The Prince of Midnight (4 page)

She wet her lips. "Don't put me here," she muttered. "Is this your room?"

He pushed the damp black hair back from her forehead. "I'm not going to hurt
you."

"I'll have to go away," she said desperately. "Leave me alone. Don't touch
me."

"I won't do anything to you,
ma cherie. "

She pushed at his hand. "Go away. Don't come near."

"You're ill," he exclaimed. "I'm not going to rape you, you little dimwit.
You're sick."

"No! I'm not; I can't be. I can't be." She closed her eyes and tossed her
head. Then with a defeated whimper she suddenly lay still. The strange, blunted
lashes seemed outlandishly black against her chalky skin. She opened her eyes,
fixing him with a fierce stare. "Yes," she said hoarsely. "Please go away.
Please. I thought... I hoped . . . 'twas nothing. Poisonous food." She rolled
away, shivering. "I was wrong."

He watched a shudder rack her body. His fingers curled in futile empathy.

"My head," she mumbled, and twisted over. "Oh, my head aches."

She turned onto her elbow. He pushed her back and held her down, cursing
softly. His mother had died of a fever like this—sudden and devastating. Years
ago; decades, it seemed, and all he could recall was her body lying in state in
a cold marble hall in Florence, white and still as the stone. What had the
damned doctors done for her? The wrong thing, obviously, but S.T. couldn't even
remember that. They hadn't asked him into the sickroom, and he hadn't been
breathless to go: seventeen and rebellious and stupid, not believing in death,
never thinking that his impetuous, laughing, exasperating
maman
would
not be asking him to carry another
billet doux
to her latest lover
again.

The girl fought his hands. "Let go of me." She wrenched free. "Don't you
understand? It's a mortal fever!"

"Mortal?" He grabbed her wrists and held them. "Are you sure?"

She tried to pull away, and then lay panting, nodding weakly.

"How?"

"I ... know."

His voice rose. "How do you know, damnit?"

She wet her lips. "Headache. Fever. Can't . . . eat. In Lyon—" Her fingers
trembled. "A fortnight ago. I hadn't enough to pay. 'Twas a very . . . bad inn.
I nursed the little girl—"

He stared at her. "Oh God," he whispered.

"Don't you see? I couldn't just watch them send her off on a hurdle!" She
shivered, a tremor that went from her hands through her whole body. "I had no
money. I couldn't pay them for the bed."

"And she had a pestilent fever?" he cried. "
Imbecile
. "

"Yes.
Imbecile.
I'm sorry. I dosed myself; I thought enough time had
passed to be safe. I have to leave. I shouldn't have come. But I didn't realize;
until now—I was sure 'twas only . . . some bad food. Please go away . . .
quickly . . . and I'll leave."

There was no doctor in the village. A midwife, at best— and how could he send
word? He thought frantically. It was nearly dark—the walk down the canyon took
him two hours in the middle of the day . . . and no certainty he'd find anyone
who'd come, with fever to risk and no money to pay, a fact the villagers were
well aware of. He obtained his brushes and canvas and wine with barter and
promises, and lived off his garden and the land otherwise.

"Go away," she mumbled. "Don't touch me. Go away, go away."

He strode to the narrow window, pushed open the leaded glass, and peered out
into the twilight. He put his fingers in his mouth and blew a piercing whistle.

Nemo might hear it. He might track Marc by the scent clinging to an empty
bottle of wine. Marc might allow a savage wolf with a message tied to its neck
within a hundred yards without shooting it dead.

S.T. leaned his cheek against the stone. From the edge of his vision, he
caught the dark shadow that slipped over a break in the ruined castle wall.

His heart rose and tightened, caught between fears. Why had he never told
Marc about Nemo? He'd not spoken, not even when the rumors of a lone wolf in the
vicinity had been ruffling the waters of village gossip. Instinct held his
tongue. S.T. was accustomed to murmur and subterfuge; he'd lived by it for
years. He knew rumor. He'd used it, let it grow and turn from hearsay into
legend by the casual drop of a word or a knowing smile. Let them worry about a
wolf, he'd reckoned. Let them leave him alone in his castle to paint, the only
one brave enough to walk up the canyon and sleep sound at Col du Noir.

He looked back at the bed. She was sitting up, leaning on her elbow, facing
away from him. In a moment she'd lave her feet on the floor, and a moment after
that she'd be laid out on it—a sequence he could predict with perfect clarity.

Nemo came padding into the room. He slunk along the wall, skirting the bed as
far as possible. After a perfunctory sniff of S.T.'s knees, he stood leaning
against his legs, looking dubiously toward their guest.

There was a sketch pad and charcoal on the table by the bed. S.T. left Nemo
cowering by the window and went to her.

"Lie down, you idiot," he said, pushing her back into the pillow. She barely
resisted him, drawing her body up into a curl with a soft sound of distress. He
tore a strip of paper and scribbled a note, folding it carefully in order to
keep from smearing the charcoal.

He looked around the room for something to tie it with. Something obvious.
Human. Unmistakably civilized.

The discarded wig hung where he'd left it on the bedpost. S.T. swept it up,
rummaged in his chest for the satin ribbons he'd used to tie his queue in his
damsel days, and advanced on Nemo. The wolf looked up at him, his head cocked,
his pale eyes calm and utterly trusting.

S.T. tied the wig onto Nemo's head, smoothing down the fur and tucking the
note beneath. He tugged it, to make sure it wouldn't slide into the wolf's eyes
or interfere with his throat. Nemo accepted the decoration solemnly. S.T.
stepped back, and the ridiculousness of the earnest picture the wolf made gave
him a sick and guilty ache in his gut. Why do this?

Send Nemo to the village, and someone would shoot him. 'Twas as simple as
that. A wolf would come out of the dark, and no one would stop to ask why it
wore a tie wig.

Hell.

She wasn't worth it. What did he know about her? A capricious, helpless,
romantic female. He'd lost enough to her kind. He'd lost Charon, and half his
hearing, and all of his self-respect.

He looked at her, a huddled curl of misery on the bed. He wanted her to live.
He wanted to sleep with her because she was beautiful and he hadn't had a woman
in three years, damn it all, and that was the sum total of it. Weighted against
Nemo's life, it was nothing.

She was whispering something under her breath. He closed his eyes and turned
his head away, but the move only brought her voice more clearly to his good ear.

". . . don't think I ... can get up," she was saying. "You must go away,
Monseigneur. A fortnight. Twelve days. Bathe in a cold stream to strengthen
yourself. Don't come back before twelve days. Don't let... anyone come before.
I'm sorry ... I shouldn't have come ... but please, Monseigneur—go away. Don't
take this risk."

He put his hand on Nemo's head, on the silly wig, and moved it down to smooth
the soft ruff of fur.

She wasn't asking.

Damn her pluck, that she wasn't asking for his help.

He knelt suddenly and pulled Nemo into a fierce hug, burying his face in the
sharp scent of wolf and wildness. A hot tongue licked his ear; a cold nose
sniffed curiously at his neck. He tried to memorize those sensations, tried to
put them away in a safe place in his heart. Then he stood up and grabbed the
empty wine bottle from the bedside.

He held the bottle for Nemo to sniff, and gave two simple orders before he
had time to change his mind.

Find men. Find this man.

Go.

S.T. started awake to the sound of bird calls and a whispered muttering from
the bed. He rubbed his neck, feeling on every bone the imprint of the wooden
chair where he'd slept for the last ten nights. A bare, chilly glow of dawn sky
showed through the open window. He squinted toward the shadows that lingered in
the room.

She'd pushed the sheets off again. S.T. rose stiffly. He wiped his eyes, ran
a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. The place at his feet where
Nemo should have been was empty, as it had been every morning. For a moment S.T.
rested his palms and his forehead against the cold stone wall. He was past
praying.

The whispered mumble became a low moan. He exhaled heavily and pushed himself
away from the wall.

She opened her eyes as he ladled water from the bucket into a cracked clay
cup. He saw her blink and moisten her lips. Her fingers moved fretfully,
plucking at the white folds of her shirt amid the tangled sheets. Her wandering
glance found him, and those dark brows drew downward in fierce disapproval.
"Damn you," she breathed.

"
Bonjour
, Sunshine," he responded tartly. "
Ç
a va
?"

She closed her eyes. Her face was white and stark, set in hostility. "I don't
want your help. I don't need it."

He sat down on the bed, catching both her wrists in one hand before she could
start to fight. She tried to avoid him, but she was too weak to put up any
struggle. She turned her face away instead, her breath rapid and shallow even
with that small effort. He stuffed a pillow behind her head and held the cup to
her lips.

She refused to drink. "Leave," she whispered. "Leave me alone."

He tilted the cup. She stared dully ahead, her eyelids barely open. Her skin
felt like paper, dry and ashen except for that bright deadly color on her
cheekbones. He pressed the cup against her mouth. Water slid uselessly down her
chin and throat.

He stood up and added two fingers of brandy to the cup, downing it himself.
The welcome heat of alcohol swamped the back of his throat and blossomed in his
weary brain.

"Let me die," she muttered. "It doesn't matter. I want it." Her head rolled.
"Oh, Papa, let me die, let me die."

S.T. sat down in the chair and put his face in his hands. She was going to
die, yes; she'd made that choice somewhere in her delirium, and what the fever
didn't burn up simply faded with each passing day. She called for her father
with increasing frequency, drifting in and out of sense, falling deeper into the
hours of silent stupor.

S.T. hated her. He hated himself. Nemo was gone. When he thought of it, he
felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach; his chest and his throat ached for
breath that wouldn't come.

"Papa," she whispered. "Please, Papa, take me with you. Don't leave me alone
. . . don't leave . . . don't leave ..." She turned her head restlessly, lifting
one weak hand. "Papa ..."

"I'm here," S.T. said.

"Papa . . ."

"I'm here, curse it!" He strode to the bed and grabbed her hand. Her bones
felt like porcelain in his fist. He reached for the ladle and filled the cup
again. "Drink this."

At the touch of the cup rim against her lips, she lifted her lashes. "Papa."
She wet her lips and opened them. When S.T. tilted the cup this time, she
swallowed. "That's good," he said. "That's my girl."

"Oh, Papa," she mumbled. She drank again, her eyes closed, each breath and
swallow an effort.

"That's my Sunshine," he murmured. "Keep trying."

Her fingers curled in his hand, seeking reassurance like a child. He held her
tight, listening to her mindless whimper fade away into silence.

Don't die, damn you
, he thought.
Don't leave me with nothing
.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and swallowed the last teaspoon of liquid
in the cup. He smoothed her burning forehead, brushing the short, dark curls
back from her face. 'Twas a true tribute to her beauty, he reckoned, that after
ten days of nursing he could still see it.

He'd seen every inch of her by now. He wondered what her precious papa would
think of that. Personally, S.T. was too damned tired and sick at heart to care.

He coaxed and bullied her into drinking a second cup of water. She managed
half of it before he lost her to exhaustion and grogginess. After a halfhearted
attempt to straighten the bedclothes, which he had a vague idea was proper
sickroom procedure, he went downstairs to face the problem of food.

At the door to the courtyard he stopped and whistled. Twice. He had to
restrain himself from a third time, or a fourth or fifth or a thousand. He stood
in the dawn and listened to the sound of his own breathing.

He walked across the yard and whistled again. The ducks came waddling after
him, irritable and hungry, but he left them to fend for themselves as he headed
for the garden. He ought to butcher one, he knew—that was why he'd started the
flock—but when it came to the decision he never could quite choose the victim.
He'd reckoned he'd leave that to Nemo, who had no such scruples.

Nemo.

S.T. whistled again. He didn't allow himself to stop walking. The crunch of
his boots on limestone and dirt seemed very loud, echoing faintly off the
hillside. Every branch and bare rock stood intensely clear in the brilliant dawn
light.

In the garden, he had to look hard for what was left among the weeds. Five
red peppers, a cylindrical green courgette—profoundly rabbit-nibbled on one end;
some broad white beans, two fistfuls of wild rosemary and another of thyme, and
of course the garlic, which was his sole agricultural success. He could throw it
all in the pot with barley for soup. If she wouldn't eat it, he certainly would.
And he'd mash olives and capers into a
tapenade
to spread on his bread.
On his way back he collected pine kernels, eating them and tossing the cone
husks over the cliff as he went.