The Vampire's Angel (36 page)

“But you won’t talk about it.”

“No. It’s personal.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“I just don’t want to hear her say that she was right about him. Then she tried to sell me off onto other men—” Xavier stopped abruptly. He had gone farther than ever before.

Catherine held her breath then exhaled softly. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing. And I don’t feel like talking to you about it, either.” He studied his hands, sullen.

“Xavier, please.”

“Look at the sun,” he said, pointing to the window. “How marvelous. I’m getting dressed.” He launched himself off the bed, talking on and on about the sun, as if he had never seen it before, and insisted that they enjoy breakfast on the patio.

Catherine despaired at his attitude. He had always been an open book to her, but now he sheltered himself from any personal conversations about the church or his relationships. At first it hurt her, but she came to accept that he simply could not confront what mattered, and this intensified pain inside him meant one thing. He loved Thomas entirely.

Xavier dressed hurriedly, disheveled with his collar turned the wrong way and his clothes wrinkled, but ran out the door nonetheless. Catherine followed down the hall and stopped him before he grabbed more liquor from the cabinet. He laughed with glee, still drunk from the wine he had consumed and Catherine sighed, fearing that she may have lost him.

20 June 1792

ANTHONY AND THOMAS sat at an outside café sipping wine on a patio under perfect weather, almost too exquisite a scene considering France’s current turmoil. Why they ordered drinks mystified Thomas— they had no need of sustenance, though Thomas enjoyed the slight buzz. Perhaps they drank for effect, the “feel” of chatting on a nice evening about random items over scotch. It was human. They were acting human.

They had exhausted their favorite topic—the revolution, which confounded them more and more and made less sense every day. In the midst of an unstable government, with countless factions vying for control, the country had actually declared war and plunged into a world-wide struggle.

Not surprisingly to either of them, this latest war went poorly for the French, with numerous defeats, economic inflation, and no one wanting to join the army, which led to rioting. Thomas and Anthony always enjoyed that. The French generally turned to violent mobs when their plight worsened.

This entertained them so much that Anthony remained in Paris, reminding Thomas often that he stayed away from his beloved England longer than usual, and in hated France, no less. Left unsaid was Thomas’s suspicion that Anthony also stayed to watch Thomas, though nearly a year had passed since he had last talked to Xavier and he had

obeyed Anthony the entire time.

“Are you still monitoring Xavier?” Anthony asked.

“You already know the answer to that. What do you really want to know?”

Anthony grinned. “Are you obeying me?”

“Yes. You gave permission to watch him from afar, and that’s all I do.”

Thomas thought about having seen Xavier earlier that night. Xavier was sitting on the balcony, laughing and carrying on in a loud drunken voice with anyone who would listen. Even when conversation turned to the revolution, Xavier laughed and made jokes. It pained Thomas to see him this way. The alcohol spoke, not Xavier, and Thomas had caused this misery. Catherine sat near Xavier the whole time, protecting him and indulging him.

Thomas had gone to get Anthony afterward, and they strolled to the café together.

“How are the Saint-Laurents?” Anthony asked.

“The same. It seems that Catherine’s salon is doing well. I asked around the place and heard that Jérémie went to London.”

“Asked around?” Thomas could hear the disapproval in Anthony’s voice.

“It’s a public space, I merely have my servant go in from time to time to keep me apprised about things.”

“That’s not what I allowed.” Anthony ran his fingers down the stem of his wine glass. “And Marcel? Is he still there?”

“Gone, too. Apparently back to America. However, I learned that he tried to take over the salon from there, but Catherine wouldn’t allow it.”

“I suppose you came upon that information innocently, as well?”

“Of course.”

“I know that you still want Xavier,” Anthony said suddenly. “I won’t discourage it, but I’m not sure that it’s a good idea for you to entirely abstain from sex. It worries me. Perhaps you obsess too much.”

“Sex has nothing to do with it. It doesn’t mean that I’m not satisfying my—” Thomas stopped himself and laughed. “What business of yours is it?”

“You’re too involved. Forget the sex. You’re right, it’s irrelevant. But what about your latest method of killing?”

“My method of killing? I comply with the ethic,” Thomas said defensively.

“I never accused you otherwise. But you’ve changed the way you hunt.”

“The way I hunt?” Thomas asked. “What are you talking about?”

Anthony got up from the table and gestured for Thomas to follow as he sauntered down the street, ever casual, without a care in the world.

Thomas followed, bewildered, as Anthony led them away from the bars and the center of Paris. Thomas knew they were hunting, but why?

Anthony stopped when they reached a dark alley, turned to Thomas, and said, “Hunt.”

“Now? Just like this?”

“Yes, find a victim. I’ll watch.”

“I never knew you enjoyed voyeurism.”

Anthony chuckled and pointed down the alley.

A suspect appeared at once, dirty, hovering in dark corners, and scowling. He jumped out to rob Thomas. Thomas grabbed the man’s throat and thrust him against the wall. His bones cracked. Thomas pushed the man to the ground and leered over him, his fangs large and his brow wrinkled.

Thomas knelt and, before sinking his teeth into the skin, as one last punishment, ripped the man’s testicles off. Then he enjoyed the blood. The thick syrup flowed down his throat. It burned like a good alcohol and created a sexual sensation. Not the climax, but the building tension and tingling beforehand. The task completed, he remembered Anthony and shoved the man into a corner.

Anthony was already laughing. “Still have no idea what I meant?” he asked.

“No. What?”

“Please. You’ve become more maniacal than ever since you slapped Xavier across the room.” Anthony smiled mockingly, but dread filled Thomas. The bloodied genitals, lying five feet from the body, told him that something else propelled him.

“Do I have your attention now?”

“What’s going on?” Thomas asked. “What have I become?”

“You’re upset. Calm down.”

“Anthony, what’s going on?”

“I’m not a student of the vampire brain. But I’d guess you’re mad about Xavier. Knowing you, and your positive outlook on all things vampiric, you don’t dwell on your sadness and so the tension comes out this way. It’s not inappropriate, but it’s certainly different. Better than when you were beating Xavier or attacking innocent civilians. This business with Xavier has you more emotional than ever. You need to be aware of how it affects you. Maybe your love for Xavier isn’t always a good thing and you need to prepare yourself for failure.”

“But I can win him over.”

“Then you must realize the necessity of controlling your frustration.”

“I understand, but why do I go to such extremes with killing?”

“Because you can’t control Xavier and you want to. Because you must admit—for the first time, either as a mortal or a vampire—that you can’t manipulate every situation and every being to your bidding.” Anthony put his arm around Thomas as they walked down the street.

“I thought that I was being patient. I’ve been so proud of not behaving irrationally.”

“That’s not my point, Thomas. You’ve been marvelously good. Extraordinarily so for you. You may not be able to control everything, but you don’t have to suffer alone.”

“I feel alone, and as if no one understands.”

“But I do. Love’s frustration isn’t yours exclusively. I mourned when I lost you, or should I say when you told me about the real you. And you know about—” Anthony stopped. He never said much about his companion of many years ago though he alluded to it often. “I just mean that you get into the most trouble when you try to solve things by yourself.”

“Thank you.” Thomas squeezed Anthony’s hand.

As dawn approached, Thomas felt better. The ache for Xavier remained because he loved him too much. But he was not alone. Whether he agreed with everything that Anthony said or not, their friendship was crucial to him. They hugged goodbye, a little longer this time, and kissed on the cheek. Thomas fell into his sunlight-induced coma quickly, and, as always, dreamt of Xavier’s arms clinging to him.

17 July 1792

CATHERINE SPRINTED TO the kitchen to see that dinner was prepared, thinking it strange that she maintained the domestic ritual of a proper dinner with all of France in revolution. But tonight was special, with the entire family gathering for a meal.

She thought about her recent conversation with Michel. He had hurried home, with little time between official duties, to tell her something important. She met him in the hall, prepared for another lecture. “I’m sorry,” he had said and his eyes welled with tears. “I apologize for my behavior since Father died.” She forgave him, stunned at the sudden transformation.

She especially appreciated that Michel kept Marcel out of the conversation, given the fact that Michel had learned how Marcel tried to seize Saint-Laurent assets from America. She had stopped that, but not before assuring Marcel in a letter that he still had her utter devotion. He had recently sent another supply of medication, which she dutifully took to make him happy when he returned. She even pleaded with him to come back to France soon.

“Thank you for coming,” she had said to Michel as he left. “I needed our reconciliation more than ever, what with all of the energy that Xavier takes.”

“He can’t get over Thomas,” Michel had answered.

“So you know about them?”

“I’m not as dense as you think.” Michel winked at her and ran off to his regiment.

Seeing that dinner preparations progressed nicely, Catherine hurried up the stairs to Xavier’s room to find him, unsurprisingly, drunk and silly.

“Sissy! How splendid. I was just donning my finest attire for this formal dinner.” Xavier, wearing his ceremonial robe reserved for high church affairs and special Sunday services, danced around and curtseyed to her with a big grin. His breath smelled of liquor—not wine but whisky.

“Xavier, you look very—what shall I say? Regal? No, you look like the pope.”

“Why, thank you,” he said and bowed.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. And you aren’t wearing that to dinner. Maria is coming and she would faint at your blasphemy. Take it off.”

“All the more reason to wear it,” he retorted.

“Why do you antagonize her?”

Xavier became quite serious. “I love Maria dearly. But she’s so serious. I can’t bear the scolding and blah blah blah.”

Xavier plopped himself onto a couch, slouching. Catherine pulled him out of the chair and yanked off the top garment. “Guests are waiting.” What were all of these layers, anyhow? Positively ridiculous, all of this cloth just to show that you were holy. Xavier passively allowed her to undress him down to his modest clerical robe that he wore about the house, though they forbade him to leave with it. Redressing accomplished, Catherine hurried him toward the dining room despite his stopping to observe everything they passed or mentioning each little thing that popped into his head.

As she feared, they arrived to see Anne, Maria, and Michel waiting, though Michel had graciously assumed the role of host. Catherine had orchestrated this dinner for Xavier, hoping it might shock him back to reality.

“What a surprise,” Xavier cried. “All my friends are here. Welcome, I’ve prepared a feast. I was in the kitchen all day.”

Everyone laughed, Catherine apparently not the only one used to his drunken antics. Xavier danced about the room and kissed each of them on the cheek, except for Maria. To her, he extended his clerical ring, winked, and asked her to kiss it. She playfully slapped his hand with mock offense.

After getting Xavier to settle down, everyone took their seats and dinner commenced. The conversation was lively, everyone contributed, and Xavier, though clearly drunk, appeared to have a grand time. It unburdened Catherine’s heart just to see him smile.

“Oh, Catherine,” Xavier called down the table. “I’m talking to you.”

“What?” she asked.

“Suppose I’m one of those silly correspondents from America who must interview all of France to find out how each person feels about this revolution. You know, we Americans are nosy and need to see if you’re as good as we at revolutions.”

Xavier had everyone chuckling.

“Well, Mr. American, maybe I want to hear what you think, first,” Catherine said, playing along.

“Very well. I think that it’s a revolution and that democracy is best. Rioting is silly because it is silly,” Xavier said with a strange accent, trying to sound American and not making sense.

“I’m rather numb to the whole thing,” Catherine answered honestly.

“Numb? The French aristocracy is numb to the problems of France?”

Catherine sighed. “Numb to your antics.”

“Very well. You, of the nunnery, what do you think?”

“I won’t condemn nor promote this revolution, I just do my best to help people.” There were cries of “Hear, hear,” from Michel and Anne. “However, there’s one terrible tragedy.”

“Oh, do tell,” Xavier said.

“This revolution has led to a rash of drinking among the clergy,” Maria said. “I don’t know what it is. The Protestants don’t behave this way, but those Catholic priests all took to drinking, even the communion wine. And it’s sad to see them all acting entirely silly.”

Predictably, Xavier seemed only to see humor in her statement and he laughed until tears streamed down his face. “Very good,” he finally managed to say. “How interesting. I think that this revolution has led nuns to be irritable.”