A Dance with Leonor de Brion

1.

France, 1881

Resisting temptation had never been an easy task.

Henri's body felt heavy and plagued with the desires he had forbidden himself to indulge in for nearly three centuries: hunger, passion, and the intoxicating high of fresh blood. And much like an aphrodisiac, it shrouded his judgement like a fog. Underestimating the lure of lust, his power, passion, and primitive thirst to hunt warred with the cold command of his reclusive nature.

You could be invincible, a seductive voice whispered, the words seeping into his heart. A predator of old, masked by the night in mist and shadow, taking pleasure wherever he so chose, and drowning himself in the passions of human flesh. So much power there for the taking; heady, delicious power.

A knock at the door stirred him from his ruminations. Cautious, he raised a finger to glance through the heavy curtains of his mid-century maison de ville before answering, and made out the slender outline of a woman in black – a beautiful minx with hair of spun gold and eyes that dared him to taste of her smoldering desire.

Ah, now that was temptation, indeed.

Sweet temptation.

❧

Never could he divine a terror so exquisite.

Blood dripped from a deep gash in her neck. The dagger's sharp, iron edge penetrated soft, powdered flesh, slicing through muscle and artery to drain away the sweet nectar of life. Rogue torrents of crimson cascaded over a bony curve of clavicle, plunging downward to coat voluptuous breasts imprisoned behind a black bodice, trimmed with glass bead and sequin embroidery, and finally, tumbling drop by drop, into an impeccably placed decanter on the carpet.

The tear-smudged kohl around her frozen, blue eyes emphasized her distress. Yet her full, rounded lips, lined with a lovely cadmium rouge, did not display any indication of pain.

Henri hadn't given her the chance to scream. She likely was, at that moment, screaming. Soundlessly. Wildly. For with a quick, but deliberate twist of her neck, he had immobilized her entire body, imposing in her a stillness that could rival the most revered sculptures; a contemporary Madonna of Bruges.

Yet, she still possessed the incredible ability to bewitch. Perhaps she had always possessed the gift of seduction, ever aware that her carefully crafted facade, her practiced movements, her well-thought words could bend a man's will every which way.

But he was not like any other man.

And finally, when she was at his mercy, there was a snap; the sound of a body toppling to the floor, and the woman in black, with an oath on her lips, went reluctantly, hand-in-hand with Death.

It had come to this. Even as her scent filled the air and curled beneath his nostrils, he could not force himself to lean down and touch her still-warm skin; to breathe in her life – to completely overdose on terror.

"Oh, Henri, mon cher. How will you ever learn to dance, now?"

And there she was. When Henri turned, he found his wife leaning against the doorframe of his bedchamber, arms crossed over her chest. She looked unperturbed as she studied his blood-spattered tunic with interest; her expression was one of absolute captivation, almost mirroring a frown.

"Alise," he said longingly, half to himself. Her brows were thick and elegant, as were her lips, which parted slightly as he raised his eyes to regard her. Those pale, blue eyes and even paler lashes with a hint of gold on the tips gave his heart pause. Her expression seemed more innocent to him now than ever, but the power behind her predator-like gaze washed over him like a familiar embrace.