Remission

By Princess Plum Jade

Chapter Eight

“I’m entirely pleased with your work.” Angelus held out a thick envelope.

Gerard quickly shook his head. “You’ve already compensated me very generously. I would not further presume–”

“I insist.” Angelus’s facial expression had not actually changed, but the bones of his temples and cheekbones looked harder, more pronounced.

Gerard felt a chilly finger of fear stir the bitter annoyance in his heart. He had faithfully executed his comission. All he wanted now was to be gone from this bizarre house and its frightening owner. He envied and despised Angelus even as he feared him. He didn’t want to accept anything else from this–this–man. Yet there was no gainsaying the resolute darkness of Angelus’s eyes and the implacable lines of his tight mouth. This was a man one didn’t say “No” to.

One side of Angelus’s hard lips curled upward into a slyly amused smile as the artist reluctantly extended his hand to accept the bonus payment and a beautiful letter of reference Angelus had written on his best letter-paper, praising Gerard’s character and talent.

Beside Angelus, a little behind him, Ramadevi watched Gerard quietly. She was as beautiful as ever, even on this early grayish autumn dawn. In fact, the young man realised, nothing could ever really make her less than beautiful to him.

“Good luck, Monsieur,” she said softly in her perfect French. The pleasant informality of their earlier friendship was long finished.

Her tangible disappointment in his decision to leave Paris was very gratifying to Gerard and he was glad for never being more plain-spoken with Ramadevi about his reasons for leaving Paris. Best to let her think him erratic and inconstant, a temperamental artist, than to hurt or embarrass her.

“Merci, Mademoiselle,” he replied with a cool nod.

Those were the last words they said to each other. Marcel, Angelus’s coachman, opened the carriage door and Gerard climbed inside, settling onto the supple leather upholstery. Marcel offered him a heavy wool blanket to cover his lap and closed the carriage door firmly.

Gerard glanced over his right shoulder through the carriage window. Angelus had draped an arm over the lovely young woman’s shoulders. He adjusted her thick shawl, almost snuggling her in it. Ramadevi raised her hand in a gesture of farewell as Marcel whipped up the horses.

They look like any normal parent and child. The thought raised bile in Gerard’s throat. He turned away and heaved a sigh of relief as the carriage drew him further away from them.

* * *

Angelus’s manner had changed towards her. At first Ramadevi thought she only imagined it but in the weeks that followed Gerard’s departure she saw that it was so.

He rarely slept with her anymore. Ramadevi was surprised by how vulnerable she felt, climbing into his large bed on her own to sleep by herself. In a way it was worse than Angelus carrying her to bed or even when he held out his hand towards her in a masterful gesture that sent her maid scurrying away because she knew Monsieur wished to retire with Ma’amselle. It showed that she accepted his bed as her own.

Ramadevi scarcely dared to confess that she missed him, missed his presence beside her. His body had become comfort to her while she slept and she willingly eased closer to him in her sleep. He was beautiful as he rested naked alongside her. It was possible to love him guiltlessly then. To dream he was a mortal flesh. To pretend to herself that was who she really wanted him to be.

One night, as Angelus sat at his writing table answering letters to his various businesses, Ramadevi found the courage to look him in the face and ask him, “Will you come to bed?”

He looked up at her sharply, his brow lifting and that hateful darling little smirk tilting his hard mouth. The smirk broadened into a very confident, very male grin as she felt herself blush.

Embarrassed, more than a little angry with herself, Ramadevi turned away from his chair. She hadn’t taken the first step to hurry away from Angelus when he stood before her. He had moved so quickly she never even saw him.

He lightly traced her chin with a fingertip.

“Do you miss me in bed?” he asked lightly.

“No!” But she said it too quickly.

The handsome face grew more handsome as his smile deepened. His teeth were perfectly straight and white like her own.

“Ah,” he replied softly.

Her breath froze in her throat as his finger trailed up the sweet curve of her warm cheek. He smelled of sandalwood and his own male scent, the faintest trace of musk.

“I don’t have to sleep regularly, Rama,” he explained. “Sleeping is something I do for pleasure’s sake.” He did not add that vampires also slept to speed healing in their bodies when they were injured or to slow their metabolism and conserve energy.

Ramadevi gazed upon him, her mind working frantically. The creature standing so close to her, speaking so softly, touching her so tenderly her heartbeat hummed and purred and her skin tingled, was a monster. A dangerous and evil killer. Selfish, relentless.

Her body ached for this intimacy, this closeness.

“If you want me, Rama,” he said in a black silken voice, “I’ll come to you.”

At last the vampire’s point was made. Tears of pain and frustration burned Ramadevi’s eyes as she realised it. Angelus had taught her body to crave his touch and now he withheld that pleasure. Her wanted her subservience to the point that she would admit and even ask for his love–it is NOT love! He cannot love! He’s an animal, monstrous thing. Empty, unnatural, soulless! He can never make love to me, only rut with me like a beast...The Devi do not couple with the dead, it is an abomination, an act of blasphemy...

He stood patiently before her, tall and beautiful with that faint scent that made her blood quicken and burn. Warmth paled in her lower belly and her knees felt knotted.

“No,” she said slowly, her mouth dry. “Thank you.”

His dark eyes went cold, deadly blank where only a moment before they held smoldering, tempting promise. She barely repressed a cry as he drew his finger away from her hair and stepped to one side, allowing her an easy path from his writing desk across his comfortable sitting-area to his enormous bed.

“Good night, then,” he said laconically.

She felt his gaze upon her, unblinking, as she climbed the polished wooden stepping-stool and crawled onto the thick featherbeds, shyly smoothing her chemise over her hips and thighs as she slipped her legs under the eiderdown comforters. Marie had placed a baked brick wrapped in muslin in the foot of the bed and Ramadevi rubbed her feet against the warmth gratefully, drawing the covers up to her chin. She glanced back at Angelus but he was already gone back to his desk.

It had never occurred to Ramadevi that Angelus could survive without sleep. Somehow that knowledge increased her excitement and dread of him. Had he slept beside her for so many nights for his own pleasure? To hammer home the fact that it was his bed she slept in? So often, in the beginning, Ramadevi had inched away from him to the bed’s edge only to have Angelus’s arm lock over her and draw her back into the firm softness of his body. She had been oddly comforted by that, his wanting her close to him at night in the dark.

She would never believe he did it for her comfort or pleasure. It was just another vile possessive trick. And it was working...

Ramadevi turned her body away from Angelus and sank into the empty space. She closed her eyes, determined to sleep, and the demon’s words, low and gentle, mocked her dreams.

If you want me, Rama, I will come to you.

* * *

“C’est formidable.” Charles de Moncrieff declared without an ounce of flippancy.

“You look so beautiful, Ramey.” Melisande Charrier breathed the words softly, her light blue eyes wide and round in awe, her mouth half-open.

“It’s a very good likeness,” Madame Charrier said shortly. Inwardly she fumed with jealousy. Angelus had already informed her that the artist had left Paris seemingly for good and would not be available to paint Melisande. The ill-tempered harridan poked her daughter with a bony finger. “For God’s sake close your mouth!” she hissed.

“Very nice.” Monsieur Charrier was politely disinterested.

“He painted you like Holbein,” Ligeia declared reverently. “It looks like the figures will step out of the painting at any moment.”

“I do think he has made Monsieur Des Lourdes look cruel.” Melisande stared at the hard possessive glint in the painted Angelus’s face. “That’s not quite right.”

Angelus beamed at the silly chit. Melisande blushed and her mother poked her again.

“Sure you think so, darlin',” Charles replied. “You’ve never seen him at a fox-hunt when his horse threw a shoe.”

Everyone burst out laughing except Madame Charrier who managed a very sour smile.

I’ve got to hand it to Charles, Angelus thought, his tongue is liquid silver.

Ramadevi laughed openly and Angelus felt his chest wrench and grow warm with the sound.

“Dinner was lovely tonight, Ramadevi.” Madame Charrier spoke with a cool formality. “I do hope Monsieur Des Lourdes can spare you next fortnight. It would mean so much to Melly.”

Ramadevi smiled back politely. “If Monsieur can spare me I’d love nothing better than to visit for Melly’s birthday.”

“Oh Monsieur Des Lourdes, you can spare Ramey! For one week? Couldn’t you?”

“Don’t be forward Melly!” Madame scolded her. Ramadevi noted, with some satisfaction, that Melisande had the sense to move out of her mother’s reach so she couldn’t poke or pinch her again.

“It’s going to be wonderful! My cousins will be stopping with us and Uncle is taking us all to the matinee of Twelfth Night. And we’ll shop as well.” Melisande linked her plump raw-boned arm with Ramadevi’s slimly elegant one and set her round blue eyes on Angelus.

I’ll be damned, Angelus thought in genuine amusement, the dumpling has learned how to flirt! And she's sort of good at it. Aloud he replied, “We’ll see, cherie, it is hard for me to do without my Rama.” He smiled indulgently.

“It’s only one week.” Melisande pouted.

“That is quite enough, Melly. Monsieur Des Lourdes can make up his own mind without your help.” Madame placed a hand on the back of her daughter’s shoulder and firmly propelled her towards the foyer of Angelus’s house.

“Lovely dinner. Lovely evening. Thank you all.” Charrier gave a vague little bow as he followed his wife and their daughter. Ramadevi felt pity swell in her heart for Angelus’s solicitor. The gruesome murder of his only son last year seemed to have broken Charrier completely and turned him into an old man.

“Good evening.” Ramadevi dipped into an elegant curtsey. Angelus nodded cordially.

“Ramey do come!” Melisande called once more, impetuously, as the heavy oaken door closed behind them.

“I’ll try.” Ramadevi giggled. In a strange way Melisande had actually benefitted by her brother’s death. No longer a poorly dowered and unattractive daughter, she was now the sole heiress to Charrier’s tidy little fortune. It improved her prospects and eligibility. Hence the theatre trip and an elegant reception for her eighteenth birthday. Ramadevi sighed. She couldn’t imagine Angelus permitting her to go.

“Angelus, come have a smoke with me. That baggage of mine–I mean, my lovely wife–” Charles’s ice-blue eyes twinkled merrily. “–doesn’t allow me to smoke at home.” He grinned like a wicked schoolboy. Ligeia tilted her head and gazed fondly back at her husband.

“They make the portieres stink, my love,” she explained gently. “And I’m convinced it’s an unwholesome habit.”

“I don’t care for the smell either,” Ramadevi said aloud. Unless it’s his smell. Angelus smelled of cigars and sandalwood, saddle leather and pomade. And his personal scent teased her and laughed softly as she attempted to ignore how she felt about it.

The scent of him covering her and holding her in his bed.

Angelus raised one brow provocatively at both of the women.

“Come on, then.” He clapped his hand companionably over his friend’s back. “We’ll have billiards.” He glanced back towards Ramadevi. “Perhaps you ladies might like another round of whist?”

Ramadevi shook her head. “I’ve no money left to bet. Madame is too skilled a card player,” she explained.

“A gambler you are not, my pet.” He grinned at the ill temper flashing in her wonderful eyes as he reached into his pocket for his purse. She so disliked it when he called her that!

“Let’s play for chocolates then?” Ligeia suggested.

Ramadevi shrugged negligently. “Very well.”

Angelus winked at Charles. His wife did have such a weakness for gambling. Charles laughed softly and exchanged a brief loving look with his wife as he turned and followed Angelus out of Ramadevi’s elegant little parlor. The two ladies returned to Ramadevi’s small card table and Ligeia began shuffling the deck.

The gentlemen’s lounge was further up the hall and across from the front parlors of the house. Angelus had kept this room more or less in its original decor when he had first purchased his home. The wall paper on the inside wall was milk-white darkened to ivory by smoke and the passage of time. The gilded pattern had been created to honor Napoleon Bonaparte, an ornate letter “N” framed with curved laurel branches. The remaining walls were covered with rich mahogany paneling that blended nicely into the hardwood floors.

It was very much Angelus’s room, Charles thought; it had none of Rama’s gentle feminine touches. The French doors were covered in dark red brocade drapes hanging in severe pleats to the black corded silk tassels brushing the gleaming floor. The sitting area was arranged with several plain stiff-backed chairs and an elegant settee that had seen better days facing the ornately moulded fireplace. Charles thought he might have seen the same settee in Versailles when it was a little less battle-scarred. It was anyone’s guess how Angelus had acquired it.

Opposite the sitting area was a small sideboard with several cut-glass bottle of liquor: rum, imported from Saint-Domingue; Scotch whisky; and the traditional brandy, cognac, port, and sherry. An Egyptian sarcophagus stood upright beside the sideboard and a painting was hung immediately above it, a giant Bengal tiger prowling in a lush grassy field. To the left, opposite the sarcophagus, was the tall locked cupboard that housed some of Angelus’s favourite weapons.

The billiard table stood in the center of the room. It was ornately carved with lions-claw feet and grape vines trailing over its body. The top of the table was covered in dark red woolen felt and the balls were already neatly racked, ready for play. Angelus reached for a cue stick from the corner and gestured towards the table with it. He removed his coat and hung it on a convenient peg nailed into the weapons’ chest.

“D’you want to break?” Angelus offered hospitably.

Charles shook his head while he lit a match for his cigar. As Angelus leaned over the table, positioning his stick against the white cue ball, Charles thought he looked exactly like the tiger in the painting on the wall: predatory, stealthy, and dangerous.

Clack!

Angelus struck the cue ball with a short abrupt stroke. The triangular formation of balls curdled and one ball rolled in the far left pocket. Angelus smiled smugly and turned to the sideboard.

“Rum?” he offered.

“No thanks.” Charles took a leisurely puff on one of Angelus’s excellent cigars while his friend poured a drink. “You know, your woman gets more beautiful everyday, Angelus, she’s like a blooming rose.”

The only sound in the room was the smooth liquid flow of rum into a cut-crystal glass. Angelus lifted his drink and took a slow swallow, allowing the dense liquid to dance over his tongue.

“You still haven’t sealed her, Angelus.” Charles did not ask why; the question hung thickly in the air between them.

“The timing’s off.” Angelus shrugged. Putting down his glass, he strolled around the billiards table and studied the lie of the balls.

“She’s a woman now,” Charles remarked shrewdly. “The blood runs hot in both of you when you’re close or even when you look at each other. I can’t believe you share a bed and don’t–”

Click! Angelus sank two balls with one stroke. He glanced up at his friend. Charles was sitting comfortably on the chair diagonal to his position.

“She’s not ready.”

“Others of our kind won’t think so,” Charles cautioned him.

Angelus set his stick a little too hard against the table. “You’re the only one who’s bothered to comment.”

Charles made a sound, a cross between laughter and snorting. “I’m probably the only person you won’t kill for noticing it.”

“Good thing you emphasize ‘probably.’”

“Angelus, she is young and desirable and smells of the most delicious and powerful blood humanity offers us. Eventually, another vampire might risk even a confrontation with you to have her.” Charles struck his cigar against the side of a solid brass ash tray. “I applaud your restraint in not deflowering her when she was still a child. Truly, I didn’t think you capable of waiting.” He paused and savoured a long drag while Angelus digested his words.

It was a telling thing, Angelus thought as he stalked around the table and studied angles for his next shot, that Charles had been his friend for three decades and was surprised he hadn’t raped Ramadevi. The thought irritated Angelus like bits of gravel trapped in the toe of his boot.

He bent low over the right corner of the table and lined up his next shot.

“Do you love her?” Charles asked casually.

FHWACK! Angelus’s cue stick glanced past the cue ball and scraped roughly against the felted table top. He turned cold obsidian eyes towards Charles.

“It’s not a sin, Angelus.”

“Of course I don’t love her!” Angelus practically snarled. I want her blood. I want her body in every way I can take it. I want her to look at me like I am everything to her. I want her to beg for my hands on her even when she cries because it hurts... An image budded and blossomed in his mind. Ramadevi in the high-walled copper bathtub, the sweep of thick black ringlets hanging over the cushion behind her head. She was glorious, her flesh wet and soft. She cried his name aloud, needy, deliciously uninhibited. He shook his head angrily to dispel the image.

“Pity,” Charles declared soberly. “For the pair of you.”

Angelus scowled. “I don’t have to love her to love what she can do for me.” It was on the tip of his tongue to brag about the night Ramadevi had knelt at his feet after taking off his clothes and kissed and licked and sucked him, worshiped him with her mouth. Angelus pressed his lips shut. The intimacy of the act was too intense to share. That moment belonged strictly to the two of them.

“I don’t love her!” he insisted harshly.

Charles looked at him. “Love or no, your interests lie together. If you want to keep and hold her, you’ve got to finish it. Is she somehow displeasing to you, unappealing?” he asked doubtfully.

This time Angelus hit the cue ball so hard he sank it along with three billiards in two separate pockets on the table. He flashed Charles an exasperated look.

Charles wisely smothered his smile. She’s a good match for you, he thought. Both stubborn and headstrong and too damn smart for your own good. I once owned a donkey more tractable than either of you!

“I’ll fuck her when I’m good and ready for it. And I’ll seal her too. When the time is right. If someone dares try to take her from me, I’ll rip that someone into pieces too small to salvage.”

“That won’t matter if he seals her first.”

SNAP! Plunkety-plunk!

Angelus had gripped his cue stick so tightly and convulsively he had broken it. The pieces bumped against the table and clattered on the floor.

Charles drew deeply. His cigar was nearly finished. He glanced down at the bearskin sprawled out before the hearth. He recalled the night Angelus had killed the bear–the damn animal easily stood over twelve feet tall. Angelus had eventually broken its neck after it had mauled him severely. The taxidermist had been amazed that the bear had been captured and killed with no injury to its pelt.

“D’you want to risk it?” he asked after a moment. “Is that what the girl deserves from you? The rumours concerning you two are not–wholesome.”

Angelus stared moodily into his half-filled glass. No one repeated the ugly gossip to his face–they feared he might call them out–but he’d heard the sickening whispers that Ramadevi was his natural child as well as his mistress, that he had an unnatural desire for his own child. He could have cared less about the gossip, in fact he welcomed it. The scandalous talk affected his ward’s social position. No decent man would ever want to court or marry her.

“What’ll Darla do to her?” Charles asked.

Not a damn thing! I’ll kill the bitch if she touches her! Angelus swiftly turned back to the sideboard and refilled his glass. Darla had killed some of his past mistresses and he had never minded; he had always valued her company above anybody else’s. Even he was shocked at how vehemently angry he was at the thought of her return, the thought of her harming or killing Ramadevi. I don’t love Darla, Angelus realised wonderingly. I don’t even really like her.

“I can handle Darla,” he replied gruffly.

“If you seal Rama you won’t have to handle anybody,” Charles persisted. “Darla is the childe of the Master of the Order of Aurelius. She would never dare violate the sanctity of Red Gold.”

Angelus swung back around and hurled his glass across the room. The cut-crystal shattered against the marble fireplace and the spatters of rum made the dwindling flames crackle and leap.

“She won’t have me!” he raged. “She doesn’t want me! She said so!”

“And you believed her?” Charles tossed his stub into the fire. How the mighty are fallen! The bane of humanity spurned and humiliated like a common farm boy! “Surely you smell how much she–”

Angelus shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I want her to admit it. And she never will.”

A pungent cloud of burning tobacco permeated the room like rolling doom. Charles stared at his friend in silent sympathy.

* * *

“Oh!” She moaned weakly as Angelus gulped and drank his fill of her. “Oh Angelus!”

He reveled in her response, passionate and uninhibited, to the man and the demon that he was. Her neck was warm and fragrant, her curly hair soft against the side of his face.

“Precious,” he purred, unashamed if she understood that he really meant it, that she really meant something to him. “Little Goddess.”

Her delicate fingers played tenderly in his hair with a gentleness that made his throat tighten and burn. Angelus tightened his arm around her waist as he softly licked her wounded throat clean. She shivered from his caressing tongue. The tips of her breasts were hard little stones under her chemise and she whimpered from the aching heat at the cusp of her thighs.

Angelus growled his pleasure at her obvious desire for him. He pushed her onto her back and covered her body with his own. He gazed down into her lovely face and her beauty was a million times enhanced by the vulnerable emotions in her black opal eyes. Her full lips trembled against his mouth as he plied her with little feathery kisses and pressed his hips against her, let her feel his male hunger.

“I love you so much, Angelus!” she cried. “I want you inside me!”

He had to bite his lip to keep from coming.

“Angelus?”

He glanced up and saw that Ramadevi was watching him quietly from her easy chair, the leather-bound copy of Ivanhoe in her lap. She frowned suddenly and rose from her chair.

“You’re bleeding.” She drew a clean handkerchief out of her pocket and pressed the soft cambric against his lip.

“Why did you stop reading?” he asked brusquely, taking the handkerchief away from her.

“The story was finished.” Ramadevi looked at him strangely. “It ended with Rebecca and Isaac leaving England.”

She turned away to return to her chair but Angelus’s hand snaked out and shackled her wrist. Slowly, he drew her to sit down on the settee beside him.

“Ivanhoe just let her go. He was a fool.” Angelus spoke coldly, more angrily than he intended. By now Ramadevi was used to his moodiness.

“He married Lady Rowena,” she pointed out. “And they were very happy.”

“Faugh!” Angelus made a distasteful face. “He didn’t love Rowena, he just had an old habit for her.”

Ramadevi shrugged. “But their match was more acceptable to their society. Even if Ivanhoe and Rebecca had admitted their love neither the Christian nor the Hebrew communities would have accepted it.”

“The Templar had more sense,” Angelus said firmly. “He saw what he wanted and took it.”

Ramadevi was silent for a moment. Angelus watched her, patiently waited for an answer.

“You’re right,” Ramadevi answered at last.

“You agree with me?”

She smiled at the note of surprise in Angelus’s voice. He arched a brow at her.

“Brian de Bois-Guilbert sacrificed everything for Rebecca’s sake. His honour, his victory over Ivanhoe, his life.”

“Ivanhoe was willing to die to defend her,” Angelus pointed out.

“But she’d saved his life earlier. Ivanhoe defended Rebecca to repay a debt of honour. De Bois-Guilbert owed Rebecca nothing. She was his hostage, but he was willing to give up his position in the Templar knighthood and start over if she only returned his–love. But he sacrificed himself in the end whether Rebecca loved him or not.” Ramadevi mused over this and surprised herself when she concluded, “In the end, I think he loved her the most.”

A long moment passed where neither one of them spoke. Angelus watched Ramadevi thoughtfully. She began to blush under his silent scrutiny. A smirk played over his lips as her pretty face bloomed with roses. Nervously she licked her lips.

Angelus leaned towards her slowly, lifted her pointed chin with gentle fingers and lightly kissed her cheek. Involuntarily Ramadevi inched closer to him, tilting her face towards his soft touch. Angelus’s hands glided over her shoulder to her back and he began unbuttoning her dress. She made the softest little sound, not really a moan, as he swept her puffed sleeves down her arms.

It had been several weeks since he’d touched her and Ramadevi felt her body welcome Angelus’s presence. She started to tremble as he drew her upwards to stand so that her dress fell away into a puddle of fabric at her ankles. Angelus gazed up at her admiringly, liquid flames dancing in his dark eyes. Silently he rose to his feet and she turned her head to offer him the curve of her throat.

Angelus’s fangs extended without his control as he watched a vein rise in her neck, beckoning to his hunger, inviting him to taste paradise. He bent his head towards her and softly nibbled the choicest spot.

“Angelus,” Ramadevi sighed tremulously.

His arm tightened around her and his fangs sank into her flesh while he groaned against her skin. She moaned at the sweet pain of his teeth grasping her neck as his firm lips drew on her throat, fed on her. He held her body close and pressed against her, letting her feel his arousal.

“Rama,” he whispered. Gently, he licked her wound until it began to close. Let me inside you. He smelled her tears of confusion that she forced back. The tears from her woman’s core were unstoppable and he inhaled her sweet hungry fragrance.

Angelus smiled. In a way, she tortured herself more cruelly than he ever could. Her body, so in tune to his, so perfect for him, frightened and shamed her religious sensibilities more than anything he could do to her.

“Lie back.” He pushed her to recline among the cushions on the settee behind them.

Carefully he arranged her body, nestling her into a comfortable position with firmly caressing hands. He kissed the tops of her breasts and pressed his face into her cleavage. He felt her legs tensing and tightening beneath her petticoats. He cupped one breast in his hand as he kissed the other, sucking her nipple through the fine fabric of her chemise until it stood dark pink and erect. He teased and pinched her too hard for pleasure. Angelus smiled as the young woman moaned even as her back arched, pressing her breast against his cupped hand.

He bit gently, not too hard. Angelus yearned to bite harder, to break the skin and enjoy her passionate blood. Not yet. Soon. Maybe. Just a matter of time.

Angelus never lacked time.

Slowly, he released her breasts, his fingers gliding languidly away from her body. He smiled down at her as Ramadevi stared up to him in helpless confusion about what her body wanted and what her conscience required. Her skin bore a soft rosy flush and her eyes were dilated, hazy with passion.

Deftly, he unlaced her slippers and tossed them on the floor to one side. He urged her body upward and reached under her chemise to unfasten and pull down her pantalettes, then he stripped off her silk stockings. Angelus arranged her, legs slightly spread, her chemise hitched up over her knees.

He smiled at Ramadevi’s sudden deep breath when he abruptly stood up and turned away from her.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned. Angelus picked up his sketchbook and two drawing pencils. He felt Rama’s eyes on him as he walked to the easy chair she’d been sitting in while she read to him. He casually unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, dropping it on a low table beside the chair.

He dragged the chair’s ottoman closer to the settee where Ramadevi lay and sat upon it.

“Sit still, my precious,” he ordered gently, and began to draw.

Ramadevi was fascinated as she lay quietly and watched Angelus work. Muscles bunched and played in his arms and shoulders as he sketched. His face moved swiftly, dark eyes focusing on her face, on her body, then back to the album page.

She became curiously aware of the silence between them. The pencils scratched softly against the page’s texture. Occasionally the fire crackled or a bit of kindling hit the grate in the fireplace. It was strangely intimate, more intimate than the times he’d touched her. Heat wafted through her body, a sweetly gradual arousal.

A satisfied smile lit Angelus’s handsome face as she sighed softly, relaxing completely on her impromptu bed.

“Beautiful One...”

It was the softest murmur from him, barely audible, and it sent a swarm of monarch butterflies fluttering over Ramadevi’s soul beneath her skin. Her heart thumped pleasantly. She knew Angelus did not believe in the Devi and their rights. But it thrilled her to hear that he might find her beautiful.

His woman, Darla, was slim and elegant with lily skin and cornsilk hair. In her portrait Angelus kept in his study Darla seemed blindingly beautiful despite the fierce sneer in her smile that hinted at cruelty. Ramadevi often wondered who Darla was and how she could bear to leave Angelus for years at a time.

If he was mine, I’d never leave his side...

She was so absorbed in her thoughts she forgot to hold her reserve and Angelus watched her entire face soften. Her full pouty lips seemed more tender and vulnerable. Her large eyes gleamed like priceless black diamonds. She looked radiant, divine, more beautiful than he remembered her childish prettiness when he first brought her home.

Angelus sat as still as he could, holding his breath like a human, lovingly brushing his pencil over his drawing to preserve the loving beauty in her eyes.

Is she beautiful for me? He didn’t dare think more.

Aloud Angelus told her, “Marcel will take you shopping tomorrow.”

The spell was broken, the precious moment in time where she forgot to be afraid of showing her true self to him. The calm mask resettled itself into her features, hid her from him. The room itself seemed to darken.

Angelus flinched imperceptibly.

“What shopping do you need me to do?” Ramadevi asked.

“My Lion needs new dresses,” he replied calmly. “For Melisande Charrier’s party. For the reception. And for the theatre.” He smiled grimly as her beautiful eyes widened.

“I can go?” Her voice trilled with astonished pleasure.

Angelus assumed a bored, tired air. “Yes, Egypt. In fact, I rather like the idea of having my bedroom to myself for a week.” He turned away from her towards the fireplace. “You’re more underfoot than I’d like,” he added meanly.

Ramadevi felt her temper flare up. For a moment she wanted to tell him crudely that she would move out of his room immediately if it pleased him. She bit her lip indecisively. Angelus always mixed cruelty with his kindness. At one time she had thought it beyond him to be anything but cruel and monstrous. That had proved wrong.

Was his cruelty a way to cover up his wish to be kind?

Slowly, Ramadevi rose from the settee, smoothing her chemise back down. She took a deep breath and watched his head tilt in her direction though he did not turn to face her. It was only a few steps to reach him, to move to his side, then to face him.

He stared moodily into the fire, and the flames danced on his face, in his eyes.

She rose on tiptoe and hugged him over his shoulders tightly. She felt him tense. Before he could pull away, Ramadevi lightly kissed his chin. Just a soft, affectionate peck of her mouth on his skin.

“Thank you for permitting me to go,” she heard herself say docilely. Dear Gods, I am a Devi and I am thanking a demon for letting me visit people who don’t even really like me!

Ramadevi had no time to think anything else. Angelus pulled her body against his and kissed her mouth passionately, forcefully. Her lips parted and welcomed his tongue’s caress over hers. He nipped gently with his teeth and she moaned for him. His hands clutched over her bottom and pressed her against him so that she felt his rampant sex against her.

Tears came to her eyes. She wanted Angelus, desired him, wanted to make love with him. Not the games and variations she desperately employed to keep him from defiling her. She wanted his embrace, his body deep inside her, his passion, his pleasure, his seed.

She wanted it desperately and it was wrong to want it.

The vampire smelled her tears, her distress. Abruptly, he pushed her away to arms’ length and told her to go to bed.

She did not wait to be told twice.

****

Ramadevi was elated by how quickly she had managed her shopping. She and Marie had risen early to visit Madame Renault, a very fashion-savvy dressmaker and milliner. The dour lady had grown ever more cheerful as Ramadevi had selected the most costly and elegant fabrics and trims for her clothes. And, of course, Monsieur Des Lourdes did not care about the additional charges to hire extra sewing help to have the gowns completed in two weeks. A theatre gown. A dinner gown. An afternoon dress for tea. Shawls, fans, reticules, silk stockings, hats, bonnets, and slippers to match.

For her evening gown, to be worn the night of Melisande’s reception, Ramadevi selected a smooth fine dark red silk. Madame Renault and her assistant gravely advised her the colour was not de rigeur for ladies’ eveningwear. Such a brilliant rich colour was used to line a cloak, perhaps, or for a gentleman’s waistcoat, or even a sash for a lighter coloured gown. Mademoiselle should consider a lovely frosted pink velvet, or white, or dove-grey perhaps?

They advised in vain. Ramadevi wouldn’t change her mind.

As Marcel and Marie diligently piled the packages of hats and accessories into the coach Ramadevi wondered at her own caprice and spendthrift. Of course, Angelus always urged her to buy what she liked and not worry about the prices. He liked her to be fashionably dressed. He was always nicely dressed himself. Women’s eyes constantly followed him when they were out.

He’s beautiful dressed, half-dressed, or mother-naked.

Ramadevi thought of Angelus as he’d been last night, wearing only his boots and trousers, seated on an ottoman as he watched her and drew her likeness. Why didn’t Gerard make me feel like this when he painted us? she thought resentfully.

The steady rocking motion of the carriage soothed her and she looked out the window without seeing anything.

When she was fifteen years old, she had thought Angelus a cruel and dangerous man. He had lived up to that paradigm when he killed her precious Sati and took over her life. He had revealed his demonic nature to her and she was repulsed by it even as her flesh cried out to feed him.

It would be so easy to hate him if that was all he was. But he wasn’t.

Ramadevi’s ears pricked up and she glanced at a small group of street musicians playing a gay polka on the sidewalk as the coach rolled past them in the street.

Angelus loved beautiful music. Some nights they stayed in the grand parlor for hours as she played her beloved pianoforte and sang for him. Sometimes, he chose to lie on the floor at her feet, his eyes closed in ecstasy as he absorbed the music’s vibrations from the floor. He took her to every symphony performance, every opera that visited Paris.

“The Austrians are the best musicians in the world,” he declared. Sometimes they attended the same performance several times over.

He took her driving or walking at night since he could not take her during the day. He’ drove out to the gorgeous park lands and they strolled about as though it were broad daylight. No one ever threatened them. Ramadevi wondered if the criminal element recognised Angelus was too dangerous to be meddled with. They enjoyed midnight picnics by the pond. He fed her almond sweets and white wine. Sometimes, he fed on her. Sometimes he urged her to lie back and bear the sweetness of his exploring hands and fingers on her body. He teased her, cautioned her not to cry out so loudly even as he smiled smugly at her extreme responses to his touch.

He squired her about to evening fetes and parties and balls with pride and dignity. He drew her on the dance floor with an affectionately proprietary air that made her insides quiver with perverse pleasure. She thought she should resent his attitude of ownership of her, a Devi. But there was something (wonderful) about his claim on her, his determination to keep her for his own.

He watched her with an all-encompassing attention. He helped her to get dressed, his fingers moving nimbly over her corset lacings and ribbons and sashes. It seemed indecent, how easily he could dress and undress a woman. Then again, he’d been doing it for decades so perhaps it was not so strange as all that.

They had a life together. Angelus had become part of her life, someone that meant something to her. Even his otherness pleased her in a way, for she was other, too. She shared things with him she couldn’t share with a mere man.

I must love him, she thought, a pleasant realisation filled with bitter drops. I love Angelus. I love a rakshasa. And he can never love me.

The coach bore them home and Alain helped Marie unload the packages. Angelus was not about and Ramadevi was glad. It was best not to see him just now. Not with these strange new feelings. Instead, she returned to her–their–bedroom to help Marie unpack and put away all her new finery.

“You did pick such pretty things Miss Ramey.” Marie carefully placed delicately folded chemises into Ramadevi’s lingerie chest.

“Thank you,” Ramadevi replied.

“I don’t know how Monsieur will allow you to appear in a red ballgown, though.”

Ramadevi smiled at the unconscious note of censure in her maid’s voice.

“I don’t think he will mind at all,” she declared. She slipped off her dark pink velvet spencer and hung the cropped jacket in an armoire. “Monsieur is very generous,” she heard herself whisper softly. Her voice sounded strange to her with its unusual warmth for the subject.

“You’ll look beautiful in it. Red does suit you.” Marie smiled as she stood on tiptoe to stack a large hat box on top of the armoire. She misjudged the available space and the box tumbled down when Ramadevi shut the tall cupboard door. The hat box bounced and fell apart, spilling a beruffled watered-silk covered bonnet on the floor. “Oh dear!” Marie scurried to collect the bonnet, then gazed down mournfully at it.

“What’s wrong?”

“One of the feathers is broken.”

Ramadevi had to nibble her lower lip to keep from laughing at the young girl’s tragic tone. “Well, let’s look at it,” she said cheerfully.

“I’m so sorry, Ma’amselle,” Marie said miserably, handing the bonnet over.

Ramadevi inspected the bonnet with pretended concern. “There are two huge plumes on this hat, Marie, I doubt the feather will even be missed.” She carried the bonnet over to Angelus’s writing-table and opened the small drawer beneath it, looking for something she did not find. “I’ll go upstairs and get my scissors. They’re in my old room.”

“I’ll get them.”

Ramadevi shook her head and set the bonnet on Angelus’s desk. “Finish storing these things, I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she left the room.

Ramadevi strolled down the broad hallway towards the front of the house. She felt a strange euphoric confidence she never recalled feeling before. Perhaps it was Angelus’s permitting her visit Melisande, it made her feel less like a prisoner, more like a–she wasn’t sure what. But there was a lightness in her heart, a spring to her step she hadn’t felt in a long time.

She walked past Angelus’s study. The doors were shut as usual but she heard voices talking animatedly within. Perhaps it was Angelus’s tailor fitting him for new suits. Or Monsieur Grier, his partner who managed the Wolvesgarden Club, come to account to him of the club’s progress and profits. How odd that Angelus never bothered to visit the club himself anymore, she thought. It seemed he had always been there when she danced there.

Ramadevi did not dawdle at the study doors, she knew Angelus would not like it. She rounded the library and trotted up the wide carpeted stairs to the house’s upper gallery. This was truly strange, she thought to herself. Angelus allowing her to go out on a visit made her feel so wonderful! Like she was an ordinary young woman in any French household.

And yet, she felt a pang at the thought of being away from Angelus for a week.

I love him. I love Angelus. And I cannot be with him.

She entered the guest room that had once been her bedroom before Angelus had demanded she stay in his quarters. Gerard had lived here for the two months it had taken to paint the beautiful portrait hanging proudly in the grand parlor downstairs. Ramadevi thought she still felt a trace of Gerard’s presence in the bed curtains, his drowsy pleasant smile lingered in the shaded sunny rays peeking through the curtained French doors that led out to a small balcony over the street. She sighed and hoped the artist changed his mind about retiring to the country where his talent would never be known.

Ramadevi sat down at the small desk in the corner opposite the bed. She briefly recalled Angelus destroying her old desk when she, still an angry defiant child, had thrown her bracelets out into the Paris streets. Angelus had punished her terribly, murdered two young men in front of her. It seemed so long ago, like another life...

I’m not the only one who’s changed. Angelus has changed, too. It was a startling but undeniable realisation. Ramadevi could not remember the last time Angelus made a kill. He fed from her. Occasionally she sensed he fed on others. More often than not he ordered the cook’s lad to fetch a quantity of beef-blood from the slaughterhouses and drank it at home. Is it me? Am I changing him? Was that what Ligeia meant in her letter?

Shaking her head in puzzlement, Ramadevi fished out a pair of scissors from the left corner of the desk. They were weighting a folded sheet of drawing paper to the bottom of the drawer. Probably one of Gerard’s sketches for the paining. Ramadevi picked it up and unfolded it.

It was truly beautiful work, obviously Gerard had taken great pains to recreate the vision from his memory. The fine detailing of the delicately arched wall sconces shaped like swans; the corner of her cherished tea-table, a gift from Angelus, in the right corner and the tea-chest behind it.

Everything is so–perfect, Ramadevi thought. Admiration and horror churned with syrupy recollections of desire in her stomach. Like the moment froze in his mind until he put it on paper. He really is such a good artist.

The focus of the sketch was the elegant meridienne where Ramadevi lay naked on her own clothes. Her gown was heaped on the floor beside the daybed, her chemise, petticoat, and pantalettes beneath her, draped partially over the side. Gerard had even drawn the details of her unfastened corset hanging under her body. Ruffles, ribbons, softly billowing fabrics. Her new ostrich-plume fan–Ligeia had just given it to her that afternoon–was carelessly dropped on top of Angelus’s discarded coat on the floor.

How well Ramadevi recalled every sensation of what Gerard had drawn. She had tossed her head back wildly and cried out in little pleas to Angelus as his left hand tenderly cupped her right breast. His right hand, gripping and stroking her hip and thigh, had been rougher–pleasantly so. And Angelus’s face on the smooth sensitive skin of her stomach, kissing, gently nipping, caressing her with his nose and eyebrows, his thick lashes and cheekbones.

Gerard had drawn every line of her pleasure, every erotic detail.

“Perhaps he’s discovered things––seen things––that trouble his provincial sensibilities...”

Angelus’s sardonic comment echoed in her mind from the evening at dinner when she had asked him to convince Gerard to remain in Paris and pursue his career. Ramadevi’s hands clenched into fists, crumpling the drawing.

She remembered fondly stroking Angelus’s thick dark hair as it brushed delightfully along her breasts and belly. She had felt his hard lips smile against her skin and thought he was pleased with her but he must have been amused because Gerard saw them...At least she understood Gerard’s cool civility to her in the last weeks of his staying with them. What he must have thought of them, a young woman and her guardian in such an intimate posture. They had disgusted him to the point he chose to leave Paris and abandon a promising career.

Ramadevi wanted to scream. She wanted to weep. She felt like vomiting. She wanted to die. Angelus had not changed at all. Not one whit. He hadn’t killed Gerard as he killed her servant and her young friends years ago. Instead, he had killed the artist’s innocence and ambition. And he had used her to do it while she smiled and whimpered and cried out his name.

She crumpled the sketch into a wadded ball and stuffed it in her pocket. She would destroy it in the fireplace downstairs during tea. She picked up the scissors and rose from the chair to leave the room.

Alain stood right behind her, staring coldly at her. Ramadevi jumped and cried out sharply. He must have seen the drawing. There was an ugly smirking curve on his mouth and he raised his eyebrows insolently.

“Mademoiselle does pose–gracefully,” he declared with mock courtesy. His cold blue eyes declared her a strumpet, Angelus’s whore, a demon’s whore. He might as well have screamed the insult at the top of his lungs and the young woman would not have felt less insulted. “Was there something you wanted?” he added solicitously.

This has to end. It must end. She could not stay with Angelus when she felt like this. He was a demon and she was a Devi. She could not ignore that fact no matter how safe and wanted his kisses and arms made her feel. No matter if she dreamed of him at night and her body sang its pleasure, weptwith joy when his knowing hands touched her. It had to end. She had to leave. It was her duty.

“Yes,” she told the obnoxious steward. “There is something.”

* * *

Two Weeks Later
The Charrier Mansion in Paris

“Is it true, Ramey?” Melisande kept her voice low just in case her mother was eavesdropping outside her bedroom.

“Is what true?” Ramadevi braided her long hair wishing she could wash it. She hadn’t bathed in two days. Madame Charrier had frowned and been quite put out when Ramadevi had bathed in the beginning of the week. Since then she had made do with sponge baths in the morning and before bedtime.

If only I could have brought Marie with me! Her own maid would have been free to draw her bathwater for her. But she had sent Marie home to visit her family in Gascony. Angelus would certainly kill the young girl if he even suspected she had any part in helping Ramadevi escape him.

She fastened her braid with a scarlet ribbon and turned to her friend. Melisande was smiling coyly.

“Isn’t Monsieur Des Lourdes in love in with you? Won’t you be married?” She tried hard not to feel envious of Ramadevi. Melisande had been captivated by Angelus’s dark good looks since she was ten years old.

Ramadevi stared at her for a moment.

“No, Melly.” She dropped her eyes and shook her head. “That’s not true at all.”

“But Ramey,” Melisande began, wondering innocently why her friend would not confide in her.

“We are not to be married!” Ramadevi insisted. “It can never be!”

“Then why has he remained single all these years? He could marry anyone he chose, but he pays attention to no one. Only you.”

Ramadevi met the young woman’s gaze, puzzled and guileless. She strolled over to Melisande’s comfortable window-seat and knelt down in it. Outside the city moved on with its regular evening affairs.

“Is it that–do you want someone else?” Melisande could not imagine anyone being richer, more attractive, and more desirable than Angelus. Still, Ramadevi was incredibly beautiful. Perhaps she looked higher than Angelus for a husband, trading her looks for a title. Lots of pretty or wealthy women did that.

Ramadevi shook her head. “No.” She tried to pick her words carefully “Melly, Monsieur Des Lourdes is a–a peculiar man,” she finished lamely. “He greatly values his privacy and prefers to be on his own. He only took me in as a kindness.”

“Father believes he means to marry you,” Melisande declared confidently. “I’ve heard him talking about it. He said Monsieur Des Lourdes has settled a large amount of property in your name. And–and I’ve heard people say he’s--different than he used to be,” she added. “They say he used to be wild and ran openly with–” Melisande blushed. “–bawdy women. He doesn’t do that anymore because he’s in love with you.” Her voice lilted happily at the end, her romantic sensibilities totally gratified by the notion of Angelus as a reformed reprobate.

Ramadevi smiled wryly as she absorbed Melisande’s gossip. She had not thought Angelus cared enough about her to provide her with money or property of her own. It even seemed almost a pointless gesture, given the fact that he was virtually immortal. And it was true, Angelus no longer left her at night to ease his lust with prostitutes. Why?

You know why. Angelus’s voice mocked her softly in her mind.

* * *

She dreamed of Angelus that night, that he lay beside her and caressed her tenderly, entreatingly, rousing and waking her flesh. She embraced him, touched him, kissed his lips lightly at first, then harder, opening her mouth to taste him, breathe him in.

He smiled down at her, brushed his mouth softly over her forehead and watched her tremble. He nuzzled her hair and lightly flicked his tongue over the whorls of her ear. Ramadevi gasped pleasantly as his tongue briefly entered her ear then withdrew. He nibbled the edge of her ear, softly biting her lobe until she moaned for him.

They were both completely naked. Dreams are always so convenient about such matters, she thought. Ramadevi explored Angelus slowly, her hands gliding over the hard muscular planes of his body. His chest and broad shoulders, powerful arms and strong hands. His trim abdomen. His back. His firm backside. Angelus’s head fell back and he drew in a sharp breath as she left trails a little kisses wherever she touched him.

She bit him, grasping his flesh in her teeth and lightly tugging. Angelus grunted his approval as she followed the bite with a firm kiss.

She felt a heartbreaking longing to spread her thighs for him and finally feel his body pierce hers, fill her. Embarrassment brought a flush to her face. How could she want such a perversion? He was a corpse possessed by a wicked and murderous demon! His touch should have repulsed and disgusted her.

But he did not feel like a corpse. He felt warm and vital and hard.

Ramadevi kissed his shoulder and bit him lightly again as she clasped his upright member in her hand. She squeezed and stroked the hard length of him as she crept lower, trailing kisses and soft bites on him until she reached his cock. She kissed the tip lightly, opened her mouth and softly licked him, fluttering her tongue over him as Angelus shuddered and groaned his pleasure. She surrounded his organ with her moist lips and drew hard on his flesh.

Suddenly he sat up and took her head in his hands, lifting her away from him. She met his eyes in surprise just a second before he kissed her passionately. His lips plundered hers and she moaned as his hard-muscled arms surrounded her and lifted her, drawing her body upwards and turning her.

Angelus guided her up and over until she knelt astride his face and lay over his torso. Ramadevi’s heart thumped in her throat Angelus had positioned them in a crow’s embrace, a highly erotic position, deeply intimate, meant only for most passionate lovers. She gave a soft low cry of wonder, then sighed deeply as Angelus grasped her hips firmly and drew her down to his mouth.

He kissed her, a slow hot kiss against her private lips that gradually hardened and intensified. He kissed her as though her secret mouth would kiss him back if he coaxed her enough. His tongue delved into the little cleft and tasted satin-soft folds drenched in hot honey. He blew softly on her wet center and she screamed joyously. He caressed her lean thighs until they relaxed and he cupped her full buttocks, squeezing and stroking her until she quivered over him.

Ramadevi began to kiss and lick his hard shaft. She cried out against his firm fleshy rod as Angelus’s tongue fluttered teasingly over her clitoris. His cock twitched towards her and she lightly licked and nibbled it’s length along the sides. She took him in her mouth, slowly sliding her full lips over him, drawing on him, stroking him with her velvety tongue.

He breathed one word–her name–into her pubic curls and softly scraped his teeth on her clitoris. She felt him grin as she mewled all around his cock. Her hair caressed his inner thighs and she cupped the tightening sac of his scrotum in her palm, stroking it with her thumb in a gentle circular motion. She bobbed her head, grasping his thick length in her lips as she worked up and down furiously.

She realised she was making love to him with her mouth. She wasn’t gratifying him or attempting to distract him from claiming her fully. In that moment she knew she would have surrendered herself to his pleasure. For his love.

He can never love me...

Angelus entered her with his tongue and fire crackled and blazed in her deepest core. She sucked him harder, determined to taste his passion as his mouth, lips, teeth and tongue worked magic on her, tickling, touching, nibbling, stroking, suckling until her body quivered, out of her control, and she thrust her hips down against his face in an ecstatic symphony: weeping, crying out, and moaning as each magnificent explosion wracked her body.

“Angelus!” she wailed.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, yes, yes...”

She lowered her face back to his turgid organ and drew him deep into the welcoming heat of her throat. Her lips squeezed him, her tongue lashed him teasingly.

“Rama!” he gasped, spilling his essence within her. Angelus shuddered and convulsed as she swallowed, tightening all around him...

Ramadevi sat up bleary-eyed and a little dizzy. She was warm and moist between her legs in her empty cold little bed. Across the room in the opposite bed Melisande slept peacefully, snoring infrequently. The young woman turned over and huddled in the bedclothes as she buried her face in her pillow. Quietly, she began to cry.

* * *

Several streets away, Angelus lay in bed silently cursing himself for letting Ramadevi go stay with Charrier. He missed her–it shocked him to realise it, but he truly missed her presence. He had enjoyed the comfort of resting in their bed with her intimate female odors in the bedclothes. It seemed a lifetime since he’d last seen her. Her scent was not enough for him.

By God and the Devil! When she came home things would be different!

He didn’t sleep, only rested quietly in the dark. He no longer wondered at himself or resented the exotic woman for her strange hold on him. He knew it was partly because of Red Gold, the luscious elixir in her veins, so unique and potent from other human blood. The other part, whatever it was, didn’t matter to him anymore. Angelus wanted what was his. All of it.

He sensed her distress, her great sadness. Good for her! That’ll teach her to go off romping to some girls’ party! That’ll teach her to leave me behind! Yet, even as he thought this his fingers knotted in the sheets with suppressed longing.

Charles and Ligeia had sent him a note that they were leaving Paris to visit their chateau in Rheims. They would not see Ramadevi at the theatre the next day. He would have to wait to see her at the reception the night after.

It’s good for her to feel lonely he told himself. It’s a good lesson to her not to defy me. When she comes home, perhaps she’ll be more–open–to what I have to offer her.

He briefly considered going out. It had been some time since he had truly fed–made a killing feed. But the idea seemed stale to him. Thrilling as death tasted, nothing compared to the taste of his woman.

He thought of marrying her–why shouldn’t he? Just because he had never done it before? He was almost a century old, still a young vampire, really. Angelus smiled grimly as he looked down at his smooth unwrinkled hands. Charrier had advised him marriage to his ward would be an agreeable way to extend his protection and authority over Ramadevi.. After all, in her unmarried state, some hoodlum could carry her off and force a marriage before the authorities could intervene. Things like that happened, Charrier assured him, even in the nicest families. Or she could choose to leave with an unsuitable partner.

It’s not like Des Lourdes is my real name anyway...

Angelus sighed in the lonely silence of his room. He’d always liked being by himself. Ramadevi had been the first woman he insisted on keeping in his rooms. How funny, they were often silent together, yet that silence had still been warm, companionable. It was no good, their being apart. She would have to understand.

And, if she didn’t understand that they belonged together always, he would have to convince her.

That thought made him feel a little better. The fantastically handsome vampire smiled.

*** *** ***

Two Nights Later, at a Private Assembly Hall...

The Charrier’s reception for Melisande’s eighteenth birthday was their first formal entertainment since the death of their only son, Paul, over a year ago. Ramadevi noted that Madame had arranged the fete with her typical bourgeois reasoning. The musicians were not the best but they looked very fine because Madame Charrier had purchased evening suits for them. Ramadevi did not understand why Madame had not simply hired better musicians and paid them what the evening suits cost. The food was shockingly decadent but the menu was poorly constructed. Delicious foods that didn’t compliment each other.

I always thought Paul was overly gracious when he thanked me after evening parties at home, the young woman thought to herself. Perhaps he was grateful to have a decent supper. Madame is overly fond of pastry and meat.

Not that Ramadevi, a princess of one of the most elegant courts in India, would have been so rude as to criticise Madame Charrier’s poor taste. But she did enjoy an inward laugh at the silly woman after her effete snobbery towards herself.

Even the gown Madame had ordered for Melisande spoke of excessive wealth and little refinement. There was enough embroidered lace and pearl and diamond detailing on Melisande’s white ballgown that it could stand up by itself. The neckline was cut shockingly low and Melisande blushed and wriggled uncomfortably as Madame Charrier laced her tightly into a corset augmented with tiny rows of ruffles through the bodice to fill out Melisande’s modest bosom and lift her breasts high. Then, Madame Fallon, a famous hairdresser, combed and prepared Melisande’s hair into a high upsweep and adorned her with pearl and diamond hairpins and a small diamond tiara and miniature white rosettes. Melisande’s silk slippers were trimmed with more pearls and diamonds.

Doubtless, Madame’s intention was to make her daughter look like an elegant fashion plate. Instead, poor Melisande looked like what she was, a frightened merchant family’s daughter disguised as a noblewoman. The details of the fantastically ruffled and trimmed gown overwhelmed the girl. She was no great beauty, but Melisande had a charming gentility, a gracious spirit that made up for beauty. The overblown vulgarity of the excessive costume shadowed that charm leaving only a pinched-looking, plain-faced young woman.

Ramadevi felt better about her own gown. At first, she had not understood her defiance in purchasing the red silk and choosing the rather dated design. Standing with her friend before a full-length mirror, Ramadevi was almost alarmed by how brilliantly red her gown looked next to Melisande’s all-white ensemble. But she did not regret it. Red was the colour of joy in India, the colour of celebration. Brides wore vivid red saris for their wedding-feasts.

I do not look like a French lady, Ramadevi thought with a perverse stab of pleasure. For the first time in a long time she felt like Rama, Sahib-Begoum, the Princess of Princesses, the Devi, the Divine One. She brushed away her embarrassment as carelessly as a giant would swat a fly.

“Oooooooooooh, Ramey,” Melisande breathed. “You look so–so–” The young woman searched her mind for the right words. “You look like an Eastern Queen!” she finally said.

Ramadevi smiled her thanks.

“But I don’t know what maman will think.” Melisande’s brow wrinkled worriedly.

Ramadevi laughed airily and Melisande’s ear pricked to the sweet sound. Ramey never laughed much. “I’m sure she’ll think a good deal, Melly, but what she thinks will be too unpleasant to say in polite company.”

Melisande was awed. Ramey seemed different from her normal self. She was always beautiful and dignified and had nice manners but now...There was an air of calm majesty to her person, benevolent but powerful nonetheless.

Ramadevi crossed the floor and stood before the small dressing-room door.

“We ought to go down now, Melly,” she said gently. “We are late.”

Melisande turned slowly, feeling stiff and half-dressed in her new finery–her breasts were so high and her neckline so low she was certain they would fall out if she relaxed her shoulders the slightest bit. Ramey opened the door and gave her a beautiful reassuring smile.

Melisande hesitated at the door. Somehow, it seemed odd for her to pass and exit the room before Ramadevi did. She knotted her fingers and clawed at her hands nervously. She realised she was responding to her friend as protocol required for the treatment of royalty and other nobility. Because Ramadevi seemed so regal...

Ramey gave a slight nod, as though she understood, and walked out of the room ahead of Melisande.

*** *** ***

“Dear God! She’s absolutely barbaric! And she’s lived in Paris for nearly four years now!”

Angelus heard Madame Charrier’s sharp ugly whisper to her husband as clearly as normal humans could hear regular conversation. He grinned, wondering why the old hag was bitching about Rama now. How they had stayed courteous to one another in the same home for a solid week was a mystery.

He had just arrived at the assembly hall only a short while ago. Ramadevi and Melisande were not to be found. Melisande’s Uncle, a cheerful solicitor from Avignon, assured them they were upstairs primping. They would be down shortly.

Angelus glared at the mediocre musicians in one corner of the giant ballroom. They might as well have their ears torn off! They can’t play for toffee!

A ripple of gentle whispers behind him drew his attention away from the awful renditions of Mozart.

“Gracious!”

“Is she a duchess?”

“Some eastern savage, a friend of Melisande’s.”

“She’s not at all fashionable!” a petulant young woman whispered resentfully. “I don’t know why everybody is staring at her.”

Angelus turned towards the whispers.

Rama was descending the winding staircase with Melisande just behind her. She wore a very simple gown of crimson silk. The fluid fabric flowed over her body and clung provocatively to her limbs, it caressed her like an affectionate lover. The chandelier and sconce lights cast a gentle gleam upon the fine material. The gown was floor-length, with a slight train that flouted the ankle-length skirts of every other female in the room. The gown had no fancy trimming or ornamentation. Rama’s succulent arms were bare except for her bracelets and she wore a diamond necklace Angelus had bought her some time ago.

He inhaled harshly as the details of her became more apparent to him. Her hair was lifted away from her face by a dainty jeweled coronet but the length flowed freely behind her in a cloud of ebony ringlets past her waist. Angelus smelled her. She had not bathed in a day or so and her intimate fragrance was deliciously prominent. Her blood, sweet, sweet water for the damned. The warmth of her skin. Rosewater. Blood. Red. Silk. Blood. She seemed surrounded by blood.

“This is intolerable!” Madame Charrier hissed under her breath. “It’s indecent! What is she thinking, appearing here like this!”

Yes, Angelus heard himself think. She is not decent. She is sublime. She is perfect. He was weaving through the crowd of people come to pay their respects to poor little Melisande pushed to the background in a scary amount of ill-suited finery. Angelus felt the stares, the stark hunger of the gentlemen who whispered to women, pleading to be introduced, pleading to know her name. There will never be another woman like her in the world.

Her eyes met Angelus’s and he was shocked by the deluge of almost desperate warmth reaching out of their depths. Now the judgmental stares redirected towards him, and more whispers.

“Angelus...” “Monsieur Des Lourdes...” “...friend of the family...” “Terribly well-off...” “His godchild...” “An Indian whore!” “Is he in love with her?”

But they were nothing, they were nobody. The whole reception was nothing. There was only she. Rama. Only he, Angelus. The whole rest of the whole fucking world was–nothing.

He took her hands in his, lightly bent to kiss her peach-smooth cheek. Her beautiful sensuous lips smiled tremulously.

“I’ve missed you,” he told her. “You look wonderful.”

“I’m glad to see you,” she replied softly. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

Angelus felt a thrill of pleasure at the sound of her voice. Ramadevi cleared her throat.

“Doesn’t Mademoiselle Charrier look fine tonight?” she gently reminded him who the lady of the moment was to everybody else.

Angelus bowed to Melisande and kissed the air above her hand. She simpered and blushed while he spoke a few pleasant words to her and told her how pretty and healthy she looked.

He turned back to Ramadevi with an expression that said, “Do you see? I can be as courteous and gentlemanly as I please.” He lifted Ramadevi’s hand to his lips and kissed the warm sweet skin. Gently, he tucked her delicate hand in the crook of his arm.

How fine he looks!Ramadevi heard her traitorous heart thump pleasantly as Angelus’s hold kept her close to him while he strolled about the room like any skilled courtier in a palace. Indeed, the days and the nights without him enhanced his beauty, she was certain of it. His evening suit was impeccably fine: midnight black wool coat with hammer-claw tails and double-breasted jet buttons over a steel-blue woven silk waistcoat and crisply frilled white shirt. His white cravat was elegantly knotted at his throat and the uptilted collar of his shirt emphasized his angular cheekbones. His breeches were tailored neatly to his trim lower body and his white stockings and black leather shoes revealed statuesque legs. His hair was neatly combed and pomaded into dark waves and his kidskin gloves matched his waistcoat.

“Did you miss me so much, Rama?” His voice was smoother than the silk of her gown. “Your blood is singing inside you, rushing, burning.”

“Yes,” Ramadevi admitted it softly. There was no reason to lie anymore, after all.

Angelus flashed her a sharp look. A group of giggling young girls were heading towards them and he artfully steered her further away. He hadn’t come to this stupid party to socialise. He’d come to be with her, to touch her again. He leaned closer to her so that her loose hair brushed his clothing as they slowly ambled around.

“Did you–” She wanted to ask if he missed her. If he dreamed of loving her at night in a lonely bed. Ramadevi stopped herself. Tonight, whatever happened between them, she did not want disappointment or sadness. And he would not say he missed her even if he did.

Angelus smiled at the little catch in her voice. “I’ve had more than enough of you not being underfoot, precious,” he said in a low voice. He closed his eyes in bliss as her heartbeat quickened and the warmth of her blood made her smell even better.

“You’ve done without me for a lifetime,” she pointed out softly.

Angelus guided her towards the rear of the assembly ballroom. A door led to a small outer courtyard which in turn led to a dimly lit conservatory.

“I had no choice,” Angelus replied gruffly. “I have a choice now.” He moved faster, rushing her through the narrow entrance into the conservatory. Ramadevi breathed in the scent of various rare flowers.

She heard herself swallow. His black eyes glittered at her. The tension between them was simply unmistakable. Her nipples hardened under his scrutiny–Angelus didn’t even have to touch her to watch them swell and blossom beneath the delicate silk. She wore only her corset and one petticoat beneath her gown for modesty’s sake.

“What would you choose?” she whispered through dry lips.

In a second she was in his arms. She moaned as she felt his hard thighs against her legs, his chest pressed to her soft bosom, his hands rushing over her back, twining in her hair–that familiar caress she had grown to love from him–rolling downwards to squeeze and fondle her rump. She gasped and he chuckled in her ear.

“I choose a million lifetimes with you.” He crushed her tender lips with his, burning her, branding her, telling her in language older than civilisation that she belonged to him for ever no matter if he loved her, no matter if he hurt her.

Tears spilled out of her beautiful eyes and the handsome monster kissed them away, savoring another taste of his Beautiful One. His large hard hand gripped her firmly in the tender sensitive curve of her lower buttocks and pulled her body against him. She clung to him feverishly, her arms locked over his shoulders.

“I want to fuck you,” he told her softly. “Right now.”

She whimpered against his hard mouth, lavished kisses on his jawline. “Let me please you,” she gasped.

He chuckled again. “No, my precious, I wouldn’t want your dress dirtied. You can’t kneel down in that!” His scolded her mockingly.

Ramadevi moaned despairingly.

“Don’t you want it?” Angelus wondered at her reluctance, her skin was on fire and so sensitive. She cried out painfully when he tweaked her swollen nipples.

“Yes!” she admitted. “I want to make love with you!”

Angelus smiled, devilishly triumphant.

“But this is not the right time. The right place.”

Angelus laughed shortly. He lifted his hips against her so she could feel his desire for her. She moaned and pressed harder against him

“It’s never been more right.” He held her fast and began to trail harsh kisses from the corner of her mouth over her cheek, her slim jawline, her throat. They would leave little purple bruises because he sucked hard on her skin. He pulled her skirts up, wadding them under his forearm and gently squeezed and fondled her bare ass. Rama gasped and bit him softly on one ear. Angelus maneuvered one hand to her sweet little quim. He fondled the dark pubic curls and separated the swollen wet lips with gentle fingers. “You’re ready for me.”

“Please! Not here! When–I–” Ramadevi faltered. “When I come home...” she let her words trail away and shyly looked down at the dusty ground.

Angelus slid one finger into her, deftly placing his thumb over her hard little clitoris.

“This is the sexiest thing you are, Rama,” he whispered. “Not fancy clothes, not your pretty face and damned beautiful hair.” He watched her wriggle and squirm as he slowly caressed her, a delicate but steady stroke. She whimpered against his shoulder and he steadied her with his other hand “How creamy you get, how hot, how your eyes glimmer like burning stars...That’s what makes you irresistible. You go into heat for me. I don’t have to pay you or threaten you or do anything but be near you and you want me.”

“You’re hurting me!” she whimpered plaintively into his neck.

“Yes, you’re a little thing. This is only one finger. It will hurt even more when it’s me.” He kissed her ear softly. “Just for a little while.”

Her heart pounded and she grew wetter for him. He frightened her and excited her at the same time. She tightened over his finger and Angelus imagined her doing it to his cock. The front panel of his breeches tightened painfully. To his surprise, he felt Ramadevi’s quick hot little fingers unfastening him carefully. She moaned angrily as she fought the buttons and he laughed at her greediness as he continued to coax her sweet center to get hotter, creamier, more sensitive.

“It’s the most beautiful dance you do,” he assured her in a tight whisper as her hips gyrated rhythmically against his hand.

She gripped his erect cock in her hot fingers, palmed him and began to squeeze and stroke him. Angelus groaned low in his throat and Ramadevi smiled up at him.

“What about this dance?” she whispered seductively in his ear. “Fingers can dance, Angelus. Fingers can tell stories.”

She gripped him harder and he grunted in acknowledgment. She manipulated him skillfully and in the near-darkness Angelus stared, fascinated, at her movement. The bracelet flashed and glimmered from the gold and gems used to make it.

He pinched her clitoris and she cried out to him. His thumb feathered over her in circular strokes, caressing one sensitive side of the swollen little bud, then the other, then both. Her hand tightened convulsively and Angelus arched his throat, his fangs extending. His grip on her shoulder tightened.

“Come home with me tonight,” he growled. “I’ll make it worth your while. I’ll make you feel like you never had a body before tonight.”

“But I’m supposed to stay tonight. My things are still–”

“I’ll send Alain for them. I want you home!”he said firmly.

“I–I–”

Angelus grinned as he sent her over the edge of control. Her knees buckled and she released his cock.

“I’ve got you, little one, just feel it.” Angelus supported her limply spasming body and never stopped stroking her swollen mound. She was writhing, hips spasming, her eyes, wide and beautiful, riveted on him. She stiffened, face flushing scarlet as another more powerful climax raged through her, deep in her core, blazing like wildfire through her limbs. She rested quietly in his embrace, panting as he licked his fingers. She tasted delicious. Angelus noted the thinnest trace of blood in her wetness, she would begin her monthly courses in another day or so.

He thought of taking Ramadevi, filling her body while she bled and his entire body jolted as though he’d been struck by lightning. He wondered if she’d demur from him or not. His cock was hot and swollen with need from her smell and taste and his thoughts.

“Let me,” she urged.

Angelus shook his head. She would be a mess and everyone at the party would know what they had done. And since when had he ever given a fuck about things like that? He didn’t care about the girl’s dignity. He cared about drinking from her, he cared about screwing her until she had no more sense. I want her. I want her forever.

Ramadevi looked at him curiously, trying to understand why he would refuse her. He had enjoyed her mouth on him. It couldn’t be that he actually cared about how she looked when they returned to the party. Why should he care about that? Angelus did not love her, even if she wanted him to. He didn’t know how.

Angelus turned her towards a table only half-covered with potted plants. He urged her to bend forward and rest her elbows on the table top after he brushed away some loose soil. He lifted her skirts again, exposing her firm round ass cheeks to his hungry gaze. Ramadevi held her breath, sensing what he meant to do. His fingers reached between her legs, delving into her wetness until they were well coated. He parted the firm globes and pressed one finger to the tender dimple between them. He moved slowly, watching her body gradually accept the digit into a tight cavern of heat. His cock twitched, further roused by his experience. He rotated his finger in her, coaxing the muscular tightness to relax for him. He moved forward and back, forward and back and smiled as Ramadevi gave a soft little sigh. He drew his finger nearly all the way out, and reinserted it with a second finger. She gasped at the larger intrusion but lifted her hips to him, letting him know she accepted it.

Angelus took his time, gently caressing the back of her neck with his free hand, assuring her she had the most beautiful ass he’d ever touched, that he would enjoy it and so would she. He sniffed appreciatively as she let down more wetness. Clearly she was excited by allowing him access to her body. Angelus smiled ruefully as he realised she was relieved he didn’t force full intercourse with her. It stung that she refused him the most intimate place inside her but he was confident that would not last much longer. He vee’d his fingers out, coaxing her to open further for him.

She moaned sweetly and Angelus smiled again. She was a sensuous and passionate woman and he loved it that she didn’t fight erotic variation. He slipped his cock between her swollen labia, gently stroking her exterior with it.

“Shhhh,” he shushed her when she wriggled and whimpered a little. “I just need to be wet, precious,” he chuckled as she quieted down. He rubbed the back of her neck and her upper back in a soothing massage.

He opened her gently and slipped his fingers out. Rama felt her anal muscles quivering, reaching for the missing digits. Angelus positioned the throbbing tip of his manhood against her and pushed softly, easing into her.

Rama groaned in awed pleasure. Angelus bent over her and kissed the base of her neck; he nibbled gently, pricked her lightly with his fangs and she groaned at the richness of that delicate pain. He reached around her to cup her breasts in his hands, pinching her nipples, alternating gentle and rough until she couldn’t tell the difference. Behind her, he threaded deeper into her. He felt even larger than he looked, and it mystified her, the firm flesh staff penetrating her rear opening. This was a lover’s game, a lesser union. She felt strangely vulnerable beneath him but his hard shaft did not hurt, only opened her, filled her, slowly, deeply, with a delicioius pressure.

Angelus’s hand drifted from her breasts to skim her stomach, then tangle her pubic curls playfully. He reached into the warm folds for her little pearl of pleasure.

As she began to writhe from his caress, she felt his entire shaft fill her.

“Oh! Rama!” Angelus groaned. He hadn’t expected her to start moving and he felt every bit of it on his cock. He felt like he was swaddled in an unbelievably tight hot piece of velvet. He moved slowly, only partially out of her, then back in until his scrotum tickled her smooth rear cheeks. He played gently with her quim, which he noticed had never cooled or dried since he began this new erotic journey for them. She moved back against him and he guided her into the rhythm he found most pleasing. He was incredibly aroused watching his cock slowly enter and withdraw from her body. Her little muscles seemed determined to hold him inside, sucking on him as he pulled back, gripping him. He quickened the tempo and Ramadevi cried out joyously as his fingers played over her clitoris. She braced against the table, sensing that the more resistant her body was to his thrust, the more pleasure Angelus felt.

He growled at her, gently bit at her shoulder. She threw her head back against him and growled back. Angelus felt his heart leap in delight. She was wonderful for him. She was perfect for him. That was why he didn’t want another woman. He only wanted this one.

“Oh!” he gasped. “You feel so damn good!” He thrust harder–by now she was primed to bear a little rough play. She cried out encouragingly to him, urged him on with a sexy undulation of her lower body. She squeezed her rear muscles, clamping down on him and Angelus felt himself exploding, veins standing out in his arched neck, his eyes glowing golden as the demon claimed his share of pleasure as well.

He squeezed her clitoris gently. A little harder. He flicked it in his fingers. When she came, her entire rectum seemed to pulse and squeeze and tighten on him. Angelus thrust until he was fully buried within her and shot her full of his essence. They both howled and heaved. Their bodies buckled and quivered. Angelus savored the scent of Ramadevi’s perspiration since he had none of his own.

Slowly, when the explosions faded into a tingling awareness of pleasure, Angelus withdrew from Ramadevi’s body. He hugged her around the waist and lightly kissed her left ass cheek. Rama moaned her delight.

He turned her around to face him, and hugged her tightly against his chest as he dropped a soft kiss on her forehead.

“Will you come home now?” he asked gruffly.

“Tomorrow, ” she replied. “We will start over.” May the Gods forgive me!

“I want you now. Tonight,” he insisted.

Tears burned her eyes. If only she could believe him! If only it could be true! The Devi do not couple with the dead, it is an abomination...Her soul wept.

“I promised Melly,” she said softly. She lay an entreating hand upon his chest for a moment. She bent to pull up his breeches and fasten the buttons on it after she smoothed his shirt inside them.

“Tell me if you liked it,” he demanded.

She laughed at that. “I liked it very much,” she confessed.

He smirked lazily at her. He helped smooth out her clothes and her hair. He pulled out his handkerchief and gently blotted away the fluids dripping from her body. At home he would have made her lie still for a while without cleaning up, he would have wanted to enjoy the scent of his body in hers. But they were at a formal gathering and it wouldn’t do to have her smelling like she’d just been tupped to the brim.

“I suppose we ought to go back inside,” Angelus said, “For propriety’s sake.”

“Yes,” Ramadevi agreed.

Neither one of them moved for a moment. Angelus was trapped in more emotions than he could ever recall feeling even when he was human He didn’t understand the woman in front of him. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life, but he didn’t understand why she was willing to play the part, stay through this ball and go home with the Charriers just out of loyalty to old friendship. That would have to change when she came home. But he didn’t want to force her now, not when she was being so agreeable and it looked like she was ready to surrender to him completely.

Ramadevi didn’t want to leave because she didn’t know how she could smile and be pleasant and enjoy Angelus’s attention and company tonight. After all the intimacy they had enjoyed. After the things he had said to her and the false promises she had made. She bit her lip. He is a demon, she reminded herself.

Finally, Angelus offered her his arm and she took it. He led her out of the coservatory, back towards the ball.

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