Starry Knight (34 page)

“He’s definitely not human,” Callum confirmed, “but I’ve never smelled his like before, so I couldn’t tell you what he might be.”

“Do you think he might be Seelie?”

“Nay,” Callum said. “There are Seelies among Madame Pennick’s lasses and they don’t smell the way Finn does.”

Jealousy twinged in her gut at the mention of his former source of sexual gratification. The feeling passed, however, when she remembered he hadn’t partaken of anyone else in her absence. She touched the bracelet he’d given her, which she only took off to shift or shower. As tingling warmth filled her chest, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked, looking pleased.

“For being faithful to me,” she said. “I just wish I could have returned the favor.”

“You tried.” Putting a finger under her chin, he pulled her face to his and kissed her mouth with a tenderness that turned her insides to caramel. “And that’s what counts.”

They ordered another round of drinks from Serena and sipped them while basking in the glow of each other’s company. As contented as she felt, two puzzles still gnawed: what Finn might be and who the man was at the corner table.

The familiar stranger looked their way now and again. When they’d finished their last round of drinks, Serena brought the check. As the server started to walk away, Callum called her back, fished out his wallet, and offered her his Platinum American Express.

The waitress took it and returned a few minutes later with a faux leather folder. Vanessa thought nothing of until something fell out as Callum opened it. As the object—a sealed cream-colored envelope—landed on the table, they both leaned in for a better look. Scrawled across the front in the fancy script of a bygone era was a greeting that caused them to exchange troubled glances.

To the Knight and his Lady.

As Callum picked up the envelope and worked to break the seal, Vanessa shot a glance toward the corner table, certain the familiar stranger was the sender. To her dismay, the man was no longer there.

Returning her focus to the envelope, she waited on pins and needles as Callum withdrew the folded sheet of stationery inside. He read what it said to himself before showing it to her. The communiqué—in the same old-fashioned cursive gracing the envelope—was short, direct, and unsigned:
Meet me at the cathedral in fifteen minutes.

One question burned in Callum’s brain as he ascended the steps of the cathedral with a firm grip on Vanessa’s hand. Who could have seen him and known what he was? If it was someone with ties to Avalon, he was ruined. If Queen Morgan summoned his return, he’d be powerless to refuse. What might she do if she discovered his deception? Kill him? Castrate him? Throw him in the dungeon to suffer a thousand tortures? The prospect of any or all of those torments tied knots in his bowels.

He could always ignore the note, he supposed. Leave the city, go into hiding, and spend the rest of eternity looking over his shoulder, but that was just another brand of enslavement. Better to confront the threat, to find out who’d sent the note, what they knew, and what they wanted. Money, probably, which he’d gladly forfeit to avoid returning to Avalon.

The air inside the church was cool, damp, and smelled of lingering frankincense and wooden pews rubbed with the oils of hundreds of hands. There were a scattered few among the pews, some sitting, others kneeling. Muttered prayers and the soft ticking of rosary beads whispered in his ears.

He made his way up the aisle, towing Vanessa along, as he searched for the man she’d described. He saw no one who looked even close.

“Perhaps it isn’t the man you saw,” he said.

“Perhaps not.” She matched the low volume of his voice. “There was just something about him—a disconcerting
déjà vu
feeling. Plus, he kept looking at me.”

“Men often look at bonny lasses,” he told her. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he was up to something.”

Seeing no one and not knowing what else to do, he let go of her hand, knelt in genuflection, and crossed himself before slipping into a pew. She soon joined him on the hard bench.

“When I was a wee lad, I thought the parish priest was some kind of warlock,” he said, harkening back to his childhood. “Every Sunday, he’d stand up there, reciting incantations while waving his hands over golden chalices holding the body and blood of Jesus Christ. Then, all his followers, my parents included, would line up to have a taste.”

“You were raised Catholic?”

“Aye.”

She hooked her arm through his and set her head against his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, savoring her herbal aroma. He’d missed that smell more than he realized, just as he missed the feel of having her by his side.

“This is the first church I’ve set foot in since—well, since my father’s funeral back in—oh, Christ, I’ve forgotten the bloody year.”

“You said your father was an astrologer, too,” she said, nestling against him.

“Aye. And a physician who dabbled in alchemy. King James dabbled in alchemy, too. Did you know that?”

“Do you still miss him? Your father, I mean.”

Did he? He rarely thought back that far and, when he did, it felt like he was remembering someone else’s life or something he’d seen at the pictures or on the telly.

Sitting back against hard wood, he lifted his gaze to the ceiling. As he made a study of its intricate seams and arches, a hand came down on his shoulder. Heart jolting, he craned his neck to seek the hand’s owner.

The man matched Vanessa’s description to a tee. Fortyish, dark hair, pale complexion, protruding nose, and keen dark eyes. He was casually dressed in dark slacks and a button-down shirt with long sleeves. Callum stiffened, puzzled how the man’s approach could have escaped his notice.

“Sir Leith MacQuill, I presume?” the stranger asked in a thick French accent.

Ah—a case of mistaken identity, then. Good. He was safe.

“Who wishes to know?”

“Jack St. Germain,” the man said with a bow. “Your servant, sir.”

The name brought Vanessa’s head around, showing Callum her astonished expression. Fortunately, she kept quiet.

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he told the Frenchman.

“But—that cannot be,” St. Germain said, clearly at a loss. “You are a knight of Avalon. Of that I am certain. And Leith MacQuill, so far as I know, is the only personage of that distinction living in this realm.”

“And yet, I assure you, I am not he.”

St. Germain looked incredulous. “If that is so, then why did you seek out his son just now?”

Callum blinked at him, his mind turning like a millwheel. If Leith MacQuill had a son, he knew nothing of it. “To whom do you refer?”

“The bartender at the Napoleon House,” St. Germain clarified, his features pinched. “I find it hard to believe you are unaware of his true identity.”

Callum made no response. His mind was too busy trying to fit the pieces together. If Finn MacKnight was Sir Leith’s son, who was his mother and what the devil was he doing in New Orleans?

“Our reasons for seeking him out were perfectly innocent,” Vanessa told St. Germain. “We only wanted to thank him for the service he rendered me a few nights back. I had a flat tire, you see, and Finn very kindly stopped to help me change it.”

St. Germain studied her appraisingly before returning his dark gaze to Callum. “She has been made Avalonian—by yourself, I can only presume.” The Frenchman straightened his back and stuck out his chin. “I’m afraid I must insist upon knowing who both of you are and why you are roaming the Hitherworld beneath the radar of the rebel forces.”

“Rebel forces?” Callum asked, drawing glances from the faithful. “What rebel forces?”

“If you fear your anonymity will be jeopardized by revealing your identity to me, I assure you that is not the case,” St. Germain said. “Neither myself nor anyone with whom I associate bear anything but abhorrence for Morgan Le Fay. It is her overthrow we seek to bring about, my good knight, not your re-enslavement.”

Some of the pieces clicked into place. Finn MacKnight had to be Queen Morgan’s prophesied usurper—a full-blooded drone. Hence, the rebel forces and why Finn’s blood smelled as it did. His mother must, therefore, be a full-blooded Avalonian—but whom?

“How do I know I can trust you?” Callum demanded, trying to probe the Frenchman’s mind without success.

“I am in earnest,” St. Germain assured him, looking and sounding sincere. “I work for Cathbad, the high priest of Brocaliande.”

Brocaliande was the forest of the druids, which lay across the channel from Avalon. Callum had never been there, but the enmity between Cathbad and Morgan was legendary. Belphoebe had told him the rift existed because Morgan had put out the eyes of a druid envoy back during the Thitherworld Wars.

“My aim is to see the drones set free, Morgan toppled, and Finn MacKnight installed as king,” St. Germain added.

Callum wanted to believe him, but still had questions. “Who is Finn’s mother?”

“The one called Belphoebe.”

“How can that be?” Callum demanded. “Belphoebe is dead.”

“Her murder was a ruse,” St. Germain explained, “to fool Queen Morgan into allowing the drone of the prophecy to be born.”

A rush of hope swept through Callum. “Belphoebe yet lives?”

“She does,” St. Germain confirmed, “in Brocaliande under the protection of the druids.”

“And Finn?” Vanessa asked. “What’s his story?”

“He was sent to me as an infant to protect him from discovery,” the Frenchman told her. “He does not know his true identity, or his destiny. He believes me to be his uncle and only surviving relative—his
human
uncle, so far as he’s aware.”

“But you’re not,” Callum observed, “though neither are you of the Fae.”

St. Germain’s lips compressed as he shifted his gaze from Vanessa to Callum. “To answer your unspoken inquiry, my good knight, I am Sangpagnese—the breed commonly referred to as
vampires
in this culture.”

Belphoebe had told Callum about Sangpagne, the vampire empire beneath the Hitherworld countries of France and Belgium. The capital city had been erected by the captured combatants of the losing factions after the wars. They’d been forced to work until they dropped from exhaustion, after which they were impaled on poles so the ravens could strip the flesh from their bones. The bones were left to dry in the sun before being ground into powder and used for mortar. Vampires, thus, were despised by the other factions of the Thitherworld, though occasionally hired to serve as rogue mercenaries.

“With all due respect, Monsieur St. Germain,” Callum said, still struggling to take in all he’d heard, “why did Cathbad and Belphoebe entrust Finn’s welfare to you?”

“Because it’s the last thing anyone would expect,” the count returned. “And, I suspect, because I can see to his needs.”

“How?” Vanessa asked, eyes narrowed by skepticism. “How do you feed blood to someone who believes himself human?”

“Bear in mind that I’ve raised him since he was an infant,” St. Germain said. “I mix the blood with other things—juice, soup, wine, or what have you—and pass it off as a health tonic made from an old family recipe.”

“What about his need for sex and his failure to age?”

“The overactive libido you suffer from,” the vampire said, addressing himself to Callum, “is what might be called a manufacturing flaw. Natural-born drones have a sex drive on a par with an adolescent human. And as to his failure to age, I simply rewire his mind every so often to prevent it from becoming an issue.”

“I see,” Callum quipped. “And when will he be told the truth and prepared for his destiny?”

“The prophecy tells of a sign that will presage the rise of the rebel forces. Until then, he’ll remain none the wiser.”

“Any idea when that will be?” Callum asked.

“No,” said the vampire. “I only know it will be during the Piscean Age.”

The Age of Pisces was the current age, which began in A.D. 1 and would end in 2150.

“So, it will be soon?”

“
Oui, monsieur
.
Very soon.”

Callum, feeling the impassioned rush of a call to arms, let the feeling course through his bloodstream. The Scottish people might no longer yearn for freedom, but the drones of Avalon sure as hell did. Maybe he should redirect his energies. “And how might I go about joining the rebellion?”

“Is it your desire to do so?”

“It is,” Callum told him with conviction.

St. Germain regarded him circumspectly. “You could start by telling me your name and how you came to be living on this side of the veil.”

“My name’s Callum Lyon and my story’s too long to go into right now.” They’d already been away far too long and he didn’t trust Armstrong to behave himself should he awaken before they returned.

“Another time then, my lord,” the count said with a bow. “And I will make your interest known to the rebel leaders
tout de suite
. Someone will get in touch before too long.”

And at that, like a breeze extinguishing a candle, Jack St. Germain was gone.

* * * *

Callum continued to ponder all St. German had disclosed. If he’d learned anything from the events of the past few days, it was that meddling in the affairs of humanity wasn’t worth the trouble. As much as he yearned for Scotland’s freedom and hated leaving Duncan high and dry, he’d withdraw from the election and go back to pulling strings behind the scenes—though, with any luck, not alone.

Having reached the house, he turned into the drive and shut off the engine. As he faced Vanessa, ready to declare his feelings, the overwhelming odor of blood—dead human blood—hit his nose like a wrecking ball. After a frantic glance at Vanessa, he raced toward the house and burst through the front door.

The scene that greeted him looked like a Manson Family massacre. There was blood everywhere. The walls, floors, ceiling, and furniture were streaked, spattered, and smeared with it. In the middle of the mess a body lay sprawled in a crimson pool. A reedy middle-aged woman, clothes shredded, legs spread, throat torn open.

“What in the name of—?”