by Nancy Gideon
He was going to die.
“M’sieur LaValois, good evening.”
He gave a start because the words were spoken right behind him. He whirled upon Bianca du Maurier, swinging his sabre in a deadly arc.
She caught the blade.
He watched her snap it in her hands as if it were made of glass.
“You are impolite for an uninvited guest.”
And she struck him. The blow connected with his chin, and the impact sent him sailing across the room. The jarring solidity of the wall broke his flight and he slid to the floor in a daze, the wind knocked from him. He watched the lethal Bianca approach him. She was smiling.
“How brave you are to come alone. And how foolish. What a wonderful companion you would make for me.”
“Go to hell,” he wheezed with all the defiance he could muster.
Her smile widened and her hand stretched out to him.
“Join me there.”
SHE WOULD NOT lose him!
That driving conviction broke through the clog of Nicole’s misery. If she didn’t do something fast, she would never have the chance to win him back. She couldn’t let his parting words wound her. She couldn’t let his anger shake her confidence. He was hurt and upset. He was afraid. He’d pushed her away because of all those things. He’d said he no longer trusted her, but he’d never claimed to no longer love her.
And he would be dead if she didn’t intervene. Bravery and weaponry would not defeat what he’d be facing. His own ignorance of the enemy would be his undoing. If she could get to him in time, she could overpower him and carry him off by force. She was stronger. He might hate her for it, but he’d be alive . . .
Frederic LaValois was beyond needing his help.
She knew it just as surely as she knew her love would be walking into his own doom.
“Musette, we have to leave Paris.”
The redhead made a soft moaning sound and refused to stir from where she’d crumpled upon the floor. “I can’t leave without Frederic.”
“Musette, you know Frederic will not be coming with us, don’t you?” She stated that truth as gently as she could and tears welled up anew in the other’s eyes. “Marchand will be dead as well if we don’t act now. Please. You must help me. He’s Frederic’s brother. He’d want you to protect him.”
A fluttery hand rose to brush the dampness off pale cheeks. In a voice that was strong for all its frailty, Musette asked, “What can I do?”
Nicole embraced her tightly, then sat back, thinking. What could they do? She knew the enemy, but she was no more knowledgeable than Marchand in what it would take to defeat them. She didn’t think her own physical and mental skills were developed enough to confront Bianca. And she couldn’t count upon Gerard’s intervention. But if ignorance was a detriment, hesitation would be fatal.
“We have to hire a rig. Something fast to get us out of the city. Then we have to go after Marchand. If he can survive until dawn, we’ll be safe.”
Musette didn’t pretend to understand what was said to her. She was grateful for the direction. Her own mind was too dazed for clear thought.
“Where can we get horses and a fast carriage?” Nicole asked.
“I-I know a place,” Musette stammered. “Let me get my things together.”
“Leave them.”
“No! Frederic’s books, his stories, his words . . . I have to have them.”
Seeing there was no swaying her, Nicole nodded and helped her gather all the scattered pages of Frederic LaValois’s dreams. With those stuffed into a simple cloth sack, the two women set out to attempt a daring rescue.
IT WAS ALMOST dawn. Nicole could scent it on the last night breeze while the world was yet in shadow. With Musette waiting with the nervous driver, Nicole slipped in to the palatial house, where an eerie silence lingered. She didn’t call out. She used her senses to reach out, to search. She felt Gerard, but he was already closed away in his daytime hibernation, his thoughts slowed yet guarded, no help at all. Then from one of the rooms, she picked up a definite vibration, one that woke a keen response within her.
A human heartbeat.
She followed that weak inviting pulse, aware at once of her own weakness, of her hunger. She hadn’t fed enough. The cup Gerard provided had revived but hadn’t satisfied. She found herself tracking down the source of that enticing rhythm like a stalking beast of prey, hungering for the salty warmth of mortal skin and the exquisite taste of life.
She moved like a soundless predator into one of the shadow-drenched rooms, drawn by the frail promise of food, stopped by the sight before her.
Marchand was draped along one of the low benches upon his back. His arms trailed down off either side so that his wrists rested upon cool black marble. His eyes were open. They were as dark and lifeless as those stone tiles.
She was too late.
Chapter Sixteen
“MARCHAND!”
His name wailed from her, from a grief so deep and desolate it swamped the common sense that told her even now she was hearing his heartbeat. The shock of seeing him there like that was too tremendous to overcome all at once. Until she saw moonlight glitter in his eyes and realized it was a reflection caused by movement. And movement meant life.
She crossed the room in a careless rush, falling to her knees beside the bench and wrapping herself around him. Beneath her damp cheek, a perpetual rhythm throbbed and she spent a long moment worshiping that tempo. Finally, she made herself sit back and take a more realistic look at him. He still seemed to be in some heavy mental fog, unaware of her touch. She eased down the stiff collar of his shirt to scan the unmarked curve of his throat, then performed the same check on either wrist. No puncture marks. She noticed the discoloration on his jaw where a considerable impact must have caught him. Perhaps that was the reason for his daze.
“Marchand,” she called in a penetrating whisper as she lightly slapped his cheeks. Finally his eyes made a slow blink and the cloudy stupor began to lift. “Wake up, my love. We have to get out of here.”
He sucked a sudden startled breath as if he’d been shaken from a deep slumber. His arms flew up to ward her off, forming a protective cross over his face. Or was it his neck he was covering?
“Marchand, it’s Nicole.”
His breathing took on a fast, agitated pattern, a helpless panting that reminded her of the fox she’d snared amid the heather. The sound of a creature expecting an unavoidable death at any second. Her inability to comfort him brought on her own sense of helpless distress. What horror lurked behind the opaque glaze of his eyes? What had he seen when he came in search of demons he didn’t believe in? He believed now. Of that she was certain.
She’d bent over him to retrieve one of his limp hands from where it dangled to the floor. One second he was completely unresponsive to his surroundings; the next, he was exploding with motion. The black centers of his eyes enlarged to engulf all color, and with a terrible cry, he seized her and flung her down on the floor beneath him. In that same instant, she saw the broken end of his sabre plunge deep into the bench cushion with a force that would have impaled them both.
Faced with a snarling female ghoul, Nicole shoved Marchand under the bench for safe keeping, then rose up with her own preternatural speed to confront her attacker. She sensed no great intellect in this newly made creature, none of the fluid grace and skill that Bianca and Gerard displayed. But Nicole didn’t underestimate the danger. The undead female had incredible strength and the motivating hunger to move the mindless form to violence. She moved away from the bench, trying to draw the creature from Marchand. The ghoul took several uncertain steps, then looked back, lured by the scent of live blood.
“Come on, chienne,” Nicole spat. “Come after me. Try making a meal off one who’s not defenseless.”
The woman turned
back, then with an amazing speed had Nicole by the throat, her powerful hands constricting as they struggled. Nicole felt her fangs come down and she let the other see them, hoping she would be intimidated by one of her own kind. She wasn’t. She hissed back and throttled all the harder, apparently not caring whom she fed off next, be it vampire heiress or mortal man.
Using all her strength, Nicole struck the other female beneath the breastbone, once, twice, again, until she felt the grip that was darkening her sight relent. Gasping for air, Nicole laced her fingers together to form a double fist and swung them up like she was heaving a length of timber. There was the sound of shattering bone as that blow connected under the woman’s chin, flipping her over backward and down to the floor in a motionless crumple. For a moment, Nicole stood en garde, rubbing her bruised throat and preparing for another attack. When none came, she bent down for Marchand and gave a cry of surprise when he kicked at her and curled even farther back under the bench.
“Get away from me.”
Had that raw and feeble threat come from him?
“Marchand, it’s Nicole,” she coaxed as she reached for his hand. He struck out again and his hand grazed her cheek. His next words stung worse than the slap.
“Get away! You are one of them!”
“No, Marchand. I’m not one of them. I’ve come to take you away from here. To someplace safe. Give me your hand.”
“No!” he growled with the dangerous ferocity of something cornered and terrified. “I don’t believe you. You lie!”
“Marchand, listen to me. I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve come to help you.”
“Liar!” And he slapped her hand away. It was like reaching blindly into a badger hole.
“Marchand, if you truly believed that, why did you just save me?”
There was a long moment of silence. Then his unsteady hand stretched out to her. With a sigh of relief, she took it gently in hers and began to draw him out. Just when she thought she had him, he began to thrash wildly, pulling back; pulling her with him instead of trying to twist away.
“No. No!”
Then she saw he was staring past her and she turned to see the female ghoul had regained her feet and had possession of the broken sabre once again. On her knees, with Marchand dragging her half underneath the bench, Nicole wasn’t in a position to defend against the slicing arc of the blade. But abruptly the momentum stalled and the sword fell from twitching fingers. Nicole looked up to see the points of a silver throwing star imbedded in the creature’s forehead just before the ghoul collapsed. She knew of only two people who used such a weapon; her father and Takeo, the servant who taught him the ancient art of self-defense.
Takeo knelt and clasped his hand to Nicole’s shoulder, giving her a half-angry, half-affectionate shake. Then he beckoned with both hands for her to follow him. She nodded and said, “Not without Marchand. And Musette. She has a carriage outside.”
Takeo gave a sigh of exasperation and nodded tersely. His hand dove beneath the bench, coming out with Marchand’s ankle in a firm grip, using it to drag him, scrabbling and kicking, out into the first weak pool of morning light. Marchand rolled onto his back, drawing his fists up into a frantic pose of self-protection. Takeo only stared at him, his delicate brows arched up as if contemptuous of the threat presented.
“It’s all right, Marchand,” Nicole soothed, rubbing one of his tensed forearms. He flinched away from her, but she pretended not to notice. “Takeo comes from my father. He’ll see we get to my home safely. Come on. Musette is outside. She must be frightened to death by now. Come on, Marchand. We have to go now while it’s light and they can’t follow.”
Even as she spoke, the woman’s corpse began to smoke upon the floor and finally burst into tiny licks of hot blue flame that totally consumed her. Marchand looked to Nicole in apprehension, as if wondering when she would do the same.
“I’m not like them,” she told him quietly.
He continued to stare at her, never blinking.
“Help me with him, Takeo.”
Between them, they managed to get Marchand to his feet. He didn’t struggle, but he was too weak of body and confused of mind to be much help in their flight. They half dragged him outside to where Musette stood beside a raggedy conveyance. Its driver looked more than a little drunk and more than a trifle impatient with the wait.
“Here now,” he bellowed down in disapproval as he watched them haul an insensible figure down the walk. “I won’t be a party to nothing foul.” And before they could stop him or explain, he cracked his whip and the horses sped off, leaving Musette spinning, Frederic’s jottings clutched to her breast. She looked fearfully to Marchand then behind him, hopefully, searching for another. Not finding him.
Takeo gestured in the air and a second sleek coach pulled up. He opened the door and waved them into the plush interior. As Marchand moved past a tearful Musette, he told her emotionlessly, “Frederic is dead,” then he climbed up into the coach. Nicole hurried the weaving woman in behind him, then climbed up herself. Takeo closed the door and thumped upon the roof, putting the vehicle into motion.
“Thank you, Takeo,” Nicole sighed, squeezing his hands in hers. He nodded, then glanced curiously at her traveling companions. Musette was huddled against the window, weeping quietly. Marchand sat opposite, his back pressed to the wall of the coach, his legs drawn up until his knees came to his chin. His arms were banded tight about them as if they would provide some sort of barrier between him and Nicole, who shared the same seat. The blank sheen covered his eyes again, eyes that fixed in wordless horror upon something she couldn’t even imagine.
Or then again, maybe she could.
HE WOKE WITH a start and swiped a trembling hand across his face. His cheeks were feverish and wet. Some dream, he thought, as he tried to quiet his frantic breathing. Then he opened his eyes and the confusion returned.
He was in a luxurious coach heading he knew not where. Musette was across from him, slumbering fitfully. Next to her was an Asian man he seemed to have a vague recall of seeing once before, also asleep. And at the end of his own seat was Nicole, as beautiful as a Botticelli angel in repose. He started to reach out to her, but something held him back. Something in the repressed darkness of his memory that had his skin crawling and his hair prickling. Something that whispered, Beware! He withdrew the gesture and sat in silence, trying to understand what had disturbed him so. His mind was a maddening blank.
He rubbed at an ache in his jaw and was surprised to discover the side of his face was swollen and tender. Someone had struck him. Not someone . . . something.
He glanced toward Musette and was puzzled by the bundle she held. He could see some sheafs of writing paper protruding. He recognized his brother’s angular scribblings. He couldn’t seem to pull his attention away from those pages and he wondered why. Why did Musette have Frederic’s notes? And just where was—
The knowledge swarmed up so swift and sharp he couldn’t help but cry out softly from the pain of it. He stared at those notes until the writing blurred and rippled. Until he felt a gentle touch upon his cheek, turning him away. He looked to Nicole with tears standing in his eyes.
“Is-is Frederic—” The words choked him and it took him a moment to work more of them out. “Frederic’s dead, isn’t he?”
The last thing he wanted to hear was her soft, “I’m sorry, March.”
He made a low, inward sound and ducked his head between updrawn knees. “H-How?”
“I don’t know. What do you remember?”
“Nothing. Nothing . . . pieces. Nothing that makes sense. Feelings.” And one of them was so overpowering, he canted a look up to ask, “Why am I so afraid of you?”
She didn’t move. Her voice was a reassuring lull. “You needn’t be, Marchand. You know I love you.”
Still, he was troubled. The gaps i
n his recall were frightening, but not as bad as the terrible emotions roiling underneath them. Emotions that warned, don’t ask, don’t look, don’t find out. But when Nicole reached out to touch him, he shrank back, everything inside him quaking. And he didn’t know why. He had to know why.
“Did you see Frederic?” she prompted quietly.
“I—I don’t know.” Yes, he did know. Awareness was right beneath the surface but, like an image on a clear pond, when he went to touch it, it distorted and broke apart within his grasp. He closed his eyes and absently wiped the cascade of dampness from his cheeks. “I must have seen him.” He looked up again. “I know he’s dead.”
She placed her hand over the top of his; he pulled his back reflexively. She didn’t try again. But she did continue the questions. “Did you see him at Bianca and Gerard’s?”
He gave a hard shudder as his mind rejected what he would try to remember. The shock was too deep. Instead, he let himself search out small details, ones that skirted the big terrible ones. Those his battered subconscious could contain. The wooden snarls. Shadows shifting across marble tiles. “Yes . . . it was there.”
“Was he alive?”
His shaking got worse. His legs shivered. He tried to still them with hands that trembled even more. “No,” he told her softly, then, “Yes,” then, “No.” He tried to concentrate and found himself fixed upon the way his knees quivered. Ridiculous, he told himself sternly. He’d never fallen into hysteria in his entire life. “I hit my head. I must have been delirious. The things I remember are crazy things, like a dream.”
“Tell me the dream.”
It was like struggling to draw rusted nails from swollen wood, the resistance fierce, the process awkward and unpredictable. “Frederic. And Camille. They spoke to me.”
“Camille?”
A cynical smile braved his lips. “I told you it was crazy.”
