

Catherine spun around as Xavier walked through the door and hugged him again. “Do you forgive me for inciting you?”

“Only God can forgive your transgressions,” he said with a sigh though a smile hovered on his lips.

“Don’t you sound like a Huguenot. I thought the pope bestowed the power of God upon Catholic priests.”

“Blasphemy!” he teased.

“Oh, and did you hear what else is happening?”

“I can’t keep up with your mind.”

Catherine ignored him. “The city has formed a new government. I heard rumors in the salons for weeks about it, and when I went to Madame de Tesse’s salon yesterday—and spare me the admonitions of being careful about where I go—they said that the riots prompted a reorganization to a bourgeois militia because of the looting. How exciting!” Catherine looked out over Paris, quiet for now, without a hint of the unrest that had been plaguing it. “Well, have we discussed the riots enough?” she asked after a few moments.

“Definitely.”

“Walk me to the church, then. I want to light an indulgence for father and mother.”

“Of course. To Notre Dame.” Xavier headed for the door.

“No, I want to see your church.”

“I hardly think that you need to venture into that neighborhood.”

“Stop sheltering me. You sound like Michel. Besides, you hate seeing the elders who run that big old church, and the river stinks this time of year.”

Catherine pulled him into the street and they headed east, toward his small parish and the masses of people who hoped to overthrow the current government and, with it, their economic plight.

15 May 1789 Evening

“STAY FOR DINNER,” Catherine commanded Xavier when they returned to the house. “I know what they feed you, or more to the point, what they don’t.”

He laughed. “Of course I’ll stay,” he said, watching as Catherine rushed around the house, telling the servants to prepare dinner and making sure that nothing had happened in her absence. He marveled that his sister had more energy than even all of the horses in the world. “What on earth did you expect? That some cataclysmic disaster would befall the house while we were gone?”

She raced into the dining room and dismissed his mocking with a wave of her hand, Xavier following so he could sit next to her.

“What?” she asked, petulant. “Why are you looking at me?”

“I’m in awe of your interest in the revolution. You watched everything today without the slightest bit of fear.”

“Really, it’s hardly remarkable.”

“You don’t expect constant violence, do you? I hate it. I constantly have to shelter people in the sanctuary while everyone runs around the streets fighting like lunatics. If the bishop found out how I assisted with this mess...”

“How on earth can the bishop claim that you’re involved in the riots by harboring innocent people?”

“The sanctuary is a holy place and reserved for appropriate worship of our Father in heaven.”

“Please. Maybe we should ransack Notre Dame to give them a taste of reality.”

Xavier laughed. He tolerated church politics because the Parisian elders seldom ventured to his church. They had no use for the poor and it scared them to ride in the narrow, dirty streets so near the Bastille.

“Did you hear Madame Bregat when we passed her?” Catherine asked, absently polishing her silverware with her napkin.

“Yes, her shrill voice made her sound scared when she spoke.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “Typical aristocracy. All of this has them in a complete tizzy. Don’t they see the chance for profound change?”

“Did you ever think that most of them despise the thought? They’re not accustomed to the bourgeoisie running about demanding governing rights, let alone peasants rioting on country estates.”

“Well,” Catherine stated flatly, “I’m not afraid.”

Xavier feared another dinner of Catherine’s waxing poetic about a possible revolution, though they essentially agreed. Neither feared the people, and their father had instilled in them a respect for all humanity. So governmental reorganization hardly concerned him or his sister. They understood the people’s hunger and need for change. What worried him was the violence, and he did not wish to talk about it all the time. “What else are you thinking about?” he finally asked.

“You know what today is, don’t you?”

“I try to forget. This entire month brings sad memories.” Xavier fought the pain that had weighed on his mind all day.

“I wish that I could forget. It hurts. What would he think about the turmoil?”

Xavier rubbed his forehead, remembering how his father had tried to mediate between the monarchy, the bourgeoisie, and all of the lower sorts. He died a year ago, of “natural causes” though it seemed unnatural at the time because of his age. But the doctor had said that his health simply failed. Xavier missed him desperately. His father, moreso than any other in his family, had understood his choice to enter the priesthood and had even accepted his decision to avoid Catholic politics in so doing. His eyes welled with tears.

“Oh, dear. I didn’t mean—” Catherine took Xavier’s hand and squeezed, as if to pinch the pain out of him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing at his eyes. “Don’t worry. I think about him anyway. Talking about him feels good.”

“How can this be good?”

“Because it honors him, reminds me of all that he taught and keeps me focused on helping people.”

“It’s peculiar. Until I went abroad to tour, I never realized our privileged position,” Catherine said. “Not because he sheltered us, but because he didn’t. He wanted us to see all classes of people and consider ourselves members of mankind without concern for wealth. It surprises me that he instilled this so well in all three of us.”