Chapter Twelve

Outside the snow that blanketed Boonesborough's common gleamed like the leprechaun's legendary pot of gold. Rebecca Boone hugged a shawl about her shoulders as she stared out the tavern window, watching the wind whip the white waves higher and higher. This new storm had come in during the night and was moving at a fast clip toward the far distant hills where her husband walked, to the land where Nicholas Knightsford and Mingo had fled hoping to find the answers they would need to stop the rising tide of Lucien LaCroix's evil. At first, she had not known what to do. Should she keep the children with her or send them away? This man – this creature in human form – seemed unstoppable. Could any of them truly escape his ice blue stare? Was there a way to make certain her children were safe? After a half hour on her knees she had come to a decision. She would trust to her God. She had asked the preacher, and he had agreed to take Jemima and Israel in.

He had also given her permission to take refuge in the school house that served as the settlement's only church.

With a sigh, Becky turned toward the stair and gazed up it. Cincinnatus was resting. She would stay with him throughout the day and then, just before candlelighting, she would make her way to their place of faith and fall prostrate before her God, pleading with him for the lives of her children, for those of her husband and friend, for poor tormented Nicholas –

And for herself.

Before he left, Nicholas had told her what she must do. She must wear her cross. She must hold fast to her Bible. She must surround herself with every symbol of the true light she could find. And she must – she must have fire at her command. The instruments of her faith would slow the ancient creature, even pain him, but nothing less than a holy fire of incredible intensity stood a chance of cleansing Boonesborough of the evil that was LaCroix.

Becky left the window and walked toward the hearth. Once there, she reached out and placed her fingers just above the licking flames. It was so strange, the dual nature of the world. This fire, which brought much needed warmth, that allowed them to cook and to preserve food, could also kill. If she was forced to set fire to the church to destroy LaCroix –

Might she not destroy them all?

As the vision of the settlement and all that was dear to her burning to the ground rose before her eyes, Becky sobbed and fell to her knees. Her trembling fingers sought the cross around her neck and held it tightly, and her lips began to move once again in prayer.

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The baneful object of Rebecca Boone's desperate fear was staring out of a window as well, cloaked within the shadows cast by its elegant velvet draperies. At dawn Lucien LaCroix had returned to Williamsburg, to the governor's palace, to seek out his old friend Lord Dunsmore and tell him of his progress. LaCroix was looking now at the snow covered green that stretched before the rebellious colony's answer to the great seats of government in Europe. While it had its provincial charm, Williamsburg was raw and lacked the refinement of the courts of the kings. The colonials misguided ideals – Imagine, thinking all men equal! – left them blind to what they could possess; to the pleasures of power born of the fruits long cultivated by their forbearers. Power was everything. Power over all.

Or over one.

Lord Dunsmore had not yet risen when he arrived and so Lucien had been directed to his friend's study. There, he had found a letter the governor general had begun. A letter written to his errant son begging his forgiveness. It remained unfinished – just as his own business with John Murray was unfinished. At least, that was, until after nightfall.

The nightfall that would see another worthy added to his little…family.

LaCroix had made his mind up. He would bring the peer's son over. With Nicholas' help, he was certain the former Kerr Murray would acquiesce. Why would he not? Who could resist the temptation of eternal life? Even Nicholas, whose heart had been pure and good, could not. Man, after all, was driven by only a few things – power, lust, desire…greed. Even the best of men. Mingo would acquiesce with little persuasion and then, why, the possibilities were endless. He was in good standing with Daniel Boone, and so had his finger on the pulse of the west. And was known to the English as well. What could be more perfect? Mingo would make the consummate 'son', loyal and able to do his bidding, infiltrating both sides, making this coming war his.

After the war, as Kerr Murray, Mingo would resume his place at his father's side and, after the old man's death, would become an Earl. LaCroix beamed. "One of my boys a peer," he whispered, pleased with himself. And such a talented and attractive son. No one would be able to resist him.

"You are so good," he told himself.

"Lucien, old friend, what brings you here?" John Murray ran a hand through his grizzled hair to straighten it as he walked into the study. "And at such an unholy hour?"

"I rode through the night to see you. With news of our enterprise." LaCroix crossed to the desk. He stopped and then leaned forward, touching a finger to the unfinished letter. "About which it seems, old friend, you are having second thoughts."

Lord Dunsmore's face grew long, becoming all jowls and lines. LaCroix's pale lips pursed and he shook his head. Humans aged so quickly. Their lives but the stuff of a few beats of the heart. No wonder it seemed a matter of little consequence to snuff them out.

"I am. I was." John Murray dropped into his chair and ran a hand across his face. "Kerr will hate me."

"He hates you now."

The mortal's eyes reproached him. "No. I have spoken with him. We have a…small gap in our understanding. It only needs to be bridged."

"It will never be bridged. Not in this life," LaCroix sneered.

John Murray looked up at him. "Lucien, you are ever the prophet of gloom and doom."

LaCroix shrugged. "Just being realistic, John. I know my son hates me. And that is how I know I have his love."

The mortal continued to stare at him for a moment. Then he leaned forward and picked the letter up. "You notice it is unfinished?"

"Yes. Will it remain so?"

John Murray linked his hands together over the piece of parchment. "Tell me of your progress so far, Lucien, and perhaps I will decide."

LaCroix nodded, slightly amused. "Fair enough. I know where your son is. He is with Nicholas, and vulnerable. I can take him the moment you give your assent."

Lord Dunsmore looked skeptical. "Why have you not had him taken already then? You had your commission, did you not?"

"Ah. Yes. A fine point." LaCroix rested a hip on the corner of the ornate desk. "I did have the commission. What I did not have was confidence in your backing that commission up. I sensed, the last time we spoke, a certain reluctance on your part when it came to putting the plan into action."

"I fear Kerr's reaction."

"Do you? Or do you simply fear your son?"

At that the English lion roused, growing angry. "How dare you insult me in such a way, General LaCroix!"

LaCroix held his hands up in a show of surrender. "I meant no insult. John, you know me. I merely speak the truth. If you did not fear your son, you would do without hesitation what you know is best, which is to remove him from any and all influences which give succor and support to his rebellious nature." LaCroix leaned in closer. He did not use his supernatural influence – he did not need to – but the words were hushed and heavy with intent. "Crush Kerr's insolent rebellion as you would the colonists'. He, as they, will be happier when firmly controlled."

John Murray said nothing. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and stood, staring out at the snow-covered lawn.

LaCroix crossed to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "An iron fist, John, that is what the boy needs. Give me your word and he is taken! I will arrange to transport Kerr back to England, and to deposit him at your estate. Janette and Nicholas will travel with me, making the journey more…pleasant for him."

Dunsmore was silent for some time. Looking at LaCroix he said, "So your own boy has made his peace with you then?"

Lucien LaCroix's thin lips curled in a satisfied sneer. "Not yet, John, but he will.

"He will."

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Becky closed the door to Cincinnatus' room quietly behind her. The older man was sleeping peacefully now, free of the dreams that had earlier troubled his sleep. She passed down the corridor and descended the stair to the common room of the tavern. After pausing a moment to speak to Jericho, who had come to keep watch in her absence, she headed for the door. Before opening it, she drew a cloak about her shoulders and lifted the hood to shield her face. Outside the returned snowstorm howled with a vengeance, as if angry for lost time. Soon, any territory they had regained would be lost, buried once more in a blanket of purest white.

As the myriad flakes fell, a silence descended with them – a profound silence not too far distant from that of the grave. With the exception of the wind, the world held its breath. It waited, even as she waited, for what was to come.

Becky's footsteps left several inch-deep impressions in the snow as she made her way across the common. Just before she reached the other side she halted, and looked back at the tavern. In her mind's eye she could see Mingo walking out, Nicholas Knightsford by his side. Could see Nicholas taking the other man in his arms and –

Becky shivered. Where were they now? Nicholas and Mingo? Did they live?

And where was Dan?"

"Daniel Boone, you come back to me," she called out, even as she lifted her foot again and turned toward the cabin that served as school and church. "You hear me, Dan? You come back."

The wind rose. It took hold of her cloak and snapped it sharply, and then shoved her toward her destination as if mocking her pain. Becky stumbled but kept going. The school swam in a sea of snow. Someone had cleared a path to the door, but the wind and falling flakes had already filled it, forming little waves that crashed upon the weathered wood. As she approached, Becky noted the cabin's interior was not completely dark. A light shone in its interior. She hesitated, unsure. Could the preacher have lit and left it, knowing she was to come? Welcoming as it was, the flickering flame filled her with unexpected dread. Trembling, Becky drew closer, chiding herself all the while for giving in to womanish fears. Reaching out, she placed her fingers on the door. Knowing it should be unbarred, she gave it a gentle shove. As the door swung in it left a trail of white on the brown dirt floor.

Becky crossed the threshold and stood still for a moment. Then she closed the door behind her. Turning back, she saw the cabin was dark, with the single exception of the candle flame. She stared at it, frowning, and then gasped as it seemed to rise and float in the air.

It was then she realized someone was holding it.

"You have no need to fear me, Madame. I, like you, am but a weary pilgrim seeking momentary sanctuary from the rising storm."

The man had a British accent. She wondered briefly if it was the surviving soldier who had brought Mingo to the fort. "I'm not afraid," she said, meaning it. Well, at least by half.

"Then you are not as wise as I thought you were."

"What do you mean by that?" she snapped, her temper showing.

The man's laugh was gentle, if haunted. "Fear is a man's friend. The bosom companion of his youth. It is fear that keeps him alive."

" 'Of his youth', you say? What of his old age then?"

"Fear of the grave, Madame, accomplishes the same thing. It makes a man cling to life when, perhaps, he would otherwise roll over and die."

"Who are you?" she demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"Am I not welcome then?" The candle shifted, moving toward the altar which was set aside and occupied a corner of the school room. "Are not all welcome in God's house?"

"Of course, they are. It's just…. " Becky drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, I didn't expect to find anyone here."

"And you haven't, Madame," the man replied, "not really."

Becky's hand went to her hip. "Now just what is that supposed to mean?"

The man turned and, for just a moment, she had a glimpse of him. He had a

stubbled face, a pair of weary eyes, and black hair that flashed with silver. There was even the hint of a pallid smile.

"I remember you," the man said, his voice waking from weariness. "Mrs. Boone, isn't it?"

"Why, yes. Do I know you?"

After a pause he said, "You were kind to me once. A lifetime ago."

"Please, tell me who you are." Becky took a step forward, but the man reacted by retreating into the shadows.

"I am nothing and no one. A weary pilgrim, as I said, ready to meet his maker – if only she would let me!"

"She? Who is 'she'?"

By now her eyes had adjusted enough to see that the man was dressed in a well worn uniform. She couldn't tell if it was blue or scarlet.

" 'She', Madame, is the one who seeks to rob me of eternal peace. But she will not win. She shall not!" The man's voice grew ragged. "I will not be outwitted by a savage!"

"An Indian?"

"An animal, Madame." He paused and then laughed – the sound of it sent chills along her spine.

Becky was trembling afresh. She knew him, though she could not believe what it was she knew. Taking another step, she entered the ring of light cast by the candle. "Henry Pitcairn?" she asked.

"Once upon a time that was my name. But this sad parade is quickly drawing to a close. One final salute, and it is ended."

"What does that mean?"

Pitcairn stepped forward. The light fully illuminated his long spare form. "The cave, Madame. He approaches the cave. Soon we will be one. And then, Mingo will be no more!"

"No!" Becky shouted. She dashed across the room, meaning to confront him – to hold him somehow back from his terrible purpose. As she did a sudden wind arose and whistled through the schoolhouse. It lifted her copper hair and blew the flame out, even as the brass candlestick Henry Pitcairn held clattered to the floor, leaving her in darkness.

And alone.

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On the crest of a snow covered hill, halfway between Boonesborough and the Place of 1000 Spirits, stood a man and a woman. They were heedless of the cold frigid night and its wintry blasts. The man, whose hair was whiter than the snow itself, bellowed with mirthless glee as the slender woman with dark upswept locks related her tale.

"What? What is it you find so delightful?" she demanded.

"So that is why Nicholas came to this place. He actually believes this Cherokee crone can cure him." LaCroix's laughter continued, echoing from the nearby cliffs, chilling even the icicles that dangled from their edge. "How rich! How like Nicholas! He is such an innocent."

"You do not think there is anything to this legend then?" Janette inquired quietly.

LaCroix struck snowflakes from his white lashes. "Oh, on the contrary, Janette, I think there is much to recommend it. A soul sucking crone who rips her victim's hearts out and steals their remaining years? Why, that is a woman after my own heart!"

"LaCroix!" Janette was impatient. "So far as the legend applies to Nichola?"

"Oh, you mean this nonsense about changing back to a mortal by doing good?" He shook his head. "Can the boy not learn to be content with a pat on the head?"

Janette studied him a moment and then snuggled up against him. "LaCroix, you can tell me. Is there a way back? Will Nichola ever find it?"

He looked down at her. "Would you like him to?"

She drew a breath. Her breast rose and fell within its blue silk sheath. Janette pursed her lips and considered it – for about a second.

"Non."

"Good girl!" He said, patting her on the head. "No, Janette, there is no way back. And the sooner Nicholas comes to terms with that reality, the happier he will be."

"I do not think Nichola will ever be happy," Janette pouted.

"Oh, but there you are wrong, my dear." LaCroix raised his arm and gathered her in like a chick under the wing of his great black cloak. "You'll see a smile on Nicholas' face tonight….

"When I present him with a new baby brother."