Shades of Gray

Marisa felt her breath catch in her throat when she looked up to find Grigori standing in front of her.



Vampire.



She met his eyes, wondering if he was remembering that she had once told him he didn't look like one of the undead.



"Nice cape," she murmured.



He lifted one brow in a familiar expression of wry amusement. "Do I look the part now?"



She nodded. He was dressed all in black save for a white shirt that looked like silk. A long cape hung from his shoulders. He wore soft leather boots that reached his knees. He looked just like Frank Langella in Dracula.



Grigori's lips curved in a sardonic smile. "Let us hope I don't meet the same fate."



"Stop that," Marisa said. It was disconcerting, having him know her every thought.



He bowed, the gesture innately graceful. "Forgive me." His gaze ran over her in blatant admiration. The dress fit perfectly, showing off every slender curve. The rich green color made her eyes shine like emeralds. "You look lovely."



"Thank you." She smoothed her hands over the skirt's silky material. "I've never worn anything quite so fine. Wherever did you find it?"



"Paris."



"Paris! When were you in Paris?"



"Last night. Where's Ramsey?"



"He's looking after the horse." She grinned at him. "Did you find the horse in Paris, too?"



He laughed softly, and she thought how seldom she had heard him laugh. "No, he's a native Italian. I borrowed him from my neighbor."



"You must have had a busy night."



"Indeed. Where would you like to go for dinner?"



"I don't know."



"Paris? Venice? London?"



"Are you serious?"



He nodded. "You have only to name it."



She was trying to make up her mind when Ramsey entered the house.



"Well, the horse is bedded down," Edward said. "Damn, I'm starving. Where the devil is... oh," he said, his voice trailing off when he saw Grigori. "You're here."



"I was just asking Marisa where she wanted to go for dinner," Grigori remarked.



"I can't decide if I want Italian or French," Marisa said, grinning.



"I don't care what we have, as long as it's soon," Edward muttered. "I'm starving."



"I've always wanted to eat in a little outdoor cafe on the Boulevard St. Germain," Marisa decided.



"What year?"



"Are you serious?"



"Very."



"Eighteen seventy-five," Marisa said quickly. "January, eighteen seventy-five."



"Eighteen seventy-five?" Ramsey repeated. "Why?"



"That's the year the Paris Opera House was completed. I'd like to see what it looked like when it was new. Do you think we could go there after dinner?"



"We can even go to the ballet, if you like." She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Paris! Home of Notre Dame and the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and the Pantheon.



Grigori took her hand in his. "Let's go," he said, reaching out to take hold of Ramsey's hand, as well.



"You're kidding, right?" Edward's gaze darted from Marisa's face to Grigori's. "All this talk about going to Paris for dinner and the ballet  -  it's just a lot of idle chatter."



Grigori shook his head. "Ready?"



"You two go on," Edward muttered. "I'll wait for you here."



"I don't think that's a good idea," Grigori said, tightening his hold on Ramsey's hand. "Until we get back to your time, I think we'd better stay together."



"Yes, you're probably right." Ramsey glared up at Grigori. "That hurts, you know."



"What? Oh," he said, loosening his grip on the other man's hand. "Sorry."



Ramsey grunted, and then he looked over at Marisa and smiled. "You look beautiful," he remarked, his voice and expression softening as his gaze moved over her.



"Thank you."



Grigori felt a wave of jealousy sweep through him as Marisa returned Ramsey's smile. "Let's go," he said curtly.



Marisa closed her eyes as she felt herself caught up in Grigori's power. The world fell away, and she seemed to be spinning through an endless void where time as she knew it had ceased to exist, where there was nothing but darkness and the sensation of movement. She imagined herself going backward through a long, dark tunnel, and she seemed to hear voices from the past, her grandmother wishing her a Merry Christmas, her father telling her to drive carefully....



Awareness returned with an abruptness that left her feeling slightly dizzy. "That was incredible," she murmured.



"It's damned disconcerting," Ramsey said tersely.



"But incredibly quick," Grigori remarked.



They were standing outside a small sidewalk cafe. It was the height of the evening and the cafe was crowded. Marisa looked and listened in wonder, fascinated by the quaint cafe, the lilting sound of the French language, the tantalizing aromas wafting out of the cafe.



"There aren't any empty tables," she said, glancing around.



"There will be." Grigori fastened his gaze on two young men who were deep in conversation at a nearby table. Abruptly, they both stood up and left. Grigori made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "Your table awaits, mademoiselle."



"How'd you do that?" Marisa asked as Grigori held out her chair for her.



"I didn't do anything."



"Don't give me that. I want to know."



"I simply planted the idea in their minds that they were ready to leave."



"Handy," Ramsey muttered as he sat down at Marisa's right.



"Indeed." Grigori sat down across from Marisa. She looked radiant. Her green eyes were alight with excitement. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips slightly parted as she glanced around, taking it all in. It pleased him beyond measure to have put that look in her eyes.



A waiter appeared. He spoke rapid French. Marisa looked at Edward and grinned as Grigori conversed with the man. The waiter smiled, then hurried away.



"I took the liberty of ordering for you," Grigori said.



"Not snails, I hope," Edward said with a grimace.



"No. Boeuf bourguignon and a bottle of red wine."



"It's so pretty," Marisa said. "I can't believe we're really here." She glanced at Ramsey, who sat beside her, glowering. "Smile, Edward. Try to look like you're having fun."



Ramsey grunted softly. "Sorry. I guess I'm just not in a fun mood."



Marisa reached over and covered his hand with hers. "I'm sorry, Edward. Of course you aren't. Maybe we shouldn't have come here. I didn't think  -  " She gave his hand a squeeze. How could she have forgotten so quickly what he'd done only hours before? She looked over at Grigori. "Maybe we should just go home."



"What's done is done, Ramsey," Grigori said. "Put it behind you for tonight."



"Easy for you to say," Edward retorted, his voice taut with anger. "You're not the one who took her head or cut out her heart."



Marisa gasped softly. She felt the color drain from her face as a quick image of a slashing blade flashed across her mind.



Grigori glared at Ramsey. "Enough!"



For a moment, the two men glared at each other, bristling like dogs over a bone.



Ramsey was the first to look away. "I'm sorry, Marisa."



"No," Marisa said, "I'm the one who should be sorry."



"There is nothing for either of you to be sorry for," Grigori said. He stared at Marisa's hand, still covering Ramsey's. Hers, small and honey brown, Ramsey's large and callused. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep from prying their hands apart. "Edward put Antoinette's soul at rest. It is what she wanted. She is free now."



Grigori turned to stare out at the street. A horse-drawn carriage passed by, the rich young couple inside carefree and happy. He envied them their youth, their innocence. His mind brushed against theirs, and he caught an image of bright lights and couples twirling around a dance floor. Antoinette had loved to dance....



Antoinette. She would not have found happiness in the Dark Gift. She had ever been a pious woman, devoted to her family, to her church.



He looked up as the waiter arrived with dinner. Grigori caressed Marisa's cheek. "Enjoy your meal, cara," he said softly.



With a smile, she reached for her napkin and spread it over her lap.



It pleased him greatly that she was no longer holding Ramsey's hand.



He sipped a glass of wine while they ate. The scent of their food rose in his nostrils, mingling with the aroma of the wine. And over all, ever tempting, ever tantalizing, was the smell of blood... blood warmed by wine. He could detect Marisa's scent above the rest, sweeter than life, more intoxicating than strong drink, more satisfying than anything he had ever known.



When they finished eating, Grigori transported them out of the cafe. Marisa had to smile as she imagined the waiter going back to their table, only to find his customers had vanished.



Moments later, they were in front of the Paris Opera House. Marisa could only stare at the magnificent edifice in wonder. She had seen pictures in books. Friends who had gone to France had sent her postcards, but none of them had done it justice. It was everything she had ever imagined, and more.



"Did you get tickets to the opera the same way you got our table?" she asked as they made their way toward the entrance.



Grigori smiled roguishly. "You learn fast."



"Did you pay for the tickets?"



He looked offended that she would ask, but she wasn't sure why. Was he offended because she had suggested he had paid, or that he hadn't?



"The manager was most happy to accommodate us," Grigori said, his smile widening. "He gave us his own box." He spoke to a man standing at the door, who fired off a rapid round of French, smiled at Marisa, and then gestured for them to enter. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Edward was with them. He shook his head, obviously displeased with the idea of going to the ballet.



Inside, she couldn't help gawking like a typical tourist, her mouth agape as they walked up the staircase. She stared at the gaslights, at the paintings on the ceiling, at the chandeliers. Elegantly gowned men and women passed by on either side, and she stared at them, too.



Grigori took them to box five. Marisa couldn't help grinning as she sat down. Box five, indeed. The box that had belonged to the Phantom of the Opera. She grinned as she gazed out over the crowd. If vampires were real, maybe the mysterious Phantom had lived as well. Maybe, even now, he was lurking in the cellars beneath the opera house.



Her fanciful thoughts came to an end as the dancers took the stage. It was like a dream, sitting in a private box, listening to the music, watching the ballerina, who was so light on her feet she seemed to float across the stage like a feather blown by the wind.



At intermission, Ramsey went to get them something to drink.



"So," Grigori asked, "is it everything you hoped for?"



His voice slid over her like dark satin, all silky and smooth.



"Yes. It's beautiful."



"You are beautiful."



"I'm not." She shook her head, aware that she was blushing. "But I'm glad you think so."



He smiled at her. It was a sad smile, she thought, one that did not erase the pain that had lingered in his eyes since Edward had destroyed Antoinette. She wondered how many women he had loved, how many people he had cared for. How many he had watched die while he stayed forever young, forever the same.



He tipped his head to the side, meeting her gaze. "What are you thinking?"



"Don't you know?" she replied, her voice sharper than she intended. "Aren't you reading my mind?"



"No."



"Oh?" She smoothed her skirts, delighting in the sensuous feel of the silk beneath her fingertips. "Why not?"



"You asked me not to," he reminded her. "Besides, I don't think I care to know what's going on in your mind right now."



"Well, that's a first." She smiled to take the sting from her words and then frowned. "Why not?"



"The look in your eyes says it all."



"What do you mean? What look?"



"Pity," he said succinctly.



She shook her head. "I wasn't... I don't  -  "



He made an angry slashing motion with his hand, cutting off her words. "I don't want your pity, Marisa."



"What do you want?"



"I want you."



Three words. Softly spoken.



"It's impossible."



"Is it? Why? Because of what I am?"



She nodded.



"I chose to be what I am, Marisa, and I have no regrets."



"None?" She met his gaze squarely. "You were married. You had children. You seem to have loved them. Don't you miss that? Haven't you ever wanted to get married again? Have children again?"



He shook his head. "No."



She lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug. "I haven't been married. I want a home and a family."



"I can't give them to you, but there's no reason why you can't have both."



"So you just want an affair, and when it's over, I'm supposed to go find someone else. Is that what you're saying?"



"Marisa  -  "



"I'm sorry, I can't." Yet, even as she denied him, she heard his voice in the back of her mind: low and husky and edged with loneliness. I want you.



"I hope you like white wine," Ramsey said as he entered the box. He handed a glass to Marisa, offered one to Grigori, who waved it aside.



"Thank you, Edward," Marisa said.



Ramsey frowned, wondering at her sudden change of attitude. A few minutes before, she'd been bubbling like champagne. Now, she looked as deflated as yesterday's birthday balloons. He glanced at Grigori, but could read nothing in the vampire's expression.



Marisa sipped her wine, careful to avoid Grigori's gaze. She focused all her attention on the stage, but she was ever aware of Grigori sitting beside her. He shifted in his chair, and his thigh brushed her gown. The touch made her mouth go dry and her palms damp. What was there about him that affected her so, that made her want to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he admitted he was sorry he was a vampire?



She shook the thought from her mind. He was what he was and it couldn't be changed. She would not let herself love him, or care about him.



"Marisa?"



She looked up at the sound of his voice, only then realizing that the ballet was over.



"Are you ready to go home?" Grigori asked.



"Home?"



"Back to your own time."



"Oh. Yes."



"I know I am," Ramsey muttered. He stuck out his hand. "Let's go."