The vampires were making a habit of knocking him out.
Poisoning the entire pot of coffee was extreme, even for an accused mass murderer. All the precautions he had taken were in vain. Despite being sceptical of everything, Chloé d'Apchier had outsmarted him which sort of makes sense provided how many centuries she has lived through. Still, that didn't justify adding fishy potions into his drink, a vulnerable wounded human who had just slept off vampire venom.
Thinking back, he should have shamelessly eaten every pastry in the basket, downed the bowl of soup and asked for seconds; at least that would do him some good.
"Damn it." He muttered, cursing the woman first thing after waking from his slumber. "Chloé d'Apchier…"
Vanitas rolled to his side, mentally preparing himself for another castle adventure. His accommodation has been upgraded from unused storeroom to mountain refuge, a basic platform bed separating him and the ice-cold ground. It was warm – hot, even – in addition to his uniform, a blanket and a fur cloak were wrapped around him, and he could make out flickering light from a fireplace. He shrugged off the extra clothing, propping himself up to restart his escape.
The air smelled of onions. Of leeks. Of potatoes. Would Jean-Jacques be serving him another soup? His stomach growled at the thought of it, having endured hours of hunger strike. He blinked to clear the clouds in his vision, parting his lips to grill the chef about the poisoning. Stunned by what he saw, the words stuck in his throat and never made it out.
Someone was kneeling in front of the fire, tending to the flames and the pot hanging above it. Her shadow fluttered at the rhythm of the shimmering light, dancing in the dimly lit cabin. Hair swept to one side, those amber eyes he dreamed of for days were on him, the mug and ladle in hand forgotten. For an instance he wondered if it wasn't sedative he had taken, but another sort of drug that causes hallucination, that projects his imagination, that shows him ghosts and illusions. Because she couldn't be here. Jeanne should be in Altus, hundreds of miles away from him, escorting the Grand Duke or devouring sweets. She couldn't be in Gévaudan, couldn't happen to be in the same hut, couldn't be with him.
So who was this gorgeous girl who just dropped all her stuff and came running towards him?
"Chloé." She demanded, her face a breath away Vanitas could no longer deny her existence. "You've met her?"
His back pressed against the brick wall, the churchman held at bay tried not to marvel at her beauty: droplets of melted snow clung to her hair, hue on her cheeks, paler lips he wouldn't mind warming up.
"Um… kind of." Reminding himself he was in a potentially dangerous situation, Vanitas discarded his untimely thoughts. "She and her boy have been keeping me at her castle."
"Had been," he corrected, surveying their surroundings. Two chairs, a table, a pile of firewood; the casket carrying her gauntlet, his daggers and chasseur kit, a tin box containing bandage and medicines; it was an uninhabited shelter consisting the bare minimum. A shelter shared with her, a distinct part of his brain advocated.
"Where is it?" She grabbed his arm, thoughtlessly shaking him a little before remembering his injuries.
"I'm fine." He reassured her instantly, not wanting to hear apologies. Gently, he caught hold of the bourreau's hand which, strangely, felt chilly against his; it had always been the contrary. If he, a fragile human who had been through rough combat and drugging, woke up warm and cosy, why would a vampire suffer from the weather?
Distracted by his observation, the fact that his fingers were still tangled in hers escaped him. Their gazes locked, both of them realising with a jolt how little space there was between them. A sense of déjà vu hit him – him rising from coma, finding himself in a bed, disorientated; her standing by his side, being the only thing he recognised. Would he be able to refuse if she was to hold him like she had that night? No. Not when he couldn't do something as simple as looking away from her.
They have left things hanging. Although his heart has been saying otherwise, he wasn't prepared to see her this soon. He didn't think he would ever be. What have Chloé d'Apchier done? He could have sworn that lady would have him dumped in the forest, on the side of a road, or in front of a Church if she was feeling charitable at that moment. Why leave him with Jeanne, the person she specifically wanted him to stay away from?
"The castle." Recovering before him, Jeanne ended the suspense by taking a few steps back. Unless mistaken, a hint of sadness flashed through her features as she did so. "I've been searching all day, but it wasn't in the forest anymore."
"Oh." Embarrassed to admit he had been carried in and out of her fortress, Vanitas answered vaguely. "They didn't exactly show me the way."
"I see." Hopes of locating her target shattered, her excitement subsided. Unsurprisingly, they were in town for the same reason, even though the Church hadn't warned them about bourreau being dispatched. Surely Parks Orlok wouldn't overlook chasseur mobilisation of this scale, yet Jeanne, if not more bourreaus, was sent regardless. Either they were manipulating information or lacked communication, this whole expedition was full of red flags.
Taking into account Chloé d'Apchier's claim - that someone in the Church has been accomplice of a vampire culprit - everything he assumed about this mission could be overthrown. It appeared his sixth sense has been out of order since leaving the capital, causing him to misjudge one thing after another.
Sighing in frustration, he pulled off the blanket and his cloak to get moving. The room was nicely heated he had no use of his comfy winter cloak, a long, one shoulder cape that would be of great help in the wind...
Winter cloak? Where did he get that from? The oversized chasseur coat he dug up certainly has no fur on it.
Holding it up for inspection, he remarked another abnormality: his left arm was swathed in bandages, covering up the bite incurred from previous fights. Whoever applied the dressing had had the thought of soaking it in carbolic acid to prevent infections, an utterly unnecessary procedure for vampires.
Even without his malfunctioning hunches, he had already figured out who his carer was. The bed, the cloak, the blanket; she had given everything to him, worrying about his wellbeing more than anyone, including himself, did. The stew she was preparing, he suspected, would have a tiny portion reserved for him as well.
He didn't deserve her kindness, really. If anything, it only intensified his guilt from what he was going to do to her.
He was going to tell her a lie, the only one he'd ever tell her. As much as the 18-year-old disliked taking advices, Roland's nonsense has a ring of truth from time to time: he owed her an answer. It wouldn't be right to go on and overlook all her efforts in… well, flirting with him, especially since she had been blunt and determined. Unlike him. He had meant to speak with her once this winter wasteland chore was over. Apparently, fate had other ideas for them. Whilst Gévaudan and this mysterious shelter wasn't exactly the best place for such conversation, he hated keeping her in the dark than he already had
Vanitas stole a glance at her and caught her staring, though she pretended she wasn't the second their eyes met.
"Jeanne, I…" am not interested in you. No, Jeanne wasn't the type of girl who backs off with that. She would still pursue him, as persistent as him when they had just met. For her to give up he mustn't leave room for hope; he needed something she couldn't contradict, to make her loathe him, even.
And he knew exactly what to say.
He bit his lip, gathering the courage to do what must be done; to save her from the misfortune of involving with him any further.
I can't go out with a vampire. Could he tune it down a little bit, so he wouldn't upset her as much?
He couldn't. It wasn't fair. Not to her, nor to him; but as long as it could drive her away, he would roll with it. As she spun around reacting to her name being called, Vanitas forced himself to look her in the eyes, to engrave in his soul the damage he was going to inflict so he would never repeat the mistake of falling in love.
I'm not interested in dating a time bomb.
How could he bring himself to say this in her face, to hurt the first and last woman he loved?
It was taking too long. His insult didn't come as easily as it usually did, and Jeanne was already reaching for him. His heart leapt in spite of himself, expecting – fearing – to be able to comb his fingers through her hair, to taste her lips again. What a self-destructing wish.
He could no longer find his voice, his entire being lost in the sea of fire reflected in her pupils.
"Don't get me wrong," her hand landed on the piece of clothing in his hand instead, snatched it from him and straightened up. "I simply don't want a chasseur dying at my doorstep."
"It's almost daybreak. You can stay until then."
With that she walked away, the same way she used to before they both developped scandalous feelings for each other.