Montpellier, France, 1700

"You realise they're staring at us," Marguerite said, her eyes twinkling.

Edmond Dantès glanced to their left, at the older couple that Marguerite was talking about.

They weren't even pretending not to look.

"We could really give them something to stare at," Marguerite suggested, biting her lip.

Edmond needed no further encouragement.

Pulling Marguerite into his arms, he kissed her, fiercely and passionately, until she let out the breathy little moan that he loved so much.

When he pulled back, the older couple were still staring, both of them looking faintly amused.

In the years that he'd lived in this city, Edmond had developed something of a reputation. People knew him as polite and charming, if a little distant, and there was much social speculation as to why he seemed to avoid mingling with other members of the aristocracy. Tongues wagged even more when he started courting Marguerite – a common factory worker.

But he and Marguerite had been seeing each other for months now, and everyone seemed to have got used to it. They probably assumed an engagement was forthcoming and –

Edmond shoved that thought away.

He wasn't ready to address it.

"Maybe we should go somewhere more private," Marguerite suggested. "Unless you're planning to take me here in the gardens?"

Edmond's blood heated. "Tempting," he murmured, nuzzling her lips.

The city's botanical garden, the oldest in France, was Marguerite's favourite place to walk. She worked during the day, so she and Edmond took walks in the evenings sometimes, or on Sunday afternoons, and there were always other courting couples enjoying the olive trees and architectural ruins and glittering water features. Many of those couples were not shy in publicly displaying their affections for each other – Edmond had lost count of how many times he'd seen young men with their hands up their partners' skirts. But no one seemed to care.

Sometimes Edmond wondered whether there was a limit to what was considered publicly acceptable. He'd never test it, of course – though that was less out of a sense of propriety and more because a fully naked Marguerite was for his eyes only.

Her hand deliberately brushed against him, a teasing smile on her lips. "Shall we go?" she said.

"I think that's an excellent idea."

Edmond's house wasn't far from the garden, and they barely made it inside before Marguerite was eagerly tearing open Edmond's breeches. Her hands were slightly rough from years of factory labour, but Edmond arched into her touch as if it was silk.

He undressed her as quickly as he could and the sight of her, beautiful and bare to him, almost sent him over the edge. He was too impatient to undress himself – instead he lifted her, setting her against the wall and supporting her weight with one arm as he sank deep inside. His other hand slid behind her head, stopping her from banging it against the wall.

She moaned his name as he bucked his hips against her, faster and faster until she broke apart with a raw scream. Marguerite sagged in his arms, gasping, exhausted, and Edmond stroked her hair.

Six years had passed since Charlotte had broken his heart by bringing a mob to kill him, and sometimes that still woke him up at night. Sometimes he still saw those faces, contorted by hatred, and Charlotte herself, cold and contemptuous, and sometimes those memories became tangled with the mob that had killed François.

He hadn't thought he was strong enough to give his heart to anyone else, but then he'd met Marguerite, who was kind and honest and hardworking and loving, and deeply passionate when they were alone together.

As a factory worker, life wasn't always easy for her, and certain segments of society looked down on her, but she'd always refused financial support from him. He bought her gifts – luxurious food she couldn't normally afford, or new clothes – but that was as much as she'd allow.

He wanted her to live with him, but Marguerite had made it very clear that, while they could have as much sex as they wanted, she wouldn't live with him unless they were married.

Edmond gazed down at her. Marguerite's hair – dark like Charlotte's, but poker-straight rather than curly – spilled across his shoulder.

The subject of marriage was something he struggled to tackle.

Sometimes he still thought of Lucy, the girl he'd planned to marry back when he was human, and wondered what their lives would have been like if she hadn't died of the plague and he hadn't turned into a vampire.

Neither he nor Ysanne had ever discussed getting married. She'd already buried two husbands – she'd had no interest in acquiring a third.

And Charlotte had turned on him before he could even consider taking that step with her.

He'd considered it with Marguerite, but . . . she didn't know what he was. Once again, he found himself grappling with the secret that he'd hidden from Charlotte, but it was worse this time, because now he knew how dangerous the truth could be.

Marguerite had sensed very quickly that Edmond was different to other men, but he'd always avoided questions about that, terrified that what happened with Charlotte would happen again with Marguerite.

His heart couldn't take that again.

His secrets had to stay hidden.

"Won't you have some?" Marguerite asked, holding out a piece of the chocolate that Edmond had bought her.

He smiled and shook his head.

Marguerite put the chocolate in her mouth, thoughtfully eyeing him. "I've never seen you eat," she commented.

Edmond tensed.

Marguerite had made little comments like this before, poking around at the things he kept hidden, but he'd always managed to divert her attention.

"I'm just not hungry," he said.

"Ever?"

Edmond nudged more chocolate at her, hoping that would distract her.

Marguerite's eyes went sad. "I know you're keeping something from me. Do you not trust me?"

"It's not that," Edmond said.

"Then what is it?"

He struggled to find the words. "I . . ."

"Is it something bad?"

Edmond couldn't help a bitter laugh, thinking of Charlotte. "That depends on who you ask."

Marguerite frowned a little. "Have you committed crimes? Are you hiding from someone?"

"No, it's nothing like that."

"But it's something you don't feel you can share with me."

Edmond made a soft noise of frustration and climbed to his feet, stalking to the other side of the room.

He didn't blame her for asking, but what was he supposed to do?

Tell her the truth and risk her turning on him too?

Equally, if he didn't tell her, then sooner or later he'd have to leave her behind when it was time to move on.

Would he break her heart to save his own?

Edmond groaned and buried his face in his hands.

Clothing rustled, then he felt the callused touch of Marguerite's hands on his face.

"What are you so afraid of? What can you possibly not tell me?" she whispered.

The words rose to Edmond's tongue and he bit them back, because all he could see was the hatred on Charlotte's face when she learned the truth about him.

"I love you, Edmond. Whatever it is, you can tell me," she said.

"I told someone once, and she tried to have me killed," he said, still refusing to look at Marguerite.

She sharply inhaled. "And you think I'll do the same?"

He said nothing. He couldn't imagine his sweet Marguerite ever doing such a thing, but he'd thought that about Charlotte, hadn't he?

Marguerite kissed his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. "I would never hurt you. All I want is for you to trust me."

"I do trust you."

"Then tell me."

There was a long pause.

Edmond's head raced.

If he didn't tell her, he would lose her. Their relationship wouldn't survive forever if he was lying to her, and it couldn't survive if he disappeared one night, like Ysanne had done to him so long ago.

"Do you promise not to run? Will you give me time to explain everything?" Edmond said.

"I promise," Marguerite said.

He heard no lie in her heartbeat.

Slowly, he lifted his head from his hands, so she could see his eyes. His red eyes.

Marguerite gasped and fell back a step, and horror sliced into Edmond like a blade.

It was happening again. Marguerite wouldn't understand, she –

Marguerite touched Edmond's face again, staring up into his eyes. "Why are they red?"

"Because I'm not human."

He waited for the panic, the fear, but Marguerite slowly nodded.

"What are you?"

Edmond told her.

He placed his hand over his heart so she could feel that it didn't beat.

He showed her his fangs.

He explained to her exactly what being a vampire meant – the immortality, the blood-drinking, the always having to move on, the danger of people who feared and hated them.

With every word, he expected her to run, like Charlotte had done, but she quietly listened, absorbing everything and asking the occasional question.

"So now you know," he said when he'd finished.

"Thank you for telling me," Marguerite said.

"You're not . . . angry?"

"Why would I be angry?"

"Because I've been keeping this from you for a long time."

"I understand why you did."

"Because I've given you the impression that we can have a normal life, and we can't."

"Have I ever said I wanted normal?"

"Well, no, but I assumed," Edmond admitted.

Marguerite smiled ruefully. "You weren't entirely wrong. I have imagined marrying you, Edmond, living here as your wife, and having your children."

"I can't have children," Edmond said.

This was it; the moment when she'd turn away.

"I understand that," said Marguerite.

"If you stay with me, we'll never be able to settle anywhere for too long. You'd have to leave everything behind."

Marguerite spread her arms. "What would I be leaving behind? My job? I can get another one. I have no family, Edmond, only you."

Edmond tried to think, and Marguerite stepped closer, leaning into him.

"It almost feels like you're trying to find excuses for why we can't be together," she said.

Edmond started to protest, but maybe she was right.

It had taken him years to put his aching heart back together after Charlotte had smashed it to pieces, and even now that he'd fallen in love with Marguerite, maybe on some level he was still afraid of going through that again. He was trying to push Marguerite away because he was afraid to give her the power to hurt him the way Charlotte had.

But Marguerite wasn't Charlotte.

She'd listened to everything, and she hadn't run.

He struggled to comprehend that.

"This doesn't change how you feel?" he said.

"Not even a little bit. I love you, Edmond. I don't care that you're a vampire." Marguerite pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, and emotion roared through him.

He pulled her hard against him, and kissed her like he was trying to inhale the breath from her lungs.

After everything, maybe he'd finally found the woman he could spend his life with.

There was a definite spring in Edmond's step as he made his way to the factory where Marguerite worked, a bunch of roses in one hand.

In the months since he'd told her the truth of what he was, their relationship had only become stronger, something which Edmond had never imagined.

He didn't have to hide anything from her.

For the first time since he'd been with Ysanne, he could be completely himself.

His footsteps faltered as he neared the factory, his keen sense of smell picking up the distinct whiff of fresh human blood. Was someone injured?

There was a low moan, and Edmond's heart turned over, because he knew that voice.

The roses dropped from his hand.

"Marguerite," he whispered, and ran.

He found her lying in the street not far from the factory, one hand pressed against her stomach, her dress stained with blood.

Her eyes flew open when she heard his footsteps, and she tried to scrabble away from him, not realising who he was at first.

"It's me," Edmond said, crouching beside her. "It's me."

"Edmond," she whispered.

Gently he touched her hand. "Let me see."

He eased her hand away from the wound, trying to gauge how bad it was.

"What happened?" he growled.

Two slashes ran across Marguerite's stomach, one long enough to curve around her hips, but there was so much blood that he couldn't tell how deep they were.

Tears sparked in Marguerite's eyes. "There was a man . . . he wanted my wages . . . I wouldn't give them to him."

Edmond cursed. If he'd been here sooner, if he'd made sure that he was outside the factory before the workday ended, then no one would have dared rob her.

As carefully as he could, he lifted her.

Marguerite whimpered, clenching her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," Edmond whispered. "I need to get you home so I can fetch a doctor, but I'll have to run and that's going to hurt."

Marguerite's teeth were gritted tight against the pain, but she nodded.

Holding her against his chest, Edmond ran.

When he reached his house, Edmond kicked in the door and carried Marguerite over to a padded chair where he gently laid her down.

"Am I dying?" she asked, looking at him with pain-glazed eyes.

"No," said Edmond fiercely.

But her heartbeat was thready and weak, and that was a bad sign.

Marguerite clutched his hand, smearing her own blood across his skin.

"Please don't leave me," she said.

More than anything, he didn't want to, but – "Marguerite, I'm not a doctor. I can't help you."

"Yes, you can." Beneath the pain, her eyes burned with determination. "I'm dying, Edmond, I know I am."

"Don't say that –"

"Make me like you," Marguerite said.

Edmond froze. "What?"

"You know how to do it, don't you?"

"Of course, but . . ." Edmond gazed into the eyes that he loved so much. ""Becoming a vampire means you have to die."

"I'm already dying."

"You don't know that."

Tears brimmed in her eyes. The hand pressed against her wounds was starting to shake. "Yes, I do."

"You don't know what you're asking."

"I'm asking you to save me."

Edmond felt like he was being torn in two. The thought of losing Marguerite was unimaginable, but . . . "I've never done this before. What if it goes wrong?" he whispered, clutching her bloodied hand.

Marguerite looked at him with sad, tired eyes. "Everything's already gone wrong."

A tremor of pain ran through her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to sob.

"I'm afraid," Edmond said.

"I'm not. I trust you."

Edmond stared down at their linked, bloodstained hands. Every instinct screamed to him to fetch a doctor, but if Marguerite died while he was gone, he'd never forgive himself. But could he really do this? Could he actually turn her?

"There's no coming back from this," he said.

"I know."

Another spasm of pain made Marguerite double up, and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Edmond had no choice. Either he made Marguerite a vampire or she died.

He leaned over her, listening to the beat of her heart one final time, and then he bit deep into her throat.

Marguerite didn't wake up.

After Edmond had fed her his blood, after her heart had stopped, he sat beside the chair, holding her, and waited.

It had taken him days to go through the turn properly, but it had been obvious that he'd become a vampire, even though he was barely conscious for most of it. He'd needed to feed often, though he didn't remember it, and he'd been told how he thrashed and tossed in sleep – all common symptoms for vampires going through the turn.

But nothing happened with Marguerite.

Edmond waited and waited, trying desperately to ignore the awful sense of dread growing in his chest.

All vampires' skin was cool to the touch, but Marguerite had gone cold. She lay huddled against him, her skin an awful waxy colour, her lips bluish, and deep down Edmond knew, but he couldn't accept it.

He couldn't.

Some people woke up immediately as vampires, suffering few effects during the turn. Others, like Edmond, went through a transition stage of several days.

And some didn't wake up at all.

No one knew why it happened, but some people just didn't survive the turn. Whatever it was that made vampires what they were – some people's bodies just . . . rejected it.

All humans had to die to become a vampire.

Some of them stayed dead.

"Open your eyes," Edmond whispered, bending low over her. "Please open your eyes."

Nothing.

"Marguerite?" His voice cracked as his heart ripped right open. "Come back . . ."

But she couldn't.

He had taken her life and failed to give her a new one.

The woman that he'd thought he could spend his life with lay dead in his arms.