Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

The Darkest Hour: Part Three

Paris, 1785

Consumed with guilt, Edmond found himself sinking deeper and deeper into hedonism and selfishness, trying to block out what he had done, as well as continuing to run from the ghosts of the past.

His investments continued to pay off, bringing in ever more money, and he continued to squander it on a lavish, self-indulgent lifestyle, desperately chasing physical pleasures in the hopes they would fill the ragged chasm inside him.

They never did.

No matter how many times he bought the best seats at the theatre, or went riding with other aristocrats, no matter how often he draped himself in silk and velvet, no matter how much extravagant furniture and ornaments he bought for his home, nothing brought him any kind of joy.

He continued to throw grand parties, and at every one, he found a girl to fuck, sometimes more than one, and he still drank their blood when he was between their legs, but even that just felt like he was going through the motions. He could barely remember what it felt like to actually make love with someone he cared about. He wasn't even sure he was capable of caring about anyone anymore.

Sometimes he learned the girls' name, sometimes he didn't bother to ask – though he still always made sure they were willing before he took them. No matter how far he'd fallen into a dark hole, he would still die before he forced anyone.

He gave the girls what they came for, then he sent them back to the party while he stayed in the dining room or the living room or wherever else he'd taken them, and tried to cling to the fleeting post-sex feeling, and the sweet taste of their blood in his mouth.

It always faded too soon.

One night, as he was sitting on the floor of the living room, staring at the fire and wondering if anyone would notice if he never returned to his own party, the door crashed open, and a man about Edmond's age – his human age, anyway – stormed in, his face flushed bright red with outrage.

"You," he declared, pointing at Edmond.

Edmond stayed on the floor, looking up at the intruder.

The other man hesitated, perhaps expecting more of a reaction to his dramatic entrance, and Edmond lifted one eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"On your feet," the man ordered.

"Why?"

The man's face turned even redder; obviously these weren't the responses he'd anticipated.

"Do you know who I am?" he said.

"I neither know nor care," Edmond replied.

"I am Baptiste Clermont," he announced, with the air of someone who fully expected Edmond to recognise the name.

Edmond did, vaguely – he thought that a cousin of Baptiste's cousin had ridden with him one day – but he wasn't about to let Baptiste know that.

The young man's arrogance made Edmond's skin prickle with distaste.

"Hélène is my fiancée," Baptiste announced, drawing himself up.

"Who?"

"How dare you pretend not to know her?"

Edmond climbed to his feet. "I honestly don't know what you're talking about, and I'm bored with you wasting my time."

He moved to the door, but Baptiste promptly drew his sword and levelled it at Edmond's chest.

"Not another step," he warned.

Edmond stared down the blade at the shorter man. "Don't threaten me," he said quietly.