Unbitten (7 page)

“The stable is down this way!” he shouted, and
Jo realized that since she had been in France, she had not
heard anyone shouting–or yelling or singing or making
much noise at all. Life at the Château was lively
enough, as far as she could tell, but it was quietly so.

“I am Thierry!” the man said enthusiastically,
sticking his hand out for her to shake. He was short, very
tanned, and slightly bow-legged. “I am going to show
you around the stable here, and introduce you to Drogo, and
answer any questions you might have.” He grinned at
her. “We have been really looking forward to your
arrival,” he added. “Your reputation is quite
impressive.”

Jo smiled back at him. “Thank you,” she said.
“I can’t tell you how much I want to ride
today. I just–I can’t wait to get my feet in
the stirrups.”

“I understand. I am sure Drogo is feeling the
same.”

They walked around another curve in the path and then they
were in full view of the stable. It was a long building,
centuries old, with boxes below for about twenty horses and
a hayloft overhead. Thierry led Jo into the tack room,
which smelled wonderfully of leather and saddle soap and
hay, and asked her to try on a helmet.

“Mine should be coming when the rest of my luggage
gets delivered,” said Jo.

“It is no problem,” said Thierry. “Now,
Drogo. Let me say that I believe he is a magnificent horse.
Tremendously strong, athletic.”

Jo clasped the strap under her chin and waited. She could
feel the
but
coming.

“And yet,” said Thierry, “he is perhaps a
bit over-sensitive. He scares rather easily. We think he
has terrific potential and could be a big winner–but
we need you to calm him down a little. Develop some trust.
You understand?”

Jo nodded. She was impatient with talking and wanted to
mount up and go.

They walked out and Jo could see a muzzle sticking out of a
stall halfway down, then the big noble head swung out to
take a look at who was coming.

Drogo stepped back as they approached and tossed his head.
He was Arabian, about fifteen hands, a glossy chestnut
stallion.

“Who has been riding him?” Jo asked.
“David? Or the Marquis?”

“Oh no,” answered Thierry. “Henri and his
brother do not come to the stable.”

Jo stared at Thierry for a moment, trying to take in what
he had said.

“What do you mean, they don’t come? I thought
they–or at least David–I thought
horses–?” Jo was having trouble getting the
words out.

“Well, yes, they want the horses to win ribbons and
be a credit to the Château,” said Thierry.
“But they do not ride,” he said with a shrug.

This made no sense. Jo absent-mindedly reached out and
stroked Drogo’s neck. She tried to grab onto any wisp
of understanding of why she had been hired, why anyone
would bother with the expense and trouble of horses if they
did not ride or even come to the stable to see them, but
could find no explanation at all. Show ribbons? Sorry, that
was not enough.

She felt as though David had lied to her, had
misrepresented himself. She felt as though the bond they
had, the connection made from a shared love, had evaporated
in the blink of an eye. Part of what made her upset is that
she hadn’t doubted him for a minute. Her gullibility
made her mad. She felt her face flush with anger and that
made her even angrier.

“Unless there is anything else, I would like to be
alone with Drogo,” said Jo.

Thierry nodded. “Of course.”

“Oh–is there anyplace that is off-limits to
ride?” she asked. “I don’t even know what
the borders of the property are.”

“If you head to the right after leaving the stable,
you will see a trail that goes into the woods,”
Thierry said. “It is unlikely that you will ride far
enough to leave the Château property, but even if you
do, all of the property owners allow riding on trails
through their land. We are not shooting trespassers like
you do in America.”

Jo laughed, wondering what TV show Thierry was getting his
information from. But that conversation was going to have
to happen later. She said goodbye as Thierry went off, and
let herself into Drogo’s stall.

He backed up again, lifting his head, uncertain of her.

“Hey now,” Jo said, in a soft murmur.
“Hey now, boy.” She held out her hand, flat,
with a handful of grass she had picked just before reaching
the stable.

Drogo eyed the grass. He eyed Jo. Slowly, he reached his
muzzle towards her hand.

“That’s it, boy. Eat up.”

His big horse lips reached out and snatched up a mouthful.
Jo felt the skin of his muzzle, so soft and bristly; she
inhaled the lovely barn smell of manure and hay and horse.
She pushed her confusion about David out of her
mind–she was ready to
gallop
on this big
boy, and she could barely wait to saddle him up.

Ah, the
TGV
, thought Tristan
Durant. French technology at its finest. The train is so
fast I will be in Paris before lunch. And thinking of
lunch, he smiled a broad smile of expectation. Yes, he was
there to meet with the head of the slayer organization, and
that meeting was taking up most of his thoughts. But that
did not preclude looking forward to a long and sumptuous
lunch at a Parisian restaurant. His mouth watered in
anticipation even though lunch was several hours away.

Tristan looked out the window for awhile, but the train ran
slightly below ground with berms on either side planted
with scraggly trees and bushes, so the view was
uninspiring. He pulled out his iPad and continued his
reading of
The Vampyre
. Published in 1819, it had
widely been thought to be written by Lord Byron, but was
actually written by John Polidori.
The Vampyre
was
the first account in literature of vampirism.

Might as well begin at the beginning.

Tristan found it fascinating. And terrifying.

Like many people living in this century, Tristan did not
have the stamina to read for long periods, and soon he had
clicked away from
The Vampyre
and was checking his
email.

New mail, something from Alain, his slayer contact.

So sorry, meeting must take place at lunch.
American. @@ See you at La Petite Espionne, Rue du
Dragon in the 6th. 12:30. Alain

Well,
merde
. Tristan had not once had what the
Americans called “a working lunch.” It went
against everything he cherished, his cultural history, his
DNA
. He wanted to sit down in a
crowded restaurant, savor the smells emanating from the
kitchen, take his time with the wine. He wanted to
deliberate over the menu until he had tasted each dish in
his imagination before deciding. He expected to be able to
get to know Alain as they shared a meal together and talked
about…anything but work.

Not that Tristan had been able to think of much else
lately. But still. Principle was at stake.

He arrived breathlessly at
La Petite Espionne
without a minute to spare. Alain and the American, a woman
named Jessica Winston, were already seated and drinking
aperitifs.

“Excuse us for not waiting,” said Alain.
“Jessica has been telling me the latest from the U.S.
and I felt the sudden need for a drink. Or six,” he
said, smiling.

Jessica had blonde hair that fell down past her elbow, and
perfectly done makeup, Tristan noticed. He was only looking
because he was a trained detective, of course. And she
looked fearsomely athletic, as though she could outrun and
possibly outwrestle most of the guys he had ever had to
chase down.

“Can we really talk here…safely?” asked
Tristan, looking around at the other diners.

“Honestly?” said Jessica, her voice lowered,
“People are so unused to our subject being talked
about openly that anyone eavesdropping will think we are
screenwriters.”

Alain laughed. “I think she’s right,” he
said, sipping his
pineau
.

“So…slayers,” said Tristan. “Tell
me the whole story, start to finish.”

“It’s not finished yet,” said Alain.
“But I can tell you the beginning at least. The first
mention of slayers in the old texts comes in around
1845,” he said, taking another sip of his drink. "At
that time the vampire population was probably at its
peak–much, much larger than it is at present. The
populace understood that they constituted a very real
danger because they were losing livestock and even family
members to them. They were all over Europe, although for
reasons we have not been able to figure out, they seemed to
avoid certain villages or even regions.

“France was particularly bad off. Vampires invaded
the aristocracy so extensively that some say they were a
direct cause of the Revolution–that much of the noble
class was either murdered by them, or became vampires
themselves. Consequently they concerned themselves with
drinking blood rather than managing their estates and the
welfare of those who worked for them, and we all know the
bloodbath that led to.

“Whenever secrecy and selfishness take over,”
said Alain very seriously, “that person’s
morals are ruined. And if there are very many of these in
one place? The society is ruined as well.”

“That is why, obviously, we do the work we do. And we
are very pleased to teach you all we know, Tristan, and to
have you as part of our team,” said Jessica.

Tristan was dumbfounded already, even though none of what
Alain had said was that much of a surprise. Certainly the
connection of vampires to aristocrats wasn’t news,
since he was dealing with that in his own village. But
despite his already being convinced, it was nevertheless
very strange to be having a conversation with other
people–obviously educated, sensible people–who
also believed vampires were not simply the stuff of rumor.

He looked at the menu, feeling a sorrow to be so
distracted. He couldn’t help resenting Jessica whom
he blamed for this sacrilege of a working lunch.

And yet, he was equally greedy for information. He decided
to start with snails
à la bourginonne,
then
on to lamb. Or maybe sweetbreads? Oh, it will be good no
matter what I order, he thought irritably. He prodded Alain
to continue.

“Well, I can tell you the basics, but our research is
far from complete,” said Alain. "It’s true they
cannot endure sunlight, and they get more sensitive to sun
as they get older. The really old ones–and
we’ll talk about life-span in a minute–must
stay inside at all times. Moonlight is too much for them.
Younger ones may be able to go out during the day if they
are completely covered up, at least for a short time.

“As with humans, there seems to be some genetic
variation in how much sun exposure they can handle, and at
what age that endurance, if any to start with,
fades.” Alain waved to a waiter, dressed in black
with a white apron tied at his waist.

“What about killing them?” asked Tristan.

“Jumping right to the point, eh?” said Alain.
"Well, there’s not been much evolution with this. In
the old days, a stake through the heart would do it, as
well as a silver bullet. You could weaken them with garlic,
or a silver cross, or holy water. These days, the stake
still works. The silver cross, as far as we can tell, is
only effective when used by a person of authentic religious
faith, and there are not many of those around anymore.

“Garlic,” he said with a rueful smile,
“seems to be a favorite seasoning for vampires rather
than any sort of repellant.” He shrugged. “One
thing about vampires, at least French ones –they love
to eat and they appreciate good food. So it’s not a
surprise that along the way some of them figured out how to
neutralize the weakening effect of garlic. No
escargot
à la bourginonne
otherwise.”

The waiter approached and took their orders. Tristan looked
around at the other tables, quickly imagining a back story
for each one. A couple on the verge of a breakup. A pair of
students celebrating passing an exam. A young man dutifully
having lunch with his aunt. Everyone, even the couple
breaking up, looked like they were enjoying their food
immensely. Tristan put his hand on his stomach to calm it
down.