Tales of the Slayer

by Nancy Holder

  The Slayer swept another deep curtsey. “Forgive me, monsieur,” she said to de Chambord. “I am fatigued beyond my ability to reason. Of course, I shall do as I am commanded. I must rest, and tomorrow, I will come to you for instructions.”

  “That is much, much better,” de Chambord said, smoothing his wig. “Then I shall take my leave, and await you tomorrow.” He gave Edmund a curt bow; he gave Marie-Christine an even curter one.

  After he swept out, Marie-Christine said, “I won’t do it.”

  “He has the right, and it is your duty,” Edmund replied. He raised his hand. “That’s all for now, mademoiselle. Sleep well.”

  Her face burned as she walked out of the room. He had dismissed her like a servant.

  But what else am I? A terrier, sent to harry foxes and moles over gambling debts?

  Before she retired, she checked on Mathilde, who was asleep in the maid’s room on a makeshift bed of old blankets and pillows. Suzanne smiled at Marie-Christine and put her finger to her lips, and Marie-Christine withdrew.

  * * *

  The days and nights dragged by, and the streets of Paris were rivers of talk of revolution. The Royal Court opined that the poor were bored with being poor. They coveted the vast estates and fat purses of the rich without a moment’s understanding of the obligations that came with them. They vandalized the homes and businesses of finely dressed bourgeoisie, then moved on to the nobility.

  The Watchers Council was alarmed.

  They were right to be, for the vampire L’Hero took advantage of the political turmoil to wreak havoc on his betters. The demon led his people to the Hotel of Aristide De Nouville, a wealthy aristocrat who lived in town, and denounced him as an enemy of the people. De Nouville owed him money, but he didn’t mention that. Instead, he reminded the beggars and cutthroats—and vampires—assembled around him that the rotund man had once voted to keep the poor out of the cathedral when the aristos attended Mass. No mention was made of the fact that he himself, as a vampire, could not face the cross.

  Enraged, giddy with power they did not deserve, the rabble grabbed up torches and set the magnificent home on fire, laughing as De Nouville and his family and servants escaped in their nightclothes, in open carriages.

  Next, L’Hero informed his followers that the three de Loury brothers had conspired with their tenant farmers to sell diseased wheat to the bakers who made the bread for the poor—neglecting to mention that the de Lourys also made the hosts for the priests, and for that reason, had incurred his wrath.

  Incited to violence, his people stampeded the fields and demolished the homes of three local bakers, dragging out the mothers and daughters, forgetting who they were, and that they were human beings.

  Like a fiery priest of the Inquisition, L’Hero urged them to drive out the goats and sheep of Martin Doree, whose land he coveted; and they not only drove the animals out of their pens, but also slaughtered them in a frenzy. His face dripped with steaming animal blood as he laughed at their hysteria and showed his fangs in the firelight; and his people danced around burning pens and haystacks, tearing off their clothes, drinking, cavorting, shouting, “Vive la Republique! Vive L’Hero!”

  Some of these things, Marie-Christine heard about through palace gossip. Others, she dreamed; the dreams of Slayers are often said to be prophecies.

  The gutters of Paris ran red with blood; the cobblestones were lumps in a gout of blood; everywhere that Marie-Christine walked, she slipped and fell in the puddles of blood.

  Her hands were wet with death; she was a walking testament to her inability to exact justice, or revenge.

  And then, in her dreams, he was whispering against her throat, gloating, “Stop me, if you dare. Or if you can find the time.”

  * * *

  Marie-Christine satisfied the Duc de Chambord by threatening the semidemonic nobleman who owed him money. The creature agreed that it was in his best interest to keep the fact of his mixed parentage a private matter, and thus the forced marriage of the de Chambord heiress was averted.

  Mathilde slowly won a few hearts, though the gossip surrounding Marie-Christine’s decision to adopt her did not abate. Edmund declared that he was “flummoxed” by her actions and could only lay it down to her “illogical and emotional” feminine nature.

  Meanwhile, more and more people died in Paris—not naturally, but from the kiss of the vampire. L’Hero had instituted a reign of terror such as Paris had never seen, turning his people, as he had promised them, and adding more to his army.

  “And so, I beg you, let me go to the city,” Marie-Christine said to Sir Stephen, an emissary from the Watchers Council in London. “So many people are dying.”

  The short, pock-marked Sir Stephen was perhaps twenty, if that; he had a high opinion of himself, and he expected Marie-Christine and Edmund to agree with that opinion.

  “There is revolution in the air,” he said as they sat in the pink salon. “The king and queen need you to stay close by. They must have your protection.”

  “But he’s baiting us,” Marie-Christine said. “He’s killing people by the dozens.”

  “Paris has dozen and hundreds of dozens of people. You have one king. You have one queen.” Sir Stephen spread open his arms. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Edmund shot Marie-Christine a look. Seething, she lowered her gaze to the floor and swept a deep curtsey. “Oui, monsieur.”

  “The Council is most pleased to hear that,” he snipped. “Upon pain of severe repercussions, do not stray from the palace grounds.”

  He droned on, and she nodded at appropriate intervals. But once the interview was concluded, she whirled on Edmund and said, “I’m going to the city. I’m going to run L’Hero to ground and stake him.”

  Edmund looked troubled. After a time, he said, “It’s not our affair.”

  “He is a vampire.”

  “We have our instructions.” He balled his hands at his sides. “I know he’s killing a lot of people, but they’re royal subjects, the same as we are. And the king must come first.”

  “This is madness. Unholy madness!” she yelled at him.

  “It’s madness to assume you can do anything about it!” he yelled back.

  Then she made two fists, and his eyes widened.

  “Would you attack your own Watcher? Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Without another word, Marie-Christine left the room.

  * * *

  That night, under cover, she made her way to the city. She didn’t wear peasant clothes, but she kept her costume simple. Her jewels, she left at the palace. Likewise, her white, curled wig. Yet even as plain as she looked, she knew she stood out on the streets. That was good. It would make it easier for L’Hero to find her.

  She told the coachman to return at dawn and paid him handsomely to keep his silence.

  Walls dripped with moisture; fog rolled and coagulated at her feet, muffling the sound of her satin shoes. She walked proudly, boldly, hunting her prey.

  At the end of an alley, she found an old woman, stiff and half-frozen from the cold. She was dead. Beside her lay a small bouquet of geraniums, as if perhaps someone had mourned her.

  Moving on, she heard a child whimpering but could not find it. She saw everywhere the degradation of poverty, and the fine meal she had eaten earlier that evening was a heavy weight.

  Perhaps half an hour later, she nearly stumbled over a dead youth, his skin marble white, his neck savaged. He had clearly been the victim of a vampire. A few feet beyond him, she found a second youth. He was lying atop a violin, which had been crushed by his dead weight.

  After perhaps two hours, footsteps echoed behind her, and she whirled around with a delighted smile on her face.

  “Bon soir, my Watcher,” she said.

  He stamped his feet. “Good evening? Are you insane? There is nothing good about it. It’s freezing out here,” he snapped. “You must come back at once. There is talk of a riot. Her Majesty is terrified, and they want you.�
�

  Her face fell. She had thought that Edmund had come to join her in her search for L’Hero.

  “Riot?” She gestured around them. “What utter nonsense. There’s no one on the streets.”

  “The spies report that the people are massing for a march on the palace.”

  “Spies who wish to sound important,” she snorted. “So they can keep demanding to be paid.” She gestured. “It’s too cold to be out, shaking one’s fist at the palace gates.” Then she frowned and said slowly, “Except for those who feel no cold. The dead . . . and the undead.”

  He cocked his head. “They’re about?”

  “I found a number of corpses.”

  They regarded each other. He said, “I know you want to destroy him, but the queen needs you.”

  She huffed, inwardly torn. “She has a thousand men to guard her.”

  “She has the right to your company.”

  “He is killing people,” she argued. “Now. Tonight.”

  “But not important people,” he countered. “Come now, you know that I’m right in this, Marie-Christine.” He folded his arms across his chest and gave her a hard look. “It’s that little girl, isn’t it? Taking her in. You’ve become . . . motherly or some such thing.”

  “Edmund . . .” And she realized then that Mathilde, being at the palace, was in danger. Her heart caught in her throat.

  “If not for Marie-Antoinette, then for me,” Edmund said. “She’ll have my head if you don’t dance attendance on her. If we leave straightaway, we can be back before dawn. I’ve told her you are indisposed, but her patience will only last so long.”

  “Oui, oui,” she said quickly. “Let’s go now. Quickly.”

  He was obviously relieved that she’d agreed to go back to Versailles. But they had walked only a few feet back when Edmund stopped, raised his hand, and asked, “What is that noise?”

  The Slayer listened. In the far distance, there was a rhythmic stamp, stamp, stamp. She frowned, deciphering the odd noise, and looked at Edmund with horror.

  “Cannon?” he asked.

  “Footfalls, Edmund.” Her spine stiffened, and she took a deep breath, preparing for battle. As usual, she was well armed. “The palace informants were right.”

  “We must go at once,” Edmund said.

  Then the world ignited.

  There was no other way to describe it, as the wet streets suddenly burst with hundreds of figures carrying torches. Men, women, boys and girls, their faces unreal in the flickering light: a chaotic nightscape of grim, set masks; round, spectral holes of fury; undisguised terror and tears. Those unsure of what they were doing there were swept along by those who were certain. Drums beat and bugles blew, and the throngs surged forward.

  “Holy Mother of God,” Edmund murmured, crossing himself as they raced ahead of the crowd.

  At that moment, Marie-Christine felt a gaze colder than the grave pressing down on her shoulders. She turned her head and looked up.

  There he was, approximately one hundred meters away, standing atop a one-storey building, his black cap billowing in the smoky wind. He wore the true face of the vampire, and his fangs were dripping with fresh blood.

  He did this. He started a riot, whipped his followers into a frenzy, and then the rest of the people caught the fever.

  Then he flung back his cape, revealing Mathilde. She struggled in his grasp, her hands clutching at L’Hero’s forearm as he pressed it over her neck.

  No!

  L’Hero smiled evilly at the Slayer, revealing his vampire fangs. He closed his cape over Mathilde’s writhing form, hiding her from view.

  “Edmund,” she said, “he is here.”

  “Where?” Edmund swiveled his head left, right, and shook it. He scowled and crossed himself. “Ah, so he is. It doesn’t matter. Let’s go!”

  “Warn Their Majesties,” she said as L’Hero elaborately dipped his head in her direction. “Help them escape. I have to stay here.”

  “No! Marie-Christine!”

  “He has Mathilde!”

  “What does it matter? She’s only a peasant. I order you to come with me,” he shouted, but she left him there, racing toward the figure on the building. As she anticipated, L’Hero glided away, disappearing into the shadows of the chimneys and tall, sloped rooftops.

  She kept running, slamming her way through the sea of bodies, dodging the torch fires, ignoring the shouts of protest.

  Thousands of people swarmed around her. It was as if every inhabitant of Paris had risen from bed or grave or nightmare to exact revenge on two royal heads, for the crime of being chosen by God Himself to lead them. And yet . . . and yet, she had seen hungry children, and frustrated mothers unable to feed them. She was a witness to untold misery.

  And didn’t Christ say, “The poor shall be with you always”?

  A wizened, ancient man rammed into her and shouted invectives, which she didn’t understand; an old woman carrying a pitchfork yelled at him, and the two began to quarrel like little children. The woman aimed the pitchfork at the man, who balled his fists and snarled at her like an animal. Marie-Christine wondered if they were likely to kill each other.

  She forgot them as soon as she moved on through the crowd, glancing up to the rooftops.

  More people marched past her, and more; the streets were choked with them. Frustrated, Marie-Christine stopped in a doorway to catch her breath, shocked at the sheer number of rioters.

  Do they hate the king and queen so much?

  A brick sailed past her ear and crashed through a window. Another followed; throughout Paris, windows shattered and fires erupted. Smoke roiled above the rooftops. Still the people came, a thundering, mad army. It was Satan’s feast day; it was an evil night.

  All night, the Slayer searched for Mathilde and her captor. She had no luck. She saw no further trace of either of them.

  Around dawn, she was accosted by a well-dressed man with blood running down his face. He fell to his knees, grabbing up the hem of her dress and burying his face in it.

  “Thank God, a person of quality,” he wailed. “I thought they’d killed us all. We must hide. They’ve taken Their Majesties prisoner.”

  “Surely not,” she said slowly, gaping at him.

  “They are threatening to guillotine them. Have you seen the guillotine? It cuts off your head.” He wiped his forehead with shaking hands. “Cuts it off, and you live for three or four seconds after that. The pain . . . I’ve heard it is the most horrible way to die.”

  “This is insane. No one would dare to kill a king.” She shook him. “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not.” He threw back his head and wailed like a madman. “I wish to God I were, but I’m not!”

  * * *

  He was not. After Marie-Christine found an abandoned warehouse to use as her headquarters, she left the man there and combed the streets, gleaning news. By then, her clothes were filthy rags, and no one suspected her for an aristocrat.

  The royal family was in custody. They had been stripped of their privileges and were being referred to as the Capet family. The talk was of regicide—the killing of a monarch.

  As she made her way through the exhausted crowds, numbed by their victory and terrified of what was to come, she came upon a crowd pressed into a dark alley, all gathered around something on the ground. Two grime-covered soldiers kept order while a woman fell to her knees, shrieking, “Vampire! Vampire!”

  Marie-Christine approached, expecting to see more of L’Hero’s handiwork. But what she saw, by a thin stream of shady light . . .

  Ah, moti Dieu . . . mon Dieu . . .

  The Slayer staggered backward, and swayed.

  What she saw . . .

  Non . . .

  . . . was the body of Mathilde’s mother, her blue lips covered with caked blood. If she were not attended to, she would rise.

  One of the soldiers said kindly, “Is she family?”

  I will not rest until he’s dead.

  “You have
to stake her,” she said grimly.

  “That one’s nobility,” someone hissed at the Slayer. “Listen to her accent.”

  “You’d better go,” the soldier murmured. “Quickly.”

  She did, gathering her skirts and returning to the abandoned warehouse, where the half-mad man still cowered.

  Her jaw set, her gaze unflinching, she spent the day sharpening stakes, although she had come back into Paris heavily armed.

  At night she walked the streets, searching. She went to the palace but found it occupied by the human forces of the revolution, with not a vampire in sight. There was no sign of Mathilde, nor of anyone she recognized, not even among the servants.

  She returned to the city. The streets were empty of vampires, although each morning, more bodies were discovered, astonishing numbers of them, their throats mutilated. The people decided it was the doing of Marie-Antoinette, who was cursing them with black magic from the depths of her prison.

  Marie-Christine said nothing, only slept by day, half-listening to the ravings of the crazed nobleman, and hunting by night.

  L’Hero eluded her at every turn. His victims were legion. He was building his vampire army, of that she had no doubt. The city was overwrought with tension and fear.

  The next night, near dawn, Sir Stephen, the Council representative, beckoned to her from a darkened doorway in the most dissolute quarter of Paris. He was with a group of men she did not recognize, but their faces told her that they knew who she was.

  “Where have you been?” Sir Stephen demanded. “My God, girl, look at you. You’re a filthy, disheveled mess. At least most of us have kept enough dignity to maintain standards.”

  “Here,” she replied, seeing as if for the first time that her once-beautiful gown was a sheaf of rags. “I—”

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand. “Your Watcher reported your mutiny,” he said angrily. “My orders from London were to kill you on sight. But the new Slayer. . . .” He waved a hand. “The Council members aren’t thinking properly. Sooner or later, order will be restored here . . . by human beings . . . who will not look kindly upon a Council who did nothing to help.”