My Demon's Kiss

by Lucy Blue

  “I’m tired,” she said softly, barely aware she had spoken aloud. Blowing out her candle, she left the window to go to her room and sleep.

  3

  Isabel had suspected Brautus might be shocked to hear she had let Simon stay to explore the catacombs. But she never expected him to be furious.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded, risking his shoulder to wrench himself upright in bed as soon as she had told him all that had passed the night before while he was gone from the castle.

  “Not that I’ve noticed.” She set his breakfast in front of him. “But how would I know if I were?”

  “You are; trust me.” He glared at the tray as if he bore it a grudge. “And what would your father say, with me tucked in bed like a suckling babe while his daughter takes some stranger and his imp into his study? This man could be anybody!”

  “He is my kinsman,” she insisted, spreading a napkin over his chest. “You heard him say as much yourself.”

  “Aye, I heard him. Who’s to say he’s not a liar?”

  “I say.” She handed him a spoon. “I told you. He is my Irish cousin; he used to be a knight; he fell under a curse in the Holy Land.” He took it without looking, staring at her instead, incredulous. “Papa came to him in a dream and told him to come to Charmot, that the only way to break this curse of his was here.”

  “And you believe this bucket of—”

  “I do.” She sat on the edge of the bed. “I prayed for him, Brautus. I prayed to God and to my father—I even prayed to the pagan gods of the druids. Send me a true Black Knight.”

  “Oh holy Christ—”

  “And so they have,” she finished. “Brautus, just think—a knight under a curse, cursed by God Himself, or so Simon believes. Does that not sound like a Black Knight to you? And you saw him. Even under that silly robe, you can see how strong he is. And he must be a good fighter, or else why would he think himself cursed?”

  “Because he’s so clumsy, he killed his own lord by accident?” Brautus suggested. “Because under that robe, he’s a leper? Because he roasts babies on spits and eats them on Ash Wednesday? Faith, girl, where is your head?”

  “Brautus, I believe him,” she insisted. “Not that God has truly cursed him, no, but I believe that he believes it. And if he thinks the cure is at Charmot, so much the better. He will help us, Brautus; I know it.” She paused, still not certain she should tell him the rest. “I asked him.”

  “Asked him what?” he asked with a frown.

  “Asked him why he was cursed,” she answered. “I asked him if he was a killer, and he said yes, that he was. I asked him if he could kill again, if he had to do it, and he said he could.”

  “Holy Christ,” he repeated. “This is my fault.” He pushed his porridge away untasted. “I should have let you marry the first little weakling the king sent to claim you and been done—no doubt he’d be dead and buried by now, and you’d be free.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed.

  “You were just so young,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you being some strange man’s wife, not yet… and now we’ve come to this.” His pale blue eyes looked tired and sad as they finally met her own. “You say this man admitted he was a killer, may God save us. What if he is a liar as well?”

  “Then he is a liar. What difference will it make?” She got up from the bed. “He doesn’t even have a sword, Brautus; I’m not afraid of him. And if he will help us, if he will defend Charmot, I don’t care if he is a leper or any of those other things you said. And if he will not…” She didn’t even want to think of it. She wanted to believe as she had last night that her problems were solved, that she could finally stop worrying about the future, at least for a little while. Was that so much to ask? “If Simon is a liar and he will not help, how will I be any worse off than I was before? If some brigand comes and takes Charmot away from me, what will it matter if we have a liar in the catacombs?”

  “What if this Simon is the brigand?” Brautus asked more gently. “What if all of his tales are no more than a trick to win entrance to the castle without a fight? What if he is the one who has come to claim Charmot and to claim you for his own?”

  “No.” She shook her head, her back turned on her protector. “If he had wanted to take Charmot, he could have done it last night. If he had meant to make me marry him, or…” She broke off with a bitter smile. “Trust me, Brautus. He did not.”

  “Then he is more the fool.”

  “And glad am I of it.” She turned back to him with a smile. “You needn’t act as if his getting through the gate was all my fault, you know.” She took the bowl and spoon and sat back down on the bed. “You’re the one who let him and Orlando pass.”

  “No, you don’t, my lady,” he scolded, taking his breakfast back. “I’m not so feeble yet that I will let you feed me.” He took a grudging bite. “I didn’t mean to let him pass, if you want to know. That was Malachi.”

  “Malachi?” she laughed. “Brautus, Malachi is a horse.”

  “When your friend Simon stepped onto the drawbridge, I didn’t think I would have to lift a hand to turn him away; I thought the horse would do it,” he answered. “He broke his reins and reared over him like he meant to stove in his head, wild as an unbroken colt.”

  “I saw him rear up,” Isabel admitted. “But I thought you made him do it.”

  “Not I—I barely kept my seat.” His eyes met hers again. “Then all in a single instant, he changed. He faced that Simon like… it was like he bowed to him.” His expression clouded, and she heard a tremor in his voice. “You are too young to remember, kitten, but his sire used to bow to your father that way, back in the days of our wars. It made me think perhaps this man was telling the truth, that he was Sir Gabriel’s kinsman indeed.” His face turned stern again. “But now I hear you tell this tale of a curse and a vision, and I think I must be running mad as well.”

  “He is my kinsman, Brautus. When the time comes, he will defend Charmot.” She gave his hand a squeeze. This tale of Malachi made her even more certain she had made the right choice, even more certain Simon was exactly what she knew him to be, whether he knew it or not. But she knew better than to try to press that point with Brautus. “And if he won’t, you can kill him yourself.”

  Simon yawned again, the strange characters of the ancient code swimming on the scroll before his eyes. After ten years of study, he could decipher much of the writing of the saints and wizards who had hidden the Chalice from the world, almost as much as Orlando could. But not when he was more than half asleep. “It must be nearly dawn,” he said, laying the scroll aside.

  “Well past it, I would imagine,” Orlando agreed. They had decided to read what they could in the scrolls here in this chamber before moving on to the catacombs themselves. Hopefully they would find some clue to guide them through the labyrinth. But everything so far seemed to focus on the history of this lake and island and the rites of the people who had once lived there—fascinating reading, but not of much use to their quest. So far neither of them had found any direct mention of the Chalice at all. But the strong premonition they shared that it was here remained even so. “No doubt that silly girl will be down here any moment to lock us out for the day.”

  “She isn’t a silly girl,” Simon said, a faint hint of reproach in his tone. “This castle and these catacombs are hers, and we are strangers. I cannot blame her for wanting to keep some kind of control over our study.” He picked up another scroll. “Besides, I like her.”

  “I know you do,” Orlando retorted sharply enough to make the vampire look up. “And so do I,” the dwarf added. “That will be our greatest difficulty here, I’m afraid.”

  “Why should it be?” Simon answered. “I don’t intend to bite her, if that is what worries you.”

  “Just because you don’t intend to do it doesn’t mean you won’t,” Orlando pointed out with a wry smile. “But no, that is not what worries me, or not all.”
He put the scroll he’d been reading back into its stone coffin. “The Chalice is here at Charmot; we both believe it. Somewhere in these catacombs is the end of our journey, the prize of our quest. But Lady Isabel knows nothing of that, or only what little you have told her. Yet she allows you to stay.”

  “And I, for one, am glad of it,” Simon said, rather annoyed. “Are you not?”

  “Of course I am,” the wizard answered. “But I fear the lady’s reasons. She wants something from you, warrior, and I fear I can all too easily guess what.”

  “She wants me to protect Charmot,” Simon answered. For the first time since it had happened, he let himself think back to the moment Isabel had seemed to decide to let him stay, the strange trance they had shared. “She thinks I am some Black Knight, a replacement for the giant we saw at the gates. She thinks her father sent me here to save her from… something.” He turned away, the drowsiness he always felt during the daylight hours making him feel slow and stupid. “I don’t know what she fears exactly, but I could tell she was afraid.”

  “And you want to protect her, whatever it is—it is in your nature to protect the innocent, vampire or not.” He smiled. “And as you said, you like her.”

  “May the angels pity her for it,” Simon retorted. “What protection can I offer anyone, Orlando, whether I like them or not?”

  “Who can tell?” the dwarf shot back. “You said yourself, you do not know what threatens this girl, what she fears. Your curse may make you her perfect guardian—the Black Knight, she called you? I call that apt indeed.”

  “Maybe,” Simon allowed, getting up to put away his scroll, but suddenly Orlando grabbed his arm.

  “You cannot swear yourself to this woman, warrior,” Orlando insisted, sounding urgent, almost fearful. “You cannot do evil to save her, no matter what her need might be.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Simon laughed, trying to pull free, but the wizard would not let him go. “What evil could she want? She is barely more than a child, an innocent—”

  “An innocent who asked you if you would kill for her, or have you forgotten already?” his mentor cut him off. “And you told her that you could. Something has passed between you already, innocent or not.” His grip tightened on Simon’s arm. “It may be no more than that, her very innocence, or her pretty face, but already she has laid claim to some part of your loyalty. Did you not hear how quick you were to defend her when I called her a silly girl?”

  “That was nothing,” Simon protested.

  “Was it?” Orlando replied. “Even if she wants no more than to have a noble cousin in her castle, she could still distract you from your quest, make you forget why it is you have come here and what you hope to find.”

  “Not likely.” Simon broke free at last. “Do you think I could forget for one moment what I am, Orlando? Do you not think it preys upon me every moment I am with this woman?”

  “I do,” Orlando nodded. “But what if what you are is what she needs? And what if that need should oppose your own need for the Chalice?”

  “How could it?”

  “Who knows?” The dwarf looked tired suddenly, and older than he had ever seemed before. “I have seen too much, warrior; I know how fate can play tricks. We have come here for a reason, but I fear what other forces may be waiting here as well, what other ends we may be brought to.”

  “You worry too much, old man,” Simon said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Just because Lady Isabel wants my protection doesn’t mean I intend to let her have it—I can’t. I told her I could kill, but I never promised I would kill for her, nor will I. I cannot swear myself to her; I am already sworn. My choices are already made.”

  “Are you certain?” Orlando asked. “Can you give your solemn promise? I ask not only for your sake, but for Roxanna—”

  “Pardon me, my lord.” A serving wench was peering around the door. “My lady is coming downstairs in a moment, and I wondered if you would have us bring you some breakfast.” She looked Simon up and down, a kittenish smile barely curling the corners of her pretty mouth. “Your room is already prepared.”

  “No,” Simon answered. “No breakfast.” The chit had come upon them so suddenly, he felt a little dizzy, her heartbeat like thunder for a moment in his ears before he grew accustomed to her presence. He had not fed since the brigands at the church; he should not risk being near any living creature until he fed again.

  “Tell Lady Isabel I will wait upon my master,” Orlando said. “She need not trouble herself.” His expression turned stern. “Or send you back ever again.”

  The girl’s smile disappeared. “As you will,” she nodded, obviously miffed. “My lady will be here soon.” Bobbing a curtsey to Simon, she swept from the room in a huff.

  “I don’t think I should see Isabel,” Simon said when she had gone. The girl’s scent still hung in the air, maddening and delicious, and he struggled to shut it out.

  “Nor do I,” Orlando agreed. “Go and see this room of yours; I shall tell her you’re already sleeping.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. But in truth he felt disappointed. He wanted to see his pretended cousin; if he were honest, he would admit he had been looking forward to it all night. But that in itself was dangerous. He shouldn’t care to see her, shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. Could Orlando be right? Could Isabel truly distract him from his quest? “Orlando, I promise,” he said, pausing at the door. “Whatever may happen, I will not abandon the Chalice.”

  Isabel passed Susannah coming up the stairs as she was going down. “What’s the matter?” she asked, laughing at the sour look on the other’s girl’s usually pleasant face.

  “Your kinsman is a beauty, my lady,” the serving maid answered. “But that little monster with him can go hang.”

  “You’d do better to leave both of them in peace,” Isabel advised. Susannah was the castle’s most notorious flirt; heaven only knew what damage she could do to Simon and his penitence, given free rein. “How did you come here? I didn’t see you in the hall.”

  “I came from outside, through the cellar door,” she answered. “I was in the garden, and I suddenly thought perhaps your guests would want me to fetch their breakfast.”

  “I take it they did not,” Isabel said, trying to keep a stern face. “Is Sir Simon’s room prepared?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Properly abashed, the girl bobbed a curtsey and hurried away up the stairs.

  The little storeroom was still more a burrow than a proper nobleman’s chamber, but it looked much more cozy than it had the night before. Two beds had been carried downstairs in pieces and reassembled, one large and one small, and a pair of chests covered with thick carpets would serve well enough for seating and for storage. The damp earth walls had been hung with plain blue wool on every side, and another, fancier tapestry depicting the golden oak of Charmot on a field of red had been hung over the larger bed. Fresh torches had been mounted in each corner, and a candle stood waiting on a small table beside the larger bed. Someone had even laid out fresh clothes for Simon, a plain black tunic and hose that had once belonged to her father with a clean white shirt for underneath.

  She picked up the tunic, remembering the last time her father had worn it as clearly as she remembered coming down the stairs that morning. She pressed her face to its soft folds, breathing deeply as if she might still catch a whiff of his scent. How many times had she pressed her cheek to this tunic and felt his arms close around her, making her feel safe? How had she lasted so long, knowing she would never feel that way again?

  Simon stood in the doorway watching. The room was fine, the best he’d had for shelter in quite some time. But it wasn’t the room that held him silent and entranced. He had meant to avoid Isabel completely until he had rested and fed, but now that he saw her, he couldn’t imagine he could ever look away.

  Isabel felt eyes on her and turned around. “Good morrow, cousin,” she said with a little laugh, embarrassed. What must he be thinking, seeing her this way? “Did you
find what you were looking for?”

  “Not yet.” He came closer, into the room. “I fear we must impose on you a while longer.”

  “We don’t mind.” She laid the tunic on the bed. “Someone must have thought you needed something better to wear,” she explained. “It was probably Hannah—she was saying last night it was a disgrace, your being seen in that tatty robe when you’re my father’s kinsman.” He was still watching her, one corner of his mouth turned up in the barest hint of a smile. Stop babbling, she scolded herself; you sound like a fool. “But then, you must prefer the robe, for your penance.”

  “No,” Simon answered. “I don’t, as a matter of fact. Thank you.” He smiled in truth. “Or thank Hannah.” He had been afraid the strange hunger he had felt for her the night before would have grown worse, but strangely, it had not. Being with her now, he could almost forget he hungered for blood at all. “Is she the one you sent down to ask if I wanted breakfast?”

  “I didn’t send anyone. I just assumed you didn’t.” She lit the candle on one of the torches. “But that was Susannah who came down on her own,” she said. “She and your Orlando will never be friends, I’m afraid. What did he say to her?”

  “Nothing, really.” How long had it been since he had allowed himself to have this kind of simple conversation with anyone, much less a woman? He found it soothing, fascinating. But what had she been thinking with her face pressed to that tunic? Did he dare to ask? “I think Orlando worries that I might be tempted into sin.”

  “I’m a bit worried myself,” she said with the husky hint of a laugh. “If anyone could tempt you, it would be Susannah.”

  “I’m not so certain of that.” Isabel looked at him, surprised. He almost sounded like he meant to flirt with her. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “So which one is Hannah?” he asked.