Bound In Darkness 02 - The Devil's Knight Part 18

Siobhan sat on the hearth of the tower hall, smiling at her stepdaughter over the chessboard. "This is the queen," she explained, holding up the piece. "She is your most powerful soldier, the only one you can move in any direction for as many squares as you wish."

"More powerful than the king?" Clare said.

"Much more powerful." She set down the queen and picked up her ivory mate. "The king can move in any direction, but only one square at a time, thus." "But the king is the one who must be captured," Clare said.

"Just so." She put the king back down in his place and picked up the queen again. "All the other pieces protect the king from the enemy. But none so well as the queen."

"So she loves him," Clare decided.

"I suppose," Siobhan allowed, smiling at the child's whimsical turn of mind. "Perhaps she only loves to win."

"Excuse me, my lady," the knight Sir Sebastian said, making a bow as he reached them. "Your lord has asked that we a.s.semble his soldiers in this hall. May I escort you and Lady Clare back to the manor?"

"You have spoken to Tristan?" she said, instantly alert. "He has come out of his hole?"

"He is awake," the knight nodded, blus.h.i.+ng slightly.

"Lovely." She got up from the hearth with a warrior's grace, mindless of her skirts. "Come, Clare."

"Wait, my lady," Sebastian protested.

"No, sirrah. I will not." She took Clare's hand and brushed past him, headed for the door.

Tristan emerged through the archway just as his brigand bride was stalking past his poor knight like he might have been a statue, his daughter's hand clasped in her own. They seemed so comfortable together, these two that he loved. Clare had even taken on Siobhan's style of walking, long, boyish strides with her shoulders thrown back. Instead of silk or velvet, she wore a plain wool kirtle with telltale smudges of dirt smeared on the knees. His cherub had become a wild thing, too. "Never mind, Sebastian," he called, fierce, jealous love for both of them clenched like a fist around his heart.

"Papa!" Clare broke free of Siobhan to race to her father, coming through the arch. He scooped her up as always, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. But before he could answer or kiss her back, a wave of hunger swept over him, the sweet smell of her skin and the sound of her heartbeat inciting the demon that possessed him.

"Take her!" he ordered, sick with revulsion as he shoved her into Siobhan's arms.

Siobhan saw the sudden, golden glow in his green eyes and clutched the child close to her, backing away. "It's all right, kitten,"

she soothed, turning Clare's face away from the vampire to her own shoulder. "Your papa is still sick." Even if she had not loved him, she would have felt pity for her demon lover, seeing the horrified expression on his face. But she was afraid of him, too.

Whenever she had seen him before, he had always seemed completely in control of the power inside of him. Now it was obvious that he was not.

"Take her upstairs," he ordered, his voice more natural as his eyes faded back to simple green. "Wait for me there in your room."

"No," Siobhan answered, shaking her head. "I have to speak with you."

"I have to go out," he said brusquely. "I will speak with you later when I return."

"Take me with you-"

"No!" Clare had turned back to him, her own green eyes wide with confusion, and he smiled, touching her cheek. "Do as I tell you, Siobhan. Go to your room and wait for me."

"I have been waiting for you all day," she pointed out, fear quickly giving way to fury. Was she a child, too, that he could order her to bed?

"Then another hour will hardly make a difference." He touched her cheek as well, and though she knew he would sooner die than say the words, she saw pleading in his eyes. His hands are cold, she thought. She reached up and clasped his hand in hers, and the flesh was chill, like a statue come to life. Or a corpse, she could not help but think, her own flesh tingling with horror.

"Another hour," she echoed, her blue eyes focused hard and searching on his face. She pressed a kiss to the heel of his hand, making him s.h.i.+ver with ravenous desire. If she did not let him go, he would take her here before Clare and the household and probably murder her besides. "Fine, then. We will wait."

"I'm sorry, Papa," Clare said solemnly. "I did not mean to make you sick."

"You didn't, kitten," Siobhan said before he could answer. "I did. But he will be well soon." She let go of his hand, trailing a caress across his cheek that burned him like a brand before she started up the stairs.

As soon as they rounded the curve of the staircase, Clare lay her head against Siobhan's shoulder and began to cry, quiet and shaking in her arms. "Sweeting, what is it?" Siobhan said, pressing her closer. "All is well, love, I promise." She kissed the little one's cheek, stroking her hair.

"Why are you and Papa still so cross?" she demanded.

"We're not, love." She carried her into her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

"You are," she insisted, curling against her as Siobhan sat down on the bed and held her on her lap. "Both of you are angry; I can tell."

"No, Clare, not angry." She kissed her again, desperate to comfort her. She had never been close to a child in her life, but Clare was different, so serious and brave.

"Siobhan, what is wrong with him?" She looked up with her father's eyes. "He felt so cold."

"I know." She drew her close again to hide from those eyes. "He's ill, sweeting. Did he not tell you so?"

"He cries tears of blood." Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, as if she were afraid to speak the words aloud. "I saw it.

And when he touched me..." She touched her own cheek. "He felt like ice."

"He has a strange sort of fever, I think." He cried? she thought, grief and guilt twisting her heart. "But he is getting better every day."

"Tell him you are not cross with him anymore." The child drew back to look at her again. "Tell him you are sorry for what Sean Lebuin did, and he will be better."

"Clare..." She laid a hand against her cheek.

"He will," she insisted. "You have to, Siobhan. If he isn't better soon, he will go away." Her cherub's bow of a mouth quivered as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"No, Clare," Siobhan said. "Listen to me. No matter what else might happen, your father would never willingly leave you." As abhorrent as the thought might be, she might somehow find the courage to destroy Tristan to save her people. But she would not let his child lose faith in him, not when he loved her so. "Remember the night I came here with Sean? Remember how I held the knife to your throat and threatened to hurt you?"

"Yes." A new sort of horror dawned in the little one's eyes at the thought.

"He did not know me then, and he believed that I would do it." All the trust that had grown up between them might be dissolving in an instant as she spoke, but she could not stop. "He gave up everything-his castle, his men, his mission, even his own life-to stop me. He would not let you be hurt, not for the whole wide world. Do you remember?" "Yes." She seemed calmer. "But you would not have hurt me, would you, Siobhan?"

"No, love, I would not." She smiled, brus.h.i.+ng a tear from Clare's cheek. "Your papa and I might be cross with one another, but we both love you very much. Whatever else might happen, we will keep you safe."

Clare's answer was to cuddle close again, her little arms around Siobhan's waist. Not for the first time, Siobhan thought of this child's mother. What must she have been like? What could have happened to her? Did Clare and Tristan mourn her? "I love you, too," she murmured, catching the end of Siobhan's braid and holding it against her cheek.

She held the child until she felt her grow heavy with sleep in her arms. Then she tucked her gently into bed and tried to decide what to do next.

Tristan had told her to wait for him. But where could he have gone? She went to the door and looked out to find a pair of guardsmen loitering in the hallway, not quite on alert but obviously present. Smiling at them weakly, she closed the door again.

"G.o.d's b.l.o.o.d.y feet," she muttered, chewing her lip. Was she to spend the rest of her life shut up in this tower, waiting for disaster?

She looked out the window toward the wood. Tristan had said he was going to ride out. Had the duke gone with him? She ran a hand along the stones that edged the window frame, tracing the mortared cracks. Ever since the night she had climbed the cliff to escape her first Norman soldier, she had hated heights. But the wall was new, and the cracks were deep. With a stifled sigh, she started changing clothes.

Tristan watched the stag struggle to its feet and bound away into the forest. "We should keep cows," he grumbled.

Simon just stared at him for a moment, aghast, then smiled. "It might be easier." He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"You think little of the blood we take, don't you, brother?"

"What is there to think of?" The animal's blood was not entirely satisfying, but it had taken the edge off his hunger.

"We feed on life," Simon pointed out as they made their way through the trees.

"What man does not?" he countered. "If I were as I was, I would have killed the stag and fed it to my household. As I am, I feed and set it free. I call that merciful." They had reached the horses tethered in a thicket, and he untied Daimon's reins. "'Tis likely the stag would agree."

"But not all of your prey receives such mercy." Simon's horse, Malachi, tossed his head and snorted, restless as always in the presence of a demon other than his master. "Do you not regret the men you have killed?"

"Some of them, I suppose." He stroked Daimon's neck, considering. "I regret some of the men I killed as a soldier, too. Were you not a soldier once?"

"Yes," Simon allowed. "But that was very different."

"Aye, it was." He swung up into the saddle. "Then you had a choice. You did not need to kill those men to survive; you could have been a shepherd." His Irish brother's sudden look of remorse made him smile. "Satan's horns, Simon. You cannot take yourself to task for every evil in the world."

"No, not every one." He mounted as well. "Just my own."

"Absolve yourself a little," Tristan advised. "You have done penance enough."

"Not nearly," he retorted. "You, for example. Your death is on my head." "I forgive you," Tristan said. "There, that settles one."

"Not much progress," Simon muttered, but he smiled. "Are you going back to the castle?"

"Are you not?" Daimon trotted in a circle, eager to be off.

"Only to collect Orlando," he answered. "He has Silas digging, but he wants to start exploring the catacombs from the other end in the meantime. We're coming back to the forest." Malachi s.h.i.+ed to one side, but he easily turned him back. "I don't suppose I could convince you to help."

"I almost wish I could," Tristan said with a wry smile. "But I still have a quest of my own."

"Revenge," Simon said, shaking his head.

"No." His friend looked up, surprised. "If Lebuin has fled, I will not chase him. But I have to make certain my castle is safe-my daughter and Siobhan."

"I thought Siobhan was the enemy," Simon said gently, raising an eyebrow.

"That is my other task," Tristan admitted. "I have to find out if she is." He thought again of what Andrew had said, that Siobhan had spent time in private conference with Callard. "I have much to do yet, brother," he said. "But when I am done, I will keep my word." He pulled up on the reins. "We will find your chalice."

Gaston stood at the window of his master's rooms in the manor, watching as Tristan DuMaine and his friend, the Irish duke, rode out through the gates. "I can't believe he lives," he said again, shaking his head. "I saw him, my lord. No man could have survived such a beating."

"And yet it seems he did." Callard was lounging at his ease before the fire, a lady's linen handkerchief dangling from his hand.

Gaston had rarely seen him in so fine a humor.

"So it would seem," he agreed. "And Lady Siobhan ran to him as if he were her long-lost love."

"Perhaps he is." The baron stared into the fire, the strange new smile he had acquired teasing the corners of his mouth. "She knows what he is," he mused. "The marks on her throat...he has drunk from her."

"My lord?" Gaston said, confused.

"And yet she runs to him." He lifted the handkerchief to his face and breathed in deeply. "She has my blood, Gaston."

"My lord Baron," Gaston began again, his scalp beginning to p.r.i.c.kle. "You make no sense."

"Do I not?" He looked up and mildly met his gaze. "In truth, Gaston, I find it harder and harder to remember who I am." He twisted the bit of cloth around his fingers, his brow drawn in thought. "I am stronger in body and spirit, but I begin to lose myself.

This baron of yours...I forget where he ends and I begin."

He is mad, Gaston thought, feeling sick. "You are the baron, my lord."

"Of course I am." He frowned. "Merlin's blood...here. There must be a reason. Too dilute, of course-the girl is nothing, really.

It is the other one who is the key. Her blood is pure." He looked up again as if he expected Gaston to be someone else. "And Simon." He smiled, the angel's smile. "My Simon."

"My lord, what is in your head?" Gaston demanded. "Why do you say such things? Explain your plan to me, and I will do all that you wish." The baron rose from his chair. "Do I disappoint you, Gaston?"

"Never, my lord." He sank to his knees before him. "Am I not faithful?"

"Yes." He smiled. "It seems you are."

"Not seems, my lord. I swear it." He reached for his master's hand and kissed it. "I beg you to give me a task."

Callard stroked his hair in a fatherly caress. "There is something you can do for me," he said. "Something that will make me strong again."

"Yes," Gaston said, entranced by the love he saw reflected in his master's eyes. "Anything."

The baron knelt as well to face him, framing his face in his hands, smiling his beautiful smile. He kissed him tenderly on either cheek. Then his head fell back, his lips drawn back to reveal long, curved, white fangs. "Master," Gaston whispered in horror, frozen with fear, then the fangs were clamping hard upon his throat. He barely struggled as his life's blood drained away, his body going cold. But just when it seemed he was dying, just as his heart was slowing to a crawl, he felt the baron's embrace give way.

A great, black cloud rose up around them like blood dropped in water, engulfing them both. Gaston opened his mouth to scream, and the cloud rushed inside of him, filling him up. His consciousness fought as with a demon, pummeled and torn until he no longer knew who he was. Dying, he thought. I am d.a.m.ned...then cold, black silence.

Lucan Kivar opened his eyes, rising inside his new form. The world was bright and sharp again; his purpose clear and strong. The mind that had been this man Gaston was nothing but a shadow. He looked down at the body of the baron, the vessel that had brought him to this place. He had been strong, his will and evil extraordinary for a mortal. Gaston had been weak. He would not last for long. "Soon," he murmured, turning to the mirror to learn his new face, his mind paging through this body's memories like a scholar paging through a book. He saw the image of Siobhan, this child of his son Merlin's blood who feared no demon, and he smiled. "Soon I will be someone else."

Siobhan crawled slowly like a spider down the rough stone wall, praying the prayer of a brigand as she went. "Remember me in h.e.l.l, my G.o.d," she whispered, stretching for the next toehold. "You know I did my best as best I could."

The tower was the latest in Norman defenses, not a plain square but a sort of squatty cross with a deep, slitted crevice at each corner where archers could fire down on anyone agile or foolish enough to try to climb the motte. She worked her way into the nearest of these corners in hopes of hiding from the guards below. She could hear their voices from where they stood in the arch around the corner, but directly below her were the kennels. If she could make it to the bottom, she might gain entrance to the tower there and the dungeons beyond-Tristan's lair.

Just below the halfway mark, her boot struck a deeper, wider crack, too big to hold her foot, and she almost slipped and fell.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," she muttered breathlessly, heart pounding. Resisting the urge to look down, she felt her way with her foot again, clinging harder with her fingers. Too wide to be an arrow slit, the opening was hidden in the very point of the corner. Skirting around it, she inched slowly downward, reaching out now with her hand to feel the edge-a doorway. She stepped onto the ledge and found the wooden door, its iron handle tucked sideways into a niche in the wood. To her surprise, it turned easily, and the door opened before her.