A/N: Thank you SnidgetHex, beeblegirl, LordLady, pallysAramisRios, and 29Pieces for reviewing!

Um, potential trigger warning at the end of this chapter if you're squeamish about rats. Lots of rats...

Chapter 2

There were no other incidents reported in the city, but by the time the musketeers went before the King the following morning to inform him of the singular one, word had already reached the palace.

"Ah, Athos," Louis said when he and the others were escorted into the throne room. "I've heard the most disturbing tale of wine turning to blood in a local tavern. Please tell me it has been wildly exaggerated."

"Unfortunately, it hasn't," Athos replied. "My men and I were there to witness it."

Louis stilled at that and cast a nervous look around as murmurs rippled through the gathered courtiers. "What could it mean?" he asked, suddenly seeming pale.

"Isn't it obvious?" Rochefort's voice parted the crowd. "It's witchcraft."

"That is the most likely culprit, Your Majesty," Athos said quickly. "My men and I found nothing out of the ordinary around the tavern in question last night, but we will continue to investigate."

Louis swallowed hard, then furrowed his brow in thought. "Rochefort, weren't you a witch hunter before you were imprisoned by the Spanish?"

"Indeed I was, Your Majesty," he replied. "The Cardinal's best hunter, forgive the invocation of the vile traitor."

Louis canted his head in forgiveness. "I believe we may benefit from your skills in this matter. If you would consent to work with my musketeers to hunt down this abomination."

Rochefort bowed deeply. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Athos gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was consent to work with Rochefort. Again.

But the King had spoken and this issue was of the utmost severity.

Rochefort caught Athos's eye and began to depart the throne room. His jaw working, Athos and the others turned to follow. They stopped outside where they could convene more privately about how to handle the situation.

"Since the one tavern was the only establishment struck last night," Athos began, "we should look into who might want to target the owner. Competitors. Disgruntled associates."

"Cuckolds," Porthos added with a conspiratorial glance at Aramis.

The marksman studiously ignored the comment.

"I will take charge this time," Rochefort said. "I am the witch hunter, after all."

"An' what specials skills do you have as a witch hunter exactly?" Porthos asked.

Rochefort merely fixed him with a dry glare before turning to Athos. "Which tavern did the incident occur in? I will have to examine the scene."

"We'll show you," Athos replied casually and started to lead the way. He had no intention of letting Rochefort completely take over the investigation.

Rochefort didn't put up a protest and instead wordlessly followed the musketeers from the palace to the tavern. People were giving the establishment a wide berth as they passed in the street, but several handfuls were clustered together at the end of walkways where they could safely eye the place from a distance.

Athos entered the tavern first, the others spreading out behind him. The place was empty and still a mess from the previous night. The owner looked up from where he was mopping up blood from one of the many soiled tables.

"This is the Comte de Rochefort," Athos said, gesturing to said Comte. "He'd like to take a look around."

"Oh, alright." The tavern keeper dropped the soaking rag into a bucket and simply stood there awkwardly as Rochefort casually perused the room.

The musketeers watched and waited as he trailed around tables, pausing to study the blood stains.

"Was every single drink transmogrified?" he asked.

The tavern keeper nodded. "Every last cup. Even the bottles on my shelf." He nodded over his shoulder. "Everything I got in stock, ruined."

Rochefort didn't respond and continued his circuit around the room. "You were the only one targeted in this heinous attack."

The man quirked a confused brow. "Yeah, so?"

Rochefort merely gave him a bland look and kept stalking around him, almost as though he was deliberately trying to make the tavern keeper nervous.

"Do you have any enemies?" Aramis broke in, trying to ease the tension. "Or perhaps someone who would want to harm your business? Anyone who might have hired a witch?"

The owner's brow creased in thought. "No, nothin' like that. A few patrons get riled up sometimes when it's time to pay up or they lose at cards, but none of them would have enough money to pay a witch to remove a wart."

"Perhaps you grew tired of putting up with those miscreants," Rochefort interjected. "You thought of a way to get revenge on them."

Athos narrowed his eyes on Rochefort.

"Hey now," Porthos spoke up. "What exactly are you accusin' the man of?"

"I'm merely proposing a possible explanation for what happened," Rochefort replied. "There were no other victims and you yourselves found no trace of a witch outside the establishment."

"I would never!" the tavern keeper cried, his face blanching in horror. Even accusations of witchcraft held very severe consequences. "Why would I want to sabotage my own business? No one will want to come here again after what happened. My livelihood is ruined!"

Rochefort remained unfazed by the declaration of innocence and instead bored his unyielding gaze into the man until sweat broke out on the poor proprietor's forehead.

"We don't believe you had anything to do with this," Athos said firmly, his own gaze fixed sternly on Rochefort until the Comte finally broke eye contact with the tavern keeper. Athos turned to the man. "I'll send some men to keep an eye on your place this evening, in case it's targeted again."

The tavern keeper ran a hand down his graying face. "There's nothing left to target, save me. No customers are gonna be comin' in here again."

"I think you'll find a small handful who are curious and want to see the place for themselves will brave it," d'Artagnan said.

"Not like I got anything to serve 'em," the owner muttered.

"We'll let you get back to…work," Athos said, shooting Rochefort a sharp glare.

The Comte cast one last intimidating look at the tavern keeper before nonchalantly walking out with the rest of them.

"Is that what you call investigating?" Aramis said tersely once they were outside. "Weaving a tale so the first person you see is guilty?"

"It was a legitimate line of questioning," Rochefort responded. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to take a look around some shops in the district, see if any are selling illicit occult items. Unless, of course, you intend to keep shadowing me?"

"Go," Athos said before tempers could flare any further. There was only so much of Rochefort he could take himself anyway.

Rochefort was practically oozing smugness as he turned and strode away.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Now, we watch and wait," Athos replied.

"There isn't more we can do?"

Athos shrugged. "Hunting witches was never really part of the Musketeers' purview. The Cardinal had men like Rochefort for that."

"When was the last time there was even an incident of witchcraft in the city?" Porthos asked.

"The Cardinal put the fear of God—or Hell to be more precise—into anyone practicing witchcraft," Aramis answered. "No one would dare while he was in power in Paris."

One good thing Richelieu had done for the people.

"So," d'Artagnan spoke up after a brief moment, "with him gone, does that mean we might be seeing more of this type of thing in the future?"

They all exchanged grim looks at that frightening notion.

"We have to put a stop to this one," Athos said. "And if that means we have to work with Rochefort to do so…" He exhaled in vexation. "So be it."

.o.0.o.

When d'Artagnan arrived home that night, he saw Rochefort's dragon had moved into one of the available dens of the compound. He bristled with indignation just from the mere association with that despicable man, but d'Artagnan immediately chastised himself for it; he couldn't blame Falkor for being saddled with such a horrible human being as a rider.

He headed into the house and found Constance sitting in a rocking chair reading.

"Hey," he greeted, leaning over to kiss the top of her head.

She set her book aside and turned her head up, so he bent down further to kiss her on the mouth.

"Did you find anything on the witch?" she asked in concern.

"Nothing. Rochefort had the audacity to simply accuse the tavern owner of causing the mayhem that's probably ruined his business for good."

Constance frowned. "You don't like him."

D'Artagnan snorted. "No, I don't. I knew he used to be the Cardinal's man, but turns out he was also the Cardinal's witch hunter." He shook his head. "I know black magic is evil, but I've also met some witches who weren't. I don't think Rochefort believes there's a distinction."

Constance reached out and squeezed his hand. "Well, I don't think someone who turns a bunch of wine that people are drinking into blood can be anything but evil."

"True," he conceded. "Has Jean looked at Rochefort's dragon?"

Constance nodded solemnly. "The wounds Falkor received are so old and healed badly, there's nothing my father can really do for him."

D'Artagnan felt a pang of sympathy for the dragon. "At least here he'll finally receive some gentle care."

Constance nodded and stood up to blow out the candles. Then the two of them went to bed. Despite d'Artagnan's joke to Aramis and Athos the other night, they did go right to sleep.

D'Artagnan woke the next morning to something tickling his cheek. His arms were wrapped around Constance and in his half dozing state he thought it might be one of her stray curls, so he disentangled one arm to reach up and brush it away. Something squeaked. D'Artagnan's eyes were still closed so he ignored it.

Constance shifted in his embrace, then suddenly bolted upright with a high-pitched scream. D'Artagnan jolted awake, flailing in place as his hands reflexively went for weapons he wasn't wearing. Constance kept shrieking, and d'Artagnan finally saw what was wrong—the room was full of rats. Several were scurrying across the floor, and d'Artagnan suddenly became aware of the three on the bed with them. He grabbed a pillow from behind and started whacking it at the rodents to bat them off the mattress.

Jean came running into the room barefoot, only to backpedal immediately as the rats went skittering from the room and down the hall.

D'Artagnan dropped the pillow and whirled toward Constance, capturing her face in his hands and looking her over intently. "Were you bitten?" he asked urgently.

She shook her head, a terrified mewl still trying to escape past her lips. D'Artagnan wanted to stay and comfort her but his soldier instincts were kicking in. He shoved his feet into his boots and snatched up his weapons belt before running after the vermin, not sure whether he should shoot or stab them.

The rats had fled the house, but as d'Artagnan chased them out into the yard, he pulled up short in shock and dismay at the sight of dozens of them scurrying around the compound. Ayelet was flapping her wings and hovering in the air to avoid them while small puffs of fire exuded from some of the dragon pens.

Dragon shrieks sounded from the garrison next door, and d'Artagnan bolted into a run for it, heedless of the fact he was still in his underclothes. He found more rats overrunning the place. Dragons were kicking them away or trying to stomp on them while musketeers were fleeing from their beds, followed by rats scurrying out of the barracks. Where the hell had they all come from?

The sea of vermin veered away from the dragon dens and started squeezing through cracks in the garrison wall to spill out into the street. It was only a few moments before people outside started screaming.

A pistol shot cracked the air, and d'Artagnan spun toward where Porthos, standing in the yard in his underclothes, held a smoking pistol pointed at a now dead rat. The two of them shared bewildered looks as more musketeers, roused abruptly from their beds, looked around in shock. Even Athos looked mussed as he stood on the balcony gaping in stupefaction at the exodus of rodents.

There was a stunned silence that settled over the garrison after the initial shock was over, even though screams continued to echo distantly from the streets.

D'Artagnan exchanged taut glances with the others. He didn't know if this qualified as witchcraft, but it seemed whoever was behind it was only getting started.…