"Docteur Montagne to see Madame Martin, please," Matthew greeted the young maid who opened the door to Cecilia's sun-drenched townhouse in the Rue Saint-Lazare.

"Wait here, please, monsieur," she replied, and headed in the direction of the salon. Matthew stepped into the doorway and removed his hat and gloves. By now, the maid came to expect his mid-morning visits, when Edouard Martin, Cecilia's husband, was sure to be at his bank. Matthew wandered around the foyer, examining the freshly picked rose and lily-of-the-valley flower arrangements in the twin vases on the marble table near the door. As he bent down to inhale the tangy-sweet aroma, he heard the click of the maid's footsteps approaching.

"Madame Martin will see you, monsieur," she said perfunctorily, as though this were not a regular occurrence.

"Merci, Céline," Matthew replied amiably.

"This way, please," she beckoned, and he followed her down the hall. The irresistible aroma of apple blossoms and bergamot grew stronger as he approached the salon where Cecilia waited for him. His mouth watered.

"Docteur Montagne, madame," Céline announced when she preceded Matthew into the room. He handed her his hat, gloves, and cane, and she exited the room, pulling the doors closed behind her.

"Mathieu!" Cecilia's crystalline eyes lit up and she floated across the room in a cloud of white silk and lace to meet Matthew as he strode toward her. He gathered her petite form into his arms and buried his nose in her upswept hair to fully appreciate the underlying scents of agarwood, black pepper, and amber that offset her sweet-citrus top notes and drove him wild with desire. He then pulled back and gave her a brief but eager kiss.

"Celia," he said, cupping her face and looking into the depths of her cobalt blue eyes affectionately. "How are you today, chérie?"

"Oh, I've had a very productive morning. The painting is coming along well."

Surprised, Matthew reached down to examine the fob watch attached to his waistcoat. "Don't tell me you've been to Père Lachaise and back before 10:30 in the morning!"

"Oh, I've been back for ages! Humans can keep odd hours too, you know," she teased.

Matthew glowered playfully, then nipped at her ear.

In truth, Cecilia often rose before sunrise to make it to Père Lachaise Cemetery during the early-morning light that she favored for this work. The painting in question was an extraordinary representation of the tomb of Etienne-Gaspard Robertson, with its moldering death's-heads, sentinel owls, and phantasmagorical tableaux. Her artwork, like her scent, was bright, alluring, freshly sweet, but with a striking earthiness that was subtly reflected in bold contrasting lines, incongruous shadows, and her choices of subject. The same could be said of Cecilia herself, in fact.

"I was actually hoping we could work on our painting for a little while today," she continued cheerfully.

Sitting for a portrait wasn't high on the list of things Matthew was hoping to do that day, but as always, he couldn't help but indulge her. "Whatever you want, ma petite," he said, but tugged on her arm and helped himself to another kiss as a consolation.

Cecilia smirked. "I'll make it worth your while, I promise." Her tongue darted out and flicked his bottom lip, and she turned her back on him and headed toward the stairs.

Matthew kept his hand on the small of her back possessively as they climbed the stairs to the fourth story garret where Cecilia stored her paintings. The light that streamed through the dormer windows was sparse and inconsistent, and the electric lights Edouard had had installed throughout the house were harsh white and cast unbecoming shadows, which was part of the reason she painted almost exclusively en plein air, the exception being the occasional small portrait that was never intended to be shown. While she went to retrieve the painting of Matthew from the large closet off of the main room, Matthew cast off his jacket and approached the likeness of Robertson's monument. Cecilia had made good progress since the last time he saw it. The familiar sensation of past and present colliding overtook him as he viewed the interpretation from his 26-year-old human lover of the grave of a daemon who died 37 years before she was born. There was certainly more of Cecilia than Etienne in the painting. The perspective was from below one of the corners of the sculpture, under a cloudless azure sky peeking through verdant clusters of chestnut leaves. Directly above loomed a bat-winged skull perched atop the cornice. Lifeless eye-sockets dominated the foreground, severely shadowed beneath the treacly butter-yellow of the sun-bleached forehead. The menacing grin was comprised of the remains of decaying tooth sockets that abutted each other haphazardly, like rotting pickets of a neglected barnyard fence. In the middle ground was the beginnings of what would become the tear-streaked face of a lovely mourning angel, crowned with a flower circlet and bearing the wings of a dove.

Cecilia approached Matthew from behind, and slipped herself through his arm and leaned her head on his chest as they stared at the painting together.

"You knew him, didn't you?"

"Mmm," he assented, and brought her lace-clad wrist to his nose.

"Was he a creature like you?"

"He was a creature, yes, but not like me. He was a daemon."

Cecilia had wheedled enough information out of Matthew over the past few months to have a basic understanding of the world of creatures, but it was not a topic he liked to dwell on. She knew about the three orders of creature and that his work as a doctor was not just to heal his patients, but also a means of gathering information that could tell him more about their relationship to one another, and to humans. She knew that vampires were almost indestructible but not immortal, that he was tortured by the loss of many friends and family members throughout his long life. She knew that he drank blood, that his senses were keen, and that her scent was especially appealing to him. She knew that he hadn't aged in hundreds of years, but didn't know how old he was, as he refused to tell her when he was born, and very rarely spoke about his distant past. She knew that he seldom slept, but when he did, he had to be completely alone so she would never see it. When it came to daemons and witches, her understanding was much more nebulous. Daemons were often brilliant, charismatic, flamboyant, and sometimes very troubled. Witches could conjure spells, but different witches had different types of magic. Matthew's interest in other species didn't seem to extend far beyond his doctor's surgery, and he always cautioned her that it was dangerous for humans to know too much about the world of creatures. Matthew was focused almost obsessively on her safety, so it was useless to pry too much. But other creatures did figure into certain points of his past, and she knew he had been close with several daemons over the years, though not, to her knowledge, many witches.

"The painting is magnificent, ma chérie," Matthew said, breaking the silence.

Cecilia beamed, and stretched herself up toward him in invitation. Her nectar kiss ignited a flame of thirst that blazed up and down the column of his body. Oh, what must she taste like? he wondered for the thousandth time. He nestled his nose in the hollow behind her ear. Barely aware of his actions, he reached around and unhooked the top clasp that secured her high-necked lace bodice. His hand traveled down her back until it found the next clasp, and then down to the next.

"You wouldn't by any chance be trying to distract me to avoid sitting for our portrait, would you, mon amour?" Cecilia teased as his nose grazed along her neck, trailing kisses in its wake.

"Certainly not," he replied, his voice muffled against her skin. His hands had reached the clasp that held the top of her skirt together. "I just worry your lovely dress will be marked."

"Ah, and you worry that my smock no longer offers sufficient protection against marks?" She allowed him to peel her bodice off of her arms so that it fell limply over the front of her skirt. He took her fingers in his and looked into her eyes as he kissed the back of her hand, which he then turned over, and moved his lips to her palm, up over her wrist, and up her slender arm as he placed it around his neck. He drew her other arm around his neck in a similar fashion, then grazed her bare skin with the backs of his fingers as his hands traveled to her waist. Cecilia's arms remained where he had placed them, and she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled his lips down to hers once more.

"Well," he murmured in between kisses. His hands worked the buttons of her corset cover. "One can never be too careful." She dropped her arms to shrug off the garment, then they resumed their position around his neck. Now that her decolletage was exposed he turned his attention to the hollow beneath her throat, and the swell of her breasts peeking out over the top of her lace-adorned corset of pearl-colored silk.

"And you believe I would sooner ruin my underclothing?" she asked as his hand stroked her breast.

"Indeed, it would be a shame," he said, his cool breath raising goosebumps along her skin. He felt her shudder beneath him and smiled. "But the feel of your skin makes the sacrifice well worth it." He nestled a cheek into her cleavage. "Mon ange," he breathed.

Cecilia took Matthew's head in her hands and lifted it to her mouth. He felt for the pins that held her coiffure in place and began the painstaking process of unpinning, uncoiling, and unbraiding the black tresses that fell past her waist and enveloped her small form like a blanket. He gathered it all into his fist, and wound it around his forearm, pulling gently so that her head was tilted back. With his other hand, he grazed his thumb across her pink, swollen lips. Her eyes opened dreamily, revealing the cerulean pools that shone out from her white rosy skin framed by her thick ebony waves. When she looked like this, he didn't know which force animated his preternatural lust for her: his love or his thirst. He reached around to untie the rest of her petticoats and when they nestled into a billowy heap around her feet, he ran his hand over the curve of her bottom and squeezed her to him. Uncomfortable from bending down to Cecilia's height for so long, he gripped her buttocks and lifted her up and out of the pool of fabric, her legs around his waist, and carried her to the divan, where he laid her gently down. He reached for his tie, but Cecilia stopped his hand.

"Mathieu, wait!" she breathed.

"What is it, chérie?" he whispered, playing with the length of her hair.

"I need you to leave your tie on."

Matthew looked at her quizzically.

One side of her mouth turned up into a sly grin. "Well, you're wearing a tie in the portrait," she said innocently.

"You can't be serious," Matthew said, as reason dawned on him.

"Oh, I can and I am!" she laughed in response, and pushed him off of her and pranced over to her easel.

Matthew, bereft of her scent and left with the discomfort of unsatiated lust, grumbled in irritation, though he grudgingly gave her credit for so deftly using his weakness for her to her own advantage. He also had the consolation of watching his jolie petite chose scurry around the garret in nothing but her beribboned combinations that peeked pertly out from under her becoming corset, and most pleasingly, her white stockings held up with blue ribbons that matched her eyes, and her little embroidered satin slippers. While it did nothing to ease his straining erection, it did provide a pleasant distraction from the drudgery of sitting still in a dark attic for an hour or more. When she retrieved her smock from the wardrobe, he cautioned her that there would be no painting today if she covered up those pretty legs, and after a short pout, she assented to paint as she was, on the understanding that Matthew would pay to have another corset made if hers became damaged.

With negotiations completed, Cecilia took to her canvas and was soon engrossed in her work. The portrait was dark and shadowed-a reflection of the poor light in her studio-with a likeness of Matthew's face so large that the top of his head and the right side of his face ran right off the canvas, giving the impression that he was much closer to the viewer than in a more traditional portrait. Though the rest of his face appeared tranquil, his eyes burned with a confronting stare that projected power, strength, and most of all, danger. Cecilia's passion for Matthew was poured into each and every brush stroke, making the painting crackle with desire. As she mixed her paints trying to achieve the right shade of pink for his tempting lips, her thoughts turned to all of the pleasure those lips could bring her-skimming along her neck, moving against her mouth, suckling at her core.

"Celia?" prompted Matthew.

She hadn't realized that her motions had slowed to a stop as her daydreams took root inside of her. She looked up at Matthew, whose thoughts had been tending toward that direction for quite some time, and whose aforementioned lips curved into a disarming smirk as he watched the blood rise to the surface of her cheeks, staining them carnation pink and confirming what he already knew.

Slowly, he stood up from the divan and pulled his tie loose. "Enough painting for today, chérie," he rumbled softly, undoing the button of his collar, then removing his cuff links, which he set on the table next to him. Once done, he held an arm out toward Cecilia and beckoned her to come forward, which, with lamb-like acquiescence, she did at once. He leaned her back far enough that his arms were all that kept her from falling, and kissed her slowly, reverently. He liked it when she was in this position-vulnerable, reliant on him for her safety. Small, soft, feather-light, awash in the mouth-watering scent that drove him wild, she received his affections with gentle relish, submitting to his touch, his pace, his command, the consuming ardor that she would never experience in her marriage bed. In his own time, he set Cecilia back on her feet while he started undoing the buttons on his waistcoat. Her deft little fingers quickly took over, leaving him free to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, lean down to devour the aroma that he could almost taste. His waistcoat discarded, suspenders shrugged off his shoulders, and shirt pulled open, he let her run her hands along his battle-scarred chest for a few moments before he swiveled her around to untie the laces of her corset. She reached her arm back to curl her hand around his neck and tilted her head to the side to allow Matthew access to the curve of her shoulder, which he nibbled as he loosened the laces enough that he could unhook the busk and let it fall to the ground. He reached his arms around her now that he could feel her softness, the curve of her breasts, the swell of her stomach, under the thin cotton of her combinations that comprised the last barrier between his hands and her bare skin. He lowered his hand until he found the opening in her drawers that allowed him access to the most intimate part of her. Her breath quickened along with her heartbeat as he touched her skin, parted her folds, and dipped inside of her to feel her tighten against his finger. She felt his breath against her hair as he sighed in pleasure. The amber musk of her aroma intensified and a predatory growl rumbled in his chest. His hunger for Cecilia grew stronger with each passing day, each passing moment. He removed his finger from inside of her and brought it to his lips, tasting what he could of her. He unfastened the buttons of her combinations and eased them down over her hips, then turned her naked body to face him once more, and led her to the divan, where he guided her to a sitting position, spread her legs, and knelt between them. Her scent radiated from the hottest part of her, and he let it draw him in. He could hear the blood pulsing inside of her, he could feel it beneath his tongue as he lapped at her wetness. She gripped his head and writhed against him, mewling in pleasure. The pulse of her blood, the sound of it, the way it pooled just beneath her skin overtook him and he went at her with abandon, burying his nose in her folds, sucking at her clit, inserting his fingers inside of her and rubbing against her favorite spot, trying and failing to get his fill of her while she melted around him.

When it all became too much, he withdrew from between her legs and looked up at her pleadingly, face glistening with her juices.

"What is it, chéri?" she asked through a haze of pleasure.

His eyes were black pools of need and she tightened with arousal.

"May I? May I taste you now?" he breathed.

She gasped in surprise. She knew that he desired her blood, but he had insisted that he would never drink from her, that she was too sweet to him and he didn't trust himself enough to risk tasting her. Throughout their time together, she'd grown to understand him, to trust him, to want him to trust himself. His fears of losing control seemed absurd, as he had never exhibited any desire to harm her and was almost obsessively concerned about her safety. She had begun to wonder if what he told her was a fear of losing control, was in fact a fear of letting himself get too close to her.

"Do you mean…?"

"Yes," he hissed through gritted teeth.

A thrill of fear shot through her unbidden, and Matthew's nostrils flared.

"And you're not afraid you'd hurt me anymore?"

His eyes softened and he reached up to stroke her hair, which fell heavy and black across the divan. "Not anymore, ma petite. You are in my heart now. You are life to me, and I would no sooner harm you than I would cut off my right arm." He lowered his head to kiss her thigh. "You are safe with me," he whispered.

She lifted his chin so she could meet his eyes. "I know that, Mathieu. I have always known that."

His heart swelled and he put his arms around her waist and held himself to her. "You know me better than I know myself."

She smiled. "Of course I do. Don't tell me you didn't know that before now!"

"I didn't believe it before now," he murmured.

"Silly man," she chided indulgently. He smiled against her belly. "Now," she said, shifting lower on the divan and placing her legs atop his shoulders and using them to pull his face closer to her. "Take me. Take anything you want."

For the moment, joy and relief outweighed Matthew's thirst, and so he returned his attentions to her center with renewed vigor, wanting to taste her, to feel her respond to him, but also wanting to give her just a trace of the happiness he was feeling because of her. It was only when he could feel her building to her climax that the thirst boiled in his stomach again. Her life force that was so present inside of him was flowing through her veins, there for the tasting. He lost himself in the miasma of endorphins and pheromones and adrenaline that swirled around him, blinding him, driving him. His tongue fluttered against her, his busy fingers beckoning her to come, as she bucked against him erratically, alternately whimpering and shrieking as intensifying eruptions of pleasure burst forth from within her. He heard her cry out, and when he felt her juices flow from her quivering sex, he turned his head and sank his teeth into the yielding skin on the inside of her thigh.

Her flavors and her secrets filled his mouth. Sun-ripened strawberries in sugared lemon cream, toasted almonds and vanilla and anise, passion and dark beauty, pain and love and dissatisfaction and trust and self-preservation, wind and saltwater, cold and soft and Edouard and vanity and questions and motherhomesilkfireMatthewMatthewMatthew. She was vibrant and complex, and tasting the world through her candied eyes was invigorating, intoxicating. When the brilliancy of the colors began to fade, he drew in more waves of her blood, but the more he drank, the more the color leeched from his visions, until he pulled in a deep mouthful of nothing.

A lightning bolt of terror struck his gut as he realized what he'd done. His eyes shot up to find his lover's body ice-white against her mass of sable hair. Her eyes were fluttering as though she didn't have the strength to open them, and tracks of dried tears stained her cheeks. A ferocious roar echoed through the room.

"Celia, no!" he wailed. "What have I done?" He shook her shoulders. "Celia, wake up! Celia, look at me! Oh what have I done? What have I done?"

She opened her eyes as much as she was able, and whimpered, "Why didn't you stop?"

Her eyes were deep with hurt and betrayal. "Celia, mon amour, I didn't know, I lost control! I didn't know what was happening!" The words tumbled out of his mouth, his eyes ablaze with panic. "Oh, Celia, I'm so sorry! Celia! Celia!" he yelled frantically as she began to drift off.

"You said you wouldn't hurt me," she whispered weakly.

"I know, I know, I never thought…" Matthew cut himself off. Words were pointless.

He was shocked, disgusted, desperate to keep her with him. He had meant it when he told her she was life to him. And now, he had stolen hers, and with it, he began to disappear.

"I'm thirsty," Cecilia murmured.

She was craving vampire blood. He had one last chance to take her pain away. To take his pain away. To give her a new life after he ripped hers away.

Instinct took over, and he tore into his wrist with his teeth. The blood immediately pooled and ran down his arm, and he thrust his wrist against her mouth and ordered her to drink.

Cecilia latched weakly onto his wrist and began to drink, but the moment she regained the energy to move, she wrenched her head away from him and screamed. "What are you doing to me?" she shrieked. She tried to push him away, but he trapped her with his forearm.

"Celia, take it! Take it, damn it, take it!" he shouted. He muffled her ensuing screams with his wrist as he pressed it against her unwilling lips.

Again and again, she tried to push him away, but again and again, her thirst overwhelmed her willpower and she would return to his wrist to take the lifegiving serum into her body. By the time she gained sufficient strength to put him at bay, all thoughts of resisting were long gone, and all that remained was the voracious need for blood.

When she was finally sated, she pulled away from Matthew. Her eyes widened and she looked down at her hands, examining them as she turned them over and back, marveling at the dormant power and speed she knew they now held. She examined her blood-soiled naked body. So familiar to her, but so different. Smooth and solid and… cold. She looked around the room, which no longer appeared dim to her, and was filled with wonder as she surveyed the new world before her. A world of clarity and texture and sensory sumptuousness.

"Chérie," Matthew's quiet voice prompted. Her head snapped to look at him. He held out his hand to her, eyes cautious and full of compassion. His face and neck were crusted with blood. There were blotchy smears on his shoulder and chest, and clumps in his eyebrows and hair. His right arm was caked in rusty streaks. "It's all right," he continued in a muted, velvety tone. "You're all right. I'll take care of you. Come," he beckoned, his arm still extended in invitation.

Her eyes fell to his arm as though it was a separate entity to the rest of his body. The elegant hand, the sinewy forearm, the softly muscled biceps. The blood.

Her bewildered eyes rose to his face once more. Concern, love, protectiveness etched into every line and shadow. "Celia," he continued tenderly. "Mon ange. Come to me."

A bone-shattering scream scraped its way through her body.

"What did you do to me?"