Disclaimer: see chapter 1

Chapter 4

"Madame Orlov!" Luc said. The hotel manager turned, gave him a beaming smile, and crossed the lobby to greet him.

"Monsieur Tarpeau - I hope you're having a pleasant stay?"

"Wonderful, thank you. I just wanted to check with you that it was all right for my girlfriend to come and share my room. She's got some time off work, unexpectedly."

"It's a double room," Madame Orlov said, shrugging. "No problem. When will she be arriving?"

"In a few days," Luc replied. "Thank you." He smiled, and made to go up to his room, but she stopped him.

"I wasn't sure whether you were aware that here we do a very good dinner for our guests. We've missed seeing you there, monsieur. I wonder - do you have plans for this evening?"

Luc thought that possibly Madame Orlov as dinner would be a good plan, but refrained from mentioning it. "I hadn't yet decided," he said.

"Eight o'clock, then?" she said.

"Looking forward to it," Luc lied smoothly.

Lying in his room that afternoon, he reflected that he had probably keep the dinner date just to maintain appearances, but he knew it would be tedious. He closed his eyes and dreamed of something more appetising.

Promptly at eight, he made his way downstairs to the dining room, where a long table had been set up. For a second, Luc wondered whether he had been whisked back in time to one of Angelus' infamous dinner parties, but the sight of two very modern and very well turned-out couples brought him back to reality. He introduced himself and took a seat next to the more attractive of the two women, and made small talk about the weather until the rest of the guests had arrived.

The meal was standard fare - pâté, followed by a coq au vin, with sorbet as dessert. Luc ate as little as he could, chewing the tasteless food with distaste whilst his companions exclaimed over the cooking. Luckily there was some good wine to wash the food down.

Three of the guests had been to Montmartre that day, and for a while the conversation centred around the exploitation of tourists. Painters in the Place du Tertre were apparently charging ridiculous prices for portraits or bad watercolours of Paris.

"But they've been doing that for years - haven't they?" Luc asked, amused.

"It's got worse!" someone said, raising their fork importantly. "We're being fleeced; eaten alive."

Luc smiled into his wine and thought what an apt metaphor that was.

His neighbour turned to him, breaking herself off from the conversation, and fluttered her eyelashes (probably fake) flirtatiously. "So, monsieur Tarpeau, what do you do? I'm sure it's perfectly fascinating. Is it what's keeping you from us every night?"

"This and that," Luc said. "My evenings tend to be taken up with business." She looked interested, and he elaborated, generously. "I sell art, for a friend - mostly over drinks or a meal. It provides a more convivial atmosphere."

"It sounds positively wonderful."

"It's less exciting than it sounds," Luc returned. "But it means I can travel."

"You're French, though?" she asked.

He nodded. "Breton, to be precise. And we usually are. To most of the world, these small distinctions matter little, but to me, it's important."

"How thrilling!" she said. "Georges, that's my husband," she gestured vaguely with her elbow at the stolid man on her left, "is a banker. Marseille. Very dull, but the coast is a delightful place to live."

"Marseille is lovely," Luc agreed, remembering the last time he had been there. Some sixty years before, as the Germans moved in - the town had been full of panic and fear, and he had thrived on it for several months. He had left when the rationing made the people too thin and undernourished to make decent meals.

"Oh, we don't live in Marseille itself!" the woman said, her voice radiating horror. "We have a house in the country."

Luc smiled, and wondered if he could get the couple's address, and pay them a surprise visit.

She asked him where he had travelled to, and Luc gave her a carefully edited, and much abbreviated, version of his journeys. That whiled away the rest of the meal, and at the end he excused himself from coffee.

Slipping out into the night, Luc loosened his tie and stretched, before beginning to scan the crowds for a proper meal. He spotted a pretty blonde in a green dress, alone, and set off after her.

* * *

Paris, 1838

Luc's old black suit felt strange compared to the velvets and silks he had become accustomed to, but he appreciated the ruse and was quite enjoying playing the servant for one last night.

Angelus and Darla were giving a dinner party, the last before they left Paris for good. Luc had decided not to go with them. Reluctantly, but true to his word, Angelus had agreed. Darla seemed better pleased with the idea. And between them, they had decided upon one last celebration.

Luc moved silently round the table, and poured more wine. Angelus smiled at him, the smile lingering as Luc took the empty carafe out to the kitchen to collect the dessert. Once he had returned with the chocolate cake, and had served it to the guests, he retreated to the back of the room where he unobtrusively locked the doors, and waited.

Angelus stood up, and raised his glass. "Well, my friends, it has been a delightful evening."

Darla coughed into her napkin, and Luc suppressed a grin.

"As always," one of the guests said.

"But," Angelus continued, "it was the last evening. The last party. Darla and I are going back to London."

There were exclamations of dismay. "But why?" one matronly woman in wine-red taffeta said, taking out a dainty lace handkerchief.

"We're bored. Paris has been fun, but the fun's over," Angelus said, smiling charmingly at her.

One of the men, his hand playing with his wine glass, looked up. "Are you selling this house?"

"I'd rather have your servant!" a lady said, laughing. Luc made a mental note of her, but Angelus' smile never wavered.

"Luc's not for sale. As for the house - well, I can guarantee none of you will have it." More exclamations. Angelus held up his hand for silence. "It never ceases to amaze me how blind you all are. Someone new arrives in an area. People begin to die in curious ways. On a sunny day, I arrive to an afternoon salon in a coach with curtains. I don't eat much."

Twelve pairs of eyes went to his plate, where half a piece of cake still lay. Luc and Darla watched the guests instead. The women had paled, the men looked curious and furious.

"And nobody manages to put two and two together, although I have noticed an increase in the number of crucifixes around," Angelus continued, putting his glass down and beginning to walk around the table, pacing as graceful as a cat. "None of you possessed the intelligence to work it out."

"Now wait just a minute!"

"Work what out?" The indignant voices came together.

Angelus leaned down to the latter speaker. "This, monsieur." His face shifted, the fangs bared.

The women around the table screamed, and the men pushed back their chairs and moved back. One of them came to Luc by the door.

"Open it, for God's sake!"

"I don't think I will," Luc returned cheerfully.

"But you, you're one of us," the man said, desperately. "You must help!"

"I was never one of you," Luc said. "You ignored me; I was part of the furnishings. Now, I'm better than you."

"Much better," Angelus said, straightening and letting his human face show again. "You were better than them to start with, my Luc."

"Angelus, darling, can't we just get on with it?" Darla said, yawning.

He came across the room to her, and kissed her. There were shocked noises from the guests, and Luc laughed out loud.

Angelus broke off the kiss. "Let's eat!" he said, and the women screamed again. Luc grinned, and crossed the room to the woman who had asked whether he was available.

"Luc Tarpeau," he said to her, bowing slightly. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, madame."

She got up from the table, and backed away from him. Her red skirts rustled, and Luc stepped forward and caught her round the waist. She smelt enticingly of roses, and he bent to nuzzle her neck before he allowed his true face to show. The woman went limp as Luc bit, and he swallowed with pleasure.

They finished an hour later, and sat down. Darla leaned back into Angelus' arms, and licked her lips. Luc let his head rest on his sire's shoulder, and the three vampires surveyed their handiwork with pleasure.

"Farewell, Paris," said Angelus. "I won't miss it."