by Lorelei Bell
“I'm sorry,” Zofia said when they were almost there.
“For what, dear heart?” Saint Germain asked gently.
“You went to such trouble. I—”
“You have done nothing to beg forgiveness for, my dear,” he cut her off. “You are with child. You have no control over what you experience, or how you feel physically,” he said and settled back. One arm draped over the backrest as he now sat across from her, this time. Yep, the pregnancy ploy really did its job in squashing anything like lust in a man.
“Are you sure you wouldn't want to find another person for your library job?” she asked, turning her gaze to her lap. She wanted to be reassured he didn't plan on replacing her.
“Why would I do such a thing? You come well recommended,” he said almost too briskly.
She bit her lower lip and winced against the pain and the sudden thoughts swimming around in her head. What was wrong with her? She had a job to do—and it wasn't mending books.
“Speak no more of it. I expect to see you back in my library first thing in the morning, after you have breakfasted.”
“I won't be able to keep anything down,” she said as the carriage came to a halt before the huge monoliths.
He looked at her.
“I was given something while I was staying at Restormell Castle, and the alchemist there gave me a list of the ingredients. I had only enough to get me through one night and one day.”
“I see,” Saint Germain said. “Do you know what they are? Possibly I could make this up for you?”
“No. I can't remember it at all.” In fact she wasn't sure where she had placed the piece of parchment she'd had it on.
“Then perhaps I will consult my books. Find something that will help your stomach settle.”
The driver opened the carriage and Saint Germain helped her step down from it. They walked toward the steps which led all the way back up to the Nest. They both paused as if not exactly relishing the idea of climbing all those steps. But they began to climb, and at first it went well, but Zofia tired. She noticed Saint Germain barely breathed heavily at all.
He looked back at her and said, “Why don't we stop here. I'm not exactly sure what possessed me to buy this castle with all these steps.” They both chuckled.
Then Zofia remembered something. “I'd forgotten, in all the excitement, you didn't tell how you came to be here,” Zofia said, breathing deeply as she leaned against the stone.
Saint Germain chuckled. “After all the excitement I think we shall refrain from venturing on that journey,” he said. “It is too long and sordid tale, and I fear it may keep you awake, or give you bad dreams, in the very least.”
“I'll keep you to it,” she said. After a moment, they continued on silently. He lead her back through the gates, and into the Nest. They advanced quietly past the over-large fireplace, through the tapestry, and into the living quarters. He took her cloak from her and hung it. He went to a spot on the wall, flicked a switch, and suddenly the lovely lamps came on.
“There's electricity?” she said, surprised.
“Yes. I fixed the generators,” he explained. “The outside lines tend to be effected by lightning.”
“I see.” They faced one another. He hadn't taken off his cloak. He wouldn't be staying. “Thank you, Franz. It was a very interesting evening.” She wanted to add the I'm sorry part, but knew better not to.
“I shall say good night to you, Zofia, But I can not leave you until I ask two things.”
“I will answer them if I can,” she said, hoping his questions weren't going to tax her mind too much in the lying department.
“What is the name of the vampire who bit you, and is it his baby you carry?”
Startled, her hand went to her belly. She hadn't seen this one coming. “I—I don't know,” she stuttered. Half-truths were good.
“That is alright,” he said, bringing his hand up to stop her. “I believe I have my answer. You do not know the vampire's name, and the baby is most likely his.”
She stared at him. He was really bringing up a whole bunch of unpleasant things for her to ponder tonight.
“Until the morrow,” he said, making a deep bow. “Sleep well, Zofia.” With the swish of black cloak, he was gone.
She stared after him, at the swinging tapestry that closed off the antechamber. He could have made this a whole lot harder on her. She assessed the outcome and realized she'd had to do very little lying. Just a few white lies, and leaving out certain things about herself and her family. The vampire thing, however, she hoped would not be brought up again. She hadn't really known if a vampire could get a girl pregnant. Apparently they could. And, thanks to these thoughts, Myron came to mind, and his lustful vision he'd implanted into her head. Now, whenever he was near enough, he would be able to play on the vampire bite and make her re-live that vision, even seduce her with it. She eyed the medallion about her neck. It was a strong amulet against the vampire. She would have to keep it on her at all times.
The heavy front door closed. Saint Germain was gone. She spun to face the bedroom.
“Biddle?” she called out.
“Here, madam,” he said and then yawned deeply.
“I hope you got some sleep.”
“I did,” he said. “Did you get lucky, madam?”
She'd opened her mouth to say her next thought, and had to shut it and blink. “What?”
“I said did you get—”
“I know what you said!” She took a few steps, found herself stalking around in a circle. “Where did you—how could you—”
“Knights Code book. Page two hundred and fifty-eight. Paragraph ten. Section A-one, B-three, and C-two—and I quote—'a Knight is not required to have sex with anyone while on duty, in order to extract information. However if the circumstances are favorable, and the information is indeed necessary, then said Knight has every right to proceed, as long as the sexual activity is consensual, and does not break any Taboos.' End quote.”
Zofia stood, hands on hips, mouth ajar, staring toward the invisible entity awe struck. “You mean to tell me you've read the Code book up to that page? Before I've even read the first five?”
“I was bored, nothing better to do.” She almost imagined Biddle shrugging.
“How disgusting!” she sputtered, making a few more rounds in front of the table, passing the door of her bedroom and the fireplace a couple of times.
“I would think it depends upon who you have to bed. Saint Germain seems alright—”
“Biddle!”
“Alright, madam, I was only saying you could do worse. I mean, you might have to bed the butler.”
She shook her head vigorously, finding this conversation really getting out of control, and then a picture of Percival popped into her head. Okay, that was just bad in every way imaginable. “Biddle, just stop talking and let me talk.”
“Very well, madam.”
“I'll need you to keep watch tonight.”
“Keep watch? For whom or what?”
She threw a hand out toward the general direction of the door. “For Myron mostly. Myron and his consort, that female vampire something-Chillingworth.” She shivered uncontrollably just thinking about how they had ganged up on her. One vampire could not overcome a sorceress, if she was prepared for his glamor. But two on one—that was just unfair. Another moment, and they would have had her, had Saint Germain not stepped in.
“The vampire from last night?” Biddle asked. “He has a female partner?”
“Yes,” she said, again fingering the large sliver medallion Saint Germain had given her, thinking about how close she'd come to becoming Myron's victim a second night in a row. “The two of them were together at the inn. They ganged up on me.”
“Gracious, madam!”
“If it weren't for Saint Germain—well—he stopped them.”
“Then Saint Germain is not a vampire, madam?”
“No. I thought I told you that.”
“Not that I recollect.”
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“Oh. Well, he isn't. He's an alchemist, and I have to find out what it is he drinks from that goblet.”
“His goblet, madam?”
“I'd better start from the beginning.” Zofia told him of her evening—the rest of it, anyway. He seemed intrigued enough to not yawn for once at her night out. He actually stifled a snigger when she told him about up-chucking into the bucket.
“He won't tell you what's in the goblet?” Biddle asked.
“No. Says it's secret. He called it the Elixir of Life.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Me either. He did reveal he used something called a Philosopher's Stone to make it with?”
“Ah. A basic in the deepest of alchemy,” Biddle said.
“No kidding,” Zofia said dryly and then yawned. “I'm going to bed.”
“I will watch over you,” Biddle promised. “Is that new?” he asked.
“What?” she asked, looking down at herself, unable to figure out what he meant.
“That medallion, madam.”
“Oh.” Fingering it again she looked down at it. “Yes, you might say it is a gift. But it saved me from becoming Myron's victim again tonight. He nearly had me in his clutches when Saint Germain produced it.”
“I see.”
She lifted it now to study the designs. It looked like a talisman of some sort, and had many strange symbols on it. It was an odd assortment of markings. Some were Norseman runes she now realized, others were wiccan runes, and still others were runes which she had never seen before in her life. Somehow this being in Saint Germain's possession did not surprise her.
“I'm going to bed,” she announced once more.
“Good night, madam. If you need me, I'll be out here, patrolling.”
“Yeah, just do a better job than you did when you patrolled for Percival, earlier.”
“What?” he drolled. “I watched for him.”
“You may have watched for him, but you didn't wake me,” she complained bitterly.
“You never said to wake you, madam. You only said to watch for him.”
He had a point. Unfortunately. “This time, you wake me if anything funny happens.”
“Funny as in ha, ha?”
“No, funny as in strange.”
“On it,” he said, and Zofia took the few steps into her bedroom.
Zofia slowly dressed for sleep, thinking about her first day.
Ravenwood was not like anywhere else she had ever been. Vampires and werewolves running rampant and unchecked where a person could fall victim at any moment wasn't the norm. Not to mention, she reminded herself, that members of illegal cults also skulked about. And what was all that business at Doreen Clutterbutt's place? Someone had actually taken every candlestick in her shop. What was that all about? Even though the sheriff of the town had been called in, Saint Germain hadn't sounded as though he was confident that much would be done about it. He didn't sound as though he put much faith into the sheriff.
Assessing the evening (and her ability to extract some information from him, without reverting to sex), felt like a successful evening to her. Learning he was an alchemist from First World was a start. His admission that he drank something called the Elixir of Life which kept him alive had been a bonus. Now she knew for certain that Stephen was right at least about one thing. She didn't exactly know why Saint Germain had wanted her to know about his Elixir, and that he'd actually originated from First World. Maybe he wanted to see her reaction. See if she would bolt, once she'd learned he was an alchemist who had achieved the power to live on. It should have actually frightened a real Ugwump. Well, she hadn't gotten her act down as yet. But she would. She would have to remember to bring up the question of how he managed to get from First World, to this world, since he kept putting her off. He obviously didn't want to tell her.
She turned down the bed. Again, the black satin made her sigh. Who put black satin sheets on a woman's bed? Or, had they nothing else that fit the small bed? Perhaps she should bring this up. She couldn't help but feel a bit sinful as she slid between the cool, slick sheets. She knew if she looked, she would find a tag somewhere on them telling her where it was made, and it would not have been made on this planet.
Sighing, she lay back and stared up at the red cushioned ceiling. She wondered who used to live in this place before? Saint Germain didn't seem the type who would keep a woman, of either the trollop type, or a concubine. Perhaps the place had always been this way, and being that Saint Germain had never really needed it, he'd never thought to change it one iota—even the black sheets, or all the red decor. But knowing that this had once been the den of vampires, she didn't have to wonder too long. Vampires were known to ensconce themselves in such vibrant colors and lavish fabrics. Red and black being their favorite colors.
She reminded herself why she was here, if only to make all that happened par for the course. Dorian was somewhere in Ravenwood, too. So were Lolly, and her dog, and Perth and Argyll. So, where were they? In the village? Or could they be trapped somewhere below? Or, nowhere here, but somewhere entirely different. After all, the ley lines had a mind of their own.
She had to keep her mind on her task, she reminded herself, yet again. Her job was Saint Germain. Not finding Lolly. She would just have to hope that wherever Lolly was, she would never have to run into her again. Ever. She couldn't trust that she would not do something to get revenge for what that woman had done—even if she had been totally ignorant that crossing herself in front of Zofia's fertility symbol would make it possible for her to become pregnant.
She missed her cats, however, and hoped they would show up eventually.
So, on the morrow, as Saint Germain liked to put it, she would double her efforts to find out where those secret rooms were, and see if any of them led her to the machine that used the ley lines to allow Saint Germain to travel back and forth from here to First World.
Finally, Zofia turned out her lights and made futile attempts at falling asleep, and wound up tossing and turning in the small bed. She couldn't turn off all the thoughts swirling around in her head, mostly about Saint Germain. She thought about how handsome he was, how utterly polite, and she still couldn't believe he had found a way to cheat death.
Finally, her eyes felt heavy and she dropped off dreaming about Saint Germain, who then became Dorian.
Dorian walked through a dark passage, past a gurgling pool. He skulked past a huge, hulking fireplace in the Nest. Curious, he stopped to examine it and the cauldrons. Then, he turned and eyed the door which led to her bedroom. He slinked toward her door. It was very dark, and yet he seemed to be able to find his way, and not trip on the steps. Perhaps he had vampire vision. No. That wasn't possible. He was no longer a vampire. Actually, she wasn't sure about it being Dorian at all, but it was now Myron at her bedroom door. Shouldn't Biddle have seen him and sounded the alarm? Probably he'd dozed off again. Some watchman.
The dark form's hand reached for the door handle. He tried it and found it was locked. Now Zofia was pretty sure this person was not Dorian at all, but someone who had entered the domain without so much as knocking. Hadn't she locked the door? Probably not.
Zofia wanted to wake up. She tried to wake up as the tall man—taller than Dorian—appeared in her bedroom. How? She hadn't seen him open the door. He just appeared next to the bed festooned in some sort of robe or cape, she wasn't sure. The man leaned over her. His breath feathered across her skin stirring the air against her face.
WAKE UP! she screamed inside her own head. But she couldn't quite pull herself out of slumber.
His hand reached down toward her face. Something was in his hand. A piece of cloth. Swiftly it covered her mouth, smothering her—or seemed to.
She awoke with a start. Breathing in, she sucked in something bitter and noxious. Quickly, she closed off her throat from taking in more, knowing it would have her under in another second.
The dark shadow leaning over her pressed the cloth against her mouth wit
h one hand, while the other held her head, so that she wouldn't fight herself out of his control. She thrashed with all she had. Arms, legs. She scratched and clawed, but found the silk of his garment impenetrable. He was too strong, pinning her down with his own body weight. She put everything into fighting him in a humanly way—which lasted about ten seconds. When that did no good, she resorted to her last hope. Desperate, she pointed her finger into his chest, and hit him with Power.
The sizzle of Power zinged through the silence, singed the air with the reek of it, and the red flash lit the man's face briefly. But she saw it and would not soon forget it. He went sailing across the room. Glass crashed. The man's sudden outcry and all other thumping sounds associated with his fall rent the room.
Zofia sat up—gulping in valuable oxygen, now that she could breath—trying to ascertain if she needed to throw another Power burst, but she couldn't' see where the man had landed.
Another crash came in the direction of the door, this time. Zofia thought the man was attempting to escape. Everything seemed to be happening all at once. A wedge of light poured into her room from the hall through the open door. There was a frisson of panic as someone—Biddle—shouted something unintelligible. Zofia's own screams drowned out whatever Biddle was saying.
Against the light from the other room (Biddle must have turned on a lamp), formed a crisp silhouette of the man. Completely bald, his ears stuck out on either side of his head like pink handles of an urn.
And then he vanished into thin air.
“Madam Zofia, are you all right?” Biddle's excited voice shattered the odd silence after the man's vanishing act.
“Yes, Biddle. Did you see him?” Her voice came out like a ragged screech.
“No. Not enough of him, anyway.”
Zofia was now levitating slightly, she'd been so terrified by what had just happened. What had that maniac been trying to do to her?
Taking a few more deep breaths, she calmed her heart rate, but the adrenaline still surged through her. Finally, she reached and turned on the light by her bedside. She assessed the damages. A beautiful stained glass lamp was reduced to colorful shards on the floor. The door Biddle had crashed through appeared solid and undamaged. She now remembered she had locked it. The man would only be able to enter by Evanishing. Either that, or he'd used lay line power, but she thought he was most likely a wizard who could Evanish.
