Chapter 7
Of Hearth and Heat
Baldwin had managed to persuade Marcus to give him the keys to Athena's flat, using the excuse that he had meetings in London before going back to Sept-Tours with any news. It gave him the perfect opportunity to look at her personal space and get a better sense of who she was as a person. The woman he'd briefly gotten to know at Sept-Tours was remarkably resilient and head-strong, courageous and spirited. To have survived such an ordeal, not just physically, but mentally, was nothing short of miraculous.
He took one of the de Clermont cars to her place in Cheshunt, finding it ironic that she lived in an old Roman town, listed in the Doomsday Book as Cestrehunt. He passed the beautiful Church of St. Mary, realising as he drove just why she liked living in a suburb, rather than in London itself. With London only 12 miles away, it was perfectly placed, if a little too quiet for his tastes. He was so used to living in big cities, he wasn't sure how he'd fair in such a place.
He pulled into the modest carpark of a large Edwardian detached house, with double-fronted windows and a large white door. It had been converted into four flats, and Athena's was on the first floor to the right. It was larger than he'd imagined, having two modest bedrooms, a living area, a small kitchen, and a bathroom. He could smell the lingering scent of Marcus, but Athena's scent overpowered it, even though she hadn't set foot inside for a month. He knew by smell which room was hers, removing his coat and looking around. He spied her ballet shoes hanging off the mirror of her dressing table, feeling the urge to touch them. He could see the compression her feet had made on the blocks, moulded to her shape. He picked them up and looked for a bag, finding one in her wardrobe, more of her cherry scent hitting him as he ran his hand along her shirts and skirts.
He selected some items, picturing what she would look like in them, knowing he was overstepping a boundary by dressing her without her permission, even if it was only mentally. Feeling a little guilty about it, he pulled open some drawers, plucking what looked like aerobics clothing. Lycra items, cotton vests, and some strange baggy cotton pullovers. It was the top drawer that had him still his hand. Underwear. He swallowed and tried not to breathe as he raced to shove some in the bag, resisting the urge to lift some to his nose. He shoved the drawer shut and dumped the bag on her bed, running a hand through his hair as he tried to regain control of himself. He was beginning to regret this decision. It was becoming an obsession, and he hadn't even seen it coming. Was this how Matthew had felt when he met Diana? Utterly overwhelmed by her? It was maddening. Even without the threat of the Covenant, it felt like dangerous territory.
He idly rummaged around her dressing table, putting a few bits of make-up into the bag, not that he thought she needed it, just that she might like some. When he moved to her bedside table, he got a shock. Of course, she was a warm blooded woman, so it was understandable that she would have items of a personal nature next to her bed. It was blue, moderately thick, and longer than he'd expected. It had numerous buttons, and a curious appendage with ears. He was certain that it had been cleaned, but he could smell her scent drifting up from the drawer. Much more musky, and so uniquely her.
He couldn't touch it. It was one step too far. Touching it felt like a violation of her personal privacy, and even if she couldn't smell his scent in the way he could smell hers, something told him that she'd know if he'd been touching her personal things.
He slammed the drawer shut and opened the bottom drawer, spotting an old, worn, leather tome. Possibly centuries old. He surmised that this was her family's grimoire. He didn't open it as he put it into her bag. If anyone did come snooping for her things, they wouldn't get her spells. It annoyed him that Marcus hadn't had the presence of mind to do the same when he had been here.
Next, was the bathroom. He gathered all manner of toiletries he thought she might appreciate, including some menstrual products. He could only hope that Marcus had done the same, but just in case he hadn't, Baldwin gathered all that was there.
Just as he was about to shut the bathroom door, he spotted a pair of cotton pyjamas. Leaning in, he could smell they were hers. They'd been worn, and the scent was stronger still. He balled up the vest and pressed his nose into it, momentarily giving in to his craving, inhaling deeply. He almost went cross-eyed from the force of it. His senses were on fire, and he suddenly felt consumed by her, despite that fact that she wasn't even in the country.
He pulled them away from his face and shoved them deep into the bag, taking a few moments to clear his head. Perhaps he'd send the bag with Marcus. He'd hate it, but he'd do it. But, even as he thought that, he refused to be a coward, and he wasn't entirely content to have another man deliver her things to her, even if that man was already mated to fellow vampire, Phoebe Taylor.
There was nothing for it. He had to go back. He wouldn't skulk off and pretend he'd never met her. He'd never fled from a difficult time in more than two millennia, and he wasn't about to start now.
He had one last look around for other things to take, including a pair of boots, then locked up and left, driving all the way to the airport where the de Clermont jet would be waiting for him. He didn't bother to let anyone know he was coming. Sept-Tours was his home. He'd come and go as he pleased, when he pleased.
Athena had spent most of the following day after her night of wine, in bed. She knew it had been a mistake so soon after being rescued, but she'd needed something to just take her mind off things. For the most part, she had been coping far better than everyone had expected, but as she healed, she found that her mind drifted to the possibilities she thought she'd missed to escape. Logically, she knew it was just her mind's way of working through everything, but as the week progressed, she found herself jolting awake after dreaming of being back in the tunnels.
By the end of the week, she was sick of the disruption. Marthe had of course noticed, and put together an herbal concoction to hopefully help her to drift into a deeper sleep. It was hit and miss, and it tasted terrible. Aside from peppermint, she'd never been a fan of herbal teas. She found them bitter. Pond scum, her father often remarked in regards to herbal teas. She'd smiled at the remembrance.
She found herself spending more time out in the gardens of the large castle, walking, dancing, and practicing yoga. On the day Baldwin returned, something she hadn't been expecting, she was dancing on one of the lawns. Mostly improvised, she was combining elements of both contemporary, lyrical, and ballet styles, moving far more gracefully than she had been capable of two weeks ago.
Baldwin pulled up and paused at the faint sound of music. It wasn't coming from the castle. It was far too modern for Ysabeau's tastes, and he knew Matthew and Diana weren't here. He'd have smelled them.
He got out and grabbed the hold-all he'd brought for Athena, following he sound to its source. As he passed under the archway towards the open gardens, he stopped at what he saw, dropping the bag down at his feet. Graceful didn't quite seem an adequate enough word for how she moved. After her description of how it helped her power to flow, he suddenly understood why. Watching her was rather like watching trees swaying in a gentle wind. There was nothing clunky or forceful about it. Every movement was so precisely followed by another that each step of her bare feet barely disturbed the grass beneath them.
She made a graceful pirouette, but stopped abruptly when she saw him standing there. Shocked out of his staring, he took the bag over to her.
"Didn't mean to disturb you. I brought more of your things. I was in London for meetings, and thought I'd check on your place. No one has been there so far, so it's possible they know you won't be at home," he rambled, feeling stupid for over explaining.
"Oh, thanks. I had wondered if anyone would try to break in." She took the bag and gave it a shake. It was far heavier than the one Marcus had brought her.
Baldwin took in her form. She was flushed from her dancing, her eyes bright and a little wild. So pale and green, and that fire he'd seen there a few times when she'd been angry, seemed to be present permanently. It suited her. She seemed to be energised by her exertion, which surprised him. He'd expected her to be tired. She was wearing black leggings, a vest, and a strange fluttery skirt he'd seen ballet dancers wear. He looked at her feet and frowned.
"It's October. Aren't you cold?" he asked, pointing at her feet.
She followed his finger, curling her toes in. "No. The fire keeps me warm most of the time, unless I'm exhausted. Besides, I like to feel the earth. It's a witch thing," she responded, shrugging. "What about you? Don't you get cold?"
"No. Vampires naturally run cold anyway. We wear coats and jackets to keep up appearances."
She chuckled. "Ditto. You should see me in a blizzard. Better than any snow plough."
He found the image that such a comment conjured to be remarkably distracting. Even without having seen her in snow, he could already picture her walking barefoot down a street, melting the snow in her wake.
He cleared his throat and nodded briefly. "I'm glad you're doing better. I'll leave you to sort through your things." He didn't wait for a response, deciding that he needed some distance to get his thoughts in order.
It was ridiculous. He'd been back in her presence for only a few minutes, and he was already struggling to keep his mind disciplined. He went straight to Phillippe's study, yanking off his coat and setting up his laptop, intending to occupy his mind with work, but without even realising it, he found himself standing by the small window looking out over the garden. He could see her rummage around in the bag, appraising his selections. He saw her smile at the grimoire. He was glad for that.
He pulled his eyes away as she resumed her dancing, grumbling and dragging a hand through his hair. It made no sense to him. He wasn't related to Matthew. He couldn't possibly be suffering the same issues Matthew did. He'd often wondered if Matthew's attraction to Diana had been borne out of his blood rage. Baldwin didn't have that excuse. Perhaps it was out of pity. He'd rescued her from certain death, and she'd witnessed the brutal killing of her sister. Yes. Pity. That was the only explanation. It had to be. The alternative scared him more than he wanted to contemplate.
