The Courtesan (7 page)

Cass took a long time about answering, her head ducked beneath her curtain of hair. “I am not sure,” she said at last. “Most likely because the captain didn’t want to. I tried to warn you the dead can be very unforgiving.”

“So you think because I rejected him in life, now he rejects me in . . . death?”

“It would seem so.” Cass lifted her head, her face shadowed with sympathy. “I am sorry, Gabrielle.”

“That’s all right. I rather suspected as much myself,” Gabrielle said. Then why did it hurt so much to hear Cass confirm it?

“I suppose if you wanted I could try again sometime when I am feeling better.”

“No, what would be the point?” Gabrielle answered bleakly. “I daresay the outcome would be just the same. It was ridiculous of me to attempt it in the first place.”

Cass gave her hands a comforting squeeze. “You should forget about Remy. He was only a soldier who passed briefly through your life, nothing to do with your destiny. If Nostradamus is right, you’re going to have a king in thrall, be mistress of all of France.”

“Yes, France,” Gabrielle murmured, wondering why she did not feel more elated. But at this moment she would have traded away the entire kingdom, all her ambitions and dazzling prospects, for just one more of Nicolas Remy’s smiles.

A foolish thought, she chided herself. She was tired, that was all. It had been an eventful and exhausting evening. Releasing Cass’s hands, she straightened up slowly.

“It is getting late. I should be going. And you should get some rest.”

Cass reached up one hand to smother a mighty yawn. “I am feeling extremely weary. These sessions are always very draining for me.”

Gabrielle strode across the room to fetch her cloak. By the time she had fastened it around her shoulders and glanced back, Cass had already stretched out on the cot and crawled beneath the blankets.

There was something curiously childlike about the way she hugged the pillow beneath her head. Watching her, Gabrielle was beset by a sharp pang. It seemed so callous to simply walk away and leave Cass in these melancholy circumstances, alone in this mausoleum of a house, which had to be filled with such terrible memories for her.

“Cass, I—I hate leaving you alone like this. I wish you would let me—”

But Cass cut her off as she always did.

“Don’t worry about me, Gabrielle,” she said with a drowsy smile. “I have looked after myself for a long time. You just remember your promise to grant my favor whenever I ask for it.”

“Of course,” Gabrielle murmured.

There seemed no more to be said as Cass nestled down under the covers and closed her eyes. Finding the taper she had brought with her, Gabrielle lit it to help find her way back up the stairs. As soon as she opened the door to the hidden chamber, she all but tripped over Cerberus, who was stretched out across the threshold. The dog had been mournfully resting his head on his paws. He perked up at once and without wasting a glance on Gabrielle, he darted down into the hidden chamber in quest of his mistress.

Looking back, Gabrielle’s last glimpse of the blind recluse of the Maison d’Esprit was Cass cuddling her dog beside her.

Cass huddled beneath the blankets, listening intently, her sense of hearing almost as keen as her dog’s. As soon as she detected the last of Gabrielle’s footsteps on the floor above her, the distant thud of a door closing, Cass whipped back the covers and went in search of her bottle.

She heard Cerberus’s claws skitter on the stone floor as the mastiff paced anxiously after her. Cass ignored him, groping her way along the cupboard shelves. Gabrielle had been the last one to put the brandy away and it was not in its usual spot. Cursing softly, Cass fought to choke back her impatience and feel carefully, terrified lest she tip the bottle over and spill out those few remaining precious drops. Her tension mounted until her fingers closed around the welcome shape of the bottle.

Clutching the brandy to her like a miser guarding her last coin, she made her way back to the table and sagged down in her chair. Uncorking the bottle, she did not even bother with the refinement of a glass this time, tipping the brandy straight to her lips.

The fiery liquid flowed over her tongue and down her throat. Only when the brandy pulsed its warmth through her veins did her dark need begin to ease.

Cass lowered the bottle to the table with a long sigh, feeling ashamed of her frantic haste. Cerberus came to thrust his head in her lap, his cold nose nudging her hand as he emitted a low whine.

The poor beast had seen her at the bottle too many times, Cass reflected ruefully. Witnessed the loss of control, the rages, the unleashing of unbridled impulses that could make her a danger to others, even more so to herself.

She petted the dog, scratching him behind the ears. “Don’t fret, old friend,” she murmured. “There is not enough left in the bottle to get me drunk tonight. I’ll have no more until that idiot girl Finette turns up here again.”

Her fingers tightening around the bottle, Cass reflected that she would have a few sharp words to say to the girl about betraying the secret of Cass’s ability to practice necromancy to Gabrielle Cheney.

Cass almost trusted Gabrielle as a friend, as much as Cass ever trusted anyone. But all the same, Finette needed to be taught a lesson. Cass lifted her bottle and took another long swallow although she despised herself for it.

The drink was a weakness, she knew, and one she could ill afford. But sometimes it seemed the only magic that could keep her ghosts at bay. Her sisters had risen unbidden from her copper bowl upon more than one occasion to stare at Cass with hard accusing eyes.

The dead did not forgive. That at least was one true thing Cass had told Gabrielle. Too often Cass had lain wakeful, tormented with memories of the witch-hunters tearing apart the house, her sisters’ terrified shrieks as they had been dragged to torture and death.

But not tonight, Cass mused, as the brandy’s warm haze enveloped her. Tonight she would entertain far more agreeable memories. Stolen ones of a war-weary soldier with hair of ashen gold and melting dark eyes. A lean, battle-hardened body and strong hands. Long fingers as capable of tenderly unlacing a woman’s bodice as they were of killing without mercy, driving his sword up to the hilt through an enemy’s heart. That sword of Remy’s had pulsed with such dark ruthless power, the memory of it still sent a warm shiver through Cass.

Cass held a grudging admiration for Gabrielle. Her new friend was clever and worldly wise. But in other ways she was a bit of a fool, because there was so much Gabrielle did not know about Nicolas Remy, including the most astonishing fact of all.

The great Scourge was still alive.

Cass laughed softly to herself even as she drained the last of her bottle.

“I have never known any other witch as gifted at conjuring the dead as you.”
Gabrielle had told her.

Gifted? Indeed she was, Cass thought. So much so that no spirit had ever failed to answer her call, willingly or otherwise. There could be only one reason why Remy had refused her summons from the underworld. The valiant captain from Navarre wasn’t there. He still walked the realms of the living, this man who might prove invaluable to Cass.

He could possibly be the
one,
although Cass was not yet certain of that. Or how she would go about finding Remy. But Cass knew that she would, once she had made up her mind that the Scourge truly was the man she sought. She licked the last drop of brandy from her lips and smiled.

Her dear friend Gabrielle would be amazed to discover that poor blind Cass Lascelles had a few dreams and ambitions of her own.

Chapter Four

T
he mist that had softened the sharp edges of the city had faded, leaving only dark streets that seemed colder, harder, and more dangerous than when Gabrielle had traversed them earlier. As she approached the gates leading to her own courtyard, she fought a strong impulse to flee for the safety of her house. A feeling far different from the determined spirit that had inspired her to march through Paris on her secret errand to Cassandra Lascelles.

Now Gabrielle could only marvel at her folly in venturing out unescorted. She knew the city well enough to realize how perilous it could be for a lone woman traveling by day, let alone at night. What had made her think herself so invulnerable?

Unfortunately she knew the answer to that. Her hand groped toward the hilt of the weapon strapped to her side. Remy’s sword. Wearing it had always made her feel safe, untouchable, as though the blade were a sort of magic talisman infused with the strength and courage of its former owner.

Now when she curled her fingers around the hilt, all it felt like was cold, comfortless steel. It was as though any magic had fled that moment when the séance had failed, when she had been forced to accept the fact that Nicolas Remy truly was dead to her. She would never be able to speak with him, beg his forgiveness, or see his smile one last time. He was never coming back to her, not in any sort of conjuring, perhaps no longer even in her dreams.

She should have felt relieved to be released from her memories at last. Instead all she felt was strangely frightened, alone, and at a time when she most needed protection.

She was being followed.

Gabrielle had been aware of that ever since leaving the Maison d’Esprit. She was being stalked and this time not by any phantom of her imagination. The dark sinister man who dogged her footsteps was no ghost. Each time she chanced to look back she caught the menacing stranger ducking into alleyways, melting behind a drunken crowd that had spilled out of some tavern, fading into doorways, but not quite quickly enough. There was no longer any fog to disguise his relentless pursuit of her.

Gabrielle sensed him lurking behind her in the darkened street, watching her and waiting. But waiting for what? If he were a common thug or footpad, he could have attacked her already. He’d had dozens of opportunities, as careless as she’d been tonight. What if he wasn’t stalking her at all, but spying? She had forgotten to don her mask upon leaving Cass’s. Gabrielle experienced an urge to do so now, as if that would somehow shield her.

If he was a spy, the threat to her person was not so immediate. And yet the danger remained, peril of a far more subtle and insidious kind, but one that made her more angry than afraid. Gabrielle lingered near the gate, pretending to bend down to release a pebble from her shoe, all the while thinking furiously.

Who did she know who would dare set a spy loose upon her? She had enemies enough in the French Court, not the least of whom was the Dark Queen. Catherine tended to keep a close eye on Gabrielle when she visited the Louvre. Had the Dark Queen started mounting watch on Gabrielle outside the walls of the palace as well?

Gabrielle had mocked poor Cass for being so nervous about the Dark Queen, but perhaps Cass had been right. Gabrielle frowned as she thought back to the man she had seen earlier in the mist, the one she had dismissed as a figment of her imagination. What if the same man who tracked her now had followed her to the Maison d’Esprit?

No, surely Cerberus would have driven off any intruder who came too close. There was no way anyone could have known what she and Cass had been doing down in the hidden cellar. But report of Gabrielle’s visit to the abandoned house might be enough to rouse Catherine’s curiosity, impel her to investigate the Maison d’Esprit further. Gabrielle could have drawn the very peril Cass dreaded straight to her door.

Or Gabrielle could be merely letting her imagination run wild. There was only one way to know for certain. Slowly straightening, she resisted the urge to glance behind her again. Lifting the latch, she swung the gate open. It had been left unlocked according to her instructions. Gabrielle had wanted no curious eyes registering her coming and going this evening, not even any of her own servants. Now she was doubly glad she had left no guard posted, for it would enable her to set a trap.

She entered the courtyard with seeming casualness. Only when she was sure she must be out of view of the street did her demeanor change. She darted into the shadows, flattening herself against the stone wall that surrounded her property, positioning herself only yards away from the gate. Gabrielle inched Remy’s sword free of the scabbard and winced, the rasp of the blade sounding as loud as cannon fire to her ears. Her pulse thudded as she waited for what seemed an interminable length of time.

Perhaps her pursuer would not be rash enough to follow her onto her own grounds. Or having seen her return home, he would conclude there was nothing more to be learned of her movements tonight and simply vanish.

She almost came out of her hiding place when she heard it. The chink of the latch and the creak of the gate as it was being slowly opened. She quickly crouched back again. Gabrielle held her breath as the lean silhouette of a man stole through the open gate.

Moonlight washed over his features and Gabrielle could see that he was indeed an ill-favored varlet with long, tangled hair and a thick beard, his black jerkin and venetians worn and tattered. He paused, glancing from the abandoned walkway to the distant outline of the house and Gabrielle imagined that he must be puzzling over her sudden disappearance. She had best make her move before he had time to figure it out. Her heart banged hard against her ribs, but it was more from excitement than fear, a righteous anger at this interloper.