Page 21 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

“Marcel, I need to attend the mayor’s club this evening.”

“Commiserations, sir. Black tie?”

“Yes, that’ll do.”

“Of course, sir.”

Antoine trimmed his nails in the en suite while Marcel selected clothing from the walk-in wardrobe with practiced efficiency.

“With the excitement of my trip yesterday, I quite forgot to ask you,” Antoine called through the open bathroom door. “How did you get on finding candidates for thralls?”

“Very well, sir. I have a list for your consideration, with no fewer than twelve veterans. I could find more, given another day or two.”

“It’s something to consider, my friend, but let’s start with those. I don’t want you taking more risks than necessary until I’ve better secured the territory.”

Marcel laid a dinner jacket and shirt on the bed. “Very good, sir. The platinum cufflinks? And please don’t forget an appropriate watch.”

“Thank you, Marcel. One of the Omegas will suffice.”

Antoine found dressing like the wealthy elite to be repugnant. Vampires seemed to love the trappings of wealth and power. So, of course, he did not. It reminded him far too much of Belle.

*

Nantes, France, 1747.

Antoine lay uncomfortably in the bottom of his small cage, his stomach twisting in agony. There was no one to hear his cries.

He wanted to vomit. He longed for sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let him.

What had that woman fed him?

At last, weak from starvation and drained by hours of suffering, he slipped into a fitful sleep, where dark dreams tormented him.

When he eventually awoke, he felt stronger.

Perhaps it was some remedy she was feeding him, a medicine to restore his strength, even if his stomach rejected it.

The room seemed lighter, too. He could make out the table where the candle had rested, even the melted wax stub in its holder.

His frailty had diminished, his hunger dulled, but in its place, a thirst gripped him with desperate intensity.

Time passed. How much, he couldn’t tell. The thirst was a constant companion, growing as the hours crawled by. Yet it was no longer water he craved. His thoughts circled back, again and again, to the thick, salty liquid she had given him.

When she eventually returned, Antoine did not hesitate to take the goblet from her.

He could smell its contents—rich, vibrant, spicy, strangely exotic.

He was so hungry—no, so thirsty. It tasted better than before, like a thick, heady wine.

He slumped back in his cell, sated for the time being, licking his teeth to capture every last drop of that wonderful liquid.

It almost reminded him of… but no, that couldn’t be.

Not when the flavor was so decadent, so intoxicating.

The pain did not relent. He spent another night in anguish, wondering if she was trying to poison him. Yet if she wished to kill him, she could have done so with ease. And if he refused to drink, he would die anyway.

She had not given him a choice. She had trapped him in a thirst worse than death.

Who was she, this witch?

She left him for hours, his thirst growing until he thought two days had passed, maybe even three. There was no way of keeping track of time in the dark room, all alone.

Though it was not quite as dark as it had been.

His eyes had adjusted; he could now see beyond the table with the candle stub.

Large crates, discarded furniture, and piles of forgotten accoutrements—the clutter of things with no other home.

He knew the room was still pitch-black, and yet he could make out every detail with startling clarity.

She came at last, and he whimpered as he smelled the liquid in the goblet. By now, he’d accepted that she’d been feeding him blood. It made sense, he supposed; perhaps it satisfied both thirst and hunger in one efficient, if barbaric, way.

His hands trembled as he reached for the goblet, and it took all his willpower not to beg.

“ Doucement, mon amour, ” she chided.

But he would not let a single drop be spilled.

Fighting to control his eagerness, he carefully pulled the goblet through the bars, lifting it to his lips and moaning as the metallic liquid filled his senses.

It may have been blood, but it tasted unlike anything he had ever drunk before—rich, wholesome, life-giving, and sweet.

Rarely had he known such bliss, such fulfillment.

She stayed to watch him drink, and now his vision was sharp enough to catch the satisfaction on her face. Only then did he realize—she had not brought a light this time. The room was completely dark, and yet she saw him as clearly as he saw her.

“ Qui êtes-vous? ” Antoine asked.

As always, she simply turned and left, closing the door behind her.

He slumped back on the cold stone floor of his cell. His stomach twisted again, but the pain had lessened—or perhaps he had simply grown stronger. He managed to endure it almost in silence, even though there was no one to hear his whimpers anyway.

It was still some time before sleep finally claimed him.

*

He awoke, more invigorated than he could ever remember.

It was like he’d spent a night in the softest of feather beds, not curled up on a stone floor.

Thirsty, yes—but what unsettled him more was that it was blood he craved.

He felt no hunger, despite having eaten nothing for days, and his frailty was now a distant memory. He felt stronger, so much stronger.

It seemed natural to take hold of the bars of his cage and pull.

They parted easily.

Shock sent him stumbling back, and in doing so, he tore one bar free. He stared at the twisted length of iron in his grasp, his fingers buried in the metal as if it were soft clay. He could still feel its coolness, its density—iron, unyielding and solid—yet he had bent it as though it were nothing.

Disbelief took hold. He tightened his grip, and the rod curled in his hands without resistance.

Antoine dropped the twisted bar. The clang of metal striking stone was a jarring reminder of its true nature—iron, still rigid, still dense, despite what he had just done.

His breath came sharp and uneven. He stared at his hands, seeing every detail—his nails, the fine lines on his palms, even the veins beneath his skin.

This was not natural.

A roar tore from his throat as he seized the bars, wrenching them apart. Iron bent and twisted under his unholy strength, his cries raw with fury, despair—vengeance. The door beyond offered even less resistance. He ripped it from its hinges, unaware and uncaring if it had ever been locked .

The stairs loomed before him. It had been so long since he had descended, since he had locked himself away under her spell. But now, with this newfound strength, he would never again succumb to her witchery.

He climbed with grim purpose, intent on finding her, forcing answers from her.

Why had she imprisoned him? Why him? And, more than anything, what had she done to him?

The house was expansive, but silent. Oil lanterns flickered along the corridors, their glow unnecessary. He saw everything. He searched from room to room.

A servant stepped into the hall, and Antoine was upon him before the luckless man could react.

It was instinctive to twist the man’s head to the side and sink his teeth into his vulnerable neck.

The thick, heady taste of the man’s blood suffused his senses, and horror did nothing to stop him drinking.

Mouthful after mouthful of delicious, nourishing, invigorating blood slid down his throat.

He was lost in it, drowning in the sensation.

Only when he was sated did Antoine release him, stepping back.

He stared first at the lifeless, crumpled body at his feet, then at his hands.

A cry of horror escaped him as he wiped the blood from his mouth, staining the sleeve of his already-filthy, once-white shirt. Then, in a frenzy, he tore through the house, ripping open doors, searching for her. The hallway blurred past as he moved faster than he ever could have before.

She was waiting for him.

Seated at the edge of her bed, dressed in a negligee that revealed more than it concealed—beautiful, expectant, serene.

“ Qu’avez-vous fait de moi? ” he screamed at her. What had she done to him?

Her smile was playful, as if his rage amused her, impotent and inconsequential.

He lunged, fingers reaching, certain his unnatural speed and strength made him unstoppable.

But in a blink, she was gone.

A sharp kick struck the back of his knee, his leg collapsing beneath him. Her hand crushed his shoulder, forcing him to the ground as pain shot through him. Her foot pressed against his throat, pinning him effortlessly.

Antoine stared up at her, defeated, despairing. “ Tuez-moi alors, ” he spat bitterly. He didn’t want to live anyway.

“ Non. ”

“ Pourquoi? ” Why? Why had she done this?

“ Parce que ca m’amuse. ”

*

Boston, Massachusetts, Present day.

“Because it amuses me.”

Antoine stood before the mirror, scrutinizing his reflection. The dinner jacket fit perfectly, the shirt tailored with care. He adjusted one cuff beneath its sleeve, scowling.

Dressing like this was a constant reminder of his origins—of the fripperies and finery vampires draped themselves in, convinced it proved their superiority.

Belle had filled his wardrobes with expensive clothing, yet he would often turn up in simple trousers and a shirt.

She used to laugh at him, then rip the clothing from his body with her claws, leaving deep furrows in his skin.

When he eventually relented and dressed as she demanded, the result was always the same. She would mock him, claiming he didn’t deserve fine clothes if he preferred to dress like a peasant. It had taken him years to understand the truth—she simply enjoyed tormenting him.

And she preferred him naked.

Marcel reappeared, interrupting his thoughts. “Given the venue, sir, could I persuade you toward the Lamborghini tonight?”