She glanced up at him, placing a small hand against his chest for a moment, then nodded, slipping away. Abraham looked down at the full mug of wine in his hand, then reached out to stop her. He traded her drinks with a smile, seeing that hers was half drained.
“No sense wasting it,” he said softly. Her eyes widened for a moment, then she took the mug and turned away. Abraham moved toward the door, leaving her half-full drink on an empty table as he passed and exiting to the street. None took any note at all of his passing.
He moved through the doors and into the street, glancing to the right and left and picking an alley half a block down on the right. There were what appeared to be two abandoned merchant’s booths lining the entrance to the place. It would be private and secluded.
He stood at the edge of that alley, waiting and watching the door. It was only moments before Fleurette exited, the man in tow, and she saw him immediately. She had her wine in her hand, not having bothered to leave the cup inside, another sign that she was more well known than he might have suspected. The man stopped at the sight of Abraham, but at a nudge and a few words from Fleurette, moved closer slowly.
Abraham wasted no time.
“I seek a group of men, knights, actually,” he said softly. “I believe they may have come through here on a search of their own, and it is important that I find them. Very important.”
The man’s eyes shifted uneasily, but he did not speak.
“I am willing to pay for the information,” Abraham said, slightly annoyed.
Fleurette smacked a hand into the man’s chest. “Raul, you are embarrassing me. I told the gentleman speaking to you would be worth his time.”
Raul looked down at where she’d struck him with a slightly glazed expression. Abraham smelled the ale then. Moving closer, he took Raul by the shirt, dragging him into the opening of the alley without further discussion and slamming him to the wall just out of sight of the street.
“I have no patience tonight,” he said, “for those who love liquor more than life. If you do not wish me to count you among them and rob you of both, you will answer my questions, take my money, and be on your way.”
Something in the unnatural strength of Abraham’s assault brought a terrified light to the man’s eyes. “No,” he whispered. “No, they are gone.”
Abraham stared at the man, eyes narrowing. “Who has gone? Tell me and be swift, or you will tell no one another thing.”
“He was dark…very dark, monsieur,” Raul babbled. “His eyes, like pits, and his companion… They told me if I spoke of them, they would return.”
Abraham’s mind was whirling. Raul could be speaking of no one but Montrovant, but getting anything useful from this raving drunk might prove more than mere threats of violence could produce.
“If you do not tell me now,” Abraham said at last, “it will not matter that they return. They will find a dried, withered husk. Not a man, but a shell, empty…dead…forgotten. Your bones will be all that remain, bones and a thin sack of skin. Is that how you would end your days, Raul, or would you live?”
Slowly the words were sinking in. Perhaps it was the sight of Fleurette, who’d begun to back away at this new approach. Her eyes were glittering, and Abraham saw that her hand was sliding down toward her blade again. In any other circumstance, he would have smiled.
The man’s eyes were shifting again, as they had been inside the tavern, looking for avenues of escape. It was a good sign. If his fear could be reached, how far behind could his greed be?
Abraham pulled back a bit, partly to reassure Raul, and partly to let Fleurette know that he wasn’t about to kill her friend. He reached slowly for his pouch and lifted it free of his belt. For the first time since leaving Rome he was glad for Santorini’s assistance. If nothing else, the bishop had provided a great deal of gold for the undertaking. He opened the pouch and pulled out a pair of gold coins.
“These are for your cooperation,” he said softly. “There are two more if you have the information I require.”
Raul’s eyes shifted rapidly back and forth from Abraham’s eyes to the gold. He wanted to run. The fog of alcohol was fading, and the memory of the threat Montrovant had planted in his mind was fresh. He wanted to run, and to take his chances.
“If you run,” Abraham said softly and simply, “I will kill you.”
Raul gasped then, slumping against the wall. He laid his head in his hands, and sobbed quietly, then pulled himself together enough to speak. “It does not matter then,” he said, voice shaking. “Perhaps they are gone already. Perhaps not. Perhaps they stand on the rooftops above our heads. Either way, I face death.”
He raised his gaze to meet Abraham’s, eyes haunted and dark. “They have gone to the forest outside of town in search of a group of bandits, men who witnessed the passing of another group.”
“The Order…” Abraham breathed.
Raul looked up. “I do not know. I know what they asked, and what I told them, of the passing of a strange caravan, and those who died trying to rob it. That is all I know.”
“It is enough,” Abraham said, turning and dropping the coins in the dirt where Raul now sat, leaning against the dirty wall. “More than enough.” He turned to leave, but Fleurette grabbed his arm suddenly.
“Wait, you will leave?”
He hesitated, then turned to her, ignoring Raul, who was dusting himself off and edging around them toward the entrance to the alley.
“I must. I know where he has gone now, and I must follow while the trail is yet warm.”
Her eyes were searching his, and he felt the speeding of her heartbeat. He closed his eyes, firmly restraining the talons of hunger that leaped forth, then opened them once more and met her gaze…held it.
“It is not a road for you, little flower. You would wilt, and wither, and possibly die, all for things that do not matter to you, but only to me. Stay, be strong. You have friends, a life. Perhaps our paths will cross once more?”
She did not speak, but there was a fiery spark in her eye that he could not quite read. She did not answer. No nod, no argument. She watched his eyes, backed away, and as she neared the entrance to the alley spun on her heel and was gone. She was quick for a mortal, and the image of her eyes…the scent of her hot, pounding blood, left Abraham momentarily disoriented.
He frowned, turning and moving to the street with purpose. He did not need distractions, particularly from mortals he had no connection with. There was precious little time to catch Montrovant’s trail, and perhaps even less before that of the Order faded away completely. He knew them better than Montrovant. They would have planned this well in advance, and they would have expected pursuit. That in mind, there would be a disappearing act, or a trap, not so far ahead of them. Secrecy was how they maintained their near-mythic “mystery.” Whatever their final destination, it had been ready and waiting to receive them for years, perhaps decades, and the cover that went with it would be well established.
The night was dying quickly, the first touches of the dawn threatening the horizon, and Abraham moved swiftly back toward the abandoned home where he’d left his mount. No matter how close he might be to his goal, the hunt would not continue this night. He had barely the time to reach his shelter and secure himself against the sun.
Montrovant would not be traveling either, nor would Noirceuil. Briefly Abraham wondered how a vampire worked in the service of the Church without giving away his damnation. It was an odd marriage, and on the road particularly difficult to disguise.
He left these matters for another time, easing from shadow to shadow until he reached the edges of the city, leaving the remnant of the city’s night life behind. There was no sound where he walked, no scent of blood or sound of laughter. He knew this would change when the daylight arrived. The streets would be busy, farmers making their way to market, those up too late and too far from home traveling out of the city. He had to be out of sight and safe before any of that began.
He did not see a
nyone as he skirted the main road heading out of town, and he made it to the old home without incident, slipping into the shed to check on his horse, gentling the animal and insuring there was a bit of food, and some water available to it. He didn’t want it becoming overheated, or hungry during the day and making noises that might attract someone from the road. Horse thievery was not uncommon, and if any were actively seeking him, which was possible, there now being two mortals running about the city who knew who and what he was, he did not want to make their search any easier.
With the animal tended to, he slipped back into the shadows and opened the doors to the old cellar, a last look around satisfying him that he was alone. He ducked inside and pulled the door closed tightly over him, then dropped down the steps into the dank, dreary interior of the cellar and lay back on the short table to await the coming and passing of the day.
Beyond the confines of the cellar, two sets of eyes watched.
One was young, blazing with energy, and curiosity. The other set was old, old and dark. Neither of these two moved closer to threaten the safety of Abraham’s rest. The dawn was slipping sleepy fingers over the horizon, and Noirceuil knew his time was at an end.
He slipped away, vaguely aware of a heartbeat nearby, but certain whoever it was had not seen him. The young “hunter” could wait. Noirceuil needed to know if the boy had information that could be put to use before destroying him, and Lacroix would not remain calm through a second premature slaying. Their orders said nothing of killing this Abraham, though Noirceuil had no intention of letting any of the Damned free once they were in his sight.
He fairly flew down the streets, slipping through shadows, in and out of open areas before any could be certain he had been there at all. The cathedral was not that far away, but the sun was rising with unnatural swiftness, as though scenting him, and he knew he’d waited too long this time.
Cursing himself for a fool, he slid through the outer court and into the side door of the temple, ignoring nods and soft words from those he passed, making his way straight for the stairs leading down to the lower levels. He knew the way to his chambers.
He yanked the huge oak doors open and pulled them closed quickly behind himself. All had been arranged as he’d asked. He moved to the large mahogany armoire, which stood ajar, and slid inside. There were pillows lining the floor of it. He had not ordered them, but decided to leave them. To sleep on the rough wood surface would attract attention he could not afford. It was odd enough that he shunned the light. Worse still that none ever saw him eat, or drink. It seemed only a matter of time until his secret was found out.
Lacroix was the key. Lacroix had been with him for a long, long time. He had seen him kill vampires, and men alike. He had never seen the light of hunger in Noirceuil’s eyes. He had never seen the trembling horror his partner could become if deprived for too long of the blood of mortals.
Lacroix believed in results, and their partnership had been based on that belief. Noirceuil claimed his methods, his idiosyncrasies, aided him in his hunting. He found the undead, and he destroyed them, with shocking regularity. It lent credibility to his words.
Noirceuil pulled the doors of the armoire closed behind himself, hearing the satisfying click that meant they were closed tightly. He lay back and closed his eyes, mind an immediate blank. In the room beyond, there were no windows. No lights. No candles. The day began, but in that chamber there was no hint of it.
Fleurette watched the old shed for a long time, fighting against the urge to go to him. She didn’t know what she would say, what she wanted to do, and so she watched. He had saved her life, at the same time frightening her more fully than she had ever been in her nineteen years of life. She had said it so calmly in the alley, vampire. The reality of that had not even sunk in as that arrogant pig Pierre’s body ceased to breathe, and cooled.
Only when Raul had been slammed to the wall, when the man, monster…Abraham’s words rang out so clearly, and softly. Death. More than death, drained, a shell, empty. As he’d shaken Raul like a child, her heart had nearly stopped. She had helped him because he helped her, and her mind had been centered on the alley, on Pierre and what he’d nearly done to her.
Abraham was not a man. Not exactly, or not just a man, and she’d ignored that until he threatened a repeat performance of Pierre’s death with Raul. Now she didn’t know how to feel. He had not hurt Raul. He had given the fool money and sent him on his way. That was a good thing. He had killed Pierre, God in heaven, he had drained the man’s blood. Did it matter?
She squatted in the shadows at the mouth of an alley, watching the shed as the morning light grew, wondering what she had walked into. She could feel his eyes on her, the skip in her heartbeat as they lingered, wondering what he thought, what he sensed. Did he see her as a woman, a child, or another meal? Again, did it matter?
She turned at last. He had not returned from the ruined home, and it appeared he would be resting during the daylight. She would do the same. He was strong, and fast…and she didn’t know if he were dead, or if he could be killed. She knew she should just turn and leave, not looking back and forgetting she’d ever seen him, or heard that low, shivery voice—she knew she could not.
As the morning sun warmed her back, and people began to move back and forth along the street, she rose, crossing the main road and slipping closer to the old, ruined building. She moved to the shed and pulled the door wide softly.
She found a horse, a bit of feed and water. Nothing more. No sign of him, no bags…no weapons. Nothing. He had disappeared. She glanced outside again, sweeping her gaze over the ruined home, but there was nowhere that he could remain hidden. Nowhere that would afford enough shade for sleep.
Did he sleep? So many questions. She closed the door to the makeshift stable softly, and, glancing down, she noted the cellar. She stood there for a long moment, hesitating. She had forgotten again. He would not be sleeping in the sunlight, or even in the shed. He would not truly be sleeping, only hiding from the light of God’s day. That is how the priest would tell it, how the stories had passed from father to daughter. Fleurette knew those stories well enough. Now they were not stories, and she wondered how much of what she had heard was truth?
She slipped into the street once more and away toward her own small room. She didn’t live far away, and suddenly the thought of her own bed, and a cup of warmed wine seemed very inviting. As she moved, she felt his eyes still locked to hers, watching. She shivered and slipped up the stairs to her loft.
ELEVEN
Montrovant had always been an early riser among his kind. Before Le Duc was even stirring within the shadows of his mind, the dark one was up and moving, readying the others for the road. He had no intention of remaining in the city any longer. He had what he wanted, and he was ready to move. As he waited for Jeanne to rise, he gave instructions to St. Fond and du Puy, sending them on ahead. He knew which direction he needed to take when he departed the city, and why. He and his men had little to fear from bandits, but that in itself was a problem. They would not be attacked, so they needed to find another way to locate those they sought.
The scouts were off and Montrovant was pacing back and forth like a madman by the time Jeanne rose. They were packed, and their mounts had been prepared. Without waiting for a word of explanation, Montrovant headed for the door and mounted. Jeanne and the others, used to such behavior, did not hesitate to follow. If they had, they knew they’d be struggling to catch up. The dark one was not one to wait when he had caught the scent of his prey.
They were moving down to the main street and turning toward the edge of town shortly after Jeanne rose, and they made no attempt to hide their passing. Montrovant was not really worried about being followed, and he knew that furtive movements and an attempt to slip out of town unnoticed would be more likely to attract attention than if they left in a group and said nothing. That is what they did, slipping out the west side of town and heading down the road at a brisk trot toward the forested
area beyond.
It was this forest they approached that the little weasel of a man had pointed them toward. Bandits were not uncommon, nor were they difficult to find, but to pinpoint the activities of a particular band was more chancy. The local law would be seeking this particular group as well, along with half the nobility of Grenoble. It was not going to be as simple as riding into the forest and making the group’s acquaintance.
Le Duc knew this would actually pose little problem. If du Puy and St. Fond failed to find sign of the raiders, he and Montrovant would be able to trace them by other means. There were advantages, as well as drawbacks, to the hunger. Hot, rich blood would draw them. Such a group as their informant had spoken of would not be easily hidden. It was a large, well-organized band.
They hit the edge of the tree line and disappeared within quickly, the growing shadows sweeping long and eerie across their path. Jeanne let his gaze shift right and left, scanning the trees and shrubbery for a sign of passage. The road itself was well traveled, but the forest was where those they sought would move, parallel to the roads, shifting through the trees and shadows.
By day the road was safe. None would chance a skirmish on a heavily traveled road, unless the booty to be gained was immense. But at night, all was changed. Any who chanced the dark trails of those woods without the benefit of the sun’s light, and without heavy guard, invited those who walked among the trees by night. It was an easy life for Jeanne to understand. He had been a man of action, and his very nature, once Embraced, was that of hunter. It was in the blood he stole from those he hunted…the notion that he lived on borrowed life, on borrowed time, and that he would continue to steal and borrow and drain that life and blood until fate managed to wrest it from him.
They moved in deeper, and a few moments later St. Fond melted from the shadows, reining in beside Montrovant and speaking, his voice low. Montrovant lowered his head, listening, then nodded quickly and spurred his mount down the trail. The others followed quickly behind, not questioning the sudden speed, even when St. Fond dropped back into their ranks and du Puy appeared without warning at Le Duc’s side.
To Dream of Dreamers Lost: Book 3 of The Grails Covenant Trilogy Page 12