A missing book. The Book of Shadows, the stuff of legends and a daughter of the earth’s darkest fantasies. Catherine paced over to the window, hard-pressed to contain her excitement. If she possessed such a thing, she need never fear anything again. Not the Scourge or Huguenot rebels, not witch-hunters, not even death itself. She would become in truth a Dark Queen and nothing or no one would be able to stand against her.
She needed to get her hands on that book.
Chapter Twenty
Dawn had barely crept past the rooftops, the darkness of night surrendering to the gray light of morning. Miri pulled the hood of her cloak forward to shield her features as she scurried across the courtyard carpeted in mist. The damp seeped into the soles of her shoes and she shivered as she stole a glance over her shoulder.
The town house was enshrouded in silence, not a sign of anyone stirring. No one peered anxiously out the windows, no one burst through the door in frantic search of her. She had eluded them all, Gabrielle, Remy, Bette, even the vigilance of Necromancer.
With any luck, Miri might complete her errand and return before she was missed. If not . . . she breathed a faint sigh. She had no wish to worry or grieve any of these people who cared so much about her, but they could not understand. She realized herself the danger in what she was about to do. She had risked everything once before to save Simon Aristide from the dark influence of the dread witch-hunter, Le Vis, and she had failed. The beautiful boy had been transformed into Le Balafre, the man with the scarred visage and soulless eyes. And still Miri could not give up on him.
Stealing through the gardens, Miri moved as swiftly and quietly as she could. Only a few more steps and she would be out the wrought-iron gate and gone. But then what? Paris was an overwhelming place with its endless maze of streets and sea of rooftops. Without Necromancer’s uncanny senses to guide her, Miri had no idea how she was going to locate the inn where Simon was staying.
She would be obliged to ask directions of someone and the city beyond the garden wall still seemed fast asleep. She heard little beyond the distant creak of wagon wheels, the far-off clatter of horse’s hooves, and . . . and the snap of a twig.
The sharp crack originated from the recesses of the garden behind her. Miri froze, tensed and listening. A pair of larks twittered in the branches of an elm tree, but beneath their joyous song, Miri detected the light pad of a footfall, the faintest whisper of grass. The sound might have gone undetected by others, but Miri’s senses were as finely tuned as any fox or badger.
The nape of her neck prickled with the awareness she was not alone in the garden. She was being stalked and she feared that she knew by whom. Spinning around, she sought to pierce the whorls of mist obscuring the pathways.
“Necromancer?” she whispered fiercely.
“No, mademoiselle. It is me.” A shadowy form bounded out of the bushes.
Miri’s heart did a wild somersault. She staggered back, clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle a startled cry. A young man loomed before her, a mane of rich sable-colored hair flowing back from his sharp, angular features. Heavy brows and thick dark lashes accented green eyes that stared at her with a hungry avidity.
“Do not be alarmed, mademoiselle. I did not mean to startle you. It is just that I have spent most of the night gazing up at your bedchamber window.”
Miri hardly found that information reassuring. She wondered what would be her best course. To bolt back to the safety of the house, which was much farther away, or out through the gate in the hope of finding some refuge in the street. He seemed to divine her thoughts, for he stalked closer. “Please don’t run away. I have been waiting for you.”
“You—you have?” Miri stumbled back several paces.
“All my life.”
Miri doubted that his life could have been of that long of a duration. It was difficult to guess his age. His smooth skin indicated he was not much older than she was and yet the hard, lean angles of his visage suggested a lifetime more of experience. His clothing was fine enough, his sleeveless brocade jerkin fastened over a gleaming white shirt. His breeches tied off neatly below the knee were the sort that might have been worn by the servant in a wealthy household. But the short midnight-blue cloak that swirled so jauntily over his right shoulder was more the attire of a nobleman.
Despite his elegant apparel, there was far too much of the rogue and scoundrel about him, the flash of his smile far too intimate. When he tried to approach her again, Miri held up one hand to ward him off. “Stop. If you come any closer, I’ll scream.”
It was a hollow threat. Alerting the household to her disappearance was the last thing Miri wanted to do, but this interloper didn’t know that.
“If you are a thief,” she went on. “You have sneaked into the wrong garden. I don’t have so much as a sou on me.”
Her words brought him to an abrupt halt. He looked thunderstruck, then deeply injured, flinging his hands up as though appealing to the heavens. “Mon Dieu! She thinks me a thief and she is the one who has robbed me.”
“I never did any such thing.”
“Yes, you did, mademoiselle.” He clutched his hands dramatically over his chest. “You have completely stolen my heart.”
Oh, lord, Miri thought. He was far worse than a thief. He was an escaped lunatic. She darted behind a stout oak, seeking to put the massive frame of the tree between them. He peeked round the trunk at her with wide, wounded eyes. “How could you be so brave yesterday when facing that great brute of a horse and then be so afraid of me? Don’t you remember me at all?”
Remember him? How could she remember someone she’d never met? And yet there was something familiar about him. Although Miri could readily identify every bird, every fur-bearing creature that inhabited Faire Isle, she had never been as good at distinguishing the face of one man from another.
It was his reference to her dealing with that “great brute of a horse” that jarred her memory. As she scrutinized the stranger’s features, she thought she might be pardoned for not recognizing him. The last time she had seen him, he had been coated in dust and horse dung, his face streaked with dirt.
Miri stepped warily out from behind the tree. “Oh, I do know who you are. You are the squire who struggled to saddle Bayonne yesterday.”
“Then—then you did notice me? You remember me?”
She nodded. To Miri’s consternation, he shot his fist into the air and let out a joyous whoop. “The lovely goddess of the moon remembers me. She noticed me. I must wake all of Paris to share in my joy.”
Awake all of Paris? Miri was more concerned about him waking the household behind her. He sprang toward the gate and leaped up onto the bottom rung, drawing in his breath. Miri flew after him and seized the ends of his cape. She yanked hard, the ties fastened around his neck choking off his shout to a gurgle. He lost his footing and flailed backward, landing on his rump. Miri cast an anxious glance at the house.
“I am sorry,” she hissed. “But please. No shouting. You must be quiet.”
He struggled onto his elbows and beamed up at her. “For you, mademoiselle, I shall be as silent as the grave.”
Miri doubted he was capable of keeping his mouth shut for more than a second at a time. “You are in the employ of Captain Remy, are you not? You are his squire?”
“His squire, his lieutenant, his brother in arms, his friend. Ah, but for you, mademoiselle, I am your slave.”
“Thank you, but I am not in the market for a slave.”
“You have one nevertheless.” He bounded to his feet, swirled his cape, and swept her a deep bow, all in one astonishingly fluid motion. “Martin Le Loup, mademoiselle. Forever at your service.”
“Martin the wolf? Yes, the name suits you.”
“Indeed it does. I have the courage, the intelligence, the cunning, and the—”
“And the modesty,” Miri interrupted dryly.
He cast her a look of faint reproach. “I was going to say the heart of a wolf. Did you know that wolve
s mate for life once they have found the right female?”
“Then I wish you good hunting, monsieur.”
“I need hunt no further. I have already found my mate.” He prowled closer. “I knew it yesterday from the moment I saw you. Your eyes brighter than a full moon, your hair softer than its light—”
“And my face as round as the moon, no doubt. With you being a wolf, small wonder you are so attracted to me.”
He pulled up short, looking deeply hurt. “You mock me, mademoiselle.”
“Forgive me, monsieur. But I am a plain and simple girl from a very small island. I do not simper over compliments and flirt the way your ladies of Paris do.”
“Flirt!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps I express myself a bit too—too exuberantly, but my devotion is a true one. I love you so much I don’t even care what you are.”
Miri frowned in puzzlement. “What I am?”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “You are a witch, are you not? Not that it matters to me in the least. I have many faults of my own.”
Miri made a choked sound of outrage. “I am not a witch. I despise that term. I am a daughter of the earth.”
He was instantly contrite. “Forgive me, mademoiselle. I did not mean to offend you. Of course you are a daughter of the earth and the heavens as well.” Seizing hold of her hand, he covered her fingertips with fervent kisses.
Miri gasped and snatched her hand away. “Stop that at once.”
“I am too bold. I am sorry, but I cannot help myself. I—I am enchanted by you. I am dazed. I am bewitched.”
“You are also completely insane. And I don’t have time to stay here bandying any more words with you. I suggest you go back to wherever it is you call home and lie down for awhile with a cool cloth on your head.”
“What good would that do me when it is my heart that is on fire?”
“Then put one there as well.” Miri’s lips twitched with amusement in spite of herself. She ducked her head to hide the expression but Martin was too quick for her. He tipped all the way to one side in his efforts to peer into her face.
“Aha!” he crowed. “She does not take me seriously, but at least I have finally made her smile. That is a beginning.”
Miri tried to reassume a poker-like expression. “Monsieur—”
“Just call me Wolf. Your own Wolf, now and forever.”
Miri sighed, realizing that the sky was growing lighter. The household might begin to stir at any moment. “Wolf, then. As interesting as it has been renewing our acquaintance, I need to be going.”
She gave him a dismissive nod, then hastened toward the gate. But Wolf loped after her, falling into step beside her. “Where would you be planning to go at such an early hour, my beloved? Quite alone and in such stealthy fashion. Paris can be a dangerous place. You had better let me escort you on this secret errand of yours.”
Miri’s step faltered. Despite his flamboyant mannerisms and way of talking, Wolf was shrewder than he appeared. He had obviously guessed she was off on some mission that she did not want known. She studied him from beneath her lashes. She truly did require a guide, but she would have preferred someone a little less volatile.
“Wolf, can I trust you?”
“Can you trust me? I vow by every last drop of my blood—”
“No, please.” Miri placed her hand hastily over his mouth to silence him. “Just answer yes or no.”
“Yes,” he mumbled beneath her fingers, then seized advantage of the situation to press his lips to her palm.
“And are you familiar with Paris?”
Wolf shifted her fingers away from his mouth and brushed a kiss against her wrist. “Oh, like the back of my own hand. I will take you anywhere you wish to go, show you the finest shops, where the best bargains are to be had. Or what about Notre Dame? No one should visit Paris without seeing the majesties of the cathedral.”
“Well, I—” Miri was distracted as Wolf proceeded to kiss each fingertip in turn. The sensation was not entirely unpleasant. “I would like to go to the Charters Inn.”
Wolf paused in mid-pucker, his eyes widening. “What?”
“The Charters Inn,” Miri repeated more firmly. “I have heard that is where Le Balafre and his men are quartered.”
Wolf let go of her hand and barked out a single word. “No.”
“No?” Miri echoed.
Wolf barred her path, shaking his head. Miri regarded him with rising indignation. “What happened to—’Oh, mademoiselle, I am your wolf. Your slave. I will take you anywhere you want to go’?”
Wolf leaned back against the gate and folded his arms with a deep sigh. “I sense we are about to have our first lover’s quarrel.”
“We are not lovers! I just met you yesterday.”
“Then I would like to keep you alive to lengthen our acquaintance.” Wolf seized hold of her hands, squeezing them. “Miri, this Le Balafre, this scarred devil is a witch-hunter and you propose to just saunter over to the inn where he is staying? What do you want to do? Make his job easy for him?”
“I don’t believe he would hurt me. I knew him before he was a scarred devil, as you call him. His name is not Le Balafre. His real name is Simon Aristide.”
Wolf scanned her face with narrowed eyes. “You knew him. How well?”
Miri felt a hot tide of color wash into her cheeks. “Very well, or so I thought. It was only three years ago when he came to Faire Isle, but it seems so much longer than that. I was much younger then, but so was he. We—we were friends.”
“What sort of friend brings such a blush to your cheek? Never tell me you are in love with this man.” Wolf let out an anguished groan. He flipped back his cloak and reached for the dagger strapped to his side. “I might as well plunge this into my heart right now and be done with it.”
“You will do no such thing.” Miri clamped her hand over his to prevent his drawing the weapon. “Wolf, please strive to be sensible and attend to me for at least two minutes. I was but thirteen, little more than a child, when I knew Simon.
“We were not lovers and I doubt we ever shall be,” she added sadly. “But I have seen firsthand the sort of misery witch-hunters can cause. If I still possess any sort of influence at all with Simon, I must try to use it before a good many innocent women are harmed. Will you help me?”
Wolf shook his head. “You don’t understand. If I were to escort you to see this witch-hunter and anything were to happen to you, I wouldn’t have to slit my own throat. My captain would oblige me by doing it for me.”
“Nothing will happen. If we leave now and go swiftly, we can be back before Remy or anyone else has a chance to know we’ve gone. I swear it. Of course, if you are afraid to accompany me, I quite understand—”
“Afraid?” Wolf swirled his cape behind his back, planted his hands on his hips, and struck an aggressively masculine pose. “For but one of your smiles, I would fight a hundred tigers, take on a horde of brigands, or do battle with Lucifer himself.”
“I only want one small thing, to see Simon. Will you take me?”
Wolf scowled at her and muttered, “A man would have to be a complete fool to escort the woman he loves into the presence of a rival. And a dangerous one at that.”
Miri rested her hand gently on his sleeve. She pleaded with the full force of her eyes. “Oh, Wolf, please. You have no idea how important this is to me.”
Wolf stared at her for a long moment, then issued a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “Alack, it would seem I am a fool where you are concerned.”
He smoothed his cloak back over his shoulder, then gallantly offered her his arm.
The Charters Inn was situated just inside the city gates, a large hostelry comprised of three wings surrounding a courtyard. Le Balafre and his men had completely taken over the inn, turning it into an armed encampment. It was not even possible to get anywhere near Simon Aristide without being cleared with the sentry.
As much as Miri had appreciated
Wolf’s escort, she was relieved when he was refused admittance, and only Miri was permitted to enter. Wolf’s fierce determination to protect her and his flamboyant nature could only cause trouble and this meeting with Simon could prove difficult enough. She left Wolf swearing and prowling the courtyard, vowing if she hadn’t returned in an hour’s time, he was coming after her.
She followed a grizzled old guard inside, blinking to adjust her eyes to the darkened interior from the courtyard’s bright flood of sunlight. The inn’s main parlor was crowded with Simon’s men, some of them playing at cards, some dicing. One even dandled a serving wench on his knee.
This was clearly a different breed of witch-hunters from Vachel Le Vis’s troop of hooded monks. Not a pair of rosary beads or a Bible in sight. It was a well-known fact that those who helped successfully prosecute a witch were entitled to a share of the condemned’s worldly goods. Simon’s men were hardened adventurers motivated by profit rather than a fanatical belief they were acting upon divine orders from God. Miri shuddered, unable to decide which motive for destroying innocent women was worse.
Many hard assessing stares tracked her progress across the room as the older guard led her up a stair to the inn’s second floor. Miri held her head high, her calm demeanor a foil for the way her heart had begun to pound. After all these years, a corridor, the mere span of a door, was all that separated her from Simon.
At thirteen, she had been far slower than other girls with regards to paying heed to the opposite sex. But a girl would have had to be dead not to have noticed Simon. He had been breathtakingly handsome with dark lustrous eyes and a cap of ebony curls. His smile had been far too kind for a witch-hunter, his eyes too apt to twinkle with good humor and hints of boyish mischief. And his hands . . . Miri especially remembered the long elegance of his fingers as he’d scratched Necromancer behind his ears and set him purring. Back when her cat had still trusted Simon as much as she had done herself.
The old guard came to a halt before a door at the end of the hall, the way barred by two more sentries. After a few low remarks exchanged with the sentries, the older guard beckoned to Miri. He held open the door for her and with a jerk of his head, indicated she was to precede him inside.
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