Blood Feud

by Alyxandra Harvey

  “Oncle Olivier?” she asked tentatively. She’d never met him before but she’d expected he’d have some family resemblance, her father’s cheekbones perhaps, or the famous St. Croix green eyes. This man was taller than any of her relatives and sniffed disdainfully.

  “Lord St. Cross does not receive muddy boys who smell like you do,” he informed her. “Off with you.” He went to shut the door. She shoved her foot against it.

  “Attend, s’il te plaît!” Her cap dislodged in her agitation, letting her hair spill out. She knew she must look half wild with her babbling in another language and her pleading, watery eyes. “Non! Monsieur!”

  “If you go to the back door Cook will feed you, child. And then on your way.” He shoved the door shut. She yanked at the handle but it was locked. She bit back tears of frustration. Weeping wasn’t going to help her. She’d just have to find another way in.

  The butler had pointed to the lane along the house. She tromped along it, gathering mud on her boots. A light rain began to fall, further muddying the lane. One of the windows was partially open, the curtains billowing in the wind. She looked around to make sure no one was watching her before diving into the rosebushes to get a better look. Thorns scraped the back of her hands and pulled at her hair. Stupid roses. Petals fell over her, cloying as perfume under the warm rain.

  The parlor had several chairs with embroidered cushions and a pianoforte in one corner. The ceiling was painted with cherubs. She shuddered. How was a person supposed to relax with fat floating babies staring at the top of her head all day long? Between the angels and the gilded candlesticks and shell-encrusted lamps, the room was hideously overly decorated.

  But at least it was empty.

  She pushed the window open a little more and then shoved her leg through the opening, hugging the sill as she squirmed her way inside. She could smell lemon wax and more roses. The house was remarkably quiet for one so large. She wondered if she had any cousins banished to the attic nursery. No dog came to greet her, no cat slunk out from under the table. Her heart resumed its regular pace.

  She went out into the hallway, wondering where her uncle might be. If he was awake he’d surely be in his study. That was where her father had spent most of his time when he wasn’t on horseback or escorting her mother to some soiree. Even the hall was beautiful, with framed paintings, gilded sconces, marble-topped tables, and urns of flowers. She had to fight the urge to slip a small silver snuffbox into her pocket.

  She turned a corner and walked straight into the butler.

  He yelped but was much faster than she’d anticipated and hauled her off her feet by the sleeve of her coat before she could dart out of his reach. Her instinct was to run and hide but that was hardly going to get her what she wanted. The butler shook her.

  “I’m calling the magistrate. We don’t take kindly to intruders here in England. I don’t care if you are a girl!”

  Isabeau did the only thing she could think of.

  She opened her mouth and screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “Mon oncle! Mon oncle!”

  The butler recoiled at her impressive volume. The chandelier overhead rattled. Footmen came thundering toward them. A door burst open, slamming into the wall.

  “What the devil is going on here?” The voice had only the faintest traces of a French accent. The man wore a gray silk waistcoat straining subtly over his belly. His graying hair was swept off his high forehead.

  “I beg your pardon, your lordship,” the butler wheezed. “I caught an intruder.”

  “Mais non, arrête.” Isabeau struggled to get out of his grasp. She blew her hair out of her face. “It’s me,” she said. “Isabeau St. Croix. Your niece.”

  “My niece?” he echoed in English.

  Silence circled around them, thick as smoke. Her uncle blinked at her. The butler blinked at her uncle. The footmen blinked at all of them. A woman she assumed to be her aunt made a strangled gasp from another doorway. She wore a lace cap and a morning dress trimmed with silk ribbon rosettes.

  “Your lordship?” The butler was no longer sure if he was apprehending a criminal or hauling an earl’s niece about by the scruff of the neck.

  “Let her go,” Lord St. Cross said. “Let me get a look at her.”

  Isabeau straightened her rumpled and stained coat. Her uncle stared at her for another long moment before he clapped his hands together.

  “By God, it is her!”

  “Are you certain?” his wife asked, her fingers fluttering at her throat. “You’ve never met her.”

  “I haven’t, but I’d know those eyes anywhere. Just like Jean-Paul.” He shook his head. “Remarkable. Where is he?”

  Isabeau swallowed. “He’s dead.”

  Olivier’s mouth trembled in shock. He went pale as butter. “Non,” he slipped into French. “How?”

  “Guillotine.”

  His wife fanned herself furiously.

  “And your mother?” he asked quietly.

  “Same.” She swallowed hard. She couldn’t lose her composure now. She’d fought too hard for her father’s sake to be the strong girl who survived. Her uncle’s warm palm settled on her shoulder.

  “Oh, my dear child.”

  His wife lowered her hands from where they’d been trembling at her mouth. “My Lord, look at her, she’s terribly thin.”

  “You are rather scrawny, my girl. We’ll send for tea. Bring extra biscuits,” he told the nearest footman. “Our cook is French. We’ll have him make your favorite for supper.”

  “Come by the fire,” his wife urged kindly, leading her into the parlor. “I’ll ring for a bath after your tea.”

  Isabeau followed, slightly dazed. She’d expected more of a fight. She felt off center, thin as dandelion fluff. She was shown to a deep comfortable chair by the hearth. The fire snapped cheerfully. Warmth made her cheeks red, her eyelids heavy. It was a far cry from the fires in the metal bins on street corners, or the flames from piles of broken wooden furniture used as barricades.

  “She’s in shock, I think,” her uncle murmured. He shook his head. “Poor Jean-Paul.”

  “Oh, those terrible French.”

  “Careful, love. You married one,” he teased her.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You barely even have an accent anymore. Only a fondness for that awful pâté.”

  Isabeau pinched her leg to keep from dozing off. “Father was planning to bring us here. Before we were caught.”

  “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll take care of you.”

  “You are nothing like he said,” she blurted out, bewildered.

  He chuckled. “No, I imagine not. We never did see each other plainly, even as children.” He sighed. “Lady St. Cross and I weren’t able to have a family of our own.”

  “Oliver, really,” Lady St. Cross murmured, flushing. “What a thing to say.”

  He patted her knee, his arm big enough to knock her over, but she just smiled at him. He turned to Isabeau. “What I mean is, it will be nice to have a young lady in the house.”

  “Oh yes,” Lady St. Cross exclaimed. “We’ll take you to all the balls, my dear. We’ll need gowns, of course, and the dancing master, a lady’s maid to do your hair.” Her eyes shone with enthusiasm. Isabeau wasn’t sure whether she should be nervous.

  “Don’t fret,” her uncle said jovially when Lady St. Cross was distracted by the arrival of the tea cart. “You survived the Terror, you’ll survive being a debutante.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Isabeau

  Greyhaven.

  The last time I’d seen him was at the Christmas ball, his frock coat immaculate, his smile charming. I had no experience with men like him, had given in to the magic of the night and one glass too many of champagne. I thought I’d seen all sorts of monsters in my eighteen years: prisoners, rebels, cruel power-hungry guards, pimps, and earls with too much money.

  But how did you defend yourself against a monster you had never imagined could actually exist?

>   He’d tainted my first real moments of comfort, of trusting the first happiness I felt since the mob had stormed my family château.

  I wanted to kill him all over again.

  I struggled against my restraints, heedless of the raw gashes I was digging into my skin, of my blood smearing the iron manacles. Logan was saying something but I couldn’t understand him over the roar in my ears. It was as if my head was being held underwater.

  Greyhaven sounded just as cultured and smooth as he had two hundred years ago. The scars on my arms ached. “One of the Drake princelings,” he said pleasantly to Logan. Logan didn’t reply. “Rumor has it our girl here has murdered you.”

  Logan sneered. “Are you going to fix that oversight?” He didn’t sound afraid, only faintly bored.

  I was starting to be able to concentrate again. Blood pooled in my hands. My fangs stung my gums, hyperextended.

  “Certainly not. You’re worth far more to me as a hostage. These little revolutions aren’t easy to bankroll, you understand.”

  “I’ll pay double what you get for me if you let Isabeau go right now.”

  Greyhaven laughed. “You’re eighteen years old, Logan, and hardly a self-made billionaire. You can’t afford her, even were I inclined to give her up.”

  Logan yanked at his chains. If he pulled any harder, he’d dislocate his own shoulder.

  “Logan, don’t,” I said. My voice was dry, as if I hadn’t spoken in years.

  “Ah.” Greyhaven turned toward me. I tried not to move, not to flinch, or to lean closer snapping my fangs. If I reacted now, it would only give him pleasure.

  And he would never get a single moment of pleasure from me.

  “Isabeau St. Croix,” he said, “you’ve certainly caused me no end of trouble.”

  I hadn’t seen him since that night in my uncle’s garden. I had no idea what he meant by that.

  “What does Montmartre want with me?” I asked, even though I knew the answer. The same thing I wanted with Greyhaven: revenge. I’d foiled his plans to kidnap Solange Drake and had taken down his Host. And I was a Hound, something that was an affront to his sense of power and entitlement.

  Even if he killed me—again—I wouldn’t be sorry for it.

  Greyhaven folded his arms, leaning negligently against the wallpaper, as if we were still at that ball. “This isn’t about Montmartre, it’s about you.”

  “What? He isn’t attacking the courts?” Logan asked.

  “Yes.” Greyhaven smiled. “He is. And probably wondering where I am. But I just had to stop in to see you.” He approached me slowly. I lifted my chin defiantly. “I had to know if you remembered me.”

  “Hard to forget my murderer,” I spat. “You left me in that coffin for two hundred years.”

  “Yes, regrettable. If I had any idea just how strong you were, I’d have made more of an effort to retrieve you.” He flicked a dismissive glance at my leather tunic and tall boots. “Though you dressed much better in 1795.”

  I snarled. “Why did you bring me here? Just to amuse yourself?”

  Greyhaven shook his head sorrowfully. “It would have been better if you hadn’t remembered me. Now it’s messy, and I can’t abide a mess. I never could.”

  I was confused. All my dreams of finding Greyhaven involved my driving a stake through his gray, withered heart, not partaking in annoying chatter.

  “You did all this just to test my memory?” I asked, perplexed. “The ribbon from my mother’s dress,” I added slowly. “The painting in the courts, the wine bottle. That’s why?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Not Montmartre?”

  “He ordered the traps, certainly. He’s not fond of you. But I did the work, as usual,” he emphasized. “So why not use it to my own purpose?”

  “You’re stalking her, you git?” Logan, snorted, disgusted. I knew what he was trying to do. He wanted to make Greyhaven angry enough to take his focus off me. “Pathetic, don’t you think? Especially for the Host.”

  His lips lifted off his face but he didn’t look away from me.

  He had more control than Logan gave him credit for.

  Not especially heartening, actually.

  At any rate, I wouldn’t beg for Logan’s life. Greyhaven was perverse enough to kill him just to watch me suffer. Better that Logan was worth something to his greed.

  “This isn’t easy for me, you know,” he said conversationally, nearly apologetically. “You were my first. I consider myself your father.”

  “I had a father.” I hissed through my teeth, every word like a flung dagger. “You’re not him.”

  He waved that away. “I gave you life eternal.”

  “You gave me death.”

  “Semantics.”

  A red haze filled my eyes. Anger soaked through me like a monsoon. I tasted blood in my mouth from where I bit my tongue.

  “I can’t have you giving me away,” he continued, sliding a lacquered black stake out of the inside pocket of his pinstriped jacket.

  “Get away from her!” Logan shouted, chains rattling frantically. “Me for her! Me for her, damn it!”

  I felt nearly mesmerized by Greyhaven’s version of our story, as if he were talking about someone else. Emotional shock. I’d felt like this the first night in my uncle’s house, touching the books, the thick blankets, eating too much at supper. Like everything was finally right, but nothing made sense. I felt removed.

  But I could still hear him, could watch dispassionately as he approached, nearly close enough to kick; but not quite yet.

  “I’ve taken great pains, planned, and been patient for over a century now. When I first joined, the Host was strong, organized, powerful. I climbed the ranks, paid my dues. And still Montmartre denies me my own fledglings. As if he could stop me forever. I deserve my own army, my own Host.”

  “How many have you done this to?” Logan demanded, horrified, as he realized what Greyhaven was really saying. “You’re making Hel-Blar.”

  “I admit I tried. But Hel-Blar are weak castoffs and mistakes. Now I’ve chosen better. I’m smart enough not to repeat Montmartre’s mistakes.”

  “Smart? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

  “You bore me, little boy. And you won’t sway me with temper. But if you don’t stop your childish tantrums, I’ll gag you.” He flicked the stake at Logan and it bit through his sleeve at his shoulder, pinning him to his chair.

  “Now where were we?” Greyhaven still hadn’t actually looked away from me, not for a moment. I might have shivered if I wasn’t floating inside my own head, bewildered by memories and fury. “I’m sorry I didn’t come back for you, Isabeau. Forgive me?”

  That startled me out of my daze. He had to be joking. My answer was a string of curse words I’d learned from Cerise. The air should have blistered.

  “I just can’t have you giving me away. Not when I’m so close. If Montmartre finds out before I’m fully prepared …” He trailed off with a delicate shudder. “Well, as I said, I prefer things to be neat and tidy. The battle will be on my terms and the Host my own to command.” He withdrew another stake, pointed at me. “You can say your prayers, if you like. You were always my favorite. You never forget your first.”

  When he was close enough that I could smell his expensive cologne and see the grain in the lacquered wood of his stake, Logan managed to hook his foot around the rung of the stool next to him. He jerked his foot with an audible snap and the stool whipped over his head. It caught Greyhaven in the back of his knees. He stumbled, fury making his face bone-pale. A small wooden disk engraved with a rose and three daggers fell out of his pocket. Just like the one we’d found in the woods the night Solange received the love charm. He hadn’t been lying then. He really did have his own men.

  I kicked him as hard as I could.

  Logan gave a wholly undignified whoop of joy. He sounded like a child opening presents on Christmas Eve. I kicked again. My only goal was to make it as difficult for Greyhaven as possible.
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  “I was prepared to offer you a quick, honorable death,” he said. “But now you’ll both suffer.”

  There was a stake in his hand again but before he could follow through on his promise, the door slammed opened on its hinges.

  “Greyhaven, quit playing with your new pet. You’re needed.”

  Greyhaven turned to slant the new arrival a seething glance. “Can’t you see I’m busy, Lars?”

  “This can wait,” Lars assured him, his voice cool, quiet. “Montmartre can’t. You’ll give us all away because you can never delay yourself a little gratification. The battle’s begun and his lieutenant is lecturing little girls. It doesn’t look good.”

  Greyhaven tensed his jaw until it looked as if it might crack. Then he smiled at me. “Only a momentary reprieve, I assure you,” he said darkly. “Watch the doors,” he told the guards before storming out, the door slamming behind him and Lars.

  “That was too damn close,” Logan muttered. “This is our only chance. Sounds like most of the Host are at the courts.” He stood up. The chains hung from the ceiling, not quite long enough for him to lower his arms. He tugged, then swung with his entire body weight. Nothing.

  I stood as well, inspected the locks on my manacles. “I might be able to pick these,” I said. “But I need a pin of some kind.” I was going to start wearing hair pins again just as soon as I got out of here.

  We searched the room: fireplace utensils, cushions, lamps, a stack of magazines. Nothing useful.

  “Are you wearing a bra?” Logan asked suddenly.

  I frowned at him. “What?”

  “A bra,” he repeated. “Are you wearing one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you get it off?”

  “I suppose so. But how is that going to help?”

  “The underwire comes right out. You can use that.”

  I really was beginning to like him more than I ought to.

  I tried to maneuver my hands behind my back. My muscles screamed after a few minutes. I was undead, not boneless.