Page 5 of Vampire so Virtuous (Boston Vampires #1)

The black coach clattered down the cobbled streets, pulled by four horses, their harnesses as dark as their coats. The driver wore black, and even the emblem on the door was embossed in the same shade, barely visible unless one knew to look.

A coach the locals were keen to avoid.

Antoine leaned against the wall of the chandlery, watching it approach.

His ship had docked late that afternoon, and most of the crew had already scattered to taverns and brothels.

The captain was in the shop, bartering for tar.

They’d cut it fine; dusk had already fallen, and from the sound of the exchange behind him, the shopkeeper was more interested in closing up than striking a deal.

Perhaps the captain could use that to his advantage, if he were shrewd.

The coach barreled toward the harbor, its owner too important to slow for anyone else on the street. Antoine shook his head. The rich were the same the world over: selfish, self-centered, blind to those beneath them.

Two street scamps, a boy and a girl, darted from an alley, their focus on the boulangerie across the way, where a man was handing out the day’s stale leftovers to other children. Too young and hungry to mind their surroundings, they had no reason to expect anything but pedestrians.

Antoine stepped forward in alarm. The coach was coming fast.

“ Arrêtez-vous !” he yelled, waving his arm at the driver.

The urchins startled, looking first at him, then at the thundering horses bearing down upon them. The girl screamed. The boy froze.

Antoine barely had time. He lunged, grabbing the girl around the waist and cuffing the boy hard on the shoulder, shoving him clear. The boy stumbled, hitting the wall. Antoine spun, his body hunching protectively around the girl.

The first horse struck his back as it veered past.

He staggered, almost dropping the girl, but he’d taken the blow and she had not. The horse shied, jerking the coach sideways. The driver cursed, yanking hard on the reins. The narrow street left no room for error. By sheer luck, the horses avoided crashing into the opposite wall.

The boulangerie’s display wasn’t so fortunate. Loaves tumbled across the cobbles as the baker yanked his young customers inside, sparing them the same fate.

The coach came to an ungainly stop, angled across the street, the horses standing eerily still after the chaos. The driver was almost level with Antoine. “ Imbécile !” he shouted, humiliation and anger coloring his voice as he raised his whip.

Antoine hissed in pain as the first blow struck his back.

He lowered the girl, shielding her with his body as the whip lashed again.

He gritted his teeth, but now his hands were free.

As the whip came down once more, he turned and caught it, the leather biting into his wrist. But it was worth it to wrench it from the hapless driver’s hand.

Antoine threw the whip into the gutter, glaring at the man as he straightened, his back throbbing from the lashes—and the blow from the horse’s shoulder.

The tableau held. The driver sat frozen in surprise, Antoine’s stare seething, until a lady’s voice came from within the coach. He didn’t catch the muffled words.

“ Un idiot nous a fait arrêter la calèche, madame ,” the driver sneered.

Antoine was about to reply in kind, but the door of the coach swung open, and the words died on his tongue.

The woman who disembarked was the most beautiful he had ever seen: the perfect symmetry of her delicate features, the paleness of her skin contrasting with the darkness of her carefully coiffed hair, the lavishness of her couture.

She paused, taking in the scene, her eyes flicking from the whip in the gutter, to him as he angrily glared back.

Her lips curled in amusement, before she looked past him to the cowering girl, tears streaking the child’s face.

She lingered on the boy, dazed and holding his head, a trickle of blood running crimson between his fingers. Then her gaze returned to Antoine.

“ Un homme si vertueux .” She gave a smile that Antoine would never forget, full of allure, promise, and seduction. She held it as she approached him, much like a cat might approach a cornered mouse. But Antoine was no mouse. He stood tall.

Virtuous, she had called him—but it had sounded like an insult. He had acted only to save the children, which would have been unnecessary if her driver had shown even a modicum of care.

“ Votre cocher est irresponsable, madame . ”

She kept coming, ignoring his accusation, until she was almost upon him. It was scandalous for a woman to approach a man in such a manner, and he stiffened as she raised one gloved hand, delicately running her fingertips down the opening of his shirt, then pulling the collar away from his neck.

He bristled, but didn’t pull away. “ Madame! Un peu de décorum, s’il vous plait! ”

“Là là,” she said dismissively, then circled him, not caring that her fine shoes were soon covered in the filth of the street, her dress swishing against his legs as she inspected him.

Strangely, the coach driver was grinning, and Antoine returned his smug look with a stoic expression.

The entire encounter had been too brief for onlookers to gather.

The baker had not yet re-emerged from his shop, wisely keeping the other street urchins inside.

His captain was still haggling with the chandler, their voices muffled, and Antoine was only vaguely aware the street had grown unnervingly quiet, as if the locals were actively avoiding involvement.

Only the girl Antoine had saved stood watching, transfixed, while her brother, holding his bleeding head, remained stunned and unseeing beside her.

No one but the driver paid attention as the lady walked behind Antoine, trailing her fingertips across his shirt where the whip had cut the material.

He tensed at her touch, wincing as he became aware of the sticky blood on his skin.

Her hand moved to the side of his neck, her body pressing against his.

Such forwardness, such impropriety, was shocking. He was stunned—and it was all she needed. Her lips brushed his neck, and then there was pain. She had bitten him!

In reflex, he tried to pull away, but her grip on his neck held him with a strength far greater than he anticipated. He couldn’t free himself. How was that possible? She was half his size!

Her teeth pierced the pulse point beside his throat, sharp and deep. Then, all was peace. The urge to object, or even to think, faded into nothingness.

Afterward, it seemed natural to follow her back to the coach.

There was no reason not to climb in after her, pulling the door closed behind him.

A man he vaguely recognized emerged from the chandler’s shop, calling after him, but it didn’t matter.

Antoine settled into the coach, content to wait while she attended to business at the harbor.

When she returned, he basked in her presence, letting the pleasure of her beauty fill the air between them as they made their way back to her house.

She asked him about his family (dead parents, a sister), where he lived (onboard the ship), and why he’d risked himself to save the urchins.

She lingered on that last one, as if it amused her.

He answered the best he could, though in truth, he’d acted purely on instinct, driven by a desire to protect.

She seemed to accept his explanation in the end, and for him, that was enough.

He was glad she found something in him worth her attention.

It was all he could do to please her. When she suggested he spend the night in her bed, he obeyed without hesitation, yielding to her every whim.

She used him as she wished, and it seemed only fitting.

She was so beautiful, so elegant—what else could he do but be grateful?

Why should he question the sensation of her teeth sinking once more into his neck?

It was humbling that she allowed him such exquisite pleasure, even as she took his blood.

Come morning, he made his way down through the house and into the basement, per her instructions.

There, as promised, was the cage, dimly illuminated by a single candle.

He stepped inside, the faint creak of metal breaking the silence, and closed the door behind him.

He clicked the lock into place, sealing himself in unquestioningly.

The candle burned out within an hour, plunging the room into absolute darkness. He sat against the bars on the cold stone floor with nothing to do but wait. For what, death? Her? Not rescue. No one knew he was here.

At first, he counted his breaths in a futile attempt to anchor himself. But time dissolved into a shapeless void, marked only by the steady gnaw of thirst and hunger. No food, no water. Not even a bucket to preserve his dignity.

The cage’s narrow confines left him no choice but to sit in his own filth, the stench mingling with the damp chill. Sleep came in restless, broken fits, his limbs too sore and cramped for rest. And when he was awake, there was nothing left but to wonder.

Why?

What had he done to deserve this?

When she finally came, his mind had cleared but his strength had left him.

Two sets of footsteps on the stairs, sharp and deliberate, and then the light.

A lantern, carried by another man. Its brightness stabbed at his eyes, blinding him after so long in the dark.

He squinted against it, his head pounding, legs trembling as he forced himself upright.

It took every ounce of effort to stand, to face her down, to ask the question that had been tormenting him since he regained control of his thoughts.

“ Qui êtes-vous? ” His voice cracked, dry and hoarse.

She gave no reply, only lifted a goblet, silver catching the lantern’s glow, and slipped it through the bars with deliberate care.

There was a reverence in her motion, as though the liquid were sacred.

His thirst drove him to take it without thought, his lips pressing to the rim as he swallowed greedily.

It wasn’t water. Thick. Salty. Metallic. He gagged, coughing as he spat it out, his hand trembling as he held the goblet away. His stomach churned, strangely accepting of the nourishment, but the sickly bitterness lingered on his tongue.

“ Bois, mon amour ,” she whispered, both hands on the bars of his cage as she watched him. Deliberately, he upended the goblet and let the thick liquid spill to the floor, staring at her in defiance all the while.

Her visage was a thing of terror to behold. Rage twisted her features, stark and cruel. The light from the door carved jagged lines across her face, shadows clawing at the edges. He would forever remember that expression, the malevolence burning in her eyes, sharp and unforgiving.

But then her face relaxed, and became beauty again. “ Comme tu veux, ” she said indifferently, leaving him in his cage, closing the basement door behind her. Darkness fell, and he watched the light beneath the door recede.

When she came again, many hours later, he was too weak to stand.

Once more she proffered a goblet through the bars, bending to place it in his hand.

“ Choisis, mon amour. ” But by then, there was no choice.

She had allowed him much time to reflect; it was drink or die of thirst. He forced himself to swallow the first cloying mouthful, then finished the rest of whatever foul liquid it was she had given him.

He cast the empty goblet away, and it clanged against a bar of the cage, falling through and rolling toward her feet.

“ Qui êtes-vous? ”

She didn’t answer, walking away and closing the door behind her, sealing him in darkness once more.