Sword And Blood (Vampire Musketeer Book 1)

by Sarah Hoyt

  She was looking at him, her mouth partly open, as though words had fled her and, in fleeing, left her unable to close her lips.

  He grinned at her, a grin as false as his sigh had been. “But take heart, my dear Madame Bonacieux. As soon as the last vampire is conquered, we’ll definitely be able to resume hostilities.”

  She closed her mouth with a snap and pearly white teeth came out to bite at her lower lip. For just a moment, d’Artagnan had the impression that she was suppressing laughter, but when she spoke her voice was not only dry, but didactic, the sort of voice a grown woman might use for a small child, “You speak a great deal of nonsense, d’Herblay.”

  “Do I?” he asked, in the supercilious way d’Artagnan thought Aramis used when he was trying to goad someone. “Do you wish to make a small wager that as soon as the last vampire dies, the hostilities will resume?” He now lowered his eyelashes coyly in what was clearly a challenge and a prod to her.

  “I thought men of your persuasion did not make such wagers?”

  “Oh, my dear, let us then pledge the proceeds to charity ,” he said.

  “And would the last vampire to die be your friend Athos?”

  The last word fell into the night with an unnatural resounding clap. The silence following resembled that following a deafening boom of thunder. The two looked at each other and d’Artagnan, behind them, had the impression their countenances had changed from amusement to dead seriousness. But he only gave them part of his attention.

  Something, not quite a sound— as if of wings, or perhaps sheets being shaken vigorously in a high wind—and not quite a feeling was pricking at his mind. They were approaching Pont Neuf, that vast unencumbered stretch over the Seine, and the hair at the back of d’Artagnan’s neck rose. He felt as though a cold hand were running, upward along his spine. And he couldn’t say why—he couldn’t even think.

  It was just that, as some horses will shy away from an unsafe area, all of d’Artagnan’s instincts told him to grab his friend and the woman they were protecting, and to pull them away and run away from the bridge, toward one of the areas with narrow streets and tall houses.

  It made absolutely no sense, because, as he had learned today, the alleys, even during the day, were the province of vampires, while the bridge . . . Well, surely they’d see any enemy before he came near, would they not?

  And yet, his hair prickled at the back of his neck, and his throat felt so dry it ached, and his breath tore through in little, panicked puffs.

  “Listen,” he said, only his voice came out constricted, and small.

  “Athos, Madame,” Aramis said, his voice terrible enough and cold enough to feel like a sharp blade. “Is not part of this discussion.”

  “Is he not, d’Herblay? Would you care to tell me why not? Would you let him that near me? Do you not know that they all know the same? That they all hear the same? That now all of them will know that I—”

  “Madame. Athos is not part of the collective mind. Do not presume to judge a world that you—”

  “Judge! How do you know? Because he told you? You believe a—”

  “Listen,” d’Artagnan said, managing to speak louder. “There is something wrong. I can’t explain it. I can’t tell you how I know, but there is something very wrong, something—”

  They both looked at him. The woman frowned. “A sensitive?” she asked Aramis.

  “Not . . . that I know of.” He seemed at a disadvantage, having had his thought wrenched from its track. “What do you sense?”

  She paused, looked ahead, frowned, then shrugged. “Nothing. Oh, I mean, trouble enough, in the city, but nothing directly in our path, nothing lying in wait for us. However, I believe I must tell you that things are not . . . That is, my husband could not help in certain necessary rites.”

  With that, the look of amusement returned to Aramis’ eyes, even though the worry remained, creasing his features. “Madame, my most sincere regrets.”

  “Regrets will do nothing for me.”

  “Nor will I. Dispensation I might have, but not so far as helping in the rites of another religion!”

  She pressed her lips together. “Never mind. For this my energy is enough. Have I not seen us safe along this route a hundred times, and detected ambush when there was one? There is nothing bad ahead.”

  Aramis frowned, at the bridge, at the river, then looked back at d’Artagnan. “How sure of it are you, my friend?” he asked, with a tone of great kindness.

  D’Artagnan shook his head, trying to clear it, but it didn’t help. His panic had eased once they’d stopped physically advancing toward the bridge, but it was not gone. “I don’t know,” he said. “My reason tells me that this makes no sense, and yet, all my feelings, my . . . instinct, warns me away from the bridge.”

  “Where does it tell you you’d be safe?”

  “Anywhere,” d’Artagnan said. “In a street, with houses on either side. Anywhere else.”

  Aramis looked at him a long while, so intently that d’Artagnan felt as though the musketeer were trying to peer into his soul, then sighed. “It could be vampire influence. They control some minds. We don’t know how exactly, but it’s akin to the way in which they speak to each other. Some minds are more open to their influence. In fact, all of us gain defenses to their arts over time. And . . . ” He shook his head. “I’m sure they are trying to influence you, to . . . Attract you. Perhaps not you specifically, but all who will react to it.”

  He looked out, at the moonlight shining on the open space of Pont Neuf, just a few feet away. It did not appear menacing, but open, incapable of hiding anything. It had been the first bridge in Paris built with no accommodation for houses on either side, but only a low parapet with sidewalks, and, in the middle, space enough for two carriages to pass comfortably. Before the vampires, it had been a famous promenade where everyone in town went to see and be seen.

  It still retained its open quality and looking at it, d’Artagnan couldn’t understand why it should scare him so. It was plain that Aramis didn’t either. They were so close they could hear the whispers of the river, and see the moonlight shining on the water below.

  “Come,” Aramis said. “We’re expected at the Palais Royale and must, perforce, cross the bridge. There was once a vampire called the Terror of Pont Neuf; Athos killed him. Besides, he only terrorized the neighborhood hereabouts, not the bridge itself.” He gestured with his hand. “As you see, it is almost impossible for anyone to attack you unawares on the bridge.”

  D’Artagnan didn’t like the idea that the creeping fear he felt was being put in his mind by vampires. He didn’t like to think his thoughts—his most private self—might be open to manipulation of the creatures. But if it were, as Aramis said, a matter of growing inured to them and of improving your defenses to their wiles, perhaps he could not hope otherwise.

  He inclined his head. “It is probably as you say,” he said. “I am probably being called toward one of the alleys by one of the creatures.”

  He noted the woman was looking at him with a faint, sweet smile. “It takes a real man,” she said, “to admit he might be flawed.”

  He felt hot blood suffuse his cheeks, but he smiled. And as the two resumed walking toward the bridge, he walked behind them, though it caused sweat to break out all over his body and every hair to stand on end.

  It was all he could do, it took all his strength, to step onto the bridge and to keep walking. Below, the Seine gurgled, and ahead of him, Aramis’ and Madame Bonacieux’ steps echoed side by side. He followed, by an effort of will, straining every nerve against the impulse to run away.

  In the middle of the bridge, he stopped, unable to force himself to go any further. Like a horse that had been pulled so far, his body refused to go another step. It seemed to him he heard a sound, just barely, under the babble of the Seine. A rustle.

  His companions stopped, noticing he wasn’t following, and turned around to look at him, Madame Bonacieux with puzzled intensity; Aram
is with intent enquiry.

  “Dry leaves,” d’Artagnan said, as his mouth found the answer before his brain could stop it. He saw a crease forming between Aramis’ eyebrows and said, “That’s the sound. Listen. There’s a rustle of dry leaves.”

  Aramis’ brows rose with a look of surprise, and he opened his lips. D’Artagnan didn’t doubt Aramis was about to say that he heard it too, but he had no time to speak.

  Swarming over the parapets of the bridge, uncountable in number, like ants out of a disturbed anthill, came vampire-wraiths. They were of the long-dead type, like those they had fought in the rue des Fossoyeurs.

  D’Artagnan heard the clack of Aramis’ heel hitting the pavement as the musketeer stepped backward, even as d’Artagnan took a step back himself, so that his back was to Aramis. As more vampires approached, shambling toward them in that walk that was not quite human, d’Artagnan did not doubt they would die here. This was death as sure as if they’d laid down their heads upon the executioner’s block and seen the ax descend.

  When facing odds of double or triple the number of one’s comrades, it was possible to hope. And when there was hope of getting succor from other musketeers, it might be possible to hold out a thought of prevailing. But here, in this bleak night, under the shining light of the moon, there was no hope of help, unless it came from heaven—a heaven that for decades now had left humans to their own wiles. And the prospect of death was almost freeing. If there were nothing else to be done, then he would die well.

  He heard Aramis’ sword hiss out of its sheath, like boiling water about to be poured on infection, and he pulled his own sword out. For a moment, battle-mad, watching his executioners approach, he forgot there were only three of them, and one an unarmed woman.

  And then, as the vampires closed in, making an odd clicking sound as though they’d long been deprived of speech and must now click to communicate, Aramis leaned back and turned minimally, “I am lost, my friend, but if you would do me a last favor . . . I will help you as much as I can, only for the love of heaven take Madame Bonacieux out of this. If you can contrive to get her out of this unscathed, my blessing and my gratitude go with you.”

  “What, and run away?” d’Artagnan asked, shocked, as he cast a look at the lady who was standing with her back to d’Artagnan’s left side and who held in her hand something, which looked—and smelled—like a handful of dried rose petals. “I am not so dishonorable.”

  Aramis laughed, a laughter that came out dry and almost soundless, like the rattle of breath that preceded death. “For heaven’s sake, d’Artagnan, do not believe it will be easy, nor that I ask you to do what I would not. If there is a chance, indeed, I’ll join in the flight. But you must for the sake of your honor, your chivalry, and our faith, keep Madame Bonacieux safe. It is more important than my life or yours.”

  Madame Bonacieux cleared her throat, “Gentlemen, I am not a frail—”

  But at that moment, their talk ceased because the vampires were upon them. Unholy hands, caked in what had to be grave dirt, reached for them, grabbing at shoulder and arm with vise force.

  D’Artagnan heard Aramis’ sword meet age-hardened flesh and old bone, and plied his sword in turn, careful only not to hit Aramis or the lady. It was hopeless, of course. The more he killed, the more of them were there, surging rank on rank: unstoppable, darkened flesh, rotted cloth and that smell of corruption that escaped when a vampire died.

  Vampire heads rolled and bodies fell, twitching, and yet more vampires came.

  There was a smell of roses, and d’Artagnan saw the lady was dipping into a sack at her waist and spreading what seemed to be no more than crumbled dried rose petals. The smell, though, was much stronger than dried petals would warrant. Its effect on the vampires was the same as that of the salt Aramis had given him. It didn’t kill them, but it fell on them like sparks of fire, and made them stop and stumble around.

  Aramis expected d’Artagnan to get the woman out of here. Suddenly, d’Artagnan’s quick brain saw it. There was no possible way they could attain either end of the bridge, but they could reach the nearest parapet no more than twenty steps away. They could, that was, if the woman would only strew her rose petals before them.

  He dared not ask if she could swim, because that would tell the vampires what they were about to do. He didn’t know how much will or intelligence remained in these desiccated creatures, but neither did he wish to find out.

  He reached for the woman with his left hand, even as the sword in his right made short work of vampires in front and to the right of him, “Lady, strew your petals as we go,” he said.

  “Go where?” she asked, and for a moment, the tenseness of the supple muscles on her arm under his hand, gave him the impression that she meant to shake his grasp off.

  “Out of here,” he said.

  “If you think—” she said.

  “I think that you were introduced to me as a brave and capable woman,” he said, casting his voice just loud enough for her to hear. “A brave and capable woman would not wish to die in vain.”

  She said nothing, though d’Artagnan could swear that Aramis’ back, pressed to his own, shook once, convulsively, in what might be laughter or a cough. He did not know which, nor did he stop to discover. Instead, he started cutting his way forward, toward the parapet, while holding on to her arm. He breathed a sigh of relief, as she seemed to know what was wanted, and began to strew the petals forward, as well as to the side, addling those vampires directly in his path.

  Just as well, too, that Aramis seemed to have perceived the gist of d’Artagnan’s plan, because he kept right behind them, his back to d’Artagnan’s. There was a good chance, d’Artagnan thought, that they could all three get out of here and alive, too. Or not a good chance, perhaps, but a chance, which in this moment, was all he could care about. He fought his way forward, stepping on vampire bones and skulls, which felt as brittle as spun-sugar confections under his boots, but whose crushing poured forth the stench of a thousand open graves.

  Suddenly vampires ceased to be in front of him, and the parapet appeared. A vampire stepped up onto the parapet, only to be cut down. The way was clear. Possibly only for a moment. D’Artagnan grabbed at Madame Bonacieux’ arm, made a final sweep with his sword, sheathed it. He could not swim while holding onto a woman with one hand and a sword with the other. He yelled, “Jump.”

  Vampires reached for his legs, held onto his ankles. He suspected the like were holding onto hers. He flung himself and her forward with force. They cleared the parapet and fell into the open space with water beneath.

  D’Artagnan didn’t know the Seine, nor its depth, and though he knew that ships sailed on it, he also knew some places were shallower than the others. He had heard that there were league masters devoted wholly to the navigation of the river, and he could only breathe a prayer under his breath that they would fall into deep enough water not to break their necks.

  He hit the river with his feet, and went down, down, down, as water closed over him, dark and cold. In the panic of falling—instinct against decision—he’d somehow let go of Madame Bonacieux. What if she could not swim?

  He rose to the surface, and broke the water with a cry, half-ready to fight any vampires that might surround him. He was almost shocked to see none in the water, then relieved to see Madame Bonacieux’ head break the water only a few hand spans away, and to hear her gasp for breath, as she treaded the water very capably.

  “Aramis?” he asked her.

  She had lost her cap and her blond hair had come loose, obscuring most of her face in a honey-brown mess, but she flinched at his question, and looked toward the bridge.

  He looked too, and comprehended exactly the problem they faced. They had never had a prayer. There were vampires all over the underside of the bridge, and the pillars leading to it, holding on to the underside and the vertical surfaces with the gravity-defying, repulsive stubbornness of insects. The bridge itself boiled with them—hundreds, perhaps thou
sands.

  Aramis was not visible at all.

  Honeyed Death

  PERHAPS it was the sound of his baptismal name that made Athos stop and drop the sword from nerveless hands. Perhaps it was Charlotte’s voice.

  What remained of his reason, beating madly on the inside of his mind like a captive bird, told him that this was folly, and the worst kind of folly at that. That the person standing before him was not Charlotte, but a burly, male vampire who had just been sating his unnatural lusts in the blood of the young man tied to the altar—who might be dead or alive. And if alive needed help.

  But the evidence of his eyes told him Charlotte was there—his Charlotte—the only woman to whom he had ever given his heart and, if marriage to a vampire were possible, who remained his wife. He opened his mouth to ask her how she had come here, but she smiled before he could speak.

  “No,” she said, sadly. “You did not come to seek me, did you? You came to rescue this foolish boy. It is so like you, Raphael.”

  Her hand, almost ethereally soft touched his face, which felt, suddenly, as though it had turned to granite. He seemed incapable of moving it, and it felt as cold as stone. “It is so like you to behave in this impracticably chivalrous way and to come to free a boy you don’t even know.” She smiled at him. “I knew you would come.”

  Her fingers caressed his neck, flitted butterfly-like down his throat, over his Adam’s apple, and lingered, in heated caress on the bite mark she had given him. There it held, and she said, “But you’re not one of them, Raphael. Not anymore. You’re one of mine. You’re of my kind. Don’t you see? Now we can be together and be joined once more.”