The Full Moon Chronicles Book 1: 1847

Chapter 1Nighttime. It stretched across the sky like endless dark silk dotted with millions of twinkling diamonds stitched into it to add a brilliant elegance the world sorely lacked. Laurent Boudreaux leaned against the railing on the balcony of the library. A cool misty wind pushed a few stray locks of smoky-brown hair—chin length; not quite in style, but it wasn’t as though he could cut it—in front of his golden-brown eyes. This did little to obstruct his sight. Laurent didn’t need to blink, but he still did. Human habits were hard to break, even though some of—most of, really—his kin chose to relish in these newfound abilities. Even Laurent did for the first few years of his Second Life. Another breeze. This one carried with it a trill of a giggle from the ballroom down below. If he concentrated at all, he’d be able to hear the gala taking place on the first floor. The evening was alive with glitz and glamour. Champagne bubbles bursting and lace dresses twirling and guests stirring. Murmurs of excited gossip and rumors—which gentlemen were as guilty of spreading as ladies, despite what they’d have the world believe. Corsets and hoop skirts. Waistcoats and ascots. Food. Drinks. Music. Dances. Another ball at Greyside Manor. The sixth one in half as many months. Tedious. So very tedious. Laurent had neither the desire nor the patience to entertain any guests tonight. They expected him to make an appearance, of course. All the guests. The Ladies of the House. Even his Sire did. While not precisely the guest of honor, Laurent’s continued status as one of the most eligible bachelors within the ton gave them an excuse to keep having these soirées. With good reason. Laurent Boudreaux, Marquis de Castelnau, came with a fortune. A title. Good looks. Charm. Charisma. Mystery. Not even his scandalous reputation turned away potential suitors. Most any other night, Laurent would be happy to sweep some unsuspecting young lady off her feet or slip away in secret with a shy gentleman. London’s Darling, they called him. Someone to adore. To dote upon and swoon over. He knew he was the object of many young suitors’ affections. Batting eyes and blushes and hushed giggles. Laurent received them all. From both ladies and gentlemen—he could even coax a smile out of the coldest, most traditional men. Events at Greyside had become so fashionable that an invitation to one was quite a sought-after thing. An invitation to one of their smaller gatherings, well. A luncheon or afternoon tea or a dinner party. This meant being accepted into their inner circle. It meant status. It meant popularity. For those who resided at Greyside, it meant a new meal. Vampires did enjoy their variety. The coven Elders had moved them to London nearly a decade ago, but this new admiration for Laurent only started this winter after he’d been noticed at the theatre one evening. Before then, he remained relatively unknown and unseen. They’d arranged it this way deliberately, as his cheeky and brazen behavior did tend to draw attention. Until now, Laurent stuck to seedy pubs and gambling hells and brothels. To be honest, he’d been perfectly fine with it. To be even more honest, he preferred it. When Laurent didn’t have to adhere to the strict rules and regulations of his role as a nobleman, he was free to swim in a deep sea of desire without a lecture from the Elders or his Sire hanging over his head. He still straddled the line of scandalous, but always managed to keep at least a little on the right side of it. Now, in addition to his actions reflecting on the whole household, he acted as the bait of their fishing line and needed to behave himself. Which meant batting eyelashes and rubbing elbows and sharing smiles with some of the more boring members of society—all with an ulterior motive. To keep the fresh blood coming back for more. The coven had meticulous tastes. They could feed on anyone, of course, but the wealthy satisfied them best. Not because of money—although they liked to joke that the bluer the blood, the richer the taste—but because those humans who dined on delicacies tasted as such. When the Elders realized how much excitement Laurent had unintentionally stirred within society, they decided to use it by putting him to work. Which had the unfortunate added effect of taking the things Laurent liked the most and turning them into a chore. Laurent liked to flirt because it was fun. He liked to push and needle and bother to get a rise out of people because it was fun. He liked the thrill of danger and power and tantalizing adventure because it was fun. He liked getting thoroughly buggered because it was fun. Not because he had to. This foul mood of his, he knew, was not only foolish, it was bound to get him in trouble. Really, what was a few years of work compared to an endless life of revelry? He was acting childish. Laurent, still sulking on the balcony while the ball spun on without him, tilted his head back and stared at the sky. The moon was full tonight. Big and round and bright. It had moved across the sky significantly since the last time Laurent took note of it. He wondered how long he’d been standing here. A sudden light across the lawn caught his attention. They must have opened the terrace doors, which meant any of the guests could stumble out into his gardens. Laurent let out a low growl. It rumbled in the back of his throat. If any of them trampled his flowers or snagged the climbing roses draped over his cast iron fences or disturbed any of the topiary…well. He wouldn’t resort to violence. Killing someone over a garden didn’t exactly feel right. He wouldn’t make them pay with anything more than a fierce expression, but he did know how to be fearsome and frightening with a look alone, and they certainly wouldn’t dare cross him again. His garden was his place of solace. The only spot no one else ever went. None of the servants. Staff. Gardeners. Not even the rest of the coven went in without him. They didn’t understand Laurent’s love for his gardens. He couldn’t explain it himself. He found something calming about it, he supposed. Something about digging in the dirt and planting seeds and watching them bloom to life. Cannas and lilies and dahlias. Ferns and gladiolus. All growing along cobblestone walkways or in round flower beds. He had a greenhouse to tend to and overwinter some of his more exotic plants collected from around the world, and he kept his hedges neat and trimmed. He’d built the trellises with his bare hands and enjoyed letting the soft water from the three-tiered fountain run across his fingers. Across the lawn was a little stream with a wooden footbridge over it, where a pair of young lovers presently embraced in the moonlight. Laurent resisted the urge to hiss at them and demand they return to their precious ball. If he was caught, the Elders would not be pleased, and then he’d have to deal with them, and Laurent made it a point of never having to deal with them. Elbow on the stone railing, Laurent sighed and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. He kept his eyes on the couple on the bridge, worried they may be tempted to stray from the footpath and onto his grass. In fact, upon closer inspection, he realized there were already wet footprints across it. And was that mud being tracked back toward the ballroom? Had someone traipsed through his flowers? About to leap from the balcony to check for himself, the only thing that kept Laurent in his spot was a noise behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Saw a young man stumble into the library, quickly pulling the doors closed and bracing his weight on the armrest of the nearest chair. Hand at the back of his neck, he panted and trembled. When he looked up and caught Laurent’s gaze, he froze with a gasp. Eyes wide, he gaped and stared at Laurent with horrified astonishment. As though the idea of being caught here was the last thing he’d expected. Laurent didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t part of the coven. Not even a vampire. He didn’t look like a gentleman, either. A servant, perhaps, and given his current state, not a very good one. Not only was he breathless and shaking all over, he was completely disheveled. Clothes all rumpled—shirttail out, no jacket or vest, the laces of his boots undone. His dark auburn hair stuck out every which way, very much the way a frightened porcupine might look, though much less intimidating. Appeared as though he’d just had himself a good shag and needed a private place to reorganize himself. Which he could find another place for since the library was currently occupied. After a full minute of staring, the intruder snapped his mouth closed and tried several times to say something. “I…I—er…I’m…” He caught his breath. Tried again. “P-Please, I didn’t…that is, I…” “Well?” Laurent said. “Out with it, then. What are you doing here?” “M-My apologies, m’Lord,” he finally managed in a decidedly thick Brogue. “I…I d-didn’t think anyone would be…in ‘ere.” “And now you do.” Laurent shooed him away with a disinterested and arrogant finger flick. “So go away.” Before he faced his gardens again, Laurent saw the utter dismay flash across the man’s face. As though the idea of being made to leave right now was painful. “B-Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I just…” He teetered slightly off-balance, but remained on his feet. “If ya’d just permit me a moment to rest? Just a minute or two, I…I promise, I won’t be a bother, I—” He cut himself off when Laurent fully turned to face him. Eyebrows lifted, an amused smile tugged itself at the corners of Laurent’s mouth. Perhaps this situation was not as simple as he’d presumed. How very interesting. “All right, keep your wits about you,” he said and gestured to the reading chair his guest leaned against. “Have a seat, then.” The young man nodded, may’ve muttered a sentiment of gratitude, and then threw himself into the chair next to the fireplace. He let his head roll to the side, resting it against the wing. The glow of the fire licked at his careworn face. Once his eyes closed—as if he couldn’t keep them open any longer—Laurent took a closer look at his strange company. This person wasn’t simply disheveled; he was a mess. The cuffs of his sleeves were open. His trousers fell a little too high at his ankles. Those unlaced boots looked to be a size or two too large. Patches of dirt and perspiration smeared his face, and bits of twigs and tiny leaves clung to thick locks of hair. His hands and fingers were filthy, not to mention covered in scratches. There were several scratches on his cheeks as well. Even seated, he looked ready to keel over. If not for the chair holding his weight, he’d probably be flat on the floor. Laurent stepped back into the room and closed the doors to the balcony behind him. He watched his guest for another moment and smirked. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, “are you?”