by Nina Mason
* * * *
It was close to eleven o’clock, hotter than hell, and as steamy as a Turkish bath. Callum was behind the wheel of Vanessa’s Taurus and doing a stellar job considering he’d never driven on the left side of the car or the road. He also didn’t know his way around New Orleans, not that she could claim more than a nodding familiarity herself. Luckily, she had a GPS app and Google Maps at her disposal.
As they drove through the French Quarter, she pointed out some of the local sites and shared a few of Beau’s more interesting stories, including the one about Jack St. Germain. Callum seemed genuinely interested and in a good spirits, so she hoped their day together would be pleasant despite their troubles.
The Napoleon House—a three-story stucco building that had seen better days—was located at the corner of Chartres and Saint Louis, two blocks west of the cathedral. The interior had the feel of an old English pub with its beamed ceilings, weathered plaster walls, mismatched tables, and massive wooden bar. The courtyard had a much more Mediterranean feel with its potted palms, ceiling fans, and white tablecloths. As inviting as the al fresco option was, they opted for a table with air-conditioning.
A striking mulatto woman showed them to their table and took their drink order. Vanessa asked for the Pimm’s Cup—the bar’s signature drink—while Callum requested their best single-malt, as predicted.
“Is Finn working today?” Vanessa asked the server as she turned to go.
“He is.” The waitress glanced toward the bar, where no one appeared to be on duty. “Are you friends of his?”
“Not really,” Vanessa told her. “He did me a service a few nights ago and told me to pop in sometime for a cocktail and to say hello. So, here I am.”
“Well,” the woman said, “he’s around here somewhere. When I see him, I’ll let him know you’re here.”
The restaurant wasn’t what Vanessa would call crowded, but there were several other patrons drinking, eating, and chatting away. It seemed like a nice place—a little rough around the edges, perhaps, but in a way that was more old-world than run-down. The classical music pouring out of the jukebox contributed to the sophisticated ambiance.
As Vanessa drank it all in, she noticed a man sitting alone at a corner table. Something about him seemed familiar and, as she studied him, trying to work out where she knew him from, he met her gaze. Surprise registered on his face before he hid it behind a friendly smile.
Face heating, she returned the smile briefly before looking away. She set her hand on Callum’s arm and gave it a squeeze. Offering her the sweetest of smiles, he set his hand atop hers.
“Mo bhilis.”
It sounded to her like “ma vilis” and he’d said it in the soft way one utters an endearment, making her warm as well as curious. “What did you just say?”
“Mo bhilis,” he repeated. “It means ‘my sweet’ in Gaelic.”
She liked that, liked having him here, liked that he seemed to want to work things out to their mutual satisfaction. She couldn’t see the way right now, but she was definitely willing to go down that path. She wanted to be with him, wanted to believe he was her one true love. Somewhere along the way, he’d restored her faith in romance. He’d also stolen her heart.
The clatter of ice drew her gaze toward the bar. There was Finn, fixing her drink. Callum’s whisky already sat on the bar in a low-ball glass.
“There he is,” she whispered, leaning closer to Callum. “Let’s go over and say hello before he disappears again.”
As they both got up, their chair legs scraped loudly, drawing Finn’s attention. Recognition bloomed on his face along with a smile.
“I told you I’d come by when I could,” she said, rushing up to the bar. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.”
“It was my pleasure,” Finn said with a dazzling smile.
She took Callum’s arm and pulled him closer. “This is Callum Lyon, my”—she stopped herself, unsure how to fill in the blank— “erm, the guy I told you about.”
When Callum offered his hand, Finn stopped what he was doing to give it a firm shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Finn MacKnight.”
“Likewise.” Callum gave the man the cool once-over. “And thank you for coming to my lady’s aid when I wasn’t available to do so myself.”
“I was glad to be of service.” Finn returned to mixing the cocktail on the bar. As he wedged a cucumber slice among the ice cubes, he pushed the Pimm’s Cup toward the whisky. “These, I believe, are your drinks,” he said, looking up with a smile. “Would you like to take them back with you or shall I have Serena bring them over?”
In the daylight, Vanessa could see more clearly how truly handsome Finn was. Chiseled features, strong jaw, wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes. The soft luminance of faery blood was evident in his swarthy complexion upon closer inspection.
Now that he and Callum were side-by-side, she realized Finn’s blood smelled even sweeter than her lion’s, making her suspect her Good Samaritan might be one of the good folk of Elphame, which also would explain his act of kindness toward her.
They thanked Finn once more before taking their drinks back to the table, where, voices low and heads together, they exchanged speculations while enjoying their beverages. The Pimm’s Cup—a blend of brandy, lemonade, and lemon-lime soda—was as delightfully refreshing as she’d hoped.
“He’s definitely not human,” Callum confirmed, “but I’ve never smelled his like before, so I couldn’t tell you what he might be.”
“Do you think he might be Seelie?”
“Nay,” Callum said. “There are Seelies among Madame Pennick’s lasses and they don’t smell the way Finn does.”
Jealousy twinged in her gut at the mention of his former source of sexual gratification. The feeling passed, however, when she remembered he hadn’t partaken of anyone else in her absence. She touched the bracelet he’d given her, which she only took off to shift or shower. As tingling warmth filled her chest, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked, looking pleased.
“For being faithful to me,” she said. “I just wish I could have returned the favor.”
“You tried.” Putting a finger under her chin, he pulled her face to his and kissed her mouth with a tenderness that turned her insides to caramel. “And that’s what counts.”
They ordered another round of drinks from Serena and sipped them while basking in the glow of each other’s company. As contented as she felt, two puzzles still gnawed: what Finn might be and who the man was at the corner table.
The familiar stranger looked their way now and again. When they’d finished their last round of drinks, Serena brought the check. As the server started to walk away, Callum called her back, fished out his wallet, and offered her his Platinum American Express.
The waitress took it and returned a few minutes later with a faux leather folder. Vanessa thought nothing of until something fell out as Callum opened it. As the object—a sealed cream-colored envelope—landed on the table, they both leaned in for a better look. Scrawled across the front in the fancy script of a bygone era was a greeting that caused them to exchange troubled glances.
To the Knight and his Lady.
As Callum picked up the envelope and worked to break the seal, Vanessa shot a glance toward the corner table, certain the familiar stranger was the sender. To her dismay, the man was no longer there.
Returning her focus to the envelope, she waited on pins and needles as Callum withdrew the folded sheet of stationery inside. He read what it said to himself before showing it to her. The communiqué—in the same old-fashioned cursive gracing the envelope—was short, direct, and unsigned: Meet me at the cathedral in fifteen minutes.
Chapter 19
One question burned in Callum’s brain as he ascended the steps of the cathedral with a firm grip on Vanessa’s hand. Who could have seen him and known what he was? If it was someone with ties to Avalon, he was ruined.
If Queen Morgan summoned his return, he’d be powerless to refuse. What might she do if she discovered his deception? Kill him? Castrate him? Throw him in the dungeon to suffer a thousand tortures? The prospect of any or all of those torments tied knots in his bowels.
He could always ignore the note, he supposed. Leave the city, go into hiding, and spend the rest of eternity looking over his shoulder, but that was just another brand of enslavement. Better to confront the threat, to find out who’d sent the note, what they knew, and what they wanted. Money, probably, which he’d gladly forfeit to avoid returning to Avalon.
The air inside the church was cool, damp, and smelled of lingering frankincense and wooden pews rubbed with the oils of hundreds of hands. There were a scattered few among the pews, some sitting, others kneeling. Muttered prayers and the soft ticking of rosary beads whispered in his ears.
He made his way up the aisle, towing Vanessa along, as he searched for the man she’d described. He saw no one who looked even close.
“Perhaps it isn’t the man you saw,” he said.
“Perhaps not.” She matched the low volume of his voice. “There was just something about him—a disconcerting déjà vu feeling. Plus, he kept looking at me.”
“Men often look at bonny lasses,” he told her. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he was up to something.”
Seeing no one and not knowing what else to do, he let go of her hand, knelt in genuflection, and crossed himself before slipping into a pew. She soon joined him on the hard bench.
“When I was a wee lad, I thought the parish priest was some kind of warlock,” he said, harkening back to his childhood. “Every Sunday, he’d stand up there, reciting incantations while waving his hands over golden chalices holding the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Then, all his followers, my parents included, would line up to have a taste.”
“You were raised Catholic?”
“Aye.”
She hooked her arm through his and set her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, savoring her herbal aroma. He’d missed that smell more than he realized, just as he missed the feel of having her by his side.
“This is the first church I’ve set foot in since—well, since my father’s funeral back in—oh, Christ, I’ve forgotten the bloody year.”
“You said your father was an astrologer, too,” she said, nestling against him.
“Aye. And a physician who dabbled in alchemy. King James dabbled in alchemy, too. Did you know that?”
“Do you still miss him? Your father, I mean.”
Did he? He rarely thought back that far and, when he did, it felt like he was remembering someone else’s life or something he’d seen at the pictures or on the telly.
Sitting back against hard wood, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. As he made a study of its intricate seams and arches, a hand came down on his shoulder. Heart jolting, he craned his neck to seek the hand’s owner.
The man matched Vanessa’s description to a tee. Fortyish, dark hair, pale complexion, protruding nose, and keen dark eyes. He was casually dressed in dark slacks and a button-down shirt with long sleeves. Callum stiffened, puzzled how the man’s approach could have escaped his notice.
“Sir Leith MacQuill, I presume?” the stranger asked in a thick French accent.
Ah—a case of mistaken identity, then. Good. He was safe.
“Who wishes to know?”
“Jack St. Germain,” the man said with a bow. “Your servant, sir.”
The name brought Vanessa’s head around, showing Callum her astonished expression. Fortunately, she kept quiet.
“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he told the Frenchman.
“But—that cannot be,” St. Germain said, clearly at a loss. “You are a knight of Avalon. Of that I am certain. And Leith MacQuill, so far as I know, is the only personage of that distinction living in this realm.”
“And yet, I assure you, I am not he.”
St. Germain looked incredulous. “If that is so, then why did you seek out his son just now?”
Callum blinked at him, his mind turning like a millwheel. If Leith MacQuill had a son, he knew nothing of it. “To whom do you refer?”
“The bartender at the Napoleon House,” St. Germain clarified, his features pinched. “I find it hard to believe you are unaware of his true identity.”
Callum made no response. His mind was too busy trying to fit the pieces together. If Finn MacKnight was Sir Leith’s son, who was his mother and what the devil was he doing in New Orleans?
“Our reasons for seeking him out were perfectly innocent,” Vanessa told St. Germain. “We only wanted to thank him for the service he rendered me a few nights back. I had a flat tire, you see, and Finn very kindly stopped to help me change it.”
St. Germain studied her appraisingly before returning his dark gaze to Callum. “She has been made Avalonian—by yourself, I can only presume.” The Frenchman straightened his back and stuck out his chin. “I’m afraid I must insist upon knowing who both of you are and why you are roaming the Hitherworld beneath the radar of the rebel forces.”
“Rebel forces?” Callum asked, drawing glances from the faithful. “What rebel forces?”
“If you fear your anonymity will be jeopardized by revealing your identity to me, I assure you that is not the case,” St. Germain said. “Neither myself nor anyone with whom I associate bear anything but abhorrence for Morgan Le Fay. It is her overthrow we seek to bring about, my good knight, not your re-enslavement.”
Some of the pieces clicked into place. Finn MacKnight had to be Queen Morgan’s prophesied usurper—a full-blooded drone. Hence, the rebel forces and why Finn’s blood smelled as it did. His mother must, therefore, be a full-blooded Avalonian—but whom?
“How do I know I can trust you?” Callum demanded, trying to probe the Frenchman’s mind without success.
“I am in earnest,” St. Germain assured him, looking and sounding sincere. “I work for Cathbad, the high priest of Brocaliande.”
Brocaliande was the forest of the druids, which lay across the channel from Avalon. Callum had never been there, but the enmity between Cathbad and Morgan was legendary. Belphoebe had told him the rift existed because Morgan had put out the eyes of a druid envoy back during the Thitherworld Wars.
“My aim is to see the drones set free, Morgan toppled, and Finn MacKnight installed as king,” St. Germain added.
Callum wanted to believe him, but still had questions. “Who is Finn’s mother?”
“The one called Belphoebe.”
“How can that be?” Callum demanded. “Belphoebe is dead.”
“Her murder was a ruse,” St. Germain explained, “to fool Queen Morgan into allowing the drone of the prophecy to be born.”
A rush of hope swept through Callum. “Belphoebe yet lives?”
“She does,” St. Germain confirmed, “in Brocaliande under the protection of the druids.”
“And Finn?” Vanessa asked. “What’s his story?”
“He was sent to me as an infant to protect him from discovery,” the Frenchman told her. “He does not know his true identity, or his destiny. He believes me to be his uncle and only surviving relative—his human uncle, so far as he’s aware.”
“But you’re not,” Callum observed, “though neither are you of the Fae.”
St. Germain’s lips compressed as he shifted his gaze from Vanessa to Callum. “To answer your unspoken inquiry, my good knight, I am Sangpagnese—the breed commonly referred to as vampires in this culture.”
Belphoebe had told Callum about Sangpagne, the vampire empire beneath the Hitherworld countries of France and Belgium. The capital city had been erected by the captured combatants of the losing factions after the wars. They’d been forced to work until they dropped from exhaustion, after which they were impaled on poles so the ravens could strip the flesh from their bones. The bones were left to dry in the sun before being ground int
o powder and used for mortar. Vampires, thus, were despised by the other factions of the Thitherworld, though occasionally hired to serve as rogue mercenaries.
“With all due respect, Monsieur St. Germain,” Callum said, still struggling to take in all he’d heard, “why did Cathbad and Belphoebe entrust Finn’s welfare to you?”
“Because it’s the last thing anyone would expect,” the count returned. “And, I suspect, because I can see to his needs.”
“How?” Vanessa asked, eyes narrowed by skepticism. “How do you feed blood to someone who believes himself human?”
“Bear in mind that I’ve raised him since he was an infant,” St. Germain said. “I mix the blood with other things—juice, soup, wine, or what have you—and pass it off as a health tonic made from an old family recipe.”
“What about his need for sex and his failure to age?”
“The overactive libido you suffer from,” the vampire said, addressing himself to Callum, “is what might be called a manufacturing flaw. Natural-born drones have a sex drive on a par with an adolescent human. And as to his failure to age, I simply rewire his mind every so often to prevent it from becoming an issue.”
“I see,” Callum quipped. “And when will he be told the truth and prepared for his destiny?”
“The prophecy tells of a sign that will presage the rise of the rebel forces. Until then, he’ll remain none the wiser.”
“Any idea when that will be?” Callum asked.
“No,” said the vampire. “I only know it will be during the Piscean Age.”
The Age of Pisces was the current age, which began in A.D. 1 and would end in 2150.
“So, it will be soon?”
“Oui, monsieur. Very soon.”
Callum, feeling the impassioned rush of a call to arms, let the feeling course through his bloodstream. The Scottish people might no longer yearn for freedom, but the drones of Avalon sure as hell did. Maybe he should redirect his energies. “And how might I go about joining the rebellion?”
“Is it your desire to do so?”
“It is,” Callum told him with conviction.