Lead Demon

Keening Whoosh

"Meet me in the hay barn on your way back from the village.” Michael had resumed his ann

oying habit of appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye and was standing before us in the library.

I looked up from my book and frowned. “What’s in the hay barn?” “Hay.” Seven’s revelations in the church had only made him more restless and short-tempered. “I’m writing to our new pope, Father. Alain tells me that the conclave will announce today that poor Niccolò has been elected despite begging to be spared the burdens of office. What are the wishes of one man when weighed against the aspirations of Philip of Spain and Michael de Clermont?”

Michael reached for his belt. A loud clap exploded from Seven’s direction. Seven held a dagger between his palms, the point of the blade resting against his breastbone.

“His Holiness can wait.” Michael considered the position of his weapon. “I should have targeted Stephanie. You would have moved faster.”

“You must forgive me for ruining your sport.” Seven was coldly furious. “It’s been some time since I’ve had a knife thrown at me. I fear I am out of practice.”

“If you are not at the barn before the clock strikes two, I will come looking for you. And I will be carrying more than this dagger.” He plucked it out of Seven’s hands and bellowed for Alain, who was right behind him.

“No one should go to the lower barn until told otherwise,” Michael said as he rammed his weapon back into its leather sheath.

“I had apprehended as much, sieur.” It was as close to a reproach as Alain was ever likely to utter.

“I’m tired of living with so much testosterone. No matter what Ysabeau thinks of witches, I wish she were here. And before you ask what testosterone is, it’s you,” I said, jabbing my finger at Michael. “And your son is not much better.”

“The company of women, eh?” Michael pulled on his beard and looked at Seven, openly calculating just how much further he could push his son. “Why did I not think of it before? While we wait for Stephanie’s witch to arrive from Lyon, we should send her to Margot for instruction on how to behave like a proper French lady.”

“What Louis and Margot get up to at Usson is worse than anything they did in Paris. That woman isn’t a proper role model for anyone, least of all my wife,” Seven told his father with a withering look. “Unless they’re more careful, people are going to know that Louis’s carefully managed, very expensive assassination was a sham.”

“For someone wedded to a witch you are quick to judge the passions of others, Matthaios. Louis is your brother.”

Goddess bless us, another brother.

“Passions?” Seven’s eyebrow lifted. “Is that what you call taking a string of men and women to bed?”

“There are countless ways to love. What Margot and Louis do is not your concern. Ysabeau’s blood runs in Louis’s veins, and he will always have my loyalty—as will you, in spite of your own considerable transgressions.” Michael disappeared in a blur of movement.

“Just how many de Clermonts are there? And why do you all have to be men?” I demanded when there was silence once more.

“Because Michael’s daughters were so terrifying we held a family council and begged him to stop making them. Stasia can strip the paint from walls simply by looking at them, and Verin makes her look meek. As for Freyja . . . well, Michael named her after the Norse goddess of war for a reason.”

“They sound wonderful.” I gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “You can tell me about them later. I’ll be in the Sebastianchen, trying to stop up that leaky cauldron that Marthe calls a still.”

“I could take a look at it for you. I’m good with lab equipment,” Seven offered. He was eager to do anything that would keep him from Michael and the mysterious hay barn. I understood, but there was no way for him to evade his father. Michael would simply invade my stillroom and harass him there.

“Not necessary,” I said over my shoulder as I departed. “Everything is under control.”

Everything was not, as it turned out. My eight-year-old bellows boys had let the fire go out, but not before the flames had burned too high and produced a thick black residue in the bottom of the distillation apparatus. I made notes in the margins of one of the de Clermonts’ alchemical books about what had gone wrong and how it could be fixed, while Thomas, the more trustworthy of my two young assistants, stoked the fire. I was not the first to make use of the book’s wide, clean borders, and some of the earlier scribblings had been quite useful. In time maybe mine would be, too.

Étienne, my other errant assistant, ran into the room, whispered in his partner’s ear, and received something shiny in exchange.

“Milord encore,” the boy whispered back.

“What are you betting on, Thomas?” I demanded. The two of them looked at me blankly and shrugged. Something about their studied innocence made me concerned for Seven’s welfare. “The hay barn. Where is it?” I said, ripping off my apron.

With great reluctance, Thomas and Étienne led me through the castle’s front gate and toward a wood-and-stone structure with a steeply pitched roof. A ramp sloped up to the wide, barred entrance doors, but the boys pointed instead to a ladder pushed against the far end. The rungs disappeared into fragrant darkness.

Thomas went up first, making quieting gestures with his hands and imploring me to be silent with facial contortions worthy of an actor in a silent film. Étienne held the ladder while I climbed, and the village blacksmith hauled me into the dusty loft.

My appearance was met with interest, but not surprise, by half of the Sept-Tours staff. I had thought it odd that only one guard was on duty at the front gate. The rest of them were here, along with Catrine, her older sister Jehanne, most of the Sebastianchen crew, the blacksmith, and the grooms.

A softly keening whoosh, unlike anything I’d heard before, captured my attention. The sharp clang and the shriek of metal against metal were more recognizable. Seven and his father had dispensed with sniping and progressed to armed combat. My hand rose to stifle a gasp when the point of Michael’s sword pierced Seven’s shoulder. b****y slashes covered their shirts, breeches, and hose. They’d evidently been fighting for some time, and this was no genteel fencing match.