A vampire. Combeferre stared at Valjean, who was writhing and hissing like a beast with its leg in a trap. A vampire who fought other vampires, who saved lives…
What was he to do? Stand by and give up this…being who saved others to the Watchers? Or was he to do something to stop it? Fight a human, a Watcher, to protect a vampire?
Bahorel rendered Combeferre's internal questions irrelevant by punching Javert in the face.
Whether by design or by luck—Combeferre thought probably design, as Bahorel was an expert puncher—Bahorel had struck Javert at such an angle so Javert fell in the path of the three Watchers with the crossbows. For one brief moment, they couldn't shoot: Javert was blocking them.
Valjean needed no more encouragement or time. He raced off like a comet. Combeferre barely saw him move, and could not have sworn to which direction he went in.
"Follow him," Javert gasped out from the ground. The three other Watchers obediently pursued Valjean, sprinting at an impressive pace. But Combeferre knew they would never find him.
"Come," said Bahorel. Combeferre, startled, looked beside him. Their group was quickly dispersing. Enjolras was a few steps ahead, looking over her shoulder at Combeferre. Bahorel gave Combeferre a light push. "Hurry, before the other Watchers come back."
They left the shadowy street, half-running, leaving Javert to push himself up from the ground. A few streets away, they caught a battered fiacre. Combeferre kept looking, straining his eyes in the fog of the night, but saw neither Valjean nor the other Watchers.
The ride in the fiacre was quiet. No one wanted to speak out loud. They parted with murmured plans to discuss the strange events of the night when they next met. Combeferre and Enjolras returned to their rooms together, Bahorel accompanying them by unspoken agreement.
They remained silent as until the apartment door shut behind them. "Well," said Bahorel, flinging himself into Combeferre's sole armchair. "Have you ever encountered such a thing, young Watcher? A vampire who saves humans?"
Combeferre shrugged off his coat. "No. Nothing in any tome or manuscript or diary I've read—it's unheard of."
Bahorel nodded, his face solemn. "Of course, until I met Enjolras, I thought a Slayer who was a man was unheard of. So it just goes to show you."
Enjolras narrowed her eyes, but thankfully did not take the bait. "Can a vampire learn to help others?"
"Of course not," said Combeferre, "they have no souls."
"But if a vampire gets a soul?" Bahorel threw out the question almost lazily, leaning back in his chair.
That can't happen, Combeferre started to say. But he amended the words before they left his mouth. "I don't know how that would happen," he said carefully, instead.
"But you don't know that it couldn't?" Enjolras's look was inquiring and trusting at the same time: she wanted Combeferre to explain himself, but she would accept his stated extent and limits of his knowledge implicitly. He felt again the humbling power of her confidence in him.
"No, I don't. I can't affirm it, nor can I deny it, but—it's an unlikely explanation."
"Can you think of a likelier one?" Bahorel was still leaning back in his chair, looking like a sleepy drunk, unless one looked closely at his bright, focused eyes.
"Not especially," Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I fear there are no likely explanations, not for such a ridiculous thing."
"Ridiculous things may yet be true," said a hoarse voice from the door.
Combeferre turned around. Bahorel sprang from his chair, and strode to the door, which was only slightly open. He pulled it back, to reveal Valjean.
"Don't worry," said Valjean. "I can't come in. Unless you invite me."
Bahorel seized a candlestick from a side table, and held it before him like a sword. "No fear of that, but how are you even in the building?"
"The portress let me in the building, but I require a separate invitation for any particular apartment. I cannot enter without your permission, messieurs."
Enjolras stepped in front of Combeferre. "You saved the lives of some homeless men," she said, her high, clear voice cutting easily into the conversation. "Why?"
"Because I do have a soul," Valjean said, "and my soul has been bought for God. I will harm no man, even if he puts a stake to my heart."
Combeferre pressed his fingertips into his temples. He suddenly had a headache. "Explain, if you please."
Valjean sighed, and from the other side of the doorway, began his tale.
It started when he stole a loaf of bread.
"I was sent to the bagne," Valjean said, "and when I tried to escape, when it was my turn—we prisoners took it in turns, you see—I was deemed a recidivist." He shuddered and fell silent. Combeferre wanted to ask what happened then, but in the face of Valjean's obvious anguish, he held his tongue and waited.
Finally, Valjean raised his head and continued. "The punishment for recidivists at Toulon—at least for strong, healthy recidivists, who passed a certain inspection—was turning. They had a caged vampire ready to bite and turn anyone who was thrown to him. They had two priests ready to bless the manacles on the newly turned vampires, to surround us with crucifixes, to bless the water the guards would spray us with to control us. And it was useful to them, because the vampire prisoners were stronger than any man could be. We lifted and dug and hammered and worked tirelessly, and if our souls were vanished and our minds corroded with hate, well—the authorities weren't troubled by that. We were chained. They could use us."
Combeferre felt a wave of nausea so powerful he had to prop himself against the wall with one hand, putting the other to his stomach. He had dissected human cadavers. He'd witnessed surgery on living men, women, and even children, screaming with anguish as the surgeon's blade cut into their flesh. And he'd known all too well, all too personally, the cruelty and venality of the authorities. Even so, this story was a shock. To deliberately strip a man of his soul...
He did not for one moment doubt its truth. Valjean had little reason to turn up here and lie, when he could save his skin by simply disappearing.
When Combeferre recovered himself, he looked to Enjolras, feeling ashamed. He'd been so overcome by his own sorrow and disgust, he hadn't considered the impact of such a horrific account on one of Enjolras's youth and sex.
Yet Enjolras was impassive, whatever natural revulsion she may have felt. She had witnessed gorier atrocities than this, of course. Combeferre knew it, and yet couldn't help wishing to protect her from further horrors. Bahorel, at Valjean's words, had gone as motionless as stone, a granite guardian at the door of the apartment, still gripping the candlestick before him.
Combeferre took a breath. "But you escaped."
"Yes," Valjean said. "We vampire prisoners didn't take it in turns, unlike the humans—but yes, I escaped. It was twilight. One of the priests was careless in blessing one of the manacles, thinking it still too light outside for any of us to get very far. I seized my chance and fled."
Valjean bowed his head. "I wreaked havoc. I murdered, I—I was brutal, vicious." Combeferre had never seen a man look so ashamed. "And then I came to a place to Digne. Digne had a bishop, a man called M. Myriel. He always said all were welcome in his home, whoever they might be…"
Combeferre flinched, but Valjean just said, "When I entered, intending to kill him—and his sister, and their housekeeper—I found that the housekeeper had powerful magic. Mme Magloire, her name was. She knew something—some old village learning, passed on from her grandmother...Mme Magloire wanted to kill me. But the bishop asked her to restore my soul instead. I don't know exactly how she managed it. She called upon her saints, and her whole body shook, her eyes turned black…she was in agony, and so was I. But at the end of it, I had my soul." His head was still bowed as he said, "I was still feral. With my soul restored, I could do good, but I had no wish to. I stole the bishop's candlesticks and fled. But the bishop was a saint. He helped me evade the police even after I stole from him. He said henceforth, my soul belonged to God. And so it does." Valjean raised his head to look from Combeferre to Enjolras to Bahorel, almost beseeching but not quite—more like one who didn't even dare beseech for his own sake. It was disquieting to see a man—a vampire-anyone looking like that.
Enjolras stepped forward, standing beside Bahorel. "And Javert? How does he know you?"
Valjean frowned. "He was at Toulon. Not an ordinary guard—he was sent by the Watchers for the specific purpose of helping control the vampire prisoners."
Combeferre was thoroughly unsurprised by that information. Uncle Henri had probably known all about that.
"That's how I came to be a vampire with a soul, messieurs," Valjean said. "Many strange things have happened to me, but now my life is simple. I have an adopted daughter. We've only been in Paris a short while. I give what I can to the poor. I protect those who live on the streets from vampires. I came here because I owed you an explanation, after you—" Valjean nodded at Bahorel. "—saved me from the Watchers. If you wish to stake me now, you may. I won't harm you, or resist in any way. But if you do, please have a care for my daughter—"
"We will not stake you." Enjolras folded her arms, looking at Combeferre and Bahorel as if daring them to contradict her.
Bahorel raised his eyebrows in apparent amusement at Enjolras's commanding tone, but spoke only to agree, "The boy's right. We're not fools, or cruel."
"Of course not," Combeferre said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts at self control. "You've suffered very much, M. Valjean. We have no desire to make you suffer even more."
"I thank you all," said Valjean, sounding much too grateful for what was, after all, the fairly trivial kindness of not killing him. "You are most generous."
Bahorel looked deeply offended at Valjean's gratitude, which almost seemed to verge on self-abasement. But before Bahorel could open his mouth to say anything, Valjean bowed, turned on his heel, and left.
Combeferre, Enjolras, and Bahorel were left wordless. Bahorel finally let his arm drop, wincing and rubbing his shoulder—he'd been holding the candlestick aloft through the whole conversation. Combeferre mechanically poured cups of water for himself and Enjolras. He didn't bother offering Bahorel water, but instead handed him a bottle of wine. Bahorel took it and drank straight from the mouth. Then he put the bottle down, shrugged off his coat and waistcoat, sank back into the armchair, reached again for the bottle, and took another long gulp.
Combeferre sat as well, in the chair beside Bahorel's, pressing his forehead into his hand. Only Enjolras remained on her feet, prowling around the room like an anxious cat.
She finally broke the silence. "We have a new ally, at least. A powerful one. He can slay vampires as well as I, perhaps better." She paused, frowning. "And a new enemy. Javert knows our faces."
Bahorel smiled. It was both a smile of pure joy and a threatening display of teeth. "And I know his."
Enjolras shot Bahorel a smile of her own, sliding into the chair on the other side of his. "Yes." It was just one word, but Enjolras spoke it with an almost painfully obvious affection.
Bahorel reached over to gently cuff her cheek. "I take it the Watchers sent Javert to bring in the rogue Slayer-Watcher pair after they heard what happened in Mouret-sur-Loire. Well—I wish him all the luck in the world, because it won't be enough to make him succeed."
"He'll flee in terror knowing you're here, if he knows what's good for him," said Combeferre, knowing he didn't sound as sarcastic as he wished to. "Nevertheless, we must be cautious." Because we don't always know the effects of what we are seen to do , he didn't have to add.
"We will," said Bahorel, putting a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "We've discussed this. I haven't forgotten, and neither has Enjolras, I'm sure. We know what you've lost." Enjolras nodded, looking solemn, but said nothing.
"And now we have a group of people to slay with," Bahorel added. "That should help keep us inconspicuous, and hide your identities." He rose. "You youngsters should get some sleep. It's been a tiring day for us all. Come by the café again tomorrow. I'll be there, in the back, and we can plan our next outing."
Two days later, Javert stared in silent fury at his desk.
They had lost Jean Valjean, again. After that savage in the red waistcoat punched Javert, Valjean had disappeared. Still, Javert hadn't worried. After all, Valjean lived in the Gorbeau house, with the girl Cosette, who did not go out with him at night. Javert only needed to have his men come back, when they'd lost Valjean, and watch the house. Or so Javert had thought. Somehow, by whatever devilish magic unknown to righteous men, Valjean had doubled back, taken the girl, and escaped into the night before Javert's men could even return to begin their watch.
Now there was no sign of Valjean anywhere.
Javert sighed, and turned his attention to a pile of letters concerning the other matter. The rogue Slayer, and the Watcher who'd turned traitor to help her. The Watcher was the truly baffling figure, in Javert's estimation. A silly girl endowed with Slayer powers might run off for any reason, or no reason at all. But a Watcher—evidently one with great learning and skill—who aided the girl in her insubordinate behavior? That was more difficult to explain.
Javert was not a man who thirsted for explanations, or exerted himself to produce them. He quickly tired of the subject of the Watcher's motives, and turned to the question of who this Watcher might be. Anyone who had guided the Slayer to defeat the vampires of Mouret-sur-Loire must be seasoned and experienced, perhaps even renowned.
But the letters, as he read them, disturbed the flow of his thoughts. The letters were from a low-level Watcher named Gaillard, sent to interview the peasants of Mouret-sur-Loire. Most wouldn't speak to him. Peasants were an insular and suspicious folk. Yet the three people who spoke to Gaillard gave remarkably consistent accounts. There was a boy, slim and pale and blond, with ferocious strength. His companion was a young man, lanky and olive-skinned, with unruly black hair and an intellectual sort of air.
A young man, not a veteran Watcher. Likely an unknown, with no time to make a name for himself yet. And—Javert frowned. There had been a slender, pale, golden-haired youth among the ruffians who'd taken Valjean's part the other night.
As Javert contemplated this, his frown turned into a smile. Perhaps he'd not lost Valjean after all. If his two prey had joined forces, well and good. He would only need to catch one to find the other.
Two nights after their encounter with Valjean, Combeferre was fast asleep. The last couple of days had been exhausting. Classes, and patrolling, and feverish discussions with Feuilly and the other men who'd been out with them when they'd met Valjean. Feuilly was cautiously willing to agree not to harm Valjean, should they meet again. The other men were more reluctant. They agreed in the end after argument, hectoring, and cajoling from Enjolras, Combeferre, and Bahorel. Still, Combeferre hoped Valjean wouldn't run into them alone.
He slept thickly and dreamlessly. When he woke it was still dark, his body still delightfully slack. He could barely move, but managed to sit up, because he heard Enjolras's voice.
Combeferre dragged himself towards the door, still in his nightshirt. Enjolras held a candlestick, and at the door was—
"Valjean," Combeferre said hoarsely.
"Look—" Enjolras gestured, and beside Valjean, Combeferre saw the child. A small girl, wearing black, her face strangely haggard for her years. She looked about eight years old.
"I'm so deeply sorry to trouble you," Valjean said. "I don't ask you to invite me inside, but—we need shelter, Cosette and I. Javert's men are outside the Gorbeau house."
Enjolras and Combeferre looked at each other. Combeferre did not know whether he nodded first, or Enjolras did, but they turned back to Valjean in mutual assent. "Come in," said Enjolras.