by Sarah Hoyt
He could barely breathe with the touch of her fingers on him. It raised a pleasure in him out of all proportion with that simple gesture. His breath labored in desperate gasps, as if each one had to be earned and as if at any moment his ability to breathe might cease. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to kiss her. Her lips called to him like the source of all delight.
Touching her was the price of continuing to draw breath. He stumbled forward, blindly, his hands extended.
She stepped back, smiling. “Ah, no, Raphael. Not like that. What kind of woman would I be if I let you have your way with me when you neither love me nor respect me?”
“Love . . . ?” Athos said, not sure he understood the word, not sure what it could mean in these circumstances. Did he love her? Did he respect her? He did not know. He craved her and he hated his subjugation to her and the utter lack of control he felt when she was near. And he wanted, he wanted more than anything—more than he’d ever wanted honor, or power, or even love—to hold her in his arms.
“Let me into your mind,” she said, her voice dripping sweetness and yet as sharp as a blade glimmering in the light of the moon. “And we’ll be one again. We’ll be one forever.”
It seemed easy. Athos could feel, within himself, the lock—the restraints—which held his individual thoughts inviolate, and which held the core of himself free of her. Free of vampires. Which kept him from being a vampire like the others—a creature that shared all thought and sensation with the vast multitude of the damned.
He could feel how easy it would be—to open that door, to unlock it. His will pushed on it and it gave . . . It was like a hand reaching to open a gate.
And then he stopped. The thought of his friends rose from his baffled mind. His friends who had fought to keep him from being a vampire like the others. Who trusted him not to be a vampire like the others. The image of Grimaud, with a stake in his hand, creeping along the corridors of his house in the rue Férou in the dark of night wounded him with a sharp stab.
Let them never be deceived in him, and let Grimaud never need that stake. Athos stopped. His body felt cold and rigid all over, granite never to be animated by human touch. Through lips like ice, and about as mobile, he said, “No. Pray God, I never—”
On those words, Charlotte vanished like a soap bubble in the warm air, and something like a stinging rain bit at Athos’ hands and face. Athos was left on the steps of the altar, trembling. The burly vampire lay dead across the steps, his black blood pouring onto the marble. His blood smelled to Athos like the finest brandy, yet Athos had the presence of mind to do no more than lick his lips, and look around dazed.
He didn’t know how long his dream of Charlotte lasted. That Porthos had just killed the male vampire was obvious, as Athos’ friend was wiping his blade on the vampire’s silken doublet and looked up. Bazin was glaring and there was white grains all over Athos’ clothes and hands. Blessed salt.
“Who was she?” he asked Athos.
“She?” Athos said. He was covered in sweat, which made his clothes cling damply to him. He ran the back of his hand over his brow, to prevent the sweat from falling into his eyes.
“She, the blond angel-like vampire, who appeared, yet was not wholly here. I’d heard they could do that, provided they were within five hundred yards or so, and there were a Judas goat of their making or . . . or a vampire they turned, on the premises. But I confess I’d never seen it.”
“She . . . she was . . . ” Athos’ mind and body were moving so slowly he could not find words at all and, for once, Porthos was the nimble-tongued one.
“It’s no use telling me you don’t know her,” Porthos said, as he moved to the side of the altar and felt the boy’s neck for a pulse, then nodded and, taking out his sword, started cutting at the ropes holding him. The servants had surrounded them, even Bazin, who crossed himself looking at the boy, but—on a frown from Porthos—stepped forward to help free him.
Porthos looked at Athos, even as he worked. “I’ve never seen a woman have that effect on you, and I doubt that an unknown vampire could. There are few female ones, I grant you, but you’ve killed them with as little thought as you killed the males.”
Athos drew in breath in three stages, three slow aspirations, each of them seeming to be all he could get. He had to fight for the next. Win it. He expelled the hard-gained air in one long sigh and shook himself, feeling as if he’d just woken.
He shook his head at Porthos. It was a characteristic of Monsieur Porthos—loyal to a fault, huge, graceful fencer and shy to the point of rarely speaking or at least rarely making sense save in the company of those he knew very well—that when he once fastened to a puzzle, he would continue asking about it until he got an answer.
And what secrets did Athos have left? Wasn’t it better if Porthos knew what had caused his friend to act so oddly? The vampires had more of a hold over Athos than he would have thought. Athos had never imagined that Charlotte—or her presence—could appear to him in public, or so paralyze him. Much less had he thought that others would be capable of seeing her.
“My wife,” Athos said, speaking with apparent disinterest, but knowing he would not fool anyone who’d seen his meeting with her.
He wondered why she’d married him—raw, innocent provincial that he’d been. Likely he’d never know. He wondered also, how she’d contrived to be in sunlight during their life together. And she’d eaten, he was sure of it, not just pretended. She had eaten very little, but she had eaten.
Had she lied to him about being a vampire then? Had she not truly been such then? But she’d survived hanging! And he remembered how often he’d caught her retching after eating. He’d thought . . .
His head spinning, he retrieved his sword and sheathed it, and stepped forward to help them with the boy, who was just waking. To Athos’ relief—a relief so profound that he didn’t even mind risking the temptation of touching mortal flesh, warm and alluring though it was—the boy felt warm to the touch and not at all as one who had been turned. They must have stopped the vampires before they could drain him.
“Your wife!” Porthos said. “I didn’t know you were married.”
“It was a long time ago,” he said. “Before . . . before you met me.”
He could barely stand the look of mingled curiosity and pity that Porthos directed at him, and for a moment he was afraid that Porthos would assume that, like his own family, in his own distant domain, Athos’ wife had been turned against her will and after their marriage. It didn’t bear thinking, and it was no part of his intention to fool his friend. But neither did he wish to gratify his curiosity and that of the servants, as well as that of this anonymous boy.
But Porthos asked no more, because at that moment the boy’s eyes fluttered open, and he looked uncomprehending around himself before saying, in the voice of one who recollects long-ago events. “Musketeers. Oh.”
“Yes, musketeers,” Porthos said, speaking in that paternal tone that Athos had heard him use when dealing with the very young, with women who did not excite his interest, and with the sick. “Do not worry young man, the king’s musketeers are here, now.”
“But . . . ” The boy blinked, first at Porthos and then at Athos. “Mother. And Father.”
Athos looked to the side, where the corpses lay, but said nothing, and Porthos clucked his tongue on the roof of his mouth. “It can’t be helped,” he said, bracingly. “It can’t be helped, and who of us these sad days haven’t suffered like losses. Who are you boy?”
“Renard Planchet,” he said, quickly, turning brown, trusting eyes toward Porthos and determinedly avoiding looking at the corpses. “My father . . . ” Now he looked, but then away again, quickly. “My family owned a pastry shop in the rue des Mystères,” he said. “They . . . they broke down the door and took us. Father said they’d used Judas goats to get past the cross.” He crossed himself, fervently. “No one . . . no one is safe now.”
Porthos inclined his head. “Perhaps not. O
r perhaps they had a vendetta against you and your family. At any rate, we must leave here, and quickly, because more are bound to come. What with the deaths of their kind and your charming visitor, Athos.”
Athos nodded. He did not doubt that even at this moment vampires were swarming toward them. On the contrary. If anything, he expected them to already be surrounding the church, making the musketeers’ escape impossible.
He didn’t say anything. No reason to increase the anxiety of his companions. No good could come of that, anyway. Instead, he asked the boy, “Can you walk?” as he reached for his arm and supported him.
The boy swallowed and nodded. The swallow had the feel of an attempt to overcome nausea, which might be brought on by his being nearly drained, or it might be brought on by the smell of vampire blood, which Athos must remind himself, did not smell as enticing to humans as to himself.
Porthos and Athos, each at one elbow, brought Planchet to his feet, only to find their servants at their elbows, moving as if of common accord, or as though they’d made a plan.
“Monsieur,” Grimaud said, as Mousqueton echoed, “Monsieur Porthos?”
“What?” Porthos asked, impatiently, helping the young man forward, along the rubble-strewn nave.
“Bazin?” Porthos asked.
“He went ahead, Monsieur,” Mousqueton replied.
“It is as well, perhaps,” Grimaud said. “If Messieurs Athos and Porthos allow Mousqueton and I to help this young man, so that the two people who can use a sword and use it well might defend us from any coming ambush.”
Athos would have sworn there was a tone of amusement in Grimaud’s voice, except that he knew his servant too well to suppose he could be amused in these dire circumstances.
He stepped out of the way, hastily, letting Grimaud take the boy’s elbow, while Mousqueton took the other. And Athos, beside Porthos, stepped through one of the doors on the transept, and outside.
He expected to meet with a group of vampires—perhaps guards of the cardinal—all armed to the teeth and ready to fight. But instead, he met with blue night, and the distant sounds of the city—a night city, infested by vampires that crawled like unclean insects along its deserted lanes, its ruined churches.
“Where can they be?” he asked, feeling almost more alarmed by the lack of vampires than he would have been by finding himself amid an ambush.
“Never mind,” Porthos said. “Let’s be glad they’re not here.”
The two of them leading, they set off upon a relatively safe route, away from the ruined church. There were places vampires did not tend to go, and those areas heavily patrolled by musketeers were some of them. They passed several patrols in fact, and were hailed, and hailed back, all without anyone asking them what they were doing. That was patent to all. They were rescuing a young man, as musketeers did.
It wasn’t till they were in front of Monsieur de Tréville’s home that they stopped and there, amid musketeers, in as safe a place as could be found in all of Paris, Porthos asked the boy. “Where do you live?”
“I can’t!” The boy said.
“Oh, come, rue des Mystères, you said?”
But the boy shook his head. “I can’t go back to my parents’ home. I can’t go back to the shop.” He trembled all over. “I can’t.”
“Let’s take him,” Grimaud said, wearily, “to Monsieur Athos’ lodging, until we decide where he might go.”
Athos was about to protest that bringing a young man to his house was the most foolish of decisions. He wasn’t sure he was even safe to Grimaud, who had served him for so many years, and who was as wily a vampire fighter as anyone outside the musketeers. But the rue Férou was the closest to of all their lodgings and there they could seek safety for a few moments at least. He nodded grimly and led the way.
It was uneventful. Too uneventful, Athos thought, as hair prickled at the back of his neck. His mind was trying to assemble the pieces of the evening, and not at all liking the picture that formed. Charlotte had said she was waiting for him, that she was sure he’d come to the rescue of the boy. Charlotte had known he was coming. He was sure of it. He didn’t understand her ability to appear there. He’d half wanted to believe that her presence in his bed was but a dream. But Porthos had also seen her in the church. What new power was this? Vampires needed no more powers. They’d been winning the battle over humans too easily.
Recalling the touch of Charlotte’s hand he, shivered. He would swear she had been there, present in body as well as in spirit, and if so, what did this mean? Would she come again?
Was his house safe? He wondered as Grimaud swung the door open and stepped cautiously within. What if they were ambushing him in his own house?
He had a feeling he was being played with, as a cat with a mouse, and if he were, then their recent victory was for nothing. It all was for nothing.
“It is safe,” Grimaud said, coming back.
Into the house they went, up the steps. Someone—Athos thought Bazin—locked the door tightly behind them. And then across the house, to the kitchen at the back, where Grimaud and Mousqueton helped Planchet onto a stool. Grimaud then examined the bite mark on the boy’s neck.
“It will need to be treated,” he said, reporting to Athos as he had so many times, when they’d rescued some unfortunate victim of vampires. “At least cleaned and bandaged,” he said. “But I don’t think they came close to turning him, M’sieur. Not even close. His temperature is good, his heart is beating strong, and as you know they both drop and the heart stops for hours, upon turning, before starting again.”
Athos nodded. He could be presumed to know, but in fact, he knew nothing at all. He remembered nothing of his own turning, save falling into bed and in what felt like a death-sleep. And he’d never before been around anyone through their turning.
He wondered if Grimaud had monitored him through the night after his turning, expecting, waiting—what? What kind of fool sat by and waited for a vampire to wake, starving as they always did after death?
A devoted fool. A fool who expected, as Aramis had put it, that Athos was not like the majority of people—all the people who were not Athos. A fool who had been as much Athos’ father as Monsieur Henri le Comte de la Fère—in nurture if not in nature.
To hide his confusion and his emotion—his unworthiness, considering how he let Charlotte affect him, and how vulnerable he was to her—he stepped to the fireplace and filled a cup of broth by dipping it into the warm pot.
He was conscious of Grimaud’s glance on his back, and he turned around braced for Grimaud’s stern glare and his slight shake of the head at Athos neglecting to use a ladle.
At that moment, someone knocked at the door. Not civilly, as friends did, or even as acquaintances did when visiting, but in a desperate pounding beat.
Just as the guards of the cardinal might do, if they’d surrounded the house and were ready to take one on charges they thought would stand before the king. Such as the charge of being a secret—undeclared—vampire, or indictments of being of Judas goats who abetted him.
Living Water
ARAMIS was lost. D’Artagnan had no time to absorb it, as he looked at their situation. If d’Artagnan and Madame Bonacieux swam anywhere close to the bridge they’d be caught. And he could see vampires on the banks, vampires tracking them. Pointing them out.
“Madame,” he said, wondering how long he could bear the chill of the water that seemed to leech life from his bones. “How well do you swim?”
She was doing something while treading water, something that—until he saw a garment floating down on the current—he could not identify. He then comprehended she was disrobing, and his eyes must have shown his dismay clearly enough to be seen by the light of the moon and at this distance.
“I swim well enough,” she said through little puffs of breath. “When I don’t wear three layers of petticoats, and one of them starched.”
“We cannot make it to the banks here,” he said. “There will be vampires.
”
“Of course,” she said. “They dare not the water, which kills them. Running water. Living water they call it. They can cross it in boats on bridges, but they cannot swim.”
“Does it now?” d’Artagnan said, filing it away, should it be needed in the future. “I thought we could let the current aid us, and go down the stream a while, then get out where we may, up there, and there—”
“No,” she said, giving a little shake of the head as she spoke. “Follow me.”
“Where?” he asked, frowning. “Down the river—?”
“We’d never survive the water long enough to get sufficiently far away from the vampires. Besides, we’d be going out of the city, and toward the countryside, which is not safe. There are fewer people and more vampires. Follow me.”
There was little for d’Artagnan—accustomed though he was to being the one to make plans and to decide things for himself—but to follow this woman as she set forth in furious strokes against the current. At least, he thought, the effort kept them warm, though it would undoubtedly tire them much too fast. He swam as swiftly as he could, irritated that he could not swim as well as she did.
His childhood in Gascony had provided the usual sorts of exercise that a boy sought—from running wild to swimming in the rivers—but not for the last three years. For the last three years, rumors of vampires abroad even in plain day, hiding in thickets or peering from the shadow of chasms, and of Judas goats who would kidnap one for a vamp’s meal, had kept even d’Artagnan within sight of his father’s house where there was nowhere to go swimming.
He resented being out of practice, and he was sure this imperious woman would think ill of him. In the impetuous way of adolescence, he forgot the danger they were in, or even the chances that she was leading him to an unsafe place. He must impress her.