Harlequin Nocturne September 2014 Bundle: Beyond the Moon\Immortal Obsession (16 page)

“Who is Marianne?” she asked.

Tilting his head back and closing his eyes, Rook thought about pushing Verity away. Telling her to get out, to leave him in his newly dredged-up misery. How dare she bring this back to him?

But she couldn't know the events that had pushed him toward the Order so many centuries in his past.

He offered quietly, “She is the witch I told you I had watched burn at the stake. She was…” he lifted his head to look directly into her tearing eyes “…a witch who died twice.”

Fingers flying to her mouth, Verity gasped. The tears spilled down her cheeks, and Rook thumbed a hot droplet away. He pressed his thumb to his finger and squeezed the salty drop. When had he ever shed a tear for Marianne?

You have never had the ability to show your pain in such a manner. It is not a weakness.

Sometimes he hated that Oz was there.

“But that can't be,” she started.

“How do you know you are the reincarnation of such a witch?” he asked.

“My mother always said it. She knew things like that. Same as when I told you I knew about people and their place in the world.”

“Still never fathered a child,” he offered but couldn't find the lightness that should have accompanied that comment.

“Yes, well, my mother always thought it was strange. I mean, a witch who died twice? How can you die twice? But that's why she knew it to be true because no one could make up a thing like that. And she never doubted her intuition.”

He nodded. It was a damned insane thing to die twice. But possible. He knew it as he knew the blood that coursed through his veins was tainted with demon blood. Marianne had died twice.

Because of him.

Chapter 14

“W
ho was this witch?”

Pressing his hands over his face, Rook inhaled, taking a moment to calm himself. To let his breath spill out unfettered. Because he must. He must tell someone. He had chained the agony within his heart for too long.

“My wife,” he said on an achy gasp.

“Oh, my goddess,” Verity whispered. Kneeling between his legs, because he still sat on the floor, she touched his knee. “When were you married to her?”

“Fifteen eighty six. When I was young and mortal. I served King Henri IV in the light horseback cavalry. They called us carbineers. We were married only five years. I didn't believe in witchcraft back then. And Marianne was a witch.”

“Did she convince you?”

“Yes. But only after summoning demons as a boastful answer to my constant insistence that she was nothing more than a product of her own beliefs.”

“Witches are real,” Verity whispered.

“I know that. But in the sixteenth century, most tended to believe that women who thought they had powers were either in league with the devil or had created the scenario in their own troubled minds.”

“What of witch hunters? Didn't they have them back then?”

“Yes, but they also believed more in the mental state of the women than that they could possess actual supernatural powers. Or else, that they were demon possessed because of their alliance with the devil Himself.”

He caught his head in his hands. Did he want to get into this now? He had things to do, like find Slater and the vampire who had bitten Verity.

You tell her all now. Or you will never earn her trust. It is a difficult issue for her. Marianne needs you to do this.

“Get the fuck out,” Rook muttered.

That is what I am trying to achieve. Freedom. With trust, the witch will act as bait for the vampire who took your soul. If you care about her, you must tell her everything.

“You talking to Oz?” she asked.

Rook nodded. “Sorry.”

“That's all right. Was Oz one of the demons your wife summoned to prove to you she was a witch?”

“Good guess.”

“Will you tell me about it? I want to know how Oz got stuck inside you and…how your wife died twice.” The stroke of her fingers along his cheek felt too tender, yet it was all he wanted. “If you trust me?”

Did
he trust her? She'd not told him about the spell not working against the bite. Had it been fear that kept her silent, or was it lack of trust? He was already in pursuit of Clas, but had he known Verity's condition, he would not have relented until the vamp was ash.

He had to get out there, find that bastard and shove titanium through the vampire's chest.

Not yet. You do trust her. She is all you have right now.

That wasn't correct. Always, he had King. But he and King had not discussed Marianne in centuries. King knew it was Rook's cross to bear. And he'd dragged that burden through deep channels all his life.

He pulled Verity close and turned her to sit against his chest and between his legs. Wrapping his arms around her, he clasped her hands in front of them and kissed the side of her neck. She smelled like macarons. That made him smile briefly. If only the world could fade into violet hair and macaron kisses. Easier that way.

Get on with it!

Very well. He owed Oz this confession.

“Marianne had her sights set on controlling demons without the use of a familiar. It's difficult for any witch to accomplish, and few nowadays can do such a thing, as I'm sure you're aware.”

“That is the familiar's principal task—to assist a witch in the summoning of a demon.”

“Exactly. But Marianne loved animals so much she couldn't allow herself to use a familiar in such a manner, even though they are classified as shapeshifters and not true animals. One evening she managed the summoning on her own, though it quickly got out of hand. She had conjured a rage of demons from Daemonia, a great swirl of blackness that rose above our cottage situated on the outskirts of Paris, very near the Bois de Boulogne.”

At mention of the park, she twisted to look at him.

“I'll get to that,” he said.

It was going to hurt like hell to dredge up all this stuff from memory. Long ago buried, literally and mentally, Rook wanted to do this as much as Oz wanted to remain inside him.

Yet he also wanted Verity's trust. And perhaps even her love.

“Most of the demons escaped Marianne's control. Neither of us knew what happened with them. Some were corporeal, so we assumed they walked the mortal realm, whereas the incorporeal ones, well, they may have found a human host. One dashed through me and got stuck. Asatrú. A truth demon.”

You see? You are finally embracing your truths. Good boy, Rook
.

“An annoying truth demon,” Rook felt inclined to add. “It was after witnessing that incredible display, and knowing a demon roiled within me, that I had no choice but to believe Marianne was a witch. She apologized for the magic gone wrong. She guessed it was because of the pregnancy—she was soon to give birth—that her magic had been so difficult to keep in hand. And the next few days would become the blackest days of my and her life.”

Verity pulled his hands up and kissed them, holding him tightly. The heat of her tears spilled over his skin.

Succumbing to the cool wash of memory that flooded his thoughts, Rook whispered, “Some memories haunt me vividly…”

Paris, 1592

She had suffered quietly through the day, fingers clenching the bed clothes and only taking the water Giles offered from the pewter cup in small sips. They called it labor for a reason, she'd said at one point.

But now Giles was worried. Her skin and hair were soaked. The bedclothes were wet from her laborious exertions. A strong woman who would never show others her pain, she was barely holding on now. Her waters had gushed out early this morning. It was now twilight, and the babe had yet to even move. Or so Marianne had said after probing over her stomach with her fingers.

“He's stubborn,” she whispered.

Always, she managed that small smile of reassurance. And she was sure the child was a boy and said he would grow up like his father, stubborn yet fierce.

She constantly went out of her way to show Giles that she was well and that she loved him. As if she needed to compensate for her supernatural truths. Because he had married a witch. He'd not known she was a witch when they'd exchanged vows under the ash tree at the edge of the Bois de Boulogne. Over the years, Marianne had attempted to make him understand that her potions and herbs were magical. He would laugh and say she had a way with healing, that was all.

Only recently she had found it necessary to convince him of her nature. He wished she had not tried when she was so large with child, but alas, Marianne was the most stubborn of them all.

The rage of demons that had invaded their two-room cottage and swirled out into the atmosphere had convinced him well and good. From that day forward Giles had walked the streets of Paris with a bit less confidence and a lot more wariness. A king's horseman, he was. A man who charged danger and showed it his teeth.

Now a man who harbored a demon within him.

Yet should anyone learn his wife was a witch, they would try to harm her, to take her away from him. He would not suffer any man to live should the bastard conceive of harming Marianne.

“Tell me what I can do,” he pleaded. Marianne's hand, clasped in his, was limp and feverish. “It's gone on too long. The babe—”

“Needs help to come into this world,” she uttered. “You must go for the midwife on Rue Vaugirard. Esmarelda is her name. She is a witch I have confided in on occasion. She will know how to prepare the spells I am too weak to manage.”

“I will go immediately. But—no, I cannot leave your side.”

He kissed her hot brow and smoothed the hair from her face. Normally her reddish-brown locks were springy and wild, defiant of taming and ever Marianne's bane. Now they lay wet upon the goose down pillow, as exhausted as his wife.

“Go, my love. It shouldn't take you more than an hour. Bring me wine, too.”

Their wine stores had depleted last week after Rook had taken to drinking to get his head around the idea that his wife was a witch and that a real demon poked and jounced about inside his body. An accident born of his wife's need to convince him of her truths. There hadn't been enough spirits to change that reality.

“Yes, more wine. And the midwife who is a witch. I'll run and make it in half that time.”

He pressed a long, lingering kiss to her belly, hoping that it might stir the babe into motion.
Your father wants you to behave. Don't be so cruel to your mother.

“I love you, Marianne.”

* * *

The midwife greeted him with a knowing nod. She was old, and warts pocked her chin. She looked like Giles's idea of what a witch should resemble. Not young and pretty like his wife.

Giles hastily blurted out that he knew she was a witch, like his wife, and he would tell no one if only she would help him.

Giles thought she sneered when she spoke his wife's name, but he was too frantic to pay attention. The midwife deemed it about time he finally got on board with the belief in their breed. Giles had not before heard the term witch labeled as a breed. So much he did not know. Yet he did know the world was populated with real witches and demons. And Marianne had casually mentioned vampires and werewolves.

Mercy, but he wanted his wife and child to be safe. He'd wonder about those other
breeds
later.

“I have to purchase wine for Marianne,” he said. “And something stronger for me.”

Esmarelda handed him a bottle of raspberry wine and sent him off to the tavern to seek his own devil in a bottle. After both had gathered their tools for survival, Giles met the witch at the edge of the Tuileries. She carried a sack of mysterious goods and wore a smart felt hat pulled down over her eyes.

“Lead on, man,” she offered to his wondering assessment. “There's no time to waste.”

* * *

Back at the cottage they found Marianne unconscious, an arm dipping off the bed, her fingers touching the floor. The witch ordered Giles outside to make a bonfire and boil some water. He initially refused to leave his wife's side, but the witch snapped her fingers and something inside him sat up and shivered. It was the first time he'd felt the demon's attention align with his own.

“Out!”

Giles did as he was told. He knew it was a command designed to keep him from underfoot while the women labored to bring a child into this world. He felt helpless. This was not something he could rush with sword held
en guarde
and musket primed.

If only he could be allowed to sit beside Marianne, to hold her hand.

He paced near the blazing fire he'd stoked outside the horse shed, whiskey spilling down his jaw as he quickly consumed the bottle beneath the wicked red harvest moon. He rarely drank so much as to get soused. For some reason the demon within made him twice as capable of handling his drink as he once could.

“Demon-infested idiot soldier,” he muttered, standing transfixed by the flames. “Married to a witch.”

It felt like an epitaph, a derogatory slur against all the choices he had made in life. Yet it was real. It was his life. And he would not change it for the world. He loved Marianne with all his heart. His soul was not complete without her.

Hours later, he could no longer stand by helpless and uninvolved. His wife's soul called to his. And for a flicker in time it was as though there was another. Theirs. A new creation.

Giles turned toward the cottage. “My child?”

He rushed across the dirt yard that Marianne always tried to coax into a garden. Unholy soil, she'd once commented. In need of a midsummer's cleansing.

As he neared the cottage, the door blew open of its own accord, as it had on the night she had called up the demons. Giles's racing steps thudded to a stuttering halt. His heart thundered, suddenly fearful.

In the doorway stood Esmarelda and in her arms was a bundle swaddled in the bright emerald skirt that Marianne kept tucked in her trousseau. It had belonged to her mother. The silk was her only treasure.

The witch shook her head and held forth the bundle. It was not wrapped to expose a tiny face but instead completely covered. Mummified.

Giles dropped to his knees. His heart threatened to punch through his chest. Even Asatrú lurched about, anxious.

“No,” clambered from his soul in an achy, wrenching cry to the heavens.

“I'm sorry.” The witch stopped in front of him. “It was born dead. We both believe it has not taken a breath for hours. She tried…so valiantly. Some souls are simply not prepared for this realm.”

“Don't tell me that!” Giles argued.

He beat the ground with his fists, but seeing the witch's tattered leather shoes brought him into focus. He stood. The bundle was held forth.

He couldn't touch it. Not yet. Not ready to touch death. To feel it darken his soul.

“How is she? I must go to her!”

“Monsieur!”

He ignored the witch's cry. He didn't want to hear her voice. Didn't want that tiny…being anywhere near him until he'd looked into his wife's eyes and knew their souls were still one.

Bloody bed clothes and linens littered the floor in wet islands. Giles stumbled over to his wife's side. She looked serene, and her skin was dotted with perspiration. Alive. Yes, so alive.

He kissed her forehead and pressed his to hers, sliding his palm along her cheek. Her skin was cool, but not alarmingly so.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered.

“We'll have another,” he reassured. “I'm only thankful you survived.”

She nodded, not a tear in her eyes, and fell asleep in his arms.