Nightborn: Lords of the Darkyn

by Lynn Viehl

  “Really.” Nick saw her lover turn his head to stare at the prostitute. “Then what happened?”

  “What do you think? He started hitting me with his fists until I blacked out.” Oksana sniffed. “When I woke he was gone. He took all my money and ruined my face.” She pressed her fingers against her lips. “I can’t work like this. Do you know how much crowns cost?”

  “We’ll get you fixed up. Drink your wine.” Nick shifted around to face Gabriel. “The Brethren never share this kind of information with their hired muscle, and they’re interested only in vamps. Sounds like we’ve got some new rules and players.”

  “Can you attend to this female?” When she nodded, Gabriel rose. “I’ll meet you at the hotel.”

  “Sure.” Nick watched him go before she spoke again to Oksana. “Honey, I think you just scared the pants off my boyfriend.”

  The prostitute’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not on you.” Nick shook off the feeling of dread and took hold of the other woman’s hand. “Now, let’s talk about what you’re not going to remember in about two minutes.”

  Once she had compelled the prostitute to forget everything she had told them, Nick gave her all the cash she had on her and sent her to the safe house they used in Paris. She then used her mobile to call the tresora who managed the safe house, and instructed him to relocate the prostitute in the morning.

  “Have your people give her some TLC, and see if you can get her in to see a dentist, too,” she said as she walked up to the hotel where she and Gabriel were staying.

  “It will be as you say, my lady,” the tresora promised.

  “Thanks, and don’t call me ‘my lady.’” Nick switched off the phone and spoke to the elderly doorman. “Have you seen my guy?”

  “He arrived a few moments ago, madame.” The doorman gave her a cheeky smile. “He went directly upstairs.”

  As Nick did the same, she went through everything Oksana had said about Antoine and the arson job. Gabriel hadn’t reacted until the prostitute had mentioned the treasure, and then he had looked…stunned? Scared? Both?

  Nick didn’t care for surprises, and she really didn’t like her lover feeling frightened. After being captured by the Brethren, Gabriel had spent two years at their mercy, being tortured and questioned daily. In the end they’d bricked him up in the cellar of an abandoned house and left him to starve to death—something that for a Darkyn took years. If not for Nick finding him, he still would be there, slowly withering away.

  If this were some kind of Brethren setup, Gabriel would have told her immediately. Nick’s instincts told her it was something else—something that he might try to keep from her.

  Inside their suite, Gabriel stood by the windows. He was speaking quietly in the old language over the satellite phone they used to communicate with other Darkyn. Nick went to the bar and poured herself a measure of bloodwine, knocking it back like bad-tasting medicine while she watched his reflection on the mirrored wall and waited for him to finish his conversation.

  “Forgive me.”

  “Nothing to forgive. So far.” She deliberately finished the drink and rinsed out the glass before she turned to him. When he began to speak she held up a hand. “Is this something that is really going to piss me off, or something that you don’t want me to know because I’m not one of the boys? Tell me that first.”

  He hesitated before he said, “It is both.”

  “Okay, that explains why you were talking to the vampire king.” She went to him, propping her shoulder against the window frame. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Nicola, this is a very delicate, potentially volatile situation—”

  “And when is it not?” she asked. “Just spill it.”

  “This dilemma has nothing to do with the Brethren. At least, we do not believe they are involved.” He sounded tired, the way he did when anything reminded him of his long captivity. “The woman spoke the truth. The man who beat her was part of a group hired to kill a Kyn lord and steal the treasure he guards for us.”

  “This treasure would be the solid-gold scroll thing?” When he nodded, she sighed. “Wonderful. Who’s the Kyn lord?”

  “You don’t know him,” Gabriel said. “His name is Helada. Cristophe, the maker of the scroll, entrusted it to him. We must go to Provence tonight and retrieve it.”

  “Oh, must we?” This was just getting better and better. “Is this because we’d like to donate it to a museum?”

  “The Scroll of Falkonera contains directions to create an elixir that is supposed to bestow eternal life on a worthy mortal,” Gabriel said. “Over the centuries many have attempted to make and drink the elixir. Most of them died a very unpleasant death.”

  “But not all of them,” she guessed.

  “No.”

  “Marvelous. So we’re off to Garbia.” She went to the closet and began removing their clothes, carrying them over to the bed. “Do we have any friends there, or are we flying solo?”

  “Richard sent Korvel to France two days past to secure the scroll.”

  “He sent Big, Blond, and Badass to get it?” She stopped on her way back to the closet. “Then why do we have to go?”

  “Korvel apparently arrived at Château Niege early this morning, but has not been in contact with Richard since,” he said slowly. “The authorities in Garbia also responded to a fire at the château this morning. They found all the servants murdered.”

  Nick had met the captain of Richard’s guard only a few times, but she had liked him. She’d even hoped the vampire king would lend him out to work with her and Gabriel. “Did they find Korvel’s body?”

  “Richard does not know the fate of his seneschal; nor does it concern us,” Gabriel told her. “We are being sent to track the mortals who did this, and to recover the scroll.”

  “Oh, give me that phone.” When he wouldn’t, her temper rose. “Gabriel.”

  “Richard is our lord, Nicola.”

  “He’s your lord. Not mine.” She began to pace. “I think what Richard really needs is a little refresher course on what you and I do for the Kyn. Last time I checked, baby, we don’t risk our lives in territory overrun by the enemy to save stupid fucking golden scrolls.” She stalked over to him. “Now give me the goddamn phone.”

  He held it out of reach. “You do not understand, ma belle amie. It is not simply a treasure.”

  “I don’t give a shit what it is.” She was shouting, and she never did that. She turned down the volume before she said, “Look, all I care about is Korvel. You remember, the really loyal guy who’s been keeping Richard’s ass safe for the last seven hundred years? So fuck the scroll; we need to find him. If you don’t agree, tell me now and I’ll go track him by myself.”

  Gabriel looked at the phone, and then threw it across the room before he took her into his arms. “Nothing comes between us, Nicola. We will find Korvel together.”

  “Good.” She felt a little better. “Start packing.”

  Chapter 4

  A

  lthough the château’s stables were far enough away from the main house to prevent the fire from spreading to them, the smell of smoke had made most of the horses nervous. Simone entered the stall of the sturdiest, a dappled gray used as a plow horse, who like all her father’s animals had been trained to do much more than till the soil. She bridled him before leading him out of the stall, soothing him with her hands and her voice when he fought the reins. She eyed the tack room, tempted to retrieve one of her father’s expensive saddles, but they were all too small. A coil of rope and a blanket slung over the gray’s broad back would have to do.

  The plow horse allowed her to lead him up to the greenhouse, where she tethered him securely before returning inside. The Englishman still lay where she had left him, his big body unmoving and his chest still. When she placed her hand over his heart she felt nothing.

  He weighed too much for her to carry or drag to the horse, so she would have to revive him, and onl
y one thing would do that.

  She took down a pair of pruning shears, opening them and using one sharp tip to pierce a small vein in her forearm. Once the blood began to flow, she knelt down and pressed the wound against his lips. The first few drops trickled down the side of his jaw, and then his lips moved, pressing and then clamping against her arm. She let him drink until his hand moved sluggishly to grip her, and then lifted her arm out of reach. By the time she had bound her own wound, he had begun to breathe again.

  “Wake up.” She shook his shoulder gently until his eyelids opened. “We have to leave here, Englishman. You must stand up and walk.”

  Confusion clouded his gaze. “Alexandra?”

  “They will find us when they come to put out the fire. They will want to take you to the hospital.” When he didn’t respond, she used his name. “Korvel. We have to go now.”

  He rolled onto his side, pushing himself up from the ground. Once she got her arm under him, he braced his hand on her shoulder and bent his legs, pushing himself to a crouch. She kept him from falling on top of her when he swayed, and worked her shoulder under his arm, biting her lip as she struggled to get him to his feet. He had to be twice her weight, and while she was strong she couldn’t carry him to the horse.

  Once he stood Simone didn’t wait but pulled at him, supporting and guiding him as he shuffled along. When he tried to stop, she tugged harder. “It is only a few more meters; then you can rest again.”

  Korvel nodded, not wasting his breath on words, and hobbled forward.

  His wounded leg barely functioned, she saw as they made their way out of the greenhouse, something she would have to deal with as soon as they reached safety. He would also require more blood by nightfall—if he lived that long—which presented another problem: Garbia had only a small clinic; anyone with serious injuries had to be transported to the hospital in the city. She couldn’t call down to the village to order blood; nor could she ask the sisters to provide for him.

  He will have to take what he needs from me.

  The horse shied nervously as they approached, but went still as the Englishman’s scent reached his broad nostrils.

  “Agenouillé-toi,” Simone said, shifting to keep the man braced against her. After the gray slowly lowered himself to the ground, she brought the Englishman beside him. “Reste.” To the man, she said, “Lay yourself across his back.”

  When she tried to ease Korvel down, he resisted.

  “I am a warrior,” he muttered. “I will mount and ride.”

  His stubbornness reminded her of her brother Vingt, who had received twice as many beatings for defiance as any of them. In the end Vingt had not gone quietly, either. The handlers had been forced to drag him away.

  “You are hurt, and you will fall on your face.” She wriggled out from under him, steadying him as he sagged to his knees. She swung around him, latching onto his shoulders and digging her heels into the soil as she eased him front-first onto the gray’s back. Once he was in place she bound his wrists with the rope, threading it under the gray’s belly and looping the other end around his knees. She tightened the rope as much as she dared before she told the horse, “Lève-toi.”

  The gray’s muscles bunched as he lifted up and stood, snorting as she adjusted the man to better center his weight.

  Simone rested her forehead against the gray’s strong neck, closing her eyes in relief. The distant sound of a clanging bell forced her to straighten and take hold of the bridle.

  “Doucement,” she told the gray as she led him around the château toward the front gates, the only exit large enough to accommodate them. As she passed the corpses littering the drive she paused here and there to retrieve more weapons. Although she doubted anyone would be waiting on the trail back to the convent, she could assume nothing.

  As soon as they spotted her, some of the men Flavia had hired to ready the fields for winter came hurrying from their plows. She untied the rope and directed four of them to carry the Englishman inside.

  “Should we call down to the village for the doctor, sister?” one of them asked.

  “No, it looks worse than it is,” she lied. “Carry him upstairs to my room, and put him in my bed.” She looked over as she heard Flavia’s cane sweeping from side to side along the path from the house. “I will be there in a minute.”

  The old abbess said nothing as she joined Simone, until the men had gone into the convent. Then she reached out and touched her face as unerringly as if she could see it. “We must talk, my child.”

  Simone guided her to the little rose garden where Flavia had conducted many of her lessons, and there told her what had happened. “He came for my father. He’s taken the scroll in order to draw him out.” She looked down at the ground. “I offered him my life. He left me to his men.”

  Flavia took hold of her hand. “I spoke with our superiors while you were gone. They will be sending someone to relocate us. They also gave me new instructions for you.”

  Simone glanced at the top floor of the convent. “What do they wish me to do?”

  Flavia’s lips formed a tight, bitter smile. “You are to use the Englishman sent by Tremayne to secure the treasure.”

  “His name is Korvel, and I rescued him,” Simone told her. “He is wounded, and too weak to be of any use to us.”

  “Then you must revive him, child. You are to use his gifts so that you may track the thieves and retrieve the scroll.”

  “So he can take it to his master in England?” Simone shook her head. “They have gone mad.”

  “He will not be taking it anywhere.” The old woman’s voice went flat. “Once you have recovered the scroll, you are to destroy it…and kill the Englishman.”

  “They command me to kill him?” Simone stared at her. “But he has done nothing wrong. He has no more knowledge of this than that courier you clouted.”

  “You know that does not matter,” Flavia said.

  “To them, no. To me?” She got to her feet. “Mother, Korvel killed for me. He saved my life.” When Flavia said nothing, Simone crossed her arms over her churning stomach. “I can’t murder an innocent man. I won’t do it.”

  “You made your oath to the council, child, as we all did,” the old woman reminded her. “You are tresori. Your first obligation is complete obedience to your masters.”

  “Who are sworn to protect the dark Kyn,” Simone countered. “How does killing one of them serve that oath?”

  “Such things are not explained to me,” the old woman admitted, “but I can guess. If the high lord possesses the scroll, he will find out the rest. And he will have the means with which to create a new army to move against the Brethren. If Tremayne learns the council has destroyed the scroll—which his warrior would tell him as soon as he returned to England—then our other purpose will be revealed.”

  For seven hundred years the tresoran council had walked the impossibly narrow line of faithfully serving the Darkyn while ensuring that the immortals did not inflict irreversible harm on the mortal world. Their Darkyn lords depended heavily on the former but had no knowledge of the latter. Every generation of tresori took not only an oath of loyalty to the Kyn, but swore to protect the future of mankind by any means necessary.

  All the fight went out of Simone, who sat down beside the abbess. “So the Englishman must never leave France.”

  “Not alive,” Flavia agreed, and turned her head toward the convent. “His wound and the daylight will have him at his most vulnerable now. The council need never know that he survived the confrontation at the château.” She groped for Simone’s hand. “If you will guide me, I will do it.”

  “No.” The thought of them going upstairs to kill the man while he was helpless made Simone sick. “I do need him. Pájaro is telling his men that he is Helada.”

  Flavia made a disgusted sound. “Why didn’t your father kill him like all the others?”

  “The night before he was to be tested, Pájaro stole Piers’s wallet and car and ran away.” S
imone remembered how angry her father had been when he had opened the door to the empty cell. “A month after that the police in Marseilles called. They had found Pájaro drowned. He had been in the water for weeks, but they found Piers’s identification as well as his keys. Everyone knew that Pájaro could not swim; water was the only thing he ever feared. Father told them to burn the body and never spoke of him again.”

  “He must have killed a boy who resembled him, and planted the evidence on his body.” Flavia made the sign of the cross over herself.

  “He knew if Father thought he was still alive, he would never stop searching for him.” Simone looked at one gnarled, dead-looking rosebush. It seldom had more than a dozen leaves on its spindly canes, but still steadily produced the largest and most exquisite flowers at the convent. The reason for that made her get to her feet. “I must tend to the Englishman and then rest while I can.”

  “He will want blood when he wakes tonight,” Flavia warned. “I will provide it.”

  “You can’t risk—”

  “Nor can you.” She reached out and touched the strip of cloth Simone had bound around her forearm. “I may be blind, child, but I am not stupid. Nor have I forgotten how much I may safely take from my own veins to mix in some wine. Now go to him.”

  Simone retrieved some tools from the garden shed before she went upstairs and sent the field hands back to their work. Once inside, she bolted her door and laid out the tools on the end of her pallet.

  Her bed was too small for a man Korvel’s size, and provided no room in which to turn him. She tore her sheets by using them to drag him half over the edge before she rolled him onto his front.

  Time was running out for him, so she discarded the idea of cutting off his bloodstained garments, and instead tore the rent in the back of his trousers wider to give her easier access to his wound. Pájaro’s man had buried his blade deep, and only a tiny piece protruded from the still-bleeding gash.

  Simone picked up the slimmest pair of pliers and clamped them around the protrusion. She tugged carefully on the thin metal, wriggling and easing it at a slight angle rather than pulling it straight out. Fresh blood streaked with black grease welled up the broken blade.