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

Chapter 4

Everyone was on edge the following morning. Though nothing had occurred overnight, they were all just waiting for the next attack. When Rochefort strode into the garrison, it grated Athos's nerves even further.

"We will soon put an end to this blasphemous heathen," Rochefort announced. In his hand he held what looked like a compass, but instead of one needle to point North, it had several spread out almost evenly, save for two swaying slightly.

"What's that supposed to do?" Porthos asked skeptically.

"It detects disruptions in the natural order. As you can see now, it's already picking up the resonance of the curse upon the water supply. The closer we get to the witch, the more the needles will align and lead us directly to her."

"Then let's go," Athos said tersely.

They set off, Athos, Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, trailing Rochefort as he took the lead meandering through the streets of Paris trying to get his device to pick up on anything. The musketeers watched him and his compass like hawks. Occasionally Athos saw one of the other needles begin to vibrate, and Rochefort would pause and turn in a slow circle until it started to drift toward the other pointers. Then he'd march off on their new heading.

They wove through the city for over two hours like this. Porthos was becoming impatient, grumbling under his breath about how Rochefort was just leading them on. While the search was definitely tedious, Athos didn't expect a witch to make it easy for them.

Finally, the compass's arrows all aligned outside a boarding house.

"You sure this is the right place?" d'Artagnan asked.

"It is," Rochefort replied and strode toward the front door.

The musketeers followed.

Rochefort entered the establishment with such a force of presence that the few people in the taproom immediately went silent. "Everyone remain where they are," he commanded. "By order of the King."

Annoyed, Athos pushed past him and in a calmer tone said, "Who is the manager?"

An older woman with wizened features and gray hair tucked into a bonnet moved out from behind the serving counter. "I am. What can I do for the King's Men?"

"Are you aware your boarding house is a center of magical activity?" Rochefort asked, slowly sweeping his shrewd gaze around the room.

The woman blanched. "You're mistaken. I run a decent business. Ain't none o' that black magic stuff here."

"Then you would have no objection to us searching the place," Rochefort rejoined, his deadly expression daring her to refuse.

She swallowed hard. "Some of my guests might take offense to that."

"They shouldn't," Rochefort replied loudly, glancing around the room. "Unless they have something to hide."

A few people fidgeted in their seats but no one spoke out against him. Rochefort turned and started up the stairs. Athos nodded for Porthos and Aramis to go with him.

"Have you had any strange guests stay here recently?" he asked the owner.

The woman shook her head. "No. But it's none of my business what my lodgers get up to."

"Anyone else notice anything strange around here?" d'Artagnan asked the people hunched over their food and drink at the tables.

No one answered or even looked up.

Athos kept an eye on them as d'Artagnan started to look around behind the bar. But he didn't appear to find anything.

A few minutes later, the others returned from upstairs. Aramis caught Athos's eye and gave a subtle head shake—they hadn't found anything either.

"Our apologies for the intrusion," Athos said to the woman.

"We are not done," Rochefort snapped. "The witch is here; my instrument proves it." He held up the compass, its many arrows all still aligned.

"Perhaps it is picking up the resonance and the culprit has already left," Aramis suggested.

"No. She is here. I can feel it."

The musketeers exchanged silent looks as Rochefort fiddled with some knobs on his compass. He strode around the taproom, watching the arrows earnestly, then turned abruptly and headed past the bar counter.

"What's behind this door?" he demanded.

Athos moved a few feet so he could see it.

"That's just the cellar," the woman answered. "There's nothin' down there but stores."

"Open it."

She skittered over to him and reached above the door frame to retrieve a key that was sitting up on the small ledge. Her hands shook as she fumbled to fit it in the lock, but given Rochefort's intimidating demeanor, Athos couldn't fault her for being nervous.

She finally got the door open and Rochefort thrust his arm out to push her back so he could go down first. He then gestured sharply at d'Artagnan standing near the bar.

"Light," he ordered, like the musketeers were his own personal lackeys.

D'Artagnan flicked a dry scowl at Athos before grabbing a lantern and bringing it over to the Comte. Rochefort headed down the steps into the dark cellar, and the musketeers followed, along with the boarding house manager. They all drew to a stunned stop at the bottom, however, when the light from the lantern lit up the darkened space and cast its illumination over a myriad spread of occultist items. A small table stood in the middle of the room with a vivisected rat carcass splayed in the center. Next to it was a goblet with a dark, thick substance. Athos grimaced as he moved closer to examine it. Coagulated blood. He felt his gorge rise and turned away before he could be sick.

There were other things hanging from shelves and beams around the room—small animal bones, feathers, what looked like totems. It was a witch's lair, no doubt about that.

Rochefort turned to the owner of the house. "It seems I was right," he said smugly.

The woman's mouth hung open as she gaped at the scene in horror. "I don't know how this happened," she exclaimed. "One of my guests must have snuck down here, probably during the night when the house was asleep."

"Or perhaps it's yours," Rochefort countered.

Her eyes widened. "No! I swear it! Question my guests again. It must be one of them—"

Rochefort whipped out a dagger and plunged it into her chest, cutting off her pleas with a ragged, choking gasp.

The musketeers all reflexively drew their swords in response, but it was too late. Rochefort pulled his blade out and the woman's body dropped to the floor.

"What have you done?" Athos seethed.

Rochefort calmly pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his dagger clean. "The sentence for witches is death. You all know that."

Athos moved forward and shoved him hard against the wall. "She should have had a trial!"

Rochefort's eyes flashed dangerously before they were carefully masked behind that callous exterior once again. "Taking her prisoner would have only given her a chance to work more of her dark magic. The evidence is irrefutable," he said, gesturing to the witch's altar. "There was no need for a trial."

"That is not for you to decide," Athos snapped. He forced himself to take a calming breath and step back. "The King will hear of this."

Rochefort smoothed out the front of his coat. "Yes, he will." He moved past Athos, pausing to cast a disparaging look at the body. "Make sure you burn the witch's remains," he lobbed over his shoulder. "The black forces must be purged completely."

With that, he marched up the steps and out of the cellar, leaving the musketeers the messy business of cleaning this up. Athos clenched his jaw as he sheathed his sword.

"I wonder why she did it," d'Artagnan mused out loud.

Porthos snorted. "Who knows wit' witches."

Aramis knelt next to her body and reached out to close her eyes. "It's between her and God now," he said sagely.

.o.0.o.

They burned her body and all her occult items with dragon fire. Athos had wanted Rochefort sharply reprimanded for his brash behavior in the cellar, but as the Comte had said, the evidence against the woman was pretty damning. In addition, the day after her death, the wells in the city were restored, and no more strange occurrences had been reported. It seemed clear to everyone that the woman was guilty, and Rochefort's swift dealing of the witch was met with praise rather than admonition.

"Excellent work, Rochefort," the King congratulated when they'd all assembled before the throne after things had returned to normal. "Paris is safe thanks to your brave efforts."

Rochefort bowed graciously. "It is my honor to serve, Your Majesty."

"I'm glad you feel that way," Louis said. "Because I could use a man of your talents. If you are agreeable, I will name you the official witch hunter of my Council."

Rochefort inclined his head again. "I accept your magnanimous offer, Your Majesty."

There was a round of applause from everyone except the musketeers. While Rochefort had been instrumental in finding the witch, none of them had liked the way things had ended. But there was nothing they could do about his position now. Hopefully this one witch would be a lone occurrence and no others would dare encroach on the city again.

"I could use a drink," Porthos grumbled as the musketeers left the palace after Rochefort's crowning glory.

Athos started to open his mouth to agree but then quickly snapped it shut with a grimace.

"You can't abstain forever," Aramis said with a sympathetic look his way. "Or, you could. But that would make you even more grumpy than usual."

Athos shot him a dry look. It was true, though; he couldn't let this one incident poison him against wine forever.

"Maybe we should pick a different tavern, though," d'Artagnan suggested.

"And help our regular one go out of business?" Aramis countered.

"It's currently out of drink, remember?" Porthos put in.

"I have a bottle in my office," Athos said. He'd rather have a night in, anyway.

The others exchanged a look, then nodded their agreement.

They walked back to the garrison and up to the captain's office. Athos went to retrieve the wine bottle and some cups from the bottom drawer of his desk. He paused as d'Artagnan meandered around the room, leaning over to peer into nooks and crannies.

"Sorry," the young Gascon said. "Just checking."

Aramis and Porthos sent skittering looks around the room at that.

But there were no rats, and the liquid Athos poured into the cups smelled sweet and was the color of mulberry, not blood. They each took a cup, and they each hesitated before raising them to their lips. Aramis sniffed his first, while d'Artagnan dipped a finger into his. Then they all exchanged nervous chuckles at themselves and raised their cups in a silent toast before knocking back hearty swigs.

Athos reflexively cringed when the drink splashed into his mouth, but then he closed his eyes and let himself savor the fine taste of wine as it should be. He shared a smile with his brothers and the four of them finally settled in for a leisurely evening spent in good company, forgetting for a time the trouble brewing outside.

But whatever came their way, they'd handle it. Just like they always did.

NEXT TIME

The dead are prowling the streets of Paris, which can only be the work of a necromancer. Can the Musketeers find and stop them before they end up in their own graves?