by Nancy Holder
“What an exquisite room, Mademoiselle la Comptesse,” the marquis said. “What extraordinary taste, to reflect the beauty of so many roses in the walls of mirrors.” He looked at her closely, as if anticipating a reaction.
Perhaps he suspects that I know what he’s planning, she thought. I’ll have to stand doubly on my guard.
“I can claim no credit,” she replied. “The queen herself suggested the decorations. She received all these roses from the mayor of Paris, as a token of his fidelity to the Crown.”
“The people love the king and queen,” he proclaimed, as if it mattered one way or the other to such as he and she. She had never met a peasant, and had no interest in ever doing so. To what purpose?
“Oui,” she replied. “How nice. Shall we dine?”
Servants, of course, shadowed their every move. Servants led the marquis’s entourage into the room. A string quartet of servants played while Marie-Christine’s guests were seated—by more servants—at table.
Servants brought the elaborate meal—platter upon tureen upon bowl of fabulous delicacies. Servants served the high-born guests. Marie-Christine kept track of the actions of the dandies and coquettes, who were beautifully dressed, powdered, and wigged, trying to decide which of them were vampires.
The supper seemed interminable. Marie-Christine supposed she understood Queen Marie-Antoinette’s dislike of playing at dining, when her mind was quite elsewhere. The delectable dishes of peacocks, oysters, succulent swans, and other exotic fare were quite lost on her.
A dessert of fruits, all re-created in sugar, was finally offered. Then came the cheese, and then the wines. So many wines. Marie-Christine did not invite the ladies to withdraw into another room, and as this was Versailles, and not London, that was not particularly remarkable. Instead, they grouped themselves on a collection of gold brocade chaises and settees, listening to the lilting minuet played by the quartet. The gentlemen assembled at the other end of the hall, smoking and discussing whatever it was they supposed women to be incapable of understanding.
Marie-Christine pulled out her silk fan and half-covered her face. At that instant, Marie-Christine’s Watcher, Edmund de Voison, strolled in. It was their prearranged signal to prepare for battle. One by one, the servants withdrew, as they had been instructed to do, earlier in the day.
“De Voison,” the marquis said appreciatively. Edmund had played cards with him recently, taking care to lose hundreds of sous to him. That, if not the supper invitation, would eventually draw the vampire closely enough to the Watcher and the Slayer for combat. The marquis always collected on his debts.
“Bon soir, monsieur,” Edmund said, bowing over his leg.
“A shame that you were not at supper. Have you been off conjuring the gold you owe me?” asked the marquis, and everyone chuckled. Edmund was famed as an alchemist. He spent most of his time in his laboratory, working with the arts of l’occultisme.
“Indeed not, but hoping to win it back from you, monsieur,” Edmund replied. “Would now be a good time?”
The vampire waved a hand. “As good a time as any, if la Comptesse does not object.”
The ladies brightened beneath their pale complexions of white creams and heavily rouged cheeks. Cards and gambling were favorite pastimes of all high-born people.
“Games it is, then,” Marie-Christine said in a loud voice.
The quartet stopped playing immediately and walked swiftly from the room. Then Marie-Christine and Edmund each moved to one of the long walls. Each pulled a golden cord, which had been secured behind the banks of roses, and swept to the center of the room. A hail of roses streamed to the floor, revealing the concealed portions of the mirrors.
The only reflections in the room were those of herself and her Watcher.
“Jean-Pierre!” she blurted, and her spy transformed his face into the hated mask of a vampire. His eyes glowed gold.
“It happened earlier this evening,” he said, drawing his sword. “And I’m glad of it.”
Their plan was ruined. Jean-Pierre was to have left the room to summon additional aid, in the form of palace guardsmen who understood the nature of these enemies.
“You stupid girl,” the marquis hissed, transforming to his vampire form as well. The other guests did likewise. Marie-Christine and Edmund faced the vampiric mob alone. “Did you truly think I would not arm myself against you with everything in my power?”
Before she had a chance to answer, the vampires flew at her and Edmund in a rush of growls, fangs gleaming in the candle-light. They divided into two clumps; one of nine that came at the Slayer while the others rushed Edmund.
She reached under her skirts, grabbed a stake that had been attached to her corset, and took aim at the closest one. It was a female, hideous and brutish despite its fine clothes. Marie-Christine’s weapon found its target. The vampire shrieked as it turned to dust.
Her hand was already wrapped around another stake, but her timing was off. Several of the vampires hurled themselves at her and knocked her down. Her skirts flew upward, obstructing her view—and theirs—as she grabbed another stake, this one in her left hand.
She plunged one into a male vampire that came tumbling over her skirts. Its heart was penetrated; it was sent screaming to the devil. Then she heard a muffled shriek and realized Edmund had dispatched one of his attackers as well.
Down to ten, she thought as her arms were grabbed and she was dragged along the floor. She didn’t look up, but she smelled the fetid breath of half a dozen vampires as they tugged and pulled at her. Her wig came off and her brilliant red hair tumbled free.
“But this is too easy!” the marquis cried. The master vampire roared with triumphant laughter.
Then all at once, the room erupted with screams of agony. Marie-Christine felt small droplets of water on her face, and twisted her head so that she could see the hands of her captors. Blisters puffed up on their fingers, and as more water splashed on them, the vampires began to lose their grip on their prize.
Holy water, she thought. Mon Dieu, we are saved!
“Die, ungodly scum!” someone shouted. Marie-Christine was astonished. It was the queen herself, Marie-Antoinette.
Suddenly confusion reigned. The death screams of vampires collided with the warlike shouts of trained soldiers. The queen had brought the guards, and they were gutting the vampires with practiced hands.
“Aim for their hearts!” Marie-Christine reminded them. She got to her feet and finally yanked off her skirts, freeing herself for combat.
She went directly for the marquis, and he laughed again as he pulled his dress sword from his scabbard. It had a wicked tip, and it sliced the air as he executed a practice stroke.
“You are dead, wench,” he sneered.
“If I die tonight, I’ll send you to the devil first.” She took aim, but he lunged directly at her with his blade extended. She was forced backward and sensed the presence of another body close behind her. She thrust back her leg, snap-kicking in the ancient style of the Chinese, and sent a male vampire skidding along the floor.
She left the creature there and focused on the marquis. One step, two, three . . . and he moved so quickly she couldn’t follow his trajectory. Allowing her reflexes to take precedence over her reason, she moved slightly to the right, and threw her stake at him like a knife.
The marquis was struck in the chest.
With a roar of fury, he exploded into dust.
A momentary lull of shock ricocheted through the room. Then the surviving members of the marquis’s entourage reengaged the enemy.
But their unbeating hearts were no longer in the fray; working with the queen’s bodyguard, and Edmund as well, the Slayer made short work of the lot, deliberately saving Jean-Pierre for the last.
He knew she had him. He threw down his sword and thumbed his nose at her.
“There will be more,” he promised. “One of us will kill you, and soon.”
“That may be, but it won’t be you.”
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She threw the stake into his chest, and he was gone.
Then the queen approached, flushed and excited, and Marie-Christine dropped to her knees.
“Majesty,” she said, “I am sorry.”
“You were caught unawares,” the queen said stonily. “How could such a thing happen? De Voison?”
Edmund’s face was torn and scratched, and his finery was coated with blood. He lowered his head and murmured, “My queen, I failed. I offer no excuses.”
She regarded them both, Slayer and Watcher. Marie-Christine’s face flushed with shame.
“The Council shall hear of this,” Her Majesty declared. “They will decide what is to be done.” She regarded Marie-Christine with contempt. “Go to your room and pray to God for His forgiveness. I cannot give you mine.”
The Slayer could not help her flare of anger. She had saved the royal family from certain death more times than she could count. In return, the queen and king had showered her with rewards and deep affection.
Keeping her face a blank and hiding her balled fists behind her back, the Slayer walked backward like a scullery maid, bowing low.
The queen muttered, “For the love of God, girl, don’t go out like that.”
With as much dignity as she could muster, Marie-Christine hoisted her skirts around herself, twisting them into the semblance of a gown, and bowed again.
“We shall summon you at our leisure,” Marie-Antoinette added.
As she left the Hall of Mirrors, she heard the queen say, “De Voison, we should request a new Slayer at once. She is no longer up to the task.”
“Your Majesty,” Edmund said, “that cannot be done. She is the Slayer until she dies.”
The queen remained silent.
Marie-Christine was stunned. Marie-Antoinette couldn’t mean such a thing. They were friends, the queen and the Slayer. She had even joined the queen’s special circle of “milkmaids,” who accompanied her to the lovely little hamlet she had had constructed on the palace grounds. There, the noblewomen had shed their fine clothes and dressed as simple milkmaids, sleeping in sweet little cottages and savoring midnight buffets along the stream the queen had so charmingly thought to include.
She’s angry, that’s all, Marie-Christine assured herself. But she wondered—would the Council actually execute a Slayer? If one of the crowned heads of Europe demanded her death, would the Council obey?
Impossible, she thought fiercely.
But after her maid finished preparing her for bed, she lay in the dark, alert to assassins and to the thundering of her own heart.
* * *
Three days passed, and Marie-Christine kept to her rooms. Her Watcher did not come to see her, and she wondered if he had been sent to London to account for himself and his Slayer.
Then, at last, Edmund came to visit. He was startled at her wan appearance and chastised her for not eating.
“For all I knew, my food was poisoned,” she bit off as she moved nearer the sword she had been polishing at her night table.
There was a silence. Then Edmund said, “We are both in disgrace. But we have a chance to redeem ourselves. An excellent chance.”
He sat on her bed and clasped his hands around his right knee. “A vampire named L’Hero is inciting the rabble. He gathers them into bands and sends them on missions of destruction, under the guise of demanding bread for their starving children.”
“How absurd.” She frowned at him. “There is plenty of bread. No one starves in France.”
Edmund moved his shoulders. “You know how the lower classes are. They think they are entitled to every pleasure and delicacy, while they spend their days drugged with wine. And at night, they make far more children than they can afford.”
Despite herself, Marie-Christine giggled, mildly scandalized. As the One divinely chosen by God to protect His elect, she was promised to a life of virginity—and happily so. She was the Slayer, and she had a vocation as sacred as any holy nun or priest.
“This vampire is quite brilliant,” he continued. “He sets the peasants against any aristocrat he owes money, or who angers him.”
“Why not use vampires?” she queried. “Or why not turn his followers into vampires?”
“I suppose to keep suspicion at bay,” he said. “Remember, this report is from the Council, not the civilian government. Humans can do things for him that vampires cannot. And of course, he does have some vampire followers.”
She nodded. “Such was the case with de Chambord.”
Edmund raised a finger. “We must be careful. He’s much more dangerous than de Chambord. Reports from London indicate L’Hero’s followers destroyed Georgiu Rodescu.”
Marie-Christine was amazed. Rodescu was a powerful magician. Many had tried to kill him, and all had failed. The Watchers Council had expressly forbidden her from even attempting to cross him.
“At any rate, the king and queen are afraid of him, and we have been ordered to dispatch him with all speed.”
Marie-Christine smiled thinly. “Redemption.”
“Redemption,” he echoed. “Restoration. It’s as good as done.”
She shrugged. “We’ll track him down and stake him faster than hounds after foxes.”
“Indeed.” He smiled. “But we must take great care. If it’s true that he has killed Rodescu, he is a very formidable foe.”
Impatiently, Marie-Christine nodded. She was already seeing herself in her mind’s eye, receiving accolades and rewards from the hands of the queen herself for conquering a dread enemy.
“Since he’s styling himself as a hero of the people, we’re to go to Paris and infiltrate the lower classes,” Edmund added.
“In disguise,” she said. “As I have done with the queen, when we play at milkmaids.”
“We’ll have to dress in truly rough clothing,” he informed her. “Your milkmaid costumes are far too grand. And we must conceal our polished speech.” He smiled, clearly warming to the idea. “It will be a grand adventure indeed.”
The Slayer nodded and pulled the bell cord beside her bed. After a few seconds, her maid appeared, curtseying to them both.
“Suzanne, champagne,” she ordered. “And something to eat.”
* * *
By nightfall, Slayer and Watcher had acquired ragged peasant clothing. Marie-Christine wore a coarse blouse of dull, tea-colored brown, and a skirt the color of pâté. A green woolen shawl was draped over her hair, the ends crossing over her chest and tied behind her back. Their beautiful coach stopped at the outskirts of Paris, and as they descended, Edmund stepped in a foul-smelling puddle and swore. Marie-Christine chuckled but allowed him his dignity, gazing around at the city as dusk settled over Paris.
It was not the Paris she knew—the wide boulevards shaded with plane trees, the magnificent hotels. There were men grouped around barrels, warming their hands, and a stick-thin woman trudged past the two of them, a sallow-faced infant dangling from her grasp. She stared straight ahead, and there was no sign of life in her eyes. Nor in the eyes of the men huddled around the barrel.
“Edmund, these people are zombies,” she whispered. She felt in her shawl for her hatchet. As Slayer, she was heavily, if discreetly, armed with all manner of weapons.
“No.” He cocked his head. “I don’t think so.”
Slowly she and Edmund advanced. One of the men glanced at them and grumbled something in gutter French that Marie-Christine did not understand. Edmund stiffened and turned around, taking her arm.
“Come away.”
“What did he say?” she asked, easily catching up with him as he marched away.
“Nothing that need concern you.” He sound prim, and she grinned. He glared at her and snapped, “I don’t like your being here. It’s not right.”
“But it’s all right if I risk my life in silk and satin?”
He shrugged. Curiously, she found she agreed with him. That was more acceptable to her as well. There was something unseemly about this project, and already she
was a bit dashed. At the queen’s mock village, the little cottages were sparkling clean. There were no smelly puddles, no men insulting ladies with crude language.
A sharp wind bit her shoulders, and she drew the shawl more tightly around herself. September was colder in the city than at Versailles. She should have brought something warmer. But no one in the streets wore anything that could possibly keep out all the cold. She gaped with astonishment at a frail urchin who bounded past them barefoot.
“What can his mother be thinking?” she asked Edmund.
He sighed with disgust. “That she can stay drunk twice as long if she doesn’t buy her child some shoes?”
Marie-Christine nodded thoughtfully. Through the soles of her thin shoes, she could feel each piece of gravel in the dirt, each round pebble, as she and Edmund walked on. Their plan was to find an inn, and ask the patrons for information about L’Hero, explaining that they wished to join his band. Edmund, who had some small skill with languages, would do all the talking. Marie-Christine could not make the odd sounds of lower-class speech, and so it had been decided she would pretend to be mute.
As they walked, a window above them opened and someone shouted. Edmund grabbed Marie-Christine and pulled her out of the way as a waterfall of offal streamed down. Marie-Christine’s stomach clenched with disgust, and she gestured to Edmund at a bottle-windowed building to their left, with a sign that read CHANTICLEER. It looked to be an inn.
Edmund nodded at her, and they went to the door. He hesitated, cleared his throat, and pushed his way in.
The room was a hazy mist of smoke and beer. Groups of men sat around wooden tables, more at longer tables around the perimeter of the room, and they all stared dully at the newcomers. Marie-Christine glanced at one of them and he grinned at her, revealing two or three jagged teeth, and moved his eyebrows up and down. She shuddered and kept her attention focused on the back of Edmund’s jacket.
Soon they were placed at a table with two men, it being the custom to sit where there was room. The men stank so badly that the Slayer was afraid she was going to vomit, but she managed with great effort to keep down her gorge. Edmund ordered something for them, and when it arrived, she guessed that it might be soup. It was a murky brown, and chunks of orange and darker brown floated in the gruel.
