Kiss Across Blades

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  He was glad Remi had found an old blanket inside the house, to spread over Denis’ body. It would be best if the news came from the chateau, after the people in the house had learned about it.

  The last mile to the house was downhill. Neven told Remi to steer the cart, while he gripped the back of it to brake its speed down the hill. London moved up to his side and took his spare hand.

  “It does all go wrong so fast, doesn’t it?” she said. She sounded more herself now.

  “Wrong, different, unexpected. All jumps have to, I think. Simply arriving in a different time introduces changes.”

  “You’ve spent years trying to explain it to us. I thought I understood. I was wrong.”

  “You must figure out a better way to explain it,” Neven said. “One day, you get to go back and tell eighteen-year-old me, in a way I’ll understand, so I don’t screw up any jumps.”

  “You won’t tell me what I said to you that made a difference?” London asked.

  He shook his head. “You scared the crap out of me. I was terrified about jumping.”

  “You and Veris and Sydney scared the hell out of me, too,” London pointed out.

  Neven nodded. “It’s best that way. The last thing you can afford is to jump back into time with any arrogance about knowing more or being smarter. Too many travelers have died thinking they had it all covered.”

  London shivered.

  Neven kissed her hand. “You learned fast enough to survive. That’s all you can do.”

  When they turned into the driveway to the chateau and moved slowly toward the house, Neven spotted movement at the windows.

  “We’ve been seen,” he said, moving up to the other handle and pulling on it. He glanced at Remi. “Are you ready for this?”

  Remi looked puzzled.

  “Someone must tell Aimée and Edgard what has happened. I think it might be better coming from you.”

  Remi’s eyes narrowed.

  “No, Neven,” London protested. “That will confuse them.”

  Neven thought of the way Aimée had confronted Remi on the stairs. “I don’t think so,” he replied.

  Remi nodded. “I will tell them,” he said, his tone firm and his voice stronger than it had been since they had found Denis. “You must both be beside me when I do.”

  Even though there was no acknowledged aristocracy left in France, the children of a noble were still extended some privileges—those which could be spared, at least. A small room off the main hall had been put aside for the children as a day room. There were old, comfortable chairs, books and toys, and a larger chair for the nurse to sit in while she watched over them.

  The nurse rose to her feet as Remi, London and Neven entered the room. She wiped her eyes and moved over to them. “I saw from the window,” she murmured. “Such a tragedy! I didn’t know what to say to them.” She glanced back at her charges. Aimée was playing with wooden soldiers, while Edgard rolled a fabric-stuffed ball at them to knock them over, laughing with delight when they spilled. Micheline laid on a folded blanket, kicking and cooing.

  “We will speak to them,” Remi said, keeping his voice down, too. “That is, if you permit it, madame?”

  Neven was pleased. At the last minute, Remi had remembered that to these people he was an unacknowledged bastard brother to Denis, with no rights over the children at all. Remi had recovered from his shock.

  The nurse’s eyes widened. “I…why, I suppose, yes.” She considered the matter for a moment. “God knows where their mother is,” she added in an undertone. “If the rumors are true about you, Monsieur Remi, you are the closest to family they have left. ‘tis best it comes from you.”

  Remi nodded.

  “I will give you the room,” the nurse added.

  “What is your name?” Remi asked her.

  Startled, she looked back at them. “Isobel,” she said. “Isobel Dupreaux.”

  “Thank you, Isobel Dupreaux,” Remi told her.

  She almost dipped into a curtsey, then remembered who she was speaking to and cleared her throat. Confused, she hurried from the room.

  Remi glanced at Neven.

  “All you can do is tell them,” Neven said.

  London came up to Neven’s side once more. Her fingers tangled with his.

  Remi scrubbed at his hair and moved over to where Aimée and Edgard kneeled on the floor. He sat and folded his legs. “Aimée. Edgard. There is something I must tell you.”

  Aimée considered him with her wise eyes. “About Papa?”

  “The perception of children,” London whispered.

  Edgard rolled the ball with delight, now Aimée was not paying attention to her soldiers, and knocked most of them down with a broad grin.

  “Edgard,” Remi said gently.

  The little boy looked at Remi, blinking.

  “Has something happened to Papa?” Aimée asked, in her high voice.

  Remi hesitated. Neven’s heart squeezed as he waited for him to speak. There was nothing he could do to help Remi in this moment. Neither of them could.

  “I’m afraid, yes, something has happened,” Remi said, keeping his voice even. “Your Papa won’t be coming home anymore, Aimée.”

  Aimée stared at him. Through him. “He’s dead?” Her voice was as even as Remi’s.

  Edgard looked from his sister to Remi, his brow wrinkled as he tried to understand what was happening.

  Remi hesitated again. Neven bent and murmured by his ear. “Remember, they have seen executions and more.”

  Remi nodded and met Aimée’s gaze. “Yes, he is dead, Aimée. I am sorry. He was killed in a duel.”

  For a long moment it seemed that Aimée would give no reaction at all. For a heart beat, her chin wobbled. She straightened her shoulders. “He died honorably,” she declared. Only, her eyes grew wider and wider.

  “Hug her, Remi!” London said urgently.

  Remi held out his arms. “They are not your father’s,” he told Aimée. “But they will feel much the same.”

  Aimée lifted her chin. “I think not,” she said, with a haughty tone much older than her.

  Remi made an impatient sound. “That is your mother speaking,” he chided her and pulled her into his arms.

  Aimée gave a choking sound and wrapped her arms around Remi’s neck and stood shivering in his arms, her face against his shoulder.

  Edgard got to his feet and moved over to Remi and sat beside him. He painstakingly arranged his legs the same way as Remi had his.

  Remi ruffled his hair, then picked up his hand. He glanced at Neven and London. His eyes were glittering.

  London pressed closed to Neven’s side. He held her tightly. “We should have done this a long time ago. Years ago,” she whispered. “When Remi first suggested it. It was I who hesitated. I will never do that again. I will never refuse to jump simply because I am afraid.”

  “You were not the only one who was afraid,” Neven murmured. “Now, though I’m glad we came.”

  Aimée stepped out of Remi’s arm and brushed down her pretty gown with adult movements. “What becomes of us?” she asked, her tone reasonable and just as mature.

  Neven’s heart ached. Children had to grow up fast in these times, he reminded himself. In their time, Aimée could go back to being a seven-year-old with skinned knees and dolls and posters of horses.

  Remi looked down at Edgard, who smiled at him sunnily. “There’s time to talk of that, later.”

  “Now,” Aimée said. “I want to know.”

  London hid her smile. The iron note in Aimée’s voice was pure Remi.

  Remi nodded. “Very well. Your father asked me and Lon—Lucienne, and Neven, to take you home with us. To take care of you as if you were our own children.”

  Aimée considered that, her hands curled into tight fists by her sides. “Where do you come from?” she demanded. “Is it far from here?”

  “A very long way,” Remi told her. “It is likely you will never come back here. Where we live is un
like anything you know. It will feel quite strange and uncomfortable for a while, but we three will be there to help you adjust to it.”

  Amy tilted her head, studying Remi. “Why did my father ask you? Are you related to us?”

  Remi hesitated. “Yes.”

  “How?”

  Remi pushed his hand through his hair. “In a way that takes considerable explanation, which I promise one day to tell you so you will understand, I am your father.”

  It was said. Out in the open. Neven held his breath, waiting.

  Aimée nodded. “I thought so,” she declared. “Is where you live very different?”

  “Absolutely, yes. It is as unlike this place as…as…”

  “Versailles?” Aimée asked.

  “Even more than that.”

  “China?”

  “Far more than that,” Remi assured her gravely.

  “Good,” Aimée said, with a decisive tone. “Can we go now?”

  Remi looked at Neven and London. Neven could feel amusement building in his chest. Remi feeling helpless had a delicious irony to it. He cleared his throat. “There is something Remi and London must do, first, Aimée. Then we can take you home. Do you want to wait with me while they finish that task?”

  “Will it take long?” Aimée asked.

  Neven shook his head. “Not long at all.” Not from this end of the jump, at least. “Is there anything you want to take with you? Only what you can carry.”

  For the first time Aimée showed something other than complete confidence. She gnawed her lip. “I don’t know,” she confessed.

  “Shall we go to your room upstairs and see? You can pick what you want to take while we wait for London and Remi to return.”

  Aimée nodded. She held her hand out to Remi. “Come upstairs with us before you go.”

  Remi got to his feet and shrugged. “We can leave from there just as easily,” he said. He went over to the blanket where Micheline laid watching them. Micheline smiled, displaying four tiny teeth and raised her arms to Remi as he bent and picked her up. He settled her on his hip, then took Aimée’s hand. Aimée took Edgard’s.

  London and Neven stood aside as the four of them moved out of the room, then followed them at Edgard’s slower pace, up the stairs to the next floor.

  The nurse, Isobel, waited at the top of the stairs. She nodded when she saw them climb to the upper floor landing. She stepped in behind London and Neven and everyone moved down the wide gallery passage to the private apartment.

  Aimée tugged on Remi’s hand. “Can I take my doll?”

  “Yes, you can,” Remi said. He pushed open the apartment door and held it open so Aimée and Edgard could move inside.

  His gaze met London’s and Neven’s over the top of Micheline’s head. Remi looked dazed. His mouth turned up in the smallest of smiles. Dazed, but happy, Neven cataloged.

  A screech sounded from farther inside the apartment, a banshee shriek which made Neven’s incisors descend. He bared his teeth, instinctively looking for the danger.

  Remi whirled and stepped into the apartment, pushing Aimée and Edgard behind him. London leapt through the open door, moving faster than Neven had ever seen her move before. He raced after her, barely thinking.

  As he moved through the doorway, he could see into the apartment properly. He rounded the door in time to see a woman with silvery blonde hair and trousers lunge forward and drive a shortened sword deep into Remi’s belly, barely missing Micheline’s little leg.

  Remi coughed, bending almost double with the force of the blow.

  “Papa!” Aimée shrieked.

  The woman didn’t pull the sword out of his gut. She ripped it up higher, putting her elbow into the work, sawing at his innards.

  Remi staggered, his hand to his belly, which pulled the sword free. He fell to his knees. Carefully, he put Micheline on her bottom on the floor beside him, instead of dropping her.

  The woman stepped back, her sword dripping with Remi’s blood, pointing at the floor.

  London gave a fury-filled cry of her own and launched herself at the woman, going for her left side. It was tactically smart, for the woman had lowered her sword and wouldn’t be able to swing it up and around if London moved fast enough.

  The calculating fighting machine that Neven’s mind became when his vampire instincts were roused approved of London’s choice. She had been closer and appeared to be the weakest fighter in the room. It was the unexpected choice. He watched warily, as London reached for the woman’s throat. The part of his brain less interested in battle tactics confirmed that this must be Carole.

  Carole whipped up her left hand in defense, but not to ward London off. Instead she took a grip of a thick lock of London’s hair and held on grimly.

  London was pulled up short by the grip Carole had on her head. She hissed, trying to reach for her.

  Carole shook her like a rag doll, making London cry out and grip the woman’s wrist. “Ever you vex me, whore.”

  Neven stepped carefully around the open door. It was blocking him. He couldn’t attack from the left. He would have to move around to come at the woman from the right. Her sword was no shield against him, which she did not know.

  He stepped around Remi, who had his hands to his belly, while the girl child tugged frantically at his sleeve.

  London took a better grip on Carole’s wrist. Her blue eyes were steady. Calm. Against all sense, she took a step closer to the woman, so they were almost nose to nose. “You killed Denis, with your ways.”

  The woman laughed, her glance sliding to Remi. “He isn’t dead yet, but he soon will be. Then I will have the pleasure of turning out every single one of you who desecrate this house. Ingrates and leeches, all of you.”

  London swung her free arm. The woman sucked in a deep breath, freezing. Her fingers loosened and London yanked her hand away from London’s hair. Then, as Carole’s eyes widened and her lips parted in shocked silence, London shoved at her chest.

  Carole staggered backward, the sword trailing blood. She lifted her left arm, to peer beneath it at the great wound in her side, up high by her heart, painting the white linen shirt bright crimson.

  Arterial blood, Neven cataloged.

  Her knees buckled.

  “Knives are everywhere,” London told her, her voice cold. In her hand was a sharpened stake bearing white paint along one edge. The handle was bound in green silk.

  Carole collapsed upon the floor, the sword clattering. She groaned. It had a peculiar bubbling sound.

  Neven recognized the mortal note in her voice. The threat was over. His teeth retracted. Human sense returned. He shook himself and spun to check on Remi.

  Aimée was staring at her mother, her eyes wide, as the woman breathed her last breath. Her face was expressionless. She turned back to Remi and frantically yanked at his sleeve. “Remi….Papa!”

  Remi lifted his head. “Shhh….”

  Aimée looked down at his blood-covered hands, then at his face. Her hand fell away. Confusion showed in her eyes.

  Remi lifted one bloody finger to his lips. “I will show you something. It is a secret, yes?”

  Aimée gave the smallest of nods.

  Remi lifted the torn shirt out of the way and showed her his belly. The great wound closed up as Aimée watched. The skin fused together like a video running backward, until all that remained was a great deal of blood, smeared over Remi’s flesh.

  Neven relaxed. Remi had only just fed, which helped his healing processes run faster. Seconds, instead of minutes, for a great wound like that.

  Aimée licked her lips. “You live…”

  “Always,” Remi told her.

  “How?”

  “Magic,” he said, his tone grave. “A very nice type of magic.”

  Neven went over to London and lifted her hand, the one which held the shiv. “I think you’ve graduated to the grown up travelers’ table.”

  London nodded. “The poor girl. I wish Aimée hadn’t had to see that.
Or Edgard, but he at least was behind Remi. What was the woman thinking?”

  “She wasn’t nice to Papa,” Aimée said. “She never was. She got what she deserved.” She turned her face up to Remi as he got carefully to his feet. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Bad deeds do tend to turn on people eventually.” Remi flexed his shoulders and shrugged them, testing his body. “If you wait long enough, they do,” he added.

  Aimée nodded.

  Neven picked up Micheline and held out his hand. “Aimée, bring Edgard. Let’s find your doll. London, Remi, you should head off on your…project.”

  London looked around for somewhere to drop the shiv, her mouth curling down in disgust at the bloody tip.

  “Although both of you might want to change into something not daubed in blood before you go,” Neven suggested.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the room with the bed canopy decorated with fleur-de-lis, Remi opened two tall wardrobes standing side by side. “Voila,” he said, waving to the first, which was full of women’s clothing. He rifled through the contents of the other. “Nothing but clothes of a humble country gentleman,” he complained and shrugged out of his bloody jacket and shirt. Then, with a grimace of distaste, he spotted the dark stains of blood on his trousers and bent to tug off his boots, too.

  London selected a plain white dress, which had an undershift attached to the high bodice. It would keep things simple. She stripped and pulled the dress on over her head, then reached to draw the cord closed behind, but couldn’t reach it. Instead, she waited for Remi to finish dressing in one of Denis’ plain outfits and turned her back so he could tighten and tie her fastenings.

  “I don’t know why we’re bothering to change,” London said. “We’ll arrive in different clothing, anyway.”

  “Back there, yes. We can’t move through this house with blood all over us,” Remi pointed out, as he tugged and tied.

  “We don’t have to move through the house at all. We jump back here, collect Neven and the children, then jump home. That’s all there is left to do.” She had never wanted to return home so badly.