Valjean entered, gently pushing the small girl before him. "Good evening," Combeferre said to the little girl.
"Sit down, monsieur," said Enjolras, gesturing at a chair. Valjean sat obediently, pulling the child onto his lap. The girl looked from Enjolras to Combeferre with wide unblinking eyes.
"Your name is Cosette, is it?" Combeferre heard his voice go into the sing-song tone his older relatives had used at him in his childhood. He winced, but the child didn't seem to mind.
"Yes," she said, barely above a whisper. Combeferre realized, at this juncture, that neither he nor Enjolras had introduced themselves to Valjean.
"I'm Sébastien Combeferre," he said, to both Cosette and Valjean, "and this is Gabriel Enjolras." Valjean nodded in response, but said nothing. His face was slack and gray. Combeferre didn't know what to do in the face of such inert despair.
Enjolras suffered from no such dithering. "You need a safe place to say, where Javert will not know to look for you. Can you leave Paris?"
Valjean gave a half-shrug. "I—yes, I can. But I don't know where I would go. I suppose anywhere, so long as it's far from here—"
"Where were you before you came to Paris?" Combeferre asked. There was a strange tale here. There had to be, especially to explain how Valjean came to adopt a daughter.
"In a town called Montreuil-sur-Mer," said Valjean. The name sounded familiar to Combeferre, though he could not remember why. "But I can never return there." Valjean sounded as flat and certain as the striking of a clock. Combeferre, his curiosity near bubbling over, exchanged a look with Enjolras. But neither would press Valjean on the subject.
Instead, Enjolras turned her gaze back to Valjean with a frown, and asked, "How far does Javert's power reach? Does he have friends in the police? In the government?"
"I believe if the police know something, Javert will soon know it too," said Valjean. "As to the government outside the police force—I do not know."
"The Watchers have friends in the government, even if Javert personally doesn't," Combeferre interjected. "And in the Church. Although he likely would not look for you among anyone connected to the Church."
Enjolras stalked over to a chair, pressing a hand to her forehead. The girl Cosette slid off her father's lap and looked at him. "I wish I'd brought Catherine."
Valjean sighed, and pulled her close again. "Her doll," he explained, looking at Combeferre. Cosette leaned against her father with a gigantic yawn.
"Perhaps you both might sleep," said Enjolras, "it's very late. We can discuss what steps to take next in the morning. "
"A good idea," said Valjean, rising.
Combeferre insisted on Cosette and Valjean taking his bed, while he slept on the sofa. He felt sure Valjean only allowed this because Cosette would not let go of his hand, and Valjean would not compromise her comfort, however little regard he had for his own. Enjolras had offered her bed, too, but Combeferre would not hear of it. Enjolras gave in with a look of amusement that Combeferre ignored: Slayer or not, she was still a young lady.
The sofa was regrettably lumpy and smelled like chemicals; nevertheless, Combeferre was soon fast asleep.
Sister Simplice rarely came to Paris, preferring to busy herself with her duties in Montreuil-sur-Mer. She was a country woman at heart, and did not enjoy the big, lamp-lit, grimy city. But as seeress for the French Watchers, her duty called her to Paris once or twice to assist their central command.
Simplice had been a young girl when the visions first came. The pictures in her mind were of things she had not yet seen, people she had not yet met, places she had not yet been. And yet they were sparkling and clear and true, always true.
Her priest had told her the visions came from the Devil. Simplice had dutifully prayed to God to make them go away, but the visions persisted.
And they remained true! How could they come from the Devil and yet be true?
Her parents had told her to hush and say no more of the visions, and Simplice had obeyed. But when asked of them directly, she would not lie. It made for an uncomfortable childhood. Her parents had been greatly relieved when she announced she was called to the Church; they'd believed taking holy orders would cure her of any devilish powers.
Instead, once she took her vows, the Watchers found her. Under their direction, Simplice began learning how to direct her second sight, how to see what she willed and not only what came into her mind. Her visions were not perfect or all-encompassing: such power was the sole province of God. She could only see what she knew enough about to deliberately look for, or else what happened to enter her mind, and sometimes she failed at seeing even that. Sometimes she would turn her inner sight onto an eventuality or a person, only to see naught but thick white smoke.
But often—often enough that the French Watchers relied more on her than on any other seer—she would gaze inward and look for something and it would take shape in her mind, every detail sharp and true.
Now, as she sat in the library of the Watchers' office in Paris, Simplice was confused and, despite herself, slightly curious. She did not know what the Watchers wanted from her. Their letter had been cryptic. Several months ago-nearly a year now—Simplice had seen the Slayer in the South of France, and told the Watchers of her vision when asked. She always told them the truth about her visions, just as she told the truth about all else. Truth was sacred; truth was God; falsehood was the Devil. Simplice would never exaggerate a vision, nor would she change any detail to please an overly persistent or ingratiating Watcher, nor would she say she was sure of a thing if she were not. The Slayer had been in the Midi, near Aiguilhe, and stayed in that region for some time, but Simplice could not see where. She could sense locations—taste and smell them—but without precision. Sometimes if she described a town or a wood or a church, one of the Watchers would be able to identify the place by the details. Simplice herself was not well traveled and would not recognize far-off places herself.
She waited five minutes in the library before Javert entered, flanked by two subordinates. "Sister Simplice, good day. Forgive me for keeping you waiting." He gave a slight bow.
Simplice inclined her head. "Good day to you all."
Javert sat across the table from her, the two subordinates taking chairs to his right and left. The one on the right pulled out three small paintings on thick canvases, laying them on the table before him. "Sister," said Javert, "I must ask you to try and see the vampire Valjean. I know he is in Paris, or was last week. He may still be here. He stayed in the Maison Gorbeau, near the city's edge."
"You've asked me to see this vampire before," said Simplice. "You know I haven't succeeded." When Simplice fixed her thoughts on Valjean, calling to mind the wicked defiance of God that was the essence of any vampire, but especially of one so infamous, all she could see was white mist.
"Yes," said Javert, "but we would like you to try again, if you please. " He handed her one of the small paintings. "This is Valjean. Perhaps the image will help you."
The artist had skill. Simplice could see the angry, desperate look in Valjean's eye, the look of a man—not a man, a being—who was both hunter and hunted, and never at rest. She let her gaze rest upon the painting, focusing and then pulling back, then focusing again. Finally she shut her eyes, and turned her vision inward to whatever it pleased God to show her. Valjean, she prayed. Show me Valjean.
Seconds went by, became a minute, then two. Simplice saw nothing but the pale, swirling mist.
She opened her eyes, and shook her head.
"Mmmm," said Javert. "There is something else I would like you to try, if you would. You will remember, of course, the Slayer you saw in the South."
"Why, yes," said Simplice, surprised.
"She's gone rogue," Javert said, his lip curling, "with the help of a Watcher. I believe her to be in league with Valjean."
Simplice drew a long breath. A Slayer, in league with a vampire—it was an abomination. Bad enough for the girl to defy the Watchers, but to compound such sinful disobedience with that!
"Yes, it's a vile thing, vile indeed. Nothing is more dangerous than a rogue Slayer, especially if she has an ally with Watcher training. And if she's joined forces with such a powerful vampire, the consequences will be grave." Javert paused, and shook his head and, with a deep breath and a hopeful look at Simplice, went on: "But perhaps if you could see her, then—well. We might find her, and we might find Valjean with her. I needn't tell you what a triumph that would be."
Simplice nodded. "Well, of course I will. Do you know anything more of this girl than you did when I saw her first?"
Javert slid the two other small paintings to her. One was of a golden-haired youth, the other of a young man with olive skin and rather wild black hair. The faces were indistinct. "The blonde girl—she is a girl, though she may be wearing men's garb—is the Slayer. The other is her ally, whom I believe to have some Watcher knowledge. Whether he is of one of the Watcher bloodlines, or simply an employee of the Council in some capacity, I do not know. "
"And their names?" They both looked young to Simplice, so very young. Perhaps they might yet be brought back to the path of righteousness.
Javert frowned. "I haven't yet discovered their names," he said.
Simplice studied the portraits. She thought of the Slayer, of her calling and her duty, and of her rebellion. She thought of the Watcher, called to guide the Slayer, but leading her away from the Council. She looked hard at the paintings, and then looked inward again.
This time, the mists cleared and a picture formed. Simplice saw the inside of an apartment—a young man on a sofa—another on a bed—and then the outside, a Paris street—and a building, with a number.
Simplice opened her eyes, and nodded.
Dawn was breaking when Combeferre heard the metallic scratching sound outside his apartment. It woke him with a start.
It was a determined, deliberate sort of sound, the sound of men working with tools, and it was right at his door. He sprang from the sofa, put his ear to the door, and heard voices, over the sound of a file cutting at the door hinges.
Combeferre took a deep breath, and forced himself to think.
He first went to his bedroom, where Valjean and Cosette slept, and woke Valjean. "I believe we've been found," Combeferre said. "Block the door to this room from within, you can use that chair and slide it under the handle—we'll hold them off. It may not be safe to leave through the window, so I wouldn't advise it." Forestalling Valjean's questions and arguments, Combeferre left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.
He roused Enjolras with a few short words of explanation and left her to dress. Then he went to the outer room, upended the sofa, and shoved it against the door. From a drawer in the desk, he drew out a pistol, a cross, and a stake.
Enjolras came out to join him. Together they wedged the desk next to the sofa, and then they waited, one on either side of the door, to pounce as soon as the attackers came through the room's narrow opening, now blocked by the furniture.
The door was removed with efficiency. Combeferre could hear the groans and curses of the men moving it out of the way, and then-
Javert's face appeared in the crack between the sofa and the door. Their attackers were indeed Watchers, then, not vampires. Combeferre had suspected as much, but it still made him shiver.
"Javert," Combeferre mouthed at Enjolras, who was ill-placed to see Javert's face. She nodded, looking grim, and came around to Combeferre's side. When Javert pushed further through, she launched herself at him through the widening crack.
The sofa and the desk had moved, but still blocked most of the doorway. One of Javert's companions shoved at the desk, trying to create enough space to come through. "Stop," Combeferre said, keeping his voice as even as he could, and aiming his pistol at the Watcher. "I will shoot. Don't come any further."
The Watcher, a thickset man in his forties, was undeterred. "You're the rogue, aren't you," he said. "The traitor. You're to blame for what happened to Henri Combeferre. Don't think you can threaten me." He sprang forward, banging his thigh against the desk corner.
Combeferre backed away instinctively, still holding the pistol up. "Don't! Stop right there!"
The Watcher raised his own crossbow, aiming it squarely at Combeferre. He fired, and Combeferre dodged. The bolt went into the wall. The Watcher fumbled to reload.
Through the corner of his eye, Combeferre saw Valjean enter the outer room, shutting the bedroom door carefully behind him. Valjean was almost noiseless, but with his stature and bulk, no one could fail to perceive him. The Watcher's teeth bared. "Valjean. I almost couldn't believe it, but I should have known. Javert never lies." He raised the crossbow again, and this time Combeferre raised his gun, and fired. The Watcher fell.
Combeferre held his breath, stunned, until the Watcher dragged himself back to his feet, clutching the wound in his abdomen. Not dead, not yet.
Valjean spoke almost into Combeferre's ear, and Combeferre jumped: he hadn't noticed Valjean getting so close. "Take care of Cosette," he said. "She's hiding in there." He pointed at the bedroom.
"What—no—monsieur—" But before Combeferre could object, or stop him, Valjean had slid his arm around the Watcher's waist and pulled him out the door.
"Javert!" Valjean's voice rang out. "Stop! I surrender!"
"No!" Enjolras cried out. Combeferre dashed towards the door, still partly blocked by furniture, and saw Enjolras standing over a groaning Javert and two other men, while she pointed a crossbow at a fourth. "M. Valjean, we can fight—"
"I will have no bloodshed on my account," Valjean said. "I surrender. Leave the others be, and you can take me."
"Don't stake him yet," said Javert, getting to his feet. "We have questions for him." The two men beside Javert rose from the floor, and each grasped one of Valjean's arms. In a slow procession they left, Javert giving Enjolras a long stare before turning away.
Enjolras made as if to attack again but Combeferre, remembering the girl Cosette, held her back. Someone had to look after the girl; prolonging this fight would risk there being no one, and…Valjean had made his choice.
"Young de Courfeyrac," said Bahorel with an air of paternal patience, "if you try to take on two vampires at once, you will get killed." There was a murmur of vague agreement from the four others in the café's back-room: Feuilly, a porter, a longshoreman, and a law student.
De Courfeyrac, determinedly holding himself still under the ministrations of the porter, who was bandaging his arm, frowned. "I don't like the 'de,' if you please," he said. "Merely Courfeyrac."
"Very well, Merely Courfeyrac." Bahorel concealed a smile. "Whatever you wish to call yourself, please behave in such a fashion so we needn't call you 'that idiot child who got himself killed fighting two vampires single-handedly.'"
Merely Courfeyrac let out a hiss of pain and exasperation. "What was I to do? They were attacking a girl. Should I have let them kill her?"
Feuilly, perched on the end of a table, said, "No, you did exactly right." He gave Bahorel a look of mild disapproval. "Bahorel is so unused to seeing such a thing, it astounded him."
Bahorel thumped Feuilly on the shoulder. "I'm not saying don't do it, my dear. I'm saying next time, bring a friend."
"And weapons," added the porter, finishing the bandaging. "Bring weapons."
Courfeyrac nodded. "Thank you," he said to the porter. "I could carry a sword-cane, I think."
"A good idea," said Bahorel, "and a stake. And you could learn to punch so you hurt the other fellow more than you hurt your own hand." He grinned at Courfeyrac, who scowled back at him, and opened his mouth to retort.
Whatever rejoinder he had been planning to make was cut off by the sudden entrance of Combeferre. Bahorel rose, noting his dishevelment. "What's wrong?"
Combeferre hesitated, looking around the back-room uncertainly.
"I think you know everyone here except Courfeyrac," said Bahorel. "He's a good lad, albeit lacking in prudence, but that's no real flaw. I trust him." Courfeyrac drew himself up a little at that, looking pleased. Bahorel grinned again. Young hotheads were always endearing.
Combeferre hesitated another moment before finally nodding. "Valjean's been taken prisoner. He and his daughter came to shelter with us in the night, and then near dawn, the Watchers invaded our apartment. Javert led them. I don't know how they found us. We fought, but Valjean surrendered to avoid bloodshed. Enjolras has taken the girl to—somewhere safe."
Bahorel was already pulling his coat back on. "Where did they take Valjean?" He was not sure he trusted the vampire, soul or not, but he wouldn't abandon anyone who acted as Valjean did to the Watchers. Any victory for this Javert against Valjean was a defeat for Bahorel's side, as far as Bahorel was concerned.
"I don't know," Combeferre admitted. "I don't think they've slain him yet. Javert said to keep him alive for questioning."
Feuilly, his hat back on his head and his waistcoat buttoned up, was already at the door. "I'll come with you," he said. "Whether this Valjean is a good man—being—or not, I wouldn't abandon him to the Watchers' questioning."
Courfeyrac jumped up. "Who's this Valjean? And why are these Watchers torturing him?"
"Too long to explain," said Bahorel. "Stay here and rest—we'll tell you everything later."
"No!" Courfeyrac said, pushing forward. "I can help—"
"Sit down," Feuilly said wearily. "You've done well enough today, you can rest for a bit."
Combeferre looked at him, appraising. "If you're hurt, but you wish to be useful, we'll need someone to watch Cosette. Enjolras is watching her now, but-he will need to come with us when we go find Valjean."
Courfeyrac paused. "Child minding?"
Bahorel snorted. "Be glad we don't assign you a nursemaid yourself, my dear. Do you want to help or not?"
Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. "Oh, very well." With a pronounced sulky air, but moving quickly, he followed them out the door.