Time for Eternity

by Susan Squires

  “What was that?” Her young guard seemed to be asking himself more than anyone else. “It wasn’t human.”

  Françoise’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Not human.

  Listen to them. Not human. The voice pressed her. Her head began to ache. Yet she could feel some uncertainty. The voice didn’t want to believe Henri was rescuing prisoners.

  “They’ve escaped,” Montmorency announced. He too looked around the empty cell as though an entire family might somehow still be hidden there.

  Devereaux blanched. “No!” He rushed into the cell, and was dumbfounded to see it empty. Other guards descended on the vacant cell from around the courtyard.

  Françoise began to back away. She couldn’t be seen here.

  “How could you just stand and watch it?” Montmorency shouted.

  “Watch what?” Devereaux was genuinely puzzled. “Did you move them?”

  “You fool!”

  Françoise looked around. A guard stood frozen before another cell across the courtyard. From here all she could see were two glowing red coals inside the cell. Red eyes.

  She didn’t point out what was happening. She didn’t want Henri caught. Whatever he was. She couldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t think. She backed toward the archway where she and her guard had entered.

  And smack into a large, florid-faced man. A huge hamlike fist locked around her upper arm.

  “And what are you doing here, eh, mademoiselle?”

  Montmorency shouted, “Another escape, Captain.”

  Just then a wail echoed from across the way. But the guards didn’t consider that out of the ordinary. Avignon was using the chaos in the courtyard to cover an escape in that cell with the frozen guard. And that was good—however he was doing it.

  I never knew. The voice inside her was thoughtful.

  The florid-faced captain dragged her with him as he surveyed the empty cell. His face was grim as he turned to her. “Why were you here, girl?” He looked around. “Who let her in?”

  Her young guard shrugged and got a hard stare from Montmorency. He swallowed. “She give good money for a visit, Captain.”

  The captain was holding her arm so tightly he would leave bruises. “I’ll wager she did.” He jerked her around. “What have you to do with all this?”

  “Nothing,” she managed.

  “We’ll see about that.” He pushed her ahead of him. She stumbled, and put out her hands to break her fall.

  Everything slowed. On her hands and knees, she brought her palm up. It was scraped. Blood welled.

  It’s only a scrape, she thought.

  It’s the damning of your soul, the voice shrieked. The beginning of the end that has no end. Listen to me, you little shit. Now you have no choice. You have to kill him, or … or run away this very night and never see him again as long as you live.

  Was the voice changing its mind about killing Henri?

  The world started moving again. The captain was jerking her up. He dragged her back down through the archway to the guardhouse. The prisoners, wakened by the brouhaha, pressed against the bars. This was what a madhouse must be, though she had never seen one.

  “Just you sit here,” the captain said, pushing her into a chair.

  A shriek echoed down the corridors.

  “Damn,” the captain muttered. The guards dashed back the way she and the captain had come, leaving Françoise, quite surprisingly … alone.

  She blinked, looked around at the card game left scattered on a table, the remains of a meat pie, several flagons of ale, some coats and cloaks, and two pairs of boots standing forlornly in the corner of the guardroom.

  Then she got up and ran into the street. Where to go? She had nowhere else besides number sixteen.

  If he isn’t what I thought … if he has honor and courage … The voice paused as though mulling over this new situation. Then he’ll never let you go. If you escape him he’ll come after you in some misguided act of kindness and responsibility. And then he’ll make you something you can’t live with, even if it’s accidental. So there’s nothing for it. Get back to number sixteen and kill him.

  “I’m not killing anyone.” And she couldn’t leave number sixteen. She had nowhere else to go. She put her hands over her ears as she ran but it didn’t help. Her head ached so that she could hardly see her way.

  No choice, girlfriend.

  She ran until she was exhausted, then walked and ran again. She was running to the house of a man who could raise the darkness and disappear, who had red eyes, who was not human.

  She wouldn’t kill Henri. Of course she wouldn’t. But he wasn’t human and he was a danger to her in a way that would change her forever. So she had to kill him.

  Either way, her only path was to the Place Royale.

  Sixteen

  Jean opened the door. Françoise stumbled into the house, gasping for breath.

  “Mademoiselle,” Jean said anxiously, leading her to a chair. “What is wrong?”

  What wasn’t wrong?

  Get the leather bag, the voice ordered. You must save yourself. There’s not much time.

  She pushed herself off the chair, trembling in every limb. Jean looked horrified. She ran her hands through her curls. “When the duc arrives—”

  “But his grace is already here.” Jean looked surprised. “He is in the library.”

  She blinked at the footman. How could he have gotten here ahead of her? He wouldn’t dare to use his carriage.

  Get the leather bag! the voice shouted inside her.

  She gathered herself and pushed the voice down. She wasn’t going to kill anybody. No. She should confront him. He had a right to defend himself. She’d tell him she knew he’d been at the prison. With red eyes. And whirling darkness.

  Fear threatened to close her throat.

  She pushed it down again. There was an explanation. There had to be. A monster wouldn’t be rescuing families from the guillotine. And you couldn’t kill a person just to prevent some imagined future misdeed.

  Even the voice’s resolution wavered.

  She gulped and stilled her breathing.

  “May I bring you something?” Jean was concerned.

  She shook her head. “I’ll join his grace in the library.” Her head began to pound.

  Don’t go in there. This must be it. It happened in the library, even though last time I never went to the Conciergerie tonight. Let me control!

  For pity’s sake, the voice wasn’t even making sense. Something inside her was struggling to get out. It was almost as frightening as seeing Henri tonight with red eyes as he was engulfed in whirling darkness. It felt as though she were two people in one body. Pain shot through her temples as she trembled before the library door. She must be going mad.

  “I’m stronger than that,” she whispered. “I’m in control.”

  She pushed open the door.

  He swirled brandy in a delicate crystal snifter. This time the grate he was staring into was lighted. It was cool tonight. The threatening feeling in the air might have been from that feeling of electric energy that presaged a storm. Or it might have been from Henri, or the fact that something inside her might want her to commit murder.

  He glanced up. As usual, he was impeccable, not a hair out of place. His eyes were black, unfathomable. She couldn’t see the silver flecks that floated in them from here. She realized how little she knew of him. He must be a pampered son in a long line of pampered sons. Then why was there such pain behind his insouciance?

  She shook herself, trying to make the headache subside. “You were at the prison tonight.”

  He gave no sign of consternation or surprise. He just waited.

  “You’ve been rescuing them.”

  He managed a chuckle. “I don’t know what you thought you saw—”

  “I heard your voice. It was you. Or are you referring to the red eyes and the whirling blackness? What was that?”

  “Your imagination, obviously.”
<
br />   “I didn’t imagine anything. You are either going to explain who … or what you are, or …”

  “Or what?” His shoulders sagged.

  Threatening a man who wasn’t human? Ridiculous.

  Get out of this room. Right now! The pain in her head became excruciating.

  He strode across the room, glass in hand. “I think you should join the others at the warehouse for the next few days until I can get you out of here.”

  “I wouldn’t tell Robespierre and Madame Croûte who is behind the escapes, if that’s what you think. They’re vile, and whatever you are, you’re at least trying to save people’s lives.”

  “Go and pack. I’ll send Gaston—”

  “I want to know what you are.” She took his wrist in one hand and felt the electric jolt.

  No, Françoise, no!

  “You don’t want to know anything about me.” His face went hard. He looked down at her hand on his wrist.

  And then it began. Everything started moving very slowly. His other hand on his glass was clenched too hard, as though he didn’t know his own strength. The glass shattered, sending tinkling shards to the carpet. His palm was cut in several places. Blood welled.

  Instinctively she reached out to him.

  “No!” he shouted at the same time as that voice inside her screamed, No!

  She snatched back her hand as he pushed her away. Falling, she stared at the blood welling in his palm.

  Relief coursed through her. She didn’t understand why. The pain in her head subsided. She was still bursting full. Something writhed and struggled within her. She felt herself dividing inside as though she’d broken, just like the glass.

  One became truly two.

  We did it! It didn’t happen the way it did before.

  Françoise tried to breathe. The voice was stronger than ever, and more separate. It wasn’t hers. She felt that now. And that was shocking.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. Then he frowned. “Is that a scrape on your palm?”

  “I fell at the prison tonight.”

  He stared at her abraded skin and blanched. “My God, girl, you might have …”

  She couldn’t take her eyes from his hand for some reason. As she watched, the cuts sealed themselves. She gasped. “W-what is that?”

  We still aren’t safe from infection. We just bought time.

  He glanced to his palm. The cuts turned to red weals. He took a breath. “That is part of my disease,” he said. His voice was shaky. “And you were very nearly infected.”

  He used the same word as the voice inside her head. Infection. Was everyone going mad?

  Do you want to be like him, you little shit? Leave the room. Now. He’s a monster.

  A monster? Truly? When he saved children from the guillotine? She felt a waver of uncertainty in that other inside her. Françoise didn’t talk like that. “Buying time.”

  “You little shit.” That proved the voice wasn’t her. No one else talked like that either. She struggled to her feet. He made no move to help her, but went to the bell pull and rang for a servant.

  In some part of her, certainty locked back down. It doesn’t matter that his character isn’t what I thought. You must still protect yourself. He’ll infect you, if not today, then tomorrow. I don’t like it any better than you do, but it’s self-defense. You’ve got to kill him. He’ll probably infect others too, if that makes you feel better about what you have to do.

  Kill him? She couldn’t kill anyone. Especially not Henri.

  Her head began to ache again. Jean appeared at the door.

  “Please bring a basin of water, some soap, and some rags.”

  Jean’s eyes widened. But all he said was, “Very good, your grace.”

  Françoise sat in one of the wing chairs, a war going on inside her with stabbing pains that made her want to shriek out loud.

  Go out to the stable. The bag. You need the bag.

  Her throat was closing. She was so full. She had to stop this—whatever was happening to her. She held her head. “I won’t kill,” she whispered as she rocked back and forth.

  “What did you say? Are you all right?”

  “I …” She choked. “I must go.” She pushed up and out the door, leaving him frowning after her. She couldn’t think anything except that she wanted the pain to stop.

  Dear God, he’d nearly infected her. Henri rubbed his mouth. What would he have done? Watched her die as her body rejected the Companion? He stared at his face in the mirror above the fireplace. A vampire’s face. Only when he called the power to translocate and the field grew too dense to allow light to escape did his reflection disappear.

  He could not have let her die. He would have given her his blood to grant her immunity.

  The realization struck him like a physical blow.

  That would violate the prime Rule of his kind. If one made vampires and they made vampires, where would it end except in a war with humanity and not enough blood for too many vampires?

  But he would have done it, Rules or no.

  He … cared for her as he had not cared for anyone in centuries, no matter that he saved them from the guillotine, or dug wells to keep them from sickening from bad water.

  He would have committed the ultimate sin for her.

  Did that mean he loved her?

  He was never going to find out. It would also have been the ultimate sin against her. No woman wanted to be a monster. She would have reviled him for it. He couldn’t risk another accident. Already she knew too much about him. So he’d keep her at a distance, insist the whole was her imagination, send her off at the end of the week. He was not to be trusted.

  Go to the stable. The voice rode the pain, inexorable. It was stronger than she was now. She began to run, back through the kitchen where Jean was getting rags, and out into the warm night, across the stones of the mews to the stables. Pull open the stable door.

  Gasping, Françoise stumbled to her knees in front of the hay bale behind which she had hidden the leather satchel.

  We haven’t any choice. The voice sounded as though it were panting too. Françoise could hear the desperation, the doubt underneath the order. But the stabbing pains didn’t stop.

  Françoise moaned and fumbled at the strange, toothed-metal closure. The mouth of the satchel gaped like a hungry beast. Inside the sword gleamed. The soft purple and pink bottles lurked beneath it. “No. In the name of God, no,” she gasped as tears streamed down her face. She must find a way to refuse this wicked voice. “I’m not strong enough to decapitate him anyway.”

  That took the voice aback. There was a pause. True. I’d forgotten how weak and deaf and blind I was. Another pause. Okay, okay. There must be another way. I don’t want to kill him either. But we can’t have him coming after you if you walk away.

  The pain eased up a tiny bit. “He doesn’t love me. He won’t come after me.”

  Don’t bet eternity on it now that it turns out he’s got some morals. The voice was grim. All right. You’ll drug him and leave him. Right now. Tonight. And he’ll hate you for it, so he won’t let you near him ever again. Deal?

  The pain eased down so she could think again. Yes. She had to leave Henri. He’d never love her. She wouldn’t be kept as a mistress. She had no future with him, much as that sent despair washing over her.

  What she would do without a position or a way to earn her living, she didn’t know. But what did it matter, without Henri? “You have a bargain.”

  Hide it in your skirts. Run!

  Choking and coughing as though her throat were full, Françoise stumbled back to the house. She made it all the way to the library without meeting anyone.

  In front of the door, the voice said, Stop. Now calm yourself. Breathe.

  She managed to swallow. A breath. Two. Three. Slower. She wiped at her eyes.

  Better.

  The door to the library opened. Jean came out with a wooden box from the desk.

  From inside the room Avignon called, “Bu
ry it in the park. No one touches the glass.”

  “Yes, your grace.”

  She entered the room. Avignon looked up from his hands and knees. A very unduclike position. He was scrubbing the carpet with a rag and a basin. Françoise blinked in surprise.

  Even the voice seemed taken aback. He’s trying not to infect anyone … Shit. I really was wrong about him.

  Avignon got to his feet and wiped his hands on the rag, frowning. “Are you all right?” He tried on a tiny, tentative smile. “It was just a little blood.” He seemed shaken, though.

  Right. A little blood. And a little parasite inside it that changes you forever.

  “I’m better,” she said. Her voice seemed far away. The pain in her head was gone, but she knew the voice could bring it back at any moment. She fingered the soft bottle she held at her side in the folds of her skirts. She was listening to a voice in her head as though it were a separate person altogether. She was truly mad.

  Or maybe you’re Joan of Arc. Get him talking. Pour him a drink.

  “Do … do you want to explain?” Françoise asked Henri. She wanted an explanation.

  He’ll never tell you. It’s a big, bad secret.

  “And don’t try telling me it’s my imagination,” Françoise added.

  He stared down at the rag in his hand, apparently torn. He took a slow breath and looked up at her, his eyes still questioning himself. “I have a disease in my blood.”

  One way of putting it.

  “And the healing?” She realized she’d seen it earlier when his face was blistered.

  “An effect of the disease, along with the sensitivity to light.”

  Half-truths.

  “What about the red eyes?”

  “A pigment that reflects the light. Like animals’ eyes at night.”

  Oh, that’s good. No confessions forthcoming. So let’s do the deed and blow this joint.

  Françoise pressed her lips together. She’d give him another chance for the real explanation. “Hardly believable, but clever. Now about the whirling blackness that makes you disappear with your charges?”

  He looked away. There was no way to explain that. “What do you want of me?”

  Françoise stared at him, his question unlocking a thousand conflicting thoughts. The voice wanted him out of her life permanently. But she wanted to feel his arms around her, hear his heart beat, smell the exotic scent of him, and hear him tell her that he treasured her above all others. She wanted him to kiss her.