“How can you be so certain?” she retorted. Her own servants did not speak to her this way; why should she bear it from him, wizard or not? “And what business is it of yours?”
“You cannot help Simon, my lady, only hurt him.” People in the hall were giving them curious looks, and she let him lead her into the solar more to avoid questions than because she cared to hear what he would say. “He is not the man you think he is, Lady Isabel, as much as he would like to be.” She saw him fumble in his pocket as if to touch something inside. “His quest is more important than you could ever guess, his vows more deadly to break.”
“Orlando, what is this curse?” she demanded. “What is this great sin he has committed?”
The corner of his mouth curled up in a wry, bitter grin. “Would that I could tell you, my lady,” he answered. “Would that I could make you understand.”
“When have I shown you anything but kindness, Orlando?” she asked. “Why should you dislike me so?”
“Dislike you? Nay, lady, I swear it is not so,” he protested. “In truth, I like you very much, more than I care to admit. It is for your protection as much as for my master’s that I would warn you.” He took her hand between his own in a warm but powerful grip. “He cares for you, I know, and I fear it. He could destroy you, my lady, destroy you body and soul.” She opened her mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stopped the words before they were spoken. “And that would destroy him.”
“Orlando, I don’t understand.” She tightened her hand around his, holding on when he would let go.
“Stay away from my master, my lady,” he answered. “I can tell you no more plainly. If you want to help him, stay away.”
Simon found the gates of the churchyard closed and barred for the night. Leaning down from Malachi’s saddle, he rang the iron bell. With any luck, the priest would not know him at all. He could entrance him again, open the grave he had made behind the chapel, and make certain Michel was where he belonged, make certain Orlando was right. And if he was not…
“Begone!” The priest had thrown open the door in the gate and was coming out holding a cross-shaped staff before him, a pottery vessel in his other hand. “Fiend from hell, begone from here, I say!”
Malachi reared up and screamed as if the cross repelled him as much as it did the vampire. “Easy,” Simon ordered, fighting to control the horse as he turned his face away, his eyes burning from the sight. “Father, please—I mean you no harm—”
“I said begone!” The old man flung the vessel with surprising strength, dousing the vampire in holy water. This time, Simon was the one who screamed, his face melting as if in flame. Malachi turned of his own accord, recoiling as the reins went slack, and through his own cries of pain, Simon heard the door slam shut again and the bolt smash home.
“Well done, Father Colin,” he muttered when he could speak. His flesh was already beginning to heal, but he still would not have dared to look into a mirror for fear of what he would see for at least a little longer. Malachi pranced and snorted, pawing the road as if angry on his rider’s behalf. “No, he did right, friend,” Simon said as he took up the reins, giving the horse a pat. “He did right.” There would be no visit to the churchyard, at least not tonight. And with the priest so vigilant, it was hard to imagine another vampire coming and going under his very nose. Perhaps Orlando was right after all.
He heard a rustle behind him and another sound that might have been a laugh, and he turned the horse in a tight circle, his right hand on his borrowed sword. “Who is there?” Malachi nickered low in his throat in alarm, a shiver running through him. “What is it?”
The glimmer of a pair of eyes stared out at him from the brush, and as he wrapped the reins more tightly around his fist to control his mount, he heard a low, throaty growl. “Steady,” he murmured, drawing his sword as the shape of the creature drew closer, black as the shadows, too black to see clearly, even with vampire eyes. Malachi snorted, more angry than fearful, and Simon smiled. “Yes, we shall have him. Whatever he is.”
Suddenly the animal sprang toward them, clearing the destrier’s shoulder in a single leap and the vampire’s head in another, its claws slashing deep into Simon’s chest and Malachi’s flank as it went. The horse whirled around with a cry of pure fury almost before the vampire tugged at the reins, plunging into the forest in pursuit.
The chase went on for miles through trees and brush so thick Simon could barely glimpse his quarry. But he could smell him, sense his malice, and apparently so could Malachi—the horse never faltered or slowed, even without a trail. Suddenly the woods opened up into a clearing—the same circle of trees where Simon had brought down the stag, he realized, slowing the horse to a walk. And standing at its center was the wolf.
Malachi reared once and stopped, facing the beast unafraid, but Simon wouldn’t risk losing the only horse in Christendom who could bear his presence. He climbed down slowly, gripping his sword, and the wolf’s yellow eyes never wavered, watching his every move. Simon had never seen himself in wolvish form, but he imagined this beast could have been his twin. Its coat was black as pitch, and its shoulders, hackles raised in warning, were as broad as Simon’s own. It bared its fangs in a snarl as the vampire drew closer, and Simon had the strange and rather horrifying thought that this was how he must appear to his prey, ravenous and cruel.
He raised the sword in his right hand and drew his dagger with his left, he and the wolf circling one another, drawing nearer with every step. For a moment, Simon wondered if this creature might be Michel, a vampire in a different predator’s shape, but he quickly dismissed the thought. A vampire would have wanted his hands as well as his teeth for a battle, would have wanted to fight as a man. His eyes locked to
the wolf’s in challenge, his lips drawing back over fangs of his own. The creature froze, and he saw a moment’s flash of fear inside his golden eyes. Then in an instant, he attacked.
He felt the animal’s full weight coming down on him as he fell backward, but he knew the wolf could not do him serious harm—even if it ripped out his throat, his vampire flesh would heal. Fangs tore at his shoulder as he raised the sword, slashing the throat of the wolf as his dagger plunged into its belly. Hot blood poured over his face, irresistible, and he drank as a man in a desert, drank until he was drunk on it, cruel life flowing into his heart.
An hour after Orlando had left her, Isabel was still in the solar, studying her mother’s half-made tapestry for the first time since she was a child. In the background was a castle that could have been Charmot, its towers rising above the fanciful wood, and the maiden looked like Isabel herself, her crimson hair falling to her knees. Crouching before her was a wolf, its head laid in her lap. Yellow eyes gazed up at her in love as she stared off into space, seemingly oblivious. But one white hand was laid upon the deadly monster’s throat.
“My lady!” Hannah was calling, running through the door. “Lady Isabel, come quickly! Sir Simon has slaughtered the wolf!”
She followed Hannah and the other women out into the courtyard where the men were already gathered, their voices raised in merry celebration. A great black shape lay on the ground before Simon—the carcass of the wolf.
“Killed him on his own, he did, in pitch-black darkness, yet!” Kevin was laughing as she drew closer.
“Is he all right?” Simon was just standing there, neither smiling nor speaking, Malachi still waiting at his back. “Simon, are you hurt?” His tunic was torn at the shoulder and chest, and he seemed to be covered in blood.
Simon looked at her, this innocent he could not have. The wolf’s blood was still coursing through his veins, creating the illusion of life, of desire, of need. Turning, he pushed Raymond and his cousin out of the way, stripping out of the ruined tunic as he went. He plunged his head into the rain barrel, washing away the blood, filling his mouth with water and spitting it out on the ground.
“Simon?” Isabel repeated, following him, confused. Orlando had come out of the castle as well, and he was watching her with warning in his eyes, but she chose to ignore him. “Simon, I said are you hurt?”
He turned to her, still streaming icy water, and gathered her into his arms. She opened her mouth to protest, and he kissed her, his mouth crushing hers, his tongue parting her lips to push inside. She felt as if the ground were dissolving beneath her, but he held her close, so tightly she couldn’t breathe, his arms a threat and sanctuary at once. Her hands slid over his shoulders, bare and sleek, and he should have been warm, but he wasn’t; his skin was cool but flawless, an angel’s flesh under her touch. Somewhere in the world people were laughing and applauding, calling her name and his, but that was far away. Here was only her angel, her Simon, his arms around her, his body pressed to hers, his tongue inside her mouth, and she was frightened and brave at the same time; she felt starved for something she had never tasted. She slipped her tongue between his teeth, exploring, and he let her, his movement urging her own.
Then suddenly, it was over. Simon was letting her go. He set her back on her feet again, his mouth barely curled in a smile. “I am well, my lady.” As the men laughed and clapped him on the back and the women howled and scolded in protest, he picked up his tunic and walked away, stepping over the wolf he had killed on his way to the castle. Orlando looked at Isabel for a moment with a face she could not read before he followed.