Crown of Whispers

by Isabella August

  “Nous aurions besoin d'une autre place à la table, Marjorie,” Jean noted to the hostess at the front, with the sort of familiarity that suggested he had been there many times before. We need another seat. “Merci beaucoup.”

  The hostess—a tall, sturdily-built woman with apple-like cheeks—shot him a brilliant smile. “Oui, Monsieur,” she said. She glanced politely toward Beatrice and Dorian. “En anglais ou en français? Do you need your menus in English or in French?”

  “English, please,” Jean replied, at the same time that Beatrice said: “En français, ça va.”

  The vampire glanced back toward her with a surprised expression. Clearly, he was trying to be polite by asking for an English menu—he had assumed that Beatrice’s French was poor because of her accent. Normally, Beatrice was capable of taking such gestures in stride, appreciating them for the spirit in which they were meant. Tonight, it was just one more needle jammed beneath her skin. You don’t belong here, that needle told her. Dorian’s quiet, suffocating presence behind her didn’t help matters; he was standing close enough that she had to fight back the urge to turn around and punch him.

  Jean didn’t comment further on the matter of the menus. Instead, the three of them sat down at a small table, and he ordered them a bottle of wine to share as Beatrice and Dorian sorted out their dinner orders. Jean, of course, had no hunger for anything the bistro could bring him; he sipped patiently at his glass of wine instead.

  After their waitress had come and gone, the vampire focused on Beatrice. “You seem quite certain of your results already,” Jean observed. “I don’t doubt your expertise, of course... but I wonder if you might indulge me with a deeper explanation. I am always interested in learning more about modern technology.”

  Trust, but verify, Beatrice thought wryly. She glanced sideways at Dorian, who sat next to her. Beatrice was surprised to find his eyes fixed on Jean, and not on her. Her theory that Dorian was worried about her findings melted away, replaced by confusion.

  “I’m not certain how much I’m supposed to discuss here,” Beatrice said slowly. She was carefully non-specific—she hoped that Dorian might assume she was worried about discussing supernatural matters out in the open, in a bistro. But Jean caught her real meaning, and he frowned thoughtfully.

  “I suspect that tonight’s discussion will require full transparency,” Jean said. He met Dorian’s eyes directly, though he spoke to Beatrice. “Please continue, madame.”

  Beatrice nodded very slowly. “The office security is far from perfect,” she said to the vampire. “But I checked all the tech I was shown for the keywords you gave me. I didn’t get a single hit. If Dorian knows the information you’re worried about, it’s all in his head or in his physical files.”

  Dorian leaned back into his seat, considering. His brain worked quickly on the statement—and in short order, he nodded. “This is no routine security review,” he observed to Jean. “You suspect that you already have a leak.”

  Jean took a long sip of his wine, unfazed. “I do,” he said. “You do not strike me as the weakest link in my security, monsieur. But there are only so many people who know this particular secret. Two of them work in your office.”

  “Two?” Dorian frowned at that. “I assume we are speaking of the secret you sold me. I can assure you that no one other than Zoe has ever purchased it from me—and she destroyed the written record that I gave her without reading it. This means that I am the only person in my office who knows that secret.”

  Beatrice blinked. The secretary bought one of Jean Belmont’s secrets? This conversation had taken a turn for the bizarre in a hurry.

  Jean waved one hand. “I am not concerned about that secret,” he said. “It belongs to you, monsieur. I sold it to you—which means that you are entitled to sell it in turn. I am speaking of a different secret. I did not sell it to you, but you were present when I spoke of it... as were Madame Carter and Monsieur Leclair.”

  Dorian raised his eyebrows very slowly as the vampire spoke. It was clear that he knew exactly what Jean was talking about, even if Beatrice didn’t.

  The strange, still aura around Dorian deepened for a moment. Beatrice’s curiosity got the better of her—she quickly opened her Witchsight, hoping to catch whatever he was doing with his power.

  The constant emptiness that surrounded Dorian lifted for just a second. Beneath it, Beatrice saw him—a human being, suffused with normal emotion. Her Witchsight wasn’t normally keen enough to pick out the specific emotions she saw with it—but there was a special tension to Dorian right now. A sharp-edged worry wafted off him, curling tightly into the air. Beneath that worry was a deeper, more terrible dread, as plain as that chocolate cologne scent of his. Dorian was stewing in fear; he’d probably been stewing in it all day, in fact. The image stunned her.

  He looks like he should be having one of my panic attacks right now, Beatrice thought. What is he so afraid of?

  Dorian’s magic shifted around him again. Gray whispers rose on the air. Black power bled in at the edges of his eyes, visible to Beatrice only because of her Witchsight. She palmed her coin beneath the table, splashing the area around them with a cloud of her own orange, electrifying magic. Beatrice caught the whispers around Dorian in her net, snatching at them blindly—trying to force them into a coherent pattern.

  Low voices tuned in and out. This time, instead of white noise, Beatrice heard a single name, spoken in Jean’s voice.

  “—Jasmine Basak—”

  Beatrice pressed her hand to her mouth before she could stop herself. The name was one of the keywords Jean Belmont had asked her to search for in her forensic checks.

  All that information is encrypted in Dorian’s head, she thought, wide-eyed. And I just caught the decryption process.

  Beatrice had cracked one of La Voûte’s secrets without his permission. However briefly—however partial the discovery... she had found a weak spot in his power.

  Dorian, for his part, seemed too distracted by his magic to notice Beatrice’s slip. Jean’s eyes flickered toward her though, and she did her best to cover the reaction with a cough.

  The gray whispers died abruptly. The black power that had pooled in Dorian’s eyes retracted.

  His empty aura reasserted itself. He may as well not have existed at all, as far as Beatrice’s Witchsight was concerned.

  “It would be very unfortunate indeed, if that secret were to become public knowledge,” Dorian said finally, as he returned to the present moment. “But I have no written record of that particular secret, nor have I ever spoken of it aloud.” He paused. “Are you truly convinced that someone has learned about this?” he asked the vampire.

  Jean let out a soft breath. “Je l’ignore,” he admitted softly. I don’t know. “It is possible that someone suspects. But the full truth would be very dangerous.”

  Beatrice forced her Witchsight closed, leaning her head quietly into one hand. Something about this situation had her deeply on edge.

  What is Dorian so afraid of? she wondered.

  The image of that creeping dread in Dorian’s aura swam back to her again, unprompted. Beatrice tried to quash it ruthlessly—but it wouldn’t leave her be. It was the only glimpse she’d ever had of the man beneath the empty veil... and it was troubling.

  “Esti de chien sale!” A woman’s enraged voice carried clearly across the chatter of the bistro, shocking Beatrice out of her thoughts. “What are you doing here, you piece of shit?”

  The owner of the voice was a short, brown-skinned woman, dressed in a sweaty tank top and jeans. Her black hair was pulled behind her head in a messy bun, but the hot, humid weather had pasted strands of it to her neck. Her dark eyes were aflame with fury... and they were fixed directly upon Jean Belmont.

  “Perhaps we should vacate the table,” Dorian murmured to Beatrice. He was already pushing back his chair, rising to stand.

  That small woman moved like lightning, though. By the time Beatrice had recovered enough to shove h
er chair back from the table, the angry woman was already upon them. Thankfully, her ire guided her toward Jean Belmont, who had fixed an expression of bland bemusement upon his features.

  “Detective Basak,” Jean observed calmly. “What is the English phrase? Speak of the devil, and he... or she?... shall appear. I was just thinking of you.” He shot the woman a charming smile from his chair. “Fondly, of course. I was thinking of you fondly.”

  Jasmine Basak, Beatrice thought. She stared at the woman, fitting pieces together in her head. Whatever was going on right now, she was absolutely certain that Jean Belmont was not as calm as he currently appeared.

  “Get me out of your dirty mind,” hissed Jasmine Basak. She grabbed at the arm of Jean’s chair, leaning down toward him. “And stay the hell out of my way. This is the last straw, you bloodsucking leech. I’ve seen you following me around. This city is more than large enough for me to get a goddamned coffee without bumping into you. We both know you don’t even eat—”

  Dorian cleared his throat politely. “Detective,” he said, drawing Jasmine’s attention. “Much as I hate to intrude—we are here on a business meeting. The food is not for monseigneur, but for us.”

  “Oh, fantastic!” Jasmine growled at Dorian, taking notice of him for the first time. “So he’s brought himself an excuse this time. I know when I’m being followed, monsieur. Don’t imply that I’m being irrational.”

  “No one here would ever call you irrational, madame,” Jean assured her, in an overly-friendly tone. “Please, sit. You seem agitated. Why don’t you have a glass of wine?”

  Jasmine whirled upon the vampire again. In one smooth movement, she snatched up his glass of dark red wine—and dumped it over his head.

  Blood red liquid splashed across Jean Belmont’s very expensive clothing. It dripped from his sharp-edged features, rolling in rivulets down his pale neck to disappear beneath his neatly-starched collar.

  “Thank you, monseigneur,” Jasmine gritted out. She used his title with a heavy hint of irony. “A little wine was just what I needed.” She set the wineglass back down on the table so hard that Beatrice worried it might break.

  Jean Belmont still managed to look calm, somehow, even with that wine dripping off his face—but Beatrice could feel the predatory fury wafting off him in waves. Her body froze, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She was suddenly very keenly aware of the presence of a very powerful, very angry vampire sitting so close to her.

  Jasmine must have felt it as well—it was impossible not to—but she blithely ignored the feeling as she turned on her heel and headed for the door. The implied violence in her stride sent people scrambling out of her way, such that she was quickly gone once more.

  Beatrice realized she was still holding her breath. But Dorian, for his part, merely pulled out Beatrice’s chair, offering out his hand. Beatrice closed her fingers instinctively around his, drawing reassurance from his familiarity. Dorian squeezed her hand comfortingly. Why he bothered, she wasn’t entirely sure. They were supposed to be on terrible terms.

  Dorian pulled Beatrice up from her chair. His hand came to rest at her back, steadying her. She should have pulled away from him; perhaps, she should have slapped him. But the adrenaline had yet to wear off, and the vampire in front of Beatrice still seethed with barely-leashed fury.

  I have to say something about this, she thought, with a hollow pit in her stomach. I really don’t want to. But I have to say it anyway.

  “I was assured, as part of my contract, that I would not be covering up anything illegal or unethical,” Beatrice said quietly. “A police detective seems to believe that you are harassing her, Monsieur Belmont. I know that what you have me doing involves her. You don’t owe me an explanation—but without one, I think my contract here is concluded.”

  The anger in the air intensified. Jean’s face didn’t change—but it was now a pallid mask of politeness, rather than a charming façade. “I assure you, Madame Martel, that nothing illegal or untoward has occurred,” Jean said tightly. “The detective’s suspicions are in error. I require your continued services until I can be sure that I have no security leaks.”

  Dorian’s hand increased its pressure against Beatrice’s back. “Without further clarification,” he said, “Madame Martel is within her rights to break her contract. And perhaps that is for the best.”

  Beatrice remembered the whisper in Dorian’s office. “Anyone else would be better.” She tugged away from him, setting her jaw. But she didn’t contradict him.

  Dorian wants me gone, she thought. Fine. I don’t want to be involved in stalking some policewoman. Our interests happen to coincide.

  “So tell her what this is about,” Jean snapped suddenly. “You have my permission, Monsieur Moreau. Give her the secret which you did not intend to keep for me.” The vampire downed the tiny bit of wine still left in his glass and pushed to his feet. “As for myself… I seem to be in need of a change of clothing. I trust that you will see Madame Martel back to her hotel.”

  Dorian stiffened at that. Beatrice scowled. I don’t need an escort, she wanted to say—but she held her tongue. If Dorian was going to tell her what the hell this was all about, he’d obviously have to accompany her elsewhere.

  “...comme vous voulez, monseigneur,” Dorian said finally. He turned for the door without another word, and Beatrice found she had to hurry to catch him.

  The last thing Beatrice wanted right now was to get into a car with Dorian Moreau. But for the sake of her curiosity—and her job—she settled herself into the front passenger’s seat and gave him the address for her hotel.

  “I’m told you have an explanation for me,” Beatrice added, as Dorian started to drive. She had no intention of allowing him to divert the conversation. “Explique-toi.”

  Dorian frowned. For a moment, Beatrice wondered if she had seen a flicker of that underlying fear on his face. But it was so damned hard to tell.

  “Monseigneur swore a binding oath some few months ago,” Dorian informed her bluntly. “I swear to hold Jasmine Basak’s well-being to be every bit as important as my own, for the space of a year and a day—on my blood and on my power.” The words held the weight of a direct quotation, and Beatrice knew that they were painstakingly accurate.

  The implications clicked into place, and Beatrice felt a shiver run down her spine. “That makes the detective a target for every person who has a bone to pick with him,” she said.

  “C’est ça,” Dorian confirmed calmly. “It is of little issue so long as no one knows of it. But if someone has found out, then both Detective Basak and monseigneur shall suffer for it.”

  Beatrice sucked in a breath. “Mon Dieu,” she said. “Detective Basak doesn’t know, does she?” She shook her head slowly. “She deserves to be told, Dorian.”

  “That is complicated,” Dorian replied. “The detective has good reason to despise vampires. If she were to find out about this oath, she might well use the information against monseigneur herself.”

  Beatrice was silent for a moment. Her brain sorted through the matter slowly. “Who did Monsieur Belmont swear the oath to?” she asked. “Surely, they would let him loose of it if they knew it might create this sort of problem.”

  Dorian sighed. “Monseigneur swore the oath to Zoe,” he said. “The Lady of Briars bore direct witness. But he swore the oath on his blood and on his power, which means that it cannot be undone. We are stuck with the situation as it stands—for another five months, at the least.”

  Beatrice pressed her fingertips to her forehead. “Câlice,” she muttered. “What a mess.” No wonder Jean Belmont was so desperate to track down his leak. “Who all knows of this?”

  “Myself,” said Dorian. “Zoe. The Lady of Briars. Simon Leclair, who is one of the Lady’s other warlocks. And monseigneur himself. I have not even spoken of this deal aloud until tonight, which means that a leak must have occurred through one of the others.”

  Beatrice was silent for a moment. The
truth was that Dorian was still a potential leak, whether he believed it or not—Beatrice had just managed to intercept part of one of his secrets, after all. But she was an expert in her area, and she’d had to be present just as Dorian was retrieving a secret in order to do it. The absolute last thing Beatrice wanted was to open that can of worms, when there were a hundred more likely explanations available. One of these other people had probably let something slip, she decided—the easiest way forward would be to figure out who it was.

  The car stopped, and Beatrice realized they had arrived at her hotel. It was really more of a bed and breakfast than a hotel—one of the dozens of old stone historical buildings in the city that had been gutted and converted over the years. Jean Belmont had offered to put Beatrice up in one of the high-rise chain hotels downtown, but she’d stayed in enough of those over the years to prefer somewhere a bit more homey.

  The car was idling. Beatrice was supposed to get out. But neither she nor Dorian seemed in a hurry to advance the process.

  What are you so afraid of? The question hovered on her tongue. Dorian didn’t seem to be on cozy terms with either Jean Belmont or Detective Basak. Surely, he wouldn’t be thrilled if either of them came to harm… but neither should the idea have caused him this much dread.

  “Trix.” Beatrice startled as Dorian said the nickname. His voice was soft in the darkness. He was very carefully not looking at her as he spoke; his gray eyes stared forward at the wheel, instead. “Things ended badly between us,” he said. “But I don’t hate you.” Dorian hesitated visibly. “I think you should finish this contract as soon as possible. People connected to Jean Belmont... people connected to me. Bad things happen to them. It’s a reality I deal with every day. But you don’t have to be a part of it.”

  He’s worried about me, Beatrice realized. That’s what Dorian is afraid of—that I’m going to get caught in the middle of this.

  The idea bubbled up from the bottom of her mind before she could dismiss it. It checked every box; it explained every strangeness. Dorian hadn’t wanted Beatrice here in the first place—he’d wanted anyone but her. He’d broken routine, and insisted on coming to her meeting with Jean. He’d tried to convince the vampire to end the contract, rather than further share his secrets with her.