“What I’d really like,” she said, “is a cup of coffee.”
“Just through there,” he said. “Keep going through the salons, you will pass through four of them, and then a corridor to the right. It ends at the breakfast room.”
“Wow,” said Jo. “How many housekeepers are there to keep this place clean?”
“Quite a few,” said the man with a smile. “At Château Gagnon, there is much work to be done, and much of it needs repeating each day.”
Jo walked into the first salon. It looked like something out of a museum, or a movie set. The walls were covered with paintings–huge full-length portraits, small landscapes, all sizes and subjects in between. The room was so jammed up with furniture that it was not easy to pass through. Little gilt chairs with velvet cushions. Settees with more velvet cushions.
The entire ceiling was a painting, with groups of cherubs flying about, and there in the corner, a wolf was looming in the background. His face was just beginning to snarl, his teeth glinting. Jo knew that artwork from whatever age this had been painted in was usually religious–did that wolf represent the Devil or something like that? She didn’t remember in her art history classes ever seeing wolves and cherubs together.
Which made her curious, but not so curious that she was willing to wait any longer for her coffee. She would have to come back and look more closely another time.
The breakfast room was full of guests. An English couple at one table, the woman looking like a perfect example of an English rose, all blonde-streaked chestnut hair and rosy-cheeked and healthy. At another table, an older woman alone who drank her coffee from a bowl and nibbled on dry toast while reading a paperback. Two young men–very outdoorsy, looking like they were about to go on a hike– that Jo could instantly tell were American, by their clothes and accents. Sitting at the long table in the middle of the room was a family of six, the children laughing and poking each other, the mother looking tired, and the father with an expression that said he would prefer to be shot in the head than continue with one more minute of family vacation.
Jo sat at an empty table for two and looked around to see what the protocol was. Were there servers? Was there anything to eat besides toast? How soon could she get to the stable? And, somewhat pressingly, where was David?
David had not yet gone to bed, and was making final arrangements for the day with Angélique before disappearing to his chambers.
She had not gotten enough sleep but had compensated by putting on some makeup and wearing nicer clothes than usual. Her skirt hugged her ass, and her eyes, rimmed with eyeliner, were more intense, their green color more arresting than ever.
“It’s going to be difficult,” Angélique was saying. “I think she’s going to want you to guide her, to tell her what you want done with the horses, your expectations and everything. She may even expect you to ride with her.”
“Well,” David said, his hands on his hips, “you know very well I cannot do that. I cannot even go to the barn. You know what happens when I have tried.” He spoke with a flash of anger, but his expression was sad and a little mopey, like that of a disappointed child.
“I know, David. I still have nightmares of the sounds the horses made. You absolutely terrified them.”
“It breaks my heart,” said David. “They are just so sensitive. I want…” He put his hand over his eyes. “Anyway,” he continued briskly, “The American is here to do what I wish I could do but cannot. Please get her started this morning as soon as you can–the show trials are coming up and I very much do not want the Château humiliated. All you must do is give instructions to Thierry and he will take care of her and the stable.”
“Yes sir,” said Angélique.
“No need for sir,” said David, smiling. He reached his hand up to her neck and smoothed the dark brown hair away from it. “We’re better friends than that, aren’t we?”
She smiled at him but took a step back. “Friends? Certainly,” she said. But there were layers of tone in her voice that indicated that whatever she thought about him, “friends” did not sum it up all that neatly.
Henri had not yet gone to bed either. He had spent the night tearing his lab apart looking for the file on the bandages, with no luck. It was gone.
It seemed that other papers were disturbed as well, as though someone had been looking through them and not put things away very neatly, but he wasn’t sure whether that was just paranoia. He wasn’t always Mr. Clean himself.
He sat at his desk and put his hands flat on the wood, pressing them down hard, all his frustration pushing through his fingers. He was exhausted, and could tell by the gentle light coming through the screens he had designed to filter the sunlight to an acceptable intensity, that it was long past time to be in bed.
But how was he going to sleep, thinking about who might have stolen that file, and how the hell had he gotten into the lab?
Wondering how he had failed to think of it before, he snatched up his cell and tapped in the number for the Paris office, the place that was handling the marketing and distribution of Hemo-Yum. PolyLabs was a company entirely staffed by vampires. Henri sometimes hated dealing with them because they were oh-so-snobby about being Parisian vampires, looking down on him because he lived in the provinces, deep in the countryside.
Well, for their information, the countryside suited him just fine, thought Henri, arguing in his head as he waited for someone to answer the phone. Who needs their swanky parties? I don’t mind getting into full opera gear–cape, tuxedo, and top hat!–once a year, but night after night? No thank you! I don’t care how many different cheeses you can buy at the place on the corner.
Henri had a habit of conducting arguments in his head like this, but when he actually talked to whomever it was he had been arguing with, he was smooth as silk, all business, polite and pleasant down to his toenails. Exquisitely self-controlled, that was Henri.
Finally, a woman answered. “Yes, hello, this is Polylabs, Claudine speaking.”
“Hello, Claudine, this is Henri de la Motte. How are you this morning?”
“Ready for bed, Monsieur, it has been a long night, as usual. How can I help you?”
“Please, Claudine, call me Henri.” He was not displeased to be a Marquis, but he disliked the social distance it sometimes provoked. He thought the title tended to make people less forthcoming with him than he wanted them to be.
Henri was reluctant to tell anyone about the break-in and the lost file, but he had met Claudine several times and liked her well enough, plus he wasn’t sure he had a choice. It’s not like he could call up Durant at the local gendarmerie and tell him what had happened, at least not without inviting a lot of poking around he did not at all want.
Claudine expressed her surprise and sorrow. “All I can suggest,” she said, “is that perhaps word has gotten out about Hemo-Yum, or any of the other things you are working on, including the bandages. The American vampires–they are heedless of the old codes, Henri. They use spies, thugs, bribery, anything to get what they want. When it comes to business, they are absolutely vicious. It’s all about the money for them.”
“Hmm,” said Henri, not sure what he could do with this information. “Do you have suggestions of which American companies might be capable of something like this? Where would I start?”
“I’m afraid I do not know. Right now, there is not much importing or exporting of vampire products, so my understanding of the Americans and their businesses is not very deep. I’m giving you general impressions more than anything solid you can take action on, I’m sorry.”
“The market is very, very big, Claudine. I’m sure you’re the last person I need to say that to. If vampires around the world have access to good synthetic blood, healthy and affordable synthetic blood–well, in my dream, we could eventually even come out of the shadows and begin to live openly, because there would be no more threat to humans and they could put their bloody stakes away and relax.
“But I realize the bu
siness side of this is not all unicorn’s blood and sparkles. It will be a fight to the death, with these Americans. I can tell you that I feel the breaching of my lab to be as serious a challenge and an insult as I can imagine. I admit that for a moment I wished it were still the 17th century and I could insist on a duel.
“I have my rapier still ready,” he said, with a note of nostalgia.
“I do understand,” said Claudine. “And I wish you luck. Stay safe, Monsieur.”
“Henri,” he said. “Good morning then, Claudine. I will see you in Paris next week.”
Henri was just going to have to go to sleep and hope that by the time evening fell, he would have some idea of what to do next. He slowly stood up and walked to the back of the room where a tapestry hung. Pulling the tapestry aside, he slipped behind it, down a flight of stone steps and into the darkness, to his beloved sleeping chamber, where no one had ever slept but Henri himself.
Fully caffeinated and ready to ride, Jo left the breakfast room and went outside, looking for the stables. She had expected to see David first thing, all excited to show her the horse he had been telling her about, maybe going out on a ride with her, but there was no sign of him anywhere. Jo was disappointed but so looking forward to meeting her new horse that the disappointment registered for a moment and then was gone.
The grounds of Château Gagnon were stunning. Gravel paths curved around the land which faintly undulated, with large islands of shrubbery punctuating expanses of green lawn. As she walked along, she kept wondering what was around the next bend. And when she got there, some sort of surprise would unfold–an archway covered with roses, sadly now not in bloom. A pond filled with koi. A flower border laid out in geometric French style. A small barn with miniature goats.
“Jo!” a man’s voice called. She turned around and followed the path around a big mass of some kind of shrub that had lost all its leaves to the frost, and in the distance saw a young man waving to her.
“The stable is down this way!” he shouted, and Jo realized that since she had been in France, she had not heard anyone shouting–or yelling or singing or making much noise at all. Life at the Château was lively enough, as far as she could tell, but it was quietly so.
“I am Thierry!” the man said enthusiastically, sticking his hand out for her to shake. He was short, very tanned, and slightly bow-legged. “I am going to show you around the stable here, and introduce you to Drogo, and answer any questions you might have.” He grinned at her. “We have been really looking forward to your arrival,” he added. “Your reputation is quite impressive.”
Jo smiled back at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you how much I want to ride today. I just–I can’t wait to get my feet in the stirrups.”
“I understand. I am sure Drogo is feeling the same.”
They walked around another curve in the path and then they were in full view of the stable. It was a long building, centuries old, with boxes below for about twenty horses and a hayloft overhead. Thierry led Jo into the tack room, which smelled wonderfully of leather and saddle soap and hay, and asked her to try on a helmet.
“Mine should be coming when the rest of my luggage gets delivered,” said Jo.
“It is no problem,” said Thierry. “Now, Drogo. Let me say that I believe he is a magnificent horse. Tremendously strong, athletic.”
Jo clasped the strap under her chin and waited. She could feel the but coming.
“And yet,” said Thierry, “he is perhaps a bit over-sensitive. He scares rather easily. We think he has terrific potential and could be a big winner–but we need you to calm him down a little. Develop some trust. You understand?”
Jo nodded. She was impatient with talking and wanted to mount up and go.
They walked out and Jo could see a muzzle sticking out of a stall halfway down, then the big noble head swung out to take a look at who was coming.
Drogo stepped back as they approached and tossed his head. He was Arabian, about fifteen hands, a glossy chestnut stallion.
“Who has been riding him?” Jo asked. “David? Or the Marquis?”
“Oh no,” answered Thierry. “Henri and his brother do not come to the stable.”
Jo stared at Thierry for a moment, trying to take in what he had said.
“What do you mean, they don’t come? I thought they–or at least David–I thought horses–?” Jo was having trouble getting the words out.
“Well, yes, they want the horses to win ribbons and be a credit to the Château,” said Thierry. “But they do not ride,” he said with a shrug.
This made no sense. Jo absent-mindedly reached out and stroked Drogo’s neck. She tried to grab onto any wisp of understanding of why she had been hired, why anyone would bother with the expense and trouble of horses if they did not ride or even come to the stable to see them, but could find no explanation at all. Show ribbons? Sorry, that was not enough.
She felt as though David had lied to her, had misrepresented himself. She felt as though the bond they had, the connection made from a shared love, had evaporated in the blink of an eye. Part of what made her upset is that she hadn’t doubted him for a minute. Her gullibility made her mad. She felt her face flush with anger and that made her even angrier.
“Unless there is anything else, I would like to be alone with Drogo,” said Jo.
Thierry nodded. “Of course.”
“Oh–is there anyplace that is off-limits to ride?” she asked. “I don’t even know what the borders of the property are.”
“If you head to the right after leaving the stable, you will see a trail that goes into the woods,” Thierry said. “It is unlikely that you will ride far enough to leave the Château property, but even if you do, all of the property owners allow riding on trails through their land. We are not shooting trespassers like you do in America.”
Jo laughed, wondering what TV show Thierry was getting his information from. But that conversation was going to have to happen later. She said goodbye as Thierry went off, and let herself into Drogo’s stall.
He backed up again, lifting his head, uncertain of her.
“Hey now,” Jo said, in a soft murmur. “Hey now, boy.” She held out her hand, flat, with a handful of grass she had picked just before reaching the stable.
Drogo eyed the grass. He eyed Jo. Slowly, he reached his muzzle towards her hand.
“That’s it, boy. Eat up.”
His big horse lips reached out and snatched up a mouthful. Jo felt the skin of his muzzle, so soft and bristly; she inhaled the lovely barn smell of manure and hay and horse. She pushed her confusion about David out of her mind–she was ready to gallop on this big boy, and she could barely wait to saddle him up.
7
Ah, the TGV, thought Tristan Durant. French technology at its finest. The train is so fast I will be in Paris before lunch. And thinking of lunch, he smiled a broad smile of expectation. Yes, he was there to meet with the head of the slayer organization, and that meeting was taking up most of his thoughts. But that did not preclude looking forward to a long and sumptuous lunch at a Parisian restaurant. His mouth watered in anticipation even though lunch was several hours away.
Tristan looked out the window for awhile, but the train ran slightly below ground with berms on either side planted with scraggly trees and bushes, so the view was uninspiring. He pulled out his iPad and continued his reading of The Vampyre. Published in 1819, it had widely been thought to be written by Lord Byron, but was actually written by John Polidori. The Vampyre was the first account in literature of vampirism.
Might as well begin at the beginning.
Tristan found it fascinating. And terrifying.
Like many people living in this century, Tristan did not have the stamina to read for long periods, and soon he had clicked away from The Vampyre and was checking his email.
New mail, something from Alain, his slayer contact.
So sorry, meeting must take place at lunch. American. @@ See you at La Petite Espionne,
Rue du Dragon in the 6th. 12:30. Alain
Well, merde. Tristan had not once had what the Americans called “a working lunch.” It went against everything he cherished, his cultural history, his DNA. He wanted to sit down in a crowded restaurant, savor the smells emanating from the kitchen, take his time with the wine. He wanted to deliberate over the menu until he had tasted each dish in his imagination before deciding. He expected to be able to get to know Alain as they shared a meal together and talked about…anything but work.
Not that Tristan had been able to think of much else lately. But still. Principle was at stake.
He arrived breathlessly at La Petite Espionne without a minute to spare. Alain and the American, a woman named Jessica Winston, were already seated and drinking aperitifs.
“Excuse us for not waiting,” said Alain. “Jessica has been telling me the latest from the U.S. and I felt the sudden need for a drink. Or six,” he said, smiling.
Jessica had blonde hair that fell down past her elbow, and perfectly done makeup, Tristan noticed. He was only looking because he was a trained detective, of course. And she looked fearsomely athletic, as though she could outrun and possibly outwrestle most of the guys he had ever had to chase down.
“Can we really talk here…safely?” asked Tristan, looking around at the other diners.
“Honestly?” said Jessica, her voice lowered, “People are so unused to our subject being talked about openly that anyone eavesdropping will think we are screenwriters.”
Alain laughed. “I think she’s right,” he said, sipping his pineau.
“So…slayers,” said Tristan. “Tell me the whole story, start to finish.”
“It’s not finished yet,” said Alain. “But I can tell you the beginning at least. The first mention of slayers in the old texts comes in around 1845,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. "At that time the vampire population was probably at its peak–much, much larger than it is at present. The populace understood that they constituted a very real danger because they were losing livestock and even family members to them. They were all over Europe, although for reasons we have not been able to figure out, they seemed to avoid certain villages or even regions.
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