Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Darkest Hour: Part Two

Paris, 1782

Ysanne had returned to Paris.

Edmond had seen her a few times, out and about in the city- first on her own, but the last few months on the arm of a man he didn't recognise.

He'd wondered what had happened to Artus before remembering that eighty odd years had passed since he'd met Ysanne's lover. Artus would be long dead by now.

It seemed Ysanne had found someone to take his place.

Edmond didn't go to her.

He wasn't blind to what he'd become – selfish, greedy, self-indulgent – and, just as he'd been all those decades ago on the beach, he was terrified that if he reunited with Ysanne, he'd somehow pull her down with him. He was still drowning, and it still wasn't her responsibility. He loved her too much. All he wanted was for her to be happy.

So he quietly avoided her.

It wasn't hard.

He was living under a false name, and it seemed as though Ysanne wasn't as keen as appearing on the social circuit as she might once have been. Certainly the rumours of debauched parties didn't seem to intrigue her in any way because she never appeared at his house.

Once, he'd hoped more than anything to find her again.

Now, he hoped she wouldn't stay too long in Paris. He hated avoiding her like this – it would be easier if she just wasn't here.

He wished that vampires could get drunk. He always had sure his parties were fuelled with the best wine, but he couldn't drink a drop, and sometimes he was so angry that he'd agreed to become a vampire. Maybe it would have been better if François had just let him in the street that night. Maybe it would have been better if Ysanne had let him freeze to death in the snow. Maybe it would have been better if the plague had taken him the way it took his family.

So he indulged himself the only way he knew how – trying to fuck away the awful feeling inside him, trying to drink enough blood that he could forget everything.

But he never could.

One night, things went from bad to worse.

Edmond's latest party was in full swing. He had danced until his buckled shoes hurt his feet, and women were practically queuing for his attention, but he couldn't seem to muster any enthusiasm for any of them.

Much as he'd tried to forget, all he could think about were the parties he'd attended with François, the anticipation before they arrived, the fun they'd had, the way they'd sometimes bring women home with them, or the parties he'd gone to with Ysanne, both as friends and lovers.

No matter how lavish his parties were now, no matter how much money he poured into them, and how happy they made everyone else, nothing could fill that space inside him, the feeling that someone had ripped out his heart and left behind nothing.

He didn't think anyone would notice when he left the gallery and went to the living room. On either side of the fireplace were wooden shelves, filled with all the books that Edmond hadn't been able to read when he was human. He pulled out the nearest book and opened it, but when he looked at the pages, all he could see was François patiently teaching him to read, sitting beside him in the living room of the house they'd used to share, talking him through each word. He turned another page, and now he saw Ysanne, who'd offered to teach him to read so very long ago, and had only got as far as teaching him to write his first love's name in the snow.

Books had used to be a comfort to Edmond, giving him a world away from the one he lived in, but now, even though he'd read more than ever before, even though he'd travelled across Europe and had learned to speak multiple languages along the way, the words just blurred together.