“That is good.”
“He does, of course, know my name.”
“And do you now know his?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Brent Malone.”
She watched her grandfather as she said the name. He looked down at his book. She put her hands on the desk, and made a point of staring at him so that he had to look up to her.
“Do you know him?” she asked.
“No, no, I don’t think so.”
“Strange. He talked about all the evil buried in the crypt as well. I found myself saying many things to him that I said to you.”
Jacques nodded, then indicated the chair in front of the desk. He tapped his reading glasses on the open book before him. “Perhaps, when you see this man again, you will ask him to come here. I’d like to speak with him.”
“I sincerely doubt that I will see him again.”
“Oh, I believe you will. You’re familiar with the Sun King? You grew up in America, so your history had to do with Washington, Lincoln, Roosevelt, Kennedy, and so on. Of course, every child in France learns all about the Sun King.”
She stared at him evenly, gave him a rueful smile. “I know about the Sun King. Louis XIV. Longest reigning French monarch. He came to the throne as a child, and as a young man, much of his policy and power was held by Cardinal Richelieu. He became a very great king, carefully balancing statesmanship and religion. His father had built a small hunting lodge on the outskirts of Paris; Louis XIV determined to make it into a great palace. Versailles.”
“As he aged, he determined as well that, after a life with a multitude of mistresses, he would be loyal to his wife. Alas, the poor thing died a year later. The king married again. He was supposed to have been a man of tremendous sexual prowess.”
“They don’t put a lot about that in the history books,” Tara said.
“The point I’m making is that he was known—before his belated dedication to his queen—for having dozens of mistresses. He was a decent man in that he had many of his love children legitimized, many went on to marry princes and princesses and other royalty and nobility.”
“Well, that was a decent concession, I suppose.”
“Back to the mistresses ... there were many of them. Many. Naturally, the lady of the moment often held sway over him, received honors . . . and was somewhat above the law.
“At one time, the mistress of the moment was a woman known as the Countess Louisa de Montcrasset. She was supposed to be extraordinarily beautiful, and to have the most unusual power over the king. She was the daughter of a French nobleman, but had not grown up in Paris—the records say only that she had been raised among nobility “to the east.” She appeared at court one day, and as her father’s daughter, she was duly welcomed. Within a matter of weeks she had usurped the place of the king’s other favorites, and even at times when there were great matters of state to be decided, she could draw his attention.”
Tara smiled at her grandfather. “The Sun King was ruling at the time when Charles II was welcomed back to England. The ‘Merry Monarch’ was loved by the good majority of his people. Cromwell’s brand of dry government and total lack of frivolity was overturned by the king’s love for the theater. And women. He had his decencies as well, of course, refusing to divorce his barren wife while going through a variety of mistresses. He did not legitimize his children, however. His beloved son was beheaded by his brother, James, then James was overthrown by his daughter and her husband, William of Orange.”
“You’re getting ahead in history,” Jacques said. “Yes, of course, Louis and Charles had much in common—they were monarchs with a love for the arts, building, learning—and women. One woman in particular. Louisa de Montcrasset.”
“The young beauty who suddenly appeared from the east. The daughter of the nobleman.” Tara offered him a rueful smile, but felt a strange sense of unease. Her grandfather and the digger, Brent Malone, seemed to have far too strange a passion for the dead and the past.
“There were those at the time who doubted that she was who she said she was.”
“Ah, and they attacked her relationship with the king, I presume.”
“You see, her father had long been out of the country. He was a military man who traveled far and wide, and when he wasn’t fighting on the king’s behalf, he was a diplomat of sorts. He hadn’t been seen in years. He had been a handsome Frenchman, so it was written, with dark hair and eyes, slender, aesthetic face.”
“Then what was so unusual about him having a beautiful daughter? Come on, I don’t look a thing like you. Or Ann. Genetics can be very strange.”
“It’s written that she had something of an exotic face. And ‘cat’s’ eyes.”
“She might have been a decadent woman, and from what you say, able to use her charms to get what she wanted. Very immoral, perhaps. But don’t you think she might be hated for that fact alone, and therefore, many who wrote about her would make an attempt to demonize her?”
“Not many of those who despised her wrote about her.”
“And why not?”
“They died.”
“Oh?”
“The sixteen hundreds, my dear, was a time when witchcraft was greatly feared. It was suspected that she had joined a coven, that she had made a pact with the devil, that she gained her beauty through the sacrifice of others.”
Tara leaned forward, arms folded on the table, posture serious. “We both know that the devil does not come with a forked tongue and tail and make pacts with people.”
“We both know that whether the devil came or not, and that although surely, the many thousands of people who were persecuted were most surely innocent, there were those who did join covens, and who did believe that they could evoke the powers of darkness and do harm to others. In France at the time, as well as in many places in Europe, there were many who were executed for witchcraft. But it wasn’t the suspicion of those around her that she had joined a coven that made her such a frightening entity. I just told you. People died. Soon after she came to court, dozens of people began
... wasting away. They would be tired at first, distracted. Then they would take to their beds. Some died in those beds, too weak to open their eyes. And then there were others who . . .”
“Who?”
“Who simply disappeared. It was a time of strange murders in Paris.”
“Strange murders?”
“People were sometimes found dead in the streets.”
“People have been murdering people since the beginning of time, sadly,” Tara reminded him.
“These people were found in a particularly grotesque manner.”
“And that was?”
“They were all beheaded.”
Tara felt a strange chill sweep through her again. Her grandfather was talking about history . . .
The worker in the crypt had been decapitated. A brutal manner of murder, no matter what the year, or century, in which it had taken place.
“France is famous for decapitation, Grandpapa. The guillotine, remember.”
He sat back, staring at her through narrowed eyes. Jacques had loved his years in America. Few people were so ardently in love with the country, and so determined to speak up for her, no matter what the politics of the moment.
But he had been born a Frenchman, and he could defend his native land with a passion equaled by few.
“The guillotine,” he repeated, shaking his head, “was invented to be a merciful device. Unfortunately, it made execution so quick that a rebellious people found it far too easy to use. However, that is a different piece of history. You are not paying attention to the point.”
“Just what is the point, Grandpapa?”
“A case was finally proven against the evil of the Countess de Montcrasset that was so strong, the king had no choice but to recognize the fact that his mistress was a murderer. She was found bathing in the blood of her victims. The chambermaid who came upon her began screaming; church of
ficials who had long been very wary of the woman came running, armed with crosses, with holy water. She was taken into custody—with the screaming chambermaid all but dead in her arms. She was condemned by the king, and sent to prison to await execution. Certain men, sworn to uphold goodness, brought one of the churchmen with them and broke into the prison. They arrived in time to discover that she had seduced her jailor into releasing her—he was dead on the floor. They subdued her, throttled her, and then, when they believed that she was dead, they sealed her into a coffin with all the proper rites and symbols to keep her buried forever.”
Tara shifted uncomfortably, remembering her conversation with Professor Dubois at the dig. He had told her that the history to be found in the crypt was invaluable, that maligned nobles were among those buried deep in the earth. He had told her that he was seeking a certain noblewoman, who had surely been buried with untold riches. Her coffin would have been sealed in a way that would have kept her dress, shoes, and jewels, and every item of her attire in a condition that would give historians incredible information. He had raved on about the historical importance of the woman.
He had not given her name.
“Grandpapa, if this woman was a mistress of the king, and buried in all her finery, it makes all the more sense that a criminal would be willing to kill to steal the body. She might have been buried wearing an entire fortune in jewels. It’s horrible, yet easy to see how a greedy cutthroat might have studied the excavation and broken in when the work should have been shut down for the day. But Jean-Luc was there. And so he was killed so that Louisa de Montcrasset could be stolen. The police will, though, I am certain, find out who the murderer is.”
He shook his head, sinking back in his chair. “No, they will not.”
“And why not?”
“Because the murderer is Louisa de Montcrasset.
“I walked all night,” Brent said wearily. “I searched out every alley, every café, bar, restaurant, and whorehouse in the area. I attempted the Louvre, but . . .” he paused, looking at Lucian. “I’m not quite as good as you are at sneaking past guards. Anyway, I searched the streets of Paris until this morning. Then I showered, and returned the purse to the American girl.”
“The one with you at the table,” Lucian said, his words more of a statement than a query.
“Yes.”
“You kept her away from the police, and out of the papers?”
“Yes. Yes, well I have done so this far. She is as suspicious as a CIA agent.”
“Quite a nice-looking agent,” Jade said, a smile twitching at her lips.
Brent arched a brow at her. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “And I think she knows . . . something. Though she is in complete denial. I’m determined to find out more about her. She is staying at Château DeVant.”
“Strange coincidence,” Lucian said, his brows knit in a frown.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” Brent said. “She is the old man’s granddaughter.”
“We may have more help than we know,” Lucian mused.
“Because the girl is related to Jacques DeVant?” Jade said. She looked at Lucian. “I still find a great deal of this very confusing. I don’t really understand what is happening here.”
“I’m afraid I’ve done a poor job of teaching relative history,” Lucian said. “But we’ll get to an explanation soon enough. He looked at Brent again. “There was the body at the church—but no other murders have been discovered?”
“No. But then . . . it’s still only midmorning.”
“Then she is lying low,” Lucian murmured.
“Yes, it’s what I think,” Brent said.
“That’s when she is most dangerous,” Lucian said.
Again, Brent said a soft, “Yes, so I understand. But then again, you know more, much more, than I about the past.”
“The problem is not so much the past, but the present. Our enemies have been stirring here much longer than I have known,” Lucian said. “She is not alone out there. That much is certain.”
“Five are listed as missing in recent weeks,” Brent said.
“But they have found no bodies . . .” Lucian mused.
“Not yet.”
They had gathered around the dining room table at the small house Brent had rented for nearly six months. Jade suddenly stood.
“We’ve all got to get some rest, that’s imperative.”
Lucian shook his head impatiently. “Every time she rests, she will gain greater power.”
“But you do your best work when you’re resting as well,” Brent reminded him. “And you are the one who has warned that there is far more to this than what we know.”
Lucian let out a long sigh. “You’re right. Rest is in order. Because I have nothing right now. Nothing but the sense . . . the knowledge that there is a tremendous stirring ... and a great deal of danger. Still, we’re going to have to move quickly.”
“Very quickly. There are things that I can do. Starting now,” Brent said firmly.
“You’ve been up all night, ”Jade reminded him. “You need rest, too.”
“Perhaps some. I don’t require a lot of sleep. And there are some things I must do today. I need to see what my new friend, Inspector Javet, is doing.”
“You forget, you have talents in your sleep as well,” Jade reminded him.
“I’m afraid most of my talents come from more mundane sources—such as libraries,” Brent said dryly.
“You can’t go hours and hours without sleeping,” Jade said flatly. “You’ll wind up being useless. Now, though, I can do some exploring.”
The two men frowned, staring at her.
She smiled back ruefully. “I slept on the plane. Listen, please, get some sleep. I’ll see what I can find out. At least, perhaps, I can go to a library, read through the papers for the past several weeks, and find out more about the missing persons. But you two must get some rest.”
“I don’t know if I can sleep,” Brent said, raking his fingers through his hair. “What happened is my fault. I suspected . . . I just didn’t know. And if I hadn’t gotten as far as I had, Jean-Luc couldn’t have opened the coffin. And now ... well, I’m worried for all of Paris, and terribly uneasy about the girl. She is in serious danger, more than she can begin to imagine. Especially since she is a DeVant.”
“You were there, Brent, when I hadn’t the intuition to worry,” Lucian said.
“Little good it did.”
“Perhaps more good than you can imagine.”
“DeVant knew,” Brent said. “That’s why he sent his granddaughter.”
“He’s old and ill, but his mind must still be strong,” Lucian said.
“He didn’t suspect what did happen, or he wouldn’t have sent his granddaughter. Though . . . she has a cousin. Ann DeVant. And neither seems to understand what is really happening. They’re in extreme danger.”
“As far as the girls go,” Jade told him, “that problem can be easily solved.”
“And how is that?” Brent asked her.
“We simply get into Château DeVant. Sooner rather than later. It’s something we must do anyway.”
“Naturally, we must get into the chateau. Get close, and become bosom buddies with the inhabitants,” Lucian concluded. He rose, then looked down at his wife. “Take care. Even by day, take care.”
“I do know something about what I’m doing,” she assured him.
“I’m not sure I can rest, that I dare rest,” Brent said.
“Tara Adair was at the crypt. She didn’t want me going to the police alone. She’s going to take steps with the police eventually, because she’ll feel it’s her duty. The police may be a danger. They may not. Who knows exactly who is out there right now. But if they get to her before we do . . .”
“They won’t. Not yet. Not during the day. And though she may eventually go to the police, I believe that Jacques will stop her,” Lucian said.
“If you mean to help her, Brent, you’ll have to have your wits and
strength about you,” Jade reminded him. She was watching him curiously. “Of course, perhaps there is one way you can sleep and still protect her.”
“Oh?”
“Sleep with her.”
CHAPTER 6
It was an incredibly busy day.
One ridiculous meeting after another.
It was nearly two o’clock, and Ann had not had time for so much as a cup of coffee.
At two, she dropped the sheets of meeting memos on her desk, rose, grabbed her purse, and marched out to her secretary’s desk. “Henriette, I’m going for coffee. I don’t care who calls. I have to have a break.”
“Of course—I will fend off all demons!” Henriette, pretty, young, and loyal to her boss, declared with the strength of a lion.
Ann smiled at her and hurried down to the ground level, then outside and across the street. She walked to the counter of the little café and ordered coffee and a croissant, though it was late and only one was left, and it was probably stale. The woman behind the counter was busy, and tried handing her everything at the same time while she was still struggling with her wallet for her money. She was startled when a man at her side suddenly helped out, taking the coffee and the croissant.
“Merci,” she murmured.
She was startled when he answered with an accented, “de rien.” She glanced at him, but then found herself staring.
He was tall, blond and handsome, with a charming smile. Her hand froze in her purse.
“You looked as if you needed a little help,” he said in English. “I’m sorry—do you speak English?”
“Yes, I speak English very well,” she said with a smile. “And thank you, thank you very much.”
The woman behind the counter cleared her throat impatiently. Ann shoved francs into her hand, then accepted the coffee and croissant from the American.
“That’s my table—there. There are no more empty. Perhaps you’ll join me.”
She had intended to take her coffee and croissant back to the office. No longer. Now, she was going to take her full ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
“Thank you.”
He pulled the chair out for her. She sat, extended a hand to him, “Ann DeVant. Thank you for your help, and for sharing your table.”
Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance) Page 10
