The Prince of Midnight

by Laura Kinsale

  S.T. ran. He mounted the steps three at a time, tripping on his sluggish leg. Someone came running down, as if to push him back, but S.T. brandished the sword and struck the man’s pike aside.

  “Is she in there?” He hurled himself at Chilton, the broadsword still in his hand.

  Something cracked in his ear.

  Chilton looked at him, a sudden stillness, his mouth open silently and a blossom of red against his white collar. Then he wasn’t standing; he was nothing but a sprawled heap in the doorway. As he dropped, a new chorus of screams broke out. S.T. stood above him, staring down in astonishment, and then twisted around to look over his shoulder.

  Above the bonfire and the shocked faces of Chilton’s crowd stood Luton, balanced on one of the stone pedestals by the gate, his arm around a bar, working frantically to reload his pistol and aim again.

  S.T. turned back, springing over Chilton’s body and diving into the smoke.

  A choking black pall hung at the ceiling, billowing over the cold spread of marble floor. The grand hall danced in firelight. Dark smoke poured from the upholstered seats of a pair of elegant chairs thrown together and set alight at the center, flowing upward into obscurity. His eyes watered; he dragged his arm across them and squinted. Through all the open double doors—before him, left and right—S.T. could see draperies burning in the rooms beyond.

  His injured leg wouldn’t obey him, trying to buckle under his weight. He staggered and stood straight, tossing down his sword and sheathing the stiletto. The sound of the fire came to his good ear like a single bellowing wind, a furnace, a dragon roaring at his left ear, swinging with him wherever he turned.

  “Leigh!” he shouted. “Are you here?”

  And then doubled over in a fit of coughing.

  He shouted again, plunging forward past the double doors into the saloon, where flaming curtains lit the portraits and the paneling, licking in bright greed up the pale green drapes, dropping small blazing banners of fringe that hissed on the floorboard and smoldered in the carpet. He spread his neck cloth over his nose and tied it, coughing, ducking below the hanging smoke.

  He heard her voice, he was certain of it. He was sure he heard her over the sound of the fire—but he could not tell from where.

  All the sound came to him from the left. From his good ear. An open door led out from every side of the saloon. He stood in the middle of the burning room and didn’t know which way to go.

  He snatched up a rug from the hearth, beating it against the flames that rose up the curtains next to the door on the left wall. Smoke and heat engulfed him; he staggered back, his eyes tearing, and pulled the rug over his head to make a dash through. On the other side was another hell: the flaming curtains cast a bloody red glow on the scarlet wallpaper.

  More smoke. More doors. He yelled again.

  He stood fixed, sweating, turning his head and trying to listen above the crackle and sucking whoosh of the flames. Smoke hung everywhere, a lowering murky cloud lit by flickers of orange and yellow, the bitter taste of charcoal in his mouth and throat. He had to bend over to breathe. A smoky billow erupted suddenly into a sheet of flame from the skirting on a window seat. He jerked away, shielding his face from the blistering heat.

  He limped to the nearest door and went through, found a hall and a breakfast room untouched by the fire, dim lit in the reflected flames from the other rooms. Her voice sounded: very faint; high-pitched and muffled. He yelled for her and it came back louder.

  There was panic in the sound. It sent him blundering down the smoky hall into the darkness.

  He ran into something that whacked his injured thigh and doubled him over in agony. For an instant he couldn’t move. He pressed his palm over the wound, coughing and groaning. When he put his hand up to his eyes in the murk, he smelled fresh blood and felt the abundant liquid smear on his skin.

  “Devil take it,” he muttered hoarsely. He pulled down the neck cloth from his mouth. “Leigh,” he shouted to the black ceiling. “For God’s sake, where are you?”

  No answer that he could hear. Cursing weakly, he retied the neck cloth over his face, turned, and blundered back toward the glow of the fire.

  Smoke grew thicker as he neared the doors. He gulped a breath, wincing back from the inferno in the crimson room, coughing and bending over to find air as heat poured out.

  His head pounded from the smoke; he braced his hands on his knees and took a painful breath. His injured leg trembled, threatening collapse.

  With a helpless sob, he pushed himself upright; pulled the rug around him, and plunged back into the red drawing room. He moved toward another pair of doors—stood in that opening and shouted her name into the firebox of burning drapes that lined the walls of the room beyond.

  No answer.

  He shouted again, his voice muffled by the neck cloth. Only the blowing noises and blister of flames came back. His leg kept buckling with each step as he lurched back to the last pair of doors. The green saloon again, lined in flames on the outside wall.

  He yelled for her… but the flames were too loud now—he could not have heard her even if she answered.

  A burning gilt pelmet crashed to the floor halfway down the room. S.T. forced himself to go forward. He moved in a half stagger, half crawl, tears coursing down his face from smoke and frustration. Every room seemed like a nightmare, lit by burning tapestries or drapes that glared through the blinding smoke.

  He wasn’t sure how much longer his leg would support him. His voice had gone to a croak. But he kept on yelling for her, a raw sound, until he didn’t have the voice or breath to do more than weave crazily through the glare and smoke to each door. He was afraid he would pass out; his lungs already labored just to keep him on the edge of consciousness.

  Smoke and tears blinded him, made everything a smear of dark and light. When he opened the last door he couldn’t even close it; he hung on the knob, his knees caving under him as he fell through.

  “Seigneur! Are you here?”

  He heard her voice, clear and close. His eyes refused to open to another smoky hell. She called again, and began to cough. As his brain cleared, he realized the flames were behind him, sucking and blooming on the cool air that poured past his face.

  He wrenched his eyes open, saw the cold darkness ahead and staggered up, slamming the door to shut out the fire.

  “Leigh.” He could barely make a sound. Ahead of him, dim columns rose into blackness far above.

  “I’m up—here.” She choked on the words.

  He stumbled to his feet, his leg trembling with pain. “Where?” he croaked, pulling the neck cloth from his mouth.

  “Up.” The word echoed, dissolved in a gagging cough. “The—gallery. You’re in the family chapel.”

  He couldn’t seem to think. It was hard enough to breathe, to drag air into his burning throat and lungs. “How?” he whispered. “How—I—” he lifted his head feebly “—up there?”

  “The stairs—in the chapel—sitting—room.” Her husky voice drifted eerily above him. “Left. Door to the left. Next… room.”

  He wet his lips and glanced left. He could see the door she meant by the glow along the floor. Smoke curled under the panels, sliding up the wood.

  He groped to it and grabbed the brass handle. Pain flashed across his hand; he jerked back and the door exploded open.

  A boom of flame and smoke flung him backwards. The room roared, his back hit the floor and he pushed up, terrified by the rampart of fire sucking air and life into a howling blaze beyond. His body felt seared, burning where his clothes touched his skin. He scrambled onto his knees, barely aware of the flames that colored the wooden panels in weird translucent light, curling peels of varnish that withered and vanished into charcoal. Kicking out with his boot, he slammed the door shut on the destruction. He stumbled up against a marble column and hugged himself against it, clasping the cool stone to his scorched face.

  “Seigneur!” Her voice was a squeak of anxiety. “Are you there?�
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  “I can’t—go that way,” he gasped. “Sunshine—”

  “The pulpit.” The words floated down out of tenebrous shadows. “Can you climb up the pulpit?”

  He peered blearily at the dark mass of wood beneath the gallery. The curved steps led up almost a man’s height to the pulpit, and then a heavily carved canopy doubled that. The top touched the base of the overhanging gallery floor.

  He put his hand on the ornate wooden stair rail and dragged himself up the steps, using his unburned hand to take his weight and ease the strain on his injured leg.

  From the black interior of the pulpit, he gripped the edge of the canopy and hiked himself up. His knee wedged against a wooden carving on one side. He put his strength into the push and tried to climb, grimacing against the pain.

  A sudden cough racked him, his lungs protesting the effort in the condensing smoke. He lost his hold, grabbed with his burned hand, and fell back, grasping for purchase with fingers that screamed in agony.

  “Here,” she said. “Can you reach my hands? Just get my hands free.”

  He squinted upward. He saw movement in the obscurity, heard a frantic thumping as she maneuvered. The pale shape of her hands appeared through the rail.

  He let go, dropping to the pulpit floor, and rested his head back against the podium. It took a monumental effort to push upright and drag his stiletto free.

  In the smoky darkness he could barely see; he had to feel for the cord, and she yelped when he slipped the blade underneath the knot.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, sawing as carefully as he could manage. The cord fell loose. She pulled away before he got it unraveled.

  “Give me the knife,” she hissed, reaching through the banister. “My legs!”

  He flipped the stiletto and laid the handle in her open hand. “Have a care.”

  “Aye—I’d rather not have my ankle sliced off, too,” she muttered with a little gagged cough. “There—that’s got it. Come on!” She stuck her hand through the railing again.

  “Up there?” he rasped.

  “Are you going out the way you came in? There’s no other down there.”

  He glanced toward the closed door of the chapel. Flames glowed beneath the edges, blurred by sliding smoke.

  “I’ll help you, Seigneur.” She stood up and leaned over the rail. “Grab my hands.”

  “Do you propose to pull me up?” he grated dryly.

  “We’ll do it together. Do you think I’ll leave you?”

  “Together.”

  “Come on!” she urged. “Get up on the parson’s seat and give me your hand!”

  “Nay—you won’t hold me.” He searched in the black cavern of the canopy and stepped up onto the seat. He found the carving with his knee. “I can do it myself.” He shoved upward, grabbing in the dark for purchase among the carvings on the top of the canopy, but his blistered fingers couldn’t take the full weight of his pull. He strained, grunting through his teeth, and fell back.

  “Give me your hand!” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

  He hoisted himself onto the seat again and grabbed the carvings, kicking off hard with his good leg for leverage. For an instant he swung from his hands as he tried to heave his upper body onto the roof. His tongue tasted of fresh blood and charcoal. He heard himself, whimpering like a puppy while his injured leg blazed with pain and his fingers felt as if he held them to a red-hot forge.

  Suddenly he felt her hands around his arms, dragging hard, stronger than he ever would have thought a female could pull.

  The grip gave him the half inch that he needed. He thrust his knee over the top of the canopy, unable to contain a sob as he dragged his other leg up. But then he was on top, breathing hard in his raw throat.

  “Hurry!” Leigh’s hands groped for him. “This way—there’s a window.”

  He levered himself over the rail, stumbling after her. She was already leaning out the open window. She hiked her legs across the ledge and dropped down. S.T. peered out, and saw with relief that the ground was only two yards below.

  He hauled his injured leg over the sill, turned around and braced his foot against the wall, easing himself down into the tangle of weeds below. He stood holding his aching thigh, drinking deep draughts of sweet air and choking in between each one.

  Leigh gripped his arm, pulling at him. “Come away—get away from the house!”

  He let her drag him, coughing and tripping, into the cold darkness. When he found his breath he straightened up, groped, and caught her shoulders, grabbed her face between both hands and kissed her roughly.

  To his amazement, she dug her fingers into his hair, returning the kiss, trading the burnt taste of charcoal and blood, pressing herself to his scorched body until he almost fell off his balance with the force of it. He clutched at her shoulders as she pulled abruptly free.

  “God damn, Sunshine,” he breathed.

  “I knew you’d come,” she said, and turned away toward the dark.

  S.T. stared after her through the smoke. He felt his burnt face break into a painful grin. He leaned back, turned his face to the sky and sent a raucous howl of elation into space.

  It ended up in a coughing fit.

  “You put me forcibly in mind of a Bedlamite,” she snapped out of the darkness. “Come along to where it’s safe, will you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  S.T. made it as far as the line of trees that edged the overgrown garden. He caught at one of the trunks as Leigh passed it, sagging against the bark.

  “Si’ down,” he croaked. “Have to… rest.”

  His injured leg crumbled beneath him. He put his arm around the tree and slid to his knees.

  Every breath was punishment for that one elated whoop, burning down his throat and into his chest. Leigh crouched beside him. He could see part of her face, illuminated in yellow by the flames.

  She pulled his hand away from his leg and bent over it. Then, without a word, she untied the neck cloth hanging loose around his throat and knotted it over the wound. S.T. gritted his teeth against a groan. The sword cut hurt, but it was his seared skin that took up all of his awareness. Everywhere his clothing rubbed him felt blistered. The cold air on his face and hands was like ice on fire.

  “You didn’t tell me you were hurt,” she hissed. “Impossible idiot!”

  “Hurt?” he repeated in a grating voice. “Sangdieu, boiled lobsters have felt better.”

  She shifted out of the light. “Where are you burned?”

  He lifted his hand and turned it over. The smell of charred wool rose strongly, mixing with the sweet odor of wood smoke. “Palm’s the worst, I think.”

  “Where’s your knife?” She took his wrist in her hands, more gently than she’d touched him before. “I’ll have to cut your mitt off.”

  Before he had a chance to protest, she’d felt at his waistcoat and found the stiletto. S.T. panted, gritting his teeth as she slit the wool across the back of his hand and began to peel it from his palm. An involuntary shudder gripped him.

  “Lie down,” she said, abandoning the project. “Do you feel light-headed?”

  He swallowed, leaning against her, suddenly shivering uncontrollably, hot and cold at once. “M’all right,” he said, but it felt damned good to allow her to do the work for him, supporting his shoulders until his head rested on the ground. The slight slope sent fresh blood to his head, clearing the mist.

  “Bells?” he mumbled, wincing again as she renewed her effort to strip the burned mitt from his hand.

  “Aye—they’re ringing alarm at the church. Stay here,” she said, as if he had any intention of moving. “I’m going for water.”

  She darted away, and S.T. realized the night was beginning to spark with more than the fire. Distant shouts drew nearer, and torches flared. He straightened up on his elbow and looked around. “Wait—” He couldn’t force his voice past a gritty rasp. “Leigh, wait!”

  She didn’t turn, already too far to hear above the fl
ames and commotion. A bucket brigade was turning out from somewhere, men and women with ruddy faces and working clothes—a few of Chilton’s girls, but more of the gathering forces of the neighborhood come to fight the fire, the way they’d banded together for centuries against a common enemy. Leigh ran down the hill and accosted one of the men, pointing and shouting in his ear. She reached out and put her hand on the arm of a girl with a bucket.

  They turned together and came back. S.T. sat up against the tree, his instincts crying out that he’d best fade into the darkness before he was trapped here, injured and defenseless. He got to his feet with an effort, but Leigh was there before he could make any coherent decision.

  “Put his right hand in the water bucket,” she told the girl, and went striding into the darkness. It was just the sort of autocratic demand that one of Chilton’s converts had been trained to obey without question. The girl took S.T.’s wrist and plunged his hand in the water.

  “Lord!” He sucked his breath at the frigid bath. The water must have come straight out of the ice-covered river. But she held his hand down, and after a moment the burning in his palm subsided to a dull throb.

  Leigh returned, carrying a branch that appeared to have been hacked right off the nearest bush. With his stiletto, she began to strip the bark and toss it into the bucket.

  “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Alder bush. I’ll make a poultice after it soaks. Do you sit down, Monseigneur—you’ve been heroic enough for today. Standing up only proves you a blockhead.”

  He smiled, a painful process. “My sweet Sunshine.”

  “Don’t talk, either, if you please. The smoke will have burned your lungs.” She took the water pail from the other girl. “Bring a link for me.”