by Lara Adrian
With a nod, Braedon brought Ariana into the kitchen storeroom. It was dark and musty, lined with casks of wine and ale, and crates of winter vegetables. At the back of the small room, just as the cook had said, was the light-rimmed frame of a door. Braedon put his hand against the rough panel and carefully opened it to peer outside.
The alley was empty, save for a skinny, skulking dog that was tip-toeing through the slush and muck, his head hung low, eyes alert as he prowled the perimeter of the building for scraps. The soft creak of the door startled him, and the sudden arrival of people in the alleyway sent him off with a disgruntled whimper.
"Quickly," Braedon instructed Ariana. "Stay close."
She followed him on swift feet as he traversed one side street and then another, leading her away from the inn and down around toward the harbor, where his ship was docked. Forgetting the inclement weather, they could not go anywhere without the cog's sail. Although he had been gone only a short while, with any luck at all, Claude, the old sail maker would have his repairs nearly completed, or at the very least have a different sail that Braedon could take off his hands.
Along the harborfront street they ran, with Braedon watching over his shoulder to make certain they were not spotted. They reached the sail maker’s shop, and were greeted by Claude himself, the old man having just opened his door to let out the cat. He shooed the fat tabby away none too gently with the toe of his shoe, then glanced up and gave Braedon a smile of recognition.
"Ah, monsieur. Back so soon, are you? And mademoiselle." His eyes lit on Ariana and his smile grew wider, leeringly so, Braedon would have thought, had the sail maker been any younger a man. "Come in, s’il vous plait. Come in, both of you."
He offered Ariana his hand in warm welcome, but Braedon held her back. Something pricked his keen senses as he peered over Claude's shoulder to the darkened shop beyond. "I don't suppose you've been able to start on my sail? We're in something of a hurry."
The old man hesitated, his gaze darting between them. "Why, yes. I have, monsieur. It is nearly finished. Come, I will show you."
With a surreptitious glance behind them, to the street that yet remained empty of any threat, Braedon gave a nod to Ariana and they entered the shop. He kept her close, his hand on her arm. He kept his attention on the old sail maker, watching, listening, the warning sense of danger growing stronger now that they were inside.
Claude ambled in ahead of them, taking his time as he led them into the main room of the shop. "I had hoped you might bring your lady by, monsieur. It is not often I get to visit with pretty maidens like this one." Again he gave her too wide of a grin. "Come here, child. Let me take your cloak. Put down your burdens, the both of you. Tell me what has you in such a hurry to leave our fair city when you only just arrived here."
Ariana returned his smile with a polite nod, but her gaze warily slid to Braedon.
"We won't be staying," he answered for her, drawing up beside her and placing his arm around her. "You said you had my sail."
"I do," replied the old man. "It is here, in the other room."
They followed him to an antechamber near the back of the cramped space, Braedon taking care to keep Ariana within arm's reach. He scanned the room, but saw no sign of his sail. Another sail, a moldy sheet of leather-reinforced linen, lay across a worktable, half-finished.
"This is not mine," Braedon told him, impatience flaring in his voice.
"Are you certain, monsieur? Come closer and have a better look."
"That sail does not belong to me and you know it." He let his gaze roam the room, not liking the stillness of the place. It resonated silence like a tomb. "What kind of game are you playing, old man?"
"Game? I play no game."
Braedon did not believe him. The needling sense of distrust he felt at the door was amplified tenfold now that he was standing there with strange, fidgety old Claude. He noted that a candle had been tipped over on the worktable. Fatty wax lay in a splattered pool, hardened where it had landed, across the table and onto the edge of the sail. Some of it coated the old man's tools, which lay in jumbled disarray near his work. Odd, Braedon thought, that the prideful sail maker would allow his things to be sullied in such a fashion.
He glanced over and found the old man standing nearer to him now, looking at him.
Studying him.
His eyes slid to where Braedon had just been looking and he clucked his tongue. "Ah," the old man exclaimed. He smiled and gave a shake of his balding gray head. "That damned cat. The beast is forever getting up on things and making a mess. I don't know why I keep him."
Something peculiar struck Braedon as he held old Claude's wavering gaze. Something that made his every nerve go taut with alert. Something was not quite right about the man. Not right at all.
It was his eyes, Braedon decided suddenly.
Those smiling brown eyes, set in a wrinkled, age-spotted face, had the unmistakable glint of youth. Inexplicably, as impossible as it was to imagine, the rheumy haze that clouded the grizzled sail maker’s eyes when Braedon first met him--little more than an hour before--was gone.
A chill swept the cramped room, settling with an unholy silence as Braedon tried to grasp what his senses were telling him. He did not trust what his eyes were seeing, but neither could he deny it.
With as much stealth as he could muster, Braedon slowly, subtly, guided Ariana behind him and turned to face the old man head-on. He gave the sail maker a look he hoped was genial, his gaze never leaving those odd brown eyes. "A little mess can be cleaned up and forgiven," he said pleasantly, "especially when you've a hardworking animal like yours."
"Eh?" The confident, deceitful smile faltered. "Hardworking animal, monsieur?"
"Aye," Braedon said, testing him. "Were you not just telling me this afternoon how deft a hunter your cat was? No doubt the beast was merely chasing rats when it knocked over the candle."
"Oh! Oui, monsieur, oui. You are so right."
Braedon shared the impostor's false chuckle for barely a heartbeat. Then he thrust out his hand and seized the man by the throat, shoving him backward as he walked him into the nearest wall.
"Braedon!" Ariana screamed from behind him. "What are you doing?"
"Oui, monsieur," choked the man in a voice that was swiftly losing its rusty edge. "What is the meaning of this? Why do you wish to harm a defenseless old man?"
"What have you done with him? The sail maker," Braedon demanded, but his instincts told him that based on the upset condition of the shop, the old man was likely already dead. "Do you mean to kill us, too?"
He struggled in Braedon's grasp, writhing and coughing, clutching at the fingers that tightened on his throat. "You are...choking me...I beg you...let...go."
"Braedon," Ariana whispered urgently. She came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Braedon, are you mad? Can't you see, he's just an old man!"
He shook her off with a curse. "Get back, Ariana. By all that is holy, this is no old man. This is no man at all. Are you?" he growled, squeezing his fist around the thin, withered throat. "Answer me, damn you!"
The impostor chuckled, his voice deepening in its mirth, turning guttural and queerly inhuman as it echoed in the small shop room. Braedon reached down with his free hand and drew the dragon-hilt dagger from its sheath. "Lose something today?" he asked, brandishing the weapon. "It'll be my pleasure to give it back to you."
Those strange brown eyes, beady eyes, glittered with malice and not a little enjoyment. "If you kill me, Le Chasseur, there will be more to take my place."
"Let them come, then. But you die today."
He brought the blade up against the man's chest, but as he moved to drive it home, the air around him suddenly seemed to shift and shimmer. Like a river's current, the strange force flowed up Braedon's arm to encompass him. The face that looked up at him in gleeful satisfaction began to mute and twist, fading as though in a fog. The brown eyes glittered like beads of glass, lifeless and cold.
"Braedon?" Ariana gasped behind him. "Braedon! What's happening?"
He could not answer her, even if he had words to explain. It was all he could do to fight the shuddering strength of whatever gripped him, all he could do to hold on to the man who was suddenly fading from his grasp like a handful of smoke. With a roar, Braedon thrust his blade homeward.
Too late.
Like something borne of the darkest brand of magic, one moment Braedon was poised to kill a man, the next he was staring at naught but empty air.
A scurrying noise drew his attention to the wide planks of the floor in the beat of astonishment and fury that followed. He looked down and his gaze rooted on a fleeing rat, ducking for a darkened corner of the shop.
"Not this time, you bastard."
Braedon released the dagger and sent it flying. It hit its mark with swift and deadly precision, skewering the rodent with a shrill squeal. It jerked and convulsed on the floor, and then it was no longer a rat, nor the startlingly real illusion of Claude the sail maker.
Braedon walked over to where the big body of a man lay, face-down, the silver dragon dagger embedded in its back. With his boot, he kicked the lifeless form over and looked down at the slackened face of the knight who attacked him in the street that morning.
"Mother Mary," Ariana breathed, drawing up beside him, her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and disbelieving. "How could he--what did he...what was he, Braedon?"
"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "But I think we'd better get out of here before any of his friends arrive."
"What will we do about the sail?"
"Forget it. We'd be foolish to go to the boat now, anyway. They'll be expecting that, no doubt." He brushed an errant lock of hair from her creased brow. "I have another plan. Come on."
They left the sail maker’s shop and ran back to the inn, picking their way cautiously along the back of the building. Braedon crept to the corner of the place and braved a glance at the courtyard. The two horses were still there, unguarded and restlessly waiting, their riders most likely still inside searching the inn.
"I trust you ride, my lady?" he asked, throwing a glance over his shoulder to where Ariana waited for his direction.
"Yes, of course."
"Then let's go."
Chapter 9
The crackle of a small fire echoed softly in the yawning maw of a forest cavern, filling the damp, cold space with much needed warmth. Braedon guessed they were about thirty miles inland from Calais, a taxing ride for the horses, but perhaps more so for Ariana. She hadn't said two words to him since they had left the sail maker’s shop. Now she sat a few paces away from him by the fire, huddled beneath the shapeless form of a blanket.
While their wet cloaks, boots, and hose lay out to dry near the fire, he watched her quietly pick at a collection of burrs that clung to her damp gloves, absorbed in her own thoughts. She had spent the last hour or more performing the same task on her sodden skirts, which she had refused to shed, even for the welcoming heat of the fire. No doubt, she feared he would ravish her on the spot, particularly after the way he had behaved that first night at sea. Not that the idea didn't hold a certain degree of appeal, but he had never laid an unwanted hand on a woman before, and he didn't intend to start now.
In truth, his mood was too grim to consider their present intimate quarters with anything more than a regretful appreciation. His gaze kept straying to the satchel that contained her brother's papers. That damnable pouch with its stock of information pertaining to the Dragon Chalice. The bag had gotten damp amid their escape from Calais; now its cryptic contents were spread about on the floor of the cave to air out.
Journals, scribblings, and sundry scribed reports beckoned his attention. What precisely had Kenrick of Clairmont been documenting? What information had he uncovered about the legendary Dragon Chalice? Braedon recalled the myth that surrounded the Chalice and its purported origins--how the bejeweled golden cup, forged in a mystical kingdom, had been stolen by a mortal man. Legend claimed the Chalice bore four sacred gemstones in its enchanted bowl, each imbued with wondrous powers. Once removed from its true home, the Dragon Chalice split apart, broken in four pieces, smaller cups that each contained one of the sacred stones. It was said that if those four pieces were reunited, the Dragon Chalice would become whole again, and whoever held it would have the powers of the ages in his hands.
Braedon might have scoffed at such fancy--indeed, he had--before he had the misfortune of experiencing some of it firsthand. It had only been eighteen months ago that his life took an irrevocable turn. A few weeks before that, when he'd first heard of the Dragon Chalice, when Braedon le Chasseur, the celebrated Hunter, was hired to retrieve a pilfered artifact for a wealthy nobleman in Rouen. Double the reward, if he also brought in the thief, which, of course, he had. The Hunter never failed.
From the time he was a boy, he'd honed his skill, his strange ability to sense things and retrieve that which was lost. Little did he know, this time he was being made a dupe. It had been a costly lesson, one that had taken many lives in the end and left his in ruin.
He never saw the betrayal coming. He hadn't thought to look. Nor did he fully believe the power of the Chalice legend until he glimpsed into the black soul of the man who would stop at nothing to claim it.
After what happened in the sail maker’s shop in Calais, and after his unexplainable encounter with Ferrand de Paris in London, Braedon was certain of what awaited Ariana and her brother in Rouen.
Death.
It had nearly claimed him that night eighteen months ago, and now it was on his trail again. He might have blamed Ariana for embroiling him in this trouble, but the fact was, no matter where he ran, or how deeply he had isolated himself from the rest of the feeling world, the Dragon Chalice was never far from his thoughts. Like a curse he could not shake, it never gave him peace.
And now, here it was again, a specter from the past, taunting him from within the most innocent, beautiful blue eyes he had ever seen.
"Aren't you going to eat?" he asked her, gesturing to the small chunk of bread and cheese that lay beside her, ignored. They had been fortunate to find food and a flask of wine in the saddle packs of the horses they took from the inn, but the stale loaf of dark bread and the ripe wedge of cheese would not go far. Braedon pulled the stopper from the hard leather wine decanter and passed the flask to Ariana. "Drink, at least. You will need the warmth of the wine."
Her weary gaze slid to him as she reached out to take the flask. He watched her tip the decanter up to her lips, watched her slender throat work as she swallowed a mouthful of the fragrant wine. She coughed a bit, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth as she passed the flask back to him. He took some, then offered her another sip. She shook her head, frowning. "'Tis overly strong."
"That's because you have grown up on English wine, no doubt. Watered down and full of grit." He held the decanter out to her once more and gave her a stern look. "Drink, Ariana. And eat what you can. You need both to keep your strength."
She obeyed him, her pale delicate fingers brushing aside the little pile of plucked burrs that had gathered in her lap, before reaching out to take the wine flask from him. While she drank and nibbled on a chunk of brown bread, Braedon strode away from the fire to tend the horses where they stood on the other side of the wide-mouthed cavern. They had been brushed and fed earlier, and watered as well, using snow he had melted in one of the soldiers' helmets, which had been strapped onto the palfreys' packs. Braedon checked their hooves, then patted the two beasts each in turn, his thoughts drifting far away from the mundane task and growing darker by the moment.
"Braedon." Ariana's quiet voice drifted across the space that separated them. A shaky little sigh chased after it. "Braedon...I'm scared. I don't understand what's happening. That man back there in Calais--by the saints, was he a man at all?"
"I don't know," he answered without looking at her. "If you want the truth, I don't know precisely what we witnessed
today."
"Witchery, to be sure." Ariana's voice took on a panicky edge. "He changed form before our eyes, Braedon. That man was some manner of demon." She shivered under her blanket, and a long beat of silence grew as she gazed back into the fire. When she turned to look at him again, her face was pale with dread. "Braedon...what if there are more of them?"
"We're safe enough here. Calais is a day's ride behind us. You needn't worry."
But even as he said it, he knew it for a lie. The longer he and Ariana delayed in one place, the more danger they invited. Where they stopped for rest, their pursuers would not. He knew this for certain. Indeed, he could almost feel them closing in with each fleeting moment. The chase would be relentless so long as they had the satchel. Their capture would be brutal, certainly. His mind raced through a host of grim scenarios, each of them ending with he and Ariana dead--or worse, left to live as he had been. Alive, more or less, and wishing he was dead.
They could not stay the whole of the night in the cavern. They would have to take their respite, regroup, and move on before morning dawned.
"Sleep if you can," he said, turning to face her across the twisting flames of the fire. "I'll stand watch while you rest."
She gave him a sheepish look, then raised her chin. Her damp, windblown tresses slid over her blanketed shoulders in long honey-soft waves as she slowly shook her head. "You don't have to take care of me, Braedon. Please don't feel that you do. I've asked too much of you already."
"Indeed, you have," he acknowledged coolly. "But what's done is done."
Again the look of remorse. "If you want me to go, I will. I never meant to involve you in this, I swear to you. I'll understand if you want to leave me here and move on before anything worse happens."
He laughed then, wryly amused by her naïveté. His mocking bark of laughter made her flinch. "I don't think you understand, demoiselle. You and I are in this together--whether we wish to be or nay. It doesn't matter if we separate or stay together. We may as well be shackled together in irons. They will be hunting both of us now." He walked toward the fire where she sat, watching her expression falter as she absorbed this news. "As for Rouen," he added, "you're not going there at all, with or without me. There's naught but death awaiting you there."