by Lorelei Bell
Saint Germain took a firm grip on her shoulders and turned her back toward himself, not gruffly, but he would not be put off. She turned into his intense gaze. Twin polished onyx pinioned her.
“Zofia,” his voice whispered. He touched her cheek with the tip of his finger as though to wipe away a tear. When he pulled it away, on the end of his finger balanced a small, flawlessly cut blue diamond in the shape of a teardrop.
Gasping, Zofia gazed at the shimmering gemstone. A smile quirked the edges of her lips. “How—?”
“Ah, here is another!” he said. The other hand moving to her right eye, he pulled it away, so she could see it. Another diamond of the same size and shape balanced on the very end of his other index finger. Perfectly matched diamonds.
She couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry just then. Certainly, he didn't just have loose diamonds in his pockets, did he? She realized this had been a magician's trick, of course. A very good magician's trick.
“Here. You will need to put your tears into something,” he said, pulling his black silk handkerchief from a breast pocket, he spread it out onto her hands. Between sniffles, she held the handkerchief open as he placed the twin diamonds into its center. They seemed to burn with their own fire there against the black silk. Taking the four corners, he pulled them together and twisted tightly, then handed it to her. She felt the slight weight of the gems in the center. Would the gems do a sudden disappearing act once he was gone? She wondered if his intention was to part with two perfect diamonds like this as a gift.
“You're quite the magician,” she commented, holding the hanky.
“Yes. A very old magician's trick, I'll admit,” he said, looking slightly embarrassed.
She made to hand the handkerchief back.
“No,” he said, hand raised to refuse. “Those are yours to keep. I have more where those came from.” He rose from the couch, casually stepped toward the fireplace and paused. “Besides, I feel badly that I have made you cry needlessly.” He lifted his goblet from the table, but didn't take a drink. “Consider it an advance on your salary,” he added wistfully, and then took a sip.
“Advance?” she croaked. “This isn't an advance, unless I'm here until I'm eighty!”
He chuckled lightly. Then his smile melted away and he became serious again. Gazing into the fire, he seemed to be forming another question. “I wish to know something, but if I am intruding upon your very personal matters, you need not answer.” Saint Germain peered across at her. “Why have you not told him of your condition? Would he not want to know?”
Lower lip going between her teeth, Zofia wondered why he was back to this subject. It was a bit odd, too, that someone who was from a time when to speak of a woman's “condition” was considered indelicate, unless he was her husband—or lover. Being that he was neither, she thought that maybe because he was also a physician might give him the courage to breach this subject with her.
“I never got a chance to,” she said, watching the hand holding his goblet. The ruby ring on his finger winked at her, catching the light.
“And he divorced you because of the vampire?” He gestured with the hand holding the goblet toward her neck.
He had certainly made this easy for her. If he wanted to make up the story for her, why not go along? But she quickly reminded herself that no man would divorce a woman just because a vampire had bitten her. It had to be more involved. “He caught us,” she began, glancing up at him through dark lashes. “In bed.” She averted her eyes appropriately embarrassed.
She heard him set his chalice down on the table, it made a light thunk as he did.
“But you cannot be held responsible for what a vampire has done to you. Even having brush with a vampire, you were under his powers!”
“Beg your pardon?”
Saint Germain's eyes widened momentarily, then soften, as though with realization that he'd said something risqué. “I do beg your pardon, madam,” he said looking thoroughly chided. “I did not mean to treat your horrible experience with a vampire as something trivial. Do forgive me.” He made a slight bow with his head.
“It's alright,” she said quickly, but still mystified by his turn of phrase. “I don't take offense. I simply didn't understand your meaning. 'Brush', did you say?”
“Ah,” he said, head lifted, lips parted in one of his deep, chest rumbling chuckles. “It is an old, old expression. Eh… how do I put it? Hum?” he was searching for the right words. “Flagrante delicato, eh, the sexual intercourse, is the more modern term, I believe.” With his accent, he had a slight problem enunciating the English term. No matter. Zofia was wildly fascinated by him, and watched how his eyes sparkled and mouth formed around the words.
“Ah, yes,” she said, nodding, doing her best not to smile too much. How she wanted to touch him—anywhere. Beginning with his lips and move slowly downward.
“And you say this was why Dorian separated from you?”
“Yes.” Thanks for reminding me. Pretty much. Only it was a demon, and not a vampire. But Dorian had been a vampire, and they'd done it, plus, she'd given him blood. Twice. Both things were Taboo. This had been what had bothered her the most, she supposed; the double-standard. Men were such hobgoblins.
Saint Germain tipped back his goblet and drank the rest of his Elixir. Setting the goblet back down on the table, he then strode the floor, hands behind his back, head bent slightly in thought. When he ran out of room, he turned, and straightened to eye her.
“I have only one other question, Zofia, before I let you return to your work—which I am certain you are so very eager to get back to.” His lips curved into a little grin. A joke. She grinned too.
“Yes?”
“Do you know, or have any idea whatsoever, who this rogue sorcerer is? Or why on Euphoria he would want to capture you?”
Wow. She didn't see that one coming, either. Time to pull on her acting career from First World.
“No. Really I don't,” she said.
“You are sure? Think. Perhaps something in your past? Something to do with your husband?”
“Positive.” And that was the truth. If it had anything to do with Dorian, she really didn't know. How could she? He never told her anything about his runs. Unless of course it did have to do with the three Knights who were missing. (She'd already thought of this, but couldn't fathom what they would want her for. Revenge? Why her? Why not Dorian? Her mind was rambling.)
He returned a troubled look as he stood motionless for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked watching him. “If there's anything I can do—”
“There is nothing,” he said, placing a smile upon his face. She could tell it was forced. “It probably has nothing whatsoever to do with what happened to you, but…”
“What? What is it? Maybe I can help you. You know how it is,” she went on. “Some times a person who is not connected with anything you've experienced can see something a little clearer than you.”
“Very well,” he relented. “You have told me that you believe that the man who assaulted you in your bedroom was very likely a sorcerer, and that he could—what was it you called it?”
“Evanish?” she supplied.
“Yes.” He pulled a deep breath into his lungs and let it out, strode back toward her, and then deviated his path to wind up at the fireplace once more. The poker was suddenly clenched in his hand. “I—that is, Jacques and I—have discovered some things missing from my laboratories.”
“What sort of things?” she wondered out loud, although didn't expect him to name them. They were probably things she wouldn't recognize, or possibly they were things he wouldn't want to name.
“A number of things,” he said in a low, controlled voice. “At the moment, Jacques has been going over our inventory. He has been very busy, so, if he seems a bit short tempered, please, ignore it.”
A bit short tempered? She wanted to believe that's what had had Jacques over the edge this morning. But he had sniffed her out, and tha
t was not good. Now she was reminded that Jacques had threatened to tell Saint Germain she was a sorceress. And, now that she thought about it—after what Saint Germain had just revealed—Jacques might just put two and two together and believe the sorcerer in her room that night was her husband. Or, something even crazier.
“And, alas, now to the point of all this,” Saint Germain announced.
“What?” she asked, feeling a frown on her brow.
“It tears me to say it, but I must leave for a while.”
“Leave? Where to?” First World?
“A distance,” he said, almost willing himself to smile as he did. “I will be gone all day, unfortunately.”
“I see.” She tried to look disappointed, but she was struck by the thought that he would be gone. That left only Percival and Jacques to evade while she snooped. She could hardly wait, but had to hold back her elation. “When do you think you'll be back?” Always good to know when the cat would return, so the mouse could go into hiding.
“I hope to sup with you this evening.” His eyes twinkled. “If that is in agreement with you?”
“Why, of course!” she injected quickly, a little side tracked with her thoughts.
He gave her a side glance from the fireplace. “You seem preoccupied. Is there something troubling you?”
Lots of things. Jacques, for one. But for the time being, he was no real threat, since he couldn't even come and tattle on her. And she had to find out how Saint Germain made the Portals open all the way across a galaxy to walk back onto First World from here. It must be extraordinary, whatever he used. Her mind was whirring. If he could open this Portal, and had opened that one in her backyard, then where was Lolly, her dog and her two cats? Certainly a woman with bright red hair, and a big loud mouth could not go undetected for very long in a village of twenty or thirty people.
“Ah, no. Everything is just fine.” She strove to keep her poker face.
“At any rate,” he said on a sigh, “while I am gone, you may ask Percival to get you anything you desire. And in my absence, Jacques is in charge.”
Dragon poop.
Chapter 27
Bidding Saint Germain a good trip, and a good day, Zofia left him in his luxurious library wondering if he would be leaving right away. If he were, she considered how she might follow him without his knowledge. Striding down the corridor, she glanced at several tightly closed doors she passed.
Stopping at one of them, she glanced back toward the double doors of Saint Germain's library. He had not stepped out of it as yet. Quickly, she tried the door. Locked. Pointing a finger at the keyhole, she whispered, “Twizzle!” Sparks jettisoned from her finger, entered the key hole and she heard the lock disengage. With one more glance at the doors of Saint Germain's private library, she entered. The room was pitch black as she stepped inside, and closed the door.
“Luminos!” she incanted. Nothing happened. Sighing to herself, she realized there might not be any candles, or any lamps in this room. For all she knew it might simply be a storage closet. But the creepy-crawly feeling sliding down her back prompted her to want light.
Holding both hands out, away from herself, one above the other about two feet apart, she incanted, “Oflamo oblamo!” Between her hands a sphere of fire appeared. It rolled and flamed in on itself, yet didn't burn her skin. This was one of the first bits of magic taught to budding sorcerers.
Blinking back the light, she incanted, “Reductio!” and moved her hands a little closer, and the ball of flame became smaller. She reduced it to a ball about the size of an orange, and held it magically aloft with the palm of one hand. The room was merely an empty room. Cobwebs draped from the ceiling and in corners. A good thing she had light, now. She hated spiders.
She waited and watched for Saint Germain to walk past the door. As she waited, she replayed their conversation. Odd how he would not tell her exactly where he was going, as if it were a secret, but she knew by his clothes he could go no where else but First World. Besides, even if he'd said, she should not know the place on earth, if for instance he said, New York, or London, for that matter, as she wasn't supposed to know Earth at all.
It boiled down to Saint Germain not trusting her completely. It was obvious when he didn't tell her that Jacques was a wolfman, believing he had enough control over Jacques to have him come in for his potion for his “affliction”.
Jacques, on the other hand, was a totally different problem. She didn't like that he knew she was a sorceress and now seemed to be holding it over her head, almost like blackmail, or some other sort of threat. In fact she had an inkling that he had purposely allowed himself to turn just so that he could catch whatever scent or pheromones she gave out that allowed him to arrive at his correct conclusion.
Despite it all, and even if she did look an awful lot like his dead wife, she felt even more intrigued about Saint Germain than before. She could understand his not trusting her. After all, he'd been alive for so long, and he'd done so many things, it would take him a while to trust someone he thought was mortal. Boy did she have news for him.
Shrugging, she peered through the ajar door into the empty hall. She almost felt foolish, now. What if he wasn't going to leave right away? What if it was a shadowpass from now? This was getting old real fast.
Pushing the door open a few inches in order to peer down the hall the other way, she saw no one. She was halfway convinced that hiding out here might grow long. She could hover-sit, possibly. But when a yawn came, she knew she was already wanting a nap. That couch in the room with the grand piano was sure cozy. She could use a few winks, and now could only think of how marvelous it would be to stretch out on that long couch. What was she going to do here, anyway? How would she follow Saint Germain into his secret chamber where he kept whatever-it-was that allowed him to travel from here to First World and back? Surely he would see her, or in the very least, disappear before she figured out which door he'd gone through. There were a lot of doors, and corridors he could duck into.
What was taking him so long? He said he was going to leave soon. Surely he would have to get underway soon, if he were going at all. He hadn't emerged from that room, yet. He would need to to get to wherever he kept his machine.
Unless…
She thought about his fancy library, how it was pretty much wall-to-wall bookshelves. Bookshelves made wonderful secret doors into secret passages.
Of course!
Feeling totally foolish, Zofia doused her portable flame and leaned a little further out the door. Summoning all her courage, she retraced her steps through the corridor and back to the oaken doors. All was silent as she stood before the handsome Tudors. Pressing her ear to the door she could hear no sound inside. Hand on one of the brass handles, she tried one as silently as she could. The handle turned easily. She paused. She could almost see Saint Germain still seated in that large, leather chair, or standing at the fireplace poking at it as he had while she had sat there.
Biting on her lower lip, she tried to think of some excuse for returning. Wracking her brain, she couldn't come up with anything useful. The diamonds in her pocket was the only thing she could think of, but she'd already thanked him for that. Maybe she could ask him some stupid question about the books, like what order he wanted them to go; alphabetical, or arranged by subject matter.
Settling on this, she made a fist to knock. She'd bet a rothgar he wasn't even in the room.
Just as her knuckles made contact with wood, a thundering noise caught her by surprise. The floor beneath her shook. Startled, she jumped away from the door, and careened into the stone wall to one side of the door. Back against the wall, she searched for the reason, or source. But it stopped just as suddenly as it came.
Breathless, she stood there, waiting for her heartbeat to even out. What the hell was that?
It had not been a noise as much as a sound. And it had not been so much of a sound, but more like a single blast of a note on some humongous instrument. It had all lasted a bare t
hree seconds and was gone. She replayed the noise in her head, but couldn't quite understand it. What could make such a sound so loud, and why?
Now with a very good reason to barge into the library, she lunged forward and charged through the door, breathless, as though she had run full tilt back through the corridor. She knew she would look suitably frightened, because she was.
But when she burst inside the library, Saint Germain was not there. Her gaze swept the room. He was not at the fireplace, nor in his chair, nor at the richly carved desk. She checked to make sure he wasn't under it. He wasn't.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She felt a little woozy, disoriented. She knew this feeling. She'd had it only days ago, when she'd stepped through a Portal. There was also the very faint reek of sulfur. Ley line power. Saint Germain had opened a Portal in the vicinity of this room. Possibly right below it.
Uh-oh.
She felt it begin at the base of her spine, and then came that tug just behind the naval. A whooshing and hissing ushered to her ears, and everything went black. The smell of rotten eggs—sulfur—prickled her nostrils. At first it was vague, but then became overwhelming. Then it let up until she could only pull in a vague scent of it.
Realizing she'd closed her eyes, she blinked them opened. First one, and then the other. Feet firmly planted on solid ground, she peered at her new surroundings. She was in a darkened passageway, but she could see that it led toward a dimly lit exit. Quietly she padded toward the light—and sound.
The passage continued at a downward slope, slightly curved, and ended much quicker than she had anticipated. As she stepped through the threshold, into the opening, she had the sense of a dim room of titanic proportions. Here, a reddish light penetrated barely enough to see the depth and breadth of the cavernous room, which was filled with so many things to such a degree it was like standing inside a knot and trying to undo it—where do you start? It took a moment for her eyes to pull it all in and her mind to separate objects. She found herself standing on a balcony, the floor of which was open-work metal, and she could see down to ground level, which was bricked in red with meandering yellow-ocher paths. Black iron streetlights lined these pathways, but they weren't all lit. Structures that looked like vast wheels of some sort were embraced in the workings of various other objects, she had no idea if they had a purpose, or not. She made out sleighs, and wagons, and even what appeared to be dead trees supposedly lining the street where the horseless sleigh sat, as though this were the main street of Ravenwood—or somewhere else. Little shops and homes lined these pathways. Lights gleamed from their windows, here and there, spilling out onto the darker brick street. At the other end, behind her, bricked walls seemed to emerge for no apparent reason, other than to guide the hapless idiot who might have been trapped in a Portal, and dropped here to be set to wonder forever in its bizarre depths—like her. Or perhaps like Bartty.
