The Stirrings of a Cold Heart Ch. 08

"I think it is time for us to leave. The hour grows late." Aidan broke the silence, afraid that she might forget herself in this man's arms.

"Of course." He stood, then extended a hand to help her up before dusting the mud and snow from his clothing. She picked up her bonnet from the ground where it fell and put it back while doing her best to tidy her hair. Her normally deep red curls were now wet from the snow and had traces of mud from the ground where she had fallen. The back of her long heavy coat was also soaked and marked with dirt. Erik had fared better, but the knees of his breeches were still damp and covered in soil. Being caught in such a disheveled state would have left both open to gossip and scandal, particularly Aidan. Neither seemed concerned about it as they walked together back to the horse.

The vampire turned to his lady and lifted her onto the animal's back. As he did, a question came to mind. Perhaps he thought of it because of what Athanasia had told him in his dream, or because of the physical reaction he had experienced holding this woman. Then again, it may well have been that for the first time in countless ages Aidan had brought a sense of calm and even hope to his dead heart. Whatever the reason, he found himself asking a question he had never imagined himself even considering. "A few moments ago you said that you were told there is someone for everyone," Erik looked up at her, recalling her words perfectly. "Do you think there is someone for me?"

"Yes I do. I don't flatter myself that it is me, but I imagine she is out there somewhere waiting for you to find her. She would be beautiful, accomplished, and have a good heart. I also believe she would be a woman of strong character."

"What makes you say that?"

"You don't seem the sort of man who is attracted to simpering little girls with no thoughts of their own." To her surprise he smiled again. Taking her hand in his, he studied her face. There was something about her he couldn't fathom. He had known many women over the ages and not one stirred him as she did. He felt as though their souls were connected and yet he knew that it was impossible.

"If . . . if you were to find out that the accusations leveled against me were not entirely false . . ." he started to ask.

"I don't want to hear about your past or what you may or may not have done. I know the character of the man standing before me and that is all I wish to know." So saying she leaned forward and gently pressed her lips to his. Erik couldn't fathom this response and it vexed him. Climbing up behind her on the horse he found himself wondering how she could look into his eyes and not see the demons inside of him looking back at her.

With a flick of the reins they began their journey back down the dirt path to the main road, then into the heart of London. The horse's hooves clicked against the cobblestone passing various buildings with their dark windows. The only buildings boasting any light at this hour were the brothels and the taverns. One such place the horse passed was the Lamb & Flag also known as the Bucket of Blood. It had gotten this name because of its well-earned reputation of knock-down, drag-out, bare-knuckle fights. This was the place Emile had gone to meet the gunsmith he had hired.

Their meeting had been a quick one with Emile checking inside the box to make sure that the weapon was exactly what he wanted. Satisfied, he handed the man some cash then watched him leave while he ordered himself some Scotch. Naturally Emile didn't stop at just one as the night wore on the alcohol loosened his tongue more and more. At first he was simply warning the other patrons to be careful traveling home then after downing even more drinks he started telling them that there were dark unsavory creatures waiting in the shadows to pounce on unsuspecting travelers. Eventually his intoxication grew to a point where he was physically grabbing men trying to leave the establishment and begging them to wait until dawn because demons with red eyes were waiting outside the door.

This of course ended with him being punched in the jaw sending him straight to floor which solicited a hardy laugh from those still drinking. The only one not laughing was Alex Mabon. He had been watching the scene with a great deal of interest while eating a bowl of stew and nursing a glass of ale. While he firmly believed the man to be drunk, he also believed Emile's warnings about 'monsters', particularly when he mentioned their red eyes. He had seen those eyes many times over the centuries. Taking up his bowl and mug he went over to Emile's table and sat down.

"What do you want?" the tenor growled, looking at the hunter suspiciously. "Did you come over to laugh at me like the others? They think I am drunk or insane."

"Shhhh," Alex responded, motioning for him to speak quietly. "I know damn well you are drunk, but not insane." At this Emile stared at the hunter in surprise.

"You're mocking me," he sniffed with a roll of his eyes. Of course, the man had to be making fun of him, everyone else in the tavern had. He could still hear the laughter as he tried to warn everyone about the hidden dangers outside. This stranger had to be ridiculing him too.

Alex ate a spoonful of his stew then took up his napkin and wiped the juices from his mouth. He had tasted far better meals but this one passable, although it had little flavor. Perhaps his tastes had simply changed after a decade in the far East. He took a swallow of his ale then leaned forward conspiratorially towards the tenor. If he wanted to learn anything from this man, then he needed him to trust him.

"Tell me, my friend, did he seem inhumanly strong and have fangs?"

"Y-yes." Emile answered hesitantly, "He lifted me right off the floor, but how could you . . ."

"Because what you met was a vampire," Alex explained. Under any other circumstances the tenor would have laughed it off and said such things didn't exist, but not now. After what had happened the previous night he was willing to believe he had met anything from a ghost to the devil himself.

"A vampire," he echoed. "Can they be killed?" Emile asked, his hand rubbing gently along the edge of the box that carried his brand new pistol.

"Of course, but . . ." the hunter started to explain, but stopped as he noticed a sinister look in Emile's eyes. Immediately the tenor stood and extended his hand to the hunter.

"Thank you sir, I appreciate your assistance in this matter."

"I don't believe we are through just yet, sir," Alex continued, standing and pulling the tenor close to him. "Not just anything can kill a vampire."

Emile Claudel was somewhat curious to know more, but he suddenly found himself rather suspicious of a man so eager to help him. What was his angle in all of this? This man was nothing more than a stranger so what did he hope to gain by helping him? Perhaps he was hoping to walk away the great hero and win the girl and her fortune for himself. No, no, if anyone was going to be the savior and conquering hero, it was going to be him. When he vanquished the beast, Aidan would fall into his arms along with her much coveted dowry.

"I believe we are done sir," the tenor responded, pulling himself free of Alex's grip. "You have been most helpful, but I can handle things from here." The hunter attempted to stop the tenor and he hurried out the door with his gun case held tightly under one arm. Alex didn't know where he was going, but given his rash behavior and the way his eyes were wide and alight with short-sighted arrogance he could only assume he was headed for a foolish end. He only wished he had gotten his name so he could further pursue this lead.

He went to the doorway and watched Emile running down the street and sighed. He had no idea what he was facing. Few humans did. It was not until they saw the flash of fangs and the blood red eyes that reality set in. He had been one such fool a long time ago, but now he knew better. Now he was kicking himself for not studying the idiot running down the street before confirming the drunk's assertions. Hopefully he would find his way home and sleep it off before doing anything rash.

Emile's silhouette vanished into the night and the only sounds were the occasional clicking of horse hooves on the cobblestone street. Most decent folk were already home, leaving only prostitutes, their pimps, opium addicts, and alcoholics roaming the darkness. Of course there were also those other denizens of the night, vampires, and 'Le Coeur Noir' was one of them.

Riding back from Minsden Chapel neither he nor Aidan spoke. Both were simply content to be close to each other. For Erik, the thought of letting her go was becoming more difficult. He found that her presence calmed the bloodlust that normally moved and stirred him and he wasn't sure if he could walk away from that.

As they stopped before Aidan's row house, both felt a pang of disappointment that their adventure was over. They rested their foreheads against each other for a few lingering moments, forgetful of time and propriety. Even this they found was too brief as both noticed the icy blue eyes of Mrs. Claudel watching them through the window. Aidan was certain she would be chided for going out like this at such a late hour and without a chaperone. She certainly would not speak of Erik's kissing her or their accidental tumble on the ground. Thanks to the layers of clothing between them, she had not been aware of the reaction her companion had had at their closeness or her shame and nervousness at this moment would have been far greater. She might not have dared come home at all.

She looked up at Erik in apprehension, but he gave her a reassuring look as he climbed down off the horse. He clasped her around the waist and was carefully helping her down from the animal when his silk collar shifted and she noticed a strange scar across his throat. It appeared to have come from a deep wound and was no doubt the cause of his unusual voice. She reached up and started to pull back the fabric for a better look, but immediately he caught her hand and moved away from her.

"What happened to you?" she asked.

"Don't," Was all he said, but the cold warning in his tone told her that whatever misfortune had caused that mark was best forgotten.

Aidan attempted to apologize, but before she could speak the front door opened and Patrice Claudel stood there in cold silence. She eyed them both, noticing in particular the dirt, wet marks and mussed hair of Aidan as well as the wet and dirty knees on Erik Ambrose. With a stern hand she ushered them both into the house. Aidan immediately began to explain that absolutely nothing had happened except that she had slipped and fallen, but Mrs. Claudel remained cold and unmoving.

"Aidan, it's late. I want you to go upstairs while I have a word with Mr. Ambrose." Patrice could see the worried expression on her face, but she would not be swayed. Reluctantly Aida went upstairs leaving them alone. The older woman led Erik into her parlor and motioned for him to be seated on the couch while she seated herself on her favorite chaise longue. "Le Coeur Noir," she said, trying to seem braver than she felt before the vampire. "Why have you come back, monsieur?"

"Business, " he answered, sharp, cold, and quick. He was indulging the older woman enough by stepping into her parlor and listening to her questions. He certainly had no intention of disclosing matters that didn't concern her.

"I had hoped I had seen the last of you when I agreed to take Aidan in and raise her. Now I ask again, why are you here? What is that girl to you? I admit that initially I was not happy at the prospect of another child, but to my surprise she has become like a daughter to me. What I cannot understand is why she interests you. We both know you have no heart or feeling within you so why are you so interested?"

"I don't believe my activities are any concern of yours, nor am I under any obligation to discuss them with you." His rebuff irritated her terribly.

"It became my concern when you put that girl in my charge. I know what you are and I know what you are capable of. Did you think I could forget Paris? I am reminded of Aristide de Lancret every time I look upon Emile."

"Aristide de Lancret was a drunk with a bad temper. A narcissistic spoiled brat his whole life, he squandered his family fortune on women and gambling. He was of no asset to anyone, not even his own wife who was carrying on with her own lovers. The child she claimed was his was actually the son of de Lancret's lawyer. In the end de Lancret died crying and begging for his life while you were on a ship headed for a new life here at my expense. I've noticed your son is every bit his father's child. I wonder if his end will be the same." Patrice winced, hearing her own fears reflected in his observation.

"Perhaps he is too much like his father, but he has figured out that you are far from what you seem." She looked at Erik pleadingly, knowing that he held the future of her household in his powerful hand. His cold grey eyes stared at her callously. He had listened to the begging of mortals for so long that he couldn't help but be indifferent to it. "I have kept your secret, but we both know that I could easily tell her the truth and prove it."

"What exactly are you asking of me?"

"I am begging you monsieur; don't make her fall in love with you." At Patrice' request, his unmoving expression finally changed from cold indifference to almost a smile of bemusement.

"What makes you think there is anything between us beyond a momentary distraction?" he asked.

"I may be getting old, but I am not a fool. I saw how she looked at you the night of my birthday and more importantly I saw how you looked at her just a moment ago. Le Coeur Noir is well known for his cruelty and he is certainly incapable of love so I can't begin to imagine what she stirs in you." She saw his jaw set and his eyes narrow at her description of him and her heart began to pound. She feared what he might do if she pushed too hard, but the older woman forced herself to go on. "Whatever your intentions are, stop now. If you leave, monsieur, it will hurt her for a time, but she will heal and find another suitor who can give her all she deserves. I don't know what it will do to her if you stay and she learns what you are and just how dark and depraved your soul really is." For an all too brief moment she thought she saw his eyes soften with regret as he looked down at the rug at his feet. It was fleeting, of course, and she was sure she had been mistaken since he once more wore his emotionless mask as turned his gaze back to her. "Surely you realize the only thing you can offer her is death."

"I do not need you to tell me what I am or what 'sins' I have committed. You know only the stories you heard in the dark alleys and gutters of Paris, embellished and resembling nothing of the truth. Let me tell you that you do not know a fraction of the things I have done and most of it is too brutal to be mentioned by the dregs of society, let alone here. I am also well aware that the comforts and lifestyle she would receive at my side would hardly makeup for the price of her soul. What would you offer her, Madame Claudel? Your son? Do you have high hopes that she will accept Emile, a man who wants her only for the dowry she will inherit and that he will quickly squander? I can already see the future bride and groom. Once her money is gone his contempt will be obvious in every word, look, and touch. His drinking will no longer be sequestered to his room but constant and he will take out his every frustration on Aidan physically, verbally and emotionally. If that happens I'm afraid I would have to hold you personally responsible for her unhappiness and that is a price I don't think you are prepared to pay." Patrice grew pale at his warning. She knew his description of the future was correct and she also knew that the wrath of Le Coeur Noir would be swift and terrifying. At the very idea of the 'Black Heart's' retribution, her hands began to visibly shake and the vampire smiled slightly at the sight. "As it is, you may as well inform him that you have no control over her dowry. Only her benefactor does, and if he deems the man unworthy then there will be no money."

"I swear to you, as I hope to be saved, that I will never push her to marry Emile. I only hope you will also think of her future happiness and make her forget you."

Erik rose from his seat and calmly nodded to Mrs. Claudel. "You have said your piece and I must take my leave of you now."

Patrice led him to the door and watched him leave. It wasn't until he was finally out of sight that relief washed over her. Surely this was the end of the affair. Surely the vampire had seen reason. She would keep her word and do everything in her power to stop Emile's pursuit of Aidan's fortune. They were all going to be safe, she assured herself, mother, son and ward.

Erik returned the horse to the stable he had purchased it from then walked the streets of London. He hated to admit it, but she had given him much to think about. He needed the cold night air to clear his mind, but the fog that was beginning to fill the air matched the one in his head. He had not felt this way since he had been a mortal in Greece and he had married his beloved Athanasia. He shook his head to rid himself of the pain that still lingered. He had learned long ago that sometimes a good kill was all that was needed to clear one's mind. He stalked the back street's and gutters, and then found a woman walking alone in an alleyway. A thick shawl was wrapped around her shoulders and head for warmth. Quickly he seized her and looked into her face. He recognized the prostitute as one of the house maid's that Emile Claudel had dallied with. He made the kill quickly, unthinkingly, then licked the wounds erasing them and leaving the cause of death unknown.

After carefully leaving the body in the alley wrapped once more in her shawl, he walked some more. His thoughts never strayed far from Aidan . . . always Aidan. He smiled at the memory of her quick laughter, the innocent toss of her red hair, catching the moonlight just so. Erik felt a sudden heat spread through his skin, and shook off the thoughts, only to find that it did not dissipate. He realized suddenly that the heat was not coming from his errant thoughts, but from the early rays of dawn. He cursed vehemently and flew off at preternatural speed, flinging himself through the door just as the sun rose above London's skyline.

As daylight brightened the English city, Erik Ambrose lit an oil lamp for artificial light in his darkened bedroom. He could feel the heat still on him from where the sun had nearly consumed him. Damn the girl! Had she not been plaguing his thoughts, he would have been home in plenty of time. He watched the lamp's flames and couldn't help the smile that spread across his face.

He could see her auburn hair dancing in the moonlight; feel the warmth of her fingers as they took his. He recalled the feel of her body beneath his in the quiet sanctuary of Minsden Chapel. The thought was like water to a man in deepest hell. Erik certainly felt as though he were burning. Burning with desires he'd long since considered dead. At the thought of her precious blood, his fangs began to lengthen. With a sharp cry, he fought the urge to risk the sun's burning rays simply to be with her.

As his raging emotions subsided, Erik placed his head wearily into his hands. This is insane! Utterly insane! He had prided himself over the past centuries with his lack of human emotion. Cold, cruel . . . like a statue. He liked those terms when described. He reveled in them. Yet all it took was a toss of her auburn curls and a look from her amethyst eyes and he became an angst-ridden boy. That, he did NOT like. Erik sullenly went to his bed to sleep the day away, praying that his dreams did not contain a red-headed beauty and fangs.