Lead Demon

Soothing Stream

“Yes. Then a manjasang came to kill Seven—one of Gerbert’s creatures—and she nearly succeeded. There was nowhere we could go that would be beyond the Congregation’s reach, except the past.” I paused, shocked at the venomous look that Michael gave Seven. “But we haven’t found a haven here. People in Woodstock know I’m a witch, and the trials in Scotland might affect our lives in Oxfordshire. So we’re on the run again.” I reviewed the outlines of the story, making sure I hadn’t left out anything important. “That’s my tale.”

“You have a talent for relating complicated information quickly and succinctly, madame. If you would be so kind as to share your methods with Seven, it would be a service to the family. We spend more than we should on paper and quills.” Michael considered his fingertips for a moment, then stood with a vampiric efficiency that turned a simple movement into an explosion. One minute he was seated, and then, the next, his muscles sprang into action so that all six feet of him suddenly, and startlingly, loomed over the table. The vampire fixed his attention on his son.

“This is a dangerous game you are playing, Seven, one with everything to lose and very little to gain. Anthony sent a message after you parted. The rider took a different route and arrived before you did. While you’ve been taking your time getting here, the king of Scotland has arrested hundreds of witches and imprisoned them in Edinburgh. The Congregation no doubt thinks you are on your way there to persuade King James to drop this matter.”

“All the more reason for you to give Stephanie your protection,” Seven said tightly.

“Why should I?” Michael’s cold countenance dared him to say it.

“Because I love her. And because you tell me that’s what the Order of Lazarus is for: protecting those who cannot protect themselves.”

“I protect other manjasang, not witches!”

“Maybe you should take a more expansive view,” Seven said stubbornly. “Manjasang can normally take care of themselves.”

“You know very well that I cannot protect this woman, Seven. All of Europe is feuding over matters of faith, and warmbloods are seeking scapegoats for their present troubles. Inevitably they turn to the creatures around them. Yet you knowingly brought this woman—a woman you claim is your mate and a witch by

blood—into this madness. No.” Michael shook his head vehemently. “You may think you can brazen it out, but I will not put the family at risk by provoking the Congregation and ignoring the terms of the covenant.”

“Michael, you must—”

“Don’t use that word with me.” A finger jabbed in Seven’s direction. “Set your affairs in order and return whence you came. Ask me for help there—or better yet, ask the witch’s aunts. Don’t bring your troubles into the past where they don’t belong.”

But there was no Michael for Seven to lean on in the twenty-first century. He was gone—dead and buried.

“I have never asked you for anything, Michael. Until now.” The air in the room dropped several dangerous degrees.

“You should have foreseen my response, Matthaios, but as usual you were not thinking. What if your mother were here? What if bad weather hadn’t struck Trier? You know she despises witches.” Michael stared at his son. “It would take a small army to keep her from tearing this woman limb from limb, and I don’t have one to spare at the moment.”

First it had been Ysabeau who’d wished me out of her son’s life. Baldwin had made no effort to hide his disdain. Seven’s friend Hamish was wary of me, and Sebastian openly disliked me. Now it was Michael’s turn. I stood and waited for Seven’s father to look at me. When he did, I met his eyes squarely. His flickered with surprise.

“Seven couldn’t anticipate this, Monsieur de Clermont. He trusted you to stand with him, though his faith was misplaced in this case.” I took a steadying breath. “I would be grateful if you would let me stay at SeptTours tonight. Seven hasn’t slept for weeks, and he is more likely to do so in a familiar place. Tomorrow I will return to England—without Seven, if necessary.”

One of my new curls tumbled onto my left temple. I reached up to push it away and found my wrist in Michael de Clermont’s grip. By the time I had registered my new position, Seven was next to his father, palms on his shoulders.

“Where did you get that?” Michael was gazing at the ring on the third finger of my left hand. Ysabeau’s ring. Michael’s eyes turned feral, sought out mine. His fingers tightened on my wrist until the bones started to give way. “She would never have given my ring to another, not while we both lived.”

“She lives, Michael.” Seven’s words were fast and rough, meant to convey information rather than reassurance.

“But if Ysabeau is alive, then . . .” Michael trailed off into silence. For a moment he looked dumbfounded before understanding crept over his features. “So I am not immortal after all. And you cannot seek me out when and where these troubles began.”

“No.” Seven forced the syllable past his lips.

“Yet you left your mother to face your enemies?” Michael’s expression was savage.

“Marthe is with her. Baldwin and Alain will make certain that she comes to no harm.” Seven’s words now came in a soothing stream, but his father still held my fingers. They were growing numb.

“And Ysabeau gave my ring to a witch? How extraordinary. It looks well on her, though,” Michael said absently, turning my hand toward the firelight.

“Maman thought it would,” said Seven softly.

“When—” Michael took a deliberate breath and shook his head. “No. Don’t tell me. No creature should know his own death.”