Lynn Viehl - Darkyn 1 - If Angels Burn (v1.1) (7 page)

D
r. Alexandra Keller made several demands that night. Some of them Michael Cyprien agreed to, others he refused. The two conditions she tried to insist on were the two most impossible for him to fulfill.

“I cannot travel to Chicago,” he told her, “and I cannot be admitted to a hospital. You must work here, privately.”

“Unless you’ve got a medical wing tucked away that I don’t know about,” she said, her tone snappish, “that’s not going to happen.”

“Tell Éliane what you need, and she will have it delivered.” He took a cigarette from the pack tucked in his robe pocket. The moment after Phillipe lit it for him, it was snatched out of his fingers. “You object to smoking?”

“I object to politics, beets, and rap music. I
despise
smoking.”

He smelled burning wool, heard a heel grinding against carpet. “Yet you have no difficulty in marring a priceless antique.”

She made a rude sound. “Your rug is probably cheaper and definitely easier to replace than your respiratory system.”

Although Michael Cyprien no longer had use of his nostrils, he could taste Alexandra’s scent. She had used the hand-milled vanilla soap his staff provided for guests, but something lingered beneath it, a smell something like cinnamon or cloves. When her cool hand touched his face for the first time, he realized it was the natural scent of her skin.

Michael had never tasted a woman who smelled of spices. It made his mouth water and his jaw ache.

Pacing footsteps, the faint shift of hair being sifted through fingers. She didn’t move away from his bed; she only marched back and forth beside it. A controlled pacer, the good doctor was, no doubt accustomed to channeling frustration in small, confined places. Operating rooms. Waiting rooms. Patients’ rooms.

He wondered how she would cope in the tiny cell of the catacombs, where the interrogators had worked on him. Would she hover beneath the suspended cross rack, or circle around the copper vat as they engaged the winch to lower the chain hoist?

Would she scream, as he had?

“Look, there are some things I can’t do outside a hospital.” She was giving him her patient tone now. “Things like X-rays, blood work, CT scans… we won’t even discuss what the surgery itself will entail.”

He had no interest in learning what she would do to fix him; it was too much like what had been done to inflict the damage. Only the results mattered. “Give a list to Éliane.”

“You can’t pick up this stuff at Wal-Mart, Mr. Cyprien.”

“I do not shop at Wal-Mart.” Her humor also unsettled him, the same way the touch of her clever hands had. It took a brave soul to make jokes under such circumstances. “You are hungry, and I must… rest now. Go and have your dinner, Doctor.”

“Hands off, Scarface,” she said. “Cyprien, am I still your prisoner?”

Of course that was how she would see herself. Not as his savior. He had offered her nothing but fear, but he had nothing else to give to her.

“I will speak with you tomorrow.” He reached out and closed the curtain.

Phillipe returned a short time later to attend to him. His silent efficiency was usually a comfort, but tonight Michael felt restless and irritable.

“Enough.” He rose from the bed and found his robe by touch. As he took out his cigarette case, he made a mental note not to smoke around the doctor, if only to save his carpets. “You should go and hunt while it is still dark.”

“I have arranged for a delivery, Master,” his seneschal said. “Until the lady leaves the mansion, I must stay.”

“Why? You are keeping her locked in the safe room, are you not?” He found a candle by tracking the heat of the flame and bent over to light his cigarette.

“We are.”

“You worry too much, Phillipe. And if you would, try not to threaten to kill her every time she touches me.” He exhaled a small cloud of smoke. “She may not understand French, but she can read you like a child’s picture book.”

“I only wish I could do the same. Master, what does ‘Bite my ass’ mean?” Phillipe carefully enunciated the English phrase.

Amused, Michael translated it for him. The colloquial dialect they spoke had not been in common use in France, or any other country, for centuries. They used it only when they were alone.

“She is fortunate I do not take her up on her invitation.” His seneschal sighed. “She is in no danger from me, but I think your
tresora
would smother her, given the chance.”

Michael thought of Alexandra’s scent and the touch of her strong, competent hands. Her gentleness in examining him had aroused him; she had touched him carefully, even respectfully, but without hesitation. He wished he could only have seen her face, looked into her eyes. Then he would know if what he sensed of her was false or true.

“What does Dr. Keller look like?” he asked without thinking. His seneschal uttered a grunt that indicated his general approval. “No, I mean describe her to me.”

“She is small and sturdy,” Phillipe said. “Strong legs, full breasts. Good hips.”

His seneschal had come from generations of anonymous peasant stock, and thus evaluated every woman for her potential as a worker and breeder. Just as Michael had once looked at women only through the eyes of an artist.

There was some irony in that, but little satisfaction for Michael’s curiosity. “Give me her colors, Phillipe. Make me see her.”

Never comfortable with being verbose, Phillipe smothered what might have been an annoyed sound. “Her skin is dark; I think she may be
métisse
. Her eyes are the color of polished burled oak. Her teeth are very white, her lips red. Her hair is a nest of corkscrews.”

Michael thought for a moment. “Is it long?”

“
Oui
. When she unbinds it, her hair reaches to the middle of her back. The color is…” Phillipe trailed off, searching for words.

Michael remembered how it felt, the ends of her soft, springy curls brushing his skin as she bent over him. He had wanted to push his fingers into that lively mass and use it to bring her to him. So he could put his mouth to her skin and learn if her flesh tasted as enticing as her scent. The urge had frankly shocked him; he had not felt that way about the Swiss surgeon who had vomited after seeing him.

“Well? Is it black? Brown? Red?”

“Do you remember that Andalusian of Seran’s you coveted?” his seneschal asked. “The one with the quick temper?”

The comparison made Michael laugh. “Only you could compare a woman to a horse, my friend.” The image helped, however. That mare had been a bitch, but she had had the silkiest, darkest chestnut hide he had ever seen. A surprisingly apt analogy for the doctor. “Do you think she has the same fire when the sunlight touches her?”

“More. Like copper when it melts in the furnace.” Phillipe’s tone underwent a subtle change. “When it is done, Master, you will let her go?”

“Perhaps.” As much as Michael despised his current state, he could not jeopardize the Darkyn to allow one human female her freedom.

“She worries about the patients she left behind.” Phillipe sounded aggrieved.

Was his seneschal becoming attached to the bad-tempered wench? “There are others who can help them.”

“She feels responsible. They are like her family, I think.”

Tremayne would not care about Alexandra Keller’s feelings. If Michael was to be the first designated seigneur in America, neither should he. “The doctor has skills that we need.”

“She is kind, and courageous.” Shuffling footsteps drew near. “Ah, the delivery has arrived.” Phillipe moved away from him and toward the sound.

Michael already tasted the new scent on the air. It was not of spices. It made his head pound and his hands clench. It reminded him of who he was, and what he was about to become.

“This doctor, she is not like Éliane, Master. She has a normal life and a calling to heal.” Metal clinked against good crystal, and as the shuffling footsteps retreated, Phillipe placed a goblet in his hands. “I think she will not willingly serve.”

“There are ways to persuade her.” He lifted the goblet and drank deeply from it. Heat and pleasure radiated inside him, and it took a moment before he could speak again. “You can do much in that direction.”

“Not for long,” Phillipe reminded him. “Without rapture, she will not help you, and you could never trust her even if she did. Like your
tresora
, she will never be one of us.”

No, Michael knew that he couldn’t trust her. The old rage welled up inside him.

“What is the alternative? Shall I petition the Brethren? Beg them to declare a moratorium?” He threw the goblet away from him and took pleasure in hearing it shatter. “I will explain that it is for the benefit of our doctor and her normal life. That should make them agreeable, don’t you think?”

“Forgive me, Master.” There was the sound of fabric against marble; Phillipe had gone down on his knees. “I spoke out of turn.”

“You speak as always. As my conscience.” He fumbled until he found his seneschal’s jacket and used it to bring Phillipe to his feet. “I cannot have a conscience now, my friend. Not until we are safe. Do you understand me?”

“
Oui, maître
.”

“Go.” Michael released him. “See to her.”

Phillipe had escorted Alex back to the dining room and left her there. After checking the doors and windows, which were locked, she picked at a plate of designer food. Éliane reappeared and asked for a list of equipment and supplies. Feeling as angry as she had felt with Michael Cyprien, Alex gave her a list of enough equipment to stock a trauma clinic. The blonde wrote everything down before she escorted Alex upstairs.

“You don’t have to lock me in,” she told Éliane as the other woman produced a set of keys. “I won’t run.”

She pushed open the door. “You soon will have a great deal of work to do. You should sleep while you can.”

Alex could have knocked her out with one good punch to the face, but what she had seen down in the basement stayed her hand. Whatever condition Cyprien had, it needed to be studied, attended. She also wanted to know, purely from a medical standpoint, what sort of injuries he had suffered.

All right
, Alex thought,
I want to help the poor bastard
. Then she’d have him thrown in jail.

“Being an accessory to a kidnapping gets you hellacious jail time, you know,” she mentioned to the blonde.

“You won’t go to the police.”

Oh, wouldn’t she? The minute she got out of this place. “You seem awfully sure of that.”

The thin lips produced a prim smile. “If you attempt to do so, Phillipe or I will slit your throat before you can testify.
Bonne nuit, docteur
.” She shoved Alex into the room and locked the door.

Alex slept very little that night, but not because of what Éliane had promised to do. Being kidnapped sucked, and the death threats were scary, but the medical puzzle Cyprien presented fascinated and baffled her.

How can I reconstruct a face that heals as soon as I cut into it
?

Alex had heard of a few, rare cases of spontaneous healing, usually involving religious healings, but most were later debunked as fakes. Then there was the question of her involvement. Cyprien had already gone as far as kidnapping to get her here. What would he do if she failed?

Phillipe or I will slit your throat
.

Alex was kept locked in the bedroom for a second day. She paced, she brooded, and then she forced herself to take a long hot shower. Phillipe silently delivered her breakfast and lunch, gently prevented her from escaping two more times, and then escorted her downstairs for dinner again. This time, there were two place settings, and Cyprien sat waiting for her.

He wore a red velvet robe with a hood over his face. “Good evening, Dr. Keller. I hope you are well.”

“I’d be better on a plane headed for O’Hare.” Alex ignored the faint, sweet smell of roses coming from him—wearing that kind of cologne, the guy had to be gay—and yanked out her chair before Phillipe could. His impassive expression didn’t change as he went to stand by the wall behind her. “I should mention that if I spend one more minute locked up in that damn room, I’ll turn psychotic.” She eyed Phillipe. “P.S., you’re the first one I’m stabbing in the heart.”

One corner of Phillipe’s mouth curled.

“I regret your stay with us could not be under better circumstances,” Cyprien said. “In the meantime, please try not to kill any of my staff.”

“Quit hiding your face. I’ve already seen it; I’m not going to faint.” She sat down. Her plate was filled with shredded lettuce topped with shrimp in a spicy-looking sauce. Cyprien’s plate was empty. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I cannot see to dine ‘normally’ ”—he pulled back the hood and gestured toward the scar tissue over his eyes—“and my dietary requirements are complicated. I am here solely as your companion tonight.”

“Really.” Alex still didn’t trust him or his fancy French food. She ignored the crystal flute Phillipe filled with something golden and bubbly poured from a dark wine bottle and instead drank from the water glass. “What sort of diet? Atkins? South Beach?”

“An unvarying one.” He looked as if he would say more, and then his head turned away. “The first course is shrimp rémoulade, I believe.”

She jabbed her fork into a plump, pink shrimp and took a test nibble, startled when the spicy sauce bit back. “Oh, hot.”

As she sucked in air to cool the burn, the savory taste spread over her tongue. “But, wow, great.”

“Save room for dessert,” Cyprien advised her.

The meal was beyond delicious. Phillipe served each course in silence while Cyprien pointed out some of the differences between French and Creole cuisine. Alex noticed that he paused at times and seemed to be listening to her eat. She stayed quiet until Phillipe placed a hefty slice of a familiar dessert on her plate and poured a buttery sauce over it.

“Hey, I haven’t had bread pudding since I was a kid.” She took a bite and nearly moaned. “Omigod.” Phillipe stepped forward and tried to take her plate, and she slapped the back of his knuckles. “Back off, Goliath.”

Phillipe glowered at her and tried to take the dessert again, until Cyprien raised a hand.