by Michele Hauf
She constantly went out of her way to show Giles that she was well and that she loved him. As if she needed to compensate for her supernatural truths. Because he had married a witch. He’d not known she was a witch when they’d exchanged vows under the ash tree at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Over the years, Marianne had attempted to make him understand that her potions and herbs were magical. He would laugh and say she had a way with healing, that was all.
Only recently she had found it necessary to convince him of her nature. He wished she had not tried when she was so large with child, but alas, Marianne was the most stubborn of them all.
The rage of demons that had invaded their two-room cottage and swirled out into the atmosphere had convinced him well and good. From that day forward Giles had walked the streets of Paris with a bit less confidence and a lot more wariness. A king’s horseman, he was. A man who charged danger and showed it his teeth.
Now a man who harbored a demon within him.
Yet should anyone learn his wife was a witch, they would try to harm her, to take her away from him. He would not suffer any man to live should the bastard conceive of harming Marianne.
“Tell me what I can do,” he pleaded. Marianne’s hand, clasped in his, was limp and feverish. “It’s gone on too long. The babe—”
“Needs help to come into this world,” she uttered. “You must go for the midwife on Rue Vaugirard. Esmarelda is her name. She is a witch I have confided in on occasion. She will know how to prepare the spells I am too weak to manage.”
“I will go immediately. But—no, I cannot leave your side.”
He kissed her hot brow and smoothed the hair from her face. Normally her reddish-brown locks were springy and wild, defiant of taming and ever Marianne’s bane. Now they lay wet upon the goose down pillow, as exhausted as his wife.
“Go, my love. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour. Bring me wine, too.”
Their wine stores had depleted last week after Rook had taken to drinking to get his head around the idea that his wife was a witch and that a real demon poked and jounced about inside his body. An accident born of his wife’s need to convince him of her truths. There hadn’t been enough spirits to change that reality.
“Yes, more wine. And the midwife who is a witch. I’ll run and make it in half that time.”
He pressed a long, lingering kiss to her belly, hoping that it might stir the babe into motion. Your father wants you to behave. Don’t be so cruel to your mother.
“I love you, Marianne.”
* * *
The midwife greeted him with a knowing nod. She was old, and warts pocked her chin. She looked like Giles’s idea of what a witch should resemble. Not young and pretty like his wife.
Giles hastily blurted out that he knew she was a witch, like his wife, and he would tell no one if only she would help him.
Giles thought she sneered when she spoke his wife’s name, but he was too frantic to pay attention. The midwife deemed it about time he finally got on board with the belief in their breed. Giles had not before heard the term witch labeled as a breed. So much he did not know. Yet he did know the world was populated with real witches and demons. And Marianne had casually mentioned vampires and werewolves.
Mercy, but he wanted his wife and child to be safe. He’d wonder about those other breeds later.
“I have to purchase wine for Marianne,” he said. “And something stronger for me.”
Esmarelda handed him a bottle of raspberry wine and sent him off to the tavern to seek his own devil in a bottle. After both had gathered their tools for survival, Giles met the witch at the edge of the Tuileries. She carried a sack of mysterious goods and wore a smart felt hat pulled down over her eyes.
“Lead on, man,” she offered to his wondering assessment. “There’s no time to waste.”
* * *
Back at the cottage they found Marianne unconscious, an arm dipping off the bed, her fingers touching the floor. The witch ordered Giles outside to make a bonfire and boil some water. He initially refused to leave his wife’s side, but the witch snapped her fingers and something inside him sat up and shivered. It was the first time he’d felt the demon’s attention align with his own.
“Out!”
Giles did as he was told. He knew it was a command designed to keep him from underfoot while the women labored to bring a child into this world. He felt helpless. This was not something he could rush with sword held en guarde and musket primed.
If only he could be allowed to sit beside Marianne, to hold her hand.
He paced near the blazing fire he’d stoked outside the horse shed, whiskey spilling down his jaw as he quickly consumed the bottle beneath the wicked red harvest moon. He rarely drank so much as to get soused. For some reason the demon within made him twice as capable of handling his drink as he once could.
“Demon-infested idiot soldier,” he muttered, standing transfixed by the flames. “Married to a witch.”
It felt like an epitaph, a derogatory slur against all the choices he had made in life. Yet it was real. It was his life. And he would not change it for the world. He loved Marianne with all his heart. His soul was not complete without her.
Hours later, he could no longer stand by helpless and uninvolved. His wife’s soul called to his. And for a flicker in time it was as though there was another. Theirs. A new creation.
Giles turned toward the cottage. “My child?”
He rushed across the dirt yard that Marianne always tried to coax into a garden. Unholy soil, she’d once commented. In need of a midsummer’s cleansing.
As he neared the cottage, the door blew open of its own accord, as it had on the night she had called up the demons. Giles’s racing steps thudded to a stuttering halt. His heart thundered, suddenly fearful.
In the doorway stood Esmarelda and in her arms was a bundle swaddled in the bright emerald skirt that Marianne kept tucked in her trousseau. It had belonged to her mother. The silk was her only treasure.
The witch shook her head and held forth the bundle. It was not wrapped to expose a tiny face but instead completely covered. Mummified.
Giles dropped to his knees. His heart threatened to punch through his chest. Even Asatrú lurched about, anxious.
“No,” clambered from his soul in an achy, wrenching cry to the heavens.
“I’m sorry.” The witch stopped in front of him. “It was born dead. We both believe it has not taken a breath for hours. She tried…so valiantly. Some souls are simply not prepared for this realm.”
“Don’t tell me that!” Giles argued.
He beat the ground with his fists, but seeing the witch’s tattered leather shoes brought him into focus. He stood. The bundle was held forth.
He couldn’t touch it. Not yet. Not ready to touch death. To feel it darken his soul.
“How is she? I must go to her!”
“Monsieur!”
He ignored the witch’s cry. He didn’t want to hear her voice. Didn’t want that tiny…being anywhere near him until he’d looked into his wife’s eyes and knew their souls were still one.
Bloody bed clothes and linens littered the floor in wet islands. Giles stumbled over to his wife’s side. She looked serene, and her skin was dotted with perspiration. Alive. Yes, so alive.
He kissed her forehead and pressed his to hers, sliding his palm along her cheek. Her skin was cool, but not alarmingly so.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“We’ll have another,” he reassured. “I’m only thankful you survived.”
She nodded, not a tear in her eyes, and fell asleep in his arms.
* * *
The old witch wandered toward town, leaving the grieving couple to their pain. The husband had not given a care to see why she had called out to him as he’d ente
red his home.
He should have.
Marianne had found herself a fine man, she had. The younger witch was too pretty. She’d never given a kind word to Esmarelda when she’d been in town and had once threatened to report her to the inquisition when she’d refused to help her deal with the foul bargain she had made with the devil Himself.
Giving it a squeeze, suddenly the bundle squirmed in Esmarelda’s arms. She peeled away the wrap to expose the tiny face. The mouth miraculously gasped for breath.
Hmm, she had no use for a child herself. Save for in pieces to use in spells.
The idea of returning to Marianne’s home and handing it over did not flicker in her twisted thoughts. She hated the young witch.
Yet if the babe remained in her possession, the devil would surely find it because she knew it had been marked.
Holding the swaddled bundle against her chest, Esmarelda made her way through the dark alleys and toward the nearest monastery. It would be safe and unseen by the dark prince there, protected by the holy walls. Also, she might manage a few sous for leaving the babe.
She’d never liked Marianne Rochfeaux and her fancy soldier husband. They would both get what was coming to them.
Chapter 15
Paris, 1592
Six days later, Giles Rochfeaux’s world grew darker. He’d not thought such a thing possible.
It was.
Marianne had recovered from the taxing birth and busied herself cleaning the floorboards with a sweet lavender and rosemary wash. Neither of them had mentioned the babe, although one night over carrot and pheasant stew they had met eyes, and Giles had known his wife was thinking of the child.
The midwife had taken the babe away without another word to either of them, likely to bury it under a rowan tree deep in the forest. Giles’s heart shivered to think he should have seen to having the babe baptized postmortem, but that soul was gone now. Out of their lives. If they were to move beyond this terrible loss, they must only look to the future.
It is what he told himself. And he must hold his head high and be the strong man Marianne needed to overcome this blow.
Dropping the scrub brush, Marianne stood stiffly and walked out the front door as if following a call only she could hear.
“What is it?” Giles asked.
“They’re here.”
Veins running cold, Giles sensed the secrets his wife held had not yet been completely revealed. Dread coiling about his heart, he rushed out behind his wife. Six men stood in front of her. He cringed at the sight of their drawn and dirty faces. Emaciated yet strapped with noticeable muscle. And at their mouths…fangs.
“What in God’s creation…?”
“Vampires,” Marianne whispered to him. “They won’t come near me. My blood is poisonous to them. But you…”
“Vampires?”
Giles was only getting his head around being married to a witch and then being occupied by a demon who battered about inside him in an attempt to get free. He’d lost his child less than a week ago. And now this?
“Be gone! You are not welcome here.”
Rushing back inside the cottage, he grabbed the pistol at the table, but it was not primed or loaded. He pulled the epée sword down from over the threshold and walked out with both weapons in hand.
“We have business with your witch,” the leader said. He sneered at the ineffectual weapons Giles insisted on holding, as if they could protect him and his wife. “She owes Himself a life.”
“What? Himself?”
“Do not say that name again!” Marianne hissed. “Or you will call him to this realm.” She spat at the vampires, who stepped back from the offense.
Giles had no idea who she was talking about. Or why she was talking to vampires.
“Get me a knife,” Marianne commanded over her shoulder. “Now.”
“Stay right there, soldier!” The leader stepped forward. “She made a deal with the devil. We’ve come to collect.”
“Marianne?” Giles moved up beside his wife. He wanted to clasp her hand, but it was more important he hold the weapons at the ready. His shoulder brushed hers. His blood ran cold when she shrugged away from his touch. And then she bit into her wrist, breaking the skin. Blood oozed out. Hell, what was—
Marianne thrust her arm out, sending blood droplets flying. “My blood will kill them,” she cried. “Get me that knife! Or give me your sword.”
Giles remained fixed, the vampire’s words buzzing in his brain. The devil? His wife had…
“What for?” blurted the barely audible tones from his mouth. “What deal did you make?”
She turned to him, her face bloodless and drawn. “Does it matter?”
“I—no.” It couldn’t matter because he loved her, and it was likely a bargain she had made before they had met.
But what did matter? The sudden knowing that froze the blood in his veins.
“You promised our firstborn,” he guessed. “You knew all this time that you would… That when you gave birth…?”
Giles’s heart caught in his throat. He didn’t want to consider it.
“No, my love, I would have never handed over my child to the devil. I would have figured out an escape.”
“Witches,” muttered the vampire, as if to console Giles’s breaking heart. “Can’t trust ’em. She did promise to hand over her firstborn, but I guess that was a failure, eh? Come on, gentlemen, this witch needs to pay.”
The vampires flanking the leader took steps forward.
“No!” Giles raised the pistol.
A vampire lunged for him, and he dashed the epée through its heart. The creature smiled as Giles drew the blade back. A drop of blood stained the vampire’s tunic. He slapped his chest and chuckled.
Giles swore.
A fight ensued, but it didn’t last long. He could take on a man or two with sword and fist, but defeating six vampires who possessed insurmountable strength was out of the question. And as he struggled madly with four of them, Giles saw the other two wrangle Marianne easily. She spat blood. She must have bitten her tongue. One of the vampires quickly bound her mouth and hands.
“No!” He took a punch to the jaw. They weren’t trying to bite him. They merely wanted to detain him and keep him conscious.
Flames crackled. Marianne’s muffled screams clutched Giles’s heart.
* * *
An hour later the vampire who had contained his struggles dropped Giles, and he fell to the ground by the flames. Muscles exhausted from the agonizing struggles to not look and then to struggle free, he could only lie sprawled on the cold ground and pant. He had no more voice to cry out to the heavens.
Yet the demon inside of him gave him sound, and together they howled until the morning had extinguished the flames and wind sifted his wife’s ashes across his face.
* * *
Verity clung to Rook, shivering as if she herself had stood at the flames witnessing the horror of his wife burning. The memory was familiar to her, and she could not hold back the pain of watching her mother burn. She had not cried out that evening; only the sound of fire ripping into the night had sounded like a scream to her. Tears spilled down her cheeks now.
Curse her knowing soul to have led her to the pyre. Why had she needed to witness such a horror? Hearing about it later would have sufficiently destroyed her. Her soul, that strange soul from the witch who had died twice—Rook’s wife—had led her to her mother’s burning.
Perhaps to know and to now be able to understand Rook’s pain?
When they’d first met, she’d asked him the way to his heart, and he’d said that was a secret. But in fact his heart was gated, closed up and locked after the trials he had suffered. And the only way in was through compassion and simply listening.
Rook rubbe
d her back, comforting her. As if she were the one in need of support! She felt awful, and duplicitous, and sad, and so angry for him. For his wife, who may have had good reason for making such a deal with the devil. And for their child, who had never been given a chance to breathe.
And for her mother, Amandine Von Velde, may she rest in peace.
“That’s why you became a hunter,” she whispered through sniffles.
“I did go after the vampires. Weeks later. But my story isn’t over yet. Marianne had only died once. She would die yet again the next day.”
Verity pressed up against his chest, studying his eyes and finding no tears, not even a catch to his voice. Of course, if he allowed himself to become emotional he would go mad. Was it Oz who kept back his emotions? Controlled them to make Rook strong?
“You and Oz?” she prompted.
“After Marianne’s death, he settled within me. And he began to communicate with me. He felt my pain because he had known the same pain. He’d watched his family die centuries earlier. Desperate, he too had sold his soul for riches and promised his firstborn. When he thought to renege on the payment, Himself was most cruel to him. Oz was made demon and condemned to Daemonia. A demon who could see the truth in others. It’s not such a blessing as one would believe.”
“Because his truth was so vile,” Verity muttered.
Rook nodded. “Oz and I bonded that morning when I lay by Marianne’s ashes, pleading to the world to take me instead. To reverse the hours and make the vampires tear me limb from limb, if only to save my beloved wife. She had suffered so much. She’d given birth to our stillborn child. I never did find out where the babe had been buried.”
Now Rook’s chest rose, and Verity felt his pain over the lost child.
“Your name was Giles?”
“It is my birth name. Giles Martin Rochfeaux. I took on Rook when I joined the Order. I shed…” He sighed. “All things that reminded me of that life.”
“I can understand. You both went through so much.”
“With much more to come. Sitting there by her ashes, I pleaded to Above and Beneath and any angel or demon who would listen to bring back my wife,” he said.