Lead Demon

Hay, Barns, Mills...

Hay barns had corners, too. Michael’s words set them alight with shimmering strands of color—not just blue and amber but green and gold. The noise made by the threads rose to a soft keen of protest. Another family awaited me in another time after all. But the murmurs of approval in the barn soon drowned out the sound. Michael looked up to the loft as if noticing his audience for the first time.

“As for you—madame has enemies. Who among you is prepared to stand for her when milord cannot?” Those with some grasp of English translated the questio

n for the others.

“Mais il est debout,” Thomas protested, pointing at Seven. Michael took care of the fact that Seven was upright by clipping his son’s injured leg at the knee, sending him onto his back with a thud.

“Who stands for madame?” Michael repeated, one booted foot placed carefully on Seven’s neck.

“Je vais.” It was Catrine, my daemonic assistant and maid, who spoke first.

“Et moi,” piped up Jehanne, who, though older, followed wherever her sister led.

Once the girls had declared their allegiance, Thomas and Étienne threw in their lot with me, as did the blacksmith and Chef, who had appeared in the loft carrying a basket of dried beans. After he glared at his staff, they grudgingly acquiesced as well.

“Madame’s enemies will come without warning, so you must be ready. Catrine and Jehanne will distract them. Thomas will lie.” There were knowing chuckles from the adults. “Étienne, you must run and find help, preferably milord. As for you, you know what to do.” Michael regarded Seven grimly.

“And my job?” I asked.

“To think, as you did today. Think—and stay alive.” Michael clapped his hands. “Enough entertainment. Back to work.”

Amid good-natured grumbling, the people in the hayloft scattered to resume their duties. With a c**k of his head, Michael sent Alain and Daniel out after them. Michael followed, taking off his shirt as he went. Surprisingly, he returned and dropped the wadded-up garment at my feet. Nestled within it was a lump of snow.

“Take care of the wound on his leg, and the one over his kidney that is deeper than I would have wished,” Michael instructed. Then he, too, was gone.

Seven climbed to his knees and began to tremble. I grabbed him by the waist and lowered him gently to the ground. Seven tried to pull free and draw me into his arms instead.

“No, you stubborn man,” I said. “I don’t need comforting. Let me take care of you for once.”

I investigated his wounds, beginning with the ones Michael had flagged. With Seven’s help I cleared the rent hose from the wound on his thigh. The dagger had gone deep, but it was already closing thanks to the healing properties of vampire blood. I packed a wad of snow around it anyway—Seven assured me it would help, though his exhausted flesh was barely warmer. The wound on his kidney was similarly on the mend, but the surrounding bruise made me wince in sympathy.

“I think you’re going to live,” I said, putting a final ice pack into place over his left flank. I smoothed the hair away from his forehead. A sticky spot of half-dried blood near his eye had captured a few black strands. Gently I freed them.

“Thank you, mon coeur. Since you’re cleaning me up, would you mind if I returned the favor and removed Michael’s blood from your forehead?” Seven looked sheepish. “It’s the scent, you see. I don’t like it on you.”

He was afraid of the blood rage’s return. I rubbed at the skin myself, and my fingers came away tinged with black and red. “I must look like a pagan priestess.”

“More so than usual, yes.” Seven scooped some of the snow from his thigh and used it and the hem of his shirt to remove the remaining evidence of my adoption.

“Tell me about Benjamin,” I said while he wiped at my face.

“I made Benjamin a vampire in Jerusalem. I gave him my blood thinking to save his life. But in doing so, I took his reason. I took his soul.”

“And he has your tendency toward anger?”

“Tendency! You make it sound like high blood pressure.” Seven shook his head in amazement. “Come. You’ll freeze if you stay here any longer.”

Slowly we made our way to the château, our hands clasped. For once neither of us cared who might see or what anyone who did see might think. The snow was falling, making the forbidding, pitted winter landscape appear soft once again. I looked up at Seven in the fading light and saw his father once more in the harsh lines of his face and the way that his shoulders squared under the burdens they bore.

The next day was the Feast of St. Nicholas, and the sun shone on the snow that had fallen earlier in the week. The château perked up considerably with the finer weather, even though it was still Advent, a somber time of reflection and prayer. Humming under my breath, I headed for the library to retrieve my stash of alchemical books. Though I took a few into the stillroom each day, I was careful to return them. Two men were talking inside the book-filled room. Michael’s calm, almost lazy tones I recognized. The other was unfamiliar. I pushed the door open.

“Here she is now,” Michael said as I entered. The man with him turned, and my flesh tingled.

“I am afraid her French is not very good, and her Latin is worse,” Michael said apologetically. “Do you speak English?”

“Enough,” the witch replied. His eyes swept my body, making my skin crawl. “The girl seems in good health, but she should not be here among your people, sieur.”

“I would happily be rid of her, Monsieur Champier, but she has nowhere to go and needs help from a fellow witch. That is why I sent for you. Come, Madame Roydon,” Michael said, beckoning me forward.

The closer I got, the more uncomfortable I became. The air felt full, tingling with an almost electrical current. I half expected to hear a rumble of thunder, the atmosphere was so thick. Peter Knox had been mentally invasive, and Satu had inflicted great pain at La Daniel, but this witch was different and somehow even more dangerous. I walked quickly past the wizard and looked at Michael in mute appeal for answers.

“This is André Champier,” Michael said. “He is a printer, from Lyon. Perhaps you have heard of his cousin, the esteemed physician, now alas departed from this world and no longer able to share his wisdom on matters philosophical and medical.”

“No,” I whispered. I watched Michael, hoping for clues as to what he expected me to do. “I don’t believe so.”

Champier tilted his head in acknowledgment of Michael’s compliments. “I never knew my cousin, sieur, as he was dead before I was born. But it is a pleasure to hear you speak of him so highly.” Since the printer looked at least twenty years older than Michael, he must know that the de Clermonts were vampires.

“He was a great student of magic, as you are.” Michael’s comment was typically matter-of-fact, which kept it from sounding obsequious. To me he explained, “This is the witch I sent for soon after you arrived, thinking he might be able to help solve the mystery of your magic. He says he felt your power while still some distance from Sept-Tours.”