by Lynsay Sands
“I told you, they weren’t true lifemates. Jean Claude Argeneau could read and control Marguerite from the day they met.”
“Why the devil did he turn and marry her then?” his father asked with outrage.
“Apparently, she is a mirror image of his wife before the fall of Atlantis,” Marcus explained.
“Sabia,” Marzzia murmured and then her eyes widened and she began to nod. “Yes. Yes. She did look like her. Very like her.”
“You knew Jean Claude’s first wife?” Julius asked with surprise.
“Of course,” Marzzia said with a shrug that seemed to say it should be expected, and then added thoughtfully, “And you are sure they were not lifemates?”
“It is well known among her family,” Marcus repeated. “I read it from Vincent’s mind.”
“And Jean Claude controlled her?” Marzzia asked, definitely looking troubled.
“Yes,” Julius affirmed on a sigh. “It is no secret among her clan that he made her life miserable all the years of their marriage. Especially the last five hundred years.”
“Punishment,” Marzzia said with a wise nod. “Punishing her for loving you.”
Nicodemus raised his eyebrows with amusement at his wife’s words. “Now you think she maybe didn’t do those things? Throwing over our son? Ordering her own child murdered?”
Marzzia shrugged. “Why erase the memory if it was true? Besides, she did love our Julius. Who could not love him? And he was her true lifemate; no woman would choose Jean Claude over our Julius, especially when he was her lifemate. No.” She shook her head. “Jean Claude could control her and he did. He made her do those things and then wiped her memory of the whole incident,” she decided firmly and then clucked her tongue, compassion claiming her expression. “Oh, the poor girl! She is an innocent in all this…torn from her love and child…suffering all these years. I must go see her!”
“No! Wait, Mama,” Julius growled with frustration, hurrying after her.
“And I am going to welcome her to my bosom as my own daughter,” she announced striding toward the door. “Marzzia,” Nicodemus said quietly, and she stopped, “let Julius explain. There is more going on here than we yet know.”
Julius eyed the man warily, wondering if he’d read him. It was a problem with parents. They were harder to keep out of your thoughts.
“What don’t we know?” Marzzia asked, moving back to her husband.
“The only reason I called you was to find out if it was possible to do a three-on-one to an immortal,” he explained with a sigh. “Marcus and I have never heard of it being done.”
“Most think it impossible,” Nicodemus said with a nod. “And are encouraged to think so to prevent it from being done. It is a very dangerous procedure. It takes much longer than with a mortal, sometimes days. The three involved must be old and strong with the stamina to finish it. They must completely supersede the working of the victim’s brain to do it and if they take too long about it or make a mistake…” He shrugged. “They will die.”
“But there would be nothing wrong with them afterward except that the memories are missing?” Julius asked with concern. “They couldn’t suddenly be read and controlled by all and sundry?”
“At first they could,” he admitted slowly. “It is a great trauma on the one it is done to. Even if they survive they are usually not the same directly afterward. Often they are catatonic, easily controlled until their mind heals and they recover their ability to think and make decisions again.”
“How long would that take?” Julius asked, suddenly worried for Marguerite.
Nicodemus narrowed his eyes, knowing there was a reason for the question, finally he asked, “You say Jean Claude controlled her throughout their marriage?”
“Yes,” Julius said quietly and asked, “Is that because of the three-on-one?”
Nicodemus smiled. “You always were a clever boy. Yes, that is why. He may have been able to control her when he first turned her, but it would have become harder and harder over time as she grew stronger and developed the ability to guard against it. By the time he supposedly died, and perhaps another fifty years or so afterward, he would have found it very difficult indeed to control her unless he was making physical contact or she was tired and vulnerable. However, in the normal course of things, these last four hundred years or more, he shouldn’t have been able to control her at all, and yet you say he did.” He shrugged. “That is another symptom of the three-on-one. It is as if once they have been inside the mind, tinkering around with it, they leave an opening they can reach through at any time afterward to take control of her mind. She could easily have been controlled when she gave the maid the order to kill Christian.”
Julius nodded, he’d already come to that conclusion. Now he asked the other question he’d wanted to ask his father. “Could she have been made to kill the maid?”
“Certainly. They could completely take over her will, just as we do with mortals.”
“But without being in the townhouse at the time?” Julius asked. “Jean Claude was not in the townhouse when Magda was killed.”
“And there was no one in the townhouse in York when Marguerite tried to walk out this morning,” Marcus added when Nicodemus started to shake his head.
Julius’s father paused at this news. “Marguerite has been controlled since Jean Claude’s death?”
Julius and Marcus exchanged a glance. He had only told his parents what Marcus had discovered in California, that Marguerite didn’t recall anything. He hadn’t brought up the recent attacks on her, but now he told them about the attacks at the hotel and restaurant and Marguerite’s being controlled that morning in the townhouse.
“I do not know,” Nicodemus admitted on a sigh. “I have never heard that they can be controlled from a distance, but I suppose it is possible. The question would be who is doing the controlling now?”
“We think it is Jean Claude,” Julius said quietly.
“What?” Marzzia gasped, giving up the silence she’d kept through the last part of the conversation. “But you said he was dead.”
“He was supposed to be dead five hundred years ago too,” Julius pointed out.
“Do not settle on him and forget the other two,” his father warned. “They too could control her. You must consider all three as possibly being the threat now.”
“But we don’t know who the other two are,” Julius said with frustration.
“They would have to be people he trusted, who were old and strong like he was.”
Julius nodded slowly as he considered who the other two might have been.
“Martine and Lucian are old enough,” Nicodemus said thoughtfully.
Julius’s head shot up at this comment from his father, and his eyes widened with horror.
“Well, they aren’t likely to back up the truth about that time, then,” Marcus said dryly.
Marguerite set the phone back in its cradle and dropped back into the desk chair with a groan. The fates were against her. She was sure they must be. It was the only explanation for her continued inability to reach Martine and Lucian. She had approached the desk intending to look for the picture, but then she’d spotted the telephone and decided to try to reach Martine and Lucian again instead. The answering machine had picked up at Lucian’s on the second ring. She hadn’t bothered to leave a message this time, simply hanging up. Marguerite had then tried Martine. The housekeeper had answered and assured her that yes, indeed, Martine was back from London. Unfortunately, she’d gone out to visit a friend. She shouldn’t be out too much longer, though, did she want to leave a message?
Frustrated by these repeated attempts and misses, Marguerite had left the number listed on the phone she was using and asked her to have Martine call her back. With her luck, the number on the phone was probably the wrong one, Marguerite thought. She seemed destined to remain in this limbo of not knowing. It was driving her mad.
She made a face and glanced at the desk before her. It wouldn’t
surprise her if she tried every drawer and came up empty; it really was one of those days. Shaking her head at her doomsday attitude, Marguerite sat up and reached for the top drawer. She was so positive she wouldn’t have any success that when she pulled it open and saw the painting, she just stared at it for several minutes.
There were papers on top of the painting, obscuring most of it, but it was definitely the bottom corner of a painting sticking out. Taking a breath, Marguerite reached for it, pausing when she saw that her hand was trembling. Closing her eyes, she squeezed her fingers into a tight fist, holding it for a moment before releasing it, and then she opened her eyes and lifted the picture out from beneath the papers.
Marguerite dropped back in the seat, her eyes swimming over the image on the canvas with amazement. It was her…and not her. At least not a her she knew. The features were the exact same, the shape and color of her eyes, the shade and wave of her hair, the full, bowed lips, the straight nose…
But this was not the woman she saw in the mirror each morning. That woman could feign a smile with the best of them, but they rarely reached her eyes. Only her children could really make her smile, and then that was only recently. For the last six hundred to almost seven hundred years, the eyes that had met hers in the mirror had been sad and lonely. Neither description fit the Marguerite in the painting.
Her clothes were fifteenth-century wear, a long forest green gown. And the artist had been a true artiste. He’d caught the sparkle of laughter in her eyes and had somehow made happiness radiate from every brushstroke. The woman in the image glowed with love and joy…and she was heavy with child.
“Christian,” she breathed, brushing one finger over her swollen stomach in the portrait. He hadn’t mentioned this bit of information, but it was now obvious why he’d assumed the woman was his mother.
Her gaze drifted over the image again, this time stopping on her throat. A medal hung there from a chain. It was a gold St. Christopher’s medal, portraying a bearded man with a staff in his hand and a bundle on his back. Well done as it was, Marguerite couldn’t make out these details in the portrait. She knew because she recalled the medal. She’d worn it every day of her life from the moment her eldest son, Lucern, had given it to her when he was a boy of eighteen. He’d purchased it with his earnings from his first mercenary job and presented it to her on her birthday. She’d never taken it off, not to sleep, to bathe…never. And yet one day she’d noticed it was missing. That was about five hundred years ago. The loss had upset her greatly at the time.
“It’s in the drawer.”
Marguerite gave a start of surprise and glanced guiltily toward the door as Vita closed it and crossed the room.
“The necklace,” she explained, “it’s in the drawer as well.”
Marguerite glanced down into the drawer and spotted the end of a gold chain sticking out from beneath the papers. Reaching out, she tugged it forward with her finger, and then picked it up.
“You gave that to my brother the day he left to take my sister, Mila, to court. You told him it would bring him back safely to you.”
“I thought I lost it,” she whispered, peering at the medal.
“I suppose in a way you did,” Vita murmured.
They were both silent for a minute, and then Marguerite cleared her throat and said, “Julius said he would show me the painting when we got here, but he was busy with your parents, so I came…”
“Snooping?” Vita suggested, the words softened by a smile. “I’m afraid I would have too. I am not the most patient soul. I come by it naturally. My mother isn’t very patient either, though she’ll deny it to her death.” She made a face. “It is unladylike to be impatient, you understand.”
Marguerite smiled wryly and admitted, “Then I am afraid I’m not very ladylike.”
“We should get along well, then,” Vita said with a laugh. “My parents despair of me. My interests are too masculine; hunting, riding, battle, and the business. They were terribly glad when Julius was born and could take over helping Father to handle family business. They were sure I would come to enjoy more feminine pursuits then.”
“And have you?” Marguerite asked.
“No,” she admitted with a laugh. “I love business. I think fate cheated me and I was meant to be a boy.”
“Business,” Marguerite said softly, a memory clicking into place. “Of course, you are the sister who was helping Julius with the business while he was in England.”
Vita grimaced, a flicker of anger flashing briefly in her eyes. “Helping with the business? Is that what he called it?” she asked with disgust. “I could build a castle singlehandedly and a man would say I helped out.” She heaved a sigh. “Men! You can’t live with them and you can’t kill them. What can you do?”
Marguerite bit her lip and glanced down at the picture in her hand to hide the sparkle of amusement in her eyes. She’d often heard similar complaints from her daughter and supposed she’d made a few herself.
She sensed Vita leaning over her shoulder to peer at the picture as well. They were both silent for a moment, then Vita said, “Everyone knows about this picture and the necklace in the drawer. It’s hard to keep a secret in this family.”
“Does Julius know you all know?”
Vita straightened, her expression thoughtful as she considered the question. “I don’t think so. At least, no one has said anything to him as far as I know, not in all the five hundred years that he has kept your picture here.” She glanced at the portrait again and said sadly, “You were both so happy back then. Julius had always been happy by nature, but…when he found you…” She shook her head. “I have never seen him like that.” She gave a little sigh. “It was all so tragic when we thought you’d broken his heart and tried to kill his child.”
Marguerite winced at the words.
“Julius changed overnight. There was no more laughter, no more smiles. He was so unhappy. We thought it would ease with time, but it has been five hundred years.”
Marguerite swallowed unhappily and made an effort at changing the subject. “Did I know you too?”
“Not well,” Vita said, her eyes still examining the picture. “You and Julius were a bit wrapped up in each other at first as is natural. Actually,” she gave a laugh and said almost apologetically, “it was kind of sickening at the time. You were constantly making eyes at each other and touching each other. You couldn’t stand to be apart. I was half jealous and half appalled to think that I might someday behave like that when I met my lifemate.”
Marguerite didn’t take offense at the comment. She’d borne witness to her own children’s discovery of their lifemates and knew exactly what she was talking about. She had found herself both happy for them in their joy, and at the same time, a touch envious and almost depressed that she didn’t have that. It was hard to be alone when there were happy couples around. It made you wonder what was wrong with you.
“But then,” Vita continued, “when it all fell apart, I almost found myself wishing for a return of the lovey-dovey business that came before.”
“God, he was so in love with you, and so miserable without you. The man moped endlessly.” She frowned then glanced at Marguerite and said, “I overheard Julius telling Mother and Father that you don’t remember anything from that period. Is that true?”
Marguerite nodded unhappily, her gaze sliding back to the picture as she tried to recall posing for it.
“Nothing at all?” Vita pressed.
“Nothing,” Marguerite admitted unhappily.
Vita patted her shoulder. “I’m sure they’ll return in time.”
“Do you really think so?” she asked, eager to believe that.
“Well, Dante and Tommaso were saying that you named all your dogs Julius.”
“Yes, I have,” Marguerite realized. In all this excitement and upset it hadn’t occurred that she’d named her dogs Julius, every one, over several centuries. It was a lot of dogs.
“And dogs are faithful and loya
l and give love freely much like my brother,” she pointed out and then nodded. “I think you must have memories still in there somewhere. Perhaps they’re just locked away where you can’t reach them at present.”
Marguerite hoped that was true. Not that it would make much difference to her feelings. She had fallen in love with the man all over again and now that she had seen the portrait, she was quite sure what he’d said was true. Jean Claude had somehow wiped her memory, made her leave Julius, and tried to make her have her own child killed.
Thank God for the maid, Magda, Marguerite thought and then frowned as she recalled she had apparently murdered the poor woman for failing her.
“He was really angry about that,” Vita commented, and when Marguerite glanced at her with wide eyes, she said, “I’m sorry. It’s rude to read you, I know, but he is my little brother and I wouldn’t want to see him hurt again. He was crushed when you returned to your husband the last time. You aren’t going to do that again, are you?”
“Jean Claude is dead,” Marguerite said, but wondered if it was true.
“Yes, well, he was supposed to be dead the last time too,” Vita pointed out.
“So I’ve been told,” she murmured, beginning to fret. Jean Claude was dead. He had to be.
“So, you wouldn’t return to him if it turned out he was still alive?” Vita pressed and then added quickly, “It is just that I know what Julius can be like in a fury and while he was heartbroken for himself, he was furious about Christian. But he isn’t naturally cruel, so if he was a bit mean to you when the two of you first met again in England—”
“He wasn’t,” Marguerite assured her quickly, but thought he would have had every right to be.
“Good.” Vita nodded and turned away. “I should go see if they’re done talking yet. We were on our way to the office to discuss a project I want the company to bid on when Father insisted on stopping here to see if Julius was back yet.”
Marguerite waited until the door had closed behind the woman and then peered down at the portrait and necklace in her hands. Her gaze slid over the woman in the image and she thought to herself that she could be that woman again…glowing with love and happiness. The possibility made her heart ache with yearning.
