Dark Enchantment

by Karen Harbaugh

  The pain faded, and she gazed out the window again. The weaving, shifting shape was gone.

  She was certain it must have come from de Bauvin. Perhaps he sent the creature to keep guard over her and Blanche, to make sure that they did not leave without him knowing of it. Which could mean, of course, that he did not believe that she had totally lost her memory. She had been very careful, however, to reveal nothing, for both her life and Blanche’s depended on it.

  Or it could mean that he sent the demon to guard against others.

  Jack.

  She swallowed. If Jack came back, the demon might attack him. It made sense. If de Bauvin had at all sensed that there was anything between her and Jack, he would wish to prevent it. How was she going to keep the demon from him?

  She slowly went to her bed and put the rapier back underneath it. If the demon was set to guard her and Blanche, then it made sense that if they left their home, the demon would be sent after them.

  It meant, then, that if Jack decided to return for the money, it would be best if she and her sister were not here. She swallowed. She would have to convince her brother to go to Versailles as soon as possible . . . and watch de Bauvin very carefully. It would mean, of course, that she would have to keep him close by.

  She closed her eyes. Dieu me sauve. It was difficult enough now to see him, knowing what he was, and knowing that no one would believe her. Even if anyone wished to examine her claims of rape, it was possible she herself would have to undergo torture during investigation to ensure she was not lying. She could bear much, but by the time the investigation was done, de Bauvin would have done his damage.

  But she would do it. She would watch de Bauvin, even flirt with him, if need be, to keep him under her eye. If she could find solid evidence of sorcery, she would turn him in and work to free her brother from his influence. And if she did not . . .

  She would find some way to kill him before he hurt Blanche.

  Chapter 12

  ALL JACK WISHED TO DO WAS SLEEP, FOR his body felt wracked with fatigue from traveling so long and so hard on horseback. But Catherine was in danger, and he needed to make sure she was safe.

  He cursed himself for denying the possibility. He should have stayed long enough to see that she’d be unharmed. He had seen the wounds on her back when he had found her—he should have considered the possibility that she had acquired them at the hands of her family, or perhaps even de Bauvin.

  But he had seen for himself that her brother the comte was of a pleasant disposition, and seen the joyous welcome of her younger sister. He had not liked the Marquis de Bauvin, but he had discounted his dislike and put it down to jealousy, for God knew he felt as jealous as the Devil himself. He’d even left before the dinner party was done, for he could not bear to see the marquis court Catherine again. And by doing so, he’d abandoned her to a traitor and most likely a sorcerer.

  He had little doubt of that now. It fit; Mme Felice had said that the demon had attacked her and Catherine as they had left the church after their confession. If it were so that they were in a state of grace, then it made no sense that Catherine would be the source of summoning the demon. Felice had said, after all, that they had done nothing but walk home, and certainly he nor Mme Felice had heard any conjuration from Catherine. Therefore, it had to come from somewhere or someone else.

  But he’d been skeptical. He had had little faith in the claims of any religion after seeing how the adherents had caused bloodshed and strife, and caused him and his king to be exiled.

  But King Charles’s information had brought together all the parts of the puzzle in his mind, and if he could get back to the de la Fer estate, he might be able to take Catherine away and keep the marquis and the comte from overthrowing Louis.

  Fear for Catherine almost choked him, but he pushed it away. He had to think clearly, regardless of fatigue, regardless of his fears. There was always the chance that the marquis and the de la Fers had already left for Versailles. He hoped not. But he was not such a fool not to cover the possibilities. Charles had delayed him yet another day after their interview, but it was necessary. After they had spoken, he had to carry a letter in Charles’s own hand as well as his seal, to help ensure Louis would believe his news. But Jack made sure to send a letter by fast courier to Paris as soon as he quit Charles’s presence, with the hope that Fichet would travel to Versailles and with any luck gain access to King Louis’s court. He grimaced. The chances were not great that a common innkeeper would gain King Louis’s audience, but Fichet was clever and had a way of circumventing bureaucracy better than most . . . if Fichet did not determine another course of action was superior. He hoped that his friend would follow orders.

  The day was fading, the colors of twilight touched the sky, and he could see ahead of him the way to the de la Fer estate. Just beyond the silhouette of the trees, the mishmash of Gothic and Norman architecture arose, and he prayed that Catherine was still there.

  He called to the gatekeeper when he came to the entrance of the estate, and managed not to curse while he waited. The thought of stinting on curses made him smile a little—he was grown cautious of profane language all of a sudden. But he did not want to tempt fate—or the devil—not when proven supernatural doings had been afoot.

  The gatekeeper shuffled to the gate at last, holding a lantern aloft, for the sun had fallen beneath the horizon. He squinted up at Jack.

  “You are the one who returned Mlle de la Fer.”

  “Yes, yes,” Jack said impatiently. “And I wish to speak with her brother or with her. Let me in.”

  The gatekeeper did not move. “You cannot, monsieur. They are gone.”

  “Where?”

  “To Versailles.”

  Jack bit back a groan and managed to tamp down his fear and disappointment. He turned to go, but stopped. “Do you know whether the Marquis de Bauvin has gone with them?”

  The gatekeeper shook his head. “I do not know. I had heard the marquis left a day after them—or was it a day earlier?—but it was only thirdhand that I heard it.”

  “When did the de la Fers go?”

  “Two days ago, monsieur.”

  “And de Bauvin’s estate—where is it?”

  “It is past Rouen, just south of it.”

  Jack bit back another curse, wheeled his horse around. He galloped back down the road, then turned toward Paris.

  Both fear and hope rode him hard. Two days. He was only two days behind Catherine, and perhaps three behind de Bauvin. He was glad he had changed horses not long ago; he could gallop a while until he came to the next inn that would exchange horses. If he rested four hours at most, he could catch up with them within a day before they reached Versailles.

  It was not long before he was past Rouen and on the road on which he and Catherine had experienced the strange mist. It was close to where the gatekeeper had said de Bauvin’s estate was. . . . No coincidence, that, Jack thought. But he’d not be sidetracked; he’d go straight to Versailles, for regardless of whether the marquis had preceded or followed the de la Fer family, he had most certainly, or would, go there.

  His horse suddenly shied, and Jack forced his attention back to his surroundings, then cast a glance in front of him.

  It was the mist again. Of course. He slowed his horse to a walk. Of course it would be here again, near de Bauvin’s estate. But he did not have the supernatural senses that Catherine had, and though he had felt colder than he ever had in a fog, it had not affected him in the way it had affected her, and he doubted it would again.

  His horse disagreed, however. The gelding tossed its head, whinnying plaintively into the mist that had grown denser. Jack kept a firm hand on the reins. He remembered that this portion of the road was straight and that all he and Catherine had done was ride without turning to the right or left until they were through it.

  He gritted his teeth. If possible, the opaque formlessness was stronger than it had been before. Still, he would get nowhere if he let it bother him
. He urged his horse into a faster walk.

  The hairs continued to prickle at the back of his neck, however, and every nerve seemed on end, for the freezing mist curled up his legs and seemed to catch at them, as if they were brambles determined to twine around his ankles and keep him in place. He took in a deep breath and let it out again, then frowned. There was a familiar scent—he did not remember quite where he had smelled it before, but he hoped it would go away soon, for it smelled like a latrine.

  His horse screamed and bucked, nearly unseating him, as a dark shape swept in front of them. He gritted his teeth against a curse, and turned it into a prayer instead, but had no time to note if it had any effect, for the monster struck again and his horse fell and became still.

  He managed to leap free at the last moment, rolling on the ground and coming up, rapier in hand. His tired muscles protested, but he spun around, trying to see past the mist to the dark shape of the demon. Nothing. God help him. He was as good as blind.

  A sound, a whiff of a foul scent—Jack whirled in time to move from a black, outstretched claw. He struck out with his sword, but the claw disappeared into the mist again.

  He looked around him at the formlessness—he’d lose his way if he continued to spin and spin again. He looked for his fallen horse, then looked away, swallowing. The poor animal had half its neck torn away . . . and Jack was sure he’d share the same fate if he wasn’t careful and let his weariness overcome him.

  He wasn’t at that point yet, though. He was in the midst of battle, and he knew he was in the initial energy that always came to him when he first joined a fight, regardless of his condition. It would fade after a while, but at least he’d have a good chance to best this creature for the first half hour or so. He needed only that much time to kill it, and it could be killed—he’d seen Catherine do it, and it gave him hope. He tried not to think that he hadn’t been to confession as she had, or that she hadn’t fought within a mist.

  This mist did give the creature the advantage. He moved closer to the horse’s corpse. It had fallen to the side of the road, and its head—what there was left of it—pointed in the direction they had been going. If Jack kept close to the roadside and kept his mind on whatever direction he might turn, he might be able to continue on his way past the mist.

  Another dark claw came out of the mist, barely preceded by the stench of the creature. Jack struck out, and a scream came from the demon. He grinned fiercely. That might slow it down.

  It did not. The creature came at him again, and again, and Jack barely missed being decapitated twice. He was half thankful for the mist, for it silhouetted the monster’s form.

  He ducked, and felt a stinking breeze pass over his head. He struck again, and the creature howled. Faugh! If he did not die from this creature’s attack, he’d die of its smell.

  He watched carefully as he avoided more of the monster’s attacks, and thought he saw a pattern in them. It swiped at him, rather than lunged, in the way a man might use a scimitar or a broad sword. It meant that Jack had at least one advantage—he could cut as well as pierce it with his rapier. Very well!

  The monster swiped at him again, and this time Jack did not strike, but moved back—luckily in the Parisian direction, as best as he could tell—letting the sweep of the monster’s arm pass over his head.

  Now! He lunged.

  He could feel the rapier sink into the monster’s body, and a foul stink followed it. The creature howled again, and for a moment, triumph made Jack grin—

  Only to have his breath squeezed from him in a crushing grip.

  He could not breathe. The stench and the grip made him cough, and then pain seized his chest. He gritted his teeth, and found that one of his arms was loose . . . darkness came over his vision and a freezing chill over his body. No, no, not now. Dear God, Catherine, please not now.

  Warmth seemed to seep into him, and he opened his eyes and felt the hard haft of his dagger in his hand. He must somehow have seized it even as he had run the monster through, and he was glad he had trained himself to do so until it was second nature. His rapier had done little good, but at least he could do more damage to the demon before he died. He managed to move his arm between them, and thrust the dagger in the demon’s throat.

  A strangled scream ended in a burble of reeking slime, and the monster’s hold loosened. Jack gasped in agony as he pushed away from it, and fell on the ground with a clatter of metal.

  He shook his head to clear it of pain and chill numbness, then opened his eyes. Thank God. He had landed next to his rapier. He seized it and rose quickly to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain in his ribs, and putting all the strength he had left in the stroke to cut off the demon’s head.

  He fell again. Jesus. This time it was not a curse, but a prayer. Dear God, he hurt. He opened his eyes. A dark, stinking puddle formed not far from him—he remembered this was what had happened when Catherine had killed the demon they’d seen in Paris. It was dead, then. Thank God.

  Pain struck when he rolled, trying to get to his feet. Vomit choked him, and he spewed it out, groaning in pain as the heaves hit his ribs. Dear God, he hurt. Dear God.

  He forced his eyes open. He was curled up on the side that seemed to hurt less. One of his arms tingled, as if on the edge of freezing and warmth. He touched it—it was wet. He did not remember the monster clawing him. Perhaps it had, or perhaps he had cut himself when he fell.

  He could see darkness in front of him when he lifted his head, but when he looked down, his feet were still encased in clinging fingers of grey. He had somehow gone past the edge of the mist. Not enough, though. Not enough. The farther away he was from it, the better.

  He managed to push himself to his knees and fumbled on the ground for his rapier. His hand felt metal—yes, there it was, and his dagger . . .

  Never mind about his dagger; he had his rapier, and he was not about to feel around in demon-slime to fetch it out. He could still smell the stench of it on him, and his stomach heaved against his ribs again, making him groan with pain. He pushed himself up onto his feet, clutching his ribs, and moved away from the mist.

  Walk. Walk. He knew he needed to go forward. Forward. Forward, or else he’d fail. Fail Catherine. He couldn’t fail her, God help him. He had failed everyone else, but Catherine was his last chance. His last chance.

  He was not sure how long he walked. He only knew that he had grown colder until he could not feel his legs, and that he could see dawn just at the edge of the horizon.

  He opened his eyes, and found himself on grass. He was on the side of the road, most likely, though he was not sure how he had come there. He could not feel his hands, and was glad he had thought to put his rapier into his scabbard, so that he’d not lose it. It was relatively soft grass, and perhaps he would rest for a minute. Just a minute, and then he would go on—go on to find Catherine.

  He thought he heard the sound of horse’s hooves, but somehow he could not open his eyes. The sound stopped, close to him. Perhaps Catherine had come to find him. Perhaps they were on the road to their next duel, where they would fight for money.

  “Catherine,” he whispered. “I am glad you are here.”

  A sad sigh sounded nearby, but a masculine voice answered. “It is not Mlle de la Fer, M. Sir Jack.”

  Jack let out a weak laugh. “Damn you, Fichet, you are supposed to be in Versailles.”

  “It is a good thing I am not,” Fichet replied.

  Jack tried to rise, but pain struck again, and he groaned. “Dear God,” he whispered, and darkness claimed him.

  Catherine allowed de Bauvin’s hand on hers as he bowed over it, and was glad she had enough control over herself not to reveal how her skin crawled to be this near him. She even smiled pleasantly at him as she ordered refreshments in the parlor of the hotel suite in which she, her brother, and her sister stayed while in Versailles.

  She still had her dagger with her, however, hidden in the pocket of her skirts. It made her feel more secur
e, and more able to bear the marquis’s presence. The only thing that kept her from killing him now was the lack of sure signs that de Bauvin intended to use what power he had gained. She needed proof, and witnesses.

  She had kept watch on him, just as she was sure he kept watch on her. He stayed at apartments just across from the hotel at which she stayed. She had one advantage, however; she was sure that he did not know she had regained her memory.

  He was paying more attention to Blanche, however, and that she could not allow. She had seen Blanche’s reaction—half pleased at the attention of such a high noble, and half uncertain and a little fearful. Even if she did not see this uncertainty, that her sister was so young made the alliance disgusting, and that it was to one such as de Bauvin made it abhorrent.

  She gazed at de Bauvin, who looked to the door when a footman and maid came in with the refreshments. He was ever watchful, this man. Very little escaped him. She would have to tread carefully to make sure he followed the path she wanted him to follow.

  “I am pleased you decided to come to Versailles,” she said. She was becoming a good actress—she said it with light pleasantness. “Do you stay long?” She made her voice sound hopeful.

  He smiled at her, and she noticed the smile did not reach his eyes. His expression had a measuring quality about it, as if he weighed her worth every time he looked at her.

  “Yes,” he said. “The king wishes his nobles near him, and I expect he will wish the same for me.” He picked up a glass of wine.

  “Good. I know that Adrian and Blanche—and I—are glad of your company. We are so much of the country, we are not at all certain how to manage so near court.”

  “I would think that after your sojourn in Paris, you would know more of how to live in a city.” He watched her closely, she noted. She thought carefully before she replied. . . . It was the opening she needed so that she could divert his attention from Blanche to herself.

  She made herself frown, then shook her head. “No. Paris is not like Versailles, and I did not attend court or any high function. Indeed . . .” She hesitated, putting on an uncertain expression. “I must say it was more strange than instructive of the ways of the court.”