by Lorelei Bell
“He isn't dead?” she asked, astonished.
“No, my heart. It was only a tranquilizing dart,” Saint Germain explained gently as he strode forward. He set the gun down across the upholstered couch nearby. He only now realized she had not understood right away that Jacques had not taken a bullet, but a dart.
“Are you alright?” he asked her as he rounded the stilled werewolf, and came to her. His arms circled her, hands felt warm at her lower back. The expression he held was more than concern for her, and that in itself was disconcerting. His touch was suddenly too overwhelming, and too intimate. Her first instinct was to push him away, but at the same time something inside her wanted to allow herself to melt into his warmth. She looked up into his eyes. They had darkened, if that were possible, and she could just make the very edges where the bitter chocolate color was overwhelmed by black pupils. They remained mysterious with the depth of emotions she'd not seen in him until now. Was he was wondering how she'd found her way up here? And now that she'd seen the painting of the woman who looked so very much like her he had to be wondering what she was thinking. She had to explain why she was here, before he began to quiz her.
Swallowing hard, she finally replied to his question, “I'm fine.” Well, not really, but good enough. She wasn't hurt physically. Adrenaline eased from her, making her body suddenly jumpy, and at the same time weak. Like a balloon slowly loosing air, she slumped against him. Her body reacted to his touch in a way she had neither expected nor planned. She actually wanted to feel his body against her own. It was a wild thought, and one she was ashamed of, and she could feel her face flush just then.
“Forgive me, Zofia, for not revealing that Jacques becomes a wolfman at the full of the moons,” he said. “I worried that it would drive you away before I could make you understand that there was no threat.”
So, now that was answered. Jacques is a wolfman, not a werewolf.
“No threat?”
“No. He is usually very good at coming in for his remedy,” he went on. “But sometimes, when our routines are interrupted, or someone new—like you—comes into our tight confines, he gets a little agitated. Excited, may be a better word, and the wolf in him takes over.” He didn't offer more explanation than that. And even though Zofia felt that she needed to know more about Jacques, she felt it could wait until a less frighting moment. A moment when her brain wasn't so frazzled.
“What happens when he comes to?” Zofia asked, looking down at the hapless creature.
“That will not be for a little while, yet. But meanwhile—”
“Master! I heard the bell. I came as quickly as I could—” Percival entered the room, breathing heavily as though he had run the whole length of the castle and back. He eyed the man-beast on the floor, then his gaze lifted to take in Saint Germain's arms around Zofia. At the odd look he was giving him, Saint Germain let Zofia go. Catching on instantly, Zofia stepped back slightly, as though realizing the sight of being found in his arms was just a teensy bit awkward.
“Percival and I will take Jacques to the cellar where he can spend the night. He won't be able to escape the cell,” Saint Germain explained. He turned to Zofia. “Meanwhile you should go to your own room and recuperate. I will come by after we have Jacques secured away.”
She obligingly left the men to the task at hand, happy that he had not questioned why she was there in his room, but she had a feeling that that question would come, eventually.
Chapter 24
Zofia paced her room like a lioness in a cage, clenching and unclenching her fists, going over what she would say to Saint Germain—and what she would not. She was pretty much over Jacques attacking her, and the excitement of Saint Germain shooting him with a dart that had a sleeping serum in it. But, on top of it all, she couldn't get over how many close calls she'd had since arriving at Dark Castle. First a vampire, then a rogue wizard, and now, a werewolf had attacked her. What next?
She couldn't worry too much about that, could she? Not while she had to keep her head straight. She had to remain the innocent by-stander. Saint Germain was doing everything in his power to keep her safe, after all. So, she couldn't jump all over him about not telling her about Jacques who just happens to be a werewolf, or a wolfman—whichever. Obviously, Saint Germain had given Jacques something the other night so that the transformation would not come over him. She tried to remember what she'd over heard Saint Germain say to Percival. That he had not come in for his “remedy”. So obviously, Saint Germain had something to stall the transformation, but only if taken the night he turns. Thus it wasn't exactly a cure, but it was something that kept him from becoming a beast—or half-beast—and totally out of control.
It was a good thing, too that Biddle had seen the painting before she had come across it. That would have set her off, for sure. As it was, it did haunt her, the uncanny resemblance. But it must really have freaked Saint Germain out when he'd first set eyes on her. Now, she knew why he had the reaction he'd had to her.
The rap at her door made her heart leap.
“Zofia? It is I,” Saint Germain said in that low growl of his.
She strode the few steps to the door, unlocked it and yanked it open. Their eyes met. He looked weary. A few hairs had come loose from his slicked-back tail. He had no coat on, and the full sleeves of his muslin shirt were rolled up, like last night. She noticed how powerful his forearms looked. From there her eyes tripped up to the open section of shirt and the unobstructed view of a virile chest where the beginnings of dark chest hairs stroked her feminine curiosity. This caught her off-guard, and caused her to blush as she averted her gaze.
“We need to talk,” he said softly.
“Yes, I suppose we do,” she said, turning her attention on his shoes. They were not the fancy ones, nor were they the ones of last night, but rather were leather boots that came up to the knees of his breeches in a swashbuckling style. The whole outfit was a bit too dashing for tonight. She had to wonder what he'd been up to before Jacques became his concern. Either he had been practicing the foil, or had been horseback riding.
Saint Germain gestured toward the small upholstered couch. Zofia glided over to it and sat. She didn't expecting him to sit with her, and was relieved when he pulled up the small divan from her dressing table in front of her. He sat forward, arms resting on thighs, fingers laced between the knees. Those elegant brows knitted with concern.
“I would not blame you if you packed and left my castle this very night,” he said with a slight gush of air, as though exasperated with himself and everything that had happened. “Tonight must have put you through an enormous strain, my dear. I would not have found a way to forgive myself if anything had happened to you, or your unborn.”
Ah, yes. The unborn whatever-it-was.
She nodded. She would have expected no less from him. But his suggestion of her leaving was out of the question. She strove to find a way to explain her reason for not even considering that. The last of the full moons were over, or nearly were by now. Jacques would have to be on his very best behavior after tonight, that much went without saying.
“I'm not leaving, Franz,” she said firmly.
His face held an unreadable expression. “Jacques would have torn you to shreds.” Only if he'd have caught me, she thought, and I wasn't about to stand still and let him.
She was aware that if it came down to having to use a spell to keep him off her, her explanation would be easier for him to swallow, here on her world, than it would have been on First World. And if her life was at stake she would use her Powers. The way things were going, she might have to. She had to have a very good reason for her hiding it, and she would leave it for her ace up the sleeve, should she need it. She was ready to feed Saint Germain one more little lie in order to back up her reason for staying.
“I've no place to go,” she said firmly. “I have very little money. My daughter has just turned sixteen and I need to send her to a good school. I want her to have a good life. I don't wa
nt her to have to face a life of living hand to mouth, like I have.” At least part of this was true. She did need to send Blanche to a good school—for sorceresses. As far as her life, it had been very easy, except for when Vesselvod Blood showed up and began complicating things.
“I understand,” he said with a thoughtful nod. “But you must realize the danger you are in, if you do not take to your room at sunset.”
“I don't think my door would have stopped him,” she said.
His brow arched.
“You saw what he did to your door,” she reminded.
He sat up, hands un-clenching and braced them on each thigh. “Yes,” he said. “I see what you mean.”
“But the full moons are over, now, aren't they?”
His mouth twisted, gaze fell off of her in thought. “I thought this was the twenty-eighth.”
“No, it's the thirty-third, I believe. But I have not been keeping a calendar, so—”
“Ah,” he shook his head. “I seem to be getting my calendars all confused. I stand corrected. That means that we should have no further problem with Jacques changing. Even if there would be another full of the moons, I will make sure that he takes his potion to insure he doesn't turn.”
“You actually have something that keeps him from changing?”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn't that surprise me?”
His lips quirked a little.
There was a pause, and she saw the smile leave his lips. He looked chided somehow. “I suppose you saw the painting?”
Ah, yes. The painting. She nodded. How could she not?
“That was my wife. A very long time ago when it was painted.”
“I see. The artist had a way with his medium. Very well done, I might add.” Even as she said this, she felt it was true, but also hoped he would admit to painting it.
“Did you notice how the light seems to glance off her face, almost as if she glows?”
“I did.”
“Did you notice the artist's name at the bottom?” he wondered.
“No,” she said, working innocence into her voice. “I'm afraid I just didn't have the time.”
“I painted it,” he said. The smile was back as well as the glimmer in his eyes.
“Really?” she said, giving him wide eyes. “You're quite accomplished, aren't you?”
He merely chuckled.
“Did you do the painting of the other woman as well?”
“Oh, no. That was commissioned work.”
“And the woman in that painting? Was she another acquaintance?” Zofia prompted.
“Yes, a very good acquaintance. Her name was Madame de Pompadour, born Jeane-Antoinette Poisson, and became Louis XV's mistress.”
“Ah, I see. And you knew her?”
“Oh, Yes,” he said around a chuckle in his voice. “She surrounded herself with quite an array of interesting people. Voltaire, Montesquier, Quesnay, Diderot, and Boucher were among her favorites.” He was quite the name-dropper.
“And where did you fit in?” she said.
“Oh, I was among one of her favorites. She had a lot of influence on the king.”
“I'll bet she did,” Zofia said. “Your wife was quite pretty, though—oh—” She blushed. Telling him that his wife was pretty was like giving herself a complement.
“Yes, I quite agree,” he said quickly. “And now you understand a little bit why I became something of a buffoon when I first saw you. The resemblance is uncanny.”
She could feel that her face was still flushed. “Yes, I suppose I can understand,” she said, smiling. “I'm sorry that I gave you a start.”
“You did, indeed.”
“You must have loved her very much,” Zofia said softly. “What was her name?”
“Christina Bellefonte. We married in secret.”
“Oh?” Zofia gave him a curious look.
He made a little wave of his hand. “It matters not, now the reasons. The seven year war was about to begin. I did everything in my power to try and make the king avoid it, but—” he drew in a breath and let it out as if weary. He gave her a troubled look. “I was an agent for the king—a secret agent,” he added with an arched brow. “I beseeched him to seek peace between France and Austria. There were other spies, of course, and thanks to some foreign minister, I was nearly arrested. But in the meantime, I'd met Christina. She was daughter of a violinist. She played the piano and sang like an angel.” His brows drew in on themselves. He looked up at Zofia, and as if realizing she were still there he shook his head. “Please, do not mind a man with so many old memories.”
“Oh, you're fine,” she soothed.
“You may wonder why I had not offered her the Elixir, so that she would be able to join me?”
“I would never question your decision.”
“Perhaps,” he said, relaxing the knitted fingers from a knee. “The Elixir of Life allows me to cheat death, Zofia. But at a terrible price.
“In oder to use the Elixir, I first had to go through a very unpleasant—even torturous—regiment which required forty days of mortification and fasting. At the end of which I began taking the Elixir, which had not even been tested with good results by anyone before myself.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Such a horrible transformation—I call it that, for that is what it is: a transformation. It would kill most, and from what I had learned from other alchemists, it had. I would not ask this of a woman. Not even the most physically fit. It would have to be of her own choosing. Even then, I would most vehemently discourage her.”
Zofia nodded slowly as she strove to take in what he was telling her. Obviously just drinking the Elixir was not enough. One had to go through a rigorous regiment beforehand, and it was not fool proof by any means. The old days of trial and error. Error being possible death.
“The ingredients are not easily attainable,” he went on. “Extractions from certain rare and exotic herbs, and hard to find minerals, beginning with the best sulfur.” He thrust out his hands. “In fact, it is here I have found the very finest sulfur from which to refine it into the Philosopher's Stone. Where I am from, this one ingredient was becoming scarce.”
“Earth?” she said, using his term.
“Yes.”
“And then you somehow came here? That in itself is more amazing,” she admitted. And in all actuality, it was. She wanted in the worst way to pull from him the secret of how he had done so. But the words were not within her. She was not the best person to get information from another in a round about way.
He seemed to be making up his mind about what he was going to reveal about himself tonight. Shaking his head, he let it dip toward his lap slightly, and then lifted it to meet her eyes. “There may be some things better left unsaid, tonight.” He rolled down the sleeves of his shirt and fastened them at the wrists. Gaining his feet, he said, “I hope for now that I have at least answered some of your curiosity about myself,” he said in a lower, and more mellow tone. All tension was gone from his face. There was that quirk at his lips that she understood to be his good humored look.
She nodded. “I think for the time being,” she said, leaving it at that.
“I will concoct your potion, my dear so that you might rest—and hopefully hold down food. Come.” He moved for the door as he spoke. Saint Germain led her out of her room, and they crossed the atrium, and headed down the barely lit stone corridor. He turned to the next door to their right, used a heavy iron key to open it and stepped into the gloom. She remained outside until a light blinked on.
“There we are. Come in, Zofia, please,” he invited.
This was one of the locked rooms she had made note of on her map. The room was not the hot, smelly alchemist's laboratory she had expected. Instead it was merely a room with a fireplace and a very long, heavy wooden table and shelving at one far end. Otherwise, the room was very spartan in design and furnishings.
“This is one of my smaller, older laboratories,” he explained as he moved along the shelv
ing. “Pray have a seat, Zofia,” he said, motioning toward a wooden chair next to the fireplace which was cold at the moment. “This will take but only a few moments to make a simple philter for you.”
With his back to her he went to work at the long table, which was cluttered with dozens of retorts, basins, jars and vials. Glass clinked as he toiled. While he was self-absorbed, she gazed around the well-equipped room, and noticed that shelving occupied the breadth of one wall, and went from floor to low ceiling. It was a fully stocked apothecary, she realized. There were pill boxes, and large and small jars stopped with corks. From where she sat she could read a few of the written contents labels such as QUININE PILLS, COMPLEXION WATERS, and WORMWOOD. There were boxes of dried herbal teas such as borage, hyssop, scurvy-grass, sorrel, mint and many others. Everything an apothecary might need for any ailment. One glass container sat alone on the highest shelf. This label clearly marked as OPIUM. Next to it, as if in warning, sat a human skull draped with cobwebs. It was obvious that Saint Germain did not have use for the narcotic, thank goddess. She'd often heard of alchemist's dabbling in an array of narcotics, becoming hopeless addicts to their own concoctions. Leaning against the jar and the skull, there were a couple of old, frayed books. She really hoped he didn't have need of her mending them any time soon.
Turning her attention back on Saint Germain, she observed him trustingly as he mixed some liquid over a short blue flame of a Bunsen burner. He made quick, yet precise movements at the alchemist's table as he measured and poured several different things into a short, clear beaker, next to the heating liquid. Reaching to a tray, he took up another flask of some powdery substance and carefully measured a small amount of the powder into clear liquid off to one side. As soon as the powder came into contact with the liquid, it began to fizz.
Taking up the heated beaker, he added the heated liquid to the cool, Saint Germain poured this into a ceramic cup and stepped around the table with it. Zofia saw that it still fizzed, and was the color of weak tea.
“Here you are, my dear,” Saint Germain said with a smile, holding it out to her.