Gabrielle strained on tiptoes, craning her neck. From what she could make out from her vantage, the pages looked aged and brittle enough to crumple to dust. Yet as Simon thumbed through them, the leaves crackled with a surprising resilience.
They were covered with strange bold markings, the ancient writing of a language all but forgotten, the symbols somehow dark and threatening. Gabrielle would never have thought it possible that a mere book could convey such an aura of mystery, power . . . evil.
There was little doubt in her mind that it was indeed the Book of Shadows. But whatever had possessed Renard to acquire the cursed thing, worse still to keep it? If the comte had ever intended to destroy it, he surely would have done so by now.
Gabrielle cast an uneasy glance at her brother-in-law. Much as Ariane loved her husband, she had ever feared that part of Renard that took too keen an interest in the dark arts, a fascination he had inherited from his wicked old grandmother, Melusine. With Aristide absorbed in the book, Gabrielle sidled closer to Renard and muttered, “You’re an idiot. You know that, don’t you?”
Renard bent down to reply in her ear. “Thank you. I have always been excessively fond of you, too, dear sister.”
“Ariane is going to kill you,” Gabrielle whispered fiercely. “You know how she feels about black magic. What possessed you to be messing about with that book?”
“Love” was his unexpected sad reply. “Your sister is so desperate to have a child, she’s willing to die for it. But I can’t lose her. It would be easier to part with my soul. I thought I might find an answer in that book, a way to let her have her babe, but keep her safe forever. I would risk employing even the darkest magic for that.”
Gabrielle understood his desperation all too well. Hadn’t it been the same feelings of love, fear, the need to protect that had driven her to place that dangerous medallion around Remy’s neck? If Renard was an idiot, then so was she. She slipped her hand into his huge callused fingers and gave him a comforting squeeze. Renard returned the pressure with a rueful smile.
The minutes crawled by as Aristide inspected the book. Would the man have the wit to see that it was genuine? He appeared to be trying to take it apart, running his fingers over the cover, poking his thumbnail along the ridge of the spine. To Gabrielle’s amazement, part of the leather peeled back, revealing a hidden pocket. Aristide turned the book over and shook it vigorously, as though expecting something to fall out.
When nothing did, he glared at Renard. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?” the comte asked blandly.
“You know damned well what. The list that should be hidden beneath the cover. The names of every known witch and sorcerer on both sides of the English Channel.”
Gabrielle emitted an outraged gasp. “That is what you are after? You bastard. You told Miri you only wanted the Book of Shadows, to destroy it when what you really want is—is—”
“The destruction of evil itself and every man or woman who practices it.” Simon stalked toward Renard. “Where is that list, monsieur?”
“Dear me. I suppose I must have lost it. Careless of me.”
Simon’s face darkened with such fury and frustration, Gabrielle stepped protectively in front of her brother-in-law. But Simon pivoted on his heel. He strode over to the chest that contained the medallions and the Dark Queen’s ring. Wrenching open the lid, he flung the Book of Shadows inside.
He stared down at it for a long moment. When he turned back to face them, Aristide’s eye was steely and cold. “I regret to inform you our agreement is terminated, Monsieur le Comte. Mademoiselle Gabrielle will remain to stand her trial and you also are under arrest.”
Renard folded his arms across his chest, looking completely unfazed. “I was afraid you might say something like that. If I were you, I’d think better of it, boy.”
“Why? Because you are expecting the armed men you had concealed out there in the darkness to come storming to the rescue?”
Renard started, although he did his best to conceal it.
Simon’s mouth twisted in an unpleasant smile. “I remember your tricks, monsieur, how you were always wont to come charging in, followed by a small army of retainers, how you pitilessly slaughtered all of Master Le Vis’s order. My witch-hunters aren’t monks, they are mercenaries, and I prepare better to meet my enemies than my old master did. Most of your servants are either dead or captured. The only men who will be coming through that door are mine. Braxton!”
As though he’d been waiting for this signal, Braxton flung the door open and three other witch-hunters swarmed into the room, surrounding them, swords drawn. Renard wrapped one arm about Gabrielle, drawing her protectively close to him. He remained remarkably calm, although she doubted that he’d anticipated this turn of events. She noticed him fingering the ring on his left hand, the curious metal band that linked his thoughts to Ariane. Was he reaching out to her in his mind, warning her what was happening, perhaps telling her how much he loved her, asking for her forgiveness?
Gabrielle only wished she could have the same chance with Remy. Her stomach dipped when she realized that Renard was not even armed. He had likely been obliged to surrender his sword before entering the inn.
“Take Mademoiselle Cheney back to her room,” Aristide commanded. “As for the comte, there is no point wasting the time for a trial. His guilt has always been more than evident. Take him outside. He is to be executed at once.”
“No!” Gabrielle shrieked. She clung desperately to Renard, but Braxton’s rough hands pinned her arms behind her back. She struggled to break free, find some way to help Renard, but to no avail. A sob of despair escaped her as Renard was forced toward the door, the tip of a blade pressed to his throat.
“Stop!” a voice suddenly rang out. A voice as silvery and clear as a pure forest stream. Everyone froze, all eyes turning toward the cloaked figure that emerged from the shadowy passage leading from the kitchens. Throwing back her hood, Miri Cheney stepped into the light.
How her sister had managed to gain access to the inn, surrounded by Simon’s guards, Gabrielle had no idea. The answer perhaps lay in the familiar black shape crouched by Miri’s skirts. Necromancer. Miri’s cat had always had an uncanny ability to slink his way into forbidden places. No doubt he had found an entrance for Miri. Gabrielle wished the cat hadn’t been so damned helpful.
This was the last place on earth Gabrielle wanted her little sister to be right now. From the expression on Aristide’s face, the witch-hunter concurred. He advanced on Miri, growling, “What the blazes are you doing—”
“You lied to me, Simon. You did not keep your word.”
Miri looked up at him, her gaze so clear and direct Gabrielle did not know how Aristide had the courage to meet it without flinching. But he offered no excuses, made no effort at apology. “I am a witch-hunter, Miri. You should have understood that. I do what I have to do.”
“Then regrettably so must I.” Miri’s cloak fell back as she raised a pistol and leveled it at Aristide. “Tell your men to back off, Simon. Release my sister and Renard.”
“Or what? You’ll shoot me?”
“If I have to.” Miri’s face hardened, her eyes growing as cold as the distant stars. “Let them go. Now.” Miri adjusted the pistol, aiming directly at Simon’s heart.
He simply stared at her, a storm of emotion rippling across his scarred face. Disbelief, regret, despair. Gabrielle’s captor tightened his grip on her arms, but she sensed Braxton’s uneasiness. The men restraining Renard had come to an uncertain halt near the door. The comte might have used the moment to make a bid for freedom, but like everyone else he was staring at Miri.
“No. Put the pistol down, child. This isn’t necessary.” Renard laid unusual stress on his words, as though trying to convey some hidden message.
Braxton shuffled his feet and called nervously, “Monsieur Le Balafre?”
Neither Simon nor Miri responded, the pair locked in their confrontation, as though everyone and ev
erything else had ceased to exist.
“Very well,” Simon told her with a strange, resigned smile. “Go ahead. Do it then. Kill me.”
As Simon stalked closer, the pistol trembled in Miri’s hand. She steadied it, gritting her teeth. Gabrielle held her breath, wondering if Miri really could—
A deafening roar split the room as though a mighty dragon had assaulted the inn. Windows shattered, the rafters shook, the floor heaved beneath Gabrielle’s feet. Light exploded, blinding her. She was flung roughly to the floor, the breath driven from her lungs. Webs of darkness danced before her and her eyes fluttered closed.
She must have lost consciousness, for how long she had no idea. When she next opened her eyes, she felt dazed and disoriented, as though her head was muffled in cotton. Something warm trickled down her cheek. She touched it and squinted uncomprehending at the red, sticky substance on her fingers. Blood.
Gabrielle shook her head in an effort to clear it, only to stop as a sharp pain lanced her temple. Her confusion receded, memory returning. The Charters Inn, the witch-hunters, Aristide ordering Renard’s execution, Miri aiming her pistol . . .
But this level of destruction had never come from Miri’s pistol. As Gabrielle struggled to sit up, she found herself enveloped in a world of chaos, blazing light, unbearable heat, and a heavy mist. No, not mist, but smoke that was already beginning to sting her eyes, making her cough. The inn was afire, flames licking up the walls. She had to find Miri and Renard . . . get out of here.
Gabrielle braced herself with her hand, only to recoil as she came in contact with a man’s arm. The witch-hunter, Braxton, sprawled near her. Whether he was dead or merely unconscious, she could not tell. Her attention was drawn to the doorway, where she heard something above the crackle of flame. The clash of steel. Through the thickening haze, she saw that Renard had wrestled a sword from one of his captors. One man lay dead at his feet, while he battled furiously with another.
And shoulder to shoulder with Renard, his sword flashing as he held another witch-hunter at bay, was . . . Remy. Gabrielle’s heart leapt with a painful mixture of disbelief, joy, and fear for him. She tried to call out to him, only to choke on the smoke. But Remy had already spotted her. He brought his opponent down with one swift, savage stroke. Before the witch-hunter had dropped to the floor, Remy bounded toward her.
He hunkered down beside her, his face streaming with sweat, his cheek smudged with soot. Damp strands of dark gold hair tumbled wildly across his brow, but never had any man looked so good. She flung her arms around his neck with a deep sob. “Oh, you—you came for me.”
“Of course I did, you little fool,” Remy rasped in her ear. He strained her so hard against him, she thought her ribs would crack. “We’ve got to get out of here. Are you badly hurt? Can you stand?”
Gabrielle nodded, but when Remy hauled her to her feet, she winced as her ankle throbbed. But she forgot her pain as the thought struck her—Miri. Where was she? Eyes streaming from the thickening smoke, Gabrielle glanced frantically about her, praying Miri had already made her way outside.
She was horrified to see her little sister crouched over Simon’s recumbent form. One side of his face dark with blood, Aristide lay unmoving. Miri sought to rouse him, heedless of Necromancer pawing at her skirts as though the cat urged her to flee while there was still time.
“M-miri,” Gabrielle choked. She yanked at Remy’s arm, drawing his attention to her sister. Before he could respond, Renard was already shoving past them. One arm flung up to shield his face from the smoke, Renard shouted to Remy. “I’ll get her. Take Gabrielle. Go now.”
Gabrielle tried to protest, struggling to rush to her sister. But Remy’s arm closed inexorably around her waist. His sword clutched in his other hand, he hauled her to the door, forcing her into a crouching position to avoid the worst of the smoke. Her lungs felt as though they were on fire. She was half-blinded by her tears. All she could do was cling to Remy, hobbling at his side as they emerged into the night.
He half-dragged, half-carried her a safe distance from the blazing inn. Gabrielle coughed and gulped in great lungfuls of the clear night air. Remy choked, his own chest heaving. His grip loosened on Gabrielle enough that she twisted free. Rubbing her raw eyes, she gazed back at the inn. A sob of relief escaped her when she saw Renard emerge, bearing Miri in his arms, Necromancer streaking before them. He strode over to where she and Remy waited, gently easing Miri down onto a stone bench beneath the gnarled branches of an oak tree.
Still struggling to regain her breath, Gabrielle leaned against Remy, taking in the madness that had erupted around them. Half the inn was engulfed in flame, the fire lighting up the night with a hellish glow as it spread to the roof of the stable. The terrified whinny of the horses mingled with the shouts of Simon’s men. Their dark shapes were silhouetted against the red haze of the fire. Witch-hunters, grooms, servants from the inn darted frantically to and fro, some seeking to save the horses, others merely to get clear of the fire, contain the deadly sparks flying from the inn.
The confusion was increased by citizens from neighboring houses surging into the inn yard, many clad in their nightclothes. Some came to help, others merely to gawk, the light of the flames reflected in their faces. In the midst of all the chaos, Gabrielle thought she spied Bartolomy Verducci, the man’s scrawny legs pumping as he fled the scene.
But she had little time to spare a thought for Catherine’s spy. A bellow of rage went up and to her horror, Gabrielle realized their escape from the inn had finally been noted. Several of Simon’s burly witch-hunters bore down upon them, weapons drawn.
She felt Remy’s body coil with tension. He muttered terse instructions in her ear. “Look after your sister. Get her out of the yard. Ariane will be waiting just down the street with horses. I’ll find you there.”
Gabrielle was certain the explosion must have damaged her hearing. Had Remy just said Ariane? There was no chance to question him. He planted a hard kiss against her lips and then was gone. He charged forward to meet the onslaught of the witch-hunters, Renard thundering after him. They were reinforced by a third man, a rangy youth with wild, flowing black hair. Wolf. Where had he come from? Gabrielle stood frozen for a moment, watching the melee that ensued, a mad tangle of shifting male figures and flashing swords.
Helpless to aid her men, Gabrielle did the only thing she could and turned to her sister. Miri was still sitting on the bench, looking dazed but mostly unharmed. Her face and hands bore cuts from the flying glass when the windows had shattered. Necromancer licked one of her palms as though seeking to heal her, but Miri took no heed of him.
Her gaze was fixed on the blazing inn, an expression of horror in her eyes.
“S-simon,” she whispered.
After all that had happened, Gabrielle could not believe her sister was still fretting over that witch-hunter, fearing for his life. She took hold of Miri’s shoulders, gently forcing her to her feet.
“Come on, love. We have to go,” Gabrielle urged.
Miri tried to wrench free of her.
“Simon,” she repeated. Gabrielle tightened her grip, fearing Miri meant to dash back to the inn in search of him. Then she understood the look in her sister’s eyes. It was not fear for Simon Aristide, but of him. Both Aristide and Braxton had somehow got clear of the burning inn, their menacing forms etched against the backdrop of the flames.
Simon looked more than ever the devil’s apprentice. He’d lost his eye patch, his scarred visage fully exposed, his face blackened with ash, blood, and rage. Staggering, Aristide barked some command to Braxton, gesturing toward Renard.
The comte was engaged in desperate swordplay, oblivious to the danger behind him. Gabrielle’s breath clogged in her throat as she saw the weapon in Braxton’s hand. The witch-hunter fitted a quarrel into the taut string of a crossbow. Gabrielle shrieked out a warning, but her cry was lost in the din of fire and battle. Before she realized what was happening, Miri tore free from her grasp. The girl we
nt racing forward.
Heart thudding, Gabrielle surged after her, hampered by her throbbing ankle. It was like being trapped in a horrible nightmare, running, never getting closer, knowing she would never get there in time. Miri flung herself in between Braxton and Renard just as the witch-hunter took aim. Gabrielle choked on her cry, bracing herself for the worst.
But at the last possible moment, Aristide swore, knocking Braxton aside. The quarrel whistled, veering wildly off course, leaving both Miri and Renard unharmed. A second explosion rocked the night, the roof of the inn caving in with a mighty roar, sending the crowd in the yard scrambling away in panic. Sparks and burning embers flew everywhere. The world descended into a complete madness of heat, smoke, and fire. The only thing sane was Remy suddenly appearing at Gabrielle’s side.
The rest of their escape was a blur to her, Remy’s strong arm wrapped about her waist, supporting her, his stalwart form protecting her from the panicked rush, keeping her from tripping over the bodies of slain witch-hunters. She followed him blindly through the yard until they reached the street. Miraculously, they all arrived unharmed, Remy, Gabrielle, Renard, Miri, Wolf, even Necromancer. The cat led the way toward the shadows pooling near an alley where Ariane and Bette waited with the horses.
Her ankle throbbing, Gabrielle stumbled, catching at Remy’s arm. Her hand came away sticky with blood. “Remy. You—you are hurt.”
Horrified, she pointed at the shaft protruding from his upper arm. Remy stared at it, dumbfounded. The infuriating man actually grinned at her and laughed.
“Oh, hell and damnation,” he exclaimed. “Not again.”
Simon sagged down on the bench, clutching the wooden chest to him, as he watched the flames engulf the inn and stables. It was as though the earth had split open, spewing forth hell itself. Even from this distance Simon could feel the heat, his face streaked with soot and sweat. He coughed, his lips parched, his lungs straining for a breath of pure air such as he feared he would never know again. All around him, men shouted, forming a brigade, hauling buckets of water from the well. A pathetic and futile effort. How did one extinguish the fires of hell?
The Courtesan Page 49