by Lorelei Bell
Swords flashed and clanged sharply. Words in another language was exchanged. To her ears Zofia thought it sounded like Arpiesian, but she wasn't sure.
Hair falling down in his eyes in wet ringlets, the shorter man did some fancy twirling with the sword, barking his own, “Ha, ha, HAH!”
Saint Germain switched hands and parried the man's quick lunges, shouting more “Hah-ha!”s.
At the sight and sound of these antics, Zofia had a sudden fit of laughter hit. She couldn't stop herself. Realizing her mistake, she quickly clapped both hands over her mouth, but not before Saint Germain had paused all action, and took his eyes off his opponent.
Dark eyes speared her from across the room. Saint Germain's expression went through an amazing metamorphoses in a split second; first rage, and then shocked surprise—almost as though he'd seen a ghost.
At the very same moment, Zofia experienced a sudden recognition—as though she knew the count. But how?
In that tic of time, as Saint Germain's and Zofia's eyes met, his focus had fallen away from the match, his opponent had followed through with his lunge; his foil point jabbed Saint Germain high in the chest on his right side—and these were not just dueling swords, the were the real deal with sharp ends.
Zofia gave an involuntary shriek of horror as she saw the sudden darkened red stain around where the sword point had entered, and spread outward.
“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” the smaller man with the sword gasped. Releasing his sword, it crashed to the floor. Possibly an inch of the end coated with Count Satin Germain's blood.
One hand over the wound, the count stumbled back, falling against the table and chairs until he leaned awkwardly against the sturdy table. His other hand still clutched his sword; the duel all but forgotten. Those dark eyes resting accusingly on Zofia's face.
The other man went into a string of excited Arpiesian.
“It is all right, Jacques. I am fine,” Saint Germain said at last, releasing his sword as the his dueling partner took it from him. “It will heal in a moment.”
Zofia had become rooted to the spot, aghast by what had just happened. The fact that she had possibly been the reason for his lack of concentration on the duel threw her into full panic. The whole thing gave her a sinking feeling of dismay and mortification.
“I'm so, so sorry,” she said, finding her voice, and finding her legs actually did work and moved forward a few steps into the room. “Is there anything I can do?”
The ribbon which had held Saint Germain's hair back, fell away, and down came a curtain of straight ebony hair—she couldn't see a gray strand in it anywhere. He shook it out of his eyes and peered up at her. Incredibly dark, enigmatic eyes met her own. Polished onyx. She'd never seen eyes quite like his—not on any mortal. They held some dark, mysterious knowledge in their depths. It was like looking into the eyes of an Immortal, as you could always see the mysticism, and longevity held within.
The hum of magic and power exuding from him was palpable. Ugwumps, she was certain, could feel it and be drawn to him naturally. (If he were evil-willed, he could draw people to him who would follow him without care as to what his allegiances were, or what his ulterior motives were in the long-run.) But since Zofia was a sorceress, she was merely aware of it. She was on notice that Count Saint Germain was very unordinary, indeed.
One hand thrust up to warn her off. “You need not concern yourself,” he said while still leaning against the table, and pushing himself into a half-standing posture, while the other man tended to him. “It is all my fault,” he went on, exasperated. “My attention should have been on the match.”
At once the Arpiesian turned away from him, uttering a string of words Zofia couldn't understand. He picked up a black velvet coat from a chair and brushed it off with a small broom he produced from somewhere, continuing to mutter things, as though berating the count. Saint Germain responded, “Yes, yes, I know, Jacques. I know.”
“My lord? Are you alright?” Percival burst in from another doorway at the other end of the room. His eyes were filled with concern as he reached the count.
“I am alright. Really,” Saint Germain assured. “It is already beginning to heal. See?” He held open the blood-stained shirt for inspection. Percival tended him anyway, making a tisk-tisk-tisk sound with his tongue and complaining bitterly about how he would never be able to get the blood stains out. Saint Germain merely sputtered with a chuckle, telling him, “Don't be ridiculous. You'll never mend the hole. Just burn it.”
Zofia stared at the scene with a combination of puzzlement and concern. She couldn't help but be transfixed by every small detail about the man. Tapered fingers swept through his straight mane of iron-black hair, revealing a heart-shaped face. He had an olive complexion, and a Bohemian cast to him, and Zofia couldn't help but think he was quite dashing, even in his disheveled state. Especially in his disheveled state.
She still had the very odd feeling as though she had known him somewhere, and not in passing, either. What was wrong with her? Even her heart did some pitter-pattering, as though he were her—oh, troll's toes, am I going absolutely bonkers?—lover from some distant past.
The Arpiesian helped him into his coat. Saint Germain moved with hesitant motions, working the arm on the injured side through the sleeve as gingerly as possible. He made no sound, but she could see him bite his lower lip. Zofia noticed his lower lip was fuller than the upper, but the upper lip was chiseled into a delicious bow-shape.
While the Arpiesian tied the count's hair back with the piece of ribbon, Percival moved around in front of him and snugged his neck with a black satin ascot. Saint Germain adjusted it, and held it while Percival fastened it with a diamond the size of a thumbnail.
“Thank you, Jacques. Thank you Percival,” Saint Germain said to the two men.
“C'est tout exact,” the Arpiesian said. “La même heure demain?”
“Oui,” said Saint Germain with a little bow, and then a grunt as he moved a little too swiftly.
Both men fed him grim looks.
“Oh, go on, the both of you. I'm fine,” Saint Germain said, flicking his hand at them as though shooing flies. Brilliant smile in place, he stepped toward Zofia, who found she was once again frozen to the spot. She noticed when he smiled, he smiled with the whole face, the eyes became like two glittering black crescents.
“Miss Trickenbod, I presume,” he said and made that little bow, only it was slightly deeper to her than it had been to the men. “Welcome to my humble home. I am Count Saint Germain.” Humble home?
“Count Saint Germain,” Zofia said, making a very nice curtsy. She felt herself trembling, slightly. She wasn't supposed to suspect he was a vampire. But clearly he was, otherwise that jab from the saber would have needed immediate attention and bandaging. She'd clearly heard him say that it would heal quickly. Only a vampire could heal his own wounds quickly. And, she apparently was under his thrall, why else would she feel so attracted to him?
As he narrowed the space between them she noticed the buckles on his shoes glittered with what she had to believe were diamonds. Clicking the heals sharply he bowed once more, took her hand and barely brushed her fingers with his lips.
Startled, she looked up. She hadn't expected him to touch her hand like that. Hadn't he felt that tiny jolt of Power from her when he took her hand? His face didn't reveal any sudden surprise.
“Please, you must call me Franz,” he said, releasing her hand. A wisp of his individual scent traveled to her. Spicy. Cloves and anise, and faintly of pine resin and ash.
“Very well, Franz,” Zofia said, forcing a little smile, and feeling a slight trepidation. She couldn't quite get over the way his compelling eyes stared back into hers. Saint Germain was one of the handsomest men she'd come across in ages. “You may call me Zofia.”
“Charming,” Saint Germain said, still smiling while looking unblinkingly at her.
“Um, Count Saint—uh—Franz!” Zofia sputtered. “I hope you are alright. You took
that foil right in the chest.”
“I assure you I am quite alright,” he said, slightly rolling the r's, and with a shake of his head added, “It is I who am sorry that you had to be witness to such boorishness,” he said with a flick of his hand. In it appeared a black silk handkerchief and he dabbed the moisture from his brow and upper lip. He carefully re-folded it and replaced it into a breast pocket. “It was not my intention that I should have met you while practicing my dueling.” He threw a staunch look toward Percival who had remained off to the side.
“I'm sorry, but it was me,” she said quickly, feeling a blush coming on. She gave Percival a quick smile, noticing that he wasn't looking her way, but instead gazing straight ahead, looking more like a statue than a man. “I was taking a little break, and I heard a noise and I followed it to this room. I had no idea—”
“Do not concern yourself over it,” he said, his expression became unreadable suddenly.
“I trust your trip was pleasant enough and your room is quite adequate?” he asked, changing the subject smoothly, and coaxing her gently from the room. “It would wound me deeper than did Jacques' foil if your accommodations were not in order,” he said and then chuckled lightly more to himself.
She chuckled politely. His smile was engaging, his voice deep, resonating with a little tang of humor behind it, as though ready to smile or chuckle at anything Zofia said.
“Everything has been, well, interesting, so far,” she said on a puff of air.
Saint Germain's brows went up. “Truly? Would you care to expand on that?”
“First of all, your castle is very unusual, as well as beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Secondly, how was I brought inside the Nest? It took me by surprise,” she said as they made their slow way back down a hallway. “I was trying to find a bell to ring, and then suddenly I was inside. Just like—well—like magic.”
Amusement played around his eyes. “Yes. I am sorry, but if you were not aware of it, this castle rests on several ley lines.”
“Ley lines?” she said, working the surprised tone into her voice. She constantly had to remind herself that she was an Ugwump, and Ugwumps didn't understand ley lines. In fact they were frightened by most magic. Ley lines were usually avoided at all cost like the plague.
“Yes,” he said calmly, lifting his eyes beyond and above her right shoulder as though he had to think of how to say the next thing in the simplest terms even a witless troll would understand. “Yes, you see it is an earth magic,” his hands came up in front of himself, the fingers extending toward one another. “When the ley lines line up, or cross”—he laced his fingers together—“as they do here, the power creates a sort of vacuum, and opens a doorway of sorts,” he explained. She thought he was doing a wonderful job of it.
“A doorway?” she repeated, doing her best to knit her brow as though the whole thing was over her head.
“Yes. And unfortunately, this one has a tendency to move, and will open up anywhere and at any time. I am afraid it must have chosen that very moment to open up and pull you in. Be thankful at all that it deposited you just inside, instead of somewhere else all together.”
Zofia shivered. She didn't have to pretend to be frightened by the aspect of it all. “It won't open up again, will it?”
“One never knows. I myself have been caught in it several times. But,” he shrugged, “I usually find my way home again.”
“Oh, my goddess!” She pressed a hand to her chest. That wasn't an act. He was serious, and so was she. If the Portal opened and she in were the wrong place, she could be transported anywhere. These were lateral Portals.
He chuckled darkly. He seemed to take it all in stride. “You only have to worry if you are on the other side of the gates. It does not open up inside the Nest to take you out of there. But when it does open, it does so only occasionally.” He stopped at the far end of the hallway with the windows. Sun streamed in brightly, coming in at an angle. The window panes created a grid across the floor.
“I do hope that your evening was not a total disaster?” he asked. “The meal was simple, I fear, and had to be arranged to be awaiting you when you arrived. Pray tell me, it was still palatable?” His expression was one of genuine concern. Obviously he had gone to some trouble to make sure her meal was there and warmed precisely right. He must have known that the coach had arrived, and gave her some minutes before she could get her things up those many steps. Even so, why hadn't someone been at the gates to open them up, unless he had known that that Portal would take her directly inside? Something to ponder later on, she figured.
“The meal was a welcome repast, as was the warmth of the fireplace, and your hospitality very adequate, sir,” she said, doing her best to affect the speech of someone who was in his employ, and not a guest. This reminded her of the other thing she wanted to bring up. “I was also wondering about Myron. The vampire you hired to bring me to the castle?”
“Myron Grimes. Yes. A local vampire,” he said, eyes gleaming again, smile perched on his lips. “He got you here safely, no doubt? I payed him well enough so that he wouldn't attempt to bite you.”
“Well, he did bite me!” she complained quite bitterly as they came to a halt in the hallway.
He suddenly frowned. “He didn't! The beast! I will flog him myself.”
“My lip seems to have come through it all right,” she said, touching it with cool fingertips.
He squinted as he examined her lip. Pointed to her necklace he said. “You wore this last night?”
“Yes.” She'd wisely donned the necklace again today, knowing she would eventually meet the count.
“It should have kept him at bay.”
“Well, it did but…” her voice faltered as she looked up into his intense dark eyes. She became aware of his penetrating gaze.
“You shall not be frightened of Myron, or anyone else while you stay within these walls, my dear.” Well shaped brows drew in, creating two creases in the middle. He looked as though he was in his mid- or late forties. But that couldn't be! No way he could have bought this castle forty-four years ago, unless he were ten at the time, or was a vampire. He had a fluid grace for a man of his age—or supposed age. If he were a vampire, her necklace would also impeded him from trying any funny business. If he were merely human, goddess help him. She found him incredibly handsome, and his eyes dangerously hypnotic.
“But?” he said, his unblinking gaze drawing her in.
“But—huh?” she said. She had felt floaty just then. The next split second all senses returned to normal, as if he'd turned off the glamour. This was exactly how Dorian had made her feel when he was a vampire. She would feel suddenly confused. But usually, he'd give her some erotic thought of the two of them together. He was very good at that. But she'd had nothing like that with Saint Germain. It was more like her mind had become blank.
“You said Myron had attacked you, and he bit your lip?” he reminded her.
“Oh, yes!”
“It looks swollen, as though he'd—”
“Yes, he bit me there,” she said. “Well, at first I bit my own lip, and when it bled, he just sort of lost control. Well, you know, vampires.” Oh great gooseberries, did she actually say that?
“How is it that you bit your own lip?” he wondered.
“When I was sucked inside it startled me and I must have bit my lip somehow.”
“Let me see it,” he said, gaze dropping from her eyes to zero in on her lip. He was no taller than her, but the heals she wore made her taller, so he might have been about five-eight or -nine.
She tipped her head back so that he could view it better. And here I am offering it up to him. What am I, nuts? His aura was powerful as she stepped closer, into his space. Her mind seemed to go blank, and she wanted to feel his touch on her, ached for it so she nearly sighed when he touched her. Cool fingers took her chin as they stood nearly toe to toe. For a few wild seconds she almost thought he was going to kiss her�
�or bite her. She had even closed her eyes, half-expecting it. Her pulse was pounding in her veins.
When he spoke again, her eyes fluttered open. Stepping back, he released her chin and dropped his hand.
“I have some balm you can put on that. It should help it heal,” he said in a gentle tone. “I am very sorry about Myron. The smell of blood must have overwhelmed him. He knew I was leaving him a meal of blood. And his services were well payed for.”
“He didn't tell me he was in your employ until after I'd read that letter.”
He cast his head down in disgust, then looked back at her. “Forgive me. I was wrong to hire him. I merely felt that he would be the best one to keep you safe, as we had two full moons last night. The werewolves around here are sometimes lawless at best. No human would be able to take on the task.”
And yet two women—well, one woman and the other was a man, she'd decided—had traveled last night without too much worry. Come to think of it, he was just about the same height as the count. Interesting. But when she quickly thought it through, he would have known that Myron had never told her that he was in his employ, sent to safeguard her from the werewolves.
Moving along once more, they continued toward the canted windows. Sunshine speared through the glass. She was certain Saint Germain would not take a step further toward the sunlight. It would be as strong as the blade which had pierced his skin, moments ago, only this would be deadly. But he continued to walk alongside her, moving ever so nearer to the glancing rays.
“The sun is really quite bright today,” she said, doing her best to make him aware of it, and yet not overreacting as if she knew he were a vampire.
“Yes,” he said, eyes focused to the magnificent view. She thought perhaps that all he wanted to do was look outside from a distance.
Diamonds on the buckles of his shoes threw back a dazzling refraction of light as the next step he took crossed over directly into the sunlight.
