© Copyright 2005 A. Fraser and J. Hontz. All rights reserved.
When Gideon and Josh returned from seeing to their clothing (it had already been hung in the closets) and their toiletries (carefully and skilfully arranged in the bathroom) and etc. (whatever it is that people in love do when they have five minutes to themselves) all parties reassembled in the sitting room. Spencer Smythe had his nose buried in a ledger. Adele had turned her attention from him and was eyeing Mitch speculatively. Her tongue came out and moistened her lips. Julian, who'd been in conversation with Spencer, looked up. To the relief of everyone in the room, Mrs Barnard had, for the moment at least, disappeared. "Giddy-widdy-widdoms, can I pretty pretty please steal Mitch away and take him off to my lair - er I mean show him some of the nightlife?" Adele said, batting her eyelashes at Gideon as she draped herself artistically over his broad solid shoulders. "I think some of the clubs I have in mind to show him might be a bit, er, boring for you. Young people, loud music, and all that." She looked from Josh to Gideon and back again. Julian was, apparently, not to be consulted on the wisdom of this division of forces. Julian did, however, shrug. "She does know Paris," he commented. "Better, Iexpect, than I do these days," he added thoughtfully. Josh dared to risk a glance at his husband. Gideon seemed to be mouthing "Giddy-widdy-widdoms" to himself. "Boss?" Mitch asked with some trepidation. Gideon waved a hand, almost negligently. "Go," he said. "But if anything happens to my young assistant," he looked at Adele, "I will want a full accounting. Adella-bella-ella." She laughed and, before Gideon could move away, kissed the Baron on the cheek again. Then she grabbed Mitch by the hand and said, "Come with me." They ran down the steps before anyone could call them back or change their minds. "Can I call you Giddy..." Josh began. "Not if you want to live," Gideon said, firmly. Adele was still laughing as she and Mitch reached the main floor of the hotel. She tugged Mitch along with her, but truthfully, the young slightly hairy fellow needed little urging from Adele. He wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to get asked out by her, but hey, he wasn't going to waste time worrying about that right now. The two of them were still nearly running as they exited the rather impressive front doors of the hotel, leaving startled bellhops and guests in their wake. Well, at least none of them had been knocked over in their rush to escape the watchful eyes of their respective employers/guardians. The evening was soft and full of sound and motion and lights and Paris was dressed up to her best effect. The two miscreants had come to a stop a few doors up from the hotel. Adele was leaning back against a wall, catching her breath. Which made Mitch pay strict attention since Adele was quite nicely endowed and the movement of breasts under thin material was currently on display in a very nice way. "So, Monsieur Mitch, where to? Dancing? Drinking? Illicit entirely inappropriate parties? Or a private table for two somewhere?" Adele asked with a twinkle in her bright blue eye. Mitch grinned at her. Was there just the faintest, teeniest hint of a feral yellow glow behind his blue eyes? Were his canines perhaps slightly, ever so slightly, sharper than a human's should be? "Let's go dancing and drinking first," he suggested. Perhaps there was the soupcon of a growl in it. "I don't want to waste this chance to get plastered in Paris." "Hmmmm," Adele commented with an appreciative stare into those feral eyes. Adele had no objections to partially uncivilized men. Otherwise she'd hardly have found Francis attractive. "I know just the place." "Oh?" She laughed and pulled him along into a rather dark and narrow alley. "Oh yes." Mitch, having a lot of confidence in himself, hardly gave the security considerations of that dark alleyway a thought. Well, okay, he was more concerned with giving Adele's perky behind a thought, still... He was, after all, hardly helpless. He wasn't exactly sure what Adele had going for her but she didn't scan quite normal or helpless either. Although, granted, to his knowledge Adele had never shown a hint of special powers or even much in the way of magic, Mitch was well aware that Evan had spent some time trying to figure out just what she was (Evan, security obsessed, generally spent far too much time brooding over what exactly other people were. Since he was an Other People himself, well, there you have it). So he wasn't particularly worried for her safety either. "Hmmm?" Adele asked, as she heard the snort Mitch hadn't managed to entirely suppress at those thoughts. "Is there..." He began to say. It was then the men were on them. Three of them, rather dully dressed in black. Perhaps they were Goth wannabes. As there were three of them, they did manage to separate Adele and Mitch. Mitch, busy with his own two attackers, could barely spare a glance toward Adele. Adele, likewise a bit busy, let Mitch worry about himself. She, dressed in skin-tight pants and two inch heels, was a bit at a disadvantage. She posed a moment, bent forward at the waist, giving the fellow a nice view of shapely breasts peeking out of a mostly unbuttoned shirt, and used his inevitable distraction to examine the fellow who was advancing upon her in a similar if not quite so revealing crouch. The man, along with his colleagues, was certainly no typical French pickpocket. Nor was he a typical thug. He hadn't bothered to wear a mask, but he did have a rather odd sign painted on his forehead. In black of course. His hair was black, his eyes were black, his skin was a paler shade of black. He was, Adele concluded sadly, rather good looking in a monkish sort of way. Too bad. That was when her left leg shot out unerringly aiming that stiletto heel at his nearest knee. The thug, expecting the kick to be aimed at a far more tender and vulnerable portion of his anatomy, twisted with quickness and grace, but kept his feet planted and was thus unable to entirely avoid the blow. The stiletto heel instead impacted on the unprotected bone in the man's right lower leg. The power of the kick dropped him to his knees as his leg gave way. His breath whooshed out of him as she followed that up with a blow across the man's now exposed neck. He dropped like a rock, unconscious, to the dirty alleyway cobbles. Mitch, on the other hand, found one black-clad thug grabbing him and holding him while the other one who wasn't attacking Adele attempted that old fight standby known in Mitch's native England as "putting the boot in" and in his adopted America as "a kick in the balls". But it was only attempted, because the fellow holding Mitch didn't realize that he was not restraining an ordinary young man. He didn't have a tiger by the tail, but he did have a werewolf by the waist. With a growl that raised hair on necks six blocks away, Mitch broke free of the grasp, grabbed the leg that was still being raised in the direction of his genitals, and pulled. The kicker went flat on his back with a sound like "Whooo... thud, crack!" Moving like a wolf, Mitch turned to the man behind him and leapt on him, bearing him to the ground as well. He fought not only against his opponent, but against the beast within. The wolf wanted out; but if he let it out, there would be total carnage in this alley. Total. Carnage. So he contented himself with knocking the fellow's head against the pavement a few times. The other one he'd knocked down had only been winded; and got up and tried to pry the werewolf off his buddy. Without even glancing at him, Mitch shot out an arm and caught the second man with a powerhouse punch any boxing aficionado would've wept to see. The recipient fell like a sack. Once all three attackers were laid out at their feet, Adele, hands on hips, and Mitch, still breathing heavily - oh, not from the exertion but more because of the arousal caused by the way Adele was aglow after enjoyable physical exercise - looked down at the three. They might have been triplets for all the differences among them. "Our night is ruined," Adele whined. "I suppose we ought to tote at least one back to the hotel for Julian or Gideon to question. I just don't see these boys as wanting to ravage little old me, or even you darling Mitch."
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The old fogeys, on the other hand, were enjoying a tame, uneventful, boring, safe, sedate, pedestrian, mundane, average (yes, we SEE you have that thesaurus, scribe, we aren't impressed) drive around the sights and sites of Paris. Although the trip through the Bois-de-Boulogne was a bit of an eye opener. Particularly for Gideon. One of the ladies of the night (no, the other kind) had leant into the limo on his side and planted yet another kiss on our fair hero's cheek. Well, okay the kiss landed on the glass between his cheek and her lips but it was sufficiently amusing to have Josh snickering. Julian, on the other hand, seemed a bit distracted. "What is it?" Josh asked. "I believe there's been a minor contretemps and we are needed at the hotel. I'm afraid we'd best return there forthwith." "Is everyone all right?" Josh asked. "Well, not everyone. But everyone I care about is well, so that's what matters." Then he added, "Gabrielle, back to the hotel if you please." That was when the black Audi shot out of one of the darker, narrower pathways in the Bois. It came at the far less nimble limo at top speed. Gabrielle did what she could. But the Audi seemed intent on ramming them. Just before impact, Julian was heard to mutter, "Oh, bother." Then, in an instant the four of them were not in a soon-to-be-crashed limo, but instead were standing in the hallway outside Gideon and Josh's room at the hotel. "Everyone all right?" Julian asked brightly. Gabrielle seemed too stunned to find words. Julian muttered crossly, "I suppose we'll have to do one of those endless and boring accident reports, in triplicate. You simply must agree to drive for me Gabrielle. Then we wouldn't have to bother with that sort of nonsense."
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There are castles in the Loire Valley; large chateaus built by rich wine merchants, disenfranchised princes, barons of industry, and the like. They dot the French countryside like overpriced mushrooms. It is almost inevitable that at least one of them should house a vampire. But it's a rather pretty little chateau. It has the requisite towers, of course; but it also has a charming garden (although with a few headstones at the bottom of it, making a private little graveyard) and stained glass windows. It does not look like the home of one of the undead. There are no bats, no cobwebs, no sweeping gothic arches, no thousands of rats. There is a small black and white cat, brushing up against the hemline of her mistress' skirt as said mistress walks the halls of her abode. All is not well in the Chateau de Monet. "The lock has been broken," said Genevieve de Monet, frowning at one of the outside doors. "And the alarms have been bypassed." One would have thought she was speaking to herself, if not for the fact that she was holding a small and very modern cell phone. "Damn," said the voice on the other end of the ... you can't say line anymore, can you? ... said the voice on the other phone. "I can't possibly get away. Get Jean to come and stay with you. Or better yet, get out of the house." Genevieve frowned again. "I will not simply desert the chateau, Evan," she said. "And Jean has obligations in Paris." She heard something, something that did not belong in the house. A footfall. An indrawn breath. Sounds made by living people. "Whoever it is is still in the house," she said into the phone. "I will call you back." "Genevieve, don't hang..." click. The lady of the house glanced down at her cat. Aurore (this was approximately Aurore number 12 or so, Genevieve had a habit of acquiring black and white cats and naming them for the dawn she never saw) had her ears laid back and her tail was erect and bushy. Moving more silently than even the cat could, Genevieve walked towards the source of the foreign sounds. Someone had a heartbeat. For now. They were in her bedroom! Although it wasn't a new experience for there to be other people in her bedroom, Genevieve had usually invited them first. Her eyes glowed red. To invade a vampire's inner sanctum was to invite death. She flung open the door and stared at the two men. One was rooting through her jewellery box, the other was holding something she couldn't quite see. But they didn't look like thieves, somehow. She didn't stop to take in the details of their appearance, but flung herself at the one going through her jewels. There was something sharp at her back, suddenly. "Madame de Monet," said a rather pleasant voice in her ear, "you will release my companion. What I am holding is a silver knife, blessed with holy water, and I am quite confident that it will kill you, or at least inconvenience you severely." She let the thief go. He rubbed at his throat. Then she looked at them. They were dressed in black, which was not a large surprise, but it wasn't the sort of black a thief wears. They wore no masks or hats or camouflage paint; although they did have peculiar signs painted on their foreheads. In black. There was something about them that made Genevieve think of monks, although they weren't tonsured and wore no crosses openly. "Why not just stake me, then?" she asked. "I will if you make it necessary," replied the man behind her. "But we are not vampire hunters." "Or ordinary thieves," said the other man, once more going through the pile of jewellery. This would appear to have been true, for he was ignoring Cartier, Tiffany and other designers. Just one piece would have made these men their fortunes, but he seemed uninterested. "What do you want?" she demanded. "Your husband's ring," said the man with the knife. "Gaspard's ring is buried with him," Genevieve replied. "His is the middle grave in the garden, but I would prefer not to have him disinterred. And I must warn you, he died of plague." "Do not toy with us, madam. We may not be vampire hunters, but we have no objection to slaying vampires, especially those that get in our way. I do not mean Gaspard, whoever he was. I mean Claude de Monet." Genevieve went very still, and steeled herself not to touch the gold chain around her neck, from which hung a golden ring. A man's ring, worn thin with age. "Claude's body was never recovered," she said. It was the truth. "But you have his ring, madame. The ring of a master vampire, prince of France." "What would you want with such a thing?" "The artefacts of powerful occult beings have a power of their own, madame. We wish that power." "Then you are very stupid." She felt the knife withdraw from behind her. "You know nothing..." began the man, but he'd given her a precious few seconds. Never give a vampire a few seconds. Both men were dead within a few seconds more. Genevieve didn't waste any time toying with them, torturing them for information, or drinking their blood. Or in cleaning up her bedroom. She quickly changed clothes, threw some more into a bag, snatched up her protesting cat, and vacated the chateau. As she was driving (yes, like a bat out of hell) to Paris, to the relative safety of her lover Jean's house, she used the tiny cell phone to place a call to Maine. "They were after Claude's ring," she told Evan when he answered the phone at Oakwoods. "No, I do not know why, other than that they require powerful occult objects. I'm going to Paris. Gideon and Joshua are with Julian; I will talk to them as well as to Jean. No, stay in Maine, you are needed there." The lights of Paris appeared on the horizon. It was going to be an interesting first meeting with Julian, that was for certain.
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