“Perhaps he didn’t know,” Simon answered, getting up himself. The way she had spoken of being alone touched him far more than he was willing to acknowledge, but whatever this girl’s problems might be, he could not help her. “I knew nothing of your father, Lady Isabel, or Charmot either when I left home. I went to the Holy Land in the service of my own lord, Duke Francis of Lyan.” Tell as much truth as you can, Orlando had always advised, and he was a much more clever liar than Simon would ever hope to be, vampire or not. “It was in his service that I was cursed, his death that caused me to forsake my ruined honor for the dark.”
“Cursed?” she echoed, not certain she had heard.
“Cursed by God,” he answered. “You spoke just now of my holiness—a cruel joke, my lady.” For a moment, he almost reached for her hand, almost risked touching her again without realizing it. But that could not happen again, ever. “Believe me when I tell you, I have none. God Himself has banished me from the light.”
“Has he, in faith?” she said lightly. Why did these knights of chivalry insist on speaking in riddles and poems? she thought. Some of the Black Knight’s challengers had gone on for an hour or more before they ever drew a lance. “You must be special then, my lord. Most of us He just torments at random, I think.”
“I do not jest, my lady,” he answered.
“No, I can see you do not.” In truth, no one who saw his eyes as he spoke of this curse could doubt he believed it was real. But it seemed so silly, so extreme— what could any one man possibly have done to offend the Lord Almighty, short of burning down a church? And Simon hardly seemed the church-burning sort of chap to her. “Forgive me, cousin; I do not mean to mock you,” she said. “So tell me—what are the particulars of this holy curse?”
“I cannot tell,” he answered. “But to escape it, I have forsworn all comfort—company, food, even the daylight.”
“Meaning what?” she asked.
“Meaning I do not see the sun,” he answered.
“Ever?” she said, raising her eyebrows. Surely he couldn’t be serious.
“Never. During the daylight hours, I hide myself. That was why I came to your gates at twilight.” Simon could tell she thought he was mad, but she didn’t seem to think he was lying. “But still God’s grace has eluded me,” he continued. “For many months I wandered in the wilderness, all of my companions lost save for Orlando, an infidel whose life I spared.”
“That should count for something, Simon,” Isabel pointed out. He was absolutely in earnest; he honestly believed whatever he had done made God hate him so much, he didn’t dare to show his face. “You can’t truly believe God would want you to murder a man who stands no taller than your belt.”
“No,” he agreed. “Orlando is a blessing, the only one I have.”
“Not quite,” she amended. “You live; you have your life—if you were truly cursed, would God not have taken that from you?”
“No,” he answered, meeting her eyes. “That I live is the worst of my curse.”
“Ridiculous,” she scoffed. “Good Lord, man, what did you do?”
He almost smiled. No man could stab to the heart of a question as brutally as any woman. “More sins than I dare tell you, my lady,” he answered, the same evasion Adam must have used two days out of the garden, but with far less reason. “But believe me, I do not dare to break my vow.”
“But what is the point?” she demanded, confusion giving way to true annoyance. In truth, she wanted to shake him as an impatient mother might shake her unruly child. She had real problems, real fears to be faced, and he was her kinsman, a fine, strapping knight, by all appearances. “Why did you come here?”
“I had a vision,” he answered.
“Yes, so you’ve said,” she said, not bothering to even pretend to be polite. As if she cared, as if she could afford to care…
“Many months ago, Sir Gabriel came to me in a dream,” Simon explained. “He seemed to know everything about me, all the evil I had done and all that I had suffered. He told me that my soul was not yet lost, that I still might find salvation.”
Isabel stared at him, barely crediting her ears. “My father came to you?” she said, searching his face for some sign of a lie. “Why should he have come to you?” Why not me? she wanted to scream at him, the fury she felt like a sickness that had come upon her suddenly. Her father had been struck dead in an instant, one moment well, the next lying dead on the ground. She hadn’t even seen him die; she had been in the stable waiting for his coming—he had promised to go riding with her. She had heard a shout; someone had screamed, “My lord!” and she had run out to the courtyard. But her father had been dead already, his empty eyes staring up at her but seeing nothing. She needed her father; she needed a knight to protect her, to protect Charmot.
“You are a liar,” she said aloud, meeting Simon’s eyes. “I don’t believe you. I will not—”
“He told me I should come here to Charmot,” Simon insisted. He had expected to tell this tale to the man himself, not his grieving daughter. Why should she believe him? Why should she care? He had been lost in his own misery so long, he had forgotten what it was to feel another’s pain. If anyone had asked him, he would have denied he could feel real sympathy anymore, would have said it was as foreign to his demon’s heart as love. But he felt it now, and it frightened him. He couldn’t afford to feel. But somehow he had to reach her, to convince her to believe him and allow him to stay until the Chalice could be found. “He said he was my kinsman; he called my father’s name. He said his blood flowed in my cursed heart, and he would help me. He said there was wisdom here that could lead me back to the light.”
“No,” Isabel insisted. “There is nothing here.” The catacombs, she thought, unable to stop herself. Perhaps he meant the catacombs… but no. Her father would not have shared his secrets with this stranger, kinsman or not. The wisdom of the druids was too precious; he had always kept it hidden, even from Isabel herself. “There is nothing,” she repeated.
“Isabel, please.” Simon could see she was lying; he could feel it just as he felt evil in the air when it was near, just as he felt the goodness in her heart. He could force her to tell him the truth, entrance her or even steal her secrets in her blood, drain them from her heart. But he didn’t want to hurt her; he wanted her to trust him, more than he had wanted anything in ten long years.
“I said there is nothing here,” she repeated. “You should leave here, Simon, now, at once—”
“I cannot,” he cut her off. “I will not.”
“The Black Knight will make you,” she insisted, frustrated tears rising in her eyes, making her angrier still—she never cried, ever; why should she be crying now? “He will kill you—”
“He will not,” he interrupted. Against his will, his hands came up to frame her face, forcing her to look into his eyes, and the powerful hunger swept through him, mingled with a burning as if he touched some holy thing. “Listen to me, Isabel,” he said, the voice he used to charm his prey stealing into his tone. “You know that he will not. The Black Knight cannot kill me.”