“I am David Roche, sir.”
“Good. You may call me . . .” He hesitated. What did he want to be called in this world? Some variation of his own name, otherwise, he’d forget what he was supposed to answer to and raise suspicions when he didn’t respond. But “Nicodemus” was too obviously foreign. He paused long enough that young David’s expression turned uneasy. He was likely thinking Nico was some sort of criminal. Why else would a man not know his own name? “Apologies,” Nico said, rubbing his eyes deliberately. “I’ve traveled a long distance, and I’m very tired. I’m Nicholas Katsaros.” It was the name he’d registered under downstairs, for fuck’s sake. What else could he say?
“What time should I call for you in the morning, Nicholas Katsaros?”
“Call me Nicholas,” he said absently. “Not tomorrow, but the day after. I have business to attend to first.”
“Of course, Nicholas.” The boy blushed at the use of Nico’s first name, but seemed pleased at the same time. “Will you want breakfast?”
“Oh, yes,” he said absently, then shrugged. “What time is customary in Paris?”
“Whatever time pleases you, though morning is best.”
Nico wanted to grin at the tongue-in-cheek comment, but held it back, wanting to seem like a proper gentleman. “The ninth hour of morning, then. With coffee, if you please. And wine.”
“Of course. Shall I call for the tray this evening?” he asked, nodding toward the still covered food tray.
“No. I don’t want to be disturbed tonight. But thank you,” he added, handing over the franc he’d been holding. “You can take this tray in the morning.”
“Thank you, Nicholas!”
The boy’s enthusiasm told Nico the gold franc was too much, but he didn’t care. If the possibility of future generous gratuities encouraged better service, the money was well spent.
“I shall bring your breakfast promptly at nine in the morning. You may count on me.”
“Until morning, then,” Nico said, herding David through the open doorway. “Enjoy your evening.” He shut the door, but waited to lock it until David reached the stairs and was clomping downward. Then, he engaged the door lock, but added a protection spell of his own. He thought he was alone in this city—in the sense that no one from his own world was nearby—but he couldn’t be sure. And he wasn’t in the mood to take risks.
With a deep sigh, he extinguished the oil lamp, conjured his witch light again, then picked up the dinner tray and carried it into the bedroom. With any luck, the bottle of wine he’d seen under the cloth would be enough to help him sleep the rest of the night. Tomorrow, he would begin his search in earnest, though his mind was too exhausted to think how on this earth or any other he would start.
Chapter Two
WHEN DAVID ARRIVED with his breakfast the next morning, Nico was more rested, and had added several items to his mental list of things to accomplish. First was a proper bath. He’d already learned that the usual method was for someone—presumably David—to run up and down the stairs with hot water, to be poured into a large copper tub in the communal bath down the hall. But as Nico was capable of heating his own water, all he needed was a large, private tub that no one had to run up or down the stairs to fill.
“David, is there somewhere downstairs where I could bathe instead?”
The boy seemed taken aback. Perhaps the usual guests at this inn were less accommodating. But he recovered quickly enough and said, “There is a bathing room, Nicholas, but it’s used mostly by the manager and his family. Sometimes the clerk, too.”
“I’m sure the manager won’t mind granting me this favor,” Nico said, as if it was already decided. Which in his mind, it was. “I’ll just finish breakfast and meet you down there, shall I?”
“Uh, yes, sir . . . Nicholas. I’m sure that will be fine.”
“Bien. Une heure, alors.”
NICO GATHERED enough clean clothes to remain decent for the walk back to his room, then donned his dirty tunic and pants, and walked barefoot down the stairs. When he reached the lobby, the clerk—who seemed to be looking out for him—pointed to a hallway opposite the stairs.
Before he’d gone six steps, he could feel the difference in the air. The very narrow hallway began to take on a humid warmth. Nico thought it was probably less warm than it felt, but it was so cold in the rest of the hotel that anything would have seemed warm by contrast. Thus far, Paris was seeming a very cold city. But as he wasn’t yet sure of the season, he reserved judgment.
“You found it!” David said when Nico opened the door, as enthusiastic as if Nico had found his way through a dark warren of caves to the bathing room.
“I did.”
“You can undress behind the curtain,” David said, pointing to a hanging piece of threadbare black fabric. It wasn’t much of a curtain, but then, Nico didn’t have much in the way of modesty, and so didn’t care. “There are towels in there, too. You can wrap the clean clothes to keep them dry. I added extra towels for you.”
“Merci.”
The towels were as threadbare as the curtain, but they were clean and there were enough of them to make up for the absence of quality. Nico was increasingly aware that he’d been accustomed to a higher standard of life than most others seemed to enjoy. Soft fabrics, good food and wine, a private hot springs pool . . . the list went on and on. If he remained in this world, he’d have to step up the comforts of his life. For now, however, a copper tub big enough for two and filled with blessedly steaming water was calling his name.
Nico sank into the heat, not realizing until that moment how sore his muscles had become. He hadn’t done anything more strenuous than climbing stairs, so he had to assume the strain was from the transition itself. He had no memories of the process. To his senses, the transition had taken no more than an instant, like stepping from one room to the next through an open door. But clearly, his body knew better. He slid low into the water, eyes closed, and leaned his head against one side. He would have liked to lie in the steaming water until his body was completely thawed and relaxed, but the water was already markedly cooler than when he’d climbed in. So he rubbed a surprisingly gentle bar of soap between his hands and used it to wash both his body and hair. After submerging completely to rinse off, he came back up to find David waiting with a fresh stack of towels.
Snagging two towels from the top, he dried most of his body, then grabbed a third to dry his hair and walked back to the curtained area to finish drying and get dressed. He regretted now that he hadn’t worn shoes. His feet would not only freeze up again, but they’d pick up every bit of dirt in the hallways and on the stairs. Muttering imprecations to himself, he yanked open the curtain and stepped out.
“David, I need a . . .” He searched for the right word. His French was improving by the minute, but he wasn’t yet what he considered to be fluent. “A couturier.”
David cocked his head thoughtfully, then nodded. “I can take you to the man the owner of this hotel uses. He is much fatter than you, but I’m sure the couturier can adapt.”
“That’s his job,” Nico agreed. “Do you have any duties at the inn today?”
“No, my only duty is to help you.”
Nico laughed. “Good. We’ll leave as soon as I’m dressed then.”
THE DAY WAS AS cold as Nico expected when they left the hotel that morning, and he made a note to have the tailor make him a new cape or . . . . He looked around. The other men he saw on the street were wearing long coats. Nico didn’t care as long as it was warm. And since he was quickly losing the delicious warmth he’d enjoyed since his bath, he steered David to a small shop which sold pretty cakes and coffee. They sat there long enough to finish both, then walked two blocks off the street which held the inn, then down another half-block until they reached a tall narrow door adjacent to a smoke-stained window that h
eld several bolts of fabric.
“The shop belongs to Adrien Moulin,” David whispered when he opened the door and gestured for Nico to go ahead of him.
A thin man, nearly as tall as Nico, who was counted very tall, emerged from a back room, hands clasped in front of him. He was nicely dressed, as one would expect, his clothes both well-fitted and of good fabric. His gaze skirted over David and landed on Nico.
“Bonjour Monsieur. Comment puis-je vous aider?” David glanced at Nico, as if checking if he should do the talking, but Nico spoke up, saying in what was now very nearly fluent French, “Monsieur Moulin, I’ve just arrived after an arduous journey, during which my wardrobe trunk was lost. I need to replace . . . everything, and your work was recommended to me.”
“I shall do my best,” he said, eyeing Nico up and down, while trying to avoid being seen doing it.
Nico admitted he looked far from his best, and so didn’t take offense. “David,” he said, turning to his young guide instead. “Why don’t you go pick up something to take back with us for lunch? Standing still for a fitting is not my greatest skill. Once Monsieur Moulin has completed his initial work for me, I’ll be in need of food, and a bottle of wine. A good bottle.”
David’s face lit up. He’d clearly expected to spend the next few hours sitting in a stuffy room watching Moulin take Nico’s measure. “Of course, sir. When should I—?”
“Two hours, young man,” Moulin interjected. “No less.”
The boy glanced at Nico, who nodded his approval and said, “Desserts, too, David.”
“Of course, sir.” David tipped his cap and escaped the tailor’s shop hurriedly, as if he feared being called back to sit instead.
“He’s young,” Nico commented, watching him go. Then turned to Moulin. “I am Nicholas Katsaros.”
Moulin nodded his head. “I am happy to meet you. Please follow me.”
BY THE TIME MOULIN was finished measuring, pinning, and muttering, Nico wanted to run from the shop just as fast as David had. He had to admit, however, that the tailor seemed to possess all the right skills. And the fabrics he offered were very fine, including the thick wool he suggested for a long coat.
“Winter has just begun in the city. It will get much colder before spring.”
Nico agreed readily and added three wool scarves just to be safe. He hated being cold, in general, but the damp chill of this city was worse.
Moulin offered to have at least one full set of clothing ready for him the next day, since as Nico had explained, he’d lost most of what he owned. He also mentioned casually, that he could recommend a good chaplier.
A hatmaker. Nico groaned inwardly. He hated hats, but had to admit that all the better-dressed men he’d seen on the street since arriving had been wearing hats—tall, stiff things that he could only hope warmed as well as a good woolen skull cap. “I appreciate the recommendation. I might otherwise have forgotten, as my trip was . . . arduous.”
“I can only imagine, monsieur. I will bring everything to your hotel tomorrow afternoon. Any final adjustments can be made then, so you will have time to dress properly before your dinner appointment.”
Nico didn’t have a dinner appointment, but he appreciated the thought. “Most appreciated.” He saw the top of David’s head when the boy peeked through the window from where he must have been sitting on the ground, waiting. Since Nico had already provided the tailor with his personal information, including his hotel and suite number, he departed with a nod of his bare head. “A bientôt.”
David was on his feet when Nico exited the shop. The boy was also holding two grease-stained bags that smelled wonderful.
“Thank the gods,” Nico said sincerely. “Moulin says I need a few hats. But first, I need lunch.”
The boy grinned. “I have wine, but thought to stop closer to the hotel for coffee. I didn’t know how long you’d be, and I didn’t want it to get cold.”
“Good thought. Stop where we did this morning. It was good.”
“Mais, oui. My own cousin owns that shop.”
“Does he? Why aren’t you working for him, then?”
“I like my job at the inn better than I like my cousin.”
Nico laughed.
HE SENT DAVID away after lunch, which the boy had seemed surprised to be sharing. Nico noted his wonder, but didn’t comment. There were plenty of sorcerers and others, including his own father, who wouldn’t have considered sharing their meal with a servant.
He’d intended to visit the hatmaker in the afternoon, to get the chore done with, if for no other reason. But by the time he was pouring a final glass of wine, he was as tired as if he’d worked in the fields all day. Not that he’d ever done so, but a good imagination was required in a sorcerer.
“I’ll get hats tomorrow,” he told David. “I’m still recovering from the journey here, and would like to rest.”
“Will you want dinner in your room, sir? The dining room is quite pleasant.”
Nico would rather have remained in his room, but practicality, and the knowledge that this city would be his home for an unknown length of time had him replying, “The dining room it is then. Can you get me a quiet table? Near the window, if possible.”
“Mais oui, it is no problem. Will the eighth hour serve? Parisians linger over their dinner.”
“Of course, they do,” he muttered, but said, “Yes. Thank you, David.”
The boy left, and Nico locked the door as he had the night before, with both key and magic, then removed his boots, laid down on the bed, and slept so deeply that the eighth hour came and went while he dreamed . . . of home, and Antonia.
THEY RODE TOGETHER across the grassy plains of a land far away from his castle—a land he’d visited more than once on his own. In his dream state, however, he was there with her, wind blowing her hair behind her like a gleaming banner as they urged their horses to a hard gallop. It was so real that he could feel the beast’s muscles flexing beneath him, the power of its stride eating up lengths of grassland as if he and the horse could ride forever, with Antonia by his side.
Her eyes sparkled with happiness when she glanced over at him, laughing in uninhibited joy. There was no Sotiris, no traitor, no danger at all to worry about. Just the two of them riding in breathless freedom until they finally tumbled off the horses and fell into each other’s arms. Her hair fell over his chest when he held her, filling his senses with her scent, her touch, the sound of her voice.
Until her eyes widened and she screamed.
Nico sat up and stared around the room, searching for the threat, for whatever danger had made Antonia . . . . Fuck. He swung his legs to the side and rubbed his face with both hands, realizing he’d slept through the night. That explained the dream, he thought. He’d been exhausted, mentally and physically, and who wouldn’t be, in his situation? The exhaustion had leaked into his dreams, slithered into his fears for Antonia, who’d been left alone, at the mercy of an enemy who had none.
It had been a dream, he repeated to himself. Nothing more. But he didn’t believe it. He was a damn sorcerer. He had inspirations and premonitions and imminent warnings. He rarely had “just a dream.” But this one . . . . He prayed to the gods that this was the exception, that it truly had been a nightmare, and nothing else. But he didn’t believe it. Somewhere his Antonia was alone, abandoned, and terrified. And he didn’t know how to reach her.
Walking into the sitting room, he poured the final dregs of leftover wine into a glass, and swore. He didn’t care if it was still morning. He was going to need something stronger than wine if he hoped to accomplish anything today. A lot stronger. He was contemplating the best way to find that stronger drink when a knock came on his door. Puzzled, but sensing no threat, he opened the door to find the clerk from downstairs.
“This came for you, monsieur.” The man handed over a
sealed envelope with Nico’s name written in an elegant script. Since the number of people who knew he was in the city could be counted on one hand, and with fingers left over, he waited until he’d closed the door again before opening the note.
Settling on the sofa, he did a quick scan of the envelope and its contents to verify that there was no sorcery attached. Few people that he knew of were aware he was in Paris, but he couldn’t rule out the possibility that Sotiris would know where he was, since it was the bastard’s spell that he’d used to get there.
Finally assured that the missive was clean, he slid a finger under the sealed flap and opened it to reveal a single folded note from Dorian inviting him to dinner the next evening. Well, apparently the man had been sincere when he’d suggested Nico join him for a meal. Not knowing the appropriate courtesies involved in responding, he penned an acceptance on one of several blank notes left in his room, and walked back down to the reception desk.
“Pardon,” he said.
The clerk stood from a small desk and walked over. “Yes, Monsieur Katsaros?”
Mindful of the lateness of his response to Dorian’s invitation, he said, “This needs to reach a friend immediately. Is that possible?”
“But of course. David will deliver it at once.”
Knowing the tailor would be arriving soon for a final fitting, and wanting to straighten his room before the man arrived, he asked the clerk to send the boy up when he returned from his errand. He had questions regarding Parisian courtesies when dining at another’s home. And there was also the matter of finding his way there.
NICO WAS IN A better mood when he woke the next morning. Either he was growing accustomed to early rising, or the local spirits, while enjoyable, were considerably less powerful than anything brewed back home. His mind paused on that thought. He needed to stop thinking of his world as home. Though it was the only one he’d ever known, he’d never be returning there. He didn’t think it was possible, for one thing. But for another, his home would be wherever he found his brothers and Antonia. If he found one before the others, he’d continue his search with them, until they were all together. The thought put a damper on his mood, and he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling for another few minutes, then forced himself to rise. Incomplete tasks remained on his list, every one of which was necessary to beginning his search in earnest. Some day he would be reunited with everyone he loved, everyone Sotiris had stolen from him, and they would begin their lives again, together. After they killed the bastard, of course.
The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus Page 16