by Lorelei Bell
Biting her lower lip, she took it from his hand. A faint anise aroma with a slight bromidic tang rose from it. “Would it be too rude to ask what's in it?”
“A basic bromide to help you sleep,” he said. “With a few herbs steeped in hot liquid, to help settle your stomach.”
Great. Bromide. That worked differently on a sorcerer than on mortals, as it was a chemical, not an herb. Sorcerers, as a rule, never mixed chemicals for medicinal use. But, of course to tell him she couldn't drink this would bring up a whole can of trolls. The first and last time she'd ever taken anything from a drug store on First World was a cold medicine. That had made her sleep for two days. This could be as bad, or worse. Squeezing her eyes shut, holding her breath, she tipped the drink back. Tiny bubbles tickled her nose as she drank. It tasted mostly of chalk and anise, but not as bad as it could have tasted, she thought ruefully.
Gasping, and feeling a tingly bite at the back of her throat, she handed the cup back. “Thank you. I think.” She grimaced, thrusting her tongue out in slight disgust. And then a very unladylike belch escaped her. “Ooo. Excuse me!”
Saint Germain chuckled at her. “Medicine is never very pleasant tasting,” he said. “That was why I added the anise seed to flavor it.”
“Right,” Zofia said. “I knew that,” she added darkly, staring at the skull across the room. It stared right back.
“The bromide will help you sleep,” he said evenly, flashing her a smile as he set the cup on the table. Oh, boy will it.
Zofia's head swam suddenly, and she could no longer sit up. She slumped back. She would not be able to walk, feeling as she did. She would never be able to make it back to her room by herself, as the room was spinning terribly. Actually the chair seemed to have a mind of it's own and slid out from under her.
Germain swooped toward her on an oath, and suddenly, she was held aloft in his most capable arms. For a medium built man, he was strong. She had last seen her weight at one hundred twenty, while on First World—okay, one-twenty-three. Since returning, and having become pregnant, she may have gained five or six pounds on top of that—ten most likely, who am I kidding? But at five-foot nine, Saint Germain could not weigh more than one hundred and sixty-five pounds, which meant he was able to lift at least three quarters of his own weight, and then some. She had to admit that there may be more benefits to drinking his Elixir of Life than just to outlive your own generation by several hundred years.
Zofia could barely keep her eyes open as her surroundings became a blur. She knew they were moving back up the hall, and saw the stairs waver past them as she tried to keep her eyes focused. They were in her room—he took that one step down into it—and saw her bed's canopy hover over her head. He set her down on the bed. Eyes trying to catch up to everything, she saw his face loom over her. She giggled.
“You will sleep, now,” his voice came to her out of the void.
“Wow,” she said. “You've got nice eyes.” Another giggle escaped her.
He smiled down at her. A gentle hand swept a wisp of hair from her face. She felt his lips brush her brow.
“Hopefully you will have a dreamless sleep, Zofia,” Saint Germain spoke through the fog of grogginess.
As she felt him place something warm over her, Zofia's eyes could no longer stay open.
PART FOUR: Rogue Wizards
Chapter 25
Dorian sat at a table with a hand of cards. Turning around, he showed his hand of four aces to a man standing to his right and said, “D'you think I'll win with these?
Right behind him, seated at another table, playing some strange game with dice, Saint Germain turned around. Scrutinizing the hand, he said, “You won't win with that hand, I'm afraid.”
“I will if you don't cheat, you mean,” Dorian shot back.
“I do not need to cheat in cards, my friend. By the way, is he here, yet?”
“Who?”
“The man we're after.”
“I don't know,” Dorian said looking around. “What's his name?”
“I believe his name is Phineas Gardner,” Saint Germain answered distractedly as he threw his dice. “He's tall, somewhat athletic build with large blue eyes. Shaved head.”
“Yes, I think I see him now,” Dorian said.
Saint Germain turned around and peered through the dank, crowded tavern. “Ah. Yes. I see him,” he sneered.
“He's wanted by the Knights for questioning.” Dorian flicked one unwanted card to the middle of the table, and was dealt another by the dealer. The dealer was Myron. Wearing a white shirt with red garters around his upper arms, a black cheroot slotted between his white teeth with a half inch of ash glowing at the end, blue smoke clouding his face, he smiled. “That's what I call a hand, mister,” he said.
“All I wanted was to win this hand,” Dorian said. “Do you think this is a winning hand?” he asked as he spread his cards out. They were no longer regular playing cards, but the Tarot. There was a Wand, Sword, High Priestess and Death.
“That's a terrible hand,” Zofia said to him as she leaned across the table from him. She wore a read dress with a black bodice, her camisole falling off her shoulders giving her a sexy look. Her hair was done up nicely, too. “My Emperor trumps your High Priestess, and I have two Coins was well as a Wand. That card”—she pointed at the Death card—“not good news.” She fed him a pout.
Myron looked over Zofia's shoulder, his lips singed her flesh. She moaned slightly at his touch.
“Oh, that feels good,” she breathed. Felt his breath on her neck and it made her tingle with excitement. “Yes. Yes…”
“Keep your filthy hands off her!” Dorian snarled and shot out of his chair. A wand appeared in his hand, and then suddenly it became a sword.
Myron jumped out from behind Zofia with his own sword, but it was no longer Myron. It was Saint Germain. Dressed all in black, save for the white froth at the neck and wrists, he smiled cavalierly back.
“I'm afraid you're mistaken, my friend, but she is mine.”
Sword blades chattered as they came together.
“En garde!”
“DORIAN!”
Zofia sat up in bed. Sweat-soaked, she blinked at her dim surroundings. It was very dark. Something was howling. A wolf? No. It wasn't like that. There came a constant drumming sound, too. As she listened, and her mind worked its way out of the fog of sleep, she realized it was rain beating on the roof, and wind howling through the cracks somewhere.
“Zofia?” The familiar deep voice rang from somewhere in the room. She realized that her canopy drapes were closed, that was why it was so dark. And Saint Germain was there, in her room.
“Franz?” she replied, taking stock. She was still clothed (he'd thought to remove her shoes, however), and alone in her bed. The last time she'd heard a man's voice in her bed chambers, it had been Stephen—who had been in bed with her and totally naked. This wasn't quite as disconcerting, but why was he here in her room? It was difficult to remember what had happened last night. Where was he?
She drew back one panel of the canopy to peer out into the room. She frowned staring at a wall. She moved to the other side and yanked the curtain back and stared across the room to find the alchemist stretching up from the cubby.
“Why are you here?” she asked, bewildered.
“I spent the night on the couch,” he said, stretching his spine, thrusting his arms up over his head and let out a small roar of a yawn.
Zofia pushed back the curtain a little more—just to make sure he was alright. His hair was just a little more mussed up than she'd seen it before. But, oddly enough, he looked rested. Cat naps? Perhaps a very long cat nap, this time.
“Why?” she asked, letting the curtain drop, wanting to put herself together. Hands going to the veil of hair in her face, she flopped it all back. Her dress and shirt was wrinkled. If only she could have woke and slipped out of them and slept just in her chemise. Oh, yeah, with Saint Germain just fifteen feet away. That would have been a br
ight idea, Zofia degraded herself.
“I did not want what happened the night before to happen again.”
“Night before?”
“The rogue wizard?” he prompted her memory.
“Oh. Yeah.” She slipped her feet into nearby slippers. That was better. The floor was a bit chilly, even though there was a nice thick rug down. She padded around the end of her bed, stopping just at the corner and leaned against the bedpost. She probably looked like someone's mistress, she thought ruefully, thinking of that woman in the other painting. Madam Pompadour, wasn't it? Well, better to be a mistress to a king, she supposed, than a homeless bag lady.
“However, Jacques was quite bad last night,” he reminded.
“Agreed.” Memories of Jacques' horrible transformation took the breath from her, robbing her mind of anything else for a few heartbeats.
“Percival should be letting him out, by now,” Saint Germain said, squinting at a pocket watch. A watch. Where did he get something like that? Oh. Duh. But she knew from experience that watches from First World went haywire here. Or had he, himself, made one? It wouldn't surprise her in the least, if he had. He probably could build a pyramid by himself, if he put his mind to it.
Taking the couple steps down, out of the cubbyhole, he threw her a quick look over a shoulder as he moved for the doorway. “I will leave you to your toilet, madam,” he said. “I will give Percival instructions as to what you would like to eat this morning. Do you have any preferences?”
“I thought no one cooked in this castle,” she said.
“Percival has always cooked for himself. So has Jacques. Although I can't imagine both of them cooking in the same kitchen. I think Jacques would win hands down. He's very good with sharp objects.”
“Yes. I saw first hand,” she quipped.
He chuckled at that. “At any rate. Anything you would like, I will put Percival to the task.
“Hmm. Well, those pastries were delicious, yesterday. And the coffee was superb, I don't think I've ever tasted anything like it.” Oops, that was close.
Chuckling, he reached the doorknob and held open the door. “I thought as much. Pastries and coffee it is.” And he was gone.
Excited, Zofia smiled, then twirled across the center of the room. Stopping, she gazed at her reflection. Why was she so happy? She reached for her brush and ran it through the rat's nest that was her hair. She thought back to last night when Saint Germain had given her that potion. Bromide. Yes. She must not let him make that for her again, and made a mental note to herself. That stuff sent her sailing. Not only that, he'd spent the night in her room. Saint Germain may be a proper man, but he was still a man. She wondered when the last time he'd had a woman to his bed, and how long it would be until he put the moves on her. Judging by the way he'd been touching her, and holding her—and last night in his room—not very long.
Would she be ready for it? Probably not.
She pealed off her clothes. As she did, for some reason Dorian was on her mind. Just a wrinkle of a thought of him. And Myron—which shocked her, the things she was thinking about him; his touch and clear, vivid visions of them together in a lover's grip, his fangs sinking into her neck, giving her wave after wave of pleasure. Why was that so fresh on her mind this morning? Why were Dorian and Myron on her mind together like that? Had she dreamt? She remembered something about a game of cards. Myron was dealing… and then he kissed her neck. Dueling too was somewhere in the mix. Saint Germain was in this crazy dream too. But none of it came together. It was all in bits a pieces. None of it made any sense.
Well, she couldn't dwell on a dream that was so confusing, could she?
Shuffling into the bathroom, and turning on the water, and getting the mix of hot and cold just right, a new image just on the fringe of thought caught her off guard. She froze with the image and it clarified. The bald wizard was also in the dream. Toad spawn. Was the dream a warning? Why couldn't she make sense of it?
Bromide, of course, would either give her bad dreams or induce some wild ones. And now she was aware of a dull headache just beginning at the back of her head. Just peachy.
A shadowpass later, having eaten—and not upchucking a thing, thank alchemists—she stepped into the brown skirt and a fresh camisole. She had to wonder where the laundry room was. They had to have one, since Saint Germain had everything else, but also because her laundered things were folded nicely, or hung up for her to wear the next day. Who did the laundry? Was it given to a wash woman to do for a konk or two? They had no chamber maids, so however it was done, it was done by someone. However, having lived on First World, she could see Saint Germain having purchased a washer and dryer, since they had electricity. She suspected there was a room somewhere that was used for this.
Finding her way to the library—now a well known path, rather than a myriad of rambling and twisting hallways jointed by confusing, yet similar rooms—she was surprised by the sight of dozens upon dozens of books arranged in several stacks on the floor. Someone had taken nearly all the books down off the shelves and placed them in tidy stacks of twenty or so on the floor. But who had done this? Biddle would have, if he were here, but he wasn't. Was he? Looking around, she saw no one there. All was silent. Even that mysterious piano that could play by itself was quiet.
She nearly called out, when someone's sudden whistling stopped her. She peered up the winding steps that ascended the three-story library. Jacques' small frame jaunted down with an armful of books. Upon seeing her, he halted on a riser. Even his whistling died to silence. In his forward momentum, the books nearly toppled and he had to use one hand to stay them.
“Good morning, Jacques,” Zofia greeted him brightly. She wasn't sure that he would remember what had occurred last night, but if he did, she didn't want him to think she held any animosity toward him for it.
“Bonjour, Madam Zofia,” he said in a careful tone, almost succeeding in keeping out a tone of snideness, but not quite. What's up with him?
“I see you've been busy,” she forged on. Maybe she had disturbed him in a quiet task. Maybe he'd hoped to do this little chore and get the hell out before she came to work because he was somewhat embarrassed by his actions last night.
“Oui,” he said stiffly and continued down the steps. He wove through his maze of books and set his new pile in a clear spot on the floor. “I am to 'elp you with carrying down ze books.” He thrust out his hands, looking about himself. He had a definite edge to his voice and his demeanor. Was he angry that he had to help her? Was this below him? She still didn't know exactly what type of roll he played under Saint Germain's roof. Possibly he was a utility man who performed many tasks that Percival did not. And yet, she was of the opinion that Jacques should be more beholding to Saint Germain for being able to give him a potion that would keep him from turning into a wolfman. She'd thought on this, and had decided that perhaps he was an apprentice for Saint Germain. But at the moment, he seemed to be more a slave than anything else, and really didn't like it much.
“I see,” she said on an expelled breath. “Thank you, Jacques.” She had stood in the middle of the floor debating on whether it was safe to remain, or should she just go. He really looked agitated by her presence.
“Do not let me interrupt your work, madam,” Jacques said, really putting the accent on the last word, as he moved down the streps and through his maze of books. He placed the books back down and almost scurried toward the stairs.
“No, of course not,” she said, wending her way through the maze, toward the table where she had left her things last night. As she moved to sit, she felt her nerves jangle slightly by his stiffness and obvious dislike of her. He seemed to genuinely like her before last night. Now it was as though he loathed her. What happened to change his mind between then and now? Growing fur and teeth? If anything she should have a problem with him.
For the time being, she would just have to deal with it. Her original plan was to go do a little more snooping today. But Jacques was going
to make that a tad difficult. Just as well, she'd left her maps in her room.
From above, Jacques made a heavy sigh as he pulled the last of the books off the shelves. She'd already done most of the top shelf. Oh well. When he was out of there, she'd magically return those she was done with back to the top shelf.
Jacques returned with heavy steps and dropped the last pile on the ones he'd just brought down with a decisive bang.
It was if he were being punished for last night, or something. Maybe she should say something. But what would defuse this mood of his?
“Did Saint Germain tell you to do this for me?” Zofia asked, hoping she wouldn't regret it.
“Oui,” he said on a heavy gasp, but it was as crisp as an autumn leaf.
She could only guess that Saint Germain had Jacques do all this heavy lifting because she was pregnant. But she couldn't figure out why Jacques seemed so angry at her for having to do this.
Staring at the books before herself in various stages of repair, she just wanted to lose herself in this mindless work, and ignore Jacques bustling around, going up and down the stairs.
He was done, though, wasn't he? All the shelves were empty. (Even the ones she had mended yesterday, which aggravated her. Now she would have to go through the piles and find the ones she'd already mended!)
But she thought of her real job as a Knight. How else would she learn more about Saint Germain, if she could not get the man closest to him to open up for her? She had to get back in Jacques' good graces if she wanted to interrogate him later. The Knight's Code book in the section about spying said, Question quarry's closest friends, or someone in their employ. Since Percival was not much on chit-chat, she had to rely on Jacques, hoping he'd be happy to talk about himself, and then she could turn the conversation onto Saint Germain, when the moment presented itself.
She waited. Jacques had gone back upstairs and returned with another pile—there's more books upstairs?
She watched him slip past her in his quick gate. “Jacques?”