Disclaimer etc.: see chapter 1
Author's note: this part turned very dark. I've upped the rating accordingly. There are a couple more chapters to come, but that'll probably be in a couple of weeks due to Easter.
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 5: Belonging
Luc was cleaning the kitchen, the door wide open and sunshine streaming in. He hummed as he scrubbed, thinking of the letter he had received from his parents just that morning. It had arrived along with a missive in violet ink on fine parchment addressed to Angelus, which he had pushed under the bedroom door before starting on the kitchen. His own letter lay open on the table, and he paused as he crossed the room to the stone sink to slowly read it through again.
"My dear Luc," he read, his lips forming the words, "many thanks for the money you sent us in your last letter. We are all very glad you have found a place with a good employer and trust he treats you kindly. Here all is well; the lambing season has begun and promises well. The doctor's son shows an interest in your sister, and we hope that he will propose to her that she may settle as well as you. 'Da garout ar an.'*
"Maman."
Luc smiled, and folded the paper up. "I love you too," he murmured, and went to rinse out his cloth at the sink. Around him, the kitchen gleamed with care and, if Luc admitted it to himself, very little use. In his mind he ran over the day's tasks – for once, his evening was free, but before that there was an afternoon's salon, and he had to prepare the rooms upstairs for the occasion, and go out to buy cakes and coffee and flowers. He glanced around the sparkling kitchen and rolled down his sleeves, closing the door before heading upstairs to change his clothes.
He was on his way back down again, trying to walk silently past Angelus' door when it opened.
"Luc!"
"Good morning." Luc turned around. "I hope I didn't wake you?"
His employer looked wide awake, in fact, holding in his hand the letter that had arrived that morning. "No. I hadn't yet got to sleep. Going shopping?"
Luc nodded.
"Good. While you're out, please stop by a ladies' dressmakers and order a dark cloak, for a lady about your height. Perhaps a little shorter. As thick a material as they do at this time of year."
Luc must have looked puzzled, for Angelus regarded him for a moment and then laughed. "Darla's coming. Be ready."
"Who's Darla?" Luc asked.
"She made me," Angelus said. "She misses me. Haven't you got shopping to do?"
Luc bowed and hurried off down the stairs and out into the day. He stopped at a nearby boutique, and selected a roll of heavy, dark blue cloth and asked for it to be made into a cloak with a hood before moving on to the patisserie, the bakers, the grocers; and he returned to the house followed by a stream of delivery boys bearing goods. He arranged the food and glasses and delicate cups for the drinks on trays, distributing them around the best salon, and half-drawing the thick velvet curtains so that the room was shadowed, placing his master's favourite chair in a corner well out of the sunlight. He ran upstairs to change into his best suit and then went to help Angelus dress.
The vampire was already in a silk shirt and velvet trousers, standing in front of an empty mirror in his bedroom. Luc picked up the tie lying on the bed and began to tie it, and then handed Angelus a waistcoat and coat to match the trousers, and adjusted the tie again for his employer, all the while watching himself in the mirror.
"The room's all ready," he said, finally.
Angelus smiled at the empty reflection. "Then let the torture begin," he said, crossing to the door. Luc hurried to hold it open. "Of course, torture would be a lot more fun," Angelus went on, conversationally, as Luc followed him down the corridor. "Sometimes, you know, Luc, the temptation is almost too much. Do stop me if you see me reaching for the poker. There's a time and a place for everything, and I'm quite enjoying this town. Mustn't give the game away too early."
Luc's step had faltered for a moment, his earlier good mood fading, as he took in the reminder of his master's true nature. But then the doorbell rang, and he hurried down the stairs to answer it, shrugging off his fears, yet again. There was a job to do.
"Madame la Comtesse de Barry," Luc announced. "Madame and mademoiselle de St. Juste … monsieur and madame Girard." He added the cards to the growing pile on the table in the hall and hung up another coat. "Madame Ducroix." Another hat, another parasol in the holder by the door. Inside the room, there was a buzz of chatter, glasses clinking, plates being put down. Luc caught the sound of Angelus laughing as he went to open the door again.
He smiled, and bowed. "Welcome. May I take your cloaks, Mesdames?" He straightened up from the bow and paused for a split second. "What names shall I announce?"
The elderly French woman passed him a card. "And my companion is Miss Rebecca Kent."
Luc bowed again, avoiding eye contact with the English girl, whose cheeks were unnaturally flushed above the severe black dress she was wearing. "Madame la duchesse de Chateauroux and mademoiselle Rebecca Kent."
They went in, and Luc leant against the wall, his heart beating too fast, his breath short, imagining what might be happening inside. Eventually he stood up again, forcing himself to control his breathing, and slipped into the room, picking up a bottle of wine and going around refilling the glasses of the guests. In the shadowed corner, Angelus was talking to the latest arrivals, and Luc worked his way around, his ears pricked.
"And so you're English?" his master asked Rebecca Kent, his smile at the most charming. "Are you enjoying Paris?"
"I'm showing her all the sights," her companion put in, accepting a glass from Luc. "We took a turn in the Tuileries after luncheon."
"It must be a change from London," Angelus said. "A very different atmosphere, I find."
Rebecca Kent forced a smile. "I would rather no change," she said softly in her accented French.
"The poor dear's in mourning for her brother," the duchess said, leaning in towards Angelus and lowering her voice. "Such a tragedy, happened only a few weeks ago. Of course when her father asked that she stay with me whilst the death was investigated, I couldn't refuse."
"And what might be the cause of the death?" Angelus asked lightly.
"He was murdered," Rebecca Kent replied, her eyes glancing up and meeting her host's.
Angelus shook his head. "Such a terrible thing. My sympathy to you, mademoiselle. I hope you don't find our company too light-hearted. Though perhaps it will take your mind off the grief?"
Rebecca Kent moved a step closer to Angelus, and a step away from her chaperone who had turned to talk to another guest. Her voice lowering, and the language changing to English, she said, "I doubt that very much."
Angelus regarded her for a moment, his smile not slipping. "I don't suppose the Council knows you're here? No. Of course not."
Luc moved away, the conversation meaningless to him, but he heard Angelus' next words all the same.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Miss Kent. Believe me, I shall enjoy playing it with you." He gestured to the plate of petits-fours nearby, and smoothly slipped back into French. "A bite to eat, mademoiselle?"
Rebecca Kent paled and excused herself, and Angelus turned to a young woman next to him, bending to whisper something in her ear. Luc picked up three empty carafes and went to refill them in the kitchen.
He hovered around the edges of the groups of guests all afternoon, listening to their small talk, watching the English girl, watching his employer as he effortlessly charmed everyone in the room – everyone, that is, except for Rebecca Kent who remained stubbornly silent whenever Angelus was near. Now and again she would look up and direct a glance in Luc's direction.
Towards evening, people began to leave, offering their thanks and leaving invitations for Angelus for other parties, evenings at concerts, the theatre … Luc piled up the cards in a new stack on the hall table as he gave back coats and hats and parasols and bowed the guests out, collecting as he did a few coins for his pains. Soon there was only a handful of people left in the room now lit with candles, and unobtrusively he began to collect empty glasses and plates.
More people left, and finally Rebecca Kent and her companion stood up to take their leave. And then it all seemed to happen at once. Luc picked up a glass, placing it on his tray, and opened his mouth to ask if he should get the ladies' things. Angelus bowed slightly towards the duchess and turned to the English girl, who, if possible, was paler than before, fumbling in a pocket attached to the waistband of her dress. Luc and the duchess noticed at once, both moving towards her, but Rebecca Kent had her hand free of the material, clutching a short, sharp wooden stake. She brought it up, aiming at Angelus. His eyes narrowed, and he sidestepped, moving even as Luc noticed what the girl was doing; catching her arm and twisting sharply. The stake fell to the ground. Rebecca Kent followed it, crumpling on to the carpet.
There was silence. For a moment, nobody moved a muscle. Then Luc hurried forwards to the girl, followed by the duchess. Over them, Angelus straightened his coat and moved deliberately to the door.
"Rebecca!" the duchess said. "Rebecca, wake up." She looked at Luc. "Do you have smelling salts?"
"I don't think so, madame," Luc said. "There's cognac."
"Wake up!" The elderly lady fanned her charge with a handkerchief. "We need to go. It's still light outside, we have to go."
The door to the room closed sharply, and they looked up.
"Nobody's going anywhere," Angelus said, leaning against it.
The duchess scrambled to her feet, surprisingly agile for an old woman, and grasping at a chain around her neck pulled a crucifix out. "Begone, demon!" she cried.
Luc felt something inside him squeezing, his mouth going dry, his heart accelerating. He wanted to do something. He wanted to sweep the stake off the floor where it lay, so close, so close, to pick it up and drive it into the heart of his employer. He put out a hand towards the weapon, tentatively, hoping Angelus would not see.
"Luc. Stand up, move away from the girl, and away from that stake."
Hope died inside Luc, and he obeyed, recognising the note in the vampire's voice.
"And you, madame," the scorn rich in Angelus' voice, "put that trinket away and sit down before your knees give way. I'm surprised you're in on mademoiselle Kent's little plot too."
"I have friends in the Council," the duchess said coldly. "Though I would not have advised that Rebecca strike tonight. She's blinded by grief."
"And how," Angelus asked, his voice soft and deadly, "did the Council discover I was here?"
The old lady held her chin up high and met the vampire's eyes. "You think you're clever, don't you? Acting like one of us, giving your parties, charming all and sundry. You bring attention to yourself."
"What can I say?" Angelus shrugged. "I like attention. Now who was the girl's brother? One of those men I dismembered the other week – Luc saw the aftermath of that, didn't you, my Luc? Quite a work of art." He moved forwards, into the room, towards the duchess. "But I think I may surpass that tonight. A shame nobody will see it."
"You can't kill us," the duchess said. "Too many people know we were here."
Angelus struck a pose in the middle of the room. "Oh, la duchesse de Chateauroux and her charming English friend?" he said, to nobody in particular. "Such a shame – the poor girl was taken ill as they left and the duchess decided to hurry her back to England." He relaxed. "And in any case, madame Ducroix said how extraordinary it was to see you in company again after so many years of isolation."
Luc stood frozen, watching the easy stance of Angelus and the brave, but visibly trembling one of the old lady. Yet he knew that if he moved again something dreadful would happen.
On the floor, Rebecca Kent shifted and moaned. Luc darted a glance at Angelus.
"Sir? Can I … help her up? Give her a drink?"
Angelus crossed the room to the girl and, disdainfully looking down at her, bent and picked up the stake, twirling it between his long fingers. "Go on, then."
Luc hurried to the girl's side, and nervously helped her to the nearest chair before finding a glass and some cognac and tipping it down her throat. She spluttered, and coughed, and opened her eyes, and Luc was bending to check she was all right when something hit his cheek, hard, and it all went mercifully black.
* * *
The room was dark when Luc woke up, swimming through clouds of mist to consciousness. His head hurt, and he sat slowly upright, clutching at the chair nearby to help himself.
He noticed first that the body of the English girl had disappeared from beside him, and for a moment he wondered whether he had dreamt the whole sequence of events. Then, he clambered to his feet, his head spinning, and crossed slowly to a candle still burning on the sideboard. He grasped the candlestick, breathing in deeply to quell his nausea, and turned towards the room, preparing to head out of the door in search of water. And then, he saw the duchess.
She was sprawled on a chaise-longue, her empty eyes staring at nothing. On the floor, next to a dangling, limp hand lay the crucifix. But her head was twisted at an obscene angle and as Luc, trembling, crossed to her and felt her wrist, he realised that she had been dead for some hours.
For a moment Luc thought he was going to faint again, and he put down the candlestick on a table just in case. Then the dizziness passed, and he bent and closed the old lady's eyes, murmuring a prayer for her and wrapping the crucifix around her hand.
The door was open now, and Luc, carrying the candlestick, began to climb the stairs. He was still wobbly on his legs, and if anything the wobbliness grew as he arrived at the first landing and prepared to pass his master's room. He took a deep breath and set off along the strip of carpet, trying not to make a sound; and had almost reached the flight of stairs leading to his attic room when the door opened.
"You're awake."
Luc turned to see Angelus leaning on the doorframe of his room in shirt and trousers. He bit his lip not to say anything, and turned his back to start climbing the stairs.
"Luc, there's work to be done."
Luc put his foot on the first step and gripped his candlestick so his knuckles were white.
"Are you going to leave the woman lying there downstairs?" Angelus said. "Not very … Christian of you."
Luc stopped walking.
"No, I didn't think so. Go and change your clothes. Fetch me some water in a jug, and then I'll let you know where I want you to dispose of her."
"And if I didn't?" Luc whispered, his voice hoarse.
"You don't want me to make you do it," Angelus said, frowning thoughtfully. "If I have to make you, I won't complain. Much. But then you'd probably be incapable of doing anything for a week, and I don't want that. Go on. Hurry up."
Luc moved, climbing the stairs as quickly as he could, and once in his room threw off his suit and pulled on old clothes. He found that his eyes were stinging and wet, and for a moment he contemplated his old bag thrown in a corner, and the prospect of running. But then he caught sight of the livid scar on his neck, and a part of his spirit died inside him.
He tapped at Angelus' door with the jug of water and a glass, and pushed it open at the command, keeping his eyes on his burden. He only lifted them as he got close to the bed.
Angelus shot out a hand, catching the jug before the contents spilt on the expensive carpet, and placing it on the bedside table.
Luc's throat tightened, and through eyes that were now blurred, said, "no."
Angelus picked up the glass that had fallen harmlessly on the thick rug by his bed, lay back against deep pillows, and ran a finger along the stream of blood leaking from Rebecca Kent's neck, licking it thoughtfully and watching Luc with a gleam in his eye.
"God, no." Luc took a step backwards, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeves, trying to wipe away the nightmare.
"I think God has little to do with this, don't you, my boy?" Angelus said. "What is God, in any case? Some concept dreamt up by priests to keep humans happy. Keep them obedient. Not, of course, that it works … you like to think that God is all-powerful and that below God comes the human race. And, of course, you'd all be wrong. The human race is weak, Luc, weak and pathetic. You're just finding this out. I expect it's a shock."
"You killed them both!" Luc said. He lifted his head and glared at Angelus through his tears. "They'd done nothing to you, nothing."
"They knew what I am. Who I am. Self-defence, nothing more."
Luc stared at the body lying on the bed; at the ripped clothing and the red liquid marking the covers, the pale skin of the girl, and, now he realised, the shirt Angelus was wearing.
"Self-defence?" he said. "They had nothing compared to what I know."
"But," Angelus said, rising from his supine position in one fluid, easy movement, and moving to Luc, "you wouldn't say anything, to anybody, would you?" He ran a finger along Luc's jaw and it came to rest over the scar. "You know why not. You belong to me." Luc closed his eyes, and nodded. He knew it was the truth. Angelus smiled, almost fondly. "My Luc. You belong to me."
* Da garout ar an = I love you (Breton)
Author's note: this part turned very dark. I've upped the rating accordingly. There are a couple more chapters to come, but that'll probably be in a couple of weeks due to Easter.
Les Chroniques Parisiennes – Chronique 5: Belonging
Luc was cleaning the kitchen, the door wide open and sunshine streaming in. He hummed as he scrubbed, thinking of the letter he had received from his parents just that morning. It had arrived along with a missive in violet ink on fine parchment addressed to Angelus, which he had pushed under the bedroom door before starting on the kitchen. His own letter lay open on the table, and he paused as he crossed the room to the stone sink to slowly read it through again.
"My dear Luc," he read, his lips forming the words, "many thanks for the money you sent us in your last letter. We are all very glad you have found a place with a good employer and trust he treats you kindly. Here all is well; the lambing season has begun and promises well. The doctor's son shows an interest in your sister, and we hope that he will propose to her that she may settle as well as you. 'Da garout ar an.'*
"Maman."
Luc smiled, and folded the paper up. "I love you too," he murmured, and went to rinse out his cloth at the sink. Around him, the kitchen gleamed with care and, if Luc admitted it to himself, very little use. In his mind he ran over the day's tasks – for once, his evening was free, but before that there was an afternoon's salon, and he had to prepare the rooms upstairs for the occasion, and go out to buy cakes and coffee and flowers. He glanced around the sparkling kitchen and rolled down his sleeves, closing the door before heading upstairs to change his clothes.
He was on his way back down again, trying to walk silently past Angelus' door when it opened.
"Luc!"
"Good morning." Luc turned around. "I hope I didn't wake you?"
His employer looked wide awake, in fact, holding in his hand the letter that had arrived that morning. "No. I hadn't yet got to sleep. Going shopping?"
Luc nodded.
"Good. While you're out, please stop by a ladies' dressmakers and order a dark cloak, for a lady about your height. Perhaps a little shorter. As thick a material as they do at this time of year."
Luc must have looked puzzled, for Angelus regarded him for a moment and then laughed. "Darla's coming. Be ready."
"Who's Darla?" Luc asked.
"She made me," Angelus said. "She misses me. Haven't you got shopping to do?"
Luc bowed and hurried off down the stairs and out into the day. He stopped at a nearby boutique, and selected a roll of heavy, dark blue cloth and asked for it to be made into a cloak with a hood before moving on to the patisserie, the bakers, the grocers; and he returned to the house followed by a stream of delivery boys bearing goods. He arranged the food and glasses and delicate cups for the drinks on trays, distributing them around the best salon, and half-drawing the thick velvet curtains so that the room was shadowed, placing his master's favourite chair in a corner well out of the sunlight. He ran upstairs to change into his best suit and then went to help Angelus dress.
The vampire was already in a silk shirt and velvet trousers, standing in front of an empty mirror in his bedroom. Luc picked up the tie lying on the bed and began to tie it, and then handed Angelus a waistcoat and coat to match the trousers, and adjusted the tie again for his employer, all the while watching himself in the mirror.
"The room's all ready," he said, finally.
Angelus smiled at the empty reflection. "Then let the torture begin," he said, crossing to the door. Luc hurried to hold it open. "Of course, torture would be a lot more fun," Angelus went on, conversationally, as Luc followed him down the corridor. "Sometimes, you know, Luc, the temptation is almost too much. Do stop me if you see me reaching for the poker. There's a time and a place for everything, and I'm quite enjoying this town. Mustn't give the game away too early."
Luc's step had faltered for a moment, his earlier good mood fading, as he took in the reminder of his master's true nature. But then the doorbell rang, and he hurried down the stairs to answer it, shrugging off his fears, yet again. There was a job to do.
"Madame la Comtesse de Barry," Luc announced. "Madame and mademoiselle de St. Juste … monsieur and madame Girard." He added the cards to the growing pile on the table in the hall and hung up another coat. "Madame Ducroix." Another hat, another parasol in the holder by the door. Inside the room, there was a buzz of chatter, glasses clinking, plates being put down. Luc caught the sound of Angelus laughing as he went to open the door again.
He smiled, and bowed. "Welcome. May I take your cloaks, Mesdames?" He straightened up from the bow and paused for a split second. "What names shall I announce?"
The elderly French woman passed him a card. "And my companion is Miss Rebecca Kent."
Luc bowed again, avoiding eye contact with the English girl, whose cheeks were unnaturally flushed above the severe black dress she was wearing. "Madame la duchesse de Chateauroux and mademoiselle Rebecca Kent."
They went in, and Luc leant against the wall, his heart beating too fast, his breath short, imagining what might be happening inside. Eventually he stood up again, forcing himself to control his breathing, and slipped into the room, picking up a bottle of wine and going around refilling the glasses of the guests. In the shadowed corner, Angelus was talking to the latest arrivals, and Luc worked his way around, his ears pricked.
"And so you're English?" his master asked Rebecca Kent, his smile at the most charming. "Are you enjoying Paris?"
"I'm showing her all the sights," her companion put in, accepting a glass from Luc. "We took a turn in the Tuileries after luncheon."
"It must be a change from London," Angelus said. "A very different atmosphere, I find."
Rebecca Kent forced a smile. "I would rather no change," she said softly in her accented French.
"The poor dear's in mourning for her brother," the duchess said, leaning in towards Angelus and lowering her voice. "Such a tragedy, happened only a few weeks ago. Of course when her father asked that she stay with me whilst the death was investigated, I couldn't refuse."
"And what might be the cause of the death?" Angelus asked lightly.
"He was murdered," Rebecca Kent replied, her eyes glancing up and meeting her host's.
Angelus shook his head. "Such a terrible thing. My sympathy to you, mademoiselle. I hope you don't find our company too light-hearted. Though perhaps it will take your mind off the grief?"
Rebecca Kent moved a step closer to Angelus, and a step away from her chaperone who had turned to talk to another guest. Her voice lowering, and the language changing to English, she said, "I doubt that very much."
Angelus regarded her for a moment, his smile not slipping. "I don't suppose the Council knows you're here? No. Of course not."
Luc moved away, the conversation meaningless to him, but he heard Angelus' next words all the same.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Miss Kent. Believe me, I shall enjoy playing it with you." He gestured to the plate of petits-fours nearby, and smoothly slipped back into French. "A bite to eat, mademoiselle?"
Rebecca Kent paled and excused herself, and Angelus turned to a young woman next to him, bending to whisper something in her ear. Luc picked up three empty carafes and went to refill them in the kitchen.
He hovered around the edges of the groups of guests all afternoon, listening to their small talk, watching the English girl, watching his employer as he effortlessly charmed everyone in the room – everyone, that is, except for Rebecca Kent who remained stubbornly silent whenever Angelus was near. Now and again she would look up and direct a glance in Luc's direction.
Towards evening, people began to leave, offering their thanks and leaving invitations for Angelus for other parties, evenings at concerts, the theatre … Luc piled up the cards in a new stack on the hall table as he gave back coats and hats and parasols and bowed the guests out, collecting as he did a few coins for his pains. Soon there was only a handful of people left in the room now lit with candles, and unobtrusively he began to collect empty glasses and plates.
More people left, and finally Rebecca Kent and her companion stood up to take their leave. And then it all seemed to happen at once. Luc picked up a glass, placing it on his tray, and opened his mouth to ask if he should get the ladies' things. Angelus bowed slightly towards the duchess and turned to the English girl, who, if possible, was paler than before, fumbling in a pocket attached to the waistband of her dress. Luc and the duchess noticed at once, both moving towards her, but Rebecca Kent had her hand free of the material, clutching a short, sharp wooden stake. She brought it up, aiming at Angelus. His eyes narrowed, and he sidestepped, moving even as Luc noticed what the girl was doing; catching her arm and twisting sharply. The stake fell to the ground. Rebecca Kent followed it, crumpling on to the carpet.
There was silence. For a moment, nobody moved a muscle. Then Luc hurried forwards to the girl, followed by the duchess. Over them, Angelus straightened his coat and moved deliberately to the door.
"Rebecca!" the duchess said. "Rebecca, wake up." She looked at Luc. "Do you have smelling salts?"
"I don't think so, madame," Luc said. "There's cognac."
"Wake up!" The elderly lady fanned her charge with a handkerchief. "We need to go. It's still light outside, we have to go."
The door to the room closed sharply, and they looked up.
"Nobody's going anywhere," Angelus said, leaning against it.
The duchess scrambled to her feet, surprisingly agile for an old woman, and grasping at a chain around her neck pulled a crucifix out. "Begone, demon!" she cried.
Luc felt something inside him squeezing, his mouth going dry, his heart accelerating. He wanted to do something. He wanted to sweep the stake off the floor where it lay, so close, so close, to pick it up and drive it into the heart of his employer. He put out a hand towards the weapon, tentatively, hoping Angelus would not see.
"Luc. Stand up, move away from the girl, and away from that stake."
Hope died inside Luc, and he obeyed, recognising the note in the vampire's voice.
"And you, madame," the scorn rich in Angelus' voice, "put that trinket away and sit down before your knees give way. I'm surprised you're in on mademoiselle Kent's little plot too."
"I have friends in the Council," the duchess said coldly. "Though I would not have advised that Rebecca strike tonight. She's blinded by grief."
"And how," Angelus asked, his voice soft and deadly, "did the Council discover I was here?"
The old lady held her chin up high and met the vampire's eyes. "You think you're clever, don't you? Acting like one of us, giving your parties, charming all and sundry. You bring attention to yourself."
"What can I say?" Angelus shrugged. "I like attention. Now who was the girl's brother? One of those men I dismembered the other week – Luc saw the aftermath of that, didn't you, my Luc? Quite a work of art." He moved forwards, into the room, towards the duchess. "But I think I may surpass that tonight. A shame nobody will see it."
"You can't kill us," the duchess said. "Too many people know we were here."
Angelus struck a pose in the middle of the room. "Oh, la duchesse de Chateauroux and her charming English friend?" he said, to nobody in particular. "Such a shame – the poor girl was taken ill as they left and the duchess decided to hurry her back to England." He relaxed. "And in any case, madame Ducroix said how extraordinary it was to see you in company again after so many years of isolation."
Luc stood frozen, watching the easy stance of Angelus and the brave, but visibly trembling one of the old lady. Yet he knew that if he moved again something dreadful would happen.
On the floor, Rebecca Kent shifted and moaned. Luc darted a glance at Angelus.
"Sir? Can I … help her up? Give her a drink?"
Angelus crossed the room to the girl and, disdainfully looking down at her, bent and picked up the stake, twirling it between his long fingers. "Go on, then."
Luc hurried to the girl's side, and nervously helped her to the nearest chair before finding a glass and some cognac and tipping it down her throat. She spluttered, and coughed, and opened her eyes, and Luc was bending to check she was all right when something hit his cheek, hard, and it all went mercifully black.
* * *
The room was dark when Luc woke up, swimming through clouds of mist to consciousness. His head hurt, and he sat slowly upright, clutching at the chair nearby to help himself.
He noticed first that the body of the English girl had disappeared from beside him, and for a moment he wondered whether he had dreamt the whole sequence of events. Then, he clambered to his feet, his head spinning, and crossed slowly to a candle still burning on the sideboard. He grasped the candlestick, breathing in deeply to quell his nausea, and turned towards the room, preparing to head out of the door in search of water. And then, he saw the duchess.
She was sprawled on a chaise-longue, her empty eyes staring at nothing. On the floor, next to a dangling, limp hand lay the crucifix. But her head was twisted at an obscene angle and as Luc, trembling, crossed to her and felt her wrist, he realised that she had been dead for some hours.
For a moment Luc thought he was going to faint again, and he put down the candlestick on a table just in case. Then the dizziness passed, and he bent and closed the old lady's eyes, murmuring a prayer for her and wrapping the crucifix around her hand.
The door was open now, and Luc, carrying the candlestick, began to climb the stairs. He was still wobbly on his legs, and if anything the wobbliness grew as he arrived at the first landing and prepared to pass his master's room. He took a deep breath and set off along the strip of carpet, trying not to make a sound; and had almost reached the flight of stairs leading to his attic room when the door opened.
"You're awake."
Luc turned to see Angelus leaning on the doorframe of his room in shirt and trousers. He bit his lip not to say anything, and turned his back to start climbing the stairs.
"Luc, there's work to be done."
Luc put his foot on the first step and gripped his candlestick so his knuckles were white.
"Are you going to leave the woman lying there downstairs?" Angelus said. "Not very … Christian of you."
Luc stopped walking.
"No, I didn't think so. Go and change your clothes. Fetch me some water in a jug, and then I'll let you know where I want you to dispose of her."
"And if I didn't?" Luc whispered, his voice hoarse.
"You don't want me to make you do it," Angelus said, frowning thoughtfully. "If I have to make you, I won't complain. Much. But then you'd probably be incapable of doing anything for a week, and I don't want that. Go on. Hurry up."
Luc moved, climbing the stairs as quickly as he could, and once in his room threw off his suit and pulled on old clothes. He found that his eyes were stinging and wet, and for a moment he contemplated his old bag thrown in a corner, and the prospect of running. But then he caught sight of the livid scar on his neck, and a part of his spirit died inside him.
He tapped at Angelus' door with the jug of water and a glass, and pushed it open at the command, keeping his eyes on his burden. He only lifted them as he got close to the bed.
Angelus shot out a hand, catching the jug before the contents spilt on the expensive carpet, and placing it on the bedside table.
Luc's throat tightened, and through eyes that were now blurred, said, "no."
Angelus picked up the glass that had fallen harmlessly on the thick rug by his bed, lay back against deep pillows, and ran a finger along the stream of blood leaking from Rebecca Kent's neck, licking it thoughtfully and watching Luc with a gleam in his eye.
"God, no." Luc took a step backwards, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeves, trying to wipe away the nightmare.
"I think God has little to do with this, don't you, my boy?" Angelus said. "What is God, in any case? Some concept dreamt up by priests to keep humans happy. Keep them obedient. Not, of course, that it works … you like to think that God is all-powerful and that below God comes the human race. And, of course, you'd all be wrong. The human race is weak, Luc, weak and pathetic. You're just finding this out. I expect it's a shock."
"You killed them both!" Luc said. He lifted his head and glared at Angelus through his tears. "They'd done nothing to you, nothing."
"They knew what I am. Who I am. Self-defence, nothing more."
Luc stared at the body lying on the bed; at the ripped clothing and the red liquid marking the covers, the pale skin of the girl, and, now he realised, the shirt Angelus was wearing.
"Self-defence?" he said. "They had nothing compared to what I know."
"But," Angelus said, rising from his supine position in one fluid, easy movement, and moving to Luc, "you wouldn't say anything, to anybody, would you?" He ran a finger along Luc's jaw and it came to rest over the scar. "You know why not. You belong to me." Luc closed his eyes, and nodded. He knew it was the truth. Angelus smiled, almost fondly. "My Luc. You belong to me."
* Da garout ar an = I love you (Breton)