Page 9 of The Hunter
What fools.
At times like this Christopher appreciated his uncommon height, as he could stand a head above the crowd, and scan the herd for his prey. It wouldn’t be difficult to findherhere. Millie LeCour’s hair was an uncommon shade of ebony. Her eyes, though nearly black themselves, shone with such life, they reminded him of multifaceted volcanic glass.
Those eyes. He’d watched the abundant life drain out of them as Othello had strangled her with his large, dark hands. Above them, alone in his box, Argent had held his own breath as the light that captured all of London dimmed and extinguished to rousing, thunderous applause.
He’d leaned toward her then, gripping the railing of the box. Willing her to wake, truly wondering if he hadn’t just watched someone carry out his own charge to murder her in front of an audience of hundreds.
Argent had seen the real thing so many times he’d lost count, and she captured the dull lifelessness with such precision,hedidn’t breathe again until the curtain lifted for a final bow. And there she was, her smile brighter and more prismatic than Covent Garden’s crystal chandelier.
He’d actually slumped back into his chair.
She’d turned to him, pressed her hands together, and curtsied with such grace, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. Alive. Not only alive.Fullof life. Brimming with it. Pressing her rouged lips to her hand, she’d tossed a kiss to the crowd. And again, he could have sworn, she turned and tossed one to him.
She’d been happy. He’d observed enough of humanity very closely to recognize the emotion. The true glow of transcendence. And as she’d waved at the boxes,hisbox, beaming that elated smile at him, he’d felt the most peculiar impulse to return it.
He’d become unsettled by that. Restless, chilled, and uncharacteristically prone to movement. His fingers curled and uncurled. His jaw clenched. His heart quickened its pace along with his breath. A pressure exerted itself against his heavy ribs and squeezed.
At first he’d considered apoplexy. Now he was altogether convinced it was something else, entirely.
He’d… felt. Not only that, the phenomenon hadn’t abated.
For the first time in more than twenty years, he’d been a victim of affect. Something he’d thought himself rid of indefinitely.
Even still, at this moment, he was searching the crowd for her with a stunning sense of… what he could only identify as anticipation. Not for the violence, but just for another glimpse of her dark and mesmerizing eyes.
Grimacing and shaking his head, he took up a silent guard against the far wall, hoping the odd sensation would dissipate. That she could affect him so was an impossibility. What sort of creature was she? According to Dashforth, Millie LeCour was a liar and blackmailer. A charismatic narcissist dancing with a death sentence. A mark with private rooms above Bow Street. It was all Argent needed to know.
Wasn’t it?
So… why was he here prowling amongst the crowds of common people like a serpent in a container of mice?
Oh yes.Reconnaissance. He’d do well to remember that.
A murmur of pleasure and surprise swept through the crowd, followed by a swell of applause directed toward the entrance.
The first thought that occurred to Argent was that Millie LeCour couldn’t be more porcelain white if she were, in fact, a corpse. His second, that the crimson and white striped dress accented her pallor so absolutely, she brought to mind the Countess Bathory, a woman famous for bathing in the blood of virgin peasants to maintain her skin’s youthful perfection.
Her smile was brilliant in every sense of the word, and Argent found himself with his hand pressed to the chest of his jacket. It happened again. That curious little jolt in the cavern of his ribs. It was the same when she’d smiled at him from the stage. A startle of sensation. A current of awareness that singed along the nerves beneath his skin with warmth and maybe a touch of pleasure.
It seemed, if she was the Countess Bathory, tonight he was Vlad Tepes, dead but for strange, lethal animation and his insatiable hunger for blood. Not for physical sustenance, like the vampire, but just as necessary for his survival.
For in the spilling of blood, he made his living.
Beaming, Millie LeCour let go of her foppish escort to execute a curtsy at the top of the stairs before descending down to her adoring public, rouged lips pursed to receive and return a plethora of air kisses.
Of all the jewels on display at the Sapphire Room, she gleamed the brightest. Christopher had marked the tired cliché that men would often tell their female companions. They would say that a woman lit up a room. In the past, it confounded him that such a sentiment would occur to either party as a compliment.
But now…
What was once a tepid room filled with the press and stench of people flirting with debauchery, now seemed to glow with whatever luminescence was contained beneath her nearly translucent skin.
Objectively, it was a shame to rid the world of such beauty. Such talent. Though her smile might just be an illusion, and her graciousness may amount to artifice, her loss would further tip the scales toward the desolation of humanity by means of mediocrity.
It wouldn’t stop him, though. If he fulfilled his vocation, she wouldn’t live to see the dawn. He could do it here, he supposed. Draw her into a corner and snap her pretty neck, drape her limp body across a chaise and disappear before the alarm was raised.
He’d have to charm her. To lure her into the darkness with him, into his realm. As a creature of the spotlight, she’d be vulnerable there. She’d be defenseless.
The idea shouldn’t excite him, but he’d be a liar if he didn’t admit having Millie LeCour to himself in the darkness didn’t arouse urges other than the one to kill.
