Sword And Blood (Vampire Musketeer Book 1)

by Sarah Hoyt

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “Forget me, go to him.”

  “I will, only give me a moment.”

  Down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he informed Grimaud that the hip bath would need to be set in his chambers and all made ready for a lady to bathe and, since they couldn’t provide female garments, that Grimaud was to find something that might pass.

  “You see, Aramis,” he said. “Madame Bonacieux is safe. So it would make no sense at all for the boy to be a Judas goat.”

  “Unless he’s somehow setting up our confidence,” Aramis said.

  “To get himself captured? Hardly,” Athos said. But he didn’t argue further. Aramis was being fed what looked like roasted chicken by Grimaud, who had opened one of Athos’ best bottles of wine. And welcome, Athos thought, as it was unlikely it would ever again serve him. Porthos was sitting across from Aramis and discussing again the matter of the ancient ones, and how one could fight them.

  Athos made sure no one was watching him and slipped—he hoped unnoticed—up the stairs.

  Into Temptation

  HE bowed briefly to Madame Bonacieux and presented her with a blanket he had grabbed on the way. She wrapped herself in it, expressing her thanks.

  “My servant will come presently,” he said. “To lead you to where you may bathe. If you would . . . ” He hesitated. “Don’t tell my friends where I am gone.”

  Madame Bonacieux looked puzzled and he hastened to explain, “You see, Aramis believes that d’Artagnan might be a Judas goat.”

  “A—” the lady shook her head. “Of all the– The most hidebound, disgraceful—”

  Athos managed a wry smile. He was all too aware of the disputes between Aramis and this priestess of an older religion. He suspected it had its roots in an attraction neither would acknowledge. “Just so,” he said. “So if you would not tell the hidebound one where I’m going, he will not endanger himself. Moreover, your tale may convince him of our young friend’s valor and innocence.”

  He was at the top of the stairs to the front door before Madame Bonacieux said, “But you, Monsieur?”

  “I?” he asked, looking around. “What worse can they do to me that they’ve not already done?”

  He went down the stairs and was unbolting the door when he heard breathing behind him. He turned around, half expecting to see Aramis or Porthos or perhaps Grimaud. But, instead—pale and draggled, looking like someone drowned who had been dredged, unwilling, from the depths of the sea several days after death—was the young man they’d rescued from the blood mass.

  “What are you doing here, Plant—Plat—”

  “Planchet, Monsieur.”

  “Planchet then,” Athos said, annoyed at himself for having forgotten. He prided himself on his memory, his courtesy to the people under his protection, the people of whom he was liege lord de facto if not de jure. “What are you doing here?”

  The young man bowed and made a spirited attempt to tug his forelock, which might have worked if his hair hadn’t been severely caught back in a ponytail. “I will go with you, Monsieur.”

  Athos shook his head. He wasn’t sure whether the young man fully understood what he was, and he was not about to show him, not now, while he was still recovering from his own near escape. “No.”

  “Monsieur,” the young man said, his face pale, his eyes shining, fever-bright and pinpoint-intense. “I must come. I must come with you.”

  “Planchet, you’re a child. You could be my son. I am ordering you to stay.”

  The boy looked up. “I don’t have parents. And your friend was taken while you were saving me. I owe him that much. I owe you that much. I must go with you, should you need help.”

  Should he need help! The idea struck Athos as so strange, that he barely managed to arrest a burble of laughter. He did catch it in time, and snapped his mouth closed with the effect of a groan.

  That he should need this . . . child’s help, alive or dead, human or vampire begged credulity. A knot of quite a different kind formed in his throat, and he struggled to speak managing it only in a voice that sounded pasty and thick, “Thank you, Planchet, I am honored. I—” He knew he could no more deny the young man’s courageous offer than he could have sent d’Artagnan packing back to Gascony.

  And see how it had worked for poor d’Artagnan.

  “I thank you, Planchet, but no.”

  The boy’s face filled with mulish determination. His chin jutted out, his eyes narrowed, and were this any other time, Athos would have remembered his own younger years and given in. But right then, with death being the penalty for a boy’s impetuous folly; right then, when he had to go and rescue another young fool from his own folly, the last thing Athos needed was another death on his conscience. Another death . . . or worse.

  He shivered slightly, imagining this determined youth as a vampire, then imagining d’Artagnan turned, and said, “Not now, Planchet. It is too dangerous out there and I’m not convinced . . . that traps are not being laid down for my friends and myself.” He shook his head. “And what weapons do you know? How can you help defend me?”

  For the first time Planchet looked unsure, his expression mirroring the look of someone who takes a step in the blind dark and finds the ground not where he expected it. “I . . . ” he said. “I used to throw rocks with … with a slingshot. When I was much younger, of course.”

  And now Athos did laugh, not in derision, but in shared amusement, remembering his own long-lost days of throwing rocks with a slingshot. He’d never been very good with it. He’d never managed to hit more than tree branches and, once, his mother’s prized rosebush. “Your hand, Planchet,” he said stretching his own and bracing so well for the appeal of warm, living flesh that he almost didn’t flinch when it clasped his own cold fingers. “I will not take you today, young hero, but I will promise that I’ll teach you to use a sword upon my return. Or better, perhaps, convince Monsieur Porthos to do so, as he used to teach fencing.”

  “But . . . ” For a moment, Planchet was all wide-eyed surprise. “But, Monsieur! I am but the son of a baker!”

  “All that,” Athos said with a wave of the hand, “Must perforce be swept away—as are the past religious wars, the fights over which pathway to God was the right one, the bloodshed that sped far too many souls His way. If this war continues, we shall need every able-bodied human, to keep the night at bay.”

  He stepped out the door and into the darkness. The night was no longer young. Stars were out, few and small, in the turbulent blue sky rayed with violet clouds. The moon seemed almost not real, in the middle of it, a shining blue beacon surrounded in a violet halo.

  Now he was out . . . and alone. Where was he going? Athos blended into the darker shadows on the street, and kept his hand clasped on the hilt of his sword. As a vampire, and one trained in the use of his sword, he should be able to overcome anything that might threaten him, human or vampire.

  But he was a newly-turned vampire, and he had not fed. What had Jussac called him? Halfling? The name fit. Neither human nor vampire, he felt vulnerable to both. Not afraid—or at least not the sort of fear that would induce cowardice; how could that be, when he would have welcomed death to release him from this, his tainted carnal prison?—but cautious, listening for every movement, every sign of life.

  He heard none. Oh, if he fixed his attention he would hear mewling babes or their parents whispering behind the cross-marked window shutters on either side of the narrow street. But he bothered only with sounds on the street, and there were none to worry him.

  He found his feet were taking him, as of their own accord, to that same church where he’d met his untimely destiny. And he found his feet were right. They should take him back there, as once tonight already they’d interrupted another ceremony in the place.

  But he did not expect to find anyone there, human or vampire—and he did not. He stood outside the howling ruin, smelling the all-too-recent vampire deaths, and wondering if there were any others hidi
ng in there, waiting for him. Waiting . . . for anyone.

  He could only think that he’d not find Charlotte there, which brought his thoughts up short. Did he mean to find Charlotte, then?

  When had his mind decided this, and why had it, and why did he feel as though it had betrayed him in reaching that conclusion without his conscious thought? Did he mean to see Charlotte because his body ached for her? Or was there a reason to see her that he could bring out in the full light of reason?

  He clasped the hilt of the sword tight, till the decorations on it became imprinted upon his palm, and sighed. No. Just like his feet, his mind had made a logical plan. If he wanted to find d’Artagnan, he must find Charlotte, first.

  The city was vast enough and even if you assumed the boy was in a church and about to be subjected to a blood mass—there were over three hundred churches in Paris, not counting cathedrals, chapels, or private chapels and shrines. He could not run through the streets, back and forth, until he found a particular one. And should it be across the city, he’d never get there in time.

  But Charlotte was a vampire. She must, perforce, share that mental link all vampires shared. Even if she had not been the planner or the organizer of this plot, she would know at which place, which church, which hiding place, the Gascon was held. And if she knew that, he could persuade her to tell him. He ran his hand back through his hair, not absolutely sure this was true, but willing it to be. He’d convince her to tell him where they’d taken the boy. He would find the youth. And finding him, either release him . . . or grant him mercy. Before he became what Athos was.

  But this required Athos finding Charlotte and quickly.

  From her unruffled aspect the night before—aye, and from her appearance here a few hours ago, a phenomenon to which he understood there were limits of distance, she must live—No. Not live. She must have her lair nearby. Which meant he should be able to discover where.

  He knew her tastes, his silver and ivory Charlotte’s tastes. She’d reveled in being a countess and resented only that the castle at La Fère was not arranged according to the latest mode. She’d called it a wind-swept barracks and pouted when Athos had refused to remodel it into a more fashionable, airier habitation.

  He closed his eyes. In this area there was only one house in which he presumed Charlotte would consent to live. It was a fine Italianate townhouse that had belonged to the De Montbelliard’s de Montbelliard’s—a family of wealthy merchants who still held it when Athos had come to town, before they’d grown by degrees less wealthy, as their trade in luxury goods faltered and, finally they had left Paris, abandoning their fine stone and marble home to be taken by any enterprising vampire.

  Athos guessed the moment Charlotte saw the house, she would have contrived to take it from whichever bloodsucker inhabited it. Not for his Charlotte the cold, dirt floor of some abandoned chapel or the filthy marble of some echoing cathedral.

  No. He followed his memory of the location of the de Montbelliards house, down a narrow alley, across a broad street, then, in quickening steps, upstairs to its front door. And there he stopped.

  The house shone from within with soft, wavering light. Either someone was using the finest candles, the kind of white wax that had once been used for divine services at the best churches and in the royal court, or else someone was using well-trimmed lamps. Light spilled forth from every window, and shone softly upon the pavement in front of his feet. The sound of a harp gently played came with it.

  Charlotte wouldn’t be the player. At least he never knew her to play an instrument. But she’d enjoyed music well enough.

  His teeth ached from being clamped together so hard. Athos looked toward the double door, at the top of a broad marble stairway. Two large vampires, whom he recognized as the ones who’d tied him to an altar the night before, stood guard beside it. Athos shuddered and shook his head. He’d find no easy admittance there.

  But there must be an entrance to the building. He walked around toward the alley that ran along the tall wall that, at the back of the house. Within lay gardens that he remembered as well kept and fragrant.

  They were fragrant still. Though roses were out of season, he could smell them with his heightened senses. And he could still hear the harp from inside, joined now by dulcet laughter he knew all too well.

  The laughter spurred him on. He climbed the wall, clumsily because it was a relatively new and well-kept wall, and there was hardly any places his feet and hands could grasp. He felt the skin on his hands tear and bleed on the rough stone as he climbed to the top of the wall and looked, blindly, toward the building.

  His gaze was met with more light, spilling from an open window. The room he was facing at the same level as the top of the wall was a vast salon, luxuriously appointed. Carpet lay upon the floor and it looked to have the intricate designs of silk carpets from the orient. Athos’ sight blurred.

  In the center of the room, lying upon a blue and gold couch was . . . Charlotte. She reclined in the Roman fashion, and wore a diaphanous gown that allowed him to see the contours of her flesh beneath the fabric. Her feet were bare, long and sculpted, looking too fine not to have been created by an artist. Her breasts round, smooth and swelling above the dress’s deep neckline made his mind lose all ability for thought.

  He could imagine the feel of her skin on his hands—cool, cool silk, but living and responsive as silk never could be. He could imagine lifting her diaphanous wrapping and—

  He could remember her mind upon his, insistent, demanding he open mind and soul to her.

  Like a sudden cold wave that submerges you on the sunlit ocean, like a freezing wind on a summer day, fear enveloped him, all-encompassing. As much as he wanted her, he feared her more, with the unreasoning fear of the small and defenseless hunted by a powerful predator.

  He climbed back down the wall and walked, dazed, along the street. He had to confront her. That much was sure. How else could he even hope to save his young friend? But how could he face her?

  He thought of wine or spirits with longing and almost banished the thought from his mind before realizing most alcoholic beverages were clear liquids.

  His body numb, his mind fixed on his need for drink, he stumbled along the alley on a well-known path.

  A Dark and Dreary Journey

  D’ARTAGNAN woke up.

  The lady! He thought, and half rose, pulling his body up. He could move no further. His hands were bound behind his back so tightly they demonstrated the unconcern of a captor who had gone beyond human frailty. The ropes binding his wrists were so taut they had almost dislocated his shoulders. Other thick ropes wound around his body. Something cold and hard—chains? fetters?—bound his ankles. He didn’t have his boots, and for a moment was puzzled by this, as he’d kept them on even while swimming the river. But now they were gone.

  Slowly, through his sluggish brain, like water trickling through a tight sieve came the thought that he’d been divested of them so he could not escape. His doublet and shirt were torn. His breeches remained and still felt wet, the sort of residual clamminess one feels after clothes have dried on one’s body a long time.

  His head hurt, but he didn’t feel injured. At least, there was no sharp pain anywhere, just a dull pain all over, as though he’d been bruised by a continuous and lengthy beating. He felt nauseated, though. His mouth tasted of river water, and his stomach seemed to sway within him.

  He became aware that he was swaying, all of him, rocking to the rhythm of the floor beneath him, which was, in turn, being rocked, neither gently nor rhythmically, but constantly. He would sway, rock, sway, rock, and suddenly bump, in a way that held him airborne for a moment.

  He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat and tried to open his eyes, only to find they were open but covered with a blindfold.

  Whoever had captured him had tied him carefully, blindfolded him, and thrown him in a carriage. But why?

  There had been vampires all around him when he’d been captured, bu
t surely most vampires would simply have taken him to the nearest church and either turned him or shared him as a communal meal between them, drained to death. Who had taken him, and why?

  He opened and closed his mouth, surprised to find it empty, shocked to find himself able to speak, as he said in a voice that emerged low and horse, “Let me go. In Jesus’ name, let me go.”

  A boot hit his face, hard. The kick was so forceful it left him addled, for a moment, and it was so sudden that it took him a breath to understand that it had been a boot that had struck him, and not a hand, nor even the flat of a sword.

  “Shhh,” a voice said from somewhere above d’Artagnan. Above and to the left. He would be on the floor of a carriage. There would be . . . men? Vampires? On the seat or the seats. It would be worthwhile to know if there were one or two seats. And, if two, were both occupied? How many vampires were there? D’Artagnan couldn’t even attempt to escape until he discovered these things. “Shush or we will gag you. And then if you cannot breathe so well, we’ll be sorry, but you’ll be dead.”

  D’Artagnan took a deep breath. He could well imagine if whoever had tied his hands together applied the same principle to gagging him, he would have trouble breathing or staying alive. He closed his eyes behind his blindfold, pretending to himself that he had some control over whether he could see or not, and tried to think.

  He was on the floor of a carriage, utterly powerless, hurrying along what he presumed was a still-dark road. To where? The way the horses galloped, he couldn’t be in the city anymore. No matter how large the city and how broad its streets—and some Parisian streets were indeed broad, though most were not—no carriage could move at this pace in the city without meeting with an obstacle. Yes, noblemen’s carriages routinely ran down those on foot, but that in itself would slow the mad gallop.

  Even at night, even in besieged Paris, there were passersby. Even if those were often vampires. And besides, every broad road ended in a labyrinth of narrow alleys. Even in his short time in the city, d’Artagnan had seen fine carriages, elaborately ornamented with gold and painted with scenes of the ancient gods, doubtless relics from a more prosperous time, making their cautious way down the narrower streets. There was a reason, after all, that sedan chairs—carried by horses or men—were the most common form of transportation in Paris.