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