Date: Sun, 13 Feb 1994 23:26:53 EST A LAMENTATION, FOR STRINGS A Forever Knight Story by Susan M. Garrett As was her habit, Janette ran her finger lightly along the black velvet choker that circled her neck. She could keep an eye on most of the interior of the Raven from her vantage point, yet still managed to remain in shadow, invisible to mortal eyes. eyes were another matter entirely. They knew she was there and that she was watching for any infraction of the rules she'd set in place to guard her interests and the lives of the mortals that frequented the club. What they did beyond the doors of the Raven was not her concern, but inside the Raven the appearance of propriety, however false, was everything. It was as her hand dropped down to neckline of her dress, where a small ruby heart was her only concession to the holiday, that Alma came out of the back room. Janette winced at the garish red satin and white lace of the low-cut and high-hemmed dress. The blonde vampire had chosen to accent the outfit with black net stockings and red spiked high-heels. Shaking her head, Janette cleared her throat. "Planning to make a little money this evening, are we?" "Just because you don't get into the holiday doesn't mean we all have to put our love lives on hold." Still preening, Alma leaned against the bar. She held up a hand to the bartender, indicating that she wanted a drink, then arranged herself, letting her assets show to their best advantage. Janette quickly reached over and rearranged the lace at the plunging neckline of Alma's dress. When Alma frowned and made a motion to remove the lace, Janette slapped her hand lightly. "Rules of the house--I don't want you getting picked up for indecent exposure." Alma smiled sweetly at the bartender as he returned with her glass, taking it delicately between two fingers. "That's the reason I'm usually picked up." "Yes, but not by the police. Although I could ask Nicola to make certain you get a cell with an easterly view . . . ." If anything, Alma's pale skin turned a shade whiter and she sipped at her drink. Then, she smiled. "Ah, but he , not even for you. And for me . . . ?" With a flip of her wrist, she sent the lace cascading back down the front of the dress. Leaning her elbow on the bar, Janette rested her forehead on her hand. "Have a care, Alma. He might take you up on that--Nicola has his weaknesses when it comes to a pretty face and . . . other things. Though, I think he's too busy playing with mortals to pay much attention to you." "I agree with him. Mortals are so much fun to play ." Janette reached for her drink and studied Alma carefully. After a few sips, she leaned back against the bar, her elbows on the counter. "He's been at it longer than you and even makes mistakes. If you have any regard for your own safety, and ours, you'd do well to avoid with mortals." She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you learn anything from the one who brought you across?" "There wasn't a lot of time." Alma sniffed, her gaze locked in the distance. "He walked out into the sunlight one morning. No note. Nothing. The night before we had an awful lot of fun. And the next evening, he was gone." "Understandable." When Alma shot her a fierce glance, Janette took a sip from her glass of blood and wine, letting the salt taste linger on her tongue, trying to fight back her smile. "Still, there's a lot about mortals you shouldn't take for granted . Even LaCroix tended to underestimate them, now and again." "Oh, please!" Alma placed her glass on the bar and hopped up onto the bar stool beside Janette. "Don't tell me about the 'good old days'. It wasn't like you had to be careful about mortals back then." "They weren't 'good,' just . . . different. And we have to be careful about where we fed and when. Not so much in the beginning--" Janette couldn't help but smile, at the memories of careless kills, warm blood, and joyous abandon. Then she focused her gaze on Alma, frowning. "But times changed. They always do. And it became harder to find amusements. LaCroix, however, was always good at finding ways to occupy his time . . . and mine." It was as Janette swung her arm up to grab hold of the carriage roof that she heard a muffled exclamation from behind her. Hurrying inside, she arranged the heavy green-beaded gown as quickly as possible and seated herself, keeping her expression even, despite an innate desire to giggle. LaCroix's moods had been mercurial for the past few weeks and she didn't want to set him off. His hand to his cheek, LaCroix stood outside the doorway of the open carriage and peered inside, his overcoat dusted lightly with snow. "Perhaps you and that brutal dress should go on to the casino alone? I'd no idea you'd added potentially dangerous fashion to your fatal charms." "It the fashion," protested Janette, trying to arrange her skirts to allow him more room. Unfortunately, the dress had enough weight and body to make up its own mind. Shaking his head, LaCroix entered the coach, then closed the door and tapped on the ceiling near the driver's box with the handle of his cane. "Why not just send the dress ahead. I'm certain it could stand on its own." "Ah, but could it play ?" LaCroix winced, his hand dropping to his left coat pocket, where she knew he kept his wallet. "And how much will this new diversion cost?" "You should ask how much I'll win. It's derived from , after all. I played constantly in Milan." "You constantly in Milan." Janette turned her attention to the curtained window and pouted. "But that was a over a hundred years ago." "I'd be certain to mention that to your backers." The snow was falling lightly outside the panes of glass in the carriage window, coating the detritus of the streets of Paris. Even in the darkness, the city seemed alight and alive and the snow gave the streets and alleys an eerie glow. Touching a finger to her lips, she wondered what argument might cause LaCroix to part with his money--so much of her own ready cash had been wasted this last week in learning the game. "Perhaps we can make a trade?" "And what of yours, pretty Janette, do I not already own?" The barb was soft and meant to sting, but Janette still smiled sweetly. "I know where Nicola is." When she turned her gaze to him, LaCroix was also smiling. He reached forward and lifted her hand, kissing the back of it gently. "You learned well." Then, very carefully, he released her hand and leaned back in the only corner of the carriage where her dress seemed not to have claimed space, a self-satisfied smile on his lips. "And how furious you'll be when I tell you that at this moment, the information is worthless to me." Unable to hide her disappointment or confusion, she pulled her hand back, holding it to her chest. "You ?" "No. Oh, it would be easy enough to discover-- our Nicholas leaves a trail behind him that a blind man could follow in a blizzard--but I have other matters on my mind. So you'll have to come up with your gambling money in another way. Or find something else to tempt me." The carriage lurched, the springs sticking in the cold, then came to a stop. Janette glanced out the window, but there were no glittering lights, beautiful carriages, sumptuous gowns, or handsome young men. Instead, the street was small and dark, the houses of a class below that of the wealthy Parisians who could afford the diversion of losing a potential fortune in an evening. She looked at LaCroix expectantly. "This is the casino." "I have a stop to make first." When she opened her mouth to complain, a steel door closed behind his eyes. "Humor me." Janette closed her mouth immediately and began the task of gathering together her dress, as LaCroix grabbed his top hat and cane and exited the carriage. He closed the door behind him and she heard his muffled conversation with the driver. By the time she was ready to exit, he'd opened the door again, and extended the small step. Taking her hand, he helped her from the carriage. "And what part am I to play in this conquest?" she asked, glancing with disdain at the soot-darkened exterior of the tenement building. "My sister." When she glanced back at him and coquettishly batted her eyelashes, he laughed, his hand still holding hers as he led her up the steps of the building. "You're right . . . a cousin, perhaps?" "A cousin," said Janette. Nothing in his look or demeanor gave him away. The fact that this new would come from such humble surroundings surprised her--LaCroix took his pleasure where he would, it was true, and they all did the same--but there was usually money involved somewhere along the line. And from the look of this place, he'd find little enough money here. A woman would have had to be extraordinary to have gained his attention from such a hovel. And by playing against the woman's affections, she might annoy LaCroix enough to entice his wallet from him before he sent her off to the casino, alone. That was her plan, even as they walked into the dim hallway. But LaCroix turned to her and placed a hand on her arm, saying sternly. "Follow my lead, as always, but do nothing to disrupt this." The steel was still in his eyes. Janette offered a wan smile, following him up the rickety stairs, her dress banging against the wallboard as she climbed the steps, rapidly rearranging her plans to suit his mood. They stopped at a door on the third floor, which would have been an inexpensive room, but not the cheapest in the building. LaCroix knocked lightly, the head of his cane tapping against the wooden door, and Janette pursed her lips in distaste at the peeling paint and wallpaper and the dim gas jets. Why mortals chose to spend their short lives in such squalor always eluded her. Her annoyance turned to surprise when she glanced at LaCroix. For a second, there was an expression on his face and in his eyes that she couldn't place. Over the centuries, she thought she'd seen all of his moods, even those he'd pretended not to have, but now there was a hesitation in him that she'd never seen before. For some reason, it alarmed her. Janette contemplated touching his hand and getting his attention, cajoling him to go with her to the casino, or back to their rooms. In other times, in other places, she'd found ways to divert his attention. But the memory of his touch on her arm and his stern warning came back to her and she took a step back. Whatever it was that LaCroix wished to do, he do and to interfere would only put her in jeopardy. LaCroix's lips twisted into a frown after a moment. He raised the cane as if to knock at the door again, but then it opened. An old man stood in the doorway, stooped over, with gray-white hair and a white mustache and beard. Janette almost felt she could tell his age by counting the lines on his face. As soon as he saw them, he opened the door wider, backing away into the room, the gesture subservient. At that, some of the confidence seemed restored to LaCroix and he stalked into the room as if he own it. Janette followed at his heels, not bothering to hide her smile, as the old man closed the door behind them. Less than a hundred years before, the commoners had risen against their wealthy masters, yet it had circled around again--LaCroix's lessons about the power of gold had never been wasted on her. The room was drab--old hangings by the window barely blocked out the gray-black night sky that signaled more snow to come. The chill was offset only by the faint light of the dirty gas jets and the dying embers of a coal fire in an old stove. The floor seemed to have been swept, of which she was glad, as her expensive dress trailed after her, but the furniture had seen better days. It was then that she noticed the second mortal in the room--a young girl, perhaps no older than eight or nine years, with the plumpness of childhood in her features. Her skin was pale, her facing having the wan, pinched look of a mortal who had eaten some, but not enough to fill the belly. Her hair was the color of garden dirt, a black brown that was common enough. But there was an innocence in her eyes. And fear. Janette smiled at the sight, the fear stirring a hunger in her. Gliding over to the child, which no mortal woman could have accomplished in that dress, she tilted the child's chin with her fingers, exposing the surprisingly clean throat beneath the well-worn winter dress. "Such a pretty thing," she lied. Then she looked to LaCroix. "Is she a gift, a surprise for me?" He moved more slowly than was his norm, his eyes meeting hers as he took her hand from the girl, then turned toward the old man. "Monsieur Veneuil, my cousin, Janette. You will not mind, I thought it best to have a chaperone this meeting." "Well-considered Monsieur. I have faith in your continued observation of matters of propriety." He sketched a bow. "You are welcome, Mademoiselle." The old man spoke softly, his voice low, but even. LaCroix turned to her, pointing toward an old settee. "If you will wait there, it shall not take long." In a quieter whisper, between the two of them, he added, "If she does not meet my needs, you may have her. If there is promise- -I'll give you a quarter of her weight in chips, at the casino." Promise of what, Janette neither asked nor cared. Nodding and smiling, she took her seat demurely, pretending to arrange her dress. But all the while, her eyes watched him, wondering what could interest him in such a drab, mortal cub. The old man cleared his throat and held his hands wide. "If I may get you some refreshment, Monsieur LaCroix, and for the Mademoiselle, I have some that might be to your taste--" "We shall dine later," said LaCroix, dismissing the idea with a wave. He walked toward the child, then around her, as if studying her. "And this is what was found for me?" There was no disappointment in his tone, or admiration. He sounded very much like a man inspecting livestock and less enthusiastic than the and the other woman at the salon, where Janette had her gowns fashioned. The child curtseyed to them both, her movements awkward and untutored. Janette stifled a giggle, not wishing to earn LaCroix's reprimand. The old man only nodded. "We were told of your requirements, Monsieur. She is Marguerite . . . my granddaughter." LaCroix raised an eyebrow as he regarded the man. "Then you would know--is she sound of wind? In good health? Undernourished, certainly . . . ." "My son is a young lawyer, beginning his practice. The child lives with me. To say there is money to care for her sufficiently would be a lie." The old man shrugged, then walked to the girl, placing his hand on her shoulder. "But she has great promise, Monsieur. Were she not my own blood, I would say the same." LaCroix stared down at the child. "Your hands," he demanded. The girl stared up at LaCroix in fear and didn't move. It was not until the old man squeezed her shoulder that she held her hands out stiffly before her. LaCroix took her left hand in his own, turning it over, then did the same with the right. He trailed his nail across the side of her finger, then released her, stepping away. "Good. She's developed the proper calluses. I will hear her play, of course." "Of course." The old man walked to a cupboard, which he opened, and withdrew a small violin case. Janette leaned forward, suddenly beginning to understand. Music was the only thing from the mortal world that interested LaCroix, other than their blood and their terror. LaCroix walked to the case and opened it while it still sat in the old man's hands. Taking the violin from within, he smiled in admiration, running his hands along the smooth soundboard, the polished wood glowing even in the dim light. "Where did you get this?" "I made it, Monsieur, a long time ago. For my son." When LaCroix looked up at him, he cleared his throat again. "It seems that those in law have little talent for music. But my granddaughter has spent many hours with it. It is sized to her. And, in another two years, she will move to a proper violin." "Acceptable," commented LaCroix. He handed the instrument back to the old man, who passed it into the hands of the child. Her fingers wrapped around the bridge of the violin knowingly, plump as they were with childhood. She held the violin at rest, eyes darting from LaCroix, then to her grandfather. Stepping back, LaCroix gestured toward the old man. "What does she play?" "What do you wish to hear, Monsieur?" The old man smiled, then nodded toward the child. "Mozart--the Violin Concerto in G--allegro?" The child carefully raised the bow. Janette steeled herself, prepared to hear the screech of a poorly drawn bow--a sound with which LaCroix would torment her when she deigned to resort to delicate needlework every now and again. But the child knew something of the art. There was no perfection in the work, but to Janette's ear it was dazzling, especially from such young fingers. The child was no more than five minutes into the piece, when LaCroix called, "Stop!" raising his hand. Janette started and stared at him, suddenly realizing that her attention had been drawn to the child--LaCroix had seemed to melt into the shadows the moment the music started. She pursed her lips in annoyance, making a mental note to concentrate on him when the child played again. The girl ceased at LaCroix's command, the bow rising from the strings, frozen in mid-air. She looked at her grandfather with terrified eyes as LaCroix reached into his jacket. His withdrew a sheaf of papers, which he carefully unfolded. "Have her play this." He handed the paper to Veneuil. The old man took the papers gently, glancing over them. "Monsieur, I do not recognize this work--" "It's in my hand." "But Monsieur--" "Have her play it," insisted LaCroix, pointing to the child. "But she does not read music yet." Releasing an exasperated sigh, LaCroix turned. His impatience showed in his movements, as he hurriedly snatched the papers from the old man and turned toward Janette. She sat up straight, hoping that he was annoyed enough to call the matter quit and give her the child as he'd promised. But he held up his hand to her, gesturing for her to stay in place. As she sank back against the threadbare cushions, she pouted, watching him approach the old man. "Do you have another violin?" Veneuil paused a moment, licking his lips. "Yes, I do, Monsieur. My own." Again, the old man returned to the cabinet. The case he withdrew was battered and worn by time and handling--Janette winced at the sight, but something inside her sang triumphantly. LaCroix would be furious to find an instrument in such disrepair. And no matter what he had promised her, she knew she'd have to move quickly, to take the child's blood before he took the pleasure for himself. But when LaCroix opened the box, the violin was as gleaming and well cared for as the one the child held. He held the instrument beneath his chin and tested the bow across the strings. It sang, clear and cold. Nodding to himself, he then fixed his eyes on the child, addressing her for the third time. "Listen." Janette had heard the piece before. Whether he'd written it or had learned it in his centuries of travel, she cared not. Always, it was the same--only the quality of the tone varied, dependent on the instrument he used. There was a fever in him when he played, which he often did when he was lost in thought, planning some new escapade or amusement or revenge. It was in Milan, in fact, that she remembered him playing this so clearly, standing on the balcony in the moonlight, contemplating the fates of those mortals who had cheated them. By midnight he had finished playing. By dawn, their bodies were scattered in pieces across the market place. It was that she remembered as he played. And, when he ceased, she could not keep herself from applauding, as much for the memory of that night of blood and sudden anger spent, as for the music. LaCroix looked back at her, smiling, and bowed. Then he turned toward the child again. "Play." Janette dropped her hands to her lap and whet her lips, already imaging how sweet the child's blood would be. Surely now she would disappoint LaCroix. Who could play such a piece, after only one hearing? Again, the child hesitated, looking to her grandfather. Then, meeting LaCroix's eyes, she drew the bow across the strings. If at first she was nervous, after four bars the violin sang strong. Again, the notes were not perfect--there were differences in her performance and LaCroix's, and Janette put that down to her having heard the piece only once. But her performance was close enough that someone who had not spent an evening in Milan, smashing flowerpots while listening to that tune repeated endlessly for hours, would not have noticed too much of a difference. Then, she realized that there was something subtly different, other than inexperience with the piece. The child's bow produced some quality of sound that LaCroix had never drawn from any instrument. In wonder, Janette sat straight, watching the child's fingers, the lids of her eyes closed tight with concentration as she swept the bow blindly across the strings, her fingers moving down the fingerboard and gripping the strings properly by touch alone. Was this what LaCroix was looking for? He had turned to face the shadows, so she could not see his expression. His eyes were closed, but there was a sparkle of green gold from beneath a half-raised lash. The fingers of his left hand traced her movements along the fingerboard of the violin he held to his chin, his bow echoing only in motion--it never touched the strings. When she was done, LaCroix, lowered the bow and dropped the violin into his hand. Then he turned and Janette saw a sharp smile on his lips. "Again," he commanded, in a quiet voice that held a core of steel. The child's eyes were wide as she raised the bow and the music again began to flow from the violin. This time Janette watched LaCroix, but he handed the instrument back to the old man and leaned against the wall, his hands clasped together. This time, his eyes were open, but they focused only on the tiny violin and the hands that made the music. Feeling neglected, Janette felt moved to do something to gain his attention, but an instinct for survival reminded her of that hand upon her arm earlier. She stayed where she was and listened, again surprised that this rendition was different from the last, with a fullness of sound and tone the previous rendition had lacked. And thus the third and fourth time he commanded her to play the piece, it changed again and again, growing, like some musical flower, adapting and shifting in tone and presence. The fifth time that LaCroix said, "Again," the old man stepped forward. "Monsieur, she is only a . Please!" LaCroix stiffened, towering over the old man. He raised his fist, as if to strike the intruder and Janette rose from her seat, smelling blood in the air and growing hungry. "Monsieur, please!" said the child's small voice. She dropped the bow to the ground and ran to LaCroix, her fingers grasping at his coat. "Don't hurt him! I will play for you. I will!" Janette walked toward them, then saw why she had smelled the blood--one of the child's fingers were bleeding. Her hand had left a stain on LaCroix's coat and there was a small, bloody thumbprint on the white shirt beneath. She drew in her breath in a low hiss, not knowing what would happen. LaCroix took the child's hand from his coat and held it in his own. His gaze fell on Veneuil. "She will be taught to read music," he commanded. "Get her a proper instructor. I'll give you a stipend for her instruction and living expenses. The child must have a proper diet, and warmth enough to live. And I--and my cousin--shall come once a month to hear her play. At that time, I'll deliver the music she'll play for us the following month." The old man's gaze wavered. His hand went down to the child's head, stroking that muddy colored hair. He knew he was making a deal with the devil. And yet Janette knew he would regret his actions later. Mortals always did. "Agreed," said Veneuil, after a moment's time. "But I have conditions as well. Marguerite will play until she wishes to play and no longer. She will not be struck or bullied. And you will have no claim on her, beyond her music." LaCroix laughed low in his throat. "I promise you, Monsieur Veneuil, I wish to make her a violinist, not a whore--a whore would be cheaper. As long as she will play for me, when I command, I don't care what she does." He put his hand inside his jacket and withdrew his wallet. Janette's eyes were almost as wide as the child's as she saw LaCroix hand over a stack of currency, her gambling stake rapidly dwindling. She came just short at hissing angrily at all of them. But LaCroix sensed her mood. And the look he flashed her promised untold torment if she acted upon her desire. Chilled by the gaze, she dropped her eyes demurely, muttering her farewell and following in LaCroix's trail quietly. Once on the stairs, he smiled over his shoulder at her. "Don't look so glum, Janette--my credit's good at the casino. And you shall have your money to lose, this once." She stared at him. "Whatever possessed you to give him all that money? He'll drink it away, or squander it on heat and food--they always do. Having traffic with mortals, even ones who play music--" He stopped on the steps and turned sideways, so that she couldn't move. "You heard her play and you ask?" Making a tsking sound with his tongue against his teeth, he turned away. "Consider it another of my investments. There's blood aplenty in this city, but few adults who can play as well as she will in a decade. They'll applaud for her talents across Europe. Crowned heads will command her to play and will reward her handsomely. But she'll belong to . As will her music. As will her money." "But it's the music you want." They reached the bottom of the staircase. LaCroix took her hand as he led her through the squalid hall, to the door. "You are so certain . . . would you like to wager your game winnings on the outcome?" Janette met his gaze squarely, though suspiciously. "And the terms?" "That if she becomes what I will make her--first violinist of the orchestre de Paris, or something comparable--within a decade, you'll give me your winnings. And if she does not . . . you may have her." Frowning, Janette looked away. "Ah, no. I know you too well, LaCroix. You'll become angry with her and take her yourself. And I shall lose." "All right. I'll double your winnings." He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. " you may have her. Or I'll find another to take her place." Relenting, she nodded. "All right. But the replacement must be a musician of comparable talent. There's a sweetness in their blood that I find . . . delightful." "Agreed." LaCroix held the door for her, bowing again. "The gaming tables await, Mademoiselle." Accepting his chivalrous behavior with a slight curtsey, Janette decided that the night would be more enjoyable than she'd initially anticipated. With LaCroix in a good mood, she felt lucky. How could she possibly lose at bingo? But there was something in the way he kept raising his hand to his lips that intrigued her. And it wasn't until they'd entered the carriage that she'd remembered the child's hand, grasped in his own, had been bleeding. LaCroix had been licking the blood off his fingers. Janette stared at the glass of blood in her hand and took a large swallow. Talking made her thirsty. "You played ?" Alma's giggle got under her skin. Raising her glass, she signaled the bartender for another, but refused to look at Alma. "Everything old was once new," she said sharply. "Well, I suppose that's true about everything. Even you." "Don't you have somewhere to go?" "I do. But he'll be late. He's only mortal, after all. And if he's going to be late, I shouldn't be waiting for him." Sighing, Janette took the filled glass from the bartender. "At least you've learned ." "So?" Alma leaned closer. "What?" "Did you win?" Janette smiled, her finger tracing the line of her choker. "Yes. I did, quite handsomely. In fact, there might have been a problem about collecting my winnings, had LaCroix not been there. And there was the most croupier . . . ." Janette took another drink and rested the smooth glass against her cheek, reveling in memory. "Not bingo. The bet with LaCroix," pressed Alma. Janette looked at her from beneath lowered lids. "You realize that if you lean any further, that dress is going to give?" "That's the point, isn't it?" Sighing again, Janette turned her eyes to the dance floor of the club. LaCroix would have liked the place-- sound and fury signifying nothing. Although he would have had a back room sound-proofed, for his own amusements. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" "I thought you didn't like to hear about the 'good old days,'" countered Janette. "And that you were perfectly happy playing with mortals." "I'm going to tell everyone you used to play bingo." Biting back the inclination to reach over and yank out a handful of that carefully coiffured gold, Janette glared at her. "All right. If you must know. I survived those monthly recitals fairly well--even Nicola attended a few, after he realized LaCroix was usually in a better mood afterwards and left him to his own devices. Of course, we didn't spend of our time in Paris, after that first year. And once, when we returned from Dublin, oh, it must have been eight years later, LaCroix found a note awaiting him--a summons from the child's parents." "I suppose I must be on my best behavior," noted Janette, arranging her dress in the carriage. "Which still leaves something lacking," LaCroix answered absently. It was late spring and the roads of Paris were awash with water, the drains over-running their courses due to the rain. The carriage jolted and creaked through the ruts in the stone streets, water splashing up through the crack of the door and onto the hem of her dress. The blouse was white and the skirt black, with a green ribbon at her neck--very fetching, LaCroix had told her, but hardly her idea of evening wear. With her hair up and the tinniest of emeralds at her ears, she looked like a wealthy spinster. And even LaCroix had forgone his usually dapper image, settling for an evening business suit. He looked like a bank clerk. And if he were in a better mood, she would have said as much to his face. But he was not in a good mood. "At least you were able to decline their dinner invitation. Pretending to chew that horrid food. It probably would have been chicken." She shuddered at the thought. "Hmnnn." Receiving no further answer, she sank back against the carriage seat, bored. She'd been flattered at first, when LaCroix had requested, then demanded her presence at this meeting. She was to be part of the 'veneer of respectability' the family would require. Without the presence of the old man, who had passed away in their absence from Paris, it seemed LaCroix's plans for Marguerite Veneuil would be thwarted by her ever-so-proper parents. Janette smiled and touched her hand to the flat, stiff- brimmed hat, remembering the hovel in which the grandfather and child had been living eight years ago. The family were trying to live down their humble origins. And now that the young lawyer had a well-established practice and a reputation in the community, the family believed they'd be able to dismiss the semi-mysterious patron of the arts, who continued to pay for the education and upkeep of their daughter. Her smile grew wider as the carriage pulled up to a respectable, middle class house in a row of similar houses, in a neighborhood that had been fashionable perhaps a decade or two before. They were certainly making an effort. She almost hoped there would be a misstep tonight. According to her agreement with LaCroix, Marguerite would be hers-- although she had grown fond of the girl, now that she was no longer a child. In fact, she'd prepared a small speech about possibly bringing the girl across, if he was in a good enough mood. The thought of having a younger sister, to dress and teach the ways of night life, intrigued her. But the coach had stopped. LaCroix still seemed absent, offering her his hand as she stepped down from the coach, then his arm, as they strode on to the sidewalk and up the steps to the house. There was no cane tonight--he tapped the door with his knuckles, then turned to look over the electric lights that blazed along the street. "It's changing so fast," he said softly. "One miracle after another." "I've heard the plans for the Exposition are proceeding well. There's some sort of tower they plan to build, from which you'll be able to see all the lights of Paris." Her words earned her a sharp smile. "You've learned your part well." LaCroix touched his finger to her lips. "And if you learn not to speak until spoken to, so much the better." The door opened and a gentleman appeared. "Yes, Monsieur, Mademoiselle?" "Monsieur LaCroix and his cousin," announced LaCroix. "We are here at the invitation of Monsieur and Madame Veneuil. I believe we're expected?" The man opened the door, bowing slightly. "Monsieur and Madame Veneuil await your presence in the drawing room. If I may take your hat, sir? And yours, Mademoiselle?" Janette doffed her hat readily enough, as well as the light, short cape she'd been wearing. "I wouldn't mind not getting the hat back if we have to leave quickly," she told LaCroix. "It makes me look like a schoolgirl." "I've been told mortal men fancy that sort of thing. Or that--" he smiled and gestured toward one of the upstairs maids, who was leaning over the second level to stare down at them. Discovered, she quickly disappeared from view, although their hearing was sensitive enough to hear her giggles. "Charming," answered Janette, pasting a smile on her face. "Perhaps we have accepted the invitation to dine." The gentleman passed them, his mortal ears not sensitive enough to pick up their conversation. "I shall announce you," he instructed. "If you will follow me?" Her voice still low, Janette took LaCroix's arm again and asked, "Not that I wish to complain, but why has your mood improved?" "Pretense, pretension--they're idiots." Beneath his civil countenance, she saw the lurking smile of a shark. "I thought the blood-line from the grandfather had run true, having dealt with Marguerite. I see it skipped a generation. Which is all the better for us." Two wide doors opened into a drawing room that contained items of great delicacy, but little eye for style or true fashion was evident. Janette smiled prettily as she was announced, noting immediately that Madame Veneuil's gown was at least two years out of date, while her own dress presaged the trend of the coming fashion. Veneuil had been standing at the fireplace when they entered. He walked forward as the gentleman announced them, standing before LaCroix. "Monsieur LaCroix. My father has told me something about you. As has my daughter. It's a shame we haven't met before this." "Indeed." LaCroix sketched a light bow, ignoring Veneuil's outstretched hand, then bowed to Madame Veneuil, reaching forward to lift her hand to his lips and kiss it. "And such a pleasure to meet your charming wife. Madame." Janette marveled at his smooth elegance, holding the woman's hand a second longer than he should, yet turning in such a way that the husband couldn't see the slight impropriety. Madame Veneuil's smile went from false to genuine in a matter of seconds. Then LaCroix reached for Janette's hand, pulling her forward, into their view. "May I present my cousin, Mademoiselle Janette. She has graciously chaperoned my visits with your daughter." Janette assumed the role she'd been dressed for, accepting Veneuil's hand with a shy delicacy, assuming a more confident note with the man's wife--LaCroix would have no complaint in her behavior. She'd charm them both. Then LaCroix turned serious, as Veneuil gestured him to a chair. He seated himself and leaned forward. "My condolences on the passing of your father. He was a true artist." Taken aback, Monsieur Veneuil nodded, his eyes meeting those of his wife. "Thank you, sir. In fact, it's my father's passing that brought your arrangement to light. Would you fancy a drink? I have an excellent sherry." LaCroix locked gazes with the gentleman and declined the offered drink ever so slightly, then turned his regrets to Veneuil. "No, thank you. The night is still young. And my cousin does not drink . . . wine." Janette ducked her head in a demure fashion, then looked up from beneath her lashes to see Madame Veneuil's approving glare. She wondered if the woman's blood would taste as thin and pasty as her personality. Again, Veneuil seemed at a loss. Clasping his hands together, he rose from his chair. "Then, we should pass directly to matters, I suppose. As I said, I was not aware of the agreement between yourself and my grandfather with regard to my daughter's musical education--" "An agreement between a patron of the arts," LaCroix rested his hand against his chest to indicate himself, leaning back in the overstuffed chair, "and a practitioner of the arts. There is no contract, Monsieur, nor any claim of my part upon your daughter, save that I wish to continue to fund her education and, should she allow it, see her well onto the road of a professional in the field." Madame Veneuil cleared her throat, then glanced at her husband. "But you see, Monsieur LaCroix, that is our problem. We are a respectable family. For our daughter to become a common musician . . . ." LaCroix's eyes flashed. "There is nothing common about your daughter's talent or education, Madame. I can assure you of that." Before she could answer, he drew himself up in the chair and nodded, "But I understand your concern for her reputation. As I said, my cousin has been kind enough to chaperone any of the private recitals I have requested, to make certain that my money was being best applied to your daughter's interest." "We appreciate that, Monsieur, and have no quarrel for the past. But now--" The man sighed. "She is nearly sixteen. She will be coming out into society this year or the next. She will need a dowry. And it is our intention that she marries well." Janette allowed her smile to freeze in place, scenting blackmail on the wind, or extortion at the very least. These mortals may not have been as intelligent as LaCroix had expected, but they were greedy and cunning. And they were walking an extremely well-worn path down with she'd seen many tread, to their deaths. But LaCroix had made no move. He merely shrugged and held out his hand, palm upward. "I am at a loss, Monsieur. What do you suggest?" If Veneuil had been uneasy in suggesting that LaCroix jump at the chance to have his daughter's hand in marriage, he was more ill-at-ease now that LaCroix seemed not to have taken the hint. The man looked to his wife, then his hand moved to loosen the tie at his throat. Janette noticed what a particularly long neck he had, with such prominent veins. But then LaCroix rose to his feet and smiled sadly. "Monsieur Veneuil, I am a patron of the arts. And I am a very wealthy man. I do not wish to have a wife, or a mistress--pardon my language, Madame--" he directed to Madame Veneuil. "As you have no doubt had my background investigated, you will know that I fund no one political faction--my investments are scattered to the winds. With the impending retirement of General Boulanger, the Third Republic is essentially intact, as is my fortune. I chose to spend a portion of my income on the arts. Some of that money may be used to raise your daughter among the greatest violinists of the world, perhaps of time. She will play before Kings and Presidents, shall travel the globe in luxury and adoration, and her talent will be admired long after she has passed from this earth. But if you wish, my cousin and I will leave here, never to return. You may find your daughter a suitable husband; marry her into respectability." He shrugged and turned to Janette, offering her his hand. "Come, cousin." "No, Monsieur, please--" Veneuil placed a hand on LaCroix's shoulder, but withdrew it quickly, as LaCroix turned. "I meant no insult. We're concerned with our daughter's future. Surely you can forgive us our fears for her well-being?" LaCroix's smile was almost gracious. Madame Veneuil had produced a handkerchief, with which she was rapidly patting her brow, occasionally directing angry glances toward her husband. Janette remained quiet and smiled inwardly, knowing that neither mortal had understood what their daughter's success could do to further their own financial and social aspirations. Where they had seen a potential wealthy suitor to be blackmailed into marriage, they now saw an image of a golden vista, with their daughter financing their great pilgrimage through pomp and circumstance. "Most certainly, I can forgive your fears for your daughter," answered LaCroix, seating himself. "And can understand them. But if this thing is to be done, it should be Marguerite herself who makes the decision." He gestured toward Janette. "My cousin will fetch the girl--they have grown to be great friends." Raising his hand to his lips, he whispered, "Do not hurry." "Certainly, cousin," she answered, then paused and met Madame Veneuil's eyes for an instant. "If Madame does not mind--?" "Madame doesn't mind," echoed the woman, dismissing her with a polite, but curt smile. "That's because Madame thinks cousin Janette doesn't have any money," she whispered, beneath her breath. LaCroix looked up at the comment and she hurried from the room, his brief glare adding wings to her feet. Gathering her skirts, she scurried up the stairs, surprising the gentleman, who was on his way down, and the upstairs maid, who was rearranging her bodice behind the curtain at the top of the stairs. The maid let out a quick shriek at the sight of her, but Janette smiled and put a finger to her lips. "Not a word," she promised. "But I've been sent to fetch Marguerite." Curtseying and mumbling, "Thank you, Miss. This way," the maid hurried down the hall, Janette following. At the end of the corridor, the maid put a key in the lock of the door, turning it. Outraged, Janette turned on the maid, unable to keep her eyes from flashing. "How you lock her in!" "Madame's orders!" The maid all but whimpered, then turned tail and ran. Muttering beneath her breath, in a language that hadn't been used in three hundred years, Janette opened the door to the bedroom. Marguerite was lying face down on the bed. She looked up as Janette entered. Her eyes were red and puffy and a trail of tears ran down the girl's face. Instantly, Janette rushed to the bed and sat down, taking the girl in her arms. "It's all right . I won't let them lock you in again. And I don't dare tell LaCroix--he'd kill them for such an outrage." The girl's tears had started afresh as she'd thrown herself into Janette's arms. But at LaCroix's name, Marguerite had frozen in place, then pulled back. "He's ?" she squeaked. "Of course. Your mother and father asked that we come, to discuss the arrangement with your grandfath--" Janette stopped speaking when she saw the panic in the girl's face. Smoothing back those muddy brown curls, now decorated with highlights of gold and styled in a manner that was out of fashion, she met the wide, brown eyes. "Ah, but you've been told of your mother's and father's plans, no?" "Mother said that no one would marry me now, that Father would sue him for breach of contract or something." Marguerite put her hands over her eyes. "How can I face him? After what they've said!" "It will take more than your parents to outmaneuver LaCroix," said Janette, still stroking the girl's hair. "Now, tell me, what gave your mother this idea?" Marguerite peeked out from beneath her hands. "It was the earrings." "The . . . earrings?" Janette frowned, then held out her hand. "Let me see them." She expected the girl to reach beneath her hair. Instead, Marguerite slid solemnly from the bed and walked over to her wardrobe. Opening the door, she reached high on tiptoes, to the top shelf, and took down a tiny box. Janette smiled to herself, seeing the care the girl took to hide her treasure. For though Marguerite could have passed as a woman, with the right clothing and makeup, she was still a child, protected from the world. Her grandfather had seen to that. But, with his passing, she had no more protection. Except LaCroix. And herself. Opening the tiny box, Marguerite hurried to the bed and placed it on Janette's palm. She recognized the earrings right away. They were hers, perhaps two hundred years old. Tiny rubies in an ordinary gold setting. She hadn't worn them in an age and had not thought of them for two decades. But here they were in her palm. LaCroix had given them to this child. "Oh . . .my." Janette bit back her anger, knowing that it should be reserved for LaCroix. The child had done nothing, but play the violin and play it well. "Yes." Marguerite nodded and seated herself on the bed. "He's sent flowers before. And music. And tickets to the symphony. But they always went to grandfather's house. After he died, they were directed here--" "And your mother decided to take advantage of the situation." Janette almost closed her fist over the small earrings, but Marguerite was quick, rescuing her box and treasure. Reaching out, Janette patted her head. "Don't worry, little sister. LaCroix won't blame you." The child smiled, then looked to the closed bedroom door. "But . . . what will happen?" "You won't be forced to wed him." Janette smiled at the thought of LaCroix as the bridegroom of this little wren. "And he'll make certain that you'll continue with your studies, if that's what you wish to do." "Oh." Marguerite looked down, at the box in her hand, disappointment in her voice. "Is he married, then? I thought he might be. But Mother said such men sometimes takes mistresses--" Immediately, she held the child's chin in her palm. " let him hear you say that," she scolded. "Or you'll never see him again." Janette didn't add that he'd probably kill her for making such a statement. Or laugh. One never quite knew with LaCroix. But the child seemed oblivious to the danger, still starring at the earrings. "No, that mustn't happen. I couldn't live, then--" A quiet cold stole into Janette's chest. Still holding the child's chin, she tilted her head and saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "Oh, my," she whispered, again. "Don't tell me that you love him. For that would be the greatest joke in the world." "Why would it be so funny?" asked Marguerite, wrenching away from Janette and rising to her feet. She walked to the mirror, the earrings in her hands, then turned her head, holding them against her hair. "He's been kind to me, kinder than anyone, except Grandfather. And he's taught me so much. He taught me to love the music. And he's promised to make me the greatest violinist ever in the world." Janette left the bed and walked over to Marguerite, avoiding the mirror. Draping herself against the door of the wardrobe, she smiled sadly. "But you love him, little sister. He's not of your kind. He doesn't love , he loves your music. And loving him will only lead to your destruction." "That's because I'm a child. In a year or two, I shall be grown. And he will love me." Her words had made no impact--a schoolgirl's dreams filled the young eyes. After a moment, Janette sighed and took Marguerite's hand, drawing her into an embrace. "All right, little sister, dream on. But as I said, don't mention this to LaCroix . . . or to your parents. If you study hard and learn the music, I know he'll treat you well." Pulling back, she raised her hand to brush the muddy curls away from the tear-stained face. "And, for a time, you shall truly be my little sister. I will taking you shopping and teach you how to dress and wear your hair and makeup. We shall go to dances and learn how to keep the handsome young men away, and bring them back again. And LaCroix shall pay for all of it and cheerfully, though he will never know why." "And will I be your little sister forever?" "Forever is a long time, ," said Janette softly. She looked up and away, across the room. "I will not lie in that I bore easily. But so long as I am here and am not bored, I will teach you all that you need to know. And let us hope that it will be enough." Marguerite reached up to plant a kiss on her cheek and Janette felt the heart beat against her own for the barest second. "Merci, Janette. But I must wash my face and change!" "Yes, yes--hurry! We've taken more time than we ought and you won't be the one to feel the lash of LaCroix's temper tonight." They hurried, changing the girl's rumpled dress for something white, with frills and skirts. Nothing could be done with the hair but to brush it and Janette could cover the tracks of the child's tears with water and what little makeup was on the dressing table. At the last, she placed the earrings in the child's ears, holding back the hair with a ribbon and bow. And then they hurried down the stairs, to the drawing room. Janette paused outside the door and, hearing no raised voices, opened it. LaCroix was pacing the room, both Monsieur and Madame Veneuil resting in chairs, looking as if they'd been verbally trampled. No doubt his words and his charm had done more to change their minds than any suggestion, but Janette suspected that he had used a little of his power as well. She pushed Marguerite into the room, then stood back against the door to watch the effect. Both the mother and father seemed astonished, as the child went to each of them in turn. Madame Veneuil kissed her daughter's cheek, her hand fluttering at the bow in her hair. "Dear Marguerite, how you look!" Janette smirked inwardly, knowing that the Mother had never seen the child as anything but a financial investment. How lonely the girl's life would have been, without her music and their presence. Perhaps LaCroix had done her a service after all, by investing in her talent. But when Marguerite stood before LaCroix and curtseyed properly, and he bent at the waist in a bow, then raised her hand to his lips, Janette frowned. For though LaCroix showed no sign of infatuation, then was something in his manner that changed in her presence. Mortals were nothing more than cattle, and inconvenient more often than not, worth notice only for sustenance and amusement. But some quiet part in her rebelled at his taking his amusement for this child, who trusted him so completely, trusted what she could not know would destroy her. Sighing, Janette shook off the mood, relegating it to the recent influence of Nicola, and returned to her seat. LaCroix glanced over at Janette, an eyebrow raised-- she was right, there'd be a price to pay later for taking so long--then led Marguerite back to his own seat, still smiling. Standing at the arm of the chair, he cleared his throat. "Marguerite, you were present when your grandfather and I agreed upon the conditions for my patronage. I have not always been attentive--" "Oh, no--" she interrupted, but quieted quickly when Janette shot her a look and motioned her to silence by placing a finger to her own lips. "But I have tried to provide for your education and your needs. Your parents, conscientious as they are--" he indicated the poor souls with a wave of his hand, "are concerned about your future and rightly so. I've made them an offer; you may continue to learn, as you have, and I will continue to pay for your education and expenses. Or, should you choose, you may enter society, according to your parents' wishes. And, should you find a young man of adequate means and unquestionable character, I've agreed to pay whatever dowry or settlement his family may think proper." Rolling her eyes, Janette slumped back in her chair, barely able to keep from laughing. LaCroix was in his element. After filling the heads of these fools with dreams of royalty and wealth beyond imagining, he was allowing their daughter to snatch away that vision by choosing to marry a junior law clerk or younger wastrel son of an old family whose tree had decayed beyond reviving, if she so desired. They, for their own part, were trying to signal to her that their plans had changed--that they no longer wished her to be married. It was more amusing than one of those humorous musicals staged by Misters. Gilbert and Sullivan. But Marguerite had no sense of the moment. She rose to her feet and met LaCroix's gaze. "I'll choose whatever you wish me to choose, Monsieur LaCroix. You've been kind to me. And I can't think you would begin to be unkind now, despite what my parents may have said." For a moment, he seemed taken aback. Then, his hand rose, as if to touch the earrings nestled against the curls. His eyes shot quickly to Janette, and a smile quirked across his lips--he acknowledged that he'd taken her earrings. In response, she arched her neck and looked away with a glance of feigned annoyance. Let him bring up the fact that they took their time, if he dared. She had her own ammunition, this night. Those earrings had purchased her pardon and his money would purchase her a new pair-- diamonds, if she had her way. But Janette looked back quickly, remembering just in time that she was not the center of the drama. And, again, LaCroix took Marguerite's hand in his. "I should think . . . I would choose the music above all else." "Then that's what I choose." Janette closed her eyes, that quiet cold stealing across her once more. The parents were instantly joyous, thrilled at the thought of the untold wealth and fame they would enjoy at their daughter's expense. A call was made for champagne and toasts were drunk, though she abstained, still playing the part of the spinster cousin, for she meant to keep close watch of Marguerite. And even Marguerite was allowed a glass, gazing up at LaCroix with adoring eyes that he could not see. But the evening ended early--they had not fed as yet- -and, as the door closed behind them, Marguerite's last "Merci," whispered in her ear, Janette walked numbly to the carriage, still feeling a sudden chill that did not come with the rise of a breeze in the night air. Even LaCroix seemed to notice her quiet, as he helped her into the carriage. "I think that went quite well," he commented. "You played your part superbly. And as for the earrings--" Janette settled across from him in the carriage, removing that horrid flat hat, and waved away the thought. "Forget them. Although there something--I spoke to Marguerite. If she's to grow up properly, she'll need some education in arts other than music. You don't want your violinist taken from your hands by the first handsome oboist she meets. And I wouldn't trust woman to know to teach her how to lace a corset, never mind what a proper lady says, and does, at the proper moment." Nodding, LaCroix closed the carriage door, then signaled out the window to the driver, ignoring the light rain and resting his arm on the door. "A point well taken. What do you suggest?" "Pay for her dresses and jewelry. Leave her to my care. And give me an hour each evening from her music, and one night each week for proper instruction." He frowned, still staring out the window. "That will cut into her practice time." "She's mortal, LaCroix, and she must be . They don't have the time that we do in which to profit from their mistakes." "And you're willing to spend such time in common lessons? Even though it'll cost you our wager?" His eyes were suspicious, as he stared at her from across the carriage. Janette met the gaze evenly. "I've grown . . . fond of her," she admitted, after a pause. "I could pay off our wager now--I did well with that Boulanger business, better than you. And as for common lessons--?" Smiling seductively, she tilted her head and gazed out the window. "You've rarely called me that. Or is that what you really think of me?" "No more common than a diamond in a gutter," said LaCroix, leaning forward to catch her hand. "And as a token of my appreciation--there's a certain shop I know that keeps late hours--or he does if he wants my business. I've heard there are some remarkable stones, just in from Africa- -" She smiled, nodding in the correct places, as they made their way through the streets of Paris, but her eyes were fixed to the world outside the carriage window, unseeing. In the whisper of the rain, she continued to hear Marguerite's heartfelt "." But Janette knew it was no mercy to continue with this farce. And that it could only end badly. "I should have taken her there, in her room." Her lips twisted in a wry smile, she raised her glass, glanced down at the red liquid, then set it on the bar with a sigh. "At least her blood wouldn't have been wasted." Entranced, Alma was sitting beside her at the corner of the bar, both elbows perched on the edge, her chin cupped in her hands. "But wouldn't LaCroix have been angry?" "Yes. But then what could he have done to me that he hadn't already done?" She shrugged her shoulders, then glanced beneath her lashes at Alma. "After so many centuries together, even LaCroix's imagination could be stretched to its limits. He would have forgiven me, eventually. She was only mortal, after all. And I would have paid double my portion of the bet--money was often accepted over penitence." "But . . . you didn't?" "No." Again, Janette lifted the wine glass to her lips, this time taking a sip and swallowing. "And perhaps that was for the best, as well. Even in hindsight, it's often difficult to pinpoint the best course of action." There was quiet between. Janette continued to sip from her glass, until it was empty. Alma folded her arms on the top of the bar and rested her chin on top of them. "So, what did he buy you?" Janette lightly touched the ruby heart she'd thoughtlessly chosen that evening. "This." Tilting it, she looked down, the crimson stones catching a stray ray of light and shining in her eyes. "He picked it out, of course. I had no choice, but to accept it. It was so much like him, to unknowingly choose a piece too beautiful for me to refuse and yet it was such a cruel reminder . . . ." Releasing the broach, Janette rubbed her fingers together, then touched the choker at her throat. "It 'd become a game for us, by then--he or I . . . or even Nicola, would buy a piece of jewelry to commemorate an event or a moment. My jewelry box became our history together." Her eyes glanced across the dance floor, making certain that everything was in place. "But it would backfire on him, every now and again. If I was cross with him, I'd wear a piece from a time he'd prefer not to remember--a ring purchased after being chased from a place by swordpoint, a buckle or broach picked off a battlefield from a war which cost him a quarter of his fortune, and such. Nicola's dissent was loud, strident, even violent. I thought my own quiet rebellions much more effective. And fashionable." "Do you keep all of your jewelry here?" Janette's smile grew sharp. "Don't even think of it, pretty kitten. I may show you a piece now and again, if you behave. But they're not toys--they aren't to be borrowed or played with." "Like mortals?" "Yes." Picking up the empty glass, she ran her finger along the rim, marveling at Alma's uncharacteristic insight. "But jewels last infinitely longer. And they're no more or less than you expect them to be--once they've been properly appraised, of course." Janette chuckled. "There was a time when Nicola, in an attempt to please me, purchased a string of pearls, sight unseen. When he gave them to me, he pressed too hard on one of the beads--it was paste and it exploded. There was powder ! And--" "What about Marguerite?" Alma's voice was quiet, but loud enough to stop Janette in mid-remembrance. When her hand fell to the ruby heart of its own accord, she quickly reached for a cigarette from the pack that rested on top of the bar. "What about your young mortal?" "He'll be there tomorrow." Her head still resting on her hands, Alma shrugged lightly. "Or not. As you said, It's better that they not matter." As Janette lit the cigarette, she was surprised to find her hand shaking. "But sometimes they do," she whispered, watching as the paper and tobacco caught flame, flaring gold, then red. "Sometimes they matter too much . . . ." For the tenth time in as many minutes, Janette adjusted the collar of Marguerite's white blouse, arranging the curl that fell over one shoulder carefully against the neck. "I don't know I allowed him to choose this blouse," she scolded. But Marguerite raised her hand, touching Janette's. "It's fine. If LaCroix prefers that I wear this blouse, then it's fine." "He wanted you to wear that horrid yellow party frock," reminded Janette. "To an audition? No wonder men's fashion has fallen to the wayside!" Still, she stepped back, admiring the effect. Marguerite was beautiful. Her hair, despite all of Janette's best efforts and attempts at wigs, dyes, and tinting, remained a muddy brown color. True, it suited her skin, which was more olive-toned than white. And the deeper brown of her eyes shone well with the contrast. Nothing could be done with her features--a thin nose, and thin lips, but the color of the lips was naturally pleasing. Less makeup, rather than more, had been the answer. And Janette had been able to use highlights to cover the high cheekbones, so unfashionable for the period. She could find no fault with the skirt, or the hourglass figure, also fashionable. If Marguerite ate at all, it was only because Janette or one of the maids hounded her, having to pry the bow from her hand and replace it with a fork, which made the requisite corset almost obsolete. Her nails, at least, were strong and finely cut, so they wouldn't interfere with her art. And that's when Janette noticed that the hand that held the violin case loosely at Marguerite's side, was shaking. It was cool, where they stood, in the corridor to the dressing rooms of the concert hall. The summer heat of the Paris evening did not reach this place, as it nestled against the earth, below the level of the street. But this lack of heat was not enough to chill a mortal heart. Only fear could do that. And Marguerite's fear was foolish, in the face of her talent. Taking her free hand, Janette looked into the eyes of her student--hers, now, as well as LaCroix's. For Little Marguerite grown in the past three years, from a child to a young woman. Janette, despite her own prediction, had grown bored, her attention hadn't wandered, as she'd passed along the experience of centuries on how to handle the world and men and their ways. But it was in her instruction of how to handle LaCroix that her teaching had been precise--for mortal Marguerite would never have survived the many mistakes she herself had made over the centuries. "Have no fear for your music, little sister," she said, placing her hand on Marguerite's shoulder and nodding solemnly. "You're among the best that Paris has to offer. And you love it too well to fail." Her answering smile was hesitant. "I trust the music, Janette. And it's not for the music's sake I'm afraid to fail." Closing her eyes, Janette turned her head away, her hand still resting on Marguerite's shoulder. No matter how much she had tried to interest her in the handsome young men they found at dances--some of whom had mysteriously disappeared from the Paris streets later that evening-- Marguerite only had eyes for LaCroix, shining like a diamond at the smallest attention from him, the slightest word. And, still, LaCroix did not seem to see. As Marguerite was so taken with him, he was too entranced by the beauty of her music to see the heart that lay behind it, playing only for him. "Janette, tell me . . . why are you still so young?" Her eyes shot open, but she kept her face turned away, her lips drawing into a grim line. She'd seen the question in the girl's eyes a hundred times before. Only so often could she laugh off the avoidance of mirrors, her skin being sensitive to the rays of the sun, her aversion to foods, save for an occasional sip of wine, or glass of a vintage that Marguerite's palate was too 'young' to properly appreciate. It seemed only proper that now, as the child LaCroix had so carefully tutored--his --was about to take her place in the world of music, that she should begin to question the strange ways of her benefactor. Fate, as usual, had timed everything . But Janette produced a wounded smile, touching her hand lightly to the throat of her dress, in surprise. "Marguerite, such a question? We discussed the things that one woman never asks another and I believe that headed the list . . . unless, of course, you wish to flatter me?" Marguerite started. "Oh, no! I didn't mean to offend you, dear Janette, please, I beg your pardon. You're as lovely as any woman could be. Lovelier. As lovely as you have always been--" She paused, her eyes narrowing as she met Janette's gaze. "But you've always been this lovely. When I was a child and you came to Grandfather's rooms, I thought then that I'd give anything to look as beautiful as you." Forcing herself to take a breath, Janette kept the smile on her lips, knowing that her own thoughts at the time had been focused on her gambling . . . or on dining on that child's blood. "When you came again and again to visit me, you never seemed to change. I've grown to a woman, but you're still the same. As is LaCroix." Puzzled, she shook her head, her hands clasping the violin case to her chest, as if for comfort. "I've often thought about it, questioned whether my memory was faulty. Even that other man, who often came to my recitals--" "Nicola," supplied Janette automatically, her mind racing to come up with some explanation. LaCroix had trusted her to deal with questions like this. And if Marguerite's sudden curiosity affected her performance and her audition for a seat at the symphony, she knew he might well be angered enough to take vengeance on them both. Even she might not be able to shield Marguerite from LaCroix's wrath. "Yes. We saw him one evening, at the ballet. Remember?" "Nicola has . . . other interests." "But he looked the ." Janette swallowed and closed her eyes. LaCroix had been right--the blood line had run true from grandfather to granddaughter. Marguerite was not in anything but her music, but given time she had proven she could put together pieces of a puzzle and come up with an answer. It was an achievement that bested many of the beautiful, emptied-headed young things with which they had shared the dance floors these past three years and Janette had prided herself on the uncommon intelligence and maturity of her young charge. Now, that same intelligence might be Marguerite's undoing, especially since she had not only identified herself and LaCroix as 'unusual,' but had included Nicola in that classification. Opening her eyes, she faced Marguerite, and placed her hands over the hands that held the violin. "We'll speak of this later, little sister. For the moment, concentrate only on your music. That's what LaCroix would wish." The brown eyes met hers, a shy smile crossing the lips. "Do you promise? You'll tell me ?" "All." Janette repeated the word, knowing that she broke her promise in speaking it aloud. There was no way Marguerite could be told everything. But breaking the promise bothered her less than coming up with a plausible explanation. Promises had never meant so much to her as they had to LaCroix and Nicola, but she'd always thought that was because she was a woman--men might keep promises among themselves, but rarely shared the gesture with her gender. For her own part, Marguerite seemed pacified, even excited by the possibility. Leaning forward, she kissed Janette first on one cheek, then the other. "Thank you, Janette. I won't disappoint LaCroix. Or you." A bitter smile touched her lips as she heard the words--as always, she was second to LaCroix. But the smile disappeared as a man, carrying a board covered with papers, appeared. "How may I help you. Mademoiselles?" Janette stepped forward to speak, but LaCroix appeared down the length of the corridor, hailing the man. "Monsieur Bidault?" He strode forward quickly, shifting his cane in his hand and removing his top hat. Raising a hand to her lips, Janette decided that nothing suited LaCroix so well as the evening wear of the age. Reaching them, he gave the smaller man a bow, Janette received a nod, and Marguerite a smile. "You must forgive me, Monsieur, but I abandoned the ladies so that I might investigate your magnificent hall. Only the best will do for my prize pupil." Bidault glanced down at the papers in his hand. "You must be Monsieur LaCroix? Here for the audition?" "Just so." LaCroix nodded again. "If you will follow me, please?" There was not room enough for them to walk three abreast. LaCroix took Marguerite's arm without a second thought, leading her forward. Pursing her lips, Janette trailed behind. If she was not so fond of the girl, she would be jealous. But any spark of envy always faded quickly, when she thought of the warmth of Marguerite's skin and heart. Even if LaCroix should turn his amorous attentions to the girl, she would not long survive. And, somehow, the thought of this flower being bled dry and preserved for eternity no longer sat well with her. "You'll love the sound of the place," explained LaCroix, to the girl beside him. "I shouted and was nearly blown backwards by the echo. There hasn't been such a place with acoustics like this since--" Stopping in mid- sentence, he glanced over his shoulder at Janette. "--For some time." Outwardly, she smiled, as he turned back to Marguerite. Inwardly, her heart was cold in her breast. LaCroix did not often forget himself, or his time. But here he was about to tell Marguerite that he had lived in another age, a hundred, perhaps five hundred years before. He was beginning to rely too much on their familiarity. Yet he still could not see the eyes that looked up at him with rapt attention, held him in adoration. Then Bidault stopped at a junction. There was a door at the end of one hall, toward which he nodded. "If you'll wait here, Monsieur Lamoureaux will be with us shortly. Until then, may I confirm some of the details of the application?" "Of course." LaCroix stepped closer to man. Janette moved forward, placing her arm around Marguerite's shoulders, some of the girl's excitement passing into her, warming her cold heart. "Very soon, ," she whispered. "I would never have thought it would come to this." "The name of the applicant is M. Veneuil?" LaCroix nodded. "Violin." "I see no mention of an academy?" Bidault looked up at LaCroix with questioning eyes, his mustache twitching. "An oversight?" "Private instruction, only," was LaCroix's smooth answer. "A list of tutors and references may be found accompanying the application?" Bidault lifted the paper, glanced down, and nodded. "Ah, yes. Monsieur Lamoureaux will review them." Tapping the paper with his forefinger, he nodded. "We are lacking, then, only the applicant?" Janette looked up sharply and saw LaCroix arch an eyebrow. "Not at all--Mademoiselle Veneuil is here." He pointed back toward Marguerite. The little mustache twitched again. Bidault smiled and looked back at the paper. "Ah, Monsieur LaCroix, you're making sport of me. Seriously, where is the young man with such impressive credentials?" LaCroix straightened, drawing himself to his full height, his hands wrapped around the length of his cane. "The young man a young woman. Mademoiselle Veneuil is the applicant for the position of violinist for the Societe Nationale de Musique." Tightening her grip on Marguerite's shoulder after she felt a shiver go through the girl, Janette asked, "Is there some difficulty?" Ignoring LaCroix's sharp look, she fixed her gaze on Bidault. The man was almost laughing. "The problem, Mademoiselle, is that this application cannot be accepted. To have a woman in the orchestra? It would be unthinkable! We'd become the laughingstocks of the Paris, of the ." Tearing the papers from the clip, he held them to LaCroix. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. We cannot accept this application." LaCroix took the papers from the man, then glanced down at them. "There must be some mistake." As Bidault turned away and began walking down the corridor, toward the office he'd indicated earlier, LaCroix followed, grabbing the man's shoulder and spinning him around. "Perhaps you don't understand," he stated, voice silky and smooth as ice. "I have donated a respectable sum to this organization, since it was founded. I will be treated like a common subscriber!" Bidault's face was red. Angrily, he brushed off LaCroix's hand from his jacket. "And must understand, Monsieur, that we've appreciated your patronage over the years. And if you find a young man, with the talents you have described in that application, we will consider ourselves fortunate to be able to interview and audition him. But if we entertain applications for every mistress our patrons bring to us, we would have not time to audition musicians." Pointing at Marguerite, he added, "Why not take her to the opera? She's not pretty enough for the front of the chorus, but if she's light on her feet, they may let her dance at the wings." "This . . . is . . . an . . . outrage!" roared LaCroix. Raising his cane in the air, he struck Bidault on the shoulder, spinning the man away and into the wall. There was barely time to act. Janette abandoned the sobbing Marguerite and ran to LaCroix. Turning him around, she held him, fingers gripping his coat and shirt, anywhere she could find purchase. She drew his face close to hers--his eyes gold, his fangs extended and snarling-- hiding his altered features from Bidault. His nails were like talons as he grabbed her shoulders, still roaring, "Let me loose, damn you!" "Not here!" Pulling him closer, ignoring the nails the drew blood through the cloth of her dress, she held onto him with all of her might. "LaCroix, you'll ruin ! For yourself. For Marguerite. For the Music! Stop . . . think!" His eyes still shone gold, but they fixed on hers, as her words got through. "If you do this, we'll have to leave," she continued. "And in a hurry. This would not be overlooked. There's still a chance to save this, to save the music. But you must tread . You always caution Nicola about acting before thinking. Take your own advice. Calm ." As he stared at her, the glow faded from his eyes, the tight grip released her shoulders. LaCroix smiled down at her, then pressed his lips against her forehead. "Merci, Janette. You're right. There's too much to lose." Behind them, a scream sounded. Janette whirled at the same time LaCroix looked up. Marguerite held her hand before her mouth, the other clutched the violin case to her chest. Stifling another scream, she ran down another corridor, away from them, turning a corner and disappearing from sight. LaCroix took a step to go after her, but Janette caught his shirt front. "Stay!" she commanded. "Only you can deal with these men, as a man. She'll be terrified of you." He glanced over his shoulder and Janette followed his gaze, Bidault had run for the office door--they could hear the echo of raised voices from inside. Then LaCroix looked back down the corridor, where Marguerite had run. "They saw ," she pressed, pushing him toward the door. "Deal with them. And remember, this is fault--not hers or mine. Only you would be fool enough to forget yourself and choose a woman for your grand scheme!" The eyes that met hers were angry and hard--angry at her for reminding him that this mistake his own and that he could blame no other, hard because it was not a mistake he would forgive lightly or make again. Still, he looked back a third time, then pointed toward the corridor. "Deal with her!" he shouted, running in the other direction, for the office door. "I leave it in your hands." "As always," Janette whispered, not caring whether he heard. Gathering her skirts, she ran as quickly as she could down the corridor, calling Marguerite's name. The corridor led to the stage itself. She paused in the wings, walking carefully, looking around. LaCroix had been right--the echoes of Marguerite's sobs filled the empty space. The sheer magnitude and the grandeur startled her for a moment. The light was dim, the barest glare of gas jets along the walls. In this darkness, Janette could well imagine an audience, breath held in a hush, as the conductor raised his baton and signaled a flood of perfect sound that would light the place more brilliantly than any candle, or oil lamp, or gas. But the vision was a thing of the moment. Shaking her head, Janette tried to pin down the source of the sobbing, the dim light proving no obstacle to her heightened senses. And when she found Marguerite, she could only smile. The girl was sitting on a chair, her arms leaning over the back, her head on her arms. She'd probably walked blindly into the chairs prepared for the orchestra's next rehearsal, but she was seated at the place to which LaCroix had deigned to raise her--the chair of the first violinist. Janette walked softly, then stood behind the chair. "Little sister?" Marguerite started, then rose from the chair, backing away. "Monster!" she spat, her voice wavering. The word sent a cold chill through Janette. Had it been spoken by any other mortal their brief span of life would have been reduced to seconds. But the fear mixed with sorrow in Marguerite's tone touched a place within her that had been empty for decades and which only the girl had warmed. Nodding slightly, Janette looked down at the floor. "Yes, little sister. That's what we are, monsters. This is what I wished to spare you. And now . . . you will hate us?" "Hate . . .you?" Janette looked up at the surprise in Marguerite's voice. Holding her hands wide before her, she asked, "But . . . you ran away. Surely, you must hate us, despise us for what we are?" "No." Rubbing her hand beneath her nose, a childish gesture Janette found charming, Marguerite took a step closer. "How could I hate you, Janette? After all you've taught me? And . . . if he loves the music, he can't be a monster. No monster could love the music so much as he." Something within Janette tore in half--to reconcile Marguerite with LaCroix and herself would bind them. The girl would have no hope of ever freeing her soul. There'd be no future opportunity like this, to frighten or cajole or convince her to leave them. She could do it. With golden eyes and lowered fangs, she could send the girl screaming into the night and out of LaCroix's grasp . . . forever. But then, she, too, would lose the presence of Marguerite, her 'little sister.' And she was not so brave or so selfless that she could drive away this present joy, even to save it for the mortal world. Holding out her arms, Janette met the girl's eyes. It was no enchantment or mesmerism that brought the girl into her embrace, but the friendship they had shared. Despite the warmth of the mortal in her arms, Janette's heart was cold. But still her mind worked on plots and plans and devices that might drive the wedge between this mortal and LaCroix. She looked upward, at the grace and beauty of the place, then drew back from Marguerite, after a second's pause. "You understand--they will not let you play because you're a woman?" Marguerite nodded, then stepped back and picked up the violin case from the chair. Her eyes swept around the place and Janette saw the wonder and beauty of it being recorded, in the halls of her memory. The girl was being denied that which was rightfully hers. Perhaps she would grow angry and bitter later, when she truly understood what it was she had lost, but the moment was too large and grand and dreadful to fully touch her soul. And Janette knew there was one thing to be done that might make the memory sweet, instead of sour. Placing her hands on Marguerite's shoulder, she guided her to the chair of the first violinist and seated her there. As always, Marguerite took her direction without a murmur, only questioning in a glance. But Janette smiled as she took the violin case from the girl's hands, opened the catch, and held it before her. "Play," she commanded, her voice softer and kinder than LaCroix's traditional order had ever been. "Play, Marguerite, this once, in this place." It was only a moment's pause, then Marguerite did as she had been commanded . . . as she had always done. Her hands reached for the violin--her grandfather's that LaCroix had played on that first visit--and the bow. She positioned the instrument with the greatest of care, then lifted the bow. Placing the violin case on another chair, Janette seated herself across from Marguerite and closed her eyes, letting the sound envelop her. For Marguerite chose to play that first song she had learned at the hands of LaCroix. It was a sorrowful melody, but it soared throughout the great space, echoing strong and pure. The music became a living thing, played there as it would and could never be played again. Behind her eyes, Janette no longer saw the villa in Milan, the floor littered with broken pottery. Now, she remembered only the dim lights of that squalid tenement, the chill of the room and the malnourished mortal cub, who played bravely and sweetly, until the blood ran from her fingers. Had she played for LaCroix that night, as well? Or had she been playing only for her future, for her grandfather, for salvation from the place and squalor in which fate had dropped her? Janette's eyes opened as a sound disturbed her musings. In the dim light, she searched the hall, then the wings of the stage. It was there that she saw LaCroix, and Bidault--some feet from LaCroix and a cloth held to his head, she noted with amusement--and a third man, who stood mostly in shadow. Rising quietly, she moved away from Marguerite, but the musician's eyes were closed tightly, as they had been during that first recital. LaCroix moved away from them as she approached, joining her where the wings opened onto the stage. He inclined his head in a light gesture, toward Marguerite. "She's well?" "No thanks to you." Turning her back to him, Janette looked across the empty stage, to the solitary figure. "I thought to give her something that would make this memory easier to bear. To have been shown this and then denied it would have been too cruel. At least there will be this moment to comfort her." "The first of many, if there's any hope," whispered LaCroix, moving behind her. Janette turned her head, but froze in place, as his fingers ran along the wounds his nails had opened in her shoulders . . . which were already closing. "What?" "I spoke with them, Lamoureaux and his toady. I was making no headway, but the music began. They had only to hear it for themselves." Janette turned completely in his arms, her hands clasped together and held to her heart. "They'll place her in the orchestra?" she whispered, disbelieving. "In time." LaCroix did not look down at her. Instead., his gaze moved past her, still fixed to the stage and the violin. "She'll train as one of the substitutes. It will only be a matter of time before one falls ill--" "Or has an unavoidable accident?" His smile twisted, but still he didn't look at her. "Perhaps. And then Marguerite will take the stage, as is her due. In a subordinate role, to be certain. We can't change the will of centuries in an afternoon. But she be the first." Janette placed her arms around him, holding him close. "It will be so hard for her. They won't accept her. You know they won't. LaCroix, can't we protect her?" "We can't kill all of Paris. Not anymore." His hand rose to her neck, playing with her hair. "But they'll change their minds when they hear the music. They'll have to." Still, the music soared behind them. Janette held him tightly, as much to keep him away from Marguerite as to keep him for herself. "You'll let her go, then." "Go?" He chuckled in her ear. "Dear Janette, this is only the beginning! Let her go? Why on earth would I want to? She's mine. Her music's ." Janette looked up and away quickly, needing to see Marguerite, certain that some invisible chain had wrapped itself tighter around the mortal throat, but LaCroix's hands held her in place. "Ah, you're sad--you've lost your wager," he cooed. Her eyes still staring in the dim light, Janette forced a wry smile. "Yes, you're right," she lied. "I've lost the bet. But I'll pay my losses gratefully." "No matter. I forgive you the debt. In fact, I think I owe you something." "Owe ?" "For that." He nodded toward Marguerite. "I would have lost her, if it hadn't been for you. You brought her music back to me. That's a debt I could never adequately repay. But I shall try. Something more for your collection, perhaps? Another broach? A ring? Or that diamond I wouldn't buy for you?" Her heart cold, Janette shook her head. "No. Nothing. I want nothing to remind me of this." LaCroix leaned close again, whispering in her ear. "Dear Janette, you nothing to remind you of this. We remember ." "I know," she whispered, placing her hand over his. "Oh, how I know." The bartender had refilled her glass. Janette picked it up, lifted it to her lips, then lowered it suspiciously. A small swizzle stick floated in the glass, topped with a heart and a cupid. Taking out the offending object with two of her fingernails, she tossed it to the top of the bar. "Remind me to fire him." "You fired him last week. And the week before." "So, I'll fire him again." "If it makes you feel better." Alma sat up on the barstool, gave the bartender a little wave to get his attention, then very carefully ran the swizzle stick across her lips. Having removed the blood, she threaded the thing through the lace at the neckline of her dress. Janette rolled her eyes and turned around, again looking over the club. "You have no class, Alma. Or subtlety." "I know. That's why I'm popular. But don't you think he's even the bit cute?" Holding her drink up to the light and eyeing the color, Janette smirked. "Of course--why do you think I hired him? Rank have its privileges. And if we have eternity to spend, why not spend it surrounded with pretty things?" " you're talking." Then she tapped Janette on the shoulder. "So, what'd he buy you then?" "Is all that interests you--what LaCroix bought me?" "Well, no." Alma pouted. "But I figure I'll be in your will someday--" "Dream on, little fool." Janette sipped at her drink, then frowned, catching sight of a young vampire who'd been barred from the club because he'd taken liberties with the stock. With a nod and a commanding gesture, she got the attention of the bouncer, who removed the offender promptly. She raised her glass to the bouncer in gratitude, then turned back to the bar. "Where was I? Oh, yes--those pearls that Nicola purchased--" "No. You were talking about Marguerite." Janette shook her head and stared into her glass. "Alma, are you really as dense as you seem?" Alma preened, playing with the lace along the so- called 'neck-line' of her dress. "'Some' people find it attractive." "Those 'boy-toys' you seem to find?" "You have to play young to stay young." Closing her eyes, Janette leaned her forehead on the bar. "I can't believe we're having this conversation. Alma, go away, before I lose my sanity and what's left of my self- control." "But I want to hear what happened to Marguerite." Janette sighed, but didn't move. "I don't to talk about Marguerite any more. Why did I even ?" "Because you were warning me off mortals. And it worked." Curious, Janette opened an eye. "It did?" "Sure." She was still flapping the lace absently. "He's out there, cooling his heels in the snow . . . and I'm not going to show." Alma glanced over her shoulder. "But I'll make it up to him tomorrow." Closing her eyes, Janette sighed again. "It's a good thing the one who brought you across walked into the light. Because if I ever found him, I'd kill him myself." Alma patted her bare shoulder. "Now, now, let's not get maudlin." The hand was removed immediately, when Janette raised her head and glared. Alma met the glare with a smile. " finish the story, Janette. It's like a soap opera, you know? If you miss Friday, you come back Monday and Blaire, who's been pregnant for eighteen month's with Peter's child, had the baby, married Peter, had an affair with Raol, divorced Peter, married Raol, and then she's pregnant with Peter's baby --" "All right, all right!" Throwing up her hand in surrender, Janette reached for her glass and took a long swallow. " you'll leave me alone." Alma looked down, the picture of abject repentance. "Sure. If that's what you want." She sneaked a peek at Janette, from beneath her eyelashes. "It's almost over, right? Because if it's anything like Peter, Blaire, and Raol--" She bit her lip, then nodded, as Janette fixed her with a steady stare. "Okay. So what happened? What did he buy you?" For a moment longer, she continued to stare, wondering how much of Alma was real and how much was artifice. She couldn't be simple and have survived so long, could she? But then she looked back at the glass of blood that sat before her. And a faint reflection stared back, tiny rubies set in gold, glistening in her ears. "LaCroix didn't have