by Lorelei Bell
Together Saint Germain and Zofia hoisted the heavy woman to her feet and helped her through the tavern.
“Oh-h-h, Count Saint Germain, you sweet man!” Doreen gushed throatily. “I wanted to thank you for what you did. The candles! They're beautiful. It would have taken me a month to make so many. I don't know how I shall ever repay you.”
“No need to repay me, Mrs. Clutterbutt,” Saint Germain assured gently. “My only desire is to know that your shop continues on and thrives.”
But Doreen had to continue to thank him, and then asked where he'd gotten so many candles, and all from some company called Yankee, and that she'd never heard of such a company before. In a few moments, they found themselves outside with Doreen filling the air with her voluminous voice, questioning Saint Germain and Zofia both as to what happened. They independently came up with bogus stories that seemed to mollify her up until they delivered her to her door. Saint Germain checked her house out quickly, making sure she was safe from renegade wizards, and once they were both satisfied, he and Zofia left the woman to her dwelling.
Together Zofia and Saint Germain turned back to the cobblestone street. It was not as busy as it had been when Zofia had crossed it earlier that evening; people weren't milling about. As a matter of fact, it appeared that Zofia and Saint Germain were the only souls alive in the small village. Not even one window held a golden glow of candlelight, and the streetlights were all being snuffed out one by one.
Zofia's gaze went from the quiet street, to the giant menhir that stood before them. She really didn't want to climb all those steps again. Maybe while Saint Germain used his legs, she would just Transvect beside him.
“Come,” he said, trundling her forward, and then shifted her a little to one side in the grass where a large stone hunkered half planted in the ground. “Stop right about there,” he said. “That should be just right.”
“What are you doing?” she asked, a little bewildered.
“Everything will become apparent to you,” he said. “Now hold my hand.”
“Why?” She took his hand, which was warmer than her own, and felt good as it clasped around hers.
“The Portal will open up.” And it did. Suddenly she felt the pull behind her navel, and her ears popped, and then all sights and sounds went through a blender. The next moment, she was standing inside somewhere—she knew this as it was very warm, and a lot of red and gold met her eyes. A seismic syncopation met her ears. The sound was unmistakable. It was the huge organ, and it was playing.
Once she became aware of her surroundings, she found herself clutching onto Saint Germain. His grasp on her loosened slightly.
“We have arrived,” he confirmed, his deep voice in her ear, his arms around her felt comforting. Zofia leaned against him for a few heartbeats longer, finding his solid frame, and arms about her too reassuring to allow him to let her go. For the first time, since Dorian had left her at the tavern she felt safe.
She didn't need to ask him where they were. Gazing beyond and behind him, she could see that they were in the colossal Teleport Room. They were above it all, however, on one of the many catwalks. She wondered how he could control where they landed, but was happy that he could.
Easing her from himself, he took her hand. “Come. We must get back inside, quickly,” he said, and swept her along the red-carpeted catwalk that curved up, around, and over, and under many other such catwalks. She scurried beside him, trusting that he knew exactly where they were going, because she sure didn't. When he lead her through a dark, tight tunnel, she realized they were heading through the very same secret passage that Jacques had taken her through yesterday. They passed through the opening of the bookcase and emerged into his very masculine library. The opening allowed them to squeeze through, one at a time. Once out, Saint Germain tipped back the golden griffin, and the bookcase swiveled back into place without even the slightest sound.
“Pray have a seat, Zofia,” he said as he surged toward one end of the room, and pulled on a golden cord. Zofia found a leather chair, and plopped down, feeling slightly dizzy from their escapade.
Both hands slicked over his hair, which was pulled into its usual tail. She hadn't even taken in his manner of dress until now. He had worn his cloak over a plain-looking dark jacket and calf-length pants—the usual black velvet ones. His shoes were adorned with gold buckles this time, and a white shirt that looked to be bleached muslin. He obviously had been working, just prior to coming to her rescue. They both threw off their cloaks, into a pile on the nearby sofa.
Only now, as she felt slightly rested, and everything that had happened sank in, she began berating herself for not being better able to handle Myron. She should have kneed him in the groin when she'd had the chance (yes!), and then hit him over the head with a bottle, or a heavy earthenware plate (that would have been wonderful, if I could have managed it). It wouldn't have knocked him out, but it would have allowed her the moment she would have needed to break a chair leg, thrust it into Myron's chest, and then plunged it into Ommetress' chest just as she charged her. Blood would have spurted and drenched her so that when Saint Germain had come in—too late—he would find her disheveled appearance, and commend her on a job well done in ridding the town of two notorious vampires. She would rise in status in her Knighthood…
The edited version of the events of what might have happened went through her mind as she sat there, unmindful for the moment as to what Saint Germain was doing. The adrenaline rush gone, she now felt safe enough to run the whole event through her head over and over again like a loop of film—in edited form.
She looked down at her hands. They were still shaking. What a moron she had been, going into the tavern by herself—almost by herself. She chastised herself for not realizing right away that Abigale was setting her up. She wouldn't let Abigale do that to her again. In fact a little payback was in order. Too bad her spell hadn't hit her in the head.
There came a rap on the door, interrupting another one of Zofia's replays in her head (where she was turning Abigale into a termite). With a one-word command, the taciturn servant, Percival, entered carrying a tray. A white cloth draped over it, concealing what was underneath it. Zofia was pretty sure it was not a food tray—just not the right type of bumps and lumps. Besides, the food tray was always served with a silver domed lid.
“Thank you, Percival,” Saint Germain said, as his servant settled the tray on his desk.
Percival made his usual bow and silent exit.
“What's all that?” Zofia asked, eying the tray.
“You must take your philter,” he said, taking up a small bottle and gazed at it to determine what it was.
“Oh, yes,” she said, shifting uncomfortably on the leather couch. She eyed the small phial he held in his hands. “Could you possibly leave out the bromide?” she asked.
His eyes shifted to her. “The bromide?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn't agree with me—my chemical balance.”
“Oh,” he said, pausing. “I see.” He returned the phial back to the tray. “That was my favorite part,” he added, smiling at her.
She caught his glance and returned his smile. “Because it fizzes?”
“Yes. It fizzes.” His mouth quirked slightly as if struggling with his smile as he took up the other ingredients, and then mixed them together in the glass of water. Soon the drink was ready and he presented it to her.
Reaching out, she took it from him, and peered at it with slight disdain. “This won't make me sleepy, will it?”
“I would think not, unless you are already sleepy.”
She twisted her mouth, pausing the drink to her lips.
“I have done nothing different to the philter, aside from removing the bromide as you've asked, I assure you, my heart.”
She shrugged. If she couldn't trust Saint Germain, then who could she trust? She lifted the glass to her lips and drank it down. It would settle her queasy stomach.
Gasping, she handed the empty glass back to him. He took it, set it on a table, and settled into a chair opposite her. Leaning back, elbow propped on the arm of the chair, his fingers curled beneath his chin, he looked comfortable as he fixed his gaze on hers. He was waiting, she realized.
Licking droplets from her lips, she knew she had to say something. Something that would not only fill the void, but explain why she was there. If he hadn't found out she'd been sent by the Witenagemont as a spy, then her rehearsed explanation would be good enough. For now.
“So, you knew all along I was a sorceresses? Or were you merely guessing?” she said.
“I had my suspicions, merely because I have come to recognize those who possess the powers.” He paused, making a gesture with his other hand, the fingers fluttering a little. “Something in the eyes, something about the feel of the atmosphere around you, and, of course, the tingle in your touch when we shook hands.”
“Dragon spit,” she said.
He chuckled.
“I knew that was a mistake,” she admitted. “I was just hoping that you'd think it was static coming off of me. Most people do.”
He smiled and settled back into his comfortable chair. “Tell me why you really came into my home, Zofia.”
She pulled in a breath and let it out heavily. He wasn't a fool, and to lie to him any further might jeopardize the trust he had in her. “I was sent to spy on you.” She watched his face. His expression had not changed, but his gaze rose above her head to take in the low dark ceiling. “Ah, yes. A spy. As perhaps a secret agent of the Witenagemont?”
Busted. Zofia bowed her head. Obviously she had failed in keeping her real identity a secret. Some secret agent she was. She may as well hand in her robes.
“I'm sorry, Franz. I never wanted any of this, it was thrust upon me. And, more importantly, I never meant to harm you, or anyone around you.”
Holding up a hand, he said, “Do not apologize. I too was once a secret agent, in the service of France—back a very long time ago. I was what you might call a confidant and counselor. Oh, how I miss the intrigue. The danger.” He went into a revery, right there and sighed.
“You see Louis the Fifteenth tried to negotiate peace with Austria in secret behind his minister's back. I was sent to The Hague to negotiate with Prince Louis of Brunswick. Unfortunately things went awry.” He shifted slightly in his seat, stretching one leg out in front of himself. “The fact that I was doing all of this in secret, behind the backs of a few who had the power to have me thrown into the Bastille, made it a little too thrilling, I'm afraid. But I believed in what I was doing. In the end, Duke de Choiseul—the minister for foreign affairs—learned about my involvement some how.” He paused and looked at her.
“I was actually in Holland at the time when I learned I was to be arrested and extradited back to Paris to face imprisonment.
“My king, of course, could not dare admit to his participation in this affair, and I do not blame him.” He chuckled as though struck with some sort of savory memory. “Ahhh,” he breathed. “Those times were interesting. I am loathed to admit it, I was very much involved with women, jewel thieves and swindlers. One might look upon my conduct at that time in my life and call me a cad. I, myself, am amazed that I did not come to a gruesome end at some point in my long, illustrious carrier as a spy in France, or Germany, England, or Russia, just to name a few. But”—his shoulders rose and fell—“I am a survivor.”
Zofia found herself sitting forward, engrossed in his story. “But you made it out of Holland, right? You weren't imprisoned?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Many would have you believe I was a scoundrel, the way I acted and carried on,” he went on. “But I did what was needed to gain access to the places and people I needed to deal with. So, if I had to dupe a few fathers who's daughters I—shall we say—romanced? It was all part of my job.”
This was sounding so very familiar. The way of the spy was not so different on First World as it was here. Being shifty, lying, and now and then bedding those who would help them gain the ultimate goal—whatever it was.
Zofia pulled in another breath and let it out. “So, you understand?”
“Of course.”
“So, I suppose I should leave—?” she wasn't sure how he really felt about her right now. He seemed more or less amused by her dimwitted approach at spying. She'd failed so miserably. But maybe Stephen would never give her another assignment again. That was the up side of it.
Saint Germain paused a beat. “I need to know why you are here, first of all, and then I will decide what to do with you,” he said, hand closest to her relaxed over the arm rest.
“Right,” she agreed dismally.
“But I need to know one thing, first. And do not lie to me, as I will be able to tell.”
“Alright,” she said, looking at her hands. They weren't shaking quite so bad as before, but they weren't exactly steady.
“Does your heart belong to another?”
She looked up and frowned deeply at him. Once she thought about it for a few moments, the frown lessened.
“You mean Dorian?”
“Yes, Dorian.”
She had been worried about him, of course, in the back of her mind—especially now, since he'd gone down into that cellar. What could he have found? And only now as the current situation with him bullied its way back to the forefront of her thoughts was she reminded of him. Whatever she felt toward him—anger, resentment, even slight loathing for how he had treated her—she realized she had lost whatever love she'd had reserved for him. He'd very much squashed it into the ground with their last two meetings. Why was this so insurmountable to admit? What a hopeless fool she was to believe he would come back to her. But they were definitely divorced. Dorian wanted no reconciliation. And as realization crashed in on her, she found she didn't want to try and gain him back. Not any more.
“We've split up, divorced,” she told him. She felt that her glum tone of voice would be convincing enough.
“That does not answer the question.”
She averted her eyes. “No. I guess it doesn't.”
A few seconds passed. “So, do you still love him?”
She expelled a heavy sigh. “I had been hopeful that he would reconcile with me. That seemed to put a nail into it. It would seem my love for him has taken too many blows. I-I find there's no love left in me to go back to him, even if he did want me back.”
“I see. Where is your ex-husband now?” he asked, studying her intently.
Damn, he was good at reading her. “I met him at the tavern tonight. I'd learned that there is a back entrance into Phineas' cult's hidey-hole, and told him about it. He went there, just before you came along.”
“Who told you about it?”
“Mrs. Clutterbutt.”
“And may I safely assume that your husband is also a spy?” he asked, sounding slightly jilted.
“Oh, yes. Definitely. He's a Knight of the Witenagemont. Like me. Only he's an upper level Knight. I'm the lowest rank.”
“You too are a Knight?” he looked astonished.
“Yes.”
“As far as I know the Witenagemont do not make a habit of making sorceresses Knights, do they?”
“No. They don't. But I seemed to have been hand-picked for this job.” Blast Stephen's hide. Whenever she saw him again she would give him her robes back and refuse to take any more jobs for him.
“What?” he asked her.
Blinking, she realized she must have been thinking too hard on what she wanted to do once she got out of here, she'd forgotten she was trying to answer him.
“It's nothing. I—it's nothing.” She really didn't want to get into her personal relationship between her and Stephen right now. It would sound really awkward, like she allowed men to manipulate and bed her at the drop of a glove. That wasn't the case at all. She just wound up in really strange situations, that's all.
Poking one finger into his cheek, he ponde
red her for a moment, then drew it away and sat forward. Clasping his hands between the knees he said, “Zofia, while I do appreciate your confiding in me, you must understand where this puts us.”
She paused and allowed him to go on.
“Because we have been so wrapped up in each other—me more than you—” She tried to protest, but he thrust up a stalling hand and went on “—we have allowed ourselves to turn a blind eye to our problem.”
“Problem?”
“Your rogue wizards and Cagliostro. I also have been doing some of my own digging into this cult, and what its main goals might be.”
She leaned forward again, feeling a slight chill rush through her. “Tell me. What have you learned?”
“If only that I can trust what I tell you stays with you?”
She bit on her lower lip in thought. “I don't know. The Knights are the only ones who can do anything to stop them, because they too are sorcerers and wizards.”
“They may not be able to stop him,” Saint Germain said grimly. “Not in time.”
There came an ominous rumbling overhead, as though to underscore his words.
They both looked up, as though they might see through the ceiling to the sky. To Zofia, it sounded more like a bomb had gone off.
“The storm has come a bit earlier than predicted,” Saint Germain speculated, then sat back, glancing at a table where a book rested. He pointed to it. “As to the Egyptian Lodge, and the god it recognizes.” He shook his head as he went on. “If they are going about what I think they are, your planet, and its people are in grave danger.”
“What have you learned?”
“As I have been here for a good century and a half, I have come to know something of the history of your world and how it became tamed in order for you to live here. Out of all the very dangerous creatures who thrived here, before your people came, the Helsingas were the most dangerous and hardest ones to either control, reduce, or eradicate.”