Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(101)

He tied his horse to one of the trees, keeping it well out of harm’s way, and moved forward. The coming dawn tugged at his consciousness, but it was impossible to move quickly. It would feel irreverent, like laughing in a graveyard.

To the right was the chapel, still partially protected by a slate roof. He paused at the door, or where it would have been. It had burned down to the hinges; his foot uncovered the old iron pieces in the sifting of leaves and sodden ash on the cold stone floor. The roof had gone, too, having been built of wood, as had the altar. But the crucifix remained, in a way. Its silver had dripped down the walls, painting the old stones with a smear of beauty.

He moved into a dark corridor. It had once been brightly lit by sconces that were now only glinting suggestions in the gloom of the passage, leaping into reality when the beams of his lantern swept over them. He found the first one there, a huddled, unrecognizable shape in the dark.

He knelt beside it. Dim, filtered light poured through a narrow window, bringing with it a wisp of cool air and the faint sound of rain. The body was charred, unrecognizable. But the cross around the neck had been trapped underneath, and suffered only scorching. It was small and plain, and made out of some metal sturdier than gold. Not the one, then.

The passage ended at what must have been the refectory. The missing roof ensured that a thin mist coated everything, but he could still just make out the rectangular shapes of the long tables where sparse meals had been served. There were bodies here, too. But the one he sought was not among them.

Down another dark passage and through two more rooms, he finally found the small room called Misericord. It was where punishments were doled out to those who had violated the strict rule. But no punishment devised by man had done this.

The body was stretched out on the floor, the dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Unlike the others, it had not been burnt. There were no signs of scorching in the room at all, and even the roof here had survived. Perhaps that was why it was so well preserved—the rain had not touched it; the wind had not disturbed it.

It didn’t help. The face was unrecognizable, desiccated and withered. The eyes were white, the once-dark hair brittle and drained of color, the mouth opened in a silent scream. The hand was a half-closed claw, as if it had been clutched around something.

He tugged gently at the bones, barely held together by skin. The small movement caused the body to settle with a dry whisper, the broken wrist making a soft popping as it tore through the tissue-thin skin of the arm. The small sound seemed to echo in his head, and a bone-dead chill settled through him.

He pulled harder, forcing the hand to give up its secret. And then he merely squatted against the shelter of a burned-out wall, palm open, a glittering cross of solid gold held loosely in his fingers. He traced the cabochon stones that decorated the piece, polished and cool under his touch, and felt a coiling tightness reeling out from his gut to his spine. Blood sang in his ears, pain stabbed through him like a million keen blades, and the bitterness of guilt settled back into its usual place under his ribs, where he always carried it.

And now, where he always would.





I rolled over, kicking the covers with a low grumble of irritation. The old sheets were damp and inclined to stick to my skin. My bedroom was hot and, thanks to the weather, uncomfortably muggy. I peeled off the T-shirt, exchanged it for a fresh one and pushed up the window.

I’d been hoping for a breeze, but ended up getting slapped in the face by a gust of rain instead. Of course. I perched on the ledge anyway, not caring if I got wet as long as I cooled down.

The storm ruffled my damp hair and fanned my flushed cheeks. It felt wonderful. I could hear someone’s wind chimes, a faint, distant glissando riding the breeze. I leaned my head back against the smooth wood of the frame and watched lightning lick the sky.

A magical accident on our recent assignment had resulted in my sharing Louis-Cesare’s memories—all of them. And since he was almost four hundred years old, that was a lot to absorb. Most of it had been a blur at the time, a lifetime of impressions pouring into my head all at once. It had been too much, too fast, too overwhelming for anyone to take in. But ever since, I kept getting flashbacks to pieces of his past.

They might have eventually settled, slipping off to lurk in my subconscious somewhere with the rest of the monsters, if it hadn’t been for the wine. As it was, I was treated to an almost nightly parade of images, some so fragmented as to make no sense, but others as real as if I’d lived them myself. This had been one of the latter.

I could still smell the acrid stench of the fire, taste papery ash on my tongue, feel his bright flare of pain as if it had been my own. He hadn’t believed . . . something . . . hadn’t expected . . . Damn it! It was already fading.

A patter of rain hit my dangling leg, but I sat there for a long time staring at the dark yard. Tasting bitterness, fruit gone to rot, lost hopes, ruined dreams. And didn’t know what any of it meant. It was like seeing a movie and not knowing the ending. Or the beginning. Or who most of the damn characters were.

And knowing that I probably never would.

I know what I want, he’d said. And that was obviously Christine. Because despite what he maintained, there was no earthly reason why he had to stay with her if he didn’t choose to. Yes, he’d screwed some things up, but he’d also gone through hell to find her again, even to the point of letting himself be drained by those same mages in payment for her freedom. He didn’t owe her a damn thing.