Labyrinth of A Lost Mind

[Hunter Durand]

By the time Hunter reached the posh lobby of Hotel Le Maurice, he was very much close to officially freaking out; which, of course, was an entirely new thing for the American. The usual attributes of being cool mannered, aloof, and blasé did not begin to describe the dust and grime covered, wild eyed man who alighted upon the hotel’s impeccably clean entry rug at a quarter past six. The women behind the counter looked up and blanched, having received him at check in two days prior.

“Monsieur Durand? Est-ce que vous allez bien?”

The words seemed to jolt him out of a haunted mindscape and his eyes darted to the desk. Immediately, he schooled his expression and cleared his throat.

“Ah… yes. Just a bad day…” He offered unconvincingly before moving in the direction of the elevators. The door to one of them chimed and an elderly, well-to-do couple emerged with a mirrored look of disdain strapped to their stupid, judgmental, saggy faces. With a low growl, he shouldered past them and stepped into the elevator, jamming his index finger against the button that would make the doors close quickly.

Blissfully, the trek up to the top floor where his deluxe suite was located went uninterrupted. As soon as the aperture opened, he closed the gap between the door of his room and the elevator in a few great strides. He fumbled with the keycard, his hands hadn’t stop shaking since he’d parted ways with Arabella and Gabrielle, and then lurched into the room; slamming the door behind him immediately.

He found himself situated before a mirror attached to an ornate dresser in the bedroom, his palms braced against the smooth surface. One look at his face, at the man he had devolved into, and he knew he had to somehow grasp normalcy or he would lose himself. The black shirt he wore was torn across the front and he pulled it over his head, discarding it into the waste basket next to the desk. Scratches, dirt, and what looked to be the imprint of a hand in the form of bruises marred his torso.

He toed his shoes off and slowly managed to unbuckle his belt on his way to the bathroom. There, he grabbed a fluffy white hand towel and doused it with water, swiping it across his abdomen with a soft hiss between his teeth. His flurry of movement came to an incredibly sudden halt as a knock sounded at his door. He stepped out of the bedroom and into the living area, his eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the door incredulously. Someone from the front desk come to check on him perhaps? Some semblance of his former self seemed to be returning, it seemed. Still, that dark voice in the back of his mind was there. The voice of fear. Don’t open it.

He stepped up to the door when the knock sounded again, his hand reaching out to the handle tentatively. Then, he pulled to open the door to whoever awaited him.

[Gabrielle de Montespan]

It wasn't twilight just yet; but it took more than that to deter Gabrielle from traveling to the destination of her choice. The events of the past couple of days had been fairly insane, and the journey back to Paris had been a blur. The presence in the old mansion had brought back difficult pains back to the surface for the few centuries old vampire. The daughter of a powerful witch that history had wanted to erase, she had remained particularly sensitive to the occult and the powers that lurked in the dark.

One of the perks of having craftily orchestrated the kidnapping and rescue of a police commander a few years back was having eventually obtained diplomatic plates for one of her cars, which made speed limits a thing of the past when she needed it. She didn't overuse it; but she had wanted to return to her Versailles estate in time to get ready to hit Paris and go see Hunter Durand.

As much as she hated to admit it, she needed to see him.

Not only had she found herself worry about his sarcastic and obnoxious American ass; but there was something she couldn't explain that drew her to him.

It hadn't been difficult for her to figure out where he remained. One of assistants had figured that out quickly enough, and lo and behold he was at the Meurice, a fairly agreeable and personal territory of hers. The area was still one of her favorite ones in Paris, and she was well acquainted with some of the management.

Around 18h25, her tinted-glass vehicle pulled into the underground parking lot, and she left the car, heading straight for the elevator. Once she was at the reception desk, she exchanged a few pleasantries with one of the girls, who shortly confessed Durand's shocking appearance. With a generous tip and a reassuring smile, the vampire took the elevator once again and went straight to the American's suite.

As she stood before the door of his suite, a naturally expensive one, more than she had thought he had money for, she hesitated for a moment. That prompted a fleeting feeling of silliness.

Without further hesitation, she knocked on his door. Her supernatural hearing sought to follow his actions and steps inside.

The moment he opened, she was quietly standing before him, something aloof about her, which was but a mask practiced for centuries, for her vanished soul by humans' standards, remained unquiet. She was cleaned up and appeared unharmed, her thin body clad in a black outfit (https://i.pinimg.com/originals/4e/10/b9/4e10b930dbb0008dc298d01901c6f836.jpg) that accentuated her looks. There was no way to tell the insane adventure she had gone through just as the human had had.

Her eyes traveled down his naked chest, her tongue briefly darting out and licking her lip for the briefest moment.

"Vous rencontrer a demi nu devient une habitude."

She took a step closer to him.

"You made quite an exit back at the mansion, and I heard quite an entrance here a while ago."

[Hunter Durand]

Hunter scowled at her.

Just what in the hell was she doing here? His glacial blue eyes dipped down to her mouth just as her tongue darted out to trace her lip, lingering there far longer than appropriate. Slowly, he managed to drag his stare back up to her own and he desperately searched her eyes for the correct thing to say. Or do. Anything? Jesus, he was flat lining! Dimly, he was aware that his own mouth had slid open, hanging somewhat agape as his brain swam through the murky waters of possibility.

Before he could decide on exactly what to do, she said something in French that he hadn’t the faculties to understand and took a step forward. Hunter took an immediate step back while still not relinquishing the doorknob; which, of course, probably encouraged her to crowd in closer. Damn, he’d lost the opportunity to shut the door. Words. He should try those.

“Considering what I just witnessed, I don’t think my reaction was unwarranted.” Fortunately, sarcasm and petulance were his natural state; the words flowing in the American’s typical waspish tone. Finally, he managed to disengage his hand from the handle and his brain seemed to click back on. He looked down at his bare chest, getting the impression her earlier untranslated words revolved around his partially undressed state; considering exactly how they had met before entering that damned house.

“Won’t you come in?” He invited, although his tone wasn’t particularly inviting. Still, a furtive glance over his shoulder to make sure she did confirmed his acceptance of her sudden appearance. He grabbed a new shirt from the suitcase sprawled open on the divan of the living room, jerkily pulling it over his head.

[Gabrielle de Montespan]

Gabrielle was finding unexpected and deep satisfaction at the American's silent and shocked expression. She couldn't help enjoying putting him at a loss of words; and she hadn't even done anything to achieve that. At least, she hadn't yet.

She didn't know what on Earth was seeing her entertaining such thoughts about that hot but annoying American. Out of the world of men and women, she wanted to bed an American! Also, the term bedding was so human, so passe... She was happy to feed about anywhere she got the opportunity if the meal was worth it; just as sex could be enjoyable in so many locations and positions.

Just the thought of that and the sight of the half naked man before her made her all the hungrier.

"I thought you were an expert at paranormal matters," she observed sharply, unimpressed by the sarcasm.

When he invited her in, she stepped further into the room.

"Merci," she genuinely replied before looking at him again, her piercing eyes falling onto the marks on his chest.

"You should clean some of them and put some ointment. These bruises are worse than what they look."

She didn't have to put up with such considerations as a vampire; but coming from a strong line of witches, she knew her share of things about supernatural forces, even before becoming one of them.

Moving with unnatural grace, she was glad that the night had settled already, for the little she could see through the mostly drawn curtains. Humming to herself, she looked around, seeing video equipment, but especially a few drawings of the city.

Looking over her shoulder, she glanced at Hunter.

"Vous dessinez? They're quite good."

[Hunter Durand]

"I am a paranormal debunker, Gabrielle." The statement started off with edge but somehow softened by the time he got to her name. "That means, I go around and call people on their bullshit. Tonight is the first time in my ten years of experience that I am at a loss."

At her suggestion that he clean himself up, he glanced down to the shirt he had wrangled half-way down his torso. With an exasperated sigh, he whipped it off again and stalked with thunderous footsteps toward the marble bathroom. He made short but efficient work of washing his face and abdomen, discarding the soiled linens in the provided hamper before taking up a new, fresh towel. In a moderately better state than before, but also lacking the ointment she suggested, he returned to the main room she occupied. When she turned to look over her shoulder, he was quite close to her. He reached past her, bringing them even closer, and shuffled through the various sketches he had done during the day when he'd first arrived in Paris.

"My sister thought so too. She used to say I should come here with my sketchpad. I always thought it'd be with her and she'd be showing me around." He said, his eyes darting along the various landmarks he'd captured with his keen eye and steady hand. The scent of the luxury bar soap, of Valmont make, wafted off of his dewy skin and tiny droplets of water clung to his eyelashes. Reaching up with the towel, he patted his face again. "It sounds crazy but... back at that place... I felt something. No, I saw something too. God, I sound crazy!"

[Gabrielle de Montespan]

Gabrielle didn't flinch at the edge in his tone, genuinely surprised that his tone softened as he said her name. She hated how she liked the way it rolled down his bloody American tongue. This human was no good for her. She found solace in knowing her vampiric nature made it easier to appear unfazed and like the perfect chic ice queen.

"There is always a first time," she replied, more sourly than intended.

As much as she had wanted to keep her tone even, there was venom in her voice, although it wasn't directed at him.

"Much of what people say and believe is bullshit. La majorite des gens sont des cons."

Her mother had fallen out of grace due to accusations of fearful idiots and jealous pests. Yet the vampire knew too well how humans told themselves the stupidest stories as well, mixing poorly written fantasies with disturbing but empowering realities.

She let him go to clean himself up, engrossed in his drawings until the moment he returned, standing too close for comfort, or at an agonizing distance, depending which part of her thirsty soul she wished to listen to.

She forced her gaze back upon the drawings.

"You should sketch Versailles. Not just the palace though..."

She had a love hate relationship with the palace given what it represented to her; but she still had the fondest love for her territory. She had grown up in Brittany, and spent exquisite times in Burgundy, but she had never hesitated about claiming Versailles. It was her birthright, to hell with the Sun King and his pathetic court members.

She tore her gaze from the drawings as she talked of the house and of his sister. The loss of his sister was still poignant for who knew what such tragedy caused to the surviving ones.

"Vous n'etes pas fou, Hunter," she replied without hesitation, including in the use of his first name.

"You were not in solely human company."

She knew the Pandora box she was opening; but she trusted in her intuition, one of the strongest inheritance from her beloved mother.

[Hunter Durand]

The towel was discarded onto the back of the divan beside them, freeing up his hands. He stood there, ever so close, and listened to her words. Silvery-blue eyes bore into the back of her head until she turned just slightly, their eyes meeting and holding in some kind of game of wills. A game he was certain she was going to win. It was almost as if he hadn't been holding any cards at all, he was merely being pulled along by some invisible lead steered by rules he didn't know. He was no contender. He was only a pawn to be shuffled around at the behest of far more powerful, knowledgeable hands.

It pissed him the fuck off.

Suddenly his hands snapped out and his fingers curled around her wrists, the cursory jut of his hips rocking her back against the desk where his drawings scattered from the sudden, jarring impact of their bodies. A snarl ripped its way from his throat and his grasp upon her flesh tightened, holding her arms aloft in a way that foolishly demanded compliance. "What the hell does that even mean, Gabrielle?"

[Gabrielle de Montespan]

There was something uncanny in his vibrant and piercing gaze. He was human, smelled and likely tasted profoundly and deliciously human. Yet there was something raw and powerful in his eyes that surprised Gabrielle, even though her unflinching unnatural gaze held his without even a blink.

His anger provoked her, taunted her and it was as if the scant space between them was crackling with some energy. It reminded her of faint memories, des souvenirs eparses mais puissants, from her childhood. She had seen very little of her beloved mother; but the powerful Athenais de Montespan had left a lasting imprint on her daughter.

As he grabbed her cold wrists, she let him do so, reveling in his warm flesh, and the sensation of his hips eager to trap her against the desk. She could break him, turn him into shreds if she wanted to; but she had no desire, at least not in a destructive ways. There were other appetites she'd rather sate with him, especially in such close quarters.

She glared at him, her eyes shining at once with true silver glow, eerie reminder of her immortality. She could have spoken first; but instead she revealed her fangs at once to him.

"Some spirits in this house were real; just as I am not human. We are not all just folk tales, Hunter."

[Hunter Durand]

He was breathing heavily after his outburst, his fingers flexing around her unnaturally cold but incredibly soft skin in an unwitting, exploratory way. Hunter was gazing directly into her eyes when a change overcame them, taking on an eerie glow that his bemused mind could not find a logical explanation for. It was only the first piece to the puzzle that she handed him. Impulsively, he looked down just as her plush lips parted to unveil her fangs and his own mouth slackened in wonder. Slowly, ever so slowly, he began to release her wrists. Were it not for the sudden fascination twisting his features, one could almost assume that he was trying to prevent provoking her after her revelation. This, however, was not the case; marked by the actions that soon followed.

Fingers that had once entrapped her right wrist made their way to her face, the back of his knuckles gliding over the apple of her cheek with the utmost care. All the while he remained transfixed by the sharpened canines peeking out from behind her alluring mouth. It was the most ludicrous justification for everything that had befallen him since his sister's passing and yet, it made perfect sense. His mind raced with old fables and the subject matter of lurid, gothic novels that expounded on what she claimed to be. How much of it was true? How much control did she have?

His thumb dipped and it didn't take much pressure to prick his flesh upon her incisor. His eyes darted up to her's and then... he smeared the bead of blood along her lower lip.

[Gabrielle de Montespan]

Most mortals would have run away or frozen in fear at the revelation she had just bestowed upon Hunter. She had seen terror more times than she could count. Like any predator she liked a prey that could challenge her. Winning was one thing; but a hunt where the prey merely ran away for a short distance and collapsed in terror, or simply laid there waiting for the killing blow, was little to no fun.

The annoying American did nothing of the sort, taking it in stride, his shock mitigated by his curiosity.

Maybe it was why she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, needing to yield to the primitive longing for heat that her unbeating heart had demolished the day she traded a pulse for immortality.

She stood still, a daring goddess of ice and death, as he reached up for her. There was a twisted satisfaction and a growing hunger welling in the depth of her lean but supernaturally strong silhouette. Her pale complexion was a mere pastel hint of color besides the black of her attire and the silvery white of her hair and eyes, until he explored the presented fangs.

Some vampires could have seen such uninvited familiarity as a reason to strike the impudent human; but Gabrielle found herself equally fascinating by his daring behavior, which made his handsome looks all the more delectable.

He sealed the dare and his fate the moment he pricked his thumb to the sharp edge of her fang, signing his bold surrender in the blood smeared over her luscious lip.

She held his piercing gaze the whole time, unflinching as she had watched him burn down a threshold few mortals willingly crossed.

In a precise supernatural blur, she grabbed at his wrist, pulling him flush against her, only stopping a fleeting instant to wickedly grin at him, a short but intense promise of unnatural depravity to come.

In the following moment, she pulled them both to the floor, their descent merely muffled by the luxurious carpet of the hotel room. Still shirtless, he was offered as the perfect feast for a beast masquerading as a heathen beauty.