“There were two of them,” she said suddenly, standing up.
“Two what, poppet?” Brautus said with a frown.
“Two vampires.” She laid the tapestry aside to pace the tiny open space before the hearth, the room suddenly feeling too small. “The first one came and tried to hurt me, to take—” She reached into her pocket and took out the crumpled parchment she had made somehow with magic and her blood—her mother’s druid blood. “To take the map,” she finished. “He looked like Simon at first, but it wasn’t him. I could tell it wasn’t him. He wanted this map.”
“What map?” Brautus said.
“This map of the catacombs,” she said, handing it to him. “Don’t even ask me how it came to me.”
“Where is this other vampire now?” Mother Bess said, not disbelieving, just confused.
“He went out the window,” she answered. “Simon came in, and they fought. They both changed, not just Simon. The other vampire’s face kept changing.” She trembled at the memory, but she wouldn’t let herself stop. “He changed into someone Simon knew, then a man I believe was Michel, then…” She looked at Brautus. “He changed into my father.”
“Holy Christ,” he murmured.
“He asked me again for the map, and I almost gave it to him—I would have if Simon hadn’t stopped me. It was like I couldn’t help myself.” She looked down at the map again, remembering the monster’s voice, the tender voice of her father. But her father would never have kissed her that way; he would never have hurt her. “Simon attacked him. He protected me. He changed into a wolf, and the other one changed into a dog—a big black dog I had seen before, Mother Bess, and taken for the grim. They fought, and Simon pushed him out the window.” She looked at Brautus. “Then you came in.”
“Yes,” Mother Bess said, staring into the flames. “The wolf could make a son.”
“So how do I help him?” Isabel demanded. “If this other vampire is this wolf I’m supposed to kill, how do I help Simon?”
“Help him do what?” Brautus asked with bitter humor.
“Save him,” she answered. “You both seem to know so much about demons and vampires; tell me how to save my love.”
“He cannot be saved, little girl,” Mother Bess said, patting her hand. “If he is a child of the wolf, he is damned.”
“No,” Isabel said, pulling away. “I will not believe that.” She turned back to the tapestry. “He came here for a reason.” She looked up. “Where is Orlando?”
“Locked up in the cellar,” Brautus answered. “I didn’t want him running off to help his master.”
“Good,” she answered, taking the map back from Brautus and putting it into her pocket. “I want to talk to him.”
“Wait, my lady.” Mother Bess caught her by the wrist in a grip so tight, it hurt her. “You are the champion,” she said. “If you do not destroy the wolf, Charmot and all who live in this forest will be lost.”
“I believe you,” Isabel answered. “But I have to know which demon to destroy.”
12
Simon woke up in the dark. The pain was gone, so he knew he must be healed, but he still couldn’t stand. He was sitting against a rough stone wall with his hands over his head, shackled at the wrists, and his legs straight out before him. Heavy chains were shackled to his ankles as well.
A spark flashed in the dark. “Awake at last.” A vampire who looked like the thick-witted brigand Michel stood beside a table at the other end of the damp, lowceilinged cave. But in truth, Simon knew he was Lucan Kivar.
“I killed you,” Simon insisted, struggling to pull his arms free. He had broken chains before in his demon state; he could break these.
“You know quite well you did not.” He lit a second candle. “Even if you had been too stupid to realize it yourself, that insect you keep with you would have told you.” Simon gave the chains another rattling pull, and Kivar smiled. “You’re wasting your strength.” He carried the candle to another corner of the cave, illuminating a huddled mass that sat up as he squatted beside her and became a girl, bound and gagged. “Those chains will hold even a vampire for quite some time.” He touched the girl’s cheek, and she flinched, her gag muffling a scream.
“Who is she?” Simon asked, struggling to keep the horror he felt from his tone.
“No one,” Kivar answered. “Would you ask the cook the name of the sheep when she served you mutton?” He stood up and smiled. “Of course, being an Irishman, you might.”
“What do you know of Irishmen?” Simon scoffed with a deadly smile of his own. “The only one you ever met cut off your head and stabbed you through the heart before you could get acquainted.”
“Is that the way it went?” He frowned. “I thought Roxanna stabbed me through the heart.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters.” He came back to Simon, leaving the candle beside the weeping girl. “Did you kill her, by the way? I know she would have asked you to do it.” A shadow of fury passed over his thick-featured face, pasty white in the flickering light. “Stupid girl.”
“Would you care?” He held his wrist chains stretched taut, pulling them with all his strength but silently now, and he thought he felt them begin to give way just a bit.
“Of course I would,” Kivar answered, his careless smile returning. “I care for all my children.” He touched Simon’s cheek, and Simon snapped at his hand like a dog, unable to stop himself. This monster had kissed Isabel, pretending to be him, stealing his very shape. “But I must say, Simon, that you are my favorite so far.”