“Gianna, how did you come to live at the Pagani estate?” he asked as he came in and she closed the door. “Why isn’t Sylvia here? Is she in the city?”
“Please,” she stopped him, touching a finger to his lips, “I will explain everything, but you must be quiet and pretend as I do. Come with me.” Looping an arm around his, she walked with him through the house, whispering to him and batting her eyes whenever they passed by another one of the girls. The house was much different than Leon remembered—darker, cooler, and it smelled of perfumes that masked a faint aroma of blood. There was music hanging in the air—a melancholy tune coming from a piano somewhere on the other side of the walls. Blackheart Reprise? Leon knew the melody. Girls lounged about in the halls and on the furniture, their eyes following Leon as he passed, intrigued by the presence of an actual vampire and not just the typical mortal fare. Lillian Rousseau was slouched in a doorway and reached out to touch Gianna’s arm lightly as she and Leon started up the stairs.
“Does this one need any company? Juliette and I are not busy,” she said, smiling at Leon while the vampire behind her, Juliette, bit her lip, revealing a pointed fang.
“Oh, thank you, Lillian, dear, but I already offered,” replied Gianna. Before Lillian could get another word out, Gianna whisked Leon up the stairs. In the upstairs hall Gianna unlocked one of the bedrooms, making sure no one saw her as she took Leon inside, shutting the door quietly and locking it again.
“Now we may speak freely,” she said, brushing her hands over the wrinkles in her dress and setting the keys down on a bureau. “I should tell you this house no longer belongs to Don Violanti Pagani. The House of Roses has taken up residence ever since Don Violanti’s disappearance. The Red Legion and the House of Roses are being unified. I know you must wonder why I am here. I am not like the other girls. I just answer the door and make sure the men meet with whoever invited them.” She held her hands in front of her uncomfortably.
“Did you come here after what happened in Paris?” asked Leon.
“Yes, that’s it precisely. The Black Coat Society is no more, and we all thought you were lost or dead. Corvessa invited all the young women to join her cult and travel to London with her. I had little choice.”
“I understand,” said Leon.
“Leon, you should know, it was Corvessa who had your father killed.” Gianna spoke softly and struggled to make eye contact. “I knew for a long time, because my mother knew. Corvessa found out, and she threatened us, demanding that we never tell.”
“I think I already knew this but didn’t want to believe it.” Leon frowned, not reacting in the way Gianna had anticipated. “Corvessa has most likely been responsible for every tragedy to have befallen our kind in the past decade. After all, she is to blame for what happened in Paris, and for the destruction of my family’s home. I’m sure Sylvia LeRouge is just as guilty. It’s funny. I came here tonight to ask for her help. Those wicked traitors!” he growled. Leon shook his head and grinned with a cynical twitch. “No matter,” he said, dismissing the thought, changing his tone dramatically.
“What do you mean? Leon, they betrayed you,” Gianna implored him to explain.
“I am going to return to Paris, and I want you to come with me,” he said, moving close to her and holding her shoulders “Will you marry me, Gianna?”
“Leon …” Gianna held a hand over her heart. “Yes, yes of course I will. I hate this place, but the law of your cult forbids us to be married.” Overjoyed as she was, she was afraid.
“The old laws did, but things are going to change,” he told her. “Tell me, are there others who are still loyal to my family?”
“Oh, yes, many,” she said, excitement in her voice. “My family is, of course, as is every family that served your cult under your father, Arnaud. Corvessa was only able to win the allegiance of the Red Legion. Leon, the French cults have rejected the House of Roses. Everyone is suspicious of her. That is why she brought the girls here. The Red Legion already controlled vampire affairs in London and no one opposed us, at least not publicly. No one challenges her because you have been gone. If you were to reappear, perhaps the cults in France would do something—”
“Yes, that is an excellent idea, Gianna. We will return to Paris, and I will meet with each of our former allies. I’ll rebuild my family’s house, and the Society will be greater than ever, I swear to you. I’ll expose Corvessa and the Red Legion. So you will come with me?” he asked again, touching her cheek.
“Yes, Leon, of course.” Gianna closed her eyes as Leon held her and put his lips to hers, a lifetime of his passion for her spilling over; hers, pouring forth for him.
“Je t’aime,” he whispered.
“Je t’aime tellement,” she answered him.
“Me montrer,” said Leon, making her blush.
In the next moment she curled her small fingers into the folds of his shirt, pushing the buttons through with her thumbs. Running her hands over his shoulders she pulled off his jacket as he untied the back of her blue silk dress. Many long kisses and deep sighs later, Gianna lay back on the covers of the bed slowly, letting her long hair fall behind her shoulders as Leon lay next to her, one hand sliding down the middle of her chest. The open window let in the light of the moon, making her pink and cream colored body glow as he laid himself atop her. Holding himself on his forearms above her, he put his lips to her neck and cheeks, letting his hair tickle her skin. The cold of the room did not concern them, but as Leon entwined his strong arms and legs in hers, chill bumps came running up Gianna’s legs and thighs. Quietly she breathed into his face, touching him softly and whispering into his ear.
In the early morning, two hours past midnight, a breeze came through the open windows, and Leon got up to close them. When he returned to bed, he lay down with Gianna and rested his head on her bare breasts, closing his eyes and listening to the rhythmic thumping inside her chest. It was slow and deep, aloof, nothing like a mortal’s. Her fingers combed through his wavy hair, and she rolled up against him, folding one leg over his.
“We can’t stay in London,” he said quietly. “We can’t leave for Le Havre tonight, either. I came into the city on a ship belonging to someone else.”
“Where do we go?” she asked, resting her face in his hair.
“Let’s leave to the west and find some place on the coast where we can wait until arrangements can be made to sail back to France.” It was the safest plan, he thought.
“We can’t wait until tomorrow, can we?” She already knew.
“No. I don’t trust anyone in this house.” Leon put a soft kiss on her breast and then her neck. “Are there any carriages here?”
“I can send for one,” she offered, holding him by the nape of his neck while he kissed her.
“It’s all right. We’ll leave on foot and find something along the way, as long as we’re out of town before the sun rises.” Lifting himself up with both arms he shook his hair from his face. Gianna got up and pulled him back to her for one more kiss and then gave him a nudge, letting him out of bed so they could get dressed.
Gianna unlocked the bedroom door quietly and led Leon past other closed doors, carrying a bag full of her most important possessions. She’d left most of the clothes the girls of the House had given her, except her blue dress, which she’d purchased herself and was wearing once again. Holding a finger to her lips, she signaled Leon to be quiet.
“Leon!” a voice from down the corridor called. “Oh, Leon!” it sang again. A rolling, squeaky giggle followed it.
“What does she want?” Leon thought aloud, recognizing Corvessa’s voice.
“Don’t,” said Gianna as he began to walk toward Corvessa’s room.
“Wait here,” he said, a look of immense displeasure crossing his face.
When he got to the end of the hallway, only a single bedroom door was ajar, spilling a slender finger of candlelight into the hall. Leon gave it a stern kick and looked inside as it swung open. Across the room, Corve
ssa was draped on a sofa. She had a glass of wine in hand and tugged at a sheer, emerald colored silk robe that had long given up covering her nude figure. The bodies of six or seven different men were scattered around the room, all pale and lifeless, two little pink dots on each of their necks. The walls and expensive rugs were streaked dark red, and the wet floor made Leon’s boots squeak.
Corvessa stared as Leon took one more step into the room and went no further. She hiccupped and rubbed the bags under her dark eyes. Faint blue veins showed through her lily white skin like trickles of cornflower dye through snow. Her mouth and chin were drenched in fresh blood. A rosy flush was particularly noticeable on her cheeks, breast and legs, and if Leon hadn’t known better he’d have thought she were burning up in the heat of the fiery mane on her own pretty head.
“Welcome back, Prince Leon,” she sang, spilling her wine and swearing.
“Oh, I won’t be staying,” he insisted.
“I know what you’re … you think you’re going to do something about all this?” She understood her own words about as well as Leon did. “I don’t care! I don’t … Are you angry? I had your father killed for the same reason I wanted you killed. You want everything to be fair and equal.”
“Why shouldn’t I care for my cult? Why shouldn’t I cut you into pieces right now?” he snapped.
“There’s no place for you or Arnaud! No one wants everyone to have what they want. The Seventh wants to free her people, the Third, that childish rube, wants medals and glory. Werewolves want their rights to magic, vampires want their rights as citizens and the Eighth wants to slaughter them both … He’ll get what he wants, but I have lost my one and only desire forever.” Her green eyes closed shut and she sobbed, dropping her glass and burying her face in a sofa cushion, losing her balance and sliding to the floor on her knees. “Have you come for revenge, Leon? You can’t kill me. Do you know what I am?” she screamed it at him. “I am the last of the great ethervores! I have kept every ounce of strength and purity that your kind lost hundreds of generations ago.”
“This pitiful thing in front of me is an ethervore?” Leon taunted her. The description, given to an early race of vampire long thought to have been extinct, hardly suited her in her moment of weakness. “Maybe I should kill it, and put it out of its misery.” In a lightning stroke, he drew Fantome and twirled it in little circles.
“You couldn’t if you tried,” she spat.
“And if I could,” he said, sheathing the blade and turning away, “I wouldn’t. You don’t deserve death, Corvessa. You deserve to struggle, like the rest of us.” With that he stormed back into the hall and slammed shut the door. Meeting Gianna down the hallway, he placed a hand on her back and walked down the stairs by her side. Hand-in-hand they left through the front door, running past the gate and out into the street, headed west, the moon on their backs and the night ahead of them.
*
Fierce sunlight stabbed Tom in the eyes when he came to. His wrists were sore and his head throbbed all over. Dizzy and weak, he tried to stand and failed, something catching him by the hands and keeping him dangling above the ground.
“Thomas Crowe … fifty-six provable counts of murder …” A loud, metallic voice bellowed. The sudden rumble of hundreds upon hundreds of voices followed it. Handfuls of little stones pelted him in the back, chest and head. Blinking his aching eyes, he struggled to run but his hands were caught. “… two-hundred and fourteen provable counts of theft …” the loud voice called out. Again the crowd jeered. Tom’s muscles swelled, and he sprouted fangs. Thrashing against his restraints he roared at the top of his lungs. The crowd grew silent, thousands of feet shuffling nervously and backing away from the execution block.
“Quiet, you!” said a closer voice. It was Paolo’s. A blunt strike to the head knocked Tom backward, and he barked.
“Ahem … sixty provable counts of kidnapping … thirteen provable counts of grand theft, including seven counts of destruction of property belonging to the Royal Navy …” The voice rang like tinny gunshots in Tom’s ears, and he shook his head trying to stop the ringing.
“Be still!” Paolo snapped, whacking Tom across the face.
“… As well as innumerable counts of vandalism, including the unthinkable defilement and destruction of St. Paul’s Cathedral … treason, piracy, fraud, assault, including assault of numerous officers of the Royal Navy, resisting authority …” On and on the voice of the Minister-General George Abrams listed the items on Tom’s long and grossly exaggerated list of transgressions.
Tom winced as blood trickled down his forehead and into his left eye. With his right, he began to clearly see the world around him. On an island of wooden planking he hung from a pair of reinforced irons, keeping his arms up over his head. The sea around him was made of hundreds of heads of people who had come to watch the execution of a legendary criminal. The whole party was being held in a large square outside the Old Bailey, the foremost criminal court in London. From a podium positioned in front of the court, the Minister-General was presiding over the hurried trial and execution, the other justices seated to his left and right, enjoying their tea and chatting amongst themselves.
Tom couldn’t remember how he’d gotten to where he was. The last thing he remembered was being in his cell. He’d waited and waited in that old dungeon beneath the Bureau’s headquarters for twenty-two days, almost never seeing another soul unless he was being given menial meals and water. It then occurred to him that hours before, he’d been sitting in his cell when Paolo and two other men approached. One of them had tossed something into the cell that burst like a bomb. After that, he remembered nothing.
Paolo paced back and forth across the execution block, hands folded behind his back, turning every now and then to survey the crowd through the eye holes in his mask—a curious white veil that covered his face but not his long, brown hair. The way he tugged at his white gloves and straightened the sleeves of his uniform made Tom antsy.
“You can’t kill me, you know,” he bluffed, spitting at Paolo and smirking.
“What I am going to do is separate your soul from your body,” Paolo answered matter-of-factly. “I won’t have to kill you. I will simply destroy that which binds you to this world. It is cleaner and much less barbaric than a beheading or a hanging.”
“You’re a funny man, Paolo. Better hope you get rid of me. What if I follow you in death after all this careful work you’ve done?” Tom burst out into a laugh that made the crowd nervous and interrupted Abrams’s monologue. Everyone hushed as Tom cackled like a lunatic, tears streaked his cheeks. He exhausted all his breath, stopped, inhaled, and then screamed at the top of his lungs, muscles bulging as he writhed in his irons and stressed the wooden beams holding them in place. The tears on his cheeks were warm, and tickled: gentle sensations, like the consolations of a loved one who was lying to him just to make him believe everything would be alright. The tears felt like fresh blood. He couldn’t tell the difference. When Tom stopped struggling, catching his breath, Abrams raised his eyebrows, shook his head and returned to business. As he droned on, the clouds moved in, and the air began to cool. Sensing a rain shower was on its way, Abrams sped things up, summarizing Thomas Crowe as something along the terms of “evil incarnate” and left it at that. The crowd, after all, needed no more of Abrams’s political pandering. They could see what a wretched thing Tom was, and they wanted a good show. Abrams raised a large gavel over his head and brought it down on the podium, ordering Paolo to proceed. The crowd cheered.
Unfortunately for the mob, Tom was not going to make it easy. If they wanted blood, they were going to stand in the cold rain before they got it, so he thrashed and roared and kicked at Paolo, keeping him out of reach for quite some time. Despite Paolo’s refusal of help, a squad of Bureau soldiers marched up onto the execution block and helped to restrain the obstinate werewolf, clapping more irons on him and stretching out his arms and legs. A quarter of an hour later, with ten men hanging onto eac
h chain, Tom was immobile but still snapping his jaws at anything that came close. While Paolo removed his gloves and prepared his spell, the clouds blocked the sun, and a trickle of rain began to fall, by which time the crowd became irritable and began throwing stones at everyone on the execution block, and not just at Tom.
“What great strength,” said Paolo, so only Tom could hear. “This is an honor.”
Tom squirmed and struggled as Paolo raised his hand, hanging his palm in the air and aiming it at the middle of Tom’s chest. Rain began to fall heavier and heavier, getting into Tom’s eyes as he slung his head back and forth. He watched as Paolo began to speak the incantation, and then something over his shoulder caught Tom’s eye. Through the grey curtains of rain he saw a woman in the crowd glowing like a star, staring at him and clasping her hands together by her lips, eyes full of fear.
“Molly? Molly!” Tom shouted, startling Paolo, who did a double-take and turned to look back into the crowd, unable to see the woman Tom had seen, for she was gone.
“Hear ye!” cried a voice from the mob. All heads spun, looking for the source. “We are the vengeful dead!” it proclaimed.
“We are the spirit of the fallen patriots!” cried another.
“We are the Ghosts!” shouted a third.
“The Minister-General and the Bureau are traitors! They murdered our king!” added a fourth.
“Down with tyranny!” a fifth came from near the Old Bailey.
“Long live England!” As the sixth voice called out, dozens of colorful flashes and bangs lit the square, creating clouds of dust, debris and mayhem. The crowd panicked and bodies pushed and shoved in every direction as the spectators turned tail and began to flee. The Bureau soldiers in the square took formation in front of the Old Bailey and planted themselves between the chaos and the Minister-General, whose eyes bugged out of his head as he gawked like a surprised turkey. The Ghosts appeared in the crowd suddenly and multiplied by the dozens every second. Each was dressed in dark grey and wore a hat and a scarf of the same color around his face. Every last one was armed with magic, and they engaged the Bureau as the rest of the mob ran for their lives.
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