Belle Morte (Book 1, the Belle Morte Series)

CHAPTER TWO

June would've loved them.

Would she be happy to see me or would she feel like I was muscling in on her dream? Even if she was cross, she'd get over it once she realized I wasn't staying, and probably laugh at me for getting so worried about her not writing letters anymore. Right?

Mum had said June was having too much fun here to check in with us at home, but I couldn't accept that.

Only eighteen months older than me, June had always treated me like a friend rather than a little sister, and the only thing that had ever come between us was her vampire obsession. She'd stopped confiding in me as much as she used to, and when her application to Belle Morte had been accepted, I'd told her she was making a mistake—ironically, the same thing that Mum had told me two weeks ago when my application was accepted.

But all the letters that June had sent had made it clear that she'd put aside any bad feelings, and it was hard to stay annoyed when she was so happy in her favorite vampire mansion.

I couldn't accept that she'd just stop.

Had something happened to her?

Or was I being paranoid?

I sat up. Roux was fast asleep, one foot dangling over the edge of the bed. The carpet almost swallowed my feet as I climbed out of bed and crept out of the room.

Belle Morte was in darkness, shadows dimming the edges of the walls and making the carpet look almost black. Paintings of historical figures seemed to look disapprovingly at me as I crept down the hallway. Had any of the vampires living at Belle Morte known these people in real life?

As I drew near the main staircase, a dark figure emerged from the north wing. I tensed. Maybe donors weren't supposed to wander the mansion this late.

The figure drew closer, and my breath caught in my throat as I recognized the ink-black hair and cut-glass cheekbones.

Edmond stared down at me. "What are you doing out here?"

"I couldn't sleep."

Suddenly I was very glad that I'd chosen pajamas over a nightgown—they hid the flush creeping up my neck.

In the darkness Edmond looked otherworldly, his face a contrasting artwork of shadows and ivory, his eyes diamond hard. He didn't exactly intimidate me, but I couldn't help feeling a twinge of discomfort, like I was facing a panther in the jungle, frozen in place as this beautiful, unpredictable predator considered whether it would eat me.

Irritation cut through the discomfort. Even watching vampires on TV had taught me they could be still in a way humans couldn't, avoiding facial tics or hints of expression that might betray anything going through their minds. Edmond could have been thinking everything or nothing at all.

"Am I not allowed out here or something?" I asked. "Because I don't recall anyone telling us that."

The slight lift of an eyebrow was the only reaction to my sharp tone. Maybe riling him up wasn't smart, but the way he stood and stared made my skin prickle. Vampires weren't human and they didn't act like humans. I didn't know how to react to them, and anger was the best defense.

"Most donors prefer to explore during the day," Edmond said. "Perhaps you were too excited to wait?"

"Too nervous, more likely."

"What do you have to be nervous about?"

The softness in his voice brought that flush back to my neck. There was a quality to it that was almost intimate, a purring lilt that made me think of whispers in the dark, murmured voices beneath twisted sheets.

"I'm going to see my sister tomorrow and I haven't seen her in a long time."

"Your sister?"

"June Mayfield. You must know her?"

Thinking of him sinking his fangs into my sister's skin was enough to banish the butterflies in my stomach.

Edmond stared in silence for so long it was like he'd turned to stone. I was considering prodding him in the eye, just to get a reaction, when he spoke again.

"Go back to bed, Renie."

His French lilt made my name sound soft and exotic, like it was something he could roll across his tongue. My skin heated.

"You didn't answer my question," I said.

He said nothing and his blank expression didn't change, but I could have sworn I felt the air shift around us, as if he was surprised that I didn't immediately obey his command.

His pale hand settled on my shoulder. "Go back to bed," he repeated.

There was little point digging in my heels. Edmond could lift me off my feet with one finger, and as a donor, I was replaceable. Hundreds of starry-eyed wannabes would kill to take my place in Belle Morte.

So I let Edmond steer me back to my room. My feet made whispering noises on the carpet but Edmond was as silent as a ghost—if it wasn't for the weight of his hand on my shoulder, I'd have thought I was alone. It was unnerving to know that someone was walking behind me and I couldn't hear him breathing.

When we reached my bedroom, I turned to Edmond—to say what, I don't know—but he was already gone. The imprint of his hand tingled through my skin.