'Til Death by Bonnie Pardoe

He should not be here. He was not invited. However, that never stopped Vachon before.

A shave, a trim, a new suit of clothes.... No one suspected for even a moment that he was not one of the wealthy, honored guests. A friend of the bride's family, a friend of the groom's ... it did not matter which story he told when asked. No one really cared; they were just making polite conversation.

They did not even ask his name, even though he invented a new one, especially for the occasion. Oh, well. Whether it was Jonathan Vaughn or Javier Vachon who sipped the champagne, the outcome would be the same. It always was.

He stood against the far wall, sipping the bubbly wine and watching the crowd. He waved away a skinny maid in a gray frock; he did not want anything, even if she had been offering him more than hors d'oeuvres. His eyes were on something a good deal more appetizing this evening.

In the center of the room, the crowd parted as the small orchestra in the balcony began to play. Vachon recognized An Des Schonen Blauen Danau — "On The Beautiful Blue Danube." He had first heard Johann Strauss's work while in France a decade before; it had been new and fresh, and the waltz itself had been just scandalous enough to make it enjoyable. Today, however — all these years later — Vachon had grown weary of the shallow melody.

Tuning out the music, he carefully studied the dancing couple. Honey Rothdale was a vision in white satin, with a cascade of pale curls visible beneath her veil. She was just past her twentieth year, if Vachon had to guess, and the man turning her about the floor must be nearly four times her age.

Vachon had felt sorry for her, when he had met her the previous evening: how could anyone force a girl her age to marry someone old enough to be her grandfather? Was she to spend the best years of her life as nursemaid to some doddering fool?

When Honey had pulled him aside the evening before, into the low-lit passageway, when she had explained how she could not love the man she had been promised to, Vachon had not hesitated. He had allowed her to kiss him, to pull him against her, giving the illusion, should they be caught, that he was the one making the illicit advances. However, no one came upon them. No one interrupted as she had placed his hand upon her breast and encouraged him to caress her.

She was no innocent; Vachon had smelled and tasted enough virgins during his immortality to easily discern the difference. This one knew want and need, and had felt satisfaction. If he were not the one to give it to her, she would certainly find it elsewhere. So, why not take her? Why not spare her the dissatisfaction and boredom of her life to come?

Vachon could think of no reason.

"Honey? Honey, dear, we need you," he had heard someone call from the other room.

"Honey?" Vachon had asked.

"Don't call me that," she had corrected him with a scowl. "I hate when they call me that."

"They call for you now. Honey." He had smiled, amused by her annoyance, her fire.

"Honoria." She had finally clarified her name as she pushed him away and smoothed her long skirts. "Come to me ... tonight," she had told him, and it was not a request. "I will leave the window ajar." Then she had left, returning to the crowd, to the people who had come from all over the territory to celebrate her impending nuptials.

That night, just after two o'clock, Vachon had slipped in through the window, stepping into the faint glow cast by the fire warming the room. The only movement of the body beneath the bedcovers was that caused by the slow, shallow breath of sleep. Vachon silently crossed to the bed, easing himself down onto the mattress. He had stared at the figure there, curled beneath the covers, and thought about the assumptions and half-truths Honoria had allowed him to believe....

Vachon now glanced about the well-lit ballroom, scanning the wedding guests. The form of one man, alone among the crowd, caught his attention. The man's eyes were empty and his hands were lax at his sides as he watched the couple dancing. He did not appear to notice Vachon staring.

Honoria smiled brilliantly as the old man finally released her. Old enough to be her grandfather, the man actually was her grandfather. The elderly Mr. Rothdale motioned toward the crowd opposite Vachon; the dark-haired young man emerged, coming to Honoria's side and taking her hand. He smiled down at her, but Vachon noticed that his eyes remained unchanged.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom: Mr. and Mrs. Matthew Radley."

The room filled with the gentle sound of gloved hands politely clapping, and Vachon saw a few glasses of champagne lifted silently into the air. As soon as the music resumed — another waltz by Strauss — the couple began to dance.

Vachon stared. Honoria had wanted him. Last night, on the eve of her wedding, she had not asked him to come to her bedroom; she had told him.

Vachon stared at her husband, wondering what the woman found so lacking. Matthew Radley was perhaps an inch taller than he was, with a lean frame and suitably broad shoulders. His eyes were dark, like Vachon's, and his hair appeared to differ only in length. Vachon found it odd that Honoria would choose someone like himself to fill her bed — someone so similar in appearance to the groom she did not seem to want.

He continued to watch the pair as Radley swept his bride about the floor with only slightly more energy than Honoria's grandfather had displayed. It was obvious to Vachon, though he wondered if anyone else saw it: there was no love between this couple, and there never would be.

Vachon had found that out last night...

He had run a hand down the sleeping form, pausing upon a slender hip, and then moving again, only to pause once more upon a strong thigh. He squeezed, gently at first, but then firmer, until the figure began to stir. The questions that had formed since first seeing the couple together had grown in his mind. In truth, they should not have concerned him, they should have been of no consequence; but, in reality, Vachon was bored.

Nearly three decades ago, under threat of discovery by the Inca, he and Screed had left Quebec, while Bourbon had remained behind; apparently, the burgeoning province held some sort of fascination for the French expatriate. So, it was just the two of them who had traveled to Europe where Screed had discovered the lure of Monte Carlo; Vachon had not been similarly affected and had eventually taken his leave. He had toured Eastern Europe for a while, but the old lands with their petty superstitions held little interest for him and he had found himself again traveling to North America. This time, Vachon chose to explore the United States and its western territories. The stories of the 'Wild West' had captivated his imagination and his excitement at experiencing similar adventures seemed boundless. Nevertheless, as easy as it was to do as he pleased, without having to worry about anyone else, he had come to find that he actually missed having someone with whom to share his exploits.

Now he found his head filled with prying questions; any excuse, apparently, for him to bed this deliciously warm body. Perhaps he had even found someone worthy of relieving his solitude, at least for a little while.

So, why did Honoria not love Radley? Why did she seem so unwilling to try? Why had she been so desperate for another man — for himself in particular — to fill her bed and to fill her instead? Vachon wanted to know.

As dark eyes blinked away the haze of a dream, Vachon placed a finger upon the soft lips, but when they threatened to break with a cry of alarm, he leaned in and smothered them with a kiss. He had no intention of eating and running this evening; no, he had questions that needed answers and cravings flamed by more than hunger to satisfy.

Vachon could taste so many things on those lips, but more overwhelming was the fragrance of the blood beneath. He had come to associate the varying aromas and flavors with things in nature — a flower, a plant, occasionally even a dish he had tasted as a mortal — but they were mere conveniences, a simple way of later recalling to mind things vastly more complex. He would remember this night the next time he caught scent of sage, lavender, pumpkin.... He had almost laughed; it was an absurd combination, but one he would never forget, one that would always remind him of the body he held and kissed, and longed to make his own.

Suddenly, a hand came up between them, pushing him away. Then a fist connected sharply with his jaw. Caught off-guard, Vachon fell backward as his intended — Matthew Radley — fled from beneath the covers.

"Get out!"

Vachon did not move; he rarely did as he was told, unless it suited him. He stared at the figure illuminated by the low, flickering fire in the hearth and suddenly felt a definitive thump inside his chest. Coincidence or irony, he was not sure. Either way, he did not intend to leave.

"I said, get out ... however you came in," Radley said.

"I came through the window. It was unlocked. I took it as an invitation."

"You took it wrong. Now leave."

Vachon smiled. He was enjoying this. But, perhaps, for the wrong reasons.

"I came for answers," Vachon said.

"I don't see that my life is any of your business."

"No, I suppose not." The man was right, but when had that ever made a difference to Vachon? He slipped off the bed and crossed the room.

Matthew Radley backed away until he was pressed against the wall beside the open window.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Vachon said.

"I would like to see you try." Radley brought his balled fists up in defense.

"No, I do not believe you would," Vachon said as he reached out and clasped the man's wrists in an unbreakable hold. He raised Radley's arms above his head and pinned them against the wall.

"Release me!" Radley demanded as he struggled against Vachon's grip.

Vachon easily held the man's wrists with one hand; the other hand he brought down, to stroke the man's cheek. Radley flinched beneath his touch.

"Fine. Ask your questions, and then leave," Radley said through gritted teeth.

"Who said I came to talk?" Vachon ran his thumb over his quarry's lower lip. The man sharply turned his head away, exposing the length of his neck. Vachon drew his finger down the column of blood, enjoying the feel of the smooth skin deflected by the erratic pulse beneath.

"Answers come in many forms," he finally told Radley, who, dressed only in a cotton nightshirt, was beginning to shiver beside the open window. "I have already learned that you are not in love with your fiancée."

"What miscreant told you such a thing?"

"You did. When you kissed me."

"I never—"

"I was there. Remember?" Vachon smiled, as he ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, tasting what lingered of the man's flavor. Vachon could feel the heat rising from the blush on Radley's face; apparently, he did remember after all. Vachon may have been the initiator, but Radley had responded, at least for a few moments.

"Then, if you have already learned what you wanted to know, leave," Radley finally said, though his voice wavered at the beginning.

"Oh, there is more I would like to know. For instance, the reasons why you do not love her."

Radley did not reply, though, in truth, Vachon had not actually posed a question. It was not words that he sought. He ran his hand down Radley's arm, but the man pulled away again; however, pressed against the wall beside the window, he had no place to retreat, not unless he planned to jump. Vachon did not think Radley was the type who would jump — neither confident enough that he would survive the fall, nor suicidal enough to risk it.

Radley did not want to die, that Vachon knew; it was an instinct he had honed over the years and one he often used to his advantage. People did many things in an attempt to avoid death; most were rather amusing to watch. He wondered what Radley would do.

When Radley did nothing, Vachon ran his hand down the man's chest, slowly, slipping over the peaks and valleys of muscle, down to the man's hip, where he paused. He had two options, and with another smile, Vachon chose what he hoped was the more surprising path. He moved his hand back, and then down again, to cup the man's firm cheek.

Radley let out a strangled gasp at Vachon's possessive touch, but otherwise, he did not move, as if he were paralyzed by fear. Vachon pulled Radley close, until he could feel the warmth of the man's body, radiating into him, even through the layers of their clothing. He could also feel something else, something more telling.

Vachon moved his hips forward, grinding his pelvis against Radley's, and was rewarded with another gasp. He moved again, rubbing his trousers against the thin cotton of Radley's nightshirt and the firm bulge beneath.

"Please," the man said in a harsh whisper.

It was a request, but one which could be taken many ways. Vachon wondered how carefully the man had chosen the word.

He slipped his hand lower, to Radley's bare thigh, and then up again, underneath the fabric of his nightshirt. Vachon caressed the smooth cheek, like a ripe melon, still warm from a day in the sun. Vachon pressed his lips against Radley's, forcing another kiss, until the man finally succumbed. He continued to move his hand over Radley's buttocks in ever-widening circles until his fingertips dipped into the deep cleft. Radley's hips bucked forward, rubbing against him. Vachon longed to tear away the fabric that separated them, but knew it was too soon: these things, when done properly, when most rewarding, took time.

Gently, Vachon moved his fingers deep into the cleft, seeking and finally finding precisely what he sought.

"I beg of you," Radley whispered.

A protest? A request? Vachon could not tell. He pressed a single finger forward, against the tight muscles, until the tip just penetrated.

Radley let out a gasp that turned into his first clear statement: "I— I've never done such a thing."

"I know," Vachon whispered in his ear. Radley was a virgin, in all senses of the word. Honoria would eat him alive on their wedding night, and the man would have no free will for the rest of his miserable life beneath her controlling thumb. Vachon could not believe it a future anyone would willingly choose; so, either Radley had yet to realize what awaited him or there were outside forces bringing these two people together. Vachon would have bet on the latter, given half a silver dollar.

"Your destiny is not set. You still have options," Vachon said as he continued to move gently into the man. Radley clutched at him, neither pulling away nor encouraging more. "What do you want from life?"

He nuzzled Radley's neck, breathing in his warm, intoxicating scent as he waited for an answer.

"It is not... what I...want, but what I must do... that shapes my life," Radley finally said, haltingly between rapid, nervous breaths.

"Occasionally, fate intervenes," Vachon replied, before kissing Radley's lips once more. This time, the man responded, closing his eyes as he opened to him, allowing him in. Vachon kissed him long, allowing his tongue to delve as deeply as his finger. He wanted so much more from Radley, so much more from him tonight. Perhaps if he were given a glimpse of all that lay outside these confining walls, this constraining life ... perhaps then he would chose not to proceed with the wedding.

With one swift motion, Vachon lifted away the nightshirt, discarding it like a premature death shroud. Then he moved Radley closer to the warmth of the fire as they resumed their kiss. Soon, Radley was pushing the coat from Vachon's shoulders and fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. However, when he laid hands upon Vachon's pale skin, he shrank back.

"You're so cold," Radley said, his brows furrowed with concern.

"'Tis merely the night air. I need only you and this fire to warm me," Vachon said as he took Radley in his arms again. Soon his shirt joined his discarded coat on the floor. Then Vachon was basking in the radiant warmth of Radley's body; he could almost recall the feel of the sun shining upon his skin, on the last day of his mortal life.

The allure of this man was too strong, and Vachon's hunger and need were both growing. He reached between them and took Radley's erection in hand, slowly stroking up and down the taut skin, the heat from the man's flesh almost painful against his palm. With his thumb, Vachon rubbed against his own desire, driving them both closer to the inevitable, until Radley pushed them apart.

They stared at each other and Vachon could not even guess what lay behind those dark eyes, smoldering like coals.

"I cannot do this," Radley finally said.

"Why?"

"I cannot betray Honoria."

Vachon nearly laughed. If only the man knew. "You do not love her."

"It is not about love. It is about duty. And promises made."

Vachon brought his hand up to Radley's cheek for a gentle caress, and then moved his thumb over the man's lower lip. A moment later, he stepped away from Radley and disappeared out the window....

Now, as the couple danced, Vachon noticed Honoria's hand on Radley's shoulder and his hand against the small of her back: a false intimacy, for public perception. It would be what defined their lives from now on. Radley had chosen to proceed with the ceremony, to exchange solemn marriage vows with Honoria. Something held sway over him, something greater than his own emotions and desires. Vachon wondered what it could be.

Suddenly the guests were clapping and the newlyweds were moving through the crowd, away from Vachon. Another interlude began and many couples began to fill the dance floor. Vachon thought about leaving, but the impulse was fleeting. Instead, he moved in the direction of the bride and groom and their families, as they formed a line to receive their guests.

Vachon shook the hand of an older gentleman — gray-haired and slightly balding, not quite as tall as he was, and a good deal stouter. There was a hint of Radley about the chin, but there the resemblance of son to father ended. Radley must favor his mother, though she was not present; Vachon could only guess that she was dead and perhaps had been for a long while.

"Congratulations," Vachon said when he shook the groom's hand. Radley added his other hand to clasp Vachon's on each side, and lingered longer than custom dictated. Their eyes met and Vachon noticed, for the first time this evening, a fire and a depth that reminded him of what they had shared the night before; perchance there was still hope for him.

Vachon reluctantly moved down the line, to stand before the bride. He took Honoria's hand, intent on placing it against his lips, to lay a polite kiss upon her fingers, but she gripped his hand firmly and pulled him close. He placed his chaste kiss upon her cheek instead.

As he did so, she whispered, "Where were you? Never mind. Come tonight instead." Another order. Vachon drew back from her, and then simply smiled before moving along to shake the hands of her grandparents.

After all the wedding guests had said their good-byes, Vachon looked in through the open bedroom window. The room was empty, and he could hear no heartbeats, so he stepped inside. There was brandy on a table nearby and he poured himself a dram before slouching into one of the wingback chairs that faced the fire blazing in the hearth. As he waited, he cradled the brandy snifter in his hand, though his flesh lent no warmth to the amber liquid.

After a while, he heard the door open. He heard two distinct heartbeats enter, but he did not rise to greet them. He was not here, after all, to see the couple.

"I thought they would never leave. I'm so tired from all of this." He recognized Honoria's voice; it was soothing and yet oddly harsh at the same time. Vachon heard her cross to the window and imagined that she was looking out, looking to see if he lurked below, in the shadows. Then she said, "Matthew, leave me."

"But Honoria—" Radley began to protest.

"I said, leave me. I need ... I need to prepare myself."

"As you wish." Radley relented, too easily in Vachon's estimation. Had it been him, had he been the eager groom, he would have had the blushing bride on her back, begging by now. However, this groom was not eager and this bride was not blushing. "I shall send for your maid."

"She is already on her way. Just go. I shall call you when I am ready," Honoria said, though Vachon easily guessed no maid would be coming to this chamber tonight.

A moment later, Vachon heard the door close. He stood and found Honoria at the open window. She soon grew impatient and turned away, but came up short when she found Vachon leaning against the mantle.

"How did you...?"

"The window, as directed," he said and she smiled, obviously pleased that he had followed her orders so diligently. Vachon smiled as well, but for reasons altogether different.

She crossed the room quickly then, and threw herself into his arms.

"We have little time. Come, be with me," she said as she pulled him toward the bed, and he allowed it. She slipped her arms around him again, kissing him, then pressed him back against the bed. With all her weight upon him, and with no resistance on his part, they fell onto the mattress, her skirts tangling their legs. She pulled at the satin fabric, trying to yank it out from between them, trying to wrap her bare legs around him.

"This is your wedding night," Vachon reminded her.

"Yes, yes, I know. Do you honestly think I want to be bedded by ... by that milquetoast I married? If I am to inherit, I must produce an heir and I prefer it to be of stronger stock than that."

Vachon now knew Honoria's reason for marrying: money. However, the specifics of Radley's motivation still eluded him. It did not matter. He would find out, eventually.

When Honoria finally succeeded in pulling her skirts up, she proceeded to work on Vachon's pants. It was then that Vachon heard the door open, but Honoria seemed not to hear the small sound. Radley stood just inside the doorway, stock still, watching as Honoria pulled at Vachon's belt.

She was having a good deal of difficulty, what with the great billows of her skirt; eventually, her impatience had her groaning in frustration. "Why do you just lay there? Help me!"

"No, Honey. I will not," Vachon said, but this only caused Honoria's temper to flare.

"We do not have much time! You must  bed me before Matthew returns!"

When the bedroom door slammed shut, Honoria whipped her head about. She gasped at the unexpected sight of her husband. Vachon allowed himself the smallest of smiles. She had dug her own grave: who was he to stop her from jumping in?

"Matthew! Thank God you are here," she cried as she scrambled off the bed. "Jonathan Vaughn, he ... he broke in," she finally declared, pointing toward Vachon. She crossed to her husband, but stopped when he made no move to meet her part way. Suddenly suppliant, she begged, "Please, Matthew. You must know: he forced me! You must believe it."

Vachon moved behind her and caught her around the waist with one arm. She immediately began to struggle, so he clamped his other arm around her shoulder, grabbing the opposite side of her face with a firm hand, restraining her.

"Yes, I forced her," Vachon said. "I forced her to pin me to the bed. I forced her to lift her skirts. I forced her to make you a cuckold on your wedding night. Believe her, if you will. Believe her and I will leave."

Radley said nothing for a long moment and Vachon saw his eyes moving from his face to Honoria's and back. "I believe you," he finally said and Vachon felt Honoria's taut frame relax in obvious relief. "I believe you, Vaughn."

Honoria's gasp of surprise caught in her throat. It was the last sound she made as Vachon jerked his hand to the side, snapping her neck. He then released his hold and Honoria crumbled to the floor like a discarded rag doll.

"You ... you ... killed her?"

"Yes." He would make no apology for it; he never did.

"Why, Vaughn?" Radley stared at her limp form until realization dawned. "Oh, God! They will think I did it. They will blame me."

Vachon stepped over Honoria as he moved to Radley, catching the man in his arms. He hugged Radley close, as he turned him away from the sight of his dead bride.

"It does not matter now. Your life here is over. Come with me and I will show you things you have only dreamed of." Then something Screed had once said echoed through Vachon's mind and formed on his lips. "It is the only life for a man: being a vampire."

"Vampire?" Radley seemed struck yet again. Too many unexpected, unbelievable things were assailing him this night: the infidelity of his bride, her death, and now this. Vachon was unsure how the man would cope.

"Come with me, Radley. Come with me and I'll show you."

"But my father.... He was counting on me.... He was counting on this marriage, this alliance with the Rothdales.... He ... he intends to be governor."

Vachon pulled away, to stare into Radley's brown eyes, now brimming with confusion. He saw the flickering light from the hearth reflected there and knew that he could bring a true fire to those eyes. "You are free, Radley, to do as you will. Your life begins now."

"But people will talk. What will they say?" he asked as Vachon led him toward the open window.

"A dead bride? A vanished groom? On All Hallow's Eve? Why, it will be the stuff of legend and ghost stories for centuries to come. You will be immortal, Radley. You only need come with me for it to be so."

Vachon gripped Radley tightly about the waist, and then leapt from the small balcony high into the night air as the dark orange moon began to rise slowly in the east.

END

Thanks to Bons R. and Nancy W. for the beta read!

At Disneyland Paris, the Haunted Mansion is in the style of a lone, neglected Victorian mansion sitting high on a desolate hill somewhere in the American Old West;
the story the ride tells is of a groom who vanished on his wedding night and the dead bride who now haunts the mansion. This story was conceived on that ride.

A portrait of Matthew Radley