Time for Eternity (29 page)

In some part of her, certainty locked back down.
It doesn’t matter that his character isn’t what I thought. You must still
protect yourself. He’ll infect you, if not today, then tomorrow. I don’t like it any better than you do, but it’s self-defense.

You’ve got to kill him. He’ll probably infect others too, if that makes you feel better about what you have to do.

Kill him? She couldn’t kill
anyone.
Especially not Henri.

Her head began to ache again. Jean appeared at the door.

“Please bring a basin of water, some soap, and some rags.”

Jean’s eyes widened. But all he said was, “Very good, your grace.”

Françoise sat in one of the wing chairs, a war going on inside her with stabbing pains that made her want to shriek out loud.

Go out to the stable. The bag. You need the bag.

Her throat was closing. She was so full. She had to stop this—whatever was happening to her. She held her head. “I won’t kill,”

she whispered as she rocked back and forth.

“What did you say? Are you all right?”

“I …” She choked. “I must go.” She pushed up and out the door, leaving him frowning after her. She couldn’t think anything except that she wanted the pain to stop.

Dear God, he’d nearly infected her. Henri rubbed his mouth. What would he have done? Watched her die as her body rejected the Companion? He stared at his face in the mirror above the fireplace. A vampire ’s face. Only when he called the power to translocate and the field grew too dense to allow light to escape did his reflection disappear.

He could not have let her die. He would have given her his blood to grant her immunity.

The realization struck him like a physical blow.

That would violate the prime Rule of his kind. If one made vampires and they made vampires, where would it end except in a war with humanity and not enough blood for too many vampires?

But he would have done it, Rules or no.

He … cared for her as he had not cared for anyone in centuries, no matter that he saved them from the guillotine, or dug wells to keep them from sickening from bad water.

He would have committed the ultimate sin for her.

Did that mean he loved her?

He was never going to find out. It would also have been the ultimate sin against her. No woman wanted to be a monster. She would have reviled him for it. He couldn ’t risk another accident. Already she knew too much about him. So he’d keep her at a distance, insist the whole was her imagination, send her off at the end of the week. He was not to be trusted.

Go to the stable.
The voice rode the pain, inexorable. It was stronger than she was now. She began to run, back through the kitchen where Jean was getting rags, and out into the warm night, across the stones of the mews to the stables. Pull open the stable door.

Gasping, Françoise stumbled to her knees in front of the hay bale behind which she had hidden the leather satchel.

We haven’t any choice.
The voice sounded as though it were panting too. Françoise could hear the desperation, the doubt underneath the order. But the stabbing pains didn’t stop.

Françoise moaned and fumbled at the strange, toothed-metal closure. The mouth of the satchel gaped like a hungry beast. Inside the sword gleamed. The soft purple and pink bottles lurked beneath it. “No. In the name of God, no,” she gasped as tears streamed down her face. She must find a way to refuse this wicked voice. “I’m not strong enough to decapitate him anyway.”

That took the voice aback. There was a pause.
True. I’d forgotten how weak and deaf and blind I was.
Another pause.

Okay, okay. There must be another way. I don’t want to kill him either. But we can’t have him coming after you if you
walk away.

The pain eased up a tiny bit. “He doesn’t love me. He won’t come after me.”

Don’t bet eternity on it now that it turns out he’s got some morals.
The voice was grim.
All right. You’ll drug him and
leave him. Right now. Tonight. And he’ll hate you for it, so he won’t let you near him ever again. Deal?

The pain eased down so she could think again. Yes. She had to leave Henri. He’d never love her. She wouldn’t be kept as a mistress. She had no future with him, much as that sent despair washing over her.

What she would do without a position or a way to earn her living, she didn’t know. But what did it matter, without Henri? “You have a bargain.”

Hide it in your skirts. Run!

Choking and coughing as though her throat were full, Françoise stumbled back to the house. She made it all the way to the library without meeting anyone.

In front of the door, the voice said,
Stop. Now calm yourself. Breathe.

She managed to swallow. A breath. Two. Three. Slower. She wiped at her eyes.

Better.

The door to the library opened. Jean came out with a wooden box from the desk.

From inside the room Avignon called, “Bury it in the park. No one touches the glass.”

“Yes, your grace.”

She entered the room. Avignon looked up from his hands and knees. A very unduclike position. He was scrubbing the carpet with a rag and a basin. Françoise blinked in surprise.

Even the voice seemed taken aback.
He’s trying not to infect anyone … Shit. I really was wrong about him.

Avignon got to his feet and wiped his hands on the rag, frowning. “Are you all right?” He tried on a tiny, tentative smile. “It was just a little blood.” He seemed shaken, though.

Right. A little blood. And a little parasite inside it that changes you forever.

“I’m better,” she said. Her voice seemed far away. The pain in her head was gone, but she knew the voice could bring it back at any moment. She fingered the soft bottle she held at her side in the folds of her skirts. She was listening to a voice in her head as though it were a separate person altogether. She was truly mad.

Or maybe you’re Joan of Arc. Get him talking. Pour him a drink.

“Do … do you want to explain?” Françoise asked Henri. She wanted an explanation.

He’ll never tell you. It’s a big, bad secret.

“And don’t try telling me it’s my imagination,” Françoise added.

He stared down at the rag in his hand, apparently torn. He took a slow breath and looked up at her, his eyes still questioning himself. “I have a disease in my blood.”

One way of putting it.

“And the healing?” She realized she’d seen it earlier when his face was blistered.

“An effect of the disease, along with the sensitivity to light.”

Half-truths.

“What about the red eyes?”

“A pigment that reflects the light. Like animals’ eyes at night.”

Oh, that’s good. No confessions forthcoming. So let’s do the deed and blow this joint.

Françoise pressed her lips together. She’d give him another chance for the real explanation. “Hardly believable, but clever. Now about the whirling blackness that makes you disappear with your charges?”

He looked away. There was no way to explain that. “What do you want of me?”

Françoise stared at him, his question unlocking a thousand conflicting thoughts. The voice wanted him out of her life permanently.

But she wanted to feel his arms around her, hear his heart beat, smell the exotic scent of him, and hear him tell her that he treasured her above all others. She wanted him to kiss her.

You are so far gone, girl. We better get out of here pronto.
The weight of the soft bottle in her right hand seemed to triple.

Make him a drink.

The very fact that she wanted him to kiss her meant the voice was right. She had to leave him now. Tonight. “I don’t know what I want,” Françoise said in a small voice. “Maybe the truth. Maybe I just want a drink.” She turned to the sideboard that held the cut-glass brandy decanter. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him lean his elbow on the mantel and put one boot on the andirons in a pose grown familiar over the last days. He stared into the cold firebox. With her back turned, she took the soft purple bottle and pressed on the top. One side flipped up.

“It’s time to get you down to the warehouse. The
Maiden Voyage
leaves for England in four days. You’ll be on a barge to meet it in three. Jennings will take care of you until then.”

“Is that where you keep them? The ones you rescue?” She squeezed.

More. He’s not human.

“Yes. There are rooms fitted out behind the back wall.”

She poured more into the drink. If the drug could kill him, the voice would not have been after her about using the sword. She glanced behind her, but he was still staring into the grate. He was going to hate her. The next moments would be the last time she saw him. She slid the purple bottle behind a Sèvres vase and poured brandy into the glass. It made a big drink. She poured a small one for herself.

Holding her breath, she took the two glasses and turned. He was so beautiful, standing there. And he had been kind to her.

More than kind.

Do it. Or I swear to drive you really crazy.

She put her mouth into some kind of smile and held out his glass. “You do good work then.” She was going to hate herself for this as much as he would hate her.

He took it. “Never enough. Never. You’ve seen the prison.”

She tried to breathe. He took the glass and downed it in several gulps. “But it has to be done,” he continued. “And my condition makes me ideally suited …”

He trailed off, his mouth pressed into a grim line, and shook his head. He set his glass on the mantel. Françoise realized she was trembling. When would it take effect? What would he do if he realized what she’d done?

He took a breath as though to say something else, blinked rapidly a couple of times. His gaze slid to the glass on the mantel and then to Françoise. His eyes hardened. He looked around the room. She could see his eyes were swimming. He caught sight of the soft purple bottle peeking from behind the vase on the sideboard and pushed past her.

“You little fool,” he whispered. “Where did you get laudanum in this strength?” His steps slowed. He practically fell against the sideboard as he grabbed for the bottle, his eyes questioning. “What … ?”

And then his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the floor. The soft purple bottle slid from his loosened grasp. What had she done? Françoise ran to him and knelt.

He’s not dead. He just swallowed enough morphine to take down an elephant, that’s all.

What did the voice know? She felt for the pulse in his throat under his cravat. It beat back at her, slow and steady. Françoise sighed in relief. He wasn’t dead. Now she could go, on to whatever life of shame and regret was left to her.

The other who shared her body was startled by that thought.
You won’t regret this.

“Yes I will,” Françoise whispered. Tumult sounded in the hall. Raised voices, many feet. Françoise stood, heart in her mouth.

“All my life.”

“Where is he, man?”

“Do you want to end up with a haircut from Madame G?”

“We’ll find him anyway.”

The clatter grew closer. Françoise looked to the figure of Avignon, sprawled on the carpet, both parts of her dismayed. Before she could do more, the door burst open and the little man she had grown to hate strode through the door, booted soldiers in his wake. At the sight of Henri, unconscious, he stopped. His gaze swept over Françoise, around the room, then back to Henri. Then a smile crept across his mouth.

“Well, well.” He crossed the carpet and pushed at Henri’s rib cage with one foot. His chest rose and fell. “I’ve never seen Foucault drunk. And he certainly wasn’t drunk when he was with you at the Conciergerie tonight, freeing prisoners.”

So they knew it was Henri. This was bad. Worse, they connected her to his actions.

If I hadn’t stopped you touching him, he would have taken you to a garret to give you his blood. He wouldn’t have been
home when these assholes arrived. This is new territory.

Françoise felt her blush increase. Such language! And what did the voice mean about Henri giving her his blood?

Madame Croûte pushed in behind the soldiers, who had ranged themselves around the perimeter of the library. “He’s not dead, is he?”

Robespierre shook his head, a puzzled look on his face. “But he’s unconscious.”

“Good. I’d hate to lose the chance to question him.” Her eyes were avaricious.

Françoise could see Gaston and Jean in the hallway. Gaston was wringing his hands.

Robespierre walked over to where the opaque purple bottle lay and bent to pick it up. He sniffed at it and drew back in distaste.

Madame Croûte snatched it from him and sniffed. “Laudanum? Not … quite.”

“Probably related.” Robespierre turned to Françoise. “Perhaps I misjudged you. When we saw you there, we knew for certain it was he who was committing these criminal acts against the Republic. We considered you an accomplice. But you weren ’t in on it with him, were you? You went to confirm your own suspicions then acted on what you saw. You have done the people’s business tonight.” They thought she’d drugged Henri to turn him over to the Committee of Public Safety? Worse, they were only here because her presence had betrayed him.

“How does he do it?” Robespierre asked.

She had to keep herself out of prison if she was to help Henri. She couldn’t leave him in these straits. “I … I’ve no idea.” That, at least, was the truth. “I saw only what your guards saw.”

The voice sighed.
You’re not going to leave him, even if they let you go.

Robespierre frowned. “They say he just disappears. Some illusion, surely.”

What, no mention of red eyes and whirling blackness? Maybe no one wants to tell him.

Madame Croûte knelt beside Henri. “This one is slippery. We must take extra precautions. I want him chained, alone, in plain sight of guards at all times. Strip him to make sure he has no weapons on him. ” She caressed the line of his jaw. “Don’t feel you have to be gentle. I’ll be by to question him.”