Their journey to Mouret-sur-Loire was uneventful, smoothed by Combeferre's facility with a quick spell that would give them both any required papers, and another that concealed the small hoard of riches they carried from any casual observer. Cheap glamors, easily penetrated by anyone with any facility with magic—or indeed anyone who looked closely—but enough to fool most.
His initial fear that someone would discover Mlle Enjolras's true sex, a worry that had chewed at him like a moth at an old blanket, soon faded. Instead, Combeferre began to feel elated, almost to the point of recklessness.
It was so easy, intoxicatingly so. It took so little for them to get away with it. A haircut, a change of garb, and the most fundamental distinction between the two halves of humanity vanished like mist before the sun.
That was how it felt during the day. By daylight, Combeferre found it shockingly ordinary to address and even think of his companion as 'Enjolras,' to travel with him—her— at odd hours and eat with her in rough inns, to treat her with no more protective care than Combeferre would give a headstrong younger brother.
At night, though, it was different. At night, when they would retire to rooms that they would often share, Combeferre became painfully conscious of everything. The inherent impropriety of their situation, the weight of his responsibility, the vulnerability of her sex—all of this could be forgotten in sunlight, but took its toll at night.
For the most part they traveled in companionable silence, underneath which Combeferre was solicitous and Mlle Enjolras was…grieving, no doubt, but otherwise inscrutable. She was stoic as a Spartan wife of old, and Combeferre never heard her cry at night, but she always rose in the morning with eyes lightly brushed with red. Combeferre wished he could comfort her. But he had no idea how. Her steadfast reserve made it seem like any further expressions of sympathy would be irrelevant at best, insolent at worst.
Still, it took very little time for Combeferre to grow accustomed to her company and, as her character unfolded before him with the days, to enjoy it. She was more than clever. Her intellect had a relentless quality that he never would have expected in even the best-educated woman. She would pursue any line of thinking to its farthest conclusion like a huntress stalking her prey. Combeferre would suggest a plan or idea, only to have Mlle Enjolras mull it, weigh it, and then eagerly point out that its implications went far beyond what Combeferre had first believed.
"The vampires are most likely staying at the château," Combeferre said one night, when they were only a day's journey away from their destination. "Strong, well-fortified, easy to avoid the sunlight so long as they stay inside."
Mlle Enjolras nodded. "So the best plan would be to lure them out? Fighting them inside would give them the advantage of numbers and no sunlight. Aside from which, they would know the inside of the castle far better than I, if they have lived there." She paused, looking severely thoughtful. "Perhaps I could start a fire of some kind? No, the château is of stone, that would be no good, and smoking them out would be difficult." Another pause, before she triumphantly offered, "We could set a trap, with myself as bait!"
"No," said Combeferre, horrified.
Mlle Enjolras frowned. "I think we should. It would work splendidly. I would stand outside, looking alone and lost, and we would do this at dusk, so that the vampires would feel emboldened to come out, but there would still be enough light for us to see by, and then…we could spring some sort of trap on them, though I confess I have not yet thought of what the trap would be…"
"I will not have you dangle yourself in front of the vampires as bait," Combeferre said, beginning to feel cross.
Mlle Enjolras raised her eyebrows. "I am a vampire slayer. How can I slay them if I do not fight them?"
"Fighting them is one thing," Combeferre said. "Tempting them into attacking you, so that they initiate the encounter and have the advantage of you, is another thing entirely."
"But if it's our trap, they won't have the advantage, because we will have initiated and planned the encounter," she parried, with annoying calmness.
"I forbid it," Combeferre said, scowling, and then winced—even to his own ears, he had sounded like his Uncle Henri.
Her frown returned, sterner than before. "You cannot forbid me. That was not our agreement."
"I know." Combeferre sighed. "Forgive me, mademoiselle. I know. I simply do not wish to endanger you unnecessarily."
"I will always be in danger," she said inflexibly. "Fighting vampires will never be a safe occupation."
"That does not mean we should court danger if we don't need to. Let's try to think of another way, shall we? If we can't, then we can revisit the idea of using you as bait." Combeferre silently vowed that he would think of another way, even if that other way was fleeing like a coward and abandoning Mouret-sur-Loire to its fate. Somehow the thought of Mlle Enjolras standing outside a château, waiting for vampires to attack her, sickened him.
"Very well," said Mlle Enjolras.
When they arrived at Mouret-sur-Loire, it was mid-morning and the sky was glaringly bright. Combeferre nervously looked about as they dismounted from the diligence, which sped away as quickly as possible. The frigid quiet was ominous, especially since there was no human soul to be seen in the town. They swiftly found an inn, but its doors were closed, and knocking produced no answer.
Combeferre stared at the entrance, cursing to himself, while Enjolras began to circle the inn, trying to find a spot to peer through.
Suddenly Combeferre heard her gasp. He whirled to face her, only to see that someone had seized her arm and was pulling her into a shadowy nook.
"Let me go," Enjolras hissed. Combeferre spared a moment to be thankful that she had developed enough self-control not to simply fling the other person from her with Slayer strength.
"Warm to the touch," said an old man's voice. "You're not one of them accursed creatures. Just a boy. Come in, then—and bring your friend with you, but be quick. They could attack at any time."
"It's daylight," Enjolras said, though she obeyed, tugging Combeferre by the wrist after her. "How could they attack?"
Inside the inn, clustered round a roaring fire, were at least thirty people, mostly women, children and older men.
A thickset woman of about forty-five or fifty years, standing farthest from the fire, gave Enjolras a measuring look. "So you know about the creatures, then? You know what they are?"
Enjolras nodded. The woman stared at her, but when Enjolras remained silent, the woman went on: "It's true enough they don't come out into the sun, but they have attacked us even when it's daylight. They use special shades and umbrellas. They don't much like doing it—prefer to wait till it's dark. But sometimes they have to, because now nobody in these parts goes out at night."
"Not if they have a choice," said the old man.
The woman turned back to Enjolras. "You didn't explain how you know about vampires, young man."
Combeferre stepped forward. "We hunt vampires." Best not to say anything about Slayers or Watchers, not yet, not unless they were pressed.
"Oh? And that's why you came here? On a hunt?" The woman looked Combeferre up and down.
"Yes." Combeferre looked back at her steadily, willing himself not to fidget.
Finally the woman chuckled. "Well, you came to the right place," she said. "I am Madame Bahorel. My sons and one of my daughters and a few other young people are attacking the castle right now. Their first object is to free the people the vampires are holding prisoner there, but I'm sure they wouldn't complain if they got the chance to kill a monster or two."
"Prisoner?" Enjolras started. "So they are keeping them to drink from?"
Mme Bahorel winced. "I fear that is so, poor things. The vampires came here sudden-like, you see—we had no warning—"
"We had no warning," said a younger woman. "M. le maire, he had warning. So did M. de Roissy, and old Mathieu, who saw a profit in selling their neighbors to the beasts."
"Not to mention M. le curé, who is convinced that all this is God's punishment for our wicked disobedience," Mme Bahorel added, sounding equally bitter, "but the rest of us were taken by surprise. They came in, seized their victims, and took over the castle. We tried to attack them once before, but lost three men, and had no success."
Combeferre shuddered. "Have they already reached the castle, Madame?"
"Why, boy? Do you think to join them?"
"Yes," said Enjolras.
Mme Bahorel snorted. "Does your mother know you're here, my lad? I'm not sending a child like you off to fight those things."
"You need not send me," Enjolras said equably. "I will simply go."
"He is a vampire slayer, Madame," Combeferre said, trusting that she would not know that Slayers were always women. "He has a divine gift—he's been blessed with the strength and skill to hunt vampires. He's much stronger than he looks."
Mme Bahorel looked skeptical, but Enjolras had already moved towards the door, and Combeferre followed her.
The road to the castle was empty of sound or life, but when they reached, Combeferre heard the noise of a battle inside.
At least, he thought it was the noise of a battle. He had never been in or near a battle himself; he had merely read of them. But there were cries of anger and cries of pain. There was metal clanking against metal, metal thrusting into flesh and pulling out again, with a wet and sucking sound. Combeferre looked at Enjolras, worried.
Enjolras's chin went up. "Let us go," she said, her voice perfectly even.
She has already seen horrors you cannot imagine, and faced them bravely, Combeferre reminded himself. He felt cold and queasy, and drew a harsh breath. He could not play the coward now, not while Enjolras relied on him to help, not when she was the picture of courage. He had shepherded her along this path; he could not abandon her in his terror.
They skirted the castle, looking for an entrance. Enjolras pried open a small stone door and went into the darkness inside without so much as a pause. Combeferre followed, chewing on his lower lip.
They made their way along a passage, guided by the touch of the wall and the sounds of the struggle, for what seemed an endless period. Combeferre felt himself growing calmer: surely, they would never reach the battle. Surely, they would have to give up and turn back, and no blame could attach to them then, for they would have tried to find it…
It was an unworthy thought. It should have made Combeferre shrivel inward with shame, but there was no time to think much of it, for they had stumbled upon a hall flickering with candlelight, and inside the fight was raging, and Enjolras was already charging in.
"Wait," Combeferre said, but the din swallowed the word. Enjolras drove a stake through the heart of one vampire that had been drinking from a villager. She pivoted to fight another.
Combeferre ran up to her; by the time he reached, Enjolras had dispatched the second vampire and a third.
A tall and well-muscled vampire came upon them. Combeferre determinedly stepped between Enjolras and the vampire, who batted him aside. He slapped against a wall, crying out, the stone's impact cruel and unforgiving to his flesh and bones.
Enjolras spared him a look out of the corner of her eye, turning her face slightly away from her attacker, who took the opportunity to swing at her head.
"Look out!" Combeferre said, frantic. Enjolras turned back just in time to block the blow, her arm stopping his, obviously matching him in strength.
The tall vampire's eyes widened. "Slayer," he said. "What are you doing? We had a bargain!"
A bargain? Combeferre felt a sudden worry: the vampire looked truly surprised.
There was no time to puzzle it out; Enjolras was still fighting the vampire, and another was sneaking upon her. Combeferre ran at it, drawing his short sword. He swung at its neck with all his might, taking its head off, and coughed as the dust flew in his face.
A piercing pain, right where his shoulder met his neck, made him shout; he pulled away from the sensation, only to see a vampire's arm snake around his waist, and feel it trap him against its chest.
He struggled, but the fangs sank further into his flesh. His thrashing grew wilder, more abandoned.
And then the vampire was gone. Combeferre fell backwards into a cloud of ash. He would have hit the floor, but Enjolras braced him with one hand, the other still holding her stake high.
She bent her head to peer at the wound at his neck, dabbing at it ineffectually with a handkerchief.
"I'm not badly hurt," Combeferre assured her. The wound was painful, but the bleeding seemed like it could be contained, especially if he used a healing spell. He wasn't particularly skilled at those just yet, but he was competent enough.
Enjolras looked at him, her eyes large in the pale oval of her face. "Go hide there, behind those barrels," she said. "I'll keep the others away from you."
"I will not leave you to the fighting alone," Combeferre said, offended.
"Go!" Enjolras cried, pushing him. He stumbled backwards, behind the barrels, as Enjolras had intended. Pulling himself up, he surveyed the room. It was large, perhaps originally built as a hall, but now it was cobwebby and looked more like a cellar, with dusty barrels and old furniture stacked against the walls, lit by candles held in sconces. Throughout, scattered knots of two or three villagers fought, fierce and desperate, against the vampires—Combeferre counted four of those remaining. So there had been ten vampires to begin with, set upon by perhaps twelve humans. It was not a wholly hopeless match, even before Combeferre and Enjolras joined in. Combeferre could see the glimmer of Enjolras's hair in the dim light as she danced between the knots of fighters, stabbing with her wooden stake. He looked about to see if help was needed in any particular place and, as his eye fell on the barrels again, he had an idea. Perhaps there was flour in some of the barrels…
He placed his hand over his wound and muttered a few Hebrew words; the flow of blood stopped, and the pain dulled. Examining the barrels, Combeferre made an exultant noise: it was indeed flour. Combeferre began to feel a sudden excitement, which he knew was wholly improper, even immoral. He threw a guilty look in Enjolras's direction, satisfying himself that she was alive and unhurt, whirling upon the last vampire standing. If she staked him, there would be no need to try Combeferre's plan with the flour—
The door that Enjolras and Combeferre had entered through swung open with a creak, and ten—no, fifteen, or perhaps more—vampires, fangs drawn, rushed in. Combeferre could only gape.
"Run!" Enjolras's voice, high and clear and sharp, rose above the clamor of footsteps. She was standing on a table, gesturing towards an opening at the opposite end of the hall. The villagers looked at her and then at the vampires before obeying her call to retreat. "Combeferre! Move!"
He felt his legs revive; he, too, made for the door, attempting to seize Enjolras's arm and pull her back with him. She shook him off, throwing herself between the vampires and the fleeing humans, staking two in rapid succession before joining the rest through the opening.
A heavy door separated the opening from the hall where they had been fighting. Even with Slayer strength, Enjolras just managed to slam it shut before the vampires could get through. She looked at Combeferre, chalk-faced, with a smear of blood marring one cheek and the side of her neck.
"You—you are hurt?" Combeferre's voice shook, but he could not bring himself to despise himself for it.
"No." Enjolras's own voice was hoarse and low, quite unlike her piercing cries during the battle. They were in a smaller room, with more barrels and furniture shoved against the walls inside.
"How many creatures were there, did you see?"
The question came from a broad-shouldered man a few years older than Combeferre, who wore a waistcoat of a deep rose color. It was not so garish as to be foolish to wear into combat, but it was certainly very different from the dull browns and grays of the other townsfolk.
"Thirty, I would say," said Enjolras, pushing a tuft of hair out of her eyes.
"Hmm," said the man, looking at Enjolras with a shrewd expression that Combeferre instinctively mistrusted. The man opened his mouth to say something, but Enjolras interrupted him.
"The prisoners," she said. "We haven't retrieved them yet-do you know where they are?"
"In the dungeons, and I will ask later why you are here and how you know what our plan is-"
"A lady by the name of Mme Bahorel told us," Combeferre said.
"My mother," said the man—or Bahorel, as his name must be.
Enjolras cut in. "Is there a way into the dungeons without meeting the vampires again?"
There was silence for a moment before one of the two women present—well, three, but two women besides Enjolras—spoke. "The vampires have gone into the dungeons already. I saw them go through the door in that hall we were just in. There's another way through there," she said, pointing through a hole in the stone wall at the back of the room, "but if we go that way we will meet the vampires in the dungeon, and—"
Combeferre shook his head. "There are too many in there for us." Enjolras turned to him, her head thrown back and her back straightened, ready to dispute. "Too many," Combeferre repeated, meeting her gaze. "Thirty, Enjolras, and they know we're here, so there is no element of surprise."
Her defiance held for a few frightening seconds before fading. She nodded reluctantly, to Combeferre's relief.
"But we can't leave the prisoners there," said the woman who had spoken before.
"No," Enjolras agreed, looking at Combeferre. "We can think of a plan-"
"I already have one," said Combeferre. "You see these barrels?"
Five minutes later, they had piled the flour barrels by the door to the hall from which they had just fled. The mouth of each barrel faced the door. Enjolras, Combeferre, Bahorel and the other townsfolk manned the barrels, ready to tear the lids off at the signal. Combeferre had a nagging feeling of unease, which he wished he could dismiss as cowardice: he had never attempted an explosion like this before. He would have wanted to practice it, and also to limit the reach of the explosion. Yes, the barrels were aimed at the door, away from where their people were, but Combeferre had little faith in his ability to predict the movements of clouds of flour.
There was no help for it, though. This was their only plan.
Enjolras cocked her head to the side. Combeferre could hear only his own heavy breathing mixed with the others', but Enjolras was plainly hearing something on the other side of the door. Her chin went up; she leaned forward, and spoke in a harsh whisper that carried: "It's time. I will count to five and open the door."
Everyone murmured their assent.
"One...two...three...four...five!"
Enjolras flung the door open, then ripped the lid off her barrel and pushed it into the hall. The townsfolk did the same, then ran back to the far end of the room, under Bahorel's frantic direction. Flour billowed upwards, towards the flaming sconces on the walls of the hall, as Enjolras hurriedly closed the heavy door again.
They covered their ears and waited, and waited, for unending seconds, until Combeferre felt sure that his plan had been imbecilic and that something very simple and obvious had gone wrong, something he should have considered and planned for—
And then he heard the explosion. Was it his imagination, or did the stone floor tremble beneath him?
When the sound dimmed, Combeferre looked around the room. Enjolras had already run to the opening leading to the dungeon. She stood there, alert, poised, listening, before springing down the stairs. Combeferre followed her, hearing Bahorel and the other townsfolk close on his heels.
The cells were rank, the smell so aggressive that Combeferre froze for a moment as he approached. His vision went hazy. When he came back to himself he saw people in the cells—seven of them, all with matted hair and dirty clothes, all with neck wounds.
He could not see Enjolras, and had a moment of panic.
"The boy went up the stairs on the other side, to lock the vampires in the hall," said the woman who had told them of the entrance to the dungeons. "My brothers went with him, and so did two of the others—he'll be fine, you needn't fret."
"I was not fretting," Combeferre said, with a scowl. He looked around the room, and saw that Bahorel was not there. "Bahorel went?"
"Yes—both Bahorels did—they're my brothers. Guillaume is the one you spoke to before. They'll look after him, not that he seems to need it much." She stepped forward to examine the bars, grasping one.
"Mademoiselle-"
"Madame," she said, pulling at the bar, which, to Combeferre's surprise, came off in her hand. Mme Whatever-Her-Married-Name-Was made a startled sound and looked at the prisoners, her eyebrows raised.
One of the prisoners, a woman with dark smudges under her eyes, held up a file in her hand as an answer. "We were trying to cut through all the bars," she said. Combeferre heard footsteps clatter down the far stairs. Enjolras appeared, followed by four people from the town, including the Bahorel Combeferre had spoken to earlier.
"It's done," Enjolras said, her voice low. "When they heard the explosion, they ran into the hall to see what happened-we just locked the door behind them, and..."
And they died a fiery death at her hands, as the vampires in the Château de Beaufort had done. Without thinking, Combeferre slipped an arm around her shoulders. He felt her shudder and lean against him. "Let's leave this place," he said.
Enjolras and Guillaume Bahorel between them filed through the remaining cell bars. The prisoners climbed out, clumsy and stiff after their imprisonment. They trudged up the stairs, skirted the hall where they had fought the vampires, and found their way out into the yellow day.
Combeferre felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to look up at Guillaume Bahorel's impassive face. "The boy," said Bahorel, gesturing at Enjolras, who did not miss it, even in her distress, but came over to them. "He has special powers of some kind?"
Combeferre hesitated. "I'm a vampire slayer," Enjolras answered, after glancing at him. "I have...supernatural strength, which lets me fight-"
"Ah," said Bahorel softly. "Yes. I've heard of vampire slayers." He chuckled at their look of surprise. "An old legend, passed down in the family. A curious thing, though—I'd heard that vampire slayers were always girls." He smiled at Enjolras, who presented a blank stare as a shield. Combeferre hoped he himself was equally unrevealing. "But then, it was only an old story—I shouldn't be surprised it was wrong." He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder, then marched ahead to join the other townsfolk.
"He knows," Enjolras whispered.
"He won't say anything," Combeferre said, mostly believing it. They were alone, now, or near enough, the townsfolk too far away to hear anything they said. "Come, Enjolras—there will be time enough to worry about this later, should it prove necessary." She gave him a brief nod, and the two turned back to the town.
Henri Combeferre rubbed his eyes. The glow from the fire had dulled and the glow from the sun had long vanished, so the only light remaining was the weak flicker of the candles, barely illuminating the pages of his tome. Was it already past sunset? Bertrande had brought in a plate some time ago—how long?—but Henri had not touched it. He had to keep reading, he had to keep searching, for surely somewhere in this library was a hint of how to find the Slayer. The accursed girl had proven more elusive than he had ever thought she would be, so much so that Henri would have believed her dead, if it weren't for the seeress swearing that she still breathed.
Henri sighed and glared at the volume in his hands. The letters blurred before him; his knowledge of Hebrew seemed like to desert him. A rustling sound outside distracted him for a moment, but Henri refused to give into the temptation to let his thoughts go elsewhere. He must concentrate, he must discipline his errant mind, he must—
The door splintered. By the time Henri looked up, the vampires had already reached the side of his chair.
He started upwards. A vampire caught him easily in one hand. "Did you think you'd get away with it? You fool."
Henri, too stunned for fear, wondered what in God's name the creature was talking about. Then the fangs stabbed into his neck. The blood drained from his head, and Henri Combeferre wondered no more.
"The vampires were retaliating." André Simon was grave and dignified, as befitting a senior Watcher, even while narrating events that must have caused him grief.
Javert approved. "Was M. Combeferre the only victim?"
"His wife," Simon said. "And their servants, of course. But yes, Henri Combeferre was the only one of our number who was murdered. M. de la Roche was hurt in a separate attack on his home, but managed to escape, and bear witness. Which brings me to the task I have for you, Javert." Simon smiled. "I believe you are the best qualified to fulfill it. Everyone speaks of your doggedness, your persistence in the chase. It is a trait that will serve us well now."
"You wish me to find the vampires responsible for the attack?"
"No," said Simon. "We have other Watchers pursuing the creatures. I have a different assignment for you. As I said, the vampires were retaliating, and M. de la Roche has given us a clue as to what their grievance was. You see, we had made a bargain, with a group of vampires who had taken possession of Mouret-sur-Loire."
Simon looked at Javert, who nodded, comprehending. He knew of such bargains, of course. They were necessary, to conserve the Watchers' resources and maintain the proper social order. The vampires would be left alone in a particular town or village, provided that they did not wreak havoc or kill more than an agreed-up number of people. Javert had never been involved in the making of such bargains, but he had worked to uphold them before. Once made, such an agreement was sacrosanct.
"You know we've had trouble finding the new Slayer?"
"Yes," said Javert, surprised at the abrupt change of subject.
"We thought she was injured, or kidnapped, or possibly in hiding. But just recently, there was an attack on the vampire stronghold at Mouret-sur-Loire."
Javert blinked. "You believe the girl was behind it? That she broke the peace?"
"The vampires who attacked M. de la Roche said a few things-they seem to believe their brethren at Mouret-sur-Loire had been set upon by a Watcher-Slayer team, who were allied with Mouret-sur-Loire's townspeople."
Javert considered this. "Do you know who the rogue Watcher is, then? The one with the Slayer?"
"No," said Simon. "That is for you to find out." He smiled again. "I trust this isn't beyond your capabilities?"
"I would not boast," said Javert, "but with all due humility, M. Simon, I do not believe it is."