Stepsister(72)

As Isabelle and Felix drew closer, they saw that there was only a single sign on the post, and that it read Malleval.

“That can’t be right,” Felix said. “Malleval’s in the opposite direction.”

Isabelle decided to get an answer. She handed Nero’s reins to Felix and approached the resting man. “Excuse me, sir, will this road take us to Paris?”

The man didn’t answer her.

“He’s sound asleep,” Isabelle said.

She hated to wake him, but she needed to know where they were. She didn’t have time to waste.

“Sir? Excuse me,” she said. But the man slept on. Isabelle bent down and gave his arm a gentle shake. His hat fell off. His head lolled sickeningly to the side. His body toppled over like of sack of meal.

That’s when Isabelle realized that he wasn’t napping, and he wasn’t wearing a red shirt. He was wearing a white shirt that had turned red. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. Blood had cascaded from the wound down the front of his body. Some was still trickling out.

Terror broke lose inside her. “Please, somebody help! In God’s name, help!” she screamed.

Felix was at her side in an instant. The blood drained from his face as he saw the murdered man. He grabbed Isabelle’s arm and pulled her away. Nero, hearing her screams and scenting blood, grew wild-eyed. Isabelle took him from Felix and tried to calm him. Felix shouted for help again. But nobody answered them. Nobody came.

The breeze picked up and so did the scent of smoke. The bitter smell was like a slap; it brought Isabelle back to her senses. She realized how stupid they’d been.

“Whoever killed this man might still be nearby,” she said to Felix. “And we’ve just let him know we’re here.”

“If that signpost is correct, Malleval will be close,” Felix said. “We’ll be safe there. We can tell them what happened. They’ll send someone to get this poor man.”

Casting a fearful glance around, Isabelle put her foot in the stirrup. Felix boosted her up into her saddle; then she pulled him up behind her.

“Go,” he said, closing his arms around her waist.

Isabelle spurred Nero on. He galloped the mile or so down the road towards the village, but as it came into view, he stopped, raised his head, and let out an earsplitting whinny.

Isabelle’s eyes widened. One hand came up to her chest.

“No,” she whispered. “God in Heaven … no.”

There would be no help from the villagers of Malleval.

Not now, not ever.





Seventy-Nine


Isabelle slid out of her saddle, then staggered through the wheat fields at the edge of Malleval like a drunk. Felix followed her.

Nero stood in the road where they’d left him, his reins trailing in the dust.

Lying in the dirt, amid the stubbly stalks of cut wheat, were bodies. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. They had been shot and stabbed. Many in the back. There was a man with a gaping hole in his side, still clutching his pitchfork. There lay an old woman, a bayonet wound in her chest.

Dark gray smoke swirled over them. The village’s homes, its stables and barns, all had thatched roofs, and they were burning.

Isabelle started to shake so hard that she couldn’t stop. Her legs gave way. She fell on her backside next to a dead mother and her dead child. A low keening sound moved up from her chest into her throat, then rose into a wild howl of pain. Thick, strangling sobs followed it. She folded in on herself, clutched at the dirt, and wept.

Sometime later—minutes? An hour?—Isabelle heard voices. Men’s voices. She picked up her head and looked around. It wasn’t Felix; he was carrying an old woman who was bleeding badly through a field, running with her towards one of the only houses that wasn’t burning.

And then Isabelle saw the men. They were soldiers. They’d gathered at the far edge of the field. They were talking and laughing. Some held the reins of their horses; others sacks full of plunder.

One of them turned. His gaze fell on Isabelle and an ugly grin spread across his face. He started towards her through the swirling smoke, through the falling ash, like a demon from hell. Two others made as if to follow him, but he waved them back. She was to be his sport, his alone. She’d never seen the man before, but she knew him. From rumors and stories. From a vision she’d had when a wagonload of wounded soldiers had passed by her on the road to Saint-Michel. He held a sword in one hand, a shield in the other. He wore no coat. His leather waistcoat and white shirt were streaked with blood. His black hair, shot through with silver, was pulled back. A scar puckered one cheek. His eyes burned with dark fire. He was Volkmar.

Inside Isabelle, under her heart, the sleeping wolf woke.





Eighty


Isabelle was terrified. She was going to die; she knew that. But she would not run; she would face Volkmar down.

She scrambled to her feet, praying that Felix would stay with the old woman inside the house, and searched for a weapon. There had to be something she could fight with—a pitchfork, a shovel, a hay rake. She would aim for Volkmar’s neck if she could. His thigh. His wrist. She would do her best to make him bleed.

Volkmar closed in. He was only twenty yards away now.

“How did I miss this little rat in the wheat field?” he said, raising his sword.