“Listen to your master, Jean,” the man with the knife said, leering. He spat on the floor.
“He is not my master!” Jean stammered, followed by a sharp howl. “Oh, no…”
“Pierre, he pissed himself!” the man across the room cackled, stomping his feet.
This was all the distraction Jacob required. Pierre turned his attention for only a brief moment, but Jacob stole that time and turned it into his opportunity.
He twisted to the left, rolling out of bed and squarely to his feet before Pierre could react. Jacob threw a sharp jab to the back of the thief’s neck, an illegal move if he were in a regulation bout, sending him to his knees. The knife hit the floor with a clack.
Jean’s minder flew over in a confused rage. Jacob sent him hurling into the fireplace. His head cracked against the stone, and he slumped to the floor.
Jacob knelt for the knife and leaned in where Pierre huddled on the ground. “Is your life worth imaginary gold?”
Pierre sputtered rejections through blood and saliva, crying into the wood floor.
“Kill him!” Jean exclaimed. He was emboldened now there was no longer a risk to his life.
Grab the one who made you piss yourself, Jacob ordered, nodding his way. We need to get them out of here. “Pierre, you’re either going to walk out of here on your own, or I’m going to kick you, crying and screaming.”
Pierre scrambled to all fours. He peered back, like a disobedient dog, fear in his eyes.
“Go.” He did.
Jean was useless. He gaped at Jacob as if seeing him, the real him, for the very first time.
It took him ten minutes to get both men out of the room. Jacob perched them at the top of the stairs and pointed at the cowering shopkeeper who, very likely, never expected to see Jacob or Jean again. “Next time you make deals with scum, you can take out your own trash,” Jacob spat and kicked both men down the stairs.
Once inside, he barricaded the door with the heavy table and heaved a sigh filled with as much disgust for himself as relief.
“What did you do to them?” Jean cried. He hadn’t moved from where he lay huddled near the hearth, lying in a pool of his own urine.
“Saved your life. Maybe not your panties, though.”
“You were in my head,” the younger man accused.
Aye. And I’ll do it anytime I like, so better keep your thoughts nice and tidy.
Jacob fell asleep curled atop the table in shame, recognizing his actions in the moments prior as the very things he believed he should walk away from. He could have killed those men… and might have, too, if he hadn’t gotten control of himself and the situation. Jacob promised himself he wouldn’t be that man anymore.
Jean’s wide eyes burned holes in him.
XXIII
Victor made a fire in the ship’s kiln. He poured the heated water over some chicory root in two mugs and handed Amelia one. He sat on the other end of the chaise.
“Where… well, when I’m from, these winter storms come and go. They rarely last,” she said, half smiling as she graciously accepted her cup. “We get nasty ones in hurricane season that can set us back, but this is unusual.”
Victor took a slow sip of his warm coffee, watching her over the rim. “I’m pleased you are no longer wasting energy pretending to be someone you’re not,” he said. “It’s refreshing to know you for who you are.”
Amelia blew out a breath. “I don’t see the point. You know who I am. I don’t know how you know, but I’ve been around extraordinary people all my life so it would be silly for me to be shocked now.”
“Yet I would put my plantation on the line to wager you’ve never met anyone like me.”
Amelia searched for a sign he was teasing and found none. “I’m a Deschanel. There’s almost nothing I haven’t seen. No offense if you think reading minds or seeing into the future is a cool trick, but it’s a dime a dozen in my family.”
Victor squinted, scrunching his lips. “Cool. I’m glad to be of a time where our colloquialisms are less confusing and more straightforward.”
Amelia curled up tighter on her side of the lounger. The rain battered against the ship’s windows, rocking Dauphine where she moored in the port. Amelia grinned. “Want me to explain the meaning?”
“I quite catch your context. That won’t be necessary,” Victor said.
A heavy gust sent the ship up with a current, and they both stumbled back in their seat. “Are we going to be okay in here?” Amelia asked, uneasy. Jacob was out there somewhere, too. If they were back home, she could call him and get reassurance he was okay. Here, if something happened…
“Lord Donnelly will be fine,” Victor assured her. When she shot him a sharp look, he quickly added, “I did not need to read your mind to know your thoughts.”
“He’s with that horrible Jean,” she said with a shiver. “I know he’s barely a child, but you don’t know the things I know about him.”
“I wasn’t planning a case in his defense,” Victor said. He wrapped the blanket around her bare feet. “But Jacob, your husband, is a survivor. He has abilities that will serve him well in any circumstance, even with an unsavory traveling partner.”
How do you know… she started to ask, but the answer to that would come with all the others if they could get warm, and find a sense of comfort with one another. To ask one question would lead to so many more, and she sensed he was more nervous, for once, than she was.
“I don’t think he would even be out there if it weren’t for me,” Amelia said with a heavy sigh. Why Victor, a man she barely knew, felt a safer place to lighten the burdens on her soul than her own husband, remained an uncomfortable mystery. “I haven’t been very nice to him since we arrived.”
“Marriage is far less good than anyone wants you to believe,” Victor said, his eyes glassy and sympathetic. “Human nature is perfectly imperfect.”
“The situation is more complex than that,” she said, staring down into her cup. The chicory was strong even for her, and she loved dark, rich coffee. But she needed the warmth. The strength. “I… no, we… went through something terrible. An event no one should ever have to endure, but we did it together, which should mean we could share that experience and heal together.”
“Except you are not,” Victor finished. “And it is you who cannot find your way to him, not the reverse.”
“That’s pretty much it,” she replied, ashamed to hear someone else say the words. “As a doctor of psychology, I know people who share a trauma don’t always find ways to help each other. Parents who lose a child often struggle to recover because they grieve in different ways, and there are so many emotions tied to grief, including guilt and judgment. But I never thought, not ever, that Jacob and I would be the couple who couldn’t find our way together.”
Victor reached forward and took her mug, setting it on the table. He pulled both of her hands into his. “Amelia, you could not have foreseen what that madman did to you.”
Amelia snatched her hands back, drawing away from the kindness out of shock from his words. She stumbled off the sofa, rolled onto her feet, and backed up. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s all I can think about, and I don’t want it hijacking my life anymore. I’m better than this.”
“Better than what?”
“Than… than… this constant depression. Than not being able to push forward and be strong, like my mother taught me, and like she’s always been, even when she’s lost nearly everything. Like my grandmother was before her. I am not this person! I am not weak!” She wailed the words into the din of the small saloon, all while Victor watched her with patient eyes.
He stood but respected the distance between them. “Weakness would be surrender. It does not involve taking your husband’s hand and dancing through time. That’s courage. Weakness would be running. It would not be searching for answers to make sense of what’s happened. That’s wisdom. Weakness would be continuing to ignore the signs in front of you and turning your back on
what you have always known, deep down, and only needed to accept. It would not be seeking me out, despite your fears, despite that my knowledge threatens you and the delicate story you’ve spun to your hosts. That is fearlessness.”
Amelia’s mouth parted, from wonder, from uncertainty. From the warmth and truth of his words, and the ease at which he’d put her since the day they’d met. “Why can’t I believe in any of those things? Why do I constantly feel like I’m drowning?” The first tears spilled over her lids. “And maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I did.”
“I won’t entertain such nonsense. You are made for so much more than the dredges of hopelessness,” he said. Victor approached without laying his hands upon Amelia. “Neither will I make light of your pain. You have endured something unspeakable. I would do anything in this world to undo it. I would give my own life.”
Amelia stared up at the heavy sincerity in his words. “I need to know why, Victor. You can’t say things like that without explaining yourself, and nearly everything you’ve said to me since we met has deserved an explanation.”
His lips formed a thin smile, and he took a deep breath. “Yes, you are right. And I did promise to tell you what I could. There are two things you must know about me. One, I will tell you, though I should not. Within my truth lies a secret that enfolds my entire family, and sharing with you puts them at grave risk. I trust you would not use the information to harm me, but I am placing everything in your hands with this confession.”
She nodded. “Okay. And the other?”
“That, I’m afraid, is not for me to share with you. I am expressly forbidden. In life, there is a way of things, an order. Asking me to force the hand of nature is not the way.”
Amelia threw out her arms. “Forbidden? Who or what would forbid you?”
“The answer lies in the question,” he replied with a light shrug. “I know that’s unsatisfying.”
“It’s fucking frustrating.”
“For me as well. The truth would set us both free.” He gestured toward the seat. “Please. The storm isn’t passing soon, so there’s time for me to tell you about one part of my life. In that revelation, and through our unintended long afternoon together, perhaps the other will unwind as well.”
Amelia started toward the seat, in slow motion as her thoughts caught up. “You won’t lie to me.” She didn’t ask as a question because it wasn’t a request. She wouldn’t give him a choice.
“I have not thus far. And you have my word I would never.”
Why his word was enough lay somewhere in her willingness to seek him out to begin with, and how at peace she was in his presence, despite her combativeness and resistance to his offering.
Whatever the reason, it was enough.
Amelia nodded for him to commence.
“I’ll start my story at the beginning, or at least close to the part of the most prominent turn in the journey my family and I now find ourselves. Despite your claim to have seen all as a Deschanel, I can say with near certainty you have never come across the likes of me.”
Amelia’s brows lifted.
“But I’ll request you refrain from questions or protestations, unless seeking clarity, until I finish. Not to silence you, but instead to allow you to hear all I’ve said before you cast your own judgment. Can we agree?”
She nodded. “Tell me your story, Victor. I’m not going anywhere.”
Victor’s eyes met hers for a moment. He passed a brief, telepathic thanks and settled back into his seat, getting comfortable.
“I believe you know my family’s origins are from France, primarily. My mother’s grandparents were Irish, though, so we are not pure Frenchmen as we tend to avow.” Victor grinned. “My grandpêre, Etienne, was the first to leave when he saw opportunities in the islands. He purchased a large plot of land in Cap Français, Saint-Domingue, and his line of the de Blancheforts went from being heirs of an inheritance to wealthy in their own right. My aunts, Victorine and Nanette, were born in France, but my father, Marius, and the youngest, Flosine, were born in Hispaniola and knew nothing else.
“Our family spent barely more than a decade on the island. Dauphine, our plantation named for my grandmère, was a Garden of Eden for my father and his siblings, a land of plenty where they wanted for nothing. Dauphine was a leader in cane sugar, as well as indigo and coffee, and my grandpêre grew the land from a tangle of tropical foliage to the greatest plantation in Cap Français. Grandpêre told me he would have stayed there forever if fate allowed.”
“The Haitian Revolution,” Amelia whispered, then blushed at her unintended interruption. “Sorry. I promised.”
Victor offered a smile. “Yes, the Haitian Revolution. The great uprising, one that, even in your present day, has never been rivaled. A true example of the marriage of grit and organization. Despite my family being on the wrong side of history in this, I look upon the rebels with admiration.
“I digress. If you are aware of the timeline, you may be wondering why the de Blancheforts fled ahead of the violence. Why the family would leave everything behind before knowledge of the revolution had spread. Who would surrender a land so profitable for a risk across the ocean? They had been in Louisiana nearly half a year before the fighting commenced.
“The truth of the situation is, we had help. A warning. Not from the loyal slaves of the property, though they were quick to confirm what my grandpêre had learned. This admonition came from a creature who called himself by the name of Childeric.”
“Creature?” Amelia repeated.
“I don’t come by the word accidentally,” Victor continued. “He was not of the human race or had not been for some time. Centuries. Millennia, to hear him tell it. He claimed to have been watching the de Blancheforts for many years, awaiting the moment to present himself and, with it, his gift. He also claimed ancestry to our family.”
Amelia was frozen in place. Her mouth parted with questions she promised to save for the end. When he stopped to observe her, she swallowed and nodded for him to go on.
“Understand, my family knew little of who he was when we took his advisement to leave. My grandpêre referred to Childeric as his demon, as he’d taunted the family for months before ever showing his face. Grandpêre would never have taken this demon’s warnings as fact, but the confirmation from the loyal slaves proved his words were not deception, and my grandpêre, a man who had forged his own destiny and did not have it in him to wait for history to catch up, risked everything to rebuild his family’s life here, at a property down in St. Charles Parish. If you have ever seen Coquillage, close your eyes and imagine the cerulean waters of the Caribbean lapping against the cliffs, a path of sand stretching to the porch. Picture the gas lanterns swinging from trees, the fresh scents of bananas and seawater compulsory. It was built to resemble Dauphine in every way.”
“I have, as a girl,” Amelia said. “But only sneaking around the grounds with my cousins. It’s never been open for tours.”
“And never will be,” Victor assured her. “For the secret sustaining us can never be a matter for the public. Not ever.
“We did not hear from Childeric for the first few years of our tenure here in the swamplands. So in time, he became a hazy memory, his sudden appearance in the family fading to an afterthought. He was no longer a topic for discourse at the dinner table, and when Grandpêre spoke to his peers about the family’s flight from danger, he would talk of his loyal slaves who had saved their lives, and whom he had freed in gratefulness upon their arrival to the new land. No mention of the soothsaying demon.
“But Childeric had not forgotten the de Blancheforts. He was merely biding his time, testing my grandpêre’s mettle. His gift was not for the weak, and he would not grant it without being certain he had chosen the right recipient. We later discovered he had passed over many generations before deciding my grandpêre and his brood worthy.
“His final test was akin to the one I present to you now, Amelia. Childeric appeared to my
grandpêre one evening, drawing him out of the plantation and into the garden to share the revelation of his origins. He did not ease into this startling truth but came out with the words in a quick rush. My grandpêre’s reaction would determine his fate.
“I will never forget this story. My grandpêre’s words are etched into my memory for eternity. ‘I am immortal, Etienne. I cannot die, not by traditional methods. Wound me, and I bleed. Ah, but then I heal. I bear the same skin as I’ve had since I took the master’s blood, and I will continue to bear it until the end of my long days. That end will be of my own choosing, and ours is the beginning for another.’ My grandpêre then asked the same question I know you are wondering silently now. ‘What are you?’ And Childeric answered. ‘I am dhampir. Though you may relate more to the word vampire.’”
Victor paused, allowing Amelia a moment too. She stared at him in unmoving horror since she had promised to let him finish. Besides, she could say nothing that wouldn’t offend him.
“My grandpêre passed his final test. He did not question Childeric. He and his children had gifts not sanctioned by God or science, and why should this be any different? Instead, he only wanted to know more! He learned much from Childeric in those hours when night turned to dawn. When they parted, Childeric had made the decision for one of his numerous tribe to give up his gift so Etienne de Blanchefort could take his place.”
“Take his place?”
“The rules of the dhampir are few, but important,” Victor went on. “Your vampires, the vampires of literature and fanciful legends, are nothing like the ones of the old god. The dhampir are finite in number, and it is impossible to increase the race in size. You cannot give your blood and make a legion of them. The Master ordains that to make one anew, a dhampir must give their own gift back to the Master’s Tree. Childeric’s tribe had wandered for many, many years, and were ready for their eternal rest. They’d been searching for candidates worthy to pass the torch, as it were. Childeric sought out a new tribe to replace the weary.”
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 17