“You’re thinking of her, aren’t you?” Corvessa asked, her acute intuition sleuthing out the corporal cogs that were making Leon tired and irascible. His corneas were stained gentle pink and his skin was losing color. He would occasionally swallow as if his mouth were dry, and when he opened his mouth to work the soreness out of his jaw, his fangs showed, flexing out ever so. “I’m telling you, young one … Have the girl marry you. You can initiate her, and you can both share your renewal’s body. I’d marry if the circumstances were that romantic!”
“You probably have,” Leon joked.
“Twice.”
“Oh, that’s all?”
“Leon,” Corvessa sighed, turning to look him in the eyes, “As self-reliant as I am, I do feel a familial pride for my kind, and you are essentially my closest kin. What I advise you to do, I advise because I do wish you prosperity. I do, Leon.” Her dragon eyes and tongue conjured up a dramatic air. “You’re not a fool Leon, and I won’t speak with you like a child. Miss Bishop is forlorn and in need of strength. She misses Thomas, but he is a wandering, troublesome—”
“Object of your desire,” Leon finished for her, rising from his chair. Walking to the unlit fireplace he took an épée from its spot mounted on the mantle and began to practice his sword strokes.
“Yes, I was in love with the legends surrounding him, but I have come to see the reality is that he is just lucky and handsome. He is no champion of immortals. He cannot equate to you, Leon, and this is what you must show Miss Bishop. Teach her that her affection for Thomas is misguided. A mortal’s curiosity, invested in the wrong man.”
“Why is it that those who are no longer in love describe it as an affair of logic? What makes one man wrong for a woman, and another eligible?” he thought aloud, cutting the air. “Before I left, Father presented me with seven women …”
“Vampires,” Corvessa insisted.
“… Each of which were very pretty and young, and not a single one of them fascinated me more than the others. I felt nothing for them, but it was Father’s hope that I’d select one for a bride.” He stopped, resting the flat of the épée on his left shoulder. His right hand sunk into his trouser pocket, and he stretched his jaw.”
“Arnaud knew what I know, and he was trying to act in a timely manner, Leon. Marriage for necessity’s sake may not seem fair, but you are a leader. Your priorities lie with your duties, and if that responsibility should come at the cost of your heart’s wants, and sometimes it must, then it must be so.” With one finger she traced out a heart in the condensation collecting on the window. “How fortunate, that both love and power now present themselves to you as one parcel.”
“That parcel being Miss Bishop?” Leon’s aching head forced him to return the épée to its place on the mantle. He cleaned the handle and hilt with a cloth, wiped off his hands and stuffed the cloth in his jacket pocket. Corvessa kept her eyes on the melting heart on the window.
“I’m not fond of repeating myself, so I’ll tell you only once more. Claim the girl now, because if your men don’t find Thomas, he’ll come to you, and if he has to come to you, he’ll take the girl and burn your city.” Just as she finished, her dragon eyes narrowed. Through the melting heart she saw a plume of dust rise beyond Montmartre, somewhere in the eastern half of Paris, followed by a duo of pops and flashes; not the kind that gunpowder produces, but the kind that holy magic does. Leon did not notice, so Corvessa said nothing of it. “Why not see her about it tonight? Is she awake?”
“I believe so.”
“I’d fancy a walk along the colonnade. Do tell me how it all goes.” Getting up from her chair, Corvessa followed Leon to the hall, and there she parted with him abruptly.
When Leon knocked on the bedroom door in the north wing, Molly allowed him in. With a plain hello she opened the door, not looking at him directly. Two hours had passed, and when Leon informed Molly that he had received no word of Tom’s whereabouts, he was saddened to see that Molly did not cry. Her eyes were red, and she had spent all her tears.
“You have my thanks, Leon. I know you are trying to help, but I would much like to leave this place soon,” she confessed, setting herself on the edge of the green canopied bed. “You’re a noble man.” She had almost said ‘vampire.’ “To be honest, if my heart weren’t set on Thomas I’d think I would be quite enamored with you.” Leon, for the first time, experienced self-consciousness, in the form of embarrassment. That is to say, if he were mortal, he may have blushed. “I haven’t always trusted Thomas, but I’m sorry to admit that I trust him more than I can trust vampires. Christopher Barnes saw to that, not you, Mr. Beaumonte. Still, I cannot stay here, for I fear that my heart, or worse, my soul, might betray me.”
“Both most certainly would, and it would be my guilty pleasure in assisting them,” Leon admitted against his urge to protect himself. He did not sit down, and he could not bring himself to propose that she stay with him. Before he could, she had expressed her wish to leave the palace in the morning and search on her own in the daylight. Leon did not object. He was disappointed in knowing that Lucia Vasquez could never marry him, but he was glad to know the presence of her blood would not haunt him for more than a night, and he could at least turn his attention to another matter.
“It might seem cold of me, but I must ask you something,” Molly said, looking at Leon.
“You want to know if I feel love.” Leon guessed correctly, and he knew it. Somehow he’d anticipated that question, even if the conversation had gone elsewhere. “I wasn’t a vampire at birth.” The statement surprised Molly. “My mother was mortal, but my father had to initiate us both if we were to adhere to the Society’s code. I loved my mother, in the way a human son loves a mother, and I felt it when the initiation took her life. I survived, you see, because the curse was already in my blood.” Leon folded his hands behind his back—a physical attempt to calm his inner quaking. “After her death, I didn’t love things anymore. After the first eighty or so years, one forgets mortal sentiments when mortality ceases to matter.” It wasn’t entirely true, he knew, but he was feeling cynical.
“I’m sorry.” Molly would have expected anyone else to show a physiological reaction to the recalling of something so sorrowful, but Leon’s expressionless delivery proved what he had just explained to her.
“It’s all right,” he replied. “Apologies also lose their medicinal properties after the bite. I understand your concern, even if it is impossible for me to empathize. My mother and father would still have cared for one another, but loving and caring, ironically, are easier to distinguish for a vampire than a mortal. What I know of loving is nearly a ninety-year-old memory, and it has not left me. Love, as I understand it, has much to do with the impulses that ensure survival. Not merely procreation, but more important, the instinct to protect oneself and others. To preserve our kin, our children, our tribe, clan, cult … Love, in short, is most necessary in the face of death. I do not fear death, and so I have not the amenities to protect myself from it, if that answers your question.”
“Yes, thank you.” Molly wasn’t sure what else she could say. The vampire’s argument was sound, but a part of her wanted to believe it was flawed. It was sad to think such a pleasant man couldn’t feel. In retrospect, “thank you” probably had as much impact as “sorry”, and she wished she had something else to offer him. Luckily, the awkward moment that should have followed was prevented when another vampire came to ask Leon to come downstairs. Leon excused himself, stretching his jaw and leaving with the vampire.
Thomas had come back into control of his body somewhere to the north of Paris. The first thing he saw was a small house, so as he drove the dreigher back into its hiding place, his body aimed itself at the home, directing him to a woodshed, where he scavenged for a supplement to his missing saber, Brother, which he had left behind with the coach and the rest of his things. A strong lock kept him from opening the door to the woodshed, so Tom dug his fingers into the creases of the frame and pr
ied it from the hinges gradually, ears tuning in on any activity coming from the house. The door clung weakly to the shed and snapped in half at the middle, splintering and scratching Tom’s stomach. Kicking away the two halves, Tom crept into the shed, overturning a scrawny stack of firewood. Out of three lackluster options he chose a hatchet hanging on the wall and fit it into his belt behind his back. Leaving the shed, he was met by a middle aged man who pointed a pistol at his chest. The man threatened him in French, and he didn’t understand but a word or two of it. The color of Tom’s eyes disturbed the man. One was relatively human, except for the yellow iris. The other was almost entirely black, with an imperfect white ring around where a pupil should be. Where the ring was malformed, white veins trailed off across the black cornea like broken spider silk. Tom knew that the man was not watching his hands, and his fingers touched the handle of the hatchet. Before they curled around the handle, Tom paused, recognizing fear in the man’s eyes. His ears focused on the man’s breathing. It was shallow. His trigger finger was not even prepared to pull. His eyes were on Tom’s, not on the spot on Tom’s chest where he wanted Tom to believe he was going to put a shot. Slowly, Tom reached out. The man flinched. Tom snatched the pistol from his hand, put it into his belt next to the hatchet, turned away, and walked off toward the city.
Leon’s search party lay dead in the streets, seven Blood Moons among them. Both parties had engaged in a brawl that took every participant’s life, save for an eighth Blood Moon, whom the violet-eyed vampire had allowed to escape, while she returned to Montmartre. The deadly encounter had been orchestrated just as she wished. The werewolf she chased down the street had fled for help, and just as he found his seven allies on the next street, the violet-eyed vampire took him to the ground. The other Blood Moons rushed to his aid as the Black Coats caught up, and both sides donned their immortal skins for a showdown.
The violet-eyed vampire tore open her prey’s back and swiftly pinned two more successive foes to even the field. With a childish glee she watched as the fray shrank until two of the Blood Moons circled the leader of the search party, reverting to human form, and taking delight in executing him with two blasts of light from magically blessed pistols. When they turned their guns on the violet-eyed vampire, her submission was unexpected. Smiling, she walked to them, held out her unarmed hands and invited them to shoot. The air cooled rapidly and became cold as she approached. Every source of light nearby diminished, and some disappeared. When the werewolves pulled their triggers, the shots evaporated against the vampire’s body like clumps of dirt. One of the werewolves squirmed as his body left the ground, rising high off his feet. The violet-eyed vampire’s mouth opened in excitement, the corners of her lips literally splitting open and extending to touch the lobes of her ears, tiny conical teeth sprouting from her gums. The other werewolf backed away and dropped his pistol, eyes never leaving the jack-o-lantern grin on the woman’s face. His unfortunate friend suddenly accelerated into the sky, out of sight. The surviving werewolf ran for his life, and the violet-eyed woman watched him. After he escaped, she had time to stroll leisurely down the street and back toward Montmartre before her flying victim returned to the ground again, striking the stone with the force of a meteorite.
When a perspiring, stuttering werewolf crashed through the doors of the Paris Clan’s mairie on the banks of the Seine, in a small, recently apportioned commune of southeast Paris, he nearly lost his life for the second time that night. The matriarch, or in this case, high priestess of the Paris Clan and the chief representative of the conseil municipal, Henriette Petit, had him seized at the door. Quickly identifying him as one of the visiting Blood Moon clan, Henriette sent for Jack Darcy, who had heard the commotion from the assembly chamber and was on his way to the front of the building. When he arrived, the werewolf who caused the stir would face death for a third time, and it dawned on him when Jack stepped into his field of view and took out his pipe.
Jack’s large, smoke-stained fingers pinched a clump of tobacco into the bowl, which was fashioned from an unusually large grackle skull. The yellowed fingers returned the tobacco tin to its home in the right pocket of his grey overcoat’s inside lining and brushed themselves off on his dark trousers, finally resting on his mako-skin gun belt. The right hand, the skin thickened by a riotous number of burn wounds and teeth marks, most from dauntless dives into mouthfuls of teeth and single-handed engagement with the operational ends of boldly modified firearms, rose to adjust the pipe between feverishly grinding teeth. The old pirate’s hair fanned out in choppy sprigs at ear level, giving way to a decades-old beard that hung around his face like a palm leaf. Above, his balding head was crowned with a black hat, upturned on the left side and plumed with, not a feather, but an arrangement of large avian wing bones. Jack’s small eyes rested in his head close together like two robin’s eggs being dragged down into a snake’s nest. Over the light blue eyes hung a sheer cliff of two thick eyebrows, and below them, a tree stump nose ejected furls of smoke drawn up by the furnace blazing in the grackle skull pipe.
“Captain, the others …” The perspiring werewolf choked out his words slowly. “The cult attacked us in the street! She … she …” He stopped speaking as Jack drew in a breath and expelled a cloud of smoke.
“Turn your back to me,” ordered Jack, drawing his favorite weapon from his belt, an oversized kopis, a savage sword that curved in on itself halfway down the blade, where the metal was thickened for the purpose of chopping. Jack called it Quarter, not because he had any sense of mercy but because it specialized in taking the limbs of his immortal enemies: parts that curses don’t regrow. “Turn your back,” Jack said again. His voice poured forth through the smoke like the crackle of dry leaves. The depth made his words clear, but the quality was ashy and soft, like a whisper, if a whisper could fill a room like the boom of a felled tree.
“Sir?” The werewolf complied with the order and struggled not to glance over his shoulder. Biting into his tongue, he resisted crying out as Quarter shoveled its point into his back, glancing bone.
“I thought surely your spine had been taken,” Jack said, his brow furrowing in confusion, “but I can see it is still here in your body. I know that it cannot be fear that beads on your face and seeps from your bellowing lungs.” Yanking the blade from the werewolf’s back, he rested a paternal hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke quietly to him. “When you show your fear to my enemies, you turn your back to me.”
“Captain Darcy,” Henriette interrupted, “save your brutality for your enemies. If this is your idea of garnering respect, I would prefer to see the commune wilt, in which case you may solicit your protective services elsewhere.” The high priestess, dainty in contrast to Jack, was assertive in her disapproval. Each time Jack overstepped his bounds while in the clan’s commune—her commune—she had been swift to turn her large, wrinkled eagle’s eyes on Jack. Her small lips, cracked at the corners, turned down in an ink-stroke-thin scowl until Jack put away his blade, and her nostrils flared when he brazenly knocked the ash out of the grackle skull onto the clean floor.
“This commune has earned not respect but scorn, because it has not demonstrated itself.” Darcy spat out his reply. “Filth and blood are the telling signs of work and worth. The fearful souls in Marseille dare not disturb the waves that cradle my ship even now, in my absence.” Pipe blazing, Jack whistled for his crew, who filed into the room, armed and dressed.
“I think between your men’s debacle and your monetary compensation, the former is, astonishingly, the weightier burden on your brain, Captain,” Henriette said, her old eyes beating against Jack in defiance. Flattening her white, three-layered robe and sash, she folded her arms, her straight, grey-streaked hair cascading back from her face as she tilted it up. “Leaving, then, are you?”
“No, I’m going to make a bit of blood and filth.” Opening the doors for his minions, Jack put out his pipe and buttoned his overcoat, knowing that Henriette’s militia, smaller in number, could not s
top him. The reward offered to the Order of the Blood Moon for protecting the local clan had once been Jack’s priority, but he was not impressed with the little commune that Henriette believed could one day match the status of Chateau Beaumonte, and he was not interested in peace. Jack didn’t want Paris, but he could take it if he did, so he decided to demonstrate.
****
Since he could not detect Molly’s whereabouts, Thomas wandered into Paris following the senses that steered him toward the smell of blood, because he was sure that where it was strongest, he would find the Black Coats, and where the Black Coats were, he would find Leon. His nose led him first to, not Montmartre, but to a street to the northeast of it, where he came across the carnage leftover from a recent confrontation between the Blood Moons and the Black Coats. The mess struck him as odd, because the fight was clearly unbalanced and only one member of each party had left unscathed. What was bothersome was that, judging from the scent trails, one Blood Moon had retreated, rather than finish the fight with a single Black Coat, whose scent was also recent and traceable. Blood Moons didn’t retreat. Why the one didn’t pursue the last vampire, Tom could find no explanation. Then he saw a werewolf whose body had apparently hit the ground with absurd force, much more than was attributable to physical strength or even magic. The scraps of evidence on the ground and in the air were difficult to sort through. Reverberations of magic residue hinted that holy magic had been used in the area. There was a non-vampire, non-werewolf individual’s scent in the street, and then it hit him—the scent was of the violet-eyed woman he’d seen on the docks in London. He hadn’t noticed before, but the trace was almost identical to Molly’s. Confusion jarred his conclusions. Molly’s alleged associations with the Black Coats became worrisome. Her potential as a sorceress was alarming as well. It may have somehow explained the death of the crushed werewolf in the street. Tom wondered if Molly had feigned her inexperience with magical usage all the time he had known her. If her past had been even a slight fabrication, couldn’t her catalog of talents been as well? Critical missing pieces of the equation moved Tom’s emotions like wayward islands, weakening the bedrock of his loyalties and scrambling his trust. More ready than ever to be angry and let down, Tom followed the scent trail to Montmartre.
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