Chapter Fourteen
Night had fallen. And though the night was God's creation, Rebecca Boone feared it, for it meant the return of her tormentor. She was sitting next to the fire she had kindled, reading her Bible. There was little else to do to occupy herself. She had tried to pray, but found she was too distracted. In the end she had simply abandoned her needs to God and asked that His spirit give voice to her heart's concerns. After that she had flipped through the pages of the Good Book, seeking scriptures that promised peace and security, but somehow she always seemed to stop on the darker passages, like the one she had just closed the page on. The one about a demon named 'Legion'.
Becky laid her hands on the soft black leather and leaned back, resting her head against the chair and closed her eyes.
"How quaint, a church," a soft sinister voice breathed. "Was this Nicholas' idea? I suppose he hoped your little half-human god would prevail against me." As Lucien LaCroix materialized just within the door, he snarled, "Nicholas is, as ever, a fool!"
It had taken everything in her, but she had neither cried out or started. She would not give this villain the satisfaction. Calmly laying her Bible on the table beside her, Becky rose from the chair and faced him.
"God will count Nicholas among the saints one day."
"Nicholas? In your black book's vernacular, Mrs. Boone, he would be counted amongst the worst of sinners."
"No." She shook her head. "He repents of what he has become. He is not beyond redemption." Becky paused. It was hard to say it, but she knew it to be true. "As you are."
LaCroix raised a hand to his chest as if it had been pierced with an arrow. "Dear Lady! You pain me. Truly." He approached her slowly, moving to the right and brushing his fingers on a table; then to the left, letting them linger on the back of a chair – like a panther stalking, savoring the prize it knows cannot escape. "And here I thought no one was beyond redemption in your homespun philosophy."
"They weren't before. But then, I had never met anyone like you."
LaCroix threw his head back and laughed heartily. "No. No, I suppose you have not. And what do you think of me?" he asked as he came even closer.
Becky's hand went to the cross at her throat; her fingers clutching it. "You are pure evil."
"Well," he said with a slight grin, "at least something about me is pure…." LaCroix's ice blue eyes slid down her throat, briefly resting on the cross in her fingers, and then flitted to the fire before settling on the Good Book where it lay on the table before the fire. "What would you think of your God if I told you that these trinkets cannot stop me?"
"I would say that Paul was beheaded in Rome, and Christians put to the torch for their faith, but that does not mean that God is not stronger than you."
LaCroix wrinkled his nose. "Oh, yes. A putrid smell, all that burning flesh. But the human torches did light the night so well. And the screams were well worth price…."
Becky gritted her teeth to keep from flinching. "So you mean to kill me?" she asked a second later.
He looked at her, his lips pursed. Like Legion, a thousand demons danced in his ageless eyes. "Oh, yes…eventually. But I find you – how shall I put this – fascinating? So fresh, so fiery, absolutely a delightful surprise. An intelligent beauty planted amongst the bumpkins."
"I will not yield to you."
"Oh, no. If you did it would spoil all the fun." LaCroix reached for her throat, but she noted, pulled back just short of touching the cross. "You, my dear lady, at the moment are merely bait for a bigger…fish."
"Mingo?" she squeaked.
"The earl's son. Yes." For a moment he held very still. Then he surprised her by striking out like a snake with his hand, capturing both her fingers and the cross within them.
"What will he not do to save you?"
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Nicholas landed gently and unfolded his cape, releasing his old friend to stand on his own. Mingo was enough Cherokee to accept what he was – but enough Englishman to still doubt his eyes. They had flown from the Place of 1000 Spirits in a few minutes, accomplishing what – on a normal day – would have taken hours and today, during the storm, been all but impossible.
His friend turned to stare at him. "Am I dreaming this?"
Nicholas' lips curled in a wry smile. "We can only hope we are both dreaming, and that we will awake soon to our old lives." He studied him for a moment. "There is no sign of Pitcairn? You are, yourself?"
Mingo nodded. "For the moment. It is odd. He was with me, ever present, so much so I felt I was losing myself. Now, it has been hours and there is no sign."
"I imagine he feared the Raven Mocker too much to enter the cave. Though where he has gone gadding, I cannot imagine." Nicholas thought about it a moment. The longer Pitcairn was absent, the more nervous he became. "Silence is not always a good thing, my friend. It speaks of gain made through stealth."
"I will take what I can get, Nicholas. At the moment Rebecca has need of me. The time LaCroix appointed has come."
"And we are ready for him. We have but to get him to the cave." They had spoken to the Raven Mocker, with the spirit of Waapa at her side. She had agreed to help them. When offered the hope that she might redeem the evil choice she had made with a single good act, she had snatched it. They would meet LaCroix and lure him somehow to the Place of 1000 Spirits. There she would pit her magical power against his evil.
It was their only hope.
"First we must see Rebecca safely away," Mingo insisted. "I cannot do anything until I know she – What? What is it?"
Nicholas had gripped his arm. With a nod he indicated the fort which lay buried in a bank of snow before them – snow that was glowing a brilliant fiery orange-red. Even as the truth dawned in his friend's eyes, Boonesborough's inhabitants woke to their danger. An alarum bell clanged. Someone shouted.
"Fire! Fire!"
Nicholas swallowed over his fear. "She has done it," he said.
"Then that means LaCroix is here!" Mingo shook free of his grip. "Take us inside, Nicholas! Now! We must save her!"
Nicholas complied. Wrapping his friend in his cloak, he lifted them into the air and over the white waves that crested above the fort's defenses, depositing them inside. Their arrival was noted only by one sleepy boy who glanced out of a rugged window. As they rushed past he rubbed his fists in his eyes, seeking to dismiss the dream of men flying. At the end of the common, a hundred yards away, the small building which served as both schoolhouse and church burned behind a curtain of steam.
"We have to get inside!" Mingo shouted, turning back to him. "Rebecca could be in there!"
Nicholas eyed the flames licking out of the windows. Fire was one of the few things that could destroy him – so why, when he claimed to court death, did he hesitate?
"Nicholas!"
As he opened his mouth to answer, his reply was cut off by the terrified cry of a small boy. "Ma! Ma! Let me go! Let me go! Ma!"
Nicholas pivoted to find Rebecca Boone's small son dashing forward toward the engulfed structure. Jemima Boone followed in her brother's wake, white as the snow that lay beneath her feet.
Mingo caught the boy and held him fast. "Israel, listen to me! We do not know if your mother is within. You will not help her by exposing yourself to danger. Israel!"
As the boy struggled to break free, Nicholas' eyes went to his sister. He saw it in her eyes as well – the determination that the minute one of them was not watching, she would bolt straight into the flames. Taking a step toward her, he gently touched her arm. When she met his eyes, he said softly, "Jemima, you will listen to me."
Above the chaos that swirled about them, of men and bucket brigades, she heard him. She was instantly enthralled. "Yes…."
"In a moment, I will hand your brother to you. Take him, and go where you will be safe."
"Go back…."
He smiled at her reassuringly, and then left her to go to her brother. Mingo's strength was waning. The boy was slipping out of his arms. Nicholas caught his wrist in his fingers and waited until he looked up. "Israel," he declared. "Israel, you cannot help your mother. We will do that. Go with your sister."
The boy had something of his mother in him. For a moment he fought against him, but then his childish belief in such things as ghosts and goblins did him in. "Go with Mima…."
Nicholas' eyes flicked to Mingo's face. He was watching, both fascinated and horrified. "You should go with them," he told him.
"No." He glanced over his shoulder at the burning building. "I must…."
"You are weak, my friend. Would you have me insist?"
"But Rebecca…."
Nicholas took his shoulder in his hand. "This is my fault. I will go inside. But I do not think LaCroix will have allowed her to be harmed. His game is more devious than that."
Mingo frowned. "I thought fire could destroy you."
Nicholas shrugged as he took Israel from his friend and placed the boy on the ground beside his sister.
"I do not think LaCroix will allow me to be harmed either."
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Mingo watched his friend go and then turned to find Jemima and Israel standing, waiting for him, their eyes blank and their jaws slack as if they were under the influence of one of the powerful potions Galunadi, the Cherokee healer, used. He glanced back at Nicholas to find him walking, determinedly, toward the burning building. In spite of the danger, he was willing to risk himself to save Rebecca. If it was possible, Nicholas would be redeemed.
He was a good man.
Taking Jemima and Israel by the hand Mingo led the children to the parson's cabin, but the older man's wife told him it was too close and they feared it would burn, so he delivered them instead to the tavern. Cincinnatus was glad to take them. The tavern keeper had jumped for joy when he saw him, telling him he had feared him dead. Begrudging every moment it took, he thanked him, briefly explaining how Nicholas had saved him, and then saw the children safely to their beds where he left them dreaming whatever dreams his old friend had planted. He had no idea how much time had passed when he stepped out of the door and headed back toward the fire.
He had not gone ten steps when someone called his name.
Pivoting on his heel, Mingo looked and saw it was Rebecca. She was standing just outside the shadows on the west side of the tavern; her coppery hair gleaming in the flickering light cast by the fire blazing only a few hundred feet away.
"Rebecca!" he called as he ran toward her.
She held her hand up, acknowledging him. Then she glanced behind. And disappeared.
Mingo halted. He waited a moment and, when she did not reappear, followed her around the corner. What he found there stopped him in his tracks.
Lucien LaCroix stood, his black cape billowing about his crimson uniform. In his arms he held Rebecca Boone's still form.
The baneful creature's upper lip quirked with devilish delight.
"And for this splendid creature's continued existence, what am I bid?"
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Nicholas realized quickly that he had been had. Wrapping his cloak about him, he had screwed his courage to the sticking point and then burst through the hissing, boiling flames that filled the church's door. Rolling, he had come to his feet near the center of the burning room, landing on the only spot not on fire. In the middle of it lay Rebecca Boone's Bible, topped with her silver cross. LaCroix, he knew, bore a deep oozing wound on his hand in payment for the gesture. He knew as well his master considered it worth it. These powerful tokens – discarded as if they had no worth – spoke a horrible truth.
He would only be able to stop Lucien LaCroix if he wanted to be stopped.
Aware that he needed to fly, but refusing to leave the precious objects behind, Nicholas had snatched them from the floor. As his fingers singed and began to smoke where they gripped the blackened leather, he wrapped his cloak about himself again and returned through the fire as quickly as he could, emerging just as the church's ceiling collapsed. The people of the fort cheered him. They kept vigil with their useless buckets, praying now that the snow would continue, hoping the white stuff would do the work they could not. They were much relieved to find Rebecca was not within, but little satisfied when he told them he didn't know where she was. Maybe they sensed the deception. Of course, it was a lie. He knew precisely where she was.
With LaCroix.
Nicholas' search for Mingo led him first to the pastor's house where he was redirected to the tavern. He needed to find his old friend. Together they must play LaCroix's game and make it end in their favor. The Raven Mocker awaited them, as did the spirits of Wi-sha-sho. Together, they would defeat him. And then, well, who knew? They would have to see what happened. If the Cherokee woman became mortal again, perhaps – just perhaps – there was hope for him as well.
As Nicholas lifted his hand to pound on the tavern door, it opened. Cincinnatus had pulled on his coat and was headed outside. When he saw him he stopped. "Rebecca?" the tavern keeper asked, his voice quaking with fear.
"Not within. Safe."
The older man was still not well. He actually stumbled. Nicholas took his hand and returned him to a chair in his establishment. "The children arrived safely?" he asked.
"Mingo put them to bed."
Nicholas glanced around. "And where is Mingo?"
"Gone."
The word fell like the knell of a great bell tolling for the dead. "Gone?"
"He left shortly afterward." Cincinnatus glanced up at him. "I thought he was looking for you."
Seconds later Nicholas stepped out into the white night. He turned in a circle at a loss. Where was he to go? What was he to do? As he hesitated, he heard a sound. It floated past him, riding the chill night air; issued forth from a demonic throat as a challenge.
Sinister laughter.
"LaCroix!" he screamed. "LaCroix, no!"
And then he saw him, at the edge of his vision – LaCroix, standing with his arms extended, his black cloak billowing in the wind. On one side it enfolded the tall rigid form of his friend, Mingo. On the other, the unconscious form of Daniel Boone's beautiful copper haired wife.
"Don't try to stop me, Nicholas," Mingo said, his voice utterly weary. "This is the only way Rebecca can live."
"Catch me if you can," LaCroix taunted, and they were gone.
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If she had been human, Janette's endless pacing would have worn a path through the snow to the frozen ground below. But she was not and so her step was featherlight and left no trace. LaCroix meant to do it tonight. To bring the earl's son across. She had flown to her master's side after her encounter with the Raven Mocker, seeking his eternal strength, and he had confided to her. He had gone to the bourgeois fort to take Daniel Boone's wife and use her as bait, knowing well Lord Dunsmore's son would willingly sacrifice himself to save her.
And he had to come over willingly.
Still, in the end, Mingo would prove to be nothing more than another Nichola. Eternally handsome, eternally young, and eternally damned by his own inherent goodness. Non. One Nichola was quite enough to agonize over throughout the centuries. She had no desire to be torn apart watching another waste the endless years gifted to them.
It took away all the fun.
She had tried arguing with LaCroix and that had proved nothing more than a waste of time. She had to think of something else. She could, of course, just free him, but in the end that would only delay matters – and most likely not for long. There had to be something that would render the half-Cherokee, half-Englishman unpalatable to her master. Janette huffed and blew a lock of dark brown hair from her forehead.
As if his confounded goodness was not enough.
"You look troubled, dear lady," a quiet voice intruded.
Janette had heard it before. "Henri Pitcairn," she breathed as she rounded to find the British officer – or what was left of him – standing at the edge of the circle of light cast by the risen moon. "What do you want?" she demanded.
"Why, the same thing as you. The salvation of our dear friend Mingo from the nefarious clutches of General LaCroix."
Janette's blue eyes narrowed. Was this a man who stood before her, or merely his shade? She had heard the same voice coming from Mingo, seen the same look, the same swaggering walk. Was Pitcairn a master, equivalent to Mesmer, or what he claimed – a ghost?
"It is true I do not want LaCroix to bring him across. One pouting boy is all I can abide for eternity. But what is it to you?"
Henry Pitcairn lifted his head. Above them the clouds had broken to reveal deep stripes of purple lashed upon the blue body of the sky. It was bitterly cold and a steady snow fell, deepening the white dunes surrounding them. When he spoke, his voice was as bleak as the land. " 'My mind misgives, some consequence yet hanging in the stars, shall bitterly begin his fearful date with this night's revels, and expire the term of the despised life closed in my breast….' "
"Messier Shakespeare's words are fine, but you are already dead!" she snapped. "Or so you claim."
Pitcairn laughed. The sound was hollow. "That will be decided tonight." He turned his face from the sky and approached her. Once at her side, he stopped. "LaCroix will not let Mingo go. But I can take him from him."
"How?"
"At the place where this all began. In the cave where the Cherokee witch waits. I will take him there. When he is near death, she will think she can take my soul by attacking him." Pitcairn's lips twisted with a sneer. "But I shall not be there. I will withdraw and it is him she will take." His spectral body shuddered at the thought of final release. "Then, at last, I will be free."
"And Mingo damned."
"No, dear lady, he will be free as well. It is only if you let your master have him, that he will be damned."
Janette stared at him a moment and then nodded, once. "Oui."
"So, we have a deal?"
"What do you need from me? You have taken him over before."
"But not near LaCroix. I have killed two hundred." Pitcairn's eyes were empty pits into a lost soul. "He has killed for two thousand years. His evil is far more powerful than mine."
"So you need a distraction?"
"Oui," Pitcairn answered with a snort.
She considered it. This way, when Mingo escaped, the fault could not be laid at her slippered feet. Janette held her hand out and then retracted it, uncertain of the proper form for shaking hands with a ghost.
"Consider it done," she said at last.
