It didn’t take long for the first guests to arrive. She could just imagine the beautiful carriages pulling up the limestone lane, drawn by magnificent horses with plumes in their manes. The footmen rushed through the ballroom, lighting the last of the candles and oil lamps. The crystal chandeliers glittered over tables laden with all manner of delicacies: strawberries, marzipan birds, sugared orange peels, roast goose, oysters, lavender biscuits, petits fours, and chocolate-glazed candies. Isabeau rubbed her stomach, which was growling at the sight of so many desserts. She’d missed her supper by hiding away from her nurse.
She forgot her hunger the very moment the guests began to pour through the doors. The women laughed behind painted lace fans, the men bowed with sharp precision. She could smell the heavy perfume and eau de toilette mingling with the warm pâtés being circulated on silver platters. Champagne flowed like rivers at springtime. The orchestra began to play and the music filled every corner, even the dark space of the armoire. She imagined this was what angels’ music must sound like, all pianoforte and harp and the soaring, ethereal voice of the opera singer.
Her parents joined the crowds just as the gaming tables began to fill up. Painted cards and coins changed hands. Someone’s pet poodle growled at the singer. Isabeau felt her stomach clutch hungrily again and wondered if she dared escape her safe hiding spot. If she was caught not only would she be sent straight to bed, which would be mortifying enough, but she’d also never be able to use this armoire to hide in again. She chewed on her lower lip, considering. Finally the smell of all that food grew to be too heavy a temptation.
She eased the door open a few inches, waiting to see if she’d been noticed. A couple passed by, intertwined. They paused, kissing passionately. Isabeau made a disgusted face. The man looked as if he was trying to eat that lady’s face. It didn’t look comfortable at all. He should eat some supper if he was that hungry.
She slipped out, landing quietly to hide behind the woman’s gown. Her panniers stuck out so far on either side of her, she was the width of three people. Neither she nor her companion noticed. They seemed to be breathing rather hard, as if they’d run a race around the garden. Isabeau abandoned them for the thick brocade curtains, pouncing from one window to another. Most of the guests were laughing too loudly, drinking strawberry-garnished champagne, and losing money with great shouts at the card tables. No one noticed her. It felt a little like being inside a kaleidoscope, swirling with colors and sounds and smells. It made her a little dizzy and she was glad for the relative safety of the buffet tables. She rolled under the first one she could reach, well hidden behind the floating white tablecloths.
From this angle, the gleaming parquet floor showed the scuff marks of fine shoes and beeswax drippings from the candles. She’d never seen so many silk slippers and silver buckles in her whole life. She couldn’t wait to host parties of her own, just like this one.
She slipped her hand up the back of the table, where it was nearly against the wall, and took a blind handful. She’d been hoping for madeleines or a puff pastry filled with custard. The oyster was slimy and thick, though its shell was pretty enough. Perhaps she’d keep it on her desk and use it to display her treasures: a stone with a perfect hole through its center, a stalk of dried lavender, Sabot’s baby canine.
The second handful was far more worth the risk of discovery. The cakes were light and smeared with icing and raspberries. They stained her fingertips red, like blood. She thought her teeth must be red too and she bared them like an animal, grinning. She’d have to remember this trick the next time she played with Joseph, one of the young stable boys. It would scare him silly and she would be avenged for the prank he’d played on her last month with that bucket of cold water.
She ate until she was full and sleepy and her teeth ached a little from all the sweets. She curled into a little ball and pillowed her cheek on her hands. One of the poodles sniffed his way toward her and lay down beside her, licking the last of the raspberry juice off her fingers. One by one, the little dogs found her, creeping under the tablecloth in their diamond collars to lick her face and snore themselves to sleep against her. Smiling, she fell asleep as well under her canine blanket, holding the ribbon of her mother’s dress.
CHAPTER 7
Isabeau
The Host led us through the woods at a comfortable pace. He was stumbling enough to leave a trail of broken branches and blood. He healed quickly though and by the time he stopped in a shadowed clearing, there was only the scent of blood remaining, and only very faintly. Logan nodded to a tangle of blackberry bushes. The thorns would pull and scratch but it offered the best protection; everything else was delicate feathery ferns. We crouched silently, waiting. I tried not to remember how my mother had loved blackberry tarts best of all, tried not to feel the scrap of worn silk burning in my pocket. I was grinding my teeth loud enough that Logan nudged me, frowning.
I tethered myself firmly to the present, focused on the mud under our feet, the thicket of leaves, the white flowers glowing on the border of the meadow, the Host standing in the tall grass. The gleaming marble and gilded scrollwork of the château of my youth faded slowly. Dusty grapes became ripe blackberries, piano music became the silence of crickets sensing predators nearby, lavender fields became a dark forest.
The Host wasn’t alone for long, as two more joined him from the direction of the Drake farms.
“They got Nigel,” one of them spat. He was pale enough to gleam in the moonlight, as if he’d been covered in crushed pearls.
“Got me too,” the one we’d tracked muttered. “Isabeau stabbed me, the bitch. Ripped my damn shirt. Since when do the royal courts have Hound whelps for backup?”
“Everything’s changing, Jones.” The third Host shrugged pragmatically. “Was Montmartre’s gift delivered?”
“Doorstep,” Jones confirmed. “As ordered.”
Logan’s lips lifted off his protruding fangs but he didn’t make a sound. I was impressed at his control. I’d assumed the Drake brothers were a wild, undisciplined lot, being royal and all. It would have been easy to forget by their fine manners that they’d been exiled from the royal court since Solange was born, and strongly discouraged from attending for at least a century before that. They all carried themselves with a certain flair and confidence.
Jones was fully healed now and pacing a rut in the ground. “Any word from Greyhaven?”
The name hit me so hard I flinched as if I’d been struck, then I went as still as a hungry lion spotting a gazelle. A red haze covered my eyes, as if I looked through a mist of blood. If I’d had a heartbeat, it would have been loud as a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. Time seemed to go backward, speed up, and then stop altogether.
“He’s with Montmartre, waiting for the right time.”
“We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?” Jones grumbled.
“He wants everything to be perfect this time. No surprises.” The first smirked. “Well, not for us anyway. The Drakes will be plenty surprised.”
I knew they were still talking but their words barely registered. All I could hear was that one word.
Greyhaven.
Greyhaven.
My skull felt like a church bell, ringing the same sound over and over again.
I hissed, tensing to leap out of the bushes, my vengeance closer than it had ever been before. They knew where Greyhaven was, could lead me to him so I could kill him for murdering me.
I never made it out of my crouch.
Logan was on me, quick as a hornet. His hand pressed over my mouth, his eyes flaring a warning above me. He was close enough that I could have bitten him, if he hadn’t had my jaws locked together. His body chained mine to the ground. He was stronger than I’d given him credit for, but I was faster and could have flipped him into the nearest tree.
Only the realization that I’d been about to give us away altogether made me pause.
Even Charlemagne was smart enough to stay quiet, though he was trembling
with the need to protect me. I wanted the fight with Jones, with all of them, even if it meant giving away our only tactical advantage: a mere hint of a plan whispered by a group of Host in the woods. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly more than we’d had at the beginning of the evening.
And I didn’t care. I would have thrown it all away for a chance at Greyhaven.
And Logan knew it.
He stayed where he was, stretched out as if he were protecting me from a rain of fiery arrows, a crumbling mountain, some unseen danger. But the danger wasn’t anywhere but inside my chest, circling like a vulture.
It took every ounce of strength I could muster not to hurl him off me. I forced my body to soften infinitesimally, molding me into the undergrowth. Even at that small surrender, Logan didn’t move. His scent was strong: anise, wine, a faint trace of mint. I knew I smelled like scalded wine and sugar to him—Kala told me I always smelled that way when I was furious beyond logic. The rage boiling on my skin didn’t faze him. His fangs didn’t retract; his face stayed mere inches from mine. Most vampires cowered away from a shamanka’s handmaiden when she was in this state. Logan was too busy listening to the others to cower.
“Any nibbles from the old guard?”
“Yes, most of those loyal to Lady Natasha’s memory fled when the Drake woman murdered her, but a few stayed behind for a more subtle attack. They’ll join with us when it’s time.”
“Good. Let’s get the hell out of here. The Drake boys are probably still out looking for us.”
The Host took off between the trees, toward the mountain. Logan stayed where he was and we stared at each other for a long, strange moment. In the shadows, his eyes were the color of sugared limes. Lovely and distracting, but not that distracting.
When our enemies were far enough away, I heaved him off me with a sudden violent jerk.
I rose into a crouch, panting. My body might not need air but breathing remained a habit, especially in times of stress. Logan hit the trunk of a birch and twisted in the air to land on the balls of his feet right front of me.
We both crouched, fangs bared, muscles tensed for attack.
We might have stayed there for the rest of the night if it wasn’t for Charlemagne, who whined once, confused. It was like a flame was blown out.
Logan stood, all feral grace and ironic smile. He looked as comfortable and pretty as a guest at one of my parents’ balls, even shirtless. I was still panting, nearly nauseous from the swirl of emotions swamping my stomach: anticipation, anger, regret, humiliation. My mother’s dress, Greyhaven. It was very nearly too much. I stood slowly, like an old woman. Charlemagne pressed his cold nose into the palm of my hand for comfort and I wasn’t sure which of us needed the comfort more.
“Are you okay?” Logan asked quietly.
I nodded jerkily. “I’m sorry.” I was accustomed to being lauded for my focus and control.
“What happened? Do you know that Greyhaven guy?”
“Oui.”
His eyes narrowed on my face. “Who is he? What did he do to you?”
“What makes you think he did anything?” I stepped out of the blackberry thicket, scenting the air for any trace of Host. We were alone.
Logan’s expression was grim. “Isabeau, I saw the look on your face.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m fine now. We should return.”
I turned to walk back through the trees but he grabbed my arm. “You nearly lost it back there.”
I stiffened. It didn’t make it any more palatable that he was right. “But I didn’t.”
“Next time, you could put my sister in danger with your temper.”
I swallowed a hot retort. “It won’t happen again.”
“I know,” he sighed, letting his hand drop. For some indiscernible reason, I felt its absence. It was as if I were cold now, and I never got cold.
I didn’t know what it was about Logan that flustered me like this. I was going to have to find a way to stay away from him. He clearly wasn’t good for me.
“I can see it’s not in your nature to give like that. Would you tell me what he did to you, anyway? Please?”
I lifted my chin, refusing to be pitied.
“He’s the one who turned me and then left me in a coffin underground for two centuries.”
•
We didn’t speak again on our way back to the farmhouse. As far as diplomatic missions went, mine was already a disaster. I’d attacked a family friend, got doused with Hypnos, and nearly went mad with rage—all in one night.
No wonder I was so exhausted.
We’d barely been gone for half an hour, for all that it felt like days. Logan’s brothers were all dressed and sitting in a grim half circle around the foil-wrapped package in the parlor. Solange was frowning at it, tapping her fingers on her knees. Lucy was asleep on the sofa, her head resting on Nicholas’s leg. He’d draped an afghan over her, and she looked tiny and defenseless in a room of predators who couldn’t help but hear the temptation of her heartbeat. She dozed on, utterly trusting.
“Did you get any of them?” Quinn snarled.
“Yeah, we tracked one, thanks to Isabeau,” Logan replied wearily, dropping down to sit in a chair.
“And?”
“And we got minimal info and nothing we hadn’t already guessed: traitors and surprise attacks.”
“I can’t believe the bastard got through our defenses.” Quinn continued to seethe. He shot to his feet and prowled the room, his agitation rousing Lucy. She blinked blearily at him, then at Logan and me.
“You’re back.” She yawned. She glanced at Solange. “Quit staring at it so hard—you’ll give yourself a migraine.”
Solange pried her gaze away with visible effort, turning to me. “Is it safe to open it? I mean, Bruno scanned it and everything, so we know it’s not a bomb or anthrax or whatever, but still. What do you think?”
“I would always rather know what I’m dealing with,” I said.
Logan groaned. “You would so open the bomb every time, even when it’s ticking right at you.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant. I was still getting used to modern vernacular, and English at that, but Solange nodded fervently at me. “Exactly. These guys just want me to play Snow White singing in her little cottage while they do all the work.”
Lucy snorted. “Snow White and the Seven Buttheads. You could give Disney a run for their money.”
Nicholas poked her in the ribs. “I am not a singing dwarf!”
“No, you’re a butthead. Weren’t you paying attention?” She grinned and kissed him quickly.
“I’m opening it,” Solange announced suddenly, grabbing the package.
Every single one of her brothers started to talk at once, voicing the same basic variation on two themes: “Don’t” and “Let me.” She ignored them and tore at the paper instead. The box underneath was plain white cardboard, the kind for transporting cakes. She bit her lip, pausing very briefly. Nicholas reached across to take it from her and she slapped his hand away without even looking at him. She lifted the lid, leaning backward slightly, as if she expected something to leap out of it like an evil jack-in-the-box. Her brothers did the opposite and all leaned in closer. Then we went as still as only vampires could go, prepared to attack, prepared for anything except what was actually in the box.
Lucy shuddered. “You guys are creeping me out. Quit it.”
“That’s it?” Solange asked, finally breaking the tableau. In the center of the box was a red velvet pillow displaying a small lump wrapped in red thread. It smelled strongly of rose water and cinnamon. My nose itched. “What is it?” she asked.
I knew exactly what it was.
“Isabeau?” Logan turned to look at me. I wondered what made him already so sensitive to my moods.
“It’s a love spell,” I said flatly.
“What?” Solange recoiled. “Ew. God. Do these things even work?”
“Sometimes.”
Her eyes widened
. “Seriously?” She stood up to put more distance between her and the box. “Why won’t he just go away? I thought this would finally stop after my birthday.”
“He doesn’t stop, not ever,” I said. As a Hound, I knew Montmartre and his Host better than anyone. “He has the patience of a snake and that’s what makes him so dangerous, more so than his cruelty or strength or selfishness.”
“Will he ever get it that I don’t want to be queen and I sure as hell don’t want to marry him?”
“No,” I replied truthfully. “Not unless you tell him with the help of a stake through the heart.”
She was pressing her back against the far wall; any farther and she’d be through the window and in the garden. “Um, is it my imagination, or do I feel funny?”
“It’s possible.” I stood up, sniffing at the charm. “It’s very strong. Those are two apple seeds wrapped in red thread and a strand of your hair. He must have gotten it that night we stopped him in the caves. And that’s a hummingbird heart it’s all pierced into.”
“What do we do?” The whites of her eyes were showing now, like a wild horse.
“Don’t panic,” Lucy said soothingly. “And what is it with you guys and disgusting hearts?”
“Lucy, I don’t hate him right now! Not like I should!”
“I’ll hate him enough for the two of us until we figure this out,” she promised grimly.
“Let’s burn it,” Quinn said, reaching for the box and tossing it toward the dwindling fire in the hearth.
“No!” I cried out, leaping to catch it before it fell. The charm was pinned to the heart pillow, which I plucked out of the air. The box landed in the embers and caught almost instantly. Light flared into the room. Everyone stared at me. “Fire will only make it stronger,” I explained. “Fire is passion.”
Blood Feud Page 6
