Drake Chronicles: 02 Blood Feud (8 page)

Amandine laughed. “You are quite right, Isabeau.”

“Except for Sabot,” she felt obliged to admit. “But he’s only a puppy.”

Amandine’s head maidservant plucked the gown off the hanger. “Madame.”

Amandine stood up to let another maid tie her panniers into place and secure her corset. The gown slipped over the top.

Isabeau scuttled forward to lift the hem so it wouldn’t catch on the edge of the vanity table. It was surprisingly heavy and she wondered how her mother could stand so tal under al that weight. Her wig tipped precariously to the side and she caught it with one manicured hand.

“Francine,” she said. “We’l need more pins.”

“
Oui, madame
.”

When the wig was secure again, Amandine turned to admire herself in the long cheval glass.

“Oh,
Maman
,” Isabeau breathed. “
Tu es si belle!
” When she was grown-up, she was going to wear lip color and a heart-shaped patch on her cheek, just like her mother.

Amandine smiled. “I remember watching your grandmother prepare for bal s.” She reached for a hair-ribbon-length piece of cloth just like her dress. “Here,
petite.
I didn’t need this after al .

You may keep it.”

Isabeau took it with a wide surprised smile. “
Merci
.” She rubbed it against her cheek reverently. She fol owed her mother out through her bedchamber down the mahogany steps, staying behind the maids. Her father, Jean-Paul St. Croix, waited at the bottom of the staircase. The duke was perfectly arranged, from his rol ed wig to the gold buckles on his heeled shoes.

“
Ma chere
,” he greeted Amandine. “Spectacular as always.” Isabeau kept close to the maids, sneaking behind a potted cypress tree when they abandoned her for other duties. She ran to the bal room as fast as she could, ducking around footmen bearing jugs of wine and champagne, and servants carting gilded chairs and baskets of sugared fruit. She crept into the armoire, which usual y stored excess table linens. Every single piece had been needed for the buffet tables at the back of the room and the more formal dining room across the hal , so the cupboard was empty. She fit perfectly inside once she’d drawn her knees up to her chest. She left the door open a sliver; it was even better than peering through the keyhole.

It didn’t take long for the first guests to arrive. She could just imagine the beautiful carriages pul ing up the limestone lane, drawn by magnificent horses with plumes in their manes. The footmen rushed through the bal room, lighting the last of the candles and oil lamps. The crystal chandeliers glittered over tables laden with al manner of delicacies: strawberries, marzipan birds, sugared orange peels, roast goose, oysters, lavender biscuits, petits fours, and chocolate-glazed candies.

Isabeau rubbed her stomach, which was growling at the sight of so many desserts. She’d missed her supper by hiding away from her nurse.

She forgot her hunger the very moment the guests began to pour through the doors. The women laughed behind painted lace fans, the men bowed with sharp precision. She could smel the heavy perfume and eau de toilette mingling with the warm pâtés being circulated on silver platters. Champagne flowed like rivers at springtime. The orchestra began to play and the music fil ed every corner, even the dark space of the armoire.

music fil ed every corner, even the dark space of the armoire.

She imagined this was what angels’ music must sound like, al pianoforte and harp and the soaring, ethereal voice of the opera singer.

Her parents joined the crowds just as the gaming tables began to fil up. Painted cards and coins changed hands.

Someone’s pet poodle growled at the singer. Isabeau felt her stomach clutch hungrily again and wondered if she dared escape her safe hiding spot. If she was caught not only would she be sent straight to bed, which would be mortifying enough, but she’d also never be able to use this armoire to hide in again. She chewed on her lower lip, considering. Final y the smel of al that food grew to be too heavy a temptation.

She eased the door open a few inches, waiting to see if she’d been noticed. A couple passed by, intertwined. They paused, kissing passionately. Isabeau made a disgusted face.

The man looked as if he was trying to eat that lady’s face. It didn’t look comfortable at al . He should eat some supper if he was that hungry.

She slipped out, landing quietly to hide behind the woman’s gown. Her panniers stuck out so far on either side of her, she was the width of three people. Neither she nor her companion noticed. They seemed to be breathing rather hard, as if they’d run a race around the garden. Isabeau abandoned them for the thick brocade curtains, pouncing from one window to another.

Most of the guests were laughing too loudly, drinking strawberry-garnished champagne, and losing money with great shouts at the card tables. No one noticed her. It felt a little like being inside a kaleidoscope, swirling with colors and sounds and smel s. It made her a little dizzy and she was glad for the relative safety of the buffet tables. She rol ed under the first one she could reach, wel hidden behind the floating white tablecloths.

From this angle, the gleaming parquet floor showed the scuff marks of fine shoes and beeswax drippings from the candles.

She’d never seen so many silk slippers and silver buckles in her whole life. She couldn’t wait to host parties of her own, just like this one.

She slipped her hand up the back of the table, where it was nearly against the wal , and took a blind handful. She’d been hoping for madeleines or a puff pastry fil ed with custard. The oyster was slimy and thick, though its shel was pretty enough.

Perhaps she’d keep it on her desk and use it to display her treasures: a stone with a perfect hole through its center, a stalk of dried lavender, Sabot’s baby canine.

The second handful was far more worth the risk of discovery.

The cakes were light and smeared with icing and raspberries.

They stained her fingertips red, like blood. She thought her teeth must be red too and she bared them like an animal, grinning. She’d have to remember this trick the next time she played with Joseph, one of the young stable boys. It would scare him sil y and she would be avenged for the prank he’d played on her last month with that bucket of cold water.

She ate until she was ful and sleepy and her teeth ached a little from al the sweets. She curled into a little bal and pil owed her cheek on her hands. One of the poodles sniffed his way her cheek on her hands. One of the poodles sniffed his way toward her and lay down beside her, licking the last of the raspberry juice off her fingers. One by one, the little dogs found her, creeping under the tablecloth in their diamond col ars to lick her face and snore themselves to sleep against her. Smiling, she fel asleep as wel under her canine blanket, holding the ribbon of her mother’s dress.

CHAPTER 7

Isabeau

The Host led us through the woods at a comfortable pace. He was stumbling enough to leave a trail of broken branches and blood. He healed quickly though and by the time he stopped in a shadowed clearing, there was only the scent of blood remaining, and only very faintly. Logan nodded to a tangle of blackberry bushes. The thorns would pul and scratch but it offered the best protection; everything else was delicate feathery ferns. We crouched silently, waiting. I tried not to remember how my mother had loved blackberry tarts best of al , tried not to feel the scrap of worn silk burning in my pocket. I was grinding my teeth loud enough that Logan nudged me, frowning.

I tethered myself firmly to the present, focused on the mud under our feet, the thicket of leaves, the white flowers glowing on the border of the meadow, the Host standing in the tal grass.

The gleaming marble and gilded scrol work of the château of my youth faded slowly. Dusty grapes became ripe blackberries, piano music became the silence of crickets sensing predators nearby, lavender fields became a dark forest.

The Host wasn’t alone for long, as two more joined him from the direction of the Drake farms.

“They got Nigel,” one of them spat. He was pale enough to gleam in the moonlight, as if he’d been covered in crushed pearls.

“Got me too,” the one we’d tracked muttered. “Isabeau stabbed me, the bitch. Ripped my damn shirt. Since when do the royal courts have Hound whelps for backup?”

“Everything’s changing, Jones.” The third Host shrugged pragmatical y. “Was Montmartre’s gift delivered?”

“Doorstep,” Jones confirmed. “As ordered.” Logan’s lips lifted off his protruding fangs but he didn’t make a sound. I was impressed at his control. I’d assumed the Drake brothers were a wild, undisciplined lot, being royal and al . It would have been easy to forget by their fine manners that they’d been exiled from the royal court since Solange was born, and strongly discouraged from attending for at least a century before that. They al carried themselves with a certain flair and confidence.

Jones was ful y healed now and pacing a rut in the ground.

“Any word from Greyhaven?”

The name hit me so hard I flinched as if I’d been struck, then I went as stil as a hungry lion spotting a gazel e. A red haze covered my eyes, as if I looked through a mist of blood. If I’d had a heartbeat, it would have been loud as a blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. Time seemed to go backward, speed up, and then stop altogether.

“He’s with Montmartre, waiting for the right time.”

“We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?” Jones grumbled.

“We’ve waited long enough, haven’t we?” Jones grumbled.

“He wants everything to be perfect this time. No surprises.” The first smirked. “Wel , not for us anyway. The Drakes wil be plenty surprised.”

I knew they were stil talking but their words barely registered.

Al I could hear was that one word.

Greyhaven.

Greyhaven.

My skul felt like a church bel , ringing the same sound over and over again.

I hissed, tensing to leap out of the bushes, my vengeance closer than it had ever been before. They knew where Greyhaven was, could lead me to him so I could kil him for murdering me.

I never made it out of my crouch.

Logan was on me, quick as a hornet. His hand pressed over my mouth, his eyes flaring a warning above me. He was close enough that I could have bitten him, if he hadn’t had my jaws locked together. His body chained mine to the ground. He was stronger than I’d given him credit for, but I was faster and could have flipped him into the nearest tree.

Only the realization that I’d been about to give us away altogether made me pause.

Even Charlemagne was smart enough to stay quiet, though he was trembling with the need to protect me. I wanted the fight with Jones, with al of them, even if it meant giving away our only tactical advantage: a mere hint of a plan whispered by a group of Host in the woods. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly more than we’d had at the beginning of the evening.

And I didn’t care. I would have thrown it al away for a chance at Greyhaven.

And Logan knew it.

He stayed where he was, stretched out as if he were protecting me from a rain of fiery arrows, a crumbling mountain, some unseen danger. But the danger wasn’t anywhere but inside my chest, circling like a vulture.

It took every ounce of strength I could muster not to hurl him off me. I forced my body to soften infinitesimal y, molding me into the undergrowth. Even at that smal surrender, Logan didn’t move. His scent was strong: anise, wine, a faint trace of mint. I knew I smel ed like scalded wine and sugar to him—Kala told me I always smel ed that way when I was furious beyond logic.

The rage boiling on my skin didn’t faze him. His fangs didn’t retract; his face stayed mere inches from mine. Most vampires cowered away from a shamanka’s handmaiden when she was in this state. Logan was too busy listening to the others to cower.

“Any nibbles from the old guard?”

“Yes, most of those loyal to Lady Natasha’s memory fled when the Drake woman murdered her, but a few stayed behind for a more subtle attack. They’l join with us when it’s time.”

“Good. Let’s get the hel out of here. The Drake boys are probably stil out looking for us.”

The Host took off between the trees, toward the mountain.

Logan stayed where he was and we stared at each other for a long, strange moment. In the shadows, his eyes were the color long, strange moment. In the shadows, his eyes were the color of sugared limes. Lovely and distracting, but not
that
distracting.

When our enemies were far enough away, I heaved him off me with a sudden violent jerk.

I rose into a crouch, panting. My body might not need air but breathing remained a habit, especial y in times of stress. Logan hit the trunk of a birch and twisted in the air to land on the bal s of his feet right front of me.

We both crouched, fangs bared, muscles tensed for attack.

We might have stayed there for the rest of the night if it wasn’t for Charlemagne, who whined once, confused. It was like a flame was blown out.