Paris, 1680

Edmond wasn't expecting the mob when it came.

When François returned after another night spent alone somewhere in the city, Edmond was waiting for him in the parlour. Usually they didn't talk about where he went, but Edmond couldn't bear it anymore.

The man who'd become his best friend was slipping away from him, the bonds of everything they shared unravelling and Edmond didn't know why, or how to stop it.

"Where do you go at night?" he asked without preamble.

François paused in the doorway, head tilted.

"We used to do everything together and now I don't even know who you are anymore," Edmond pressed.

François turned to leave, and Edmond launched himself forward, pushing the older vampire against the wall in the hallway.

They froze like that for a moment, staring at each other. Then François curled his hands around Edmond's, just hard enough to display his superior strength.

"Let go of me," he said, quiet and deadly.

"I'm trying to help you," Edmond said, refusing to back off.

François's eyes hardened, red creeping in, but before he could say anything, there was a sudden crash at the door.

Edmond let François go just as another crash sounded, the door shaking under the impact of whatever was hitting it.

François's eyes flared fully red, his lip curling back from his fangs. "What's –"

The door flew open.

A horde of people spilled inside, and Edmond recognised none of them, but they all stared at him and François like they wanted to skin them alive.

"What is this?" Edmond murmured.

François didn't get a chance to answer.

The man at the head of the horde strode forward, his face dark with anger and hatred. "Do you know me, demon?" he asked François.

François looked him up and down, lazily, as if the man was barely worth his time. "Should I?"

"My name is Frédéric Auclair." His voice was taut with rage. "I believe you knew my daughter."

Edmond looked from François to Frédéric, utterly baffled. "Your daughter?"

Frédéric didn't tear his eyes from François.

"François? What's going on?" Edmond said urgently, dread creeping like ice across his skin. "What have you done?"

"This is a misunderstanding," said François, smooth and unruffled.

"You murdered my daughter," Frédéric roared.

He snatched a silver cross from under his coat and slapped it against François's face. It was the silver rather than the religious icon that caused François to scream and reel back, but it emboldened the mob anyway, and they charged at him, brandishing knives and clubs.

François tore the cross away from his face, and a long strip of skin came with it, fused to the silver, leaving a bloody, blistered furrow running from his forehead to his jaw.

Eyes blazing, he snapped Frédéric's neck with one hand and hurled his body at the rest of the mob, but it didn't slow them down.

Some of them were praying, their eyes bright with fervour, and more wielded crosses and bibles like weapons as they closed in on François. He fought them, and Edmond, flattened against the wall, heard the awful sound of crunching bones and tearing flesh, but François's eyes were full of blood, streaming from the hideous wound on his face, and vampires weren't invulnerable, even ones as old and strong as François.

A knife plunged into his chest and he bellowed, but the blade missed his heart and so it didn't kill him.

Edmond almost wished it had though, because it would have saved the horror as the mob fell upon his friend, hacking at him, and François was screaming, and Edmond couldn't move. He should help François but he was frozen, unable to believe this was really happening.

Then he realised François had stopped screaming.

The mob had hacked him to a bloody ruin, unrecognisable as anything that had once been human.

Then they turned on Edmond.

He wanted to protest his innocence – he hadn't killed anyone, he hadn't known what François was doing – but the mob were beyond listening. They saw François as a monster, which meant Edmond was one by association.

They surged towards him, a wave of human hatred, and Edmond felt the searing pain as a silver cross was slapped against the back of his hand. It was the first time he'd ever felt the burning touch of the metal, and he pulled back with a cry.

A knife slashed at him, and he dodged it, but that sent him into the path of another, slicing up his bicep, and another cutting deep into his hip.

He fled into the parlour, the mob swarming after him. He'd hoped to smash a window with a piece of furniture, but the mob was too fast and there was no time. Edmond took a running leap at the window, using his own body to smash though. The curtains tangled around him, and he fell awkwardly, shards of glass slicing up his palms.

Still the mob kept coming, climbing through the broken window after him, and Edmond dragged himself to his feet and ran, leaving behind everything he had known since he became a vampire.

A stray dog ran past, pausing when it saw Edmond, crouched in the mouth of a filthy alley, just like he'd done when he first came to this city.

Edmond's fangs slid out.

Hours had passed since he'd escaped the house, and he needed blood. Some of the cuts on his hands were healing over, but the other injuries needed help.

He crept forward on his hands and knees, but the dog whimpered and fled.

Edmond hunkered back in the shadows. He'd never thought he'd be back here – weakened and bloodied, with nothing but the clothes on his back. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He was no stranger to violence, but . . . François had been the only person in Edmond's world. He couldn't reconcile the man who'd saved him all those years ago, who'd given him a better life, with the man that François had become.

Had Frédéric's daughter been the only one?

Was there even a chance that Frédéric had got the wrong man?

Edmond squeezed his eyes shut.

He could never go back to that house now.

The mob had smashed open the door – when the sun rose, it would eventually burn up what was left of François's body.

Everything that Edmond had become accustomed to, his entire world, it was all gone, and he didn't know where to go from here.

He shifted, bracing his hand on the ground, and pain shot up his arm from the silver burn. The thought of feeding on a human, after what had just happened, made him feel sick, but he had no experience with hunting animals. He didn't even know where to start.

No matter how he felt about it, he needed to feed.

Edmond pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the alley wall, draped in shadows, watching the street, waiting for the right person to pass by.

After what felt like forever, a young woman appeared, unescorted and alone. She wasn't tall and her build was slim – she wouldn't be able to fight him off. Edmond didn't like taking blood that wasn't willingly offered, but sometimes he had no choice. It was either that or starve.

He waited until the woman passed by, then he slipped silently from the alley and fell into step behind her. It was impossible that she could hear him, but she paused, head slightly tilted as if she was listening.

Edmond hesitated. Instinct warned him that something wasn't quite right, then another wave of pain surged from his burned hand, overriding his instincts.

He made a grab for the woman, but she whirled around, impossibly fast, and cracked the back of her hand across his jaw, sending him sprawling on the ground.

"I don't appreciate people who try to sneak up on me," she said, her voice crisp and cold and . . .

Edmond's heart felt like it had been punched because he knew that voice.

But it couldn't be . . .

He looked up at her.

Ysanne Moreau stood over him, her face as hard as ice and pale as moonlight, her blonde hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. She looked just as he remembered, and tears stung his eyes, because this couldn't be real – he couldn't have lost François, only to find Ysanne.

But she stared at him like she didn't know him, her eyes as chilly as the snow that had drifted around the house they'd once shared.

"Ysanne," he croaked, holding out a hand.

Surprise flickered on her face, quick as a blink. "How do you know my name?"

Edmond picked himself up.

It really was her. She really was here.

"Ysanne," he said again, savouring the feel of her name in his mouth. "It's me."

She stared at him, and the blankness on her face hurt, because how could she not know him?

Had she forgotten him?

Had their winter meant so little to her?

Then again, the aristocrat that Edmond had become bore little resemblance to the ragged, illiterate peasant boy that Ysanne had known.

"We lived together once, in the house that your husband built for you. There were hearts carved into the lintels, and small beds for the children you never had. You planted trees to commemorate the husbands you loved and lost."

Ysanne's marble mask cracked, and her lips parted slightly but no sound came out.

"It's me," Edmond said again. "It's Edmond."

"My winter boy," Ysanne whispered, pressing a hand to her chest. "Is it really you?"

Edmond nodded, and took a shaky step forwards, and then he was in Ysanne's arms, and he clutched her tightly, terrified that she would disappear again.

"You're a vampire," Ysanne said, placing a hand over Edmond's heart. "My dear boy, how did this happen?" Shadows filled her eyes as she realised he was injured. "What happened? Who did this to you?"

Edmond shook his head, unable to find words. For so long after Ysanne had left him he'd wondered why. He'd imagined what he would say to her if ever they met again, and suddenly none of it mattered. He didn't care why she'd left; all that mattered was that she was back now.

"You need blood," Ysanne said, cradling Edmond's face with both hands. "Are you alone?"

"I had a friend, but . . . he's dead now."

"I'm sorry." Ysanne examined his wounds. "They won't kill you, but I imagine they're painful. Come with me. I'll get you fed."

She tried to take Edmond's hand, to lead him down the street, but he resisted, and she looked back at him, feeling his vampire strength for the first time. It was nothing compared to hers, but it was still so much more than he'd had a human.

"When you've helped me, what happens then? Will you leave me again?" he said, and vulnerability felt like a blade driving into his heart, gouging it wide open.

Ysanne stared back at him for the longest moment, and it was impossible for him to guess what she was thinking.

"No, Edmond," she said. "Not this time. I won't leave you."

She tugged his hand again, and this time he let her.

He'd barely begun to process the horror of François's fate, or the crimes he might have committed that led to that point, nor could he fully absorb the fact that he'd lost everything in the blink of an eye. When his physical injuries had healed, there would be other, deeper wounds to contend with, ones that couldn't be healed by blood, but for now Edmond held all that at bay, because Ysanne was back now.

And he wouldn't lose her again.

Part 2/2

Next week, we're seeing Ludovic again. See you then :)