Nightborn: Lords of the Darkyn

by Lynn Viehl

  As he climbed the stone steps to a side street, Pájaro sensed someone coming up behind him. He glanced up at the washing-draped balconies, seeing only an amber cat with copper eyes staring down at him, before he turned to face his shadow.

  Middle age and all its disappointments had soured the woman’s triangular features, and just-freshened makeup failed to disguise the cobwebs of capillaries alcohol addiction had started to spread on either side of her hooked nose.

  “Do you want something, mademoiselle?”

  Her clumpy lashes fluttered with grotesque coyness as she assessed his clothes and the location of his pockets. “I’m just having a walk. Are you going to the Twelve Coins? They have live music.” She shimmied around in an uneven circle to demonstrate her deplorable dancing skills.

  “I don’t drink or dance.” He continued up the steps, knowing she would follow, listening for the second pair of footsteps as her partner tailed them. He changed direction, leading them to the back of a busy restaurant’s kitchen, where he retreated to the shadows.

  An overweight, burly man caught up with the barfly and yanked at her arm. “Where did he go?”

  “I didn’t see.” When her companion went still, she made an impatient sound. “Come on, Porci, I haven’t…” She darted out of the way as the man toppled over, and shrieked at the blade sticking out of his back.

  “Shhhh.” Pájaro clapped a hand over her mouth as he dragged her back behind some plastic crates of bottled water.

  A short time later he emerged alone, and took two bottles from the crates to rinse the blood from his hands and his dagger. He yanked down a towel from a low-hanging balcony and used it to dry his hands before he dropped it in a rubbish container a block away.

  Squeezed between a narrow gallery of arts Africains and a garden container shop, Pájaro found number eight Rue Méry, the current residence of Bonafacio Puget, formerly the department chair of medieval studies at a prestigious Paris university. The professor, who had retired to pursue his lifelong ambition of writing the definitive history of the French Church, was also the country’s leading expert on the Knights Templar.

  A man too young to be Puget answered the door, yawning as he asked, “Can’t you read?”

  Pájaro glanced at the faded red Aucune Sollicitation sign posted in corner of the front window. “I am not a salesman. Where is Professor Puget?”

  “He’s an old man; he’s sleeping. Come back in the— Hey!” He recovered from being shoved aside and tried to get in front of Pájaro as he stepped inside. “You can’t come in here.”

  “Yet I have.” He caught the younger man’s hand before he could touch him. “Who are you?”

  “I am Puget’s assistant, Alain. Let go, you—”

  “Listen carefully, Puget’s assistant.” Pájaro applied enough pressure to his wrist bones to make him squawk like a chicken. “Take me to him, or you’ll be picking your nose left-handed for life.”

  He kept hold of the boy as he shuffled down the corridor and into a room cluttered with old books, new computer equipment, and the stodgy decor of the lifelong academic. Hundreds of handwritten papers lay sticking out of books, protruded from folders and binders, and formed scattered piles over every horizontal surface. Near the fireplace an old man sat slumped in an overstuffed armchair, a fat tabby curled on his lap.

  “Professor,” Alain whimpered, startling the cat into jumping down and scampering away. “Wake up. Professor.”

  Puget lifted a hand and swatted at the air. “Go home, boy. We will continue tomorrow.”

  “Puget.” Pájaro waited until the old man’s eyes blinked open. “I am in need of your expertise.”

  “What?” The professor hoisted himself into a more upright position. “I don’t cater to any connard who demands it. Are you not right in the head? Get out.”

  Pájaro put down his case, drew the blade from his forearm sheath, and yanked Alain back against him. The boy yelped until he felt the edge of the blade pressing against his windpipe.

  “How do you feel about Alain continuing to breathe through his mouth?” As the old man grabbed for the phone beside his chair, Pájaro cut the boy enough to spill blood. “At this hour, it will take emergency services five minutes to arrive, by which time both of you will be quite brain-dead.”

  Puget slowly replaced the receiver. “What do you want?”

  He released Alain, shoving him toward the professor’s desk. “Clear off the top of that. Quickly.”

  Puget went to help the boy, who sobbed as he gathered up papers. The professor offered him a crumpled handkerchief before he shoved everything on the desk off one edge.

  “Good.” Pájaro picked up his case, carrying it over to the desk and opening it. He also swept out his leg to trip Alain as the boy tried to run past him for the door. With a back sweep of his boot, he knocked the boy unconscious. “Translate the contents of this scroll for me.”

  Puget glanced down at the case and drew in his lips. “I am not a linguist, monsieur.”

  “You have translated books written in several languages dating back to the twelfth century,” Pájaro reminded him. “I know all about you, Professor. I ran your name through Google.” He reached over and tugged back the cloth covering the scroll. “This was inscribed during the thirteenth century. For you, it should be like reading a menu from a chalkboard.”

  The luster of the gold worked its magic on the old man; he couldn’t take his eyes off the treasure. “If I do this, if I give you what you want, will you go?”

  “You have my word; I will go,” Pájaro promised.

  Puget removed a pair of white cloth gloves from a drawer, slipping them over his hands before he removed the scroll from the case. The weight of it caught him off guard, and he nearly dropped it before placing it to one side and moving the case out of his way.

  Pájaro dragged one of the computer chairs over to the side of the desk, where he sat to watch as the professor examined the scroll. “There are clamps on either end.”

  “So I see.” Puget made no move to release them, but turned over the two cylinders before he reached into his pocket for his reading glasses. “Where did you steal this from?”

  He chuckled. “It belonged to my father.”

  “It belongs in a museum.” Puget glanced at Alain’s slack features before he released the clamps and rolled the larger cylinder apart from the smaller. He frowned, reaching to switch on the desk lamp before he bent close. “This is not paper or parchment. It is gold.”

  “That I already knew.”

  “It is woven from threads of solid gold and some other metal, then embossed by hand tools. I have never seen the like.” His head bobbed as he examined the first row of symbols. “I cannot help you with this, monsieur.”

  “You care so little for Alain?”

  “You misunderstand my meaning.” Puget pointed to the script. “This is not a language. It is a code. A system of ancient pictographs invented and used by a small group of men. The key has never been found, and the code has never been deciphered. I know; I tried to crack it myself for thirty years without success.”

  He nodded. “Tell me about these men.”

  “Why?” Puget’s upper lip curled. “They were disgraced Templars, and they are all dead.”

  Pájaro leaned forward. “How were they disgraced?”

  “There have always been rumors about them. Nonsense, for the most part.” The professor pushed his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to rub his eyes. “They were said to have traded their souls to Satan for his favors, and for such were cursed by God and cast out by their own brotherhood. One account claims that de Mornay himself had them excommunicated and driven out of France for their unholy practices. Some say they returned to the Holy Land and died there trying to redeem themselves. Others believe they fled to the Far East.”

  He might just have to let the old man live. “What were their names?”

  “No one knows,” Puget said. “Their names were removed from the temple
rolls and obliterated from all histories of that time. No more than a handful of scholars in the world even acknowledge the possibility that these men ever existed.”

  Pájaro smiled. “What if I told you I can prove that the dark Kyn are not dead, Professor?” He noted the moment of stillness that came over the old man at the mention of their name. “But you already know that they still walk among us.”

  “I have no knowledge of devil worshipers who have lived for seven hundred years.” The old man sniffed. “Of course, you would. You are a lunatic.”

  As the old man removed his glasses from the end of his nose, his unbuttoned cuff gaped, revealing the oval edge of an old tattoo.

  Pájaro seized his arm, driving his dagger through Puget’s palm to embed the tip in the top of the desk. As the old man released a hoarse cry of pain, Pájaro tore apart the sleeve to reveal the black cameo tattooed on Puget’s forearm.

  He grinned as he met the old man’s eyes, now wide and glassy. “You wily old goat, speaking such lies about those you serve.”

  “I don’t know what—” The professor grunted as his lip split beneath the impact of Pájaro’s fist.

  “We’ll start over from the beginning,” Pájaro said, “and this time you will tell me everything.”

  “Imbecile.” Puget displayed his blood-covered teeth. “You stole from Helada. Even now he is coming for you.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze shifting to the unconscious Alain before he wrapped his hand around the hilt of the dagger. With a single jerk he pulled it out of his palm and brandished the blade.

  Pájaro’s brows rose. “Do you really believe you can kill me for him, old man?”

  “I don’t have to. You were dead from the moment you touched the scroll.” Puget reversed the blade and plunged it into his own chest.

  When Korvel let himself into the suite, he half expected Simone to be gone. Taking her had given him the most pleasure he had ever known, and as soon as he had removed himself from her body he had wanted to tell her that. But Simone had moved away from him, standing and tugging down the ripped skirt of her dress. She had looked down at the hand he held to her before she walked to the gate and out of the courtyard.

  Korvel had thought she wanted nothing more to do with him. But no, there she was, fluffing the pillows and straightening the bed linens, as if she were a hotel maid.

  She is a maid, and a tresora, and now my lover. No escaping any of it, not with the smell of her all over him…and she was making the bed. His eyes strayed to the torn seams at the hem of her dress. The bed he had denied her their first time together. “Stop doing that.”

  “I am nearly finished.” She tucked the coverlet under the bottom edge of the pillows before she straightened. “There.” She regarded him without a glimmer of malice. “Are you ready to leave, Captain?”

  “No.”

  She nodded. “Is there something you need?”

  If she offered him blood or sex again he would put his fist through a wall. The momentary violence of his thoughts must have shown on his face, for she took a step back.

  “I will not hurt you, Simone.” Decency forced him to add, “What happened by the fountain was my doing, not yours.”

  Her mouth compressed. “I know what I did, Captain.”

  “You were not responsible for your actions,” he said. “You may be immune to l’attrait, but no mortal can escape the effect of our particular talents.”

  “And what is yours?”

  “I can compel any woman to desire me. None can resist or refuse. The passion you felt was not your own. I made you feel it.” When she remained silent, he added, “If you wish I will make arrangements to return you immediately to the convent.”

  “We had sex, Korvel. We both wanted it, and we both enjoyed it. That had nothing to do with your talent.” The bluntness of her words didn’t match the curious sadness of her tone. “Excuse me.” She retreated into the bath and closed the door.

  For all its discomforts, celibacy had never reduced Korvel to the level of a stricken, tongue-tied adolescent. He hadn’t felt this plagued by emotion since his last confrontation with Alexandra at le conseil supérieur, when his master had forced him to try once more to bring her under his sway.

  Alexandra had not been fooled for long, however. She had berated him for using his ability to make her attracted to him.

  Korvel sat down at the desk and propped his head against his hands. For months after that unpleasant exchange with Alexandra, he had tortured himself, impaling his longing on the countless shards of his shame, writhing in silence on the innumerable racks of his regret. Bonding with Alexandra had no more been his choice than hers, but after her departure from Ireland the effects of being separated from her had been so maddening he would have done anything to have her. Had the bond between them been complete, or had she not so soundly rejected him, he might have descended completely into madness.

  He lifted his head as he realized the significance of the night’s events. He had not realized it until just this moment, but the reason no woman had appealed to him for so long was due to the damage inflicted by his unfulfilled bond with Alexandra. Losing her had rendered him incapable of touching another woman. Until tonight, with Simone.

  I am free of her. Korvel closed his eyes. At last.

  He knocked the chair over as he got up, catching and righting it before he leaped over the bed. But when he reached to remove the final obstacle between him and his salvation, a low sound came from behind the door. Gasps of breath, water splashing in a basin, the rasp of a towel against skin.

  He pressed his hand against the wood. “Simone?”

  Her reply came thin with strain. “Give me a moment, please, Captain.”

  Korvel slowly retreated, his thoughts snarling as he considered for the first time what she might be feeling. He’d taken her, used her for his pleasure, and yet had completely denied her the simple courtesies she deserved in return: tenderness, gentleness, and protection.

  When Simone emerged a few minutes later, she had shed the ruins of her dress for her dark, sexless garments, and scrubbed her face clean of makeup. His eyes took in everything, from the black woolen cap covering her hair to the faint bulge of the ankle sheath about one thin-soled boot. “I liked the dress better.”

  “So did I.” She picked up her case from the bed. “I’ve never worn silk. It’s almost sinful how comfortable it is.”

  Thoroughly confused now, Korvel followed her out of the room to the lift. Once inside, the presence of another, mortal couple forced him into silence.

  The concierge came from behind his station and hurried to them. “Monsieur, surely you are not leaving us so soon?”

  “We are. Bring the car around at once.” Korvel handed him the parking slip and glanced at Simone, who was staring at the screen of a television on the other side of the lobby. It was showing a late news broadcast and the photos of two men, one elderly and the other young. “Do you know them?”

  “Not exactly.” Simone walked over to the set, but by that time the program had switched to the weather forecast. She glanced at the couple sitting and watching it. “I beg your pardon, but can you tell me what was said about those two men in the photographs?”

  “They were found dead earlier tonight,” the woman told her. “One of them was…tortured to death.” She crossed herself.

  “They think it was a murder-suicide,” her male companion added. “The old man brutalized this student who worked for him until he died, and then he killed himself, the monster.”

  Simone thanked them and said nothing more about the news until she was alone in the car with Korvel. “That old man was a professor, and he had no reason to torture that boy. Although I think he might have killed himself.”

  “Why?”

  “So he would not betray the Kyn. When I was a girl he served as a tresora in Paris.” She looked out the window. “He was an expert in medieval literature and languages.”

  He grew thoughtful. “Perhaps the thi
ef tried to force him to translate the scroll.”

  “He could not do it,” she said at once. “No human can. The scroll is written en le chiffre noir, the night code, and only a Nautonnier—a navigator—can read it.”

  Hearing her use words that had not been uttered for seven centuries, even among the Kyn, stunned him. “Who told you these things?”

  “My father.” She took a map out of the glove compartment. “I would like to inspect the scene of the murders, but we must go to my apartment first. I have to contact—”

  He took the map out of her hands and set it aside. “Tresori have no knowledge of the navigators or the night code. No human does. We made sure of it. How could you know about it?” When she didn’t reply, he added, “Simone, we still use the night code. Anyone who has knowledge of it could use it against us. I must know the truth.”

  “One of my ancestors became Kyn,” she admitted. “During his lifetime he remained close to his mortal family—my father’s family. As tresori we have always served the Kyn, and we have always guarded his secrets.”

  Now Korvel understood why she had been chosen by the council to become a sentinel—she was a direct descendant of a Kyn lord. But to place such an enormous responsibility on such young shoulders…“Where is your father, Simone?”

  “He’s buried in an unmarked grave in Flavia’s rose garden.” All the emotion left her face. “He died of leukemia ten years ago.”

  She made it sound as if he had been murdered, and the body deliberately hidden. “Why was this done to him?”

  “So that no one would know he was dead.” Her voice went low. “Just before he died, my father and I made a bargain. He informed the council that he was taking the scroll out of the country to a safer, undisclosed location. I went to live with the sisters.”

  “Surely someone must have missed him.”

  “No one had seen my father since he was a boy,” she admitted. “That made it simple to arrange for his steward to assume his identity. My father gave him most of his wealth and sent him away. The man pretending to be my father had instructions to contact me if his impersonation was ever discovered by anyone. I received that message the morning of the attack on the château. I was supposed to retrieve the scroll and take it with me out of the country. I promised my father that I would.”