Spoilers: 'Black Buddha,' 'Fever,' Faithful Followers,' 'Francesca,' and Homer's 'The 
Odyssey.' (Okay, the Homer is optional <g>)

Thanks to High Priestess Jules and Tracy Sue for beta reading the first and second drafts.

Thanks to Nancy Kaminski for giving this story her 'I Don't Like Vachon, But I Liked 
This Story' seal of approval!

Major indebtedness to Bonnie 'Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training' Pardoe for discussing 
all the nuances, finding all the spots that just didn't feel right, answering my questions, 
and making the third draft come together! Hurrah!

Disclaimer: Any resemblance between persons who know what they are doing and 
myself is strictly coincidental. 

Words and Meanings (01/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     When I found him, he looked like death. We all do, in a way. It's not a concept of 
nuclear physics or anything. That first night, we capture our own mask of death, the one 
we'll reveal whenever the occasion warrants. It's appropriately painted in red, gold and 
white - blood, fire and purity – the colors of what we crave staining our lips, what we fear 
burning in our eyes, and what we have lost bleaching our skin. 

     We carry that mask for the rest of our existence, most features tucked out of sight, 
ready to spring on the gullible and innocent when their throats are yielding and their 
chances of escape are slim. Believe me, their chances are always slim, and yielding is 
always the easier route. Fighting, resisting, taking the path that only a fool or a martyr 
would travel, that's much trickier to handle. I should know. I wore a rut in the path of 
rebellion until my tires jammed and spun, leaving me stuck where I am now...in 
Toronto...waiting...and he still looks like death, looks like it for real this time.

     But that's not what I'm trying to explain. This isn't a story about the finer points of 
rebellion; it's not about death; it's a story of respect and love, how you find them for 
people and things that you never see coming.

    So he looked like death - not 'death warmed over.' Vampires may be the equivalent of 
Hell's soldiers on a weekend pass, but when our eyes are closed, we just look cold. He 
was no different. 

     He was like something primitive, early man thawed out from a glacier, gone on a 
binge to make up for ten thousand years with no woolly mammoth bones to pick clean as 
the remnants of frost clung to his jaw. He'd made do with what was at hand. That's what 
he was – his teeth buried in the belly of a rat – he made a portrait of survival, the things 
we'll do when our urges drive us onward, the choices you make when you abandon the 
notion of rolling over and starving just because the alternatives aren't pretty. I didn't find 
him disgusting or repulsive. I didn't see him as a subspecies, something inferior to me. I 
admired him. I liked him. It was as simple as that. 

     You don't get it. I can tell from the look on your face. 

     Just think about it: he became a carouche, not because he was more evil or more 
depraved than the rest of us. Evil had nothing to do with it. Yeah, maybe he is amoral 
compared to you and me. Maybe not. Since when are we the experts on morals? When 
push came to shove, he didn't roll over and starve. I don't think that's a crime. No. 
Absolutely not. That is not a crime, and it's not something that makes him deserve 
belittling. That doesn't make him an abomination to the vampire race, if that's what you 
want to call us.

     What he does, what he's always done, is kill to live. He's not a glutton, not where life 
is concerned. He'll squander money like it was sand on the beach, he'll steal pennies 
from a blind man's cup, but when it comes to drawing a mortal's last breath, a rat's last 
breath, even, he paces himself. He takes his time, he has a method, he consumes as 
needed. 

     We should all be so tidy.

     It's the gluttony that makes us evil - not what we do, but the how and why we do it. 
It's the needless violence, the treating of humans like cattle, not like what they are: 
precious, every drop. That is evil. Sure, we want to kill. We're vampires. Drinking blood 
is the end all, be all, of pleasure for us. It's our vicarious existence. It's how we feed our 
hunger. It's how we find ecstasy. It's the one way we have to connect with other 
creatures that eclipses and obliterates anything else imaginable. 

     Sure we want to kill. We want to kill all the time. Being tempted, though, is nowhere 
near doing the deed. Temptation never put anyone in a coffin. Acting on temptation - 
now that's the type of greed that's buried civilizations and created legends.

     So there he was, a cold caption of death, feeding out of necessity on your standard 
brown and scurrying breed of stowaway, and for the first time since I'd kissed the sun 
goodbye some sixty years before I saw someone that I wanted to know better. I wanted to 
talk to him, to understand where he found the strength to be who he was - someone who 
didn't fit in with the grand scheme laid out for vampires, soldiers, humans...

    His head shook in a spasm as he sucked the final drops from what was now a corpse. 
The night was windy, and we were nearing land - expected to drop anchor by sunrise. As 
I supported myself, perched on the yardarm overhead, I watched how his body rocked to 
the sway of the waves beneath the ship's hull, like a cradled infant being soothed out of 
the pain of teething. 

     And, just like an infant, he worked on instinct. He didn't realize I was there because 
I'd made a sound, or because he'd caught a glimpse of me from the corner of his eye. 
Once the rat ran dry, his attention began to focus on other things and he simply knew. His 
posture became contradictory, crouching toward me, even as his face showed suspicious 
rebuke.

      "Pri-va-see, mindja!" His eyes narrowed - they had subsided to a curious green once 
he stopped drinking - and I could guess that he'd begun to speculate that a stranger to bite 
on this quiet nook of the deck might be to his advantage. He lifted his nose as if to test 
the scents carried on the sea air, his nostrils twitching for information. He tilted his head 
toward me, a sailor searching for a siren.

     After a moment, he frowned, boxed his own ears to teach them a lesson, then leaned 
forward to give listening for my heartbeat another shot.

      I let go of my grip on the spar, my landing on the deck causing a soft rush of sound 
like the echo of sea spray against the hull. To counter that fluidity in my movements, I 
deliberately scuffed the leather soles of my boots against the wooden planks as I 
approached him, an amiable and casual fellow. "Your name's Screed, isn't it?"

     He was a member of the crew. I'd seen him before, during one of my brief nighttime 
forays out of my cabin. He was always the last to leave the rigging and join the drinking 
and songs, but he was equally the last to leave the drinking, the last to stop the dance, the 
last to drop the tune. I'd observed him and the rest of the hands going about their toil and 
their - far-rarer, but well-earned - spates of leisure, but I always held back from any 
attempt to mingle with their group. I wasn't being exclusive, nor were they. And when I 
watched them, it wasn't longing for something I'd lost, but a simple acceptance that once 
you slipped the bonds of the mortal coil, you couldn't go back. 

     Some lines weren't wise to cross - I was on a cramped ship with a limited blood 
supply in my cabin meant to last me until I could fly safely to land - why risk revealing 
what I was by getting too close to two dozen heart-pounding, fresh feasts? I hadn't had a 
decent meal since leaving port in St. Augustine, and I'd been limited to poorly preserved 
rations poured from a cask for weeks, but I'd resolved to avoid draining anyone aboard 
ship. The middle of the ocean was no place to inspire a vampire hunt.

     That's what I felt as I watched them: not longing, but acceptance of my place in the 
world as someone apart, someone bounded.

     That bothered me. I spent my days shifting restlessly in my cabin wondering over it. I 
was over eighty years old. I'd played a part in conquering an empire and had roamed 
from one end of a continent to the other. I could fly. I could obfuscate a mortal's 
thoughts. I didn't age or feel injuries that would cripple most humans. Give me any five 
men on the ship, and I'd have the strength to beat them. Eight? Maybe. Ten? If I was 
lucky, I could handle ten, but why ask for trouble?

     The complacency gnawed at me. Since when had I stopped asking for trouble? When 
had the promise of adventure begun to outweigh the risk? When had I begun to accept 
that there were things I couldn't do, battles I couldn't win? When had I started to give in 
to inevitability?

     At another time in my life, I wouldn't have been a passenger with the luxury of 
keeping myself below deck during daylight hours. I would have worked side by side with 
the ship's crew, hard labor my only currency across the Atlantic. It wasn't that I'd paid 
for this voyage in coin; my payment had taken the form of the power of suggestion. The 
point was, in other circumstances, mortal circumstances, I would have numbered among 
those men. We would have been compatriots, shipmates, maybe some of them would 
have even been friends.

     I realized that I didn't have any friends. I hadn't had a soul I could speak my mind 
with since the day I died. All I'd had for the past sixty years was The Inka on my tail, 
running me to ground. No one had conversations with The Inka. No one hung out with 
The Inka, shooting the breeze. One listened. One ignored and looked for a way to escape. 
Meanwhile, The Inka ranted on about moon goddesses, eternal marching orders and 
responsibility. It got to where one picked fights with The Inka just to get him to shut up. 
It got to where one forgot how to listen, where one simply reacted without making a 
conscious choice. It got to where one fell into habits. It got to where the only face you 
ever recognized belonged to the only person you couldn't stand, the person responsible 
for you being dead in the first place.

     That's where I was. The only person I could count on to be around - I couldn't be 
friends with him. He was my enemy, a materialization of everything I didn't want. He 
applied his mortal pecking order to everything he did, as if he was still some kind of 
chosen warrior, as if his entire empire hadn't been disemboweled by the Spanish, as if 
becoming a vampire was simply an extension of Inkan manifest destiny to guard the four 
corners of the earth.
     
     My world was round. It had no corners. It just kept running and moving. It had no end, 
no goal. It kept going until it reached the point where it started, then kept on, passing over 
the same ground but never stopping. 

     I never could settle for other people's expectations - that's why I'd left my 
apprenticeship in Trujillo and joined with mercenaries. I'd always resisted the pecking 
order - that's why I'd ended up scouting, working in Pizarro's advance troops. I had more 
autonomy that way; it gave me the feeling that I didn't belong to the Spanish Crown, but 
that things were the other way around - that the world belonged to me.

     See, at this point I only wondered if The Inka wasn't getting to me. I hadn't figured 
out the entire problem, only the part where I recognized that, as much as I'd always 
pushed to be on my own and call my own shots, without the mortal ties of family or 
soldiering to pull against, I was at loose ends. I *needed* The Inka to chase me. It grated. 
It bothered the hell out of me, and I had a lot of hell in me to bother.

     So looking down at Screed - he hadn't answered me, but I was pretty sure I'd gotten 
his name right - I felt relieved. I felt distracted. I felt interested. I'd found another New 
World, another vampire, and I hadn't even been looking. 

     I bent at the knees, crouching so that I could meet his gaze at the same level. Yeah, I 
hadn't seen that much of him in my time above board. I hadn't spoken with him, but that 
didn't mean I hadn't gotten a sense of the man he was.

     He was different. The other mates on ship were on a job. They set foot on this boat 
looking for the payday when they reached home port again. The others had families on 
shore - wives to miss, children to feed. Ferrying goods across the ocean from colonies in 
the New World was a means to an end for them.

     Screed was a seaman. He treated the ship as though she was fashioned out of gold 
rather than wood. He looked at the water as though it was a lover. He had a passion for it, 
a delight in it, and it didn't seem to bother him that everyone else aboard didn't share 
emotions for the same target as he, even though they were all supposed to be sailors 
together. His pride in himself and what he loved was enough to make him satisfied. Even 
from a distance, I could see that Screed was a man happy and content with his lot.

     And now I found he was a vampire, a vampire with the taste for rats. For the first few 
moments, I wondered how he managed. No, not how he managed his diet, but how he 
satisfied the curiosity of the rest of the crew and the captain, how he avoided swabbing, 
polishing and securing during daylight hours without drawing comment. Sure, he didn't 
put aside ship work in the evenings in favor of leisure. He toiled until he was done, but 
while I had observed him see to the ship after dark, I'd never seen him take a night watch. 
Curiosity brimming in my thoughts, I asked him again, "Your name is Screed, right?"

     While I stood there expectantly, waiting for him to talk, to answer my questions, his 
expression transformed. Suddenly, he wasn't leaning forward, but jerking back to press 
against the wall, as though I'd just informed him we'd gone aground, and we were never 
leaving.

     "Not ya bleedin' business! Lawkes, but tha' 'old's brimmin' wit' tha' Señors Fang-
You-Very-Much, innit? Gets ta where h'a mate can't pull h'a line wi'out trippin' oe'r 
som'in wit' tusks! H'a very too close h'encounter, mindja. Aye liked me neck wit' h'a 
few less 'oles 'n tha' juice ta spare, kennay? Now git scrammed. Aye've got riggin' ta 
h'un-tangle."

     I had to listen to Screed, to listen intently, otherwise I'd have had no idea what he'd 
just said. It took me a moment to decipher, but I caught on to a couple of things. "There's 
another vampire on board?"

     "Didn' Aye jes' say that h'in tha' Lizzie's H'english?"

     "No."

     "Spaniards." He shook his head in disgust as he stood. Caution abandoned, he began 
to swagger across the deck, full of himself. He had some reason. It hadn't been that long 
since the defeat of the Armada. Spain may have dominated a glorious domain of riches 
and power thus far this century, but the past couple of years, my homeland had screwed 
up a pretty good deal. I'd have joined him in shaking my head, but that wasn't what 
interested me so much at the moment.

     "Vampires aren't tied to borders," I said dismissively. I wanted to believe it. 
"Where?" I demanded. "Who is the other?"

     "Not too jolly, 'e was. Like you," Screed said. "Dark hair like ya, double." He added, 
encouraged by my obvious displeasure at the news he was sharing. "Spoke Spanish - h'at 
least ya don' do that. Ya got h'a funny h'accent h'on ya tongue, s'don't git h'excited that 
Aye'm h'impressed," he added. "Nah, tha' h'other bloke's was h'enough like ya ta pod 
h'a pea. 'E was triple h'all yar yar yar wit' tha' questions, h'all 'Oo's h'on tha' ship?' 
'Where h'is 'e?'" Screed waved his hands in the air, whipping up his conflagration of 
memory.

     I'd straightened, but remained stationed in place. My eyes followed Screed's path as 
he rambled and complained his way around the deck. "Did you tell him?" As soon as the 
question left my mouth, I realized the answer.

    "Wot's ta tell? Didn' bloody know ya from King Triton h'at tha' time, now, did Aye? 
Rotten bit o' navigation, that. Fella went straight from tha' shakin' ta tha' growlin'. Nip 
an' tuck h'on ol' Screed." He rubbed the side of his neck as if it troubled him. Drawing 
his hand away, he stared at the clean lines of his palm with a frown. I could see he was 
mystified. He apparently expected to feel a wound, but the discontinuity of finding his 
flesh undamaged left him bewildered. "Aye've not felt roight since 'e put tha' bite h'on 
me. H'a fever, like. S'all strange, like there's som'thin' h'under me skin dancin' h'a jig." 
He held out one hand angrily, confronting me with it. "Me 'ands. They've gone h'all 
lady-lily-white. H'a mate 'asn't got 'ands like this. H'all tha' rough Aye worked inta 
h'em - finito - like Aye nev-a' 'eaved h'a rope h'in h'all me days."

     "He brought you across," I said quietly.

     Screed looked at me, his eyes uncomprehending. 

     I tried again, wondering if it was my supposed accent or a simple desire to disbelieve 
that lay at the root of his mystery. "You're a vampire. Like he is. Like I am." I let loose 
the reins of my control a little, donning my death mask just long enough to flash the 
hungry glow buried in my eyes and stretch my aching teeth.

     My display snapped him out of silence. "Like ya Aye'm nev-a'. Didn' catch me 
suppin' h'on tha' bos'n, didja? Aye..." Screed's voice trailed off, his gaze drifting to the 
planks, to the torn body of the rat. He knelt beside it, scooping the inanimate creature off 
the deck, pushing a finger wonderingly into the teeth marks. Pulling it back, finding his 
finger glazed with red, he spontaneously sucked the tip into his mouth on an in-drawn 
breath. He understood now. "Like ya Aye'm nev-a' not."

     The Inka had obviously stowed away on the ship. I didn't understand why he'd waited 
the entire voyage to look for me, unless he'd wanted the option of flying to land, just in 
case things didn't work in his favor. I wasn't sure why I hadn't felt his presence, though I 
suspected it had something to do with him not budging an inch from his hiding place the 
entire trip. Starving, in need of building his strength before coming after me, The Inka 
had drained the first mortal he'd come across - Screed. 

     I doubt he'd meant to convert the sailor. I was certain The Inka had left him for dead. 
He'd carelessly left Screed to wake up with the first hunger gnawing in his gut and no 
one but a brown rodent to give an explanation as to what came next.  

     I gave Screed a half-hearted smile, echoing his words. "Like me, you're never not." I 
wanted to believe it. I wanted to be different, like Screed. I sure as hell didn't want to be 
like The Inka. 

     "Least there's always plenty o' squeakers h'on board. Occupational diet, come ta 
think h'of h'it." Screed began to whistle, then started to look around for his next course.

     I watched the content expression on his face, and I became humble. Here's a guy 
who's just found out he'll crave sucking on rats for all eternity, and he didn't even blink. 
No dramatic problem, no quest for revenge, no recriminations - Screed just clapped his 
hands and got on with it.

     It might sound crazy to you, but when I first met Screed, it never occurred to me that 
his hunger was something to revile. I never imagined he was some lower form of 
vampire, and if anyone had called him a carouche then, I would have thought the title was 
meant as a compliment. I thought he was stronger than me. I thought he was better than 
me, I really did.

     I wanted to stick around and talk to him some more, but I knew the score. "I'm glad 
for you." Now I was the one clapping my hands together, getting on with it. "You'll do 
all right, and maybe I'll see you next time I travel by sea."

     Screed paused, a squirming rodent dangling in one hand. "Wot? Ya kin stay h'an 'elp 
me catch h'a nibble, V-Man y V-Man, roight?"

     I shook my head, holding back a smile. V-Man. He coined terms out of the blue and 
called it the Queen's English. What was 'V-Man' supposed to mean? Vamp-man? Very-
not mortal? I tucked the term away, promising myself that I would remember it even as I 
turned him down. "You said it yourself - The Inka's looking for me. I'm jumping ship."

     "Too bad fer you," Screed said. I could tell he meant it sincerely. Heading for land 
was not his idea of a welcome destination. "Tha' H'inka, hmm? Fine part o' yer 'Vamps 
'Ave No Borders' jammie. You, mate, h'are in-...in-..." Screed rubbed the fingers of his 
rat-free hand together. "Wot h'is h'it? Wot's tha' word?"

     "Inconsistent," I suggested.

     Screed snapped his fingers. "In-consissy-tent. That's wot ya h'are, innit?" He didn't 
wait for a response, sinking his teeth into the rat's belly, letting its protesting squeal work 
as a conversation closer.

     Inconsistent? Me? I shrugged. There were worse things to be.

     I turned to go, lifting my face to the night sky, pulling a direction from the stars. My 
feet seemed glued to the deck. I wanted to leave, but yet I didn't. Inconsistent...

     I considered the possibilities. What if I remained on ship? What if, instead of running 
again, I stuck around and had this war out with The Inka once and for all? That was a 
piece of inconsistent that sounded appealing.

     I didn't have a chance to congratulate myself, though. I had already run out of time 
and the advantage of striking first. I could feel The Inka behind me, rushing closer. I 
whirled around to block him and grunted in astonishment when he didn't hit me.

     I saw him land a blow instead, saw him plow into Screed's side while the sailor was 
still preoccupied with his meal. I heard Screed shout an expletive involving goats and 
unusual husbandry practices, and I felt the urge to laugh. I gave in to it. The Inka glared 
briefly over his shoulder at me, a look that meant both the sailor and I must be mad or 
simply mentally inferior. He didn't get it, couldn't understand a word of Screed's verbal 
jigsaw, especially the best abusive parts. I'm the one who understood. What I didn't 
glean out of Screed's scrambled vocabulary, I let my imagination wander the meaning, 
and I laughed all the harder.

     All at once, my laughter choked me. Inconsistency choked me. Not mine, but The 
Inka's. The Inka wasn't acting like a vampire with distinct desire and purpose of beating 
me to a pulp so he could give me a lecture on my failings as a soldier of honor. No, The 
Inka wasn't focused on me at all. I was scenery. I watched as he pushed Screed against 
the railing, and I struggled to make sense of it. 

    Screed launched over my enemy's head, grabbing the yardarm above, swinging so that 
he would land by the short steps leading to the lower deck. The Inka predicted his target 
and was waiting as Screed landed. He slammed one fist into the sailor's stomach, then, 
gripping Screed by an upper arm and knee, flung him down the stairs toward the hatch 
leading to the hold. I heard the sound of wood breaking, followed by shouts from the 
other shipmen, roused by the noise of a brawl. I raced forward, snapped out of my 
surprise at The Inka's determination to throttle someone other than me. What I saw - The 
Inka standing over the heap of a sailor - what I saw in The Inka's hand - it all clicked. 

     "No!" I shouted.

     As he brought his arm down, I jerked him from behind by his tunic with one hand 
while I seized his elbow with the other. He waved his fist with the stake in it rebelliously, 
jerking it so I had trouble grabbing the weapon. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't quit 
fighting me, and it made me furious. A small voice in my head argued that I was the one 
who wouldn't give in, that I was the one who wouldn't quit fighting The Inka. That 
subconscious similarity just made me see red. I let go of The Inka completely, and while 
he was dazed at his sudden freedom, I rammed his nose using my head.

     His face was bleeding, and I was happy to see it. The fact that The Inka could bleed at 
all was thanks in no small part to Screed losing his mortal life earlier in the evening. I 
wanted to see The Inka bleed, to see him give back every drop of it. He didn't deserve 
being conveniently fed any more than Screed deserved a stake in the heart for not 
remaining conveniently dead.

     The Inka stumbled, still shaken by my blow. I kicked his legs out from under him, 
and, once he was down, let my boots meet his rib cage and jaw to my heart's content. 
Deciding that I'd worked the resistance out of him, I straddled The Inka's chest, now 
easily plucking the stake from his fist.

      I tightened my fingers around the piece of wood until it began to splinter, holding it in 
front of his face until I saw The Inka's lids crack open to see what I was doing. "You're 
not staking him." My tone of voice didn't ask for an argument. As far as I was concerned, 
the argument was over.
       
     "He drinks from vermin," the Inka hissed. "He desecrates the vision of our moon 
mother, Mamaquilla!"

     I rolled my eyes. In The Inka's estimation, plenty of things desecrated Mamaquilla's 
vision, myself included. The guy didn't have vast room to criticize - he came from a 
civilization that served up guinea pigs on special occasions. Like that didn't count as 
consuming vermin because they were fluffier and some guy with earrings had deemed 
them sacred instead of wharf rats. Inkan asshole. 

     "He doesn't have a problem with it," I said obstinately, "so neither do I."

     Apparently that was the wrong answer, and I'd overestimated just how badly I'd 
whipped The Inka. I'd wanted to thrash Screed's blood out of him, but then I wasn't the 
one rosy and sated from a fresh kill. I'm the one who'd kept to sea rations. The Inka 
figured that out and flexed his muscles, flying us both off the deck as he jammed me into 
the mast, then let go of me to watch as I crashed into the planks below. The stake dropped 
from my fingers on impact, and The Inka was immediately in my face again, holding my 
arms to keep me prone.

     "Ow." The admission that my spine felt like a shell that had made the acquaintance of 
a wagon wheel sprung free before I could stop myself. To rob The Inka of any sense of 
accomplishment at the syllable, I immediately drew my mouth into a big smile, knowing 
it would offend him. To The Inka, battle was supposed to be taken seriously. Death was 
supposed to be taken seriously. He could get screwed. He had no business knowing how 
seriously I took death.

     The Inka growled at my glib expression. I chuckled. He returned the favor by crashing 
his forehead into my nose. I saw stars, but I kept chuckling. I felt like a poker had been 
lanced through my brain, all in all not the funniest of experiences, but the more it hurt, 
the more I laughed. 

     "How long are we going to keep doing this?" I wondered aloud. The Inka jabbed me 
in the eyes. "Ow," I repeated. As an answer, it was blinding. I heard the friction of hemp 
sliding against hemp, felt the rope scratch my skin as he slipped the noose around my 
neck. The only thought that would focus in my pounding head was the abstract notion 
that I'd favor a sailor tying knots to an Inka for any account.

     The Inka heaved, and I felt the rope constrict around my neck as my feet lifted in the 
air. I heard a yelp, but that could have just been me saying "Ow" again. Before I even had 
a chance to hover, the pressure pulling the rope taut disappeared, and I plummeted to the 
deck with a thump. My eyelids flickered. Worried and weakened, I turned my head, 
searching through fractured vision for Screed, for the stake, and for The Inka. Where 
were they?

    I needn't have worried. Screed had taken advantage of the stake abandoned on deck 
while The Inka had fun stringing me up by the throat. No sooner than my feet had left the 
boards, Screed had impaled our enemy. 

     I unfolded my body, pulled loose from the rope, and took in another glance as my 
eyesight began to recover. Climbing achingly to my feet, I commented for Screed's 
benefit, "You didn't stake him in the heart."

     The sailor looked no less pleased with his accomplishment. "Aye didn' mean ta stake 
'im h'in tha' 'eart. Hit tha' proper traject'ry, mate. Smacked me h'a wooden cannonball, 
Aye did."

      Having lost his hat in the scuffle, Screed untied the stretch of cloth that had been 
wound around his skull and knotted at his nape, revealing the sheen of his head shaved to 
the merest fragment of stubble with a sharp knife. It's a habit he's never given up on - 
something to do with avoiding lice and fleas in his hair.
 
     He spat into the fabric, then used it to scrub the blood from my face. I made a sound, 
not totally into the cleansing properties of saliva. "Screed, you have to stake a vampire in 
the heart to destroy them."

     He appeared affronted. "Wot? H'are ya tellin' me h'a vampy bloke's got no feelin' 
h'in 'is bangers 'n mash?"

     I pulled the rag away from my face and stared over Screed's shoulder for another 
inspection of The Inka and the stake extending prominently from his groin. I winced. "On 
second thought, your way is pretty effective." I clasped one of his lower arms and tugged. 
"Come on, we have to go."

     Screed tugged in the opposite direction, uncertain. "Where're we goin'?"

     "Dry land." I jerked my head toward his shipmates, some of them already advancing 
on us with torches and knives. "You don't really want to take them on, do you?"

      Screed shook his head, but he still didn't appear convinced about departing. "Aye've 
nev-a' felt roight h'on land."

     "I never said you had to stay there forever."

     That statement seemed to satisfy him. "Roight, time ta make like tha' fishes."

     I shook my head, then pulled him behind me as I ran for the upper deck. I climbed 
onto the prow railing, announcing, "We make like the birds."

     "Flyin'?" 

     "Flying," I confirmed.

     "Roight," Screed grumbled as he climbed to stand beside me. "Aye've been turned 
h'into h'a bleedin' forever h'albatross."

     When we reached land, we were only two miles away from Cadiz. Screed sampled the 
local wildlife as we hiked, but I waited until we were on the fringes of the city to hunt. 
This was a sea town, filled with traffic to and from the colonies, and the wharves were 
rife with aimless people easy to lure. 

     Screed immediately wanted to jump another ship out of port, but I told him that was 
what The Inka would expect. 

     I decided we should go to Trujillo. It was a stupid idea, I know. I'd left there a
lifetime ago - a little town built on granite, birthplace to so many conquistadors, or what 
some would say, the home of so many devils. I don't know what I expected to find. Some 
things were exactly as I had left them - the smells of orange blossoms and jasmine, the 
kestrels and the swifts circling the pan-tiled roofs, the same placard in the window of the 
shop where I'd been an apprentice carpenter when I was fifteen. Strangers were living in 
my house, though. Six children and their parents crammed into a space that had seemed 
small when it was just my mother and I. I didn't approach them, I simply watched and 
imagined how they came to take the place of the ghosts.

     The thought of ghosts meant a visit to the churchyard, crosses everywhere. Screed 
complained, but he didn't hold back as I weaved between the graves, careful not to touch 
anything sacred. I was searching for a name, my mother's name, but I never found it. As I 
tried to not dwell on the implications of that absence, another name leapt from a 
gravestone to sting me. I felt I should turn away from it, lower my gaze or at least bow 
my head, but I couldn't bring myself to move.

    Clouds passed over the moon and moved on through the sky. Curious and 
uncomfortable, Screed read the grave marker aloud. "'Jésus Domingo de Valdez...1506-
1532...Hijo Querido ...Soldado De Dios'" He looked at me quizzically. "Who's he?"

     I'd kept my expression impenetrable as he spoke. It struck me as odd that, with all the 
methods Screed had to twist words about, this time he hadn't warped a single syllable. 
"Like the slab says - dead guy, beloved son, soldier of God." The last phrase felt 
especially bitter and ironic on my tongue. These emotions felt strange and unwelcome, 
and I resolved to bury them, to refuse these moments of regret for every night to come. 
What-ifs would not become my kingdom, not if I could help it. I finally moved, angling 
my head so that my eyes met Screed's stare. I tilted up one corner of my mouth as I 
added with bravado, "Nobody I know."

    "Good thingee, likely. No mate wot runs wit' this crew makes fer h'any bleedin' 
Jesus."

     I rested my hand on his shoulder as I turned my back to the grave. "My sentiments 
exactly." We stepped selectively between the granite stones, heading back through the 
shadows toward the entrance of the churchyard.

     "While ya stinkin' h'up tha' place h'exactly, riddle me wot Aye'm supposed ta call ya 
'til Aye ship h'out from this crony 'andshake. Ya gonna h'answer ta 'V-Man' 
h'indefinite-like?"

     I shrugged. "Why not?"

     He remained silent as we left Trujillo, heading northwest across Spain toward 
Barcelona, but I knew that he'd understood the significance of that headstone, even as I 
denied it. Most of the time, my name stayed 'V-Man.' Every now and then - like when 
I'd argued for heading across the Pyrenees and into Languedoc instead of journeying out 
to sea - he'd address me as 'Señor J-D-Kiss-Me-Ass,' but I was willing to put up with 
that. It didn't matter what he called me as much as it mattered what he didn't. 

     Screed never mentioned Trujillo again, never spoke of that secret, even when he had 
reason to be roaring pissed enough to throw it back at me. I'd earned discretion from a 
man who'd sell anything for the right price. I've always tried to remember that. I haven't 
always been successful, but it has to matter that I remember it now, when he's so far 
gone...
 
     Look at him. Your doctor friend said that Screed is in the final stage. Do you think he 
can even hear me...telling his story? Not telling it like he would, that's for sure. 

     Even if he doesn't know it, it has to matter that I remember...doesn't it?

     "Is that why you told me? You're giving Screed his last rites?"

     Last rites. That's not the wording I'd use. I don't like the implications.

     "The religious aspect. I noticed. Interesting how you claim you realized your respect 
for religion after your mortal death, yet you choose to haunt a church."

     It's not a church. It's deconsecrated, just like me. 

     "Point taken."

     And it's off the subject. I haven't finished the story yet. 

     "What's left?"

     The best part. The worst part. The part where Screed never stopped being my friend. 
The part where I became 'Javier Vachon.' 

*********************************************
End of Part One 

Words and Meanings (02/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     It was during the next century. We were in France, around Lyon to be more specific. 
Our current hang was a bustling inn along the outer edges the town, the banks of the 
Saône in view to soothe Screed's spirits. We hadn't been there very long; most recently, 
we'd managed to get into a few scrapes during the English Civil War.

     Cromwell's massacre of any and all we'd helped through minor rebellions around 
Drogheda had taken some starch out of me. Once the slaughter and executions extended 
to decapitation, Screed announced, "Tha' Lion, tha' h'Unicorn, 'n tha' Pinhead Prince O' 
Parliament. Let h'em h'all sod h'off. Not wot me neck h'or ya Spanish ass h'is worth." 
With that, we crossed the Channel, ready to try our luck trawling in the shadows of the 
Sun King.

    The Inka had become a rare occurrence. Sure, we'd had a few scuffles and sightings - 
my enemy still seemed enthusiastic about wasting Screed and hauling me into a 
confrontation with responsibility, but by this time, he'd faded from being a constant 
concern. Europe was experiencing changes. It was a different place from the setting of 
my mortal life. Both Screed and I had adapted to some of the differences. For The Inka, 
though, this land was completely at odds with the place from which he'd come. I liked to 
imagine that he'd turned tail and run back across the ocean, waiting until I stepped onto 
his territory once more to pick the next fight. Sure enough, I didn't have another run-in 
with The Inka until I returned to what had become the British and French colonies. It 
fostered the idea in my head that I was stronger than him, more adaptable, and that I 
would always get away.

     Much to Screed's dismay, I'd taken to giving our innkeeper a fair stipend in exchange 
for a room. In his words, "H'iffen h'a vamp was meant ta pay fer 'is loot 'n lodgin', 'e 
wouldn' be h'unborn wit' tha' boozle jammie." True to his words, Screed kept to sacking 
out in the inn's stables free of charge. "Jes' like rollin' from tha' cradle ta tha' kitchen. 
Nev-a' short h'of h'a snack where's there's hay."

     So, while I paid for the privilege of a mildly lumpy mattress, heavy curtains, 
candlelight, and slightly fewer rats, Screed did little but eat his days away, settling in 
whatever stall was unoccupied for privacy while he cut into the local vermin population.

     He tended to cause comment wherever he went, drawing a rough crowd open to his 
kind of folk songs, his kind of cussedness, and his kind of dirty deals. He had no trouble 
fitting in among the common folk in the towns and villages we passed through. When we 
stayed long enough, Screed found a tie to every piece of business under the table and 
managed to work out his cut of it. He redirected every livre and pistole of his ill-gotten 
gains to his favorite pastime after sailing - squandering.

     Though the daylight sent us in different directions, the night invariably found Screed 
and I in the taproom of the inn or one of its sister establishments in the quarter. Screed 
had no shortage of cronies willing to throw dice with him, and on this occasion he'd 
found a gambling mark that didn't bleed him dry for a change.

     "Up h'a milley this week, V-Man," he chortled as he bought another round of ale for 
the house, financed, of course, by coins he'd 'borrowed' from someone else's purse. 
"H'at this rate, Aye'll h'own me h'own fleet. Wot say we take h'a run back ta tha' sea 
when we dust this joint?"

     "The sea, it is," I agreed, making no mention of the fact that Screed's plucked goose 
was an officer in the local treasury, not at liberty to settle the degree of debt he'd 
accumulated in any fashion that didn't involve robbing the king or the peasants. Any gold 
or silver my friend scored from either quarter would be ill-gotten gains of the most 
troublesome kind. Chances were Screed would never jingle a single livre of the thousand 
in his pocket, and, if he did, hitting the open ocean to escape prosecution for some minor 
bureaucrat's crime or oppression would become a necessity rather than a preference. I 
held my tongue and wished Screed well in his fun. "May Lady Luck go with you, my 
friend." Looking exceedingly pleased with himself, he returned to the gambling with a 
feverish glint in his eyes - not inspired by the hunger, but by Screed's favorite mistress - 
the promise of money.

     What did it matter if we had to flee Lyon in a hurry? He was having a good time, at 
least, and I...well, I was feeling restless, as if I was searching for something I couldn't 
name. Whatever it was, I certainly hadn't found it in France, so it would be just as well if 
we moved on to the next destination.

     Pulling myself from my thoughts, I scanned the faces of the taproom - the rowdy 
jubilance of the gamers surrounding Screed, the gusto of the travelers taking a hearty 
supper after a day on the road - and I decided that my restlessness was simply my own 
hunger in disguise.

     I carelessly met the gaze of one of the blowzy women looking for some paying 
company, but found myself turning away from the invitation in her eyes. No, she wasn't 
what I was hungry for. Shaking my head, making an apologetic motion to imply that my 
pockets were to let, I silently turned her down. When she moved closer anyway, in the 
mood to make an exception for my sake, I ducked out into the yard. 

     I covered myself in the darkness as the woman peered out from the inn, easily 
disappearing from sight within the hood of one of the many covered walkways that 
wound between and alongside buildings in Lyon. Relaxing as she gave a disappointed 
sigh and retreated to safety indoors, I decided to stretch my legs, strolling casually about 
the yard. It made for little more than a mild widening in the cobblestone street. I 
thoughtfully watched the movements of the other bodies who braved the night as I 
contemplated exactly what I might have a taste for if tavern wenches were no longer 
appetizers on the menu.

     The rapid beating of hooves approaching gradually overwhelmed the quiet. It was 
rather late for a wise traveler to be on the move, and the speed of the impending horse 
implied some urgency. I settled myself by the trough, crossing my arms over my chest, 
and prepared for whatever entertainment the intensifying clatter brought with it.

     Sure enough, the arrival consisted of a lone rider. I paid no attention to the horseman 
at first, because the horse - it felt like an insult to lump it as just another sample of the 
species. The power, the sleek dark beauty, how the hard journey left it barely winded - 
this animal easily outmatched any I had handled over my considerable journeys. I began 
to consider thoughts of 'boozling' myself a fine ride for my imminent exodus from Lyon.

     I turned my attention to the horse's current owner, evaluating my potential prey. The 
fabric of his garments, the sweep of the plume that extended from his hat - both 
suggested that he came from the upper echelon of French society. A leather baldric 
embedded with gold crossed his chest that matched the quality of his saddle. It housed a 
rapier, the pommel of which reflected at me with the distinct sparkle of encrusted rubies. 
His boots had been polished to such a degree that, even after a rough gallop in the 
countryside, a mask of dust couldn't eclipse their gleam. All in all, he looked better suited 
to visiting with the Quartermaster at Hôtel de Ville than tramping through this old corner 
of the city. He looked out of his element.

     Nobility, I thought to myself, can spare me a horse.

     The rider called for an ostler, his voice a haughty command that had the man who 
scrambled from the stable practically falling to his knees for absolution. It struck me that 
the rider was recognized in these parts, making me revise my previous assumption. A 
component of the stable hand's reaction was fear. But if the rider was local nobility, why 
was he here...a place for transients and craftsmen?

    The rider did not dismount, but snapped an order for the worker to immediately present 
him with someone capable of making vehicle repairs. "I have a damaged carriage an hour 
south of here, less on to D'Asile."

    While the ostler sputtered an apologetic reply, I mulled over what I had heard. Headed 
for D'Asile, were they? Even I, in the short sojourn we'd had in this town, had heard the 
rumors concerning this chateau on the other side of the Saône. The locals believed it 
haunted. Warnings circulated that those who ventured too near vanished in the night. I'd 
already decided it must be overly large, with drafty corridors, and the local hot spot for 
young lovers set on elopement.

     The sharp bite of the traveler's voice brought my attention back to his exchange. 
Apparently the hand had reluctantly informed him that there were no men with the skills 
he required available at this hour of the night; he could only offer the inn's spare 
traveling coach for conveyance; repairs would have to wait until the morning.

     "Unacceptable!"

     "A thousand pardons, M'sieur, but..."

     The rider removed his hat, pinpointing the ostler with his focused gaze as he sneered 
from the saddle. "I do not wish to hear your feeble excuses. The carriage will be fixed 
tonight!"

     Normally, I would have stepped in at this point and shared a few orders of my own, 
"You will give me your horse. You will stick your big French nose in a pile of shit," but 
the hypnotic quality of the rider's tone shot my Plan A out of the water. I'd let admiration 
of his stallion distract me from other signals.

     Hell, he was a vampire!

     "Oh, yes, yes, M'sieur," the stable hand agreed wholeheartedly. "The carriage will be 
fixed!" The hand's face fell into despair. "But, by my life, I don't know who will do it!"

     My ears picked up a barely perceptible growl of frustration. My nerves tingled as I felt 
the rising blood lust. I saw his eyes begin to change, channeling the fever of a hunger 
waiting to be satisfied. "On your life...Yes. That can be arranged."

     I'd found my cue. I stepped forward, clapping my hands together in sarcastic applause 
as I approached. The rider's gaze narrowed, judging my arrival down his nose as though 
he needed a spyglass to pick me out from the other peons. The temptation gnawed at me 
to yank him out of that fine saddle and dump him into the water trough, but I wasn't 
looking for a fight, at least not yet. 

     Like I said before, it's not the temptation itself that leads to evil, it's the acting on 
temptation. The closest I'd ever come to a well-meaning Samaritan, I held the image of a 
drenched courtier impotent in my thoughts, while I offered aloud with conversational 
helpfulness, "Not really a bright idea, taking a bite out of him. You never know who may 
come along." I smiled, letting my teeth glint just enough to show that, yes, I was mocking 
him. As if on instinct, I realized that he couldn't be that old for a vampire. If he'd been 
around as long as I had, snot-nosed nobility or not, he'd have learned that killing based 
on a quick temper was a quick way to get chased out of town by citizens wielding torches 
and long, pointy sticks, especially in France. Then again, maybe he believed he was 
exempt because he was snot-nosed nobility.

     I stopped as I reached the ostler's side. "You can go," I told him, using my own brand 
of vampire persuasion. "You're not needed here anymore."

    I watched the man walk blank-faced back into the stable, then glanced up at the rider. 
He'd caught on that I was a member of the undead club, but he wasn't impressed. The 
feeling was mutual. I didn't see much to like about him beyond his horse.

     "If you have finished wasting my time..." He tightened the reins, and the stallion 
began to dance, anticipating their departure. "I still need to find someone to do my 
repairs."

     Really, this guy was unbelievable. I had the feeling he expected me to tug my forelock 
and back away. Instead, I folded one arm across my chest, propping my other elbow on 
that hand as I stretched to rub my chin in speculation. "Actually, I was going to offer to 
help you out. I've done my share of repairs over the years...built stuff, broke the stuff, put 
the stuff back together...you get the picture. But if you'd really rather terrorize the locals, 
no problem, I can just as well hang around here and do...whatever." I let the last word 
dangle to suggest that 'whatever' might involve some protection of any terrorized locals.

    The rider summed up my offer in two words. "Of course." As if he should have known 
I could work with my hands just from the look of me. I shot a swift glance at the water 
trough again, reconsidering my decision to not dunk his big head. Acting on temptation 
could lead to trouble...but, in the meantime, it could be pretty damn fun.

      The other vampire donned his hat once more, accepting my offer with two additional 
words: "Follow me." With that, he and his fantastic horse spun and shot out of the yard in 
the direction from which they had come.

     "Didn't offer me a ride," I muttered, shrugging. "Figures."

     As swift as the stallion's pace measured by mortal standards, it wasted my time to fly 
at a speed allowing me to dutifully follow this stranger as he rode to the closest bridge 
and crossed the river. I asked myself why I was bothering, and my answer came as the 
twin sister of temptation: I was curious. What was this other vampire escorting in a 
carriage that required such urgency and attention?

     I grew impatient with my repetitive circling over the water, starting to feel more like a 
vulture than a bird of prey. I gave up following and pushed ahead, figuring that if I failed 
to locate the disabled vehicle, I'd have no trouble tracking down my new arrogant 
acquaintance again. I loved to fly; I loved moving fast. Proceeding with caution had 
never been one of my strong suits. I carelessly forged ahead.

    It turned out our destination hadn't been a single carriage, but a quartet of them. Three 
were black, hardy, functional and loaded with trunks. The other conveyance owned 
nothing to functionality and everything to appearance. The front half of it tilted at a 
lopsided angle toward the ground. 

     A confection in gold and white, gilt covered even the wheels to give the carriage the 
royal treatment. This vehicle had delicate lines, yet a matched team of four waited 
impatiently to continue the journey. They looked to be of the same prime quality and 
power of the stallion I'd coveted earlier. As the animals hooved their eagerness to gallop 
down the dusty road, I immediately untangled the nature of the problem. The coach was 
barely sturdy enough to withstand the force of a choirboy pissing on it, much less a hell-
bent road trip. It was astounding that the thing hadn't shattered in two as soon as it began 
to roll.

     A set of servants - an outrider, a coachman, a team of men in uniforms that reminded 
me of the coordinated collection of horseflesh they were trying to soothe - milled in the 
area around the vehicles. I'd landed quietly within the cover of the forest, but as soon as I 
stepped into view, the lot of them snapped to attention. The coachman pulled a pistol. 
"Move along, stranger!"

     Yeah, I moved along - I moved along in his direction. If he really wanted me to leave, 
he should have been more specific. "It looks like you have a problem," I called, gesturing 
toward the toy carriage's splintered axle.

     "That may be," the coachman replied, "but Monsieur de Bourbon has it well in hand. 
We do not require your assistance, sir." The look he sent me as he cocked the firearm was 
puritanical in an 'I'll kill you for your own good' way. "It would be best if you left, sir. I 
have my duty."

    I ambled up to the front pair of the horses and began to unfasten them from their 
harnesses. The servants holding the reins appeared baffled, as though I was some 
otherworldly creature doing mischief. Surprise, surprise: I was.

     "I have to part ways with you on that one," I replied, casual of the pistol still pointed 
my way. "Duty is only someone else drafting you to handle their dirty work. I'll pass." 
Loosening the last of the buckles, I slapped the hindquarters of each of the horses, then 
watched as they bolted for freedom.

     "Driver! What is happening?"   

     I glanced over my shoulder at the sound of a woman's inquisitive voice originating 
from the toy carriage. I shot the coachman a questioning look. He shook his head. I didn't 
know how to interpret the signal.

     "Just a passerby, Milady," the coachman announced respectfully. "I'll send him on his 
way."

     "Now, why would you want to do that?"

     Her voice was cultured, her question good-tempered. I straightened as a graceful hand 
touched the heavy curtains of the carriage, my breath catching - a mortal heartbeat homed 
to my ears, faint and slow, but there. A mortal, and yet...

     Curtains parted, and her face drifted into view. She wore a velvet cloak, the hood 
drawn over her hair, but her brows were fair, as was her skin. My first glimpse of her was 
an incomplete portrait: grey eyes and a long, but delicate, nose, but her mouth drew the 
brunt of my attention. Her lips were full and red, with a touch of a natural pout to them, 
the kind of mouth that brought simultaneous promises of sin and sweetness. I suddenly 
had a clear idea why my new vampire acquaintance was in a hurry to reach his 
destination and come to the rescue. I also had a clear idea that I intended to take 
advantage of the fact that I was here with his lady, while he wasted time bouncing on his 
fine horse's back.

    As I approached her, the coachman cleared his throat and spoke again, determined to 
send me on my way. "This man's chased off two of your team, Milady. He's a vandal!" It 
seemed this guy knew trouble when he saw it. I did, too, only instead of chasing trouble 
off with a pistol, I planned to give it a gentlemanly welcome.

     Maintaining eye contact, I lifted one of her gloved hands to my lips. I hadn't had any 
reason to indulge this kind of courtliness before, but what the hell? She smelled of 
incense and gold - a rich man's woman, an exotic woman, the kind of woman I'd yet to 
meet in this world.

     Bullseye. Exactly what I was hungry for.

     Her mouth tilted upward as she avidly observed me kissing her hand. It was as though 
she searched for reasons to smile. "Dare I hope that you are at my service?"

     Her service? I didn't dwell on the various implications of that wording long. 
"Certainly." Releasing her fingers, I authoritatively moved to open the carriage door. 
"Your friend, Bourbon, recruited my assistance in town. He's on his way."

     She clasped the window frame for a moment, offering a slight resistance to my 
opening the door as she scanned the area over my shoulder. "He's not with you?" A 
mystified speculation drifted into her silvery eyes. "You didn't ride?" She made it sound 
like an impossible feat.

     I didn't answer her question directly. "He slowed me down."

     She studied me for a moment with a deliberation that made me feel naked and 
plundered. Before I had a chance to feel resistant or intrigued, her suggestive lips split 
into a blinding, accepting smile, and she released her grip on the door.

     "You should clear that carriage," I said, offering her a hand once more to assist. "You 
don't want to be inside if it collapses, do you?"

    "Of course not. But..." She brushed at her wide skirts shielded by her velvet cloak, 
glancing over her shoulder with mild embarrassment into the depths of the carriage. I 
followed her gaze over the silk cushions, finding an incongruous pair of slippered feet 
attached to another body cloaked in a velvet mantua identical to the lady's before me. 
"...My companion has not fared the trip well," the lady confessed coyly.

     I helped her out of the carriage, a part of me rapt at the fit of my hands about her 
waist, the continued decadent smell of her, the way she lifted her dainty fingers to lower 
her hood, revealing a crown of golden curls dressed down her back like ribbons of pure 
sunlight. The other part of me - the rarely-used, cautious, and less horny side of me - 
recalculated the situation. I'd only detected one faint mortal heartbeat from this gilded 
conveyance, but I was faced with two females. It rapidly grew apparent that the woman 
with the mortal heart was not the lady offering me conversation.

     I found a twinkle in her eye as she noted I had discovered the way of things. I had 
stumbled upon Bourbon and Milady - two vampires journeying with their edible retinue. 
During her earlier study of me, she had come to her own conclusions about my undead 
state. I offered no comment, but abandoned my assistance of the delectable lady, reaching 
into the carriage to lift the drained mortal into my arms and judge the damage for myself. 
I also caught on to the reaction of the servants around us. They all appeared to know the 
score, each one staring straight ahead, assuming their own kind of masks reflecting stoic 
disinterest and accursed duty.

     Milady wasn't disinterested in the woman's condition. She remained close, touching 
the back of her hand against the other woman's unnaturally pale cheek. "Marie should 
recover. I find a week in bed cures most ills." She offered me another smile, one that she 
wasn't necessarily referring only to mortal ailments or resting between the sheets. Her 
long chin rose alertly, and she stepped away. "Bourbon is here!"

     He arrived in another storm of hooves and frenzy of dust, quickly drinking in the 
scene with a frown, gracing me with a grand scowl. Naturally, I grinned back at him.

     "Ah, Bourbon!" The blonde vision cried, clapping her hands as she skipped to the side 
his stallion. "Our company has damned you as slow!"

     His scowl intensified. My grin grew wider. I was rather surprised that she had 
perceived my double speak. Discovering her wit made my teeth itch for her all the more.

     She grasped one of Bourbon's suede-covered hands and pulled, friskily encouraging 
the Frenchman out of his saddle like a puppy tugging on a litter mate's ear. Though, once 
on the ground, he settled his hands around her waist from behind, I re-evaluated their 
relationship for a third time. Side-by-side, these two didn't strike me as rabid lovers, but 
something still bonded them.

    "In any case..." She angled her head, beaming at Bourbon. "I am very pleased. You did 
well in fetching..." She shot a look at me, her mouth forming an 'O' of horror which she 
swiftly shielded with on hand. "How rude of me. We made no introductions! You have 
heard us refer to Monsieur Philippe de Bourbon," she said as she stepped forward again 
briskly, presenting me one hand in greeting. "I am Milady Lucrece de Valentinois, and 
you are...?" 

    "A man with his arms full." I nodded apologetically at her proffered hand. Obviously I 
was meant to play cavalier again and supply my own derivations, but I was still carrying 
the drained mortal's body. It didn't strike me as good manners to dump the companion on 
the ground if I was trying to charm her lady. Not trying to be rude, but remaining frank, I 
added, "Besides, I don't have a name."

     "Everyone important has a name," Bourbon announced for my benefit.

     As soon as Lucrece recognized my social dilemma, she aimed an impatient look at her 
servants. Two grooms immediately jumped forward and relieved me of my mortal 
burden, sweeping the body out of sight. Out of mind, too, I suppose. 

    She eyed Bourbon a reprimand for his comment then dropped her hand as she 
questioned me. "You have no name at all?" She sounded highly doubtful of the 
possibility.

     "None that I want to use," I admitted. 

     A hint of a frown wrinkled her "No name..." She shook her head slowly. "No. That's 
hardly suitable. It's completely..."

     "Common," Bourbon supplied.

     She waggled a finger at the Frenchman. "That is not the word I was hunting." Smiling 
at me again, plans machinating in her stormy eyes, she said, "You, M'sieur, strike me as 
someone far too dashing to be nameless. Come now, you're Spanish, aren't you? I can 
always tell," she boasted knowingly. "My family was Spanish, too, from the House of 
Játiva. No doubt you're holding back a fine Spanish name. You can tell me," she coaxed.

     She had a way of asking, a way of hopeful wishing dancing in her eyes, that I was 
tempted to share. But I was only tempted. I didn't act. Instead, I said, "You're from 
Spain? Funny, your name sounded French to me."

    She laughed, a clear, free-spirited sound. She took my hands and swung around me, 
almost as if she was dancing. "Exactly! No vampire uses his or her birth name! It would 
be so dull for eternity."

    Bourbon made a sound of protest causing Lucrece to laugh again. "Oh, except for 
Bourbon. He still stubbornly uses his mortal name, but he can be forgiven. He's 
practically a vampire baby!" Another grunt of protest from the Frenchman at her teasing 
had her sending me a conspiratorial look. "And he's so proud, don't you think?"

     I didn't comment, merely met Bourbon's glare. He knew my answer.

     Lucrece paraded happily around the forest clearing, discovering a stump upon which 
she wished to sit. There was a scramble among the servants to throw an ermine rug and 
pillows over it as a makeshift throne before she came to rest. Toying with the index 
finger of her left glove, she continued, "Even as a mortal I went under different names, 
depending on my circumstance. There were many - some for lovers, some for enemies: 
Barbara, Regent, F.F., la Duchessa di Ferrara..." Her voice trailed off in dreamy memory. 
All at once, her chin snapped up, her mood again attentive. "The point is, I call myself 
what I like at any given moment."

     "Maybe I like being nameless," I countered.

     Dismay washed over her features. "You cannot!" Her pout grew pronounced, her tone 
cajoling. "Oh, do say you cannot like it. Even a set of initials would be far more 
satisfactory, far less..."

    "Common," Bourbon echoed.

     "Hush!" Lucrece warned the Frenchman crossly, before she raised one arm in my 
direction, beckoning me to approach. "Please. Surely a gallant such as yourself could find 
it in your heart to grant me a few precious letters."

     In retrospect, maybe it seems like heavy-handed flattery, flowery and insincere. I 
assure you, Lucrece was always sincere. She meant everything, even the untruths, with 
her entire heart. She was just, like me, inconsistent. Of course, I hadn't realized all of that 
at this point. No, then, hearing her words, seeing in her eyes that she wanted me - I was 
tempted by the luxury of her. Maybe I was a fool, and it was just another one of those 
masks we acquire, but when I looked at her, all I could see was desire.

     I took her hand, dropped to one knee in front of her, and bowed as if she was the 
queen of the world. I was playing to the illusion that I was gallant, that I was the type of 
man used to her type of dancing rather than someone who'd spent the past century 
scrounging around with the everyday heroes and reprobates the world had to offer. It was 
so unlike me to enter this drama, this display of courtliness and poetry. The world I lived 
in - make that existed in - had a far more direct style. But, worshiping her hand, playing 
the part, whispering, "J. V." softly as if it was an invitation to my bed, meeting her 
expectations - there's always a first time.

     "J. V.," she sighed pleasantly. "That will do for a start." Her expression carried 
promises that set my imagination off and running.

     Our mutual admiration was interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat. 
Bourbon dug at it again, playing his own designated role of disapproving shadow. 
"Fantastic. While you moon over initials, time is passing, dawn approaches, and we make 
no headway."

     "Speak for yourself," I said under my breath as I rose from the ground.

     "I allowed you to come here," he told me loftily, "to repair our conveyance, not to 
tickle my family's fancy."

     I consulted Lucrece. "You're family, are you?" That answered one of my questions.

     "In more ways than one," she replied enigmatically, elevating one hand to clasp the 
Frenchman's fingers again. "Bourbon is a descendant of one of my mortal brothers. 
Family is very important to me," she finished, her eyes acquiring a cast that gave the first 
hint of an iron will.

     She was emphatic about the importance of family, but giving Bourbon another glance, 
I saw impatience in his expression rather than sentiment.

     "You said you had the skills to fix the carriage," he challenged me. "Can you, or did 
you overestimate your talents?"

     "Oh, I could fix it," I assured him lazily. "I could, but I'm not going to."

    Bourbon growled, almost overshadowing Lucrece's gasp of surprise. "Why not?" she 
asked plaintively, her hands cupped against her heart as if I'd struck a death blow.

    "I could replace the axle, but that would take time. If you then drove at the necessary 
speed to reach D'Asile by dawn, I guarantee that something else will break. That frame 
wasn't built sturdy enough for anything swifter than a parade. That carriage might work 
for rolling around Paris, but it's not a practical choice for cross-country."

     "But it's pretty. It's the style," she said in shallow argument.

     "That may be, but you're not traveling in style tonight. And, in the future," I nodded 
to remind her I'd set half her team free, "you should reduce your horse power."

     "And, if we accept your gracious lack of assistance," Bourbon complained, "How do 
you expect Milady to travel? In a coach with the servants?"

     He sounded so appalled, I laughed, allowing the horror to sink into his expression all 
the more because I could treat the subject so casually. Giving him a break, I suggested 
what was, in my opinion, a reasonable alternative. "Barring that, you could always fly."

     Bourbon and Lucrece shared bemused smile, the latter patting my arm as though to 
console me in my ignorance. "Really, J. V.," Lucrece explained, drawing me a picture of 
her world. "One never flies when one can ride. Traveling under your own power is 
always the most desperate option." She stood, and two servants immediately swept up the 
pillows and brushed the ermine free of dirt in her wake. She marched to the horses and 
unfastened one of the remaining buckles. As soon as she completed that token effort, she 
stepped away, allowing another servant to take her place to finish the bulk of the job. 

     "We'll unpack two saddles and take the remaining pair." She paused, her authority 
fading, replacing it with an entreaty in my direction. "You are joining us, aren't you? Be 
my guest. I vow that I will need an ample amount of your company so that I can work on 
your...name."

     "I'd be honored to be your guest." Honored. Honored is just another word for 
'tempted.' I was. Sorely tempted, because when she vowed to work in my company, I 
understood that she had more than one meaning in mind. I wanted her. I was tempted. I 
acted on that temptation, and to hell with the consequences.

     She was a free spirit, so was I. She was Spanish, so was I. For those reasons, I already 
knew her. For the differences: her golden hair, her pale eyes, the way she could be wise 
and clever in one moment, then prattle like a complete idiot the next, the way she desired 
me...for those reasons, I wanted to know her better.

     Come to think of it, I've known a lot of blonde, blue-eyed women. Weird. It's never 
really worked out, either. Well, at least, not like I expected. Not like they expected.

     You're frowning again. What is it?

     "You're not including Tracy among that legion, are you?"

     Uh...I'll get back to you on that.

     "Wrong answer."

     What did you expect?

     "This isn't my confessional. Tell me: this woman - Lucrece de Valentinois. She told 
you that wasn't her real name."

     Right.

     "Did you ever learn who she really was?"

     When it no longer mattered. Not that it ever mattered. I take it you met her earlier than 
me.

     "Lucrezia Borgia? Yes, but how do you know I met her before you?"

     A good guess.

     "She was a mortal at the time."

     Sounds like a story I'd kill to hear. 

     "I'll try to remember the details sometime."

     Try? You obviously didn't know Lucrece like I did. If you had, you wouldn't have to 
try to remember anything. She was the kind of woman you don't forget.

*************************************************
End of Part Two

Words and Meanings (03/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     So I traveled with them to Lucrece's chateau, D'Asile, her haven. Nearly a week 
passed before I so much as stepped out of her bedroom. Lucrece, she would come and go, 
but me, for the first time in my existence I was sleeping on fine linens. I wasn't in a hurry 
to move. The sheets carried the scent of gold, bergamot and incense, just like the lady. No 
fleas, no lice, and no rats. Now I was drinking blood out of jeweled chalices and had an 
equal treasure in my arms. Staying seemed a better idea with each passing day.

    Lucrece had other passions outside of the bed. She pursued them with almost ritualistic 
enthusiasm. She would bathe for hours on end, the water scented with exotic perfumes. 
She preferred company, and it wasn't a stretch for me to oblige her. She introduced me to 
the extravagance of soaking in hot water.

Her other passion fell into the realm of the mental, rather than physical. She loved words 
- twisting them, arranging them, constructing them, battling with them. News from Lyon 
said that Molière was coming to town, and she sighed and enthused over meeting the 
man. Lucrece loved wit, adored it when applied to flatter her, to flirt with her, and to 
appease her. I didn't have a problem with that, to a point. I never had trouble thinking 
fast, making it up as I went along. As long as I kept talking, the illusion that no separation 
existed between who she was and who I was remained strong.

    The problem came in the form of poetry. Poetry addicted Lucrece. She had volumes in 
French, Spanish, Italian, even Latin, some of these inscribed by men she had known, 
some created in her honor. The strength of her fascination for those books threw me at 
first. I didn't see the point of her reading the same lines aloud. "Did you hear that?" she 
would ask, then dreamily repeat the same phrase.

    One recital was enough for me. I'd stare off into space as she spoke. I'd make her call 
impatiently for my attention, pretending my thoughts had been captured by something far 
more fascinating than the scribbling of some dead poet. On the surface, I displayed my 
disinterest as boredom, but that wasn't the entire issue.

     I struggled to read a line of Spanish, much less one in a sister tongue. I didn't know 
how to write any more than my birth name, and, since I wasn't using that - let's face it - I 
was illiterate. I didn't come from a background that expected me to use my mind. I was 
supposed to use my hands. I was supposed to fight. Yeah, I was supposed to live by my 
wits, but only so that they would get me out of scrapes and win whatever I was fighting 
for at the time. And what would I have written about? 'Dear Diary: Fought The Inka 
again, got away, flying out of town tonight...' No, I didn't need to know how to write. 
Didn't care. Not until then.

     Reading and writing joined the luxuries that Lucrece offered me, but they weren't 
things I could just slip into casually like her bed or her bath. They took work. They took 
effort. As things stood, I knew I would fail to meet her expectations. She wanted a lover 
who would write poems in her honor, and the best I could offer was impromptu whispers 
in her ear. Nothing permanent. I feigned disinterest to avoid her disappointment.

    See, it only took a handful of days for Lucrece to change me. I've gone without hot 
water and clean sheets over the years, but it wasn't until I met her that I understood how 
it felt to miss them. Ignorance is bliss. Knowledge teaches you what you don't have.

     Every shred of learning I'd accomplished up until then had derived from my own 
experience. Meeting Lucrece made me want more. She made me want information: 
pointless things, trivial things, and scholarly things. Things that wouldn't do me a damn 
bit of good fighting The Inka or helping my chances of survival. Knowledge for the hell 
of it.

    And expectations. I'd spent over a hundred years running from expectations, thumbing 
my nose at them. Suddenly, I was assuming a role, dancing to a tune that wasn't all mine.

    I know it probably sounds out of character. After all, what kind of existence was I 
contemplating? Playing courtier to some wealthy seductress for my meal ticket? Why 
would I do that? What did she have that was so tempting that I would act for her?

     You forget - it hadn't been so long since I'd been a conquistador. Sure, I'd been in it 
for the adventure, the honor of starvation and sickness aboard a ship filled with horses 
and men. Half the time we didn't even know where we were going, and once we knew 
where we were going, we were marching through country where we needed the locals to 
hold off slaughtering us all until we could manage a strategy to turn the tables and 
slaughter them instead. 

     The reason I, or any one of Pizarro's men, faced danger and death had nothing to do 
with honor. I wasn't there for the Crown, for the glory of Spain. I certainly wasn't there 
for God. Hell, I was in it for the money. We were all in it so that we could go back to 
Spain as rich men - men who slept on fine linens and drank from golden chalices. 

     Conquering a new world would give us wealth and power, the two things we needed 
to make all our dreams come true. We were tempted, and we acted on that temptation. 
Look what became of it - many men died, many more were murdered, but a few of them 
got what they wished for all along. Me, well, becoming a vampire did give me freedom, 
the power to explore more of the world than I'd ever imagined possible, the power to do 
things I hadn't believed possible, but it hadn't made me rich.
    
    Nowadays, I don't give wealth much thought. I still like my fine linens. I still like 
having hot water. I can sneak into a library whenever I feel the yearning to read, and, 
yeah, I've come to appreciate means for transportation other than flying. The rest - I can 
take it or leave it. But then, when I was still young and inexperienced enough, I would 
have taken the thirty pieces of silver and shaken hands with the devil just to try 
something I'd never had before. Just to live like a rich man. Just to love like a rich man. 
Just to die like a rich man.

     The type of people I had known all my mortal years, the kind I'd lingered with and 
hunted for the whole of my vampire existence - soldiers, farmers, seamen, their wives, 
whores, and wenches - I was greedy for a change from them. That's what I'd been hungry 
for, and that's why I was restless hanging in the taverns with Screed. Lucrece fell into my 
lap, and I took advantage. 

     After eight languorous days and nights at D'Asile. Lucrece announced that she was in 
the mood for an entertainment. The entourages arrived for the next two nights, as did 
actors, jugglers and musicians. Surveying the banquet hall filled with her guests, I 
estimated that she had to have invited every vampire within France's borders. 
LaCroix was there, with some redhead called Francesca du Montagne on his arm. You, I 
guess you were occupied somewhere else.

     Lucrece introduced me to them all. She did didn't give them any name, not even my 
initials. She thought it was a game - treating me like a man of mystery. I didn't mind. I 
got off on it, watching them wonder, always imagining in my favor because I was by 
Lucrece's side. Most of the guests were vampires, but some were mortal. Lucrece had a 
few men and women that she considered part of her 'court' in addition to Bourbon, 
mortals who'd had plenty of idle time on their hands since my arrival. They interspersed 
the vampires at the table, and, if they were aware that blood flowed just as freely into our 
goblets as wine entered theirs, they didn't appear remotely cautious. The bottles came 
and went in a steady procession, the liquid heady and rich. Each was different, yet each 
carried the same subtle, foreign sweetness I couldn't place.

     The table was full except for one chair to the left of the hostess. It was the usual place 
of her companion, Marie, who had lingered weakened in her sickbed since their journey 
south, and Lucrece had purposefully demanded that it remain vacant. I was seated to her 
right, the advantageous spot. Lucrece had shipped Bourbon to the opposite end of the 
table, ostensibly to play host. That didn't stop him from scowling when I raised my glass 
in a toast with a smirk in his direction.

     As the evening wore on, the performers and songs grew raunchier, as did the guests.   
The musicians that remained on hand had all been blindfolded for discretion. I noticed 
that there were some who sat back and observed the proceedings with watchful eyes. 
Voyeuristic, maybe. LaCroix was one of them.

     Lucrece was an enthusiastic dancer. It didn't take much encouragement for her to push 
away from the table and dive into the steps of a Spanish song. She could surprise me like 
that. 

     As much as I've dwelled on how I felt the need to satisfy the role she'd devised for me 
in her ornate world, I was just as guilty of expecting her to be something foreign, 
someone poles apart from me just because she'd grown up wealthy while I had been 
poor. When she'd suddenly move into a dance I'd known since I was a child, the way she 
grew sentimental for Valencia when she first heard me playing the guitar - moments like 
these made me start to wonder if I was really loitering at her castle because of the fancy 
accommodations, because of the temptation to conquer a rich New World. I began to 
believe I was there because of the woman, because of love. Because she made me start to 
imagine that I actually was noble.

     I loved dancing with Lucrece. We clapped and spun and brushed against each other to 
the tune. I felt her body beneath my hands, and she laughed. I was free, free from caring 
what her watchful guests calculated about me, free from wondering if I had fooled her 
into believing that I was what she wanted when she could have anything. I saw what I 
chose to in her luminescent face, heard enough to satisfy me in her lyrical voice, and 
drank the promises I needed from her plump lips.

     We danced for hours. I was attentive to Lucrece, but on the periphery, I began to 
notice little things about the event, how everyone was increasingly intoxicated, including 
the servants. How they grew careless, splashing wine and blood in sporadic paths on the 
table, floor, and the guests. How they began to slip into different masks, how some now 
brandished the red, gold and white of death. I frowned as a vampire guest openly sank his 
teeth into the exposed shoulder of one of Lucrece's mortal ladies. The woman wriggled 
against him in almost a pantomime, but I couldn't tell if it represented pain or pleasure. 
That's what had me frowning, that and the gratuity of it. We'd been drinking blood all 
night; draining a mortal wasn't a necessity.

     Lucrece's hand cupped my jaw as she drew my attention back to her. "Have you 
forgotten me so quickly?" she said with mock sternness.

     "Hardly." I relaxed, twirled her about until she let out a rowdy whoop, then held her 
against my chest as I murmured. "Just between us, I don't think I'm likely to forget you."

      One instant Lucrece smiled, the next, she uttered a furious objection. Over my 
shoulder, her eyes had caught the scene at the table. "That revolting Thomas is feeding on 
one of my dressers! As if I haven't provided sufficient refreshments - how rude! Excuse 
me while I sort this out?"

     I nodded, my desire growing because she had no more appreciation for killing for its 
own sake than I did.  "I thought you might be offended." 

     "Exactly! He hasn't the right to drink her," she said fiercely, then sighed. "It is 
tedious, this constant struggle to keep everyone in their place and not interfering with 
mine. If only -" She broke off, her eyes suddenly wistful.

    "If only what?" I prompted.

    Lucrece shook her head. "Nothing possible." Her eyes flickered back to the table, and 
she scowled. "Nothing I should squander seconds on while Thomas drinks Thérèse like a 
fish!"

    As she whipped across the room to intervene, my senses flickered. I noticed one of the 
wall hangings twitch near the doors. A familiar profile came into view, then ducked out 
of sight. I tracked down a spare goblet and moved to investigate.

     Leaning against the wall, I punched the prominent mound underneath the brocade 
tapestry with the back of one fist. "Come out, Screed."

     The lump started, then made a bumpy path under the fabric as his face, nose to 
eyebrows, poked out to confirm my identity. The eyebrows narrowed. The nose wrinkled. 
"Paint me yellow, 'ave this chatterbox while we dangle from tha' chand'lier fer h'a bit 
more notice, why don'cha?"

     He scrambled from behind the hanging, making a small clatter as he shooed out the 
door. I glanced over my shoulder and found no confirmation of Screed's paranoia. 
Everyone in the room was too occupied to notice his subterfuge, such as it was. I 
shrugged and followed him outside.

     Once in the hallway, Screed lightened up his guard, humming as he commenced a 
jaunty stroll. He'd tied a makeshift bundle around his waist, giving him a newly rotund 
figure, but the burlap caused him to frequently scratch at his middle. At some point, he'd 
also lifted a jongleur's cap, and the tails jingled as he walked. "Should 'ave known tha' 
V-Man's 'ere, shakin' tha' tree. Nev-a' be Mr. Un-Visible when there's h'a Midas ta 
touch!" He paused as we passed over the threshold to the terrace and jogged the pull of 
one of the open doors. He had it unfastened in seconds, blew on the shiny handle, and 
polished it even more against his shirtfront before tucking it into his pack. 

     I set down my cup, caught his arm and searched his haul amid his protests. Pulling out 
three gold chargers etched with a bull motif, I shook my head. "Screed, you can't take 
these."

     He snatched them back and hugged the plates possessively to his chest. "Finders 
kippers. Get ya h'own cut!" He replaced them in his sack with emphatic motions, 
gingerly patting the burlap when he had them secure. "Regular trove h'in this chatty-toe. 
'X' marks tha' spot. Lost ten ta h'a trapeze h'artiste wot listenin' ta 'is yam 'bout tha' 
razzle-dazzle comin' ta call. Where there's smoke, there's wood, Aye say. Aye was right 
- verified diet o' tha' h'upper crust, tha' type wit' tha' teeth."

     "I know. I'm one of them."

     Screed snorted. "Roight, an' Aye'm Louis tha' Cat-whore's treasurer!"

     "No, I made a few new acquaintances. I've been here all week. That's why you have 
to put back the stuff you stole. It's bad manners to rob your hostess." I retrieved my 
goblet and handed it to him. Screed spent a moment prying at one of the jewels on the 
bowl with his thumbnail, but then, after a thoughtful sniff, took a sip.

     "Nice," he nodded. "Stickin' me nose h'inna 'ouse tour, reconnaissanced tha' juice 
farm h'in tha' dungeon. Didn' sample, seein' h'as they were h'empties. Racket, yer lot's 
got. Like ta get me h'a setup double wot wit' tha' bubble 'n squeak. Store some fer tha' 
winter, ya know?" 

     In ten days, I'd gotten out of the habit of listening to Screed.  Things might have 
turned out differently if I'd paid attention to his absent, hungry comment. Instead, my 
mind had drifted back to the supper, wondering if Lucrece was searching for me. "Come 
on," I said, gesturing him inside again. "I'll introduce you."

     Screed shook his head. "Didn' git h'an h'invitation."

     "But I did, and we're running as a crew. Come on," I repeated, putting my arm around 
his shoulder and urging him to follow me. 

     Hesitantly, he did. I made him dump the contents of his sack in one of the rooms we 
passed, then listened to him evaluate how much coin he could score on the black market 
for the goblet. "Melt h'it down, ingot tha' shiny, hawk tha' sparkly - finance h'a bloke's 
h'expenses roight nice, h'it does."

     I could spot Lucrece standing across the banquet room, her head tilted up to ask 
Bourbon a question. I saw him shake his head, and her eyes traveled from one end of the 
table to another, resting on each jovial face, each scarlet-tinted pair of lips. She turned 
and gave the dancers the same treatment, her chin bobbing slightly as her gaze followed 
the spinning figures. Her eyes drifted next, focusing on nothing. It took me a moment to 
identify her expression, and it threw me when I finally recognized it. With Bourbon at her 
side, in a room full of people she knew, she looked lost.

     I tapped Screed's arm. "I want to introduce you to somebody."

     He followed the direction of my stare. "Tha' skirt h'or tha' gent?"

     "The skirt," I said with certainty, then slowly reconsidered. "Him, too, I guess."

     I noticed the change in the room as we were walking toward her. The laughter ebbed. 
Speech hovered. That's when I first heard the word.

     "He's a carouche," someone whispered. "I can smell him."

     'Carouche.' I didn't know what it meant, but I could tell the significance wasn't meant 
to be pleasant.

     Every eye suddenly seemed trained upon us. Lucrece flicked her gaze toward the 
table. Then, she found me. Her stare began unsure. Soon enough, her shoulders stiffened 
as someone hissed that word again, "Carouche." Her features became questioning, then 
accusing.

     My progress faltered. I paused, glancing at Screed to check his reaction to the shift in 
atmosphere. 

     He was, as usual, blithe. He nudged me with a knowing wink. "Don' be shy, V-Man. 
Sunshine's waitin'. Mebbe she's got h'a sister?"

     I answered him absently, turning my focus back to Lucrece's expression. "I don't 
think so, Screed." My feet started moving again.

     Standing before her, I took Lucrece's hand. I didn't kiss her fingers, but squeezed 
them. Maybe I wanted some reassurance. I felt her nails against my palm, a brief 
pressure, then her hand jerked slightly, as though she wanted to snatch the moment back. 
I didn't let go.

     Lucrece swallowed a mouthful of air, then said breathlessly, "I was beginning to 
wonder if you would return." She gave a feeble smile. "You brought someone with you."

     "I recognized a familiar face," I replied calmly and gestured toward the man at my 
side. "This is Screed. We travel together. Screed, allow me to introduce Milady Lucrece 
de Valentinois and Philippe de Bourbon. You could say I've been living off their 
hospitality the past week."

     Screed chose this moment to scrape the jongleur's cap off his head, spit in his palm, 
and give his forehead a shine. Replacing his cap, he grabbed one of Bourbon's hands and 
jogged it thoroughly. Pulling his arm back, Bourbon examined the skin Screed had 
touched with repulsion.

     Now Screed took the time to wipe his palms off onto his dusty jacket. The jongleur's 
cap cleared his scalp again, and he pressed it to his side as he snatched Lucrece's fingers 
from my grip.  He bussed her knuckles enthusiastically and announced, "Gracias ta 
meet'cha, Lady Jane."

     Lucrece didn't react with the outright rejection displayed by Bourbon. She appeared 
more perplexed than anything. She looked to me, doubt flushing her cheeks. "Why does 
he call me 'Jane'?"

     "That's what Screed calls most women," I explained.

     He tapped his temple. "Saves h'on tha' mem'ry ta no se llamo. Ol' Screed kin tell 
you're not jes' h'a Jane, eh? My mistake. Lady Sunshine, she h'is," he said, prodding me 
with an elbow. Suddenly Screed straightened one arm and pawed a generous lock of her 
golden hair. "This lot real?" 

     Bourbon pushed him away. "Of course, it is real. You overstep yourself, carouche!"

     Dazed, Lucrece twirled the lock of her hair around one long finger. "Lady Sunshine..." 
she repeated, the corner of her mouth tilting upward slightly. "His speech winds like a 
maze."

     For that one moment, she appeared amused, and I felt immune to the continued stares 
and mumblings that pulsed in the background. Who cared what they thought? What was a 
carouche? Just another word. Her smile was the only jury I wanted for guidance.

    Another slithered comment erupted among the guests, followed by petty chuckles and 
a few outraged murmurs. Lucrece seemed to snap from her dream, her smile crumbling as 
she looked to her surroundings. A glance at the vampires huddled around table, another at 
those standing dumbly on the dance floor, and the light in her eyes died. She looked at 
Screed again, her pretty mouth twisted, and her attention returned to me. Her tone was 
abrupt. "I need to speak with you. Alone." 

     "I'll be back," I told Screed. He was finally picking up on the vibe in the room. His 
pupils began to dart defensively between the strangers' faces. His shoulders hunched 
suspiciously. I shouldn't have left him. I should have stood by him.

    I turned away from Screed and allowed Lucrece to lead me out of the room. She 
walked silently, staring straight ahead. Not a hint that her emotions were raging escaped 
until she fumbled at the doors leading outside. Finding the pock in the hardware where 
Screed had stolen the doorknob, she hit the paneling with an open hand in frustration 
before stumbling through the other side.

     "How could you bring him here? What were you thinking?" She lifted the hem of her 
skirts as she reached the edge of the terrace and began descending the stairs to the lawn. 

     Rebellion rushed through me on instinct at her accusation. "I don't know what the 
problem is. You're going to have to spell it out."

     "He's a carouche. That's the problem."

     Her path led to an arbor. I moved ahead and closed my hands around the frame on 
either side, blocking her steps. "What is a carouche?"

     Her voice was hot, critical. "It's a lesser form of vampire, one that prefers the blood of 
creatures other than humans." She lifted her chin in a proud angle. "One normal vampire 
might not stand out from another, but you can always tell a carouche. Some say they 
begin to smell like their prey. Others say a carouche begins to act like the lower beasts 
upon which it feeds."

     "I've never noticed the difference," I said impatiently.

     "So you didn't know." She nodded shortly. "We can use ignorance as an excuse. 
Maybe they will accept that it was just a mistake."

     I didn't want her making excuses for anyone. I wanted her to be honest. She hadn't 
looked me in the eye since we'd left the entertainment. She seemed tense and restless and 
had been pacing a track in front of me as she reasoned out her plans aloud. I let go of the 
arbor, grasping her upper arms to hold her steady. "Screed isn't a mistake. He's my 
friend."

     Her gaze abandoned its evasion. She became very still, meeting my angry stare with a 
dispassionate expression. "In my world, you aren't allowed to keep every friend that you 
would like."

    I shook her slightly, challenging her cold words. I wanted her to say something that 
would make the surge of disappointment that I was experiencing go away. "And you 
liked Screed. I saw it in your face, back in the banquet hall. Word games bring you joy. 
Screed could keep you laughing for a century. Why are you letting the world change your 
mind?"

     "I'm not!" she protested. "This is the way my world is." She pushed against my chest, 
so I loosened my grip. She whirled away, out of my range. The distance was like a wall, 
one of those towers a hero supposedly scales to reach his lady. "There is another kind of 
vampire," Lucrece said stiffly. "Enforcers. Some of them do nothing but destroy 
carouche, and the people who would protect them. The popular opinion in the vampire 
community encourages this hunting. A carouche is an abomination, something that 
pollutes what we are. I cannot afford to have the Enforcers' scrutiny turned my way by 
housing one under my roof."

    "I guess you're not so wealthy after all, Milady, if you can't afford a little scrutiny." 
She spoke of fights, of vampires who would hunt you down if you didn't fit their rules. 
Well, that had always been my world. The prospect loomed with danger. It was my 
element. I shrugged away any caution. It couldn't touch me. What bothered me was that 
it mattered to her. "Do you need their approval?" I asked quietly.

     She slowly turned back to me, revealing that the lost look had returned. The moonlight 
shadowed her, muffling what was normally lovely and bright. A pale halo reflected off 
her hair, giving her the appearance of a dying ember. "It's not a question of popularity. I 
need them," she said desperately. "I have to placate the people in that room. Their 
alliance keeps my world from changing." Her upper lip curled slightly. "Or changes it to 
suit me. I have to have their support to stay where I am." The hesitation in her voice 
faded. Steely determination took its place. "You forget that you are just another guest, 
here at my leave. Your opinion has been outvoted. You are outnumbered. Screed has to 
go. He is not welcome at D'Asile. Get rid of him." She lifted her skirts again and began 
to walk imperiously back inside. The silent ultimatum hung in the air. I could tell that I'd 
been dismissed, sent off to do my duty.

     I could have kept the argument going. Outvoted, outnumbered - what did I care? 
She'd shown me the cracks in her armor, the hint that, for all her wealth, she wasn't free. 
For all that money could buy, it could rob you of what mattered more. I could have 
balked at the unwanted duty she'd left with me and shown her my back; if Screed had to 
go, then I had to go with him. Better that we didn't just slink out of town to spare the 
sensitivity of her associates. Better that Screed and I ram our presence in their faces 
before we hied out of Lyon. I could have forgotten that I'd ever met her, ever held her, 
ever tasted her. 

     I could have. But I didn't.

     I stalked past her, crossing the terrace first. So, in a way, I did get the satisfaction of 
giving Lucrece my back. But I wasn't leaving. I was headed to the banquet hall. I was 
going to tell Screed to go. I'd bribe him with those gold plates he'd craved, and I'd speed 
him on his way.

     Yeah, I was choosing her over Screed. I'd gotten the idea in my head, though, that I 
wasn't really letting him down. I'd decided that it was just one act, one night. It didn't 
have to last forever. I thought I could work on Lucrece, had this image in my head that I 
was rescuing her from a prison, her island. Once the vampire crowd rolled away, I 
believed that she would relax on the demand if I persuaded her. Screed would be 
welcome, and I'd still get the girl. It just wouldn't happen tonight. 

     That's what temptation promises you - that you can end up with everything you desire.

     Bourbon waited by the doors, one of the servants huddled behind him with a peaked 
countenance. He gave me a superior smirk as I passed, broadcasting in a knowing way 
that he recognized the exact pattern of my confrontation with Lucrece. "What did you 
expect?" he murmured. "Spaniards are Milady's hobby, not her obsession."

     I finally gave into an angry urge and shoved him against the door frame as my answer. 
Bourbon had picked up a habit or two from me by example over the past week and a half. 
He didn't push back, didn't react as though I'd insulted his person with my low-born 
Spanish hands. No, he just grinned, grinned like I would have grinned - as though there 
was nothing I could do to break his spirit. At any other moment, I might have liked him 
for that. Instead, I stormed away, the calm, polite greeting he gave Lucrece next mocking 
me in the distance.

     I returned to the entertainment. Screed wasn't there. The guests had returned to their 
festivities, but from their slanted, calculating glances and their frosty smiles, I had a hint 
why he might have cut out of the place. I wondered for a moment if any of them had had 
the nerve or the decency to tell him what they thought a carouche was to his face, rather 
than cowering behind the safety of mean whispers and mass rejection. I could only hope 
he had called them a couple words of his own in response before he left. I didn't like the 
image of Screed fading quietly into the night, alone with this bigotry.

     More than that, I hated acknowledging that I had anything to do with supporting it.

***********************************************
End of Part Three

Words and Meanings (04/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     After spending some time at the table, glaring at one and all, daring any of them to 
openly challenge me about my friend the carouche, with no results, I decided I'd leave 
for a while. I'd catch up with Screed to make certain everything was right with him. First 
instinct: a good instinct. 

     The sound of a woman crying caught me. I've always been a sucker for the tears of 
the helpless. They make me think twice. Second instinct: not always as good as the first 
one, but there, regardless. Usually the most difficult instinct to ignore, and the one that 
changes your life. I hesitated, but I followed the weeping.

     The crying led me to a room I'd never entered before. As I drew closer, I recognized 
the voice flooded with tears - it belonged to Lucrece. First instinct, I wondered if she 
cried because of what she'd asked me to do - to reject the only friend I'd had in a century 
because of some status standard of what made an acceptable diet lifestyle for a vampire. 
Second instinct, I brushed that thought aside as wishful thinking, a product of my own 
pride and indignation. Her sobs carried something more personal than that. I heard her 
misery and her shame. I heard grief. I heard Lucrece call for a priest. Bewildered at her 
request, I entered the room.

     I saw Bourbon leaning against the wall, his posture impatient, his expression 
exasperated. As I closed the door behind me, he glanced my way and dismissed my 
presence in favor of correcting the other occupants of the room. "Forget Milady's order."

     A collection of skirts hovered in the room, their faces weary and distraught. I 
recognized these women as part of Lucrece's 'ladies-in-waiting,' the ones who hadn't 
appeared at tonight's spectacle. At the moment, these ladies looked to be waiting for all 
hell to break loose. 

     A bed dominated the rest of the room. This tableau answered all my questions. 
Lucrece crouched on her knees, bent over the body of a dead woman. It was Marie, the 
mortal who had not traveled well. Contrary to Lucrece's confidence, a week in bed hadn't 
been enough to cure what ailed Marie. Drained to the point of unconsciousness, not many 
recover. Marie's fate had proved true to form. 

     "No!" Lucrece wailed. "I want a priest!"

     Fresh bite marks decorated Marie's throat - Lucrece had attempted to bring the woman 
across without success. I glanced again at her retinue of mortal women. They'd been 
here, they'd obviously witnessed that Lucrece was a vampire. Why did they stay? Was it 
the money? Was it love or admiration? Were they hoping to join the undead? Were they 
afraid to leave?

     Living as she did, throwing entertainments as she had tonight, it was unlikely Lucrece 
could manage such an existence with so many mortals at her side and at her service 
without someone catching on to her secret. Could this explain why she was so wary of 
those vampires called Enforcers? If she couldn't bear the scrutiny of the judge and jury 
because she refused to give up a few luxuries, I found it hard to feel any pity for her. 

     The second demand for a priest had Bourbon crossing the floor, leaning over the 
bedside to hiss in Lucrece's ear, "Don't be stupid. Bring a holy man here? Now? It is 
pointless!"
     
     She whirled around, launching forward in indignation. "And whose fault is that?! I 
should have been told sooner!" She turned a threatening glare toward her ladies-in-
waiting. They gasped, clutching at each other for protection with trembling hands. "And 
you! What good are you? Your job was to nurse and care for Marie, but you huddled like 
sheep doing nothing!" One of the women began to cry in earnest at this rebuke, sobbing 
in the arms of her neighbor.

     Bourbon defended them. I didn't expect him to do that. I'd written him off as someone 
who took mortals for granted, but he found his own reasons for valuing and protecting 
them. Maybe they weren't identical to mine - Bourbon always had this strange idea of 
French honor, and I've always had a reputation as a more dishonorable sort - but he had 
his reasons all the same. Granted, I never stopped thinking of him as an arrogant ass, but 
at that moment, I started to respect him. 

     He countered Lucrece's criticism with a sharp shake of his head. "Don't be a 
hypocrite! They are not at fault for this death. If Marie's life meant anything to you, you 
wouldn't have spilt her blood because you grew peckish and impatient on the journey 
here! It is far too late in the evening for weeping, Milady," he mocked.

     "Oh, get out! Get out of my sight!" She made another threatening gesture toward the 
women, and they swiftly scrambled for the door. Lucrece subsided on the bed again, 
crying with the dead woman's palm cradled to her cheek.

     Bourbon was slower to leave, but leave he did, giving me a knowing glance as I made 
no move for the door. I sent him a mock salute from my station in return. After all, he'd 
done me a favor. He'd told Lucrece exactly what I'd been thinking and saved me the 
infamy of saying it. 

     Why did I stay? She was still crying. I cared. It mattered. Even if I couldn't see a 
reason for it, even if I didn't understand her misery, I wanted to comfort her. I hung 
around. I watched her sorrow, and it pulled at me for no other reason than it was hers.

     She knew I was there. She knew but waited to acknowledge me. She remained 
wrapped in her grief for several more minutes, but gradually her weeping subsided into a 
chain of fragile sniffs. Her voice followed, small and apologetic. "I didn't mean to hurt 
her. She was beautiful and bright. I loved her. She was my friend. No one truly means to 
hurt their friends. But I became hungry, and I lost control."

     I didn't say anything. I thought she was still making excuses, trying to justify her 
actions. She'd killed a mortal for food. That's what vampires did. It seemed incredibly 
naive to me that she couldn't admit that part of the equation. 

     No, that wasn't it. I knew that her reticence came from the fact that she imagined this 
Marie woman to be her friend. By feeding from her, Lucrece had betrayed that 
friendship. She felt that made her hunger tawdry. Evil, maybe, if she had to bring morals 
into it. Evil or good, it had happened. One of those hell-and-damnation moments where 
words like 'right' and 'wrong' slip like change through a hole in your pocket. That kind 
of stuff happens. The only time the second thoughts matter is before any damage is done. 
Afterward, there's nothing you can do but learn from it and move on to the next bad 
choice. Crying about it: that's a waste of time. 

     Still, I understood her need for denial. No one likes to think of themselves as evil 
except the masochists. 

     "You think?"

     Nothing personal. Just an observation.

     Anyway, I didn't console her. I didn't tell her Marie's death wasn't her fault, because 
it was. I didn't tell her everything would be all right, because I didn't know if that was the 
truth. Instead, I moved to the other side of the bed, stretching out in a reflection of 
Lucrece so that I could see her face. I asked her about what I didn't understand. "Why did 
you call for a priest?"

     She appeared embarrassed. "I know that it was a foolish request. Bringing a member 
of the Church here...If my guests found out, they'd make a meal of it," she said, her 
mouth twisting ironically. Lucrece considered Marie gravely, tucking a curl of stray hair 
away from the dead woman's face. "Bourbon was right. It's too late for that now. They 
told me that she was improving, but a sudden fever struck her, and in her weakened 
condition, her heart could not endure. Her death happened quickly," she whispered. 
Lucrece nodded to herself, feeding her nice delusion.

     The thought came to me again, as it had a dozen times since I'd met her. I had nothing 
to offer Lucrece. I couldn't pardon her, not when I believed she was at fault. I could only 
lie so much, and pretending that I was the stuff that courtiers were made of had stretched 
my capacity for deceit to the limit. The more time I spent with Lucrece, the less I liked 
living lies. I could learn about wealth from her. I could want her, make love to her, drink 
her royal blood and figure out exactly what the hell the word 'nobility' was supposed to 
mean, but these were all just forms of taking. 

     That's what aggravated me. I took. I didn't give. Lucrece had offered me her entire 
world. Not all of it was to my liking - I didn't want the intolerance and the lies - but that 
wasn't the point. She'd offered me all of it. The good. The bad. Everything. All I'd 
offered her in return summed up to the last vestiges of my mortal greed. That was nothing 
by comparison.

     So why was I there, addressing a rich lady in a dead woman's bed? I realized the truth. 
I wasn't just giving her my greed, a flirtation or lust. There was more to what I felt for 
her than that. The reason I stayed, even when her worries and her tears made up some 
riddle I couldn't solve, some pain I couldn't share, was that the thought of leaving her 
made me ache. I hadn't felt like that, known the kind of longing that only comes with the 
promise of the absence of a piece of your heart, since I was a mortal. I didn't want to give 
that feeling up. I didn't want it to end, even though I knew I was lying in a bed made for 
regrets.

     And Lucrece. I suspected for the first time that all Lucrece wanted to take from me 
was my open acceptance. Between the two of us, she saw it as a more valuable 
commodity. The most I could offer was acceptance in the form of silence.

     "I thought Marie should receive her last rites," Lucrece confessed softly. "Even I 
received my last rites. I was so afraid of what would become of me, I kept fighting for my 
mortal body." She looked to be on the verge of tears again. I found myself reaching out, 
clasping one of her hands tightly. She sent me a small, appreciative smile. "I prayed. I 
bought indulgences. I suppose they brought me serenity. I was foolish and ignorant. I 
didn't realize that Heaven and Hell would not be my only choices in the wake of death. I 
wish that I could have given Marie some kind of assurance if she was afraid. Poor girl." 
She shook her head sadly. "The sickbed is no place to die. I should know. I spent enough 
time in one as a mortal. It's another prison. People...people with passion in their 
blood...People who have fought by their wits, their fists and their hearts all their lives 
should not spend their last days flat on their backs wasting into shadows. That's a 
tragedy! I died in a sickroom; so did my father. That's no way to die. We should have 
died on our feet." Determination laced her voice, as if the universe had insulted her, and 
she demanded an apology. She darted curious eyes my way. "How did death happen for 
you?"

     I'd been a silent observer for so long that my voice sounded strange to my ears. "In 
battle against an enemy."

     Lucrece erupted in a bright smile. She caressed my cheek then leaned over Marie's 
body to kiss me. "I envy you that."

     I still had a hold on Lucrece's fingers. With her words, I realized that maybe I wasn't 
so much the poor Spaniard, and she wasn't so much the rich lady. We all have our 
fortunes. We all have our penalties. I squeezed her hand. "I was clubbed to death in a 
fight. The experience wasn't painless, and it wasn't that quick," I reminded her.

     "Maybe," she said enigmatically, her gaze drifting back to Marie's still features. "How 
many have you lost over the years?"

     I didn't understand what she was asking. "How many what?"

     "Mortal friends. How many have you lost?"

     I couldn't answer immediately. I thought of the men I'd fought beside across the 
Channel, the ones I'd seen the Roundheads torture and behead. I just as quickly brushed 
the memory of them aside. They couldn't count. I hadn't even bothered to learn their 
names, simply supported their cause while it was convenient and used their argument as a 
justification for picking meals off the other side of the battlefield. "None."

     "None?" She looked surprised, as surprised as when I'd told her that I had no name. 

     Now that I was thinking about it, the number caught me off guard, too. Hadn't I 
always insisted that mortals mattered? That even though I might kill them to live, they 
weren't to be treated just like food? And yet, I'd kept my distance, moving among them, 
but never allowing myself to really look at them, to really know them. I'd spent more 
affection and care on Screed's rats. Just as it had been on Screed's ship, I wouldn't let 
myself work with them, side by side. I wouldn't join their teams or tribes, allowing them 
to look upon me as one of their kind. I was afraid. Why was I afraid?

     Lucrece's tear-streaked face told me exactly what frightened me. I knew that I could 
slip up, that I could be the one whose hunger or carelessness could kill a mortal that was 
supposedly my friend. More than that, even if I didn't hurt them, mortal friendships 
didn't last. They aged. They caught diseases. They could be cut down in an instant. Why 
should I buy into that when I could remain free and unencumbered?

     Maybe Lucrece was selfish and foolish to collect mortal friends. Maybe I was the 
smart one to only buy into the losing propositions that I could afford. A vampire crew 
had to be the better deal in the long run.

     Maybe I was a coward. I was afraid to run the risk of feeling the pain and grief that 
tore at Lucrece now. I wondered what it felt like. I recalled the graveyard in Trujillo - the 
missing name, the ache, the fleeting moment of regret that passed as soon as I left town.

    "No mortal friends," Lucrece repeated musingly. "Perhaps that's wiser. I've lost so 
many people that mattered. It's hard always being the one left behind. Family, friends 
and lovers gone, and I persevere. I endure." She lifted one of the dead woman's hands, 
thumbing where a plain band of silver gleamed around the index finger. Transferring the ring 
from Marie's to her own hand, Lucrece's tears returned. She wiped them away 
impatiently with the heel of her palm, then she kissed each of Marie's cheeks, solemnly 
bidding her farewell. "I am sorry. I wish that I'd never met her, so that I wouldn't be 
forced to carry this hurt now."

     I could tell that she was lying. She was feeding into another delusion. The truth was in 
the way she lingered over pulling up the linens so that they rested over Marie's features 
and how she backed away, reluctant to let her eyes leave the body. The truth was in how 
she held on to the mortal's ring.

     I finally figured out how to comfort her. I moved to stand between Lucrece and the 
bed, blocking her view of the dead body. "What was her family called?" 

     She looked up at me with bewildered eyes. "Marie's?"

     I nodded.

     "Vachon. Her name was Marie Vachon."

     I tried it out. "Vachon." I didn't make the second syllable float up in my nose like 
Lucrece did, but let it rest more in my throat like a purring cat. I liked it. "Now that's my 
name, too."

     Lucrece caught her breath, staring at me as if I'd just spouted a sonnet declaring how 
much I was in love with her. On second thought, in my own style, I guess I had.

     She spoke judiciously for the rest of the night. She broke up her party, sent her 
vampire guests on their way, and filled the pockets of the musicians and artists. She made 
peace with Bourbon and gifted the women she'd cursed earlier with trinkets of her 
jewelry. I was the last one she spoke to before sunrise. Her words were simple, 
whispered. 

     "Thank you, Vachon."

     In her own words, Lucrece had confessed that she was in love with me right back.

 ****************************************************
End of Part Four

Words and Meanings (05/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     The next afternoon, while Lucrece became embroiled in arranging Marie's burial, I 
slipped into her library. Recognizing it by the binding, I pulled one of Lucrece's favorite 
volumes of poetry free from the shelves to study later, but first, I sat at her desk with quill 
and parchment, practicing how to scratch out my new name. 

     An hour and two pieces of ink-stained paper in the grate later, I'd managed a 
recognizable rendition of the word by hand. I had no sooner replaced the quill than 
Bourbon entered the room. I didn't try to cover up what I was doing. It was one thing for 
the Frenchman to figure out why I was practicing; it was a far worse aggravation for 
Bourbon to catch me trying to hide it. Instead, I ignored how Bourbon looked over my 
shoulder while I picked up the poetry volume, squinting as I tried to piece the letters 
together and figure out who'd written it.

     "You're learning to read and write."

     He didn't phrase it as a question. He didn't try to trick me into confessing it. Bourbon 
simply stated the truth aloud with mild curiosity, sounding slightly less obnoxious for a 
change.

     He reached an arm over my shoulder, pointing toward the paper. "Your new name - 
you spelled it wrong." He tapped the offending portion with his fingernail. "This should 
be a 'c,' not an 's.'"

     I gave him a dirty look. "Maybe I spell it with an 's,'" I argued as I wracked my brain 
trying to remember which shape matched a 'c.'

     Bourbon gave me one of his smug smiles. The obnoxious know-it-all was back. 
"That's not how Marie spelled it."

    I set down the book and counted to ten silently in Spanish. Resigned, I lifted the quill 
again and spelled V-a-c-h-o-n while Bourbon watched.

    "Not bad," he said.

     I ignored him, picking up the poetry volume for some more squinting.

     Bourbon pulled up a chair and made himself at home. I wondered if this was supposed 
to be a reminder that I was the guest, while he was family. I resisted the temptation of 
kicking him out, and doubled my reading efforts.

     Bourbon thumped the book's cover, jerking it so that I lost my concentration. "Does 
Lucrece know you can't read or write?"

    I made a big show of turning the page, though most of the content had remained 
unconsumed. "She will when you tell her."

    He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "She won't care. Not now." He sat there, 
leering knowingly at me for a few moments. "That was a strategic move, changing your 
name in honor of the dead girl." He nodded to himself. "Changing your name...changing 
how people see you...I can only imagine how I might have benefited in life had I carried a 
title a little less Huguenot in flavor." He curled his lip, dismissive of anything politic. 

     "Why didn't you?" Like I cared. I didn't, except for how it might matter to Lucrece. 
So I asked.

     Bourbon appeared ready to give another arrogant response, something along the lines 
of 'an unpopular noble family is better than a common one any day,' but he changed his 
mind. His expression shifted, revealing a streak of deviltry. "I liked being unpopular. I 
roused more fights that way."

     I couldn't suppress a grin over his confession. Bourbon's philosophy obviously hadn't 
changed much since his mortal days. I kept that observation to myself, letting my eyes 
drift back to the written page. I had no intention of discussing my personal reasons for 
changing my name with the likes of Bourbon, and I needed practice reading more than I 
needed another fight. The book I'd selected contained Spanish songs, which should have 
been an easy enough place to start. The first few were composed by a poet named Lopez 
de Estuñiga, and from what I could piece together, they were highly melodramatic. Big 
surprise. Spanish songs aren't known for subtlety. 

     It annoyed me that it took so long to work out each passage, especially when Bourbon 
remained content to sit quietly and count the minutes that I didn't turn the page.

     'I think that I should die
     And should desire end with my other ills

     Such great love would come to an end
     That the whole world would be bereft of love

     But when I consider this
     My tardy death becomes a thing so good

     That I should by reasoning
     Feel glory in the fire in which I suffer.'

     Yeah. Right. Whatever. Not just a melodramatic Spanish song, but a *bad* 
melodramatic Spanish song. Obviously, I had to be in love, or worse, to be reading this 
crap.

     Apparently, Bourbon agreed with me. He lost patience with watching me frown at the 
page like it'd just tried to stake me, and he pushed out of his chair. Swiping the volume of 
poetry out of my hands, he announced, "These are words only fit for women," and 
replaced it on the shelf. 

     While I didn't agree with him completely, I didn't totally disagree either. Bourbon 
looked ready to champion an alternative, and I was open for any suggestion.

     Bourbon presented me with two other books: 'The Prince' by Machiavelli, and 
Homer's 'The Odyssey.' The first held no significance to me, and only the latter was in 
Spanish.

      Bourbon saw the need to explain his choices for my benefit. "You might find the first 
book more valuable than poetry if you plan to remain here. It's a family bible, of sorts. 
It's in French, as well. If you can't read French, why bother learning?" he said 
conceitedly. "As for the second, it's a translation of the Greek story of Odysseus -"

     "A hero traveling with his crew after a war," I broke in, setting aside the Machiavelli 
for a later distraction. "I've heard of it." 

     I had, and from Screed, no less. He loved the tale, at least the parts filled with sailors 
and sirens. Screed was never big on the ending, by which time the crew is lost at sea, and 
the hero returns home to stay with his wife. Late at night, when he'd had one too many 
rats to drink, Screed would get testy and complain about how many a man's adventures 
had been ruined by docking with one woman too long.

     Bourbon made a sound suspiciously close to a grunt of approval. "An epic - poetry 
made for men."

     Flipping over the title page, I had to admit that Homer held more interest than 
Estuñiga. The Frenchman had a good point. Better that I practice on a decent adventure 
than I drown in chivalric couplets. Myths of battle, intrigue, and seductresses - Bourbon 
was right. It had the guy stuff nailed.

     He pulled open a drawer in the desk and tossed a round object on top of the first page 
before taking his seat again. It was a glass lens. I picked it up, tilting the polished surface 
over the page, observing how the letters appeared enlarged. I shot him a wry glance. "Do 
I look like I need glasses?"

     "It would be an affectation for a vampire to don spectacles," he said dismissively. "I 
also had a late start learning how to read," he explained.

     "Post-mortal late? I thought you noble types had tutors."

     Bourbon smiled, looking pretty pleased with himself. "I used to throttle my tutors so 
that I wouldn't have lessons. Sport interested me more as a boy. My parents had other 
concerns, and no servant would dare contradict me without their blessing, so I did as I 
pleased. I was seventeen when I discovered my inheritance had been reduced to nothing 
but my name, and I would have to make my own fortune. That is when I taught myself 
how to read. My family could no longer afford a tutor." He pointed toward the glass I 
held between two fingers. "I started using a lens as I learned. When the words were 
magnified, I had an easier time recognizing them. Sometimes, the type is smudged. 
Sometimes it is spaced closely so that the letters run together. Early on, using a lens 
helped. Vampires may have excellent vision, but unless the object we look at has blood 
and body heat, we detect no more than mortals do. Not much need for predators in the 
library. Try it."

     I looked speculatively through the glass. 'Speak, Memory - Of the cunning hero, the 
wanderer, blown off course time and again after he plundered Troy's sacred heights.' 
Scanning the first line of 'The Odyssey' was easier with the tool. I sent another look at 
Bourbon filled with additional speculation. Were we becoming friends or something?

     I wasn't interested in getting to know Bourbon better. He wasn't Screed. If he 
reminded me of anyone, it was The Inka. The same streak of arrogance polluted them 
both. What was Bourbon to me? Someone to be ignored, avoided, or aggravated. 

     So what was this? I was talking to him. I was listening to him. I kept catching myself 
empathizing with him, getting along with him when I least expected it. The fact remained 
that I'd spent a heavy portion of time in his company wanting to punch his lights out, but 
I hadn't. I hadn't given into the temptation because of Lucrece, because he was her 
family. 

     Is that all it took? Eleven days of patience, of holding back from knocking each other 
down, because the misery of her displeasure outweighed the pleasure of sorting out our 
personality conflicts with our fists? Eleven days to transform an enemy into a competitor, 
to draw a line in the sand between someone I disliked and someone for whom I had a 
grudging respect.

     The possibility grated on me. If I could learn to tolerate Bourbon in such a brief span 
of time, did that mean I was capable of co-existing with The Inka? 

     But, no, that wasn't possible. 

     Someone takes your life as a mortal, whenever you look at them after that, you 
remember. It builds a wall, and even when you say it's forgiven, you never forget.
I wasn't going to forget that The Inka had killed me, and I didn't believe that he ever 
wanted or needed my forgiveness. There was no way I would ever admit to him that I 
ended up faring better dead by his hand than I would have alive and kicking as a 
conquistador. 

     I'd actively made a decision to become friends with Screed. I saw him. I liked him. I 
accepted who he was, and that was that. Everything with Bourbon was the exact opposite. 
I didn't like him. Most of the time I felt a hair's breadth from a knockdown, drag it out 
brawl with him. We ended up friends anyway. I'm still not sure which one of us that 
surprised more.

     It was weird enough that he helped me learn how to read and write. I could have 
accomplished that without him hanging around, but it would have been harder. I wouldn't 
have cut my teeth on Homer, and, for that, I could put up with him. Maybe even try to 
show him how not to be such a stuck-up prat all the time. 

     Something else: Bourbon never dropped a word to Lucrece about my studying, even 
when a good opportunity presented itself. I'd earned discretion from a man who believed 
diplomacy was the poison of kings. That was a surprise, rather like silence from Screed, 
but he was nothing like Screed. Nothing.

     So when night fell, I invited Bourbon to come with me into town. Lucrece demurred, 
saying she had business matters to attend. The concept riled my curiosity, because the 
only trades I'd seen vampires involved in up until now were thievery, labor and, my 
favorite, leisure. She hadn't given any sign of an industrious streak before now. After all, 
there are only so many traditional businesses I could imagine run from a bedroom or 
bathtub, and that was the scope in which I'd seen her best work. What other talents did 
she have hidden? My imagination boiled down to dirty fantasies, and I figured I'd have to 
discover more about Lucrece's business later. A lot more.

     Convenience dictated that she shouldn't be tagging along with Bourbon and me, so it 
was just as well she had other plans that would occupy her attention. I wanted to see 
Screed, and I didn't want to get into another argument with her about him. It wasn't just 
the path of least resistance. I didn't want Lucrece to ask me to choose between them, 
because the thought made my gut clench. I wasn't sure which person I'd pick anymore. 
They muddled in my head, friend and lover, one filled with the past and the other rich 
with the present. I didn't want to answer questions about the future. Never have; doubt I 
ever will.

     Besides, the whole point of bringing Bourbon along was to watch the Frenchman 
surrounded by the 'common folk' he disdained. Maybe he'd tilt his big nose so high in 
the air, he'd tip over backward. With Lucrece around, well, I'd rather look at her than 
Bourbon any night. If he fell on his ass while she was around to distract me, I'd miss it.

     The tavern bustled, even more than usual. Most of the townsmen circulated amongst 
themselves, clapping one another on their shoulders, buying each other drinks, 
exchanging jovial insults. It was an age-old ritual, as if men, to their nature inherent, had 
to sniff out who belonged in the territory. Not so noticeable usually - I'm a man; I'm 
guilty of it. The mood in the tavern that night, though, was tangible. I saw those mortal 
men congregated there, and I could sense from the looks they shot, if not my way but at 
Bourbon, that we'd already been marked as the adversary.

     Bourbon didn't help much. If sneers could cripple, every tenant that blinked wrong at 
him would have been hobbled. The scorn just made the locals appear itchier for a fight. I 
was scratching my chin, contemplating just how good of a fight it might be, when I 
spotted Screed.

     The circle of townsmen parted like some biblical body of water, revealing him in the 
middle. Screed was elbowing the fellow to his left. His brows creased into a frown; he 
was obviously annoyed about something. The mortals who listened began to nod their 
heads in agreement. One clapped his hands together and released a shout. 

     I stopped scratching my chin. Yeah, I'd been bothered, wondering how Screed had 
fared since the 'carouche' incident the night before. I shouldn't have worried. Screed 
didn't give a damn if Lucrece or any of her associates loved or hated him. All he cared 
about was whether or not anyone in the vicinity wanted him staked. As soon as he'd 
ducked out of D'Asile, he'd have been whistling a happy tune again, the whole event 
consigned to the mental whatever.

     You assume, because of the whole carouche thing, that Screed is some kind of total 
outcast. With most vampires, yes, but with mortals, Screed's always found a place. He 
hooks up with people as he needs them for whatever he's got up his sleeve, and Screed 
always has something up his sleeve. That's why he's banned from Atlantic City.

     Here, now, he's got the number of every barterer interested in trading the strange and 
unusual in Toronto etched on his brain. He can get you into the black market. He can get 
you out of the black market. And, if you're not picky about the particulars, he knows 
somebody who knows somebody who can get you any object you might be looking for 
under the sun, moon and stars.

     I see that got your interest. Wishing maybe you'd talked more, barked less, when he 
was still in the shape to work out a deal for one of your cure ideas? 

     "Right now, he needs a cure more than I do."

     Right. You're right. I wish…

     "That you had his contacts?"

     Screed was my contact. Is my contact. Damn. He's not dead yet. He's…

     "Not dead yet. Go on. What happened at the tavern?"

     Remember, in retrospect this is all more significant to me than it probably sounds to 
you, an outsider, hearing it for the first time. To me, though, everything began on that 
night. 

     "What began?"

     The end.

*************************************************
End of Part Five

Words and Meanings (06/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Screed was as he's always been - the one who knew the right people. The thought had 
just begun to creep into my head. I'd looked at Lucrece and her friends that way. My 
whole purpose of going with her and Bourbon back to the castle initially had been the 
idea that they were somehow the right people, the richer people, the people worth 
knowing. Last night had established for reasons right or wrong that I didn't want to 
increase my knowledge of most of the people that Lucrece cultivated. Today had proven 
that Bourbon had his uses, but the rest of them, the LaCroixs and Thomases and 
Francescas - I didn't need to see any of them again. Didn't care what happened to them, 
either.

     If I could just have Lucrece, that would be enough. I can't explain why that was so 
important, why I wanted her so much. I've spoken of wealth and passion, learning about 
a way of life that I'd never experienced up until those nights, but those excuses are just 
blinders to the true scene. The reality was that I loved her. I fell, quickly and fatally, and I 
couldn't tell you why if there was a stake over my heart and the sun over my head. 
     
     The world is filled with women. Every one of them has her own way of pricking 
desire, of tempting men to trespass her borders, to charm and conquer her, to dive into 
her softness and to take flight in the sweet rapture we find in her arms, to take everything 
that woman has to offer…and then a man's attention shifts to her sister.

     What is it about any particular woman that makes a man want to stay? What does she 
have that makes a man reluctant to leave her behind? It's not just beauty, brains or 
personality. Been there, done that, moved on. I don't know what the hell it is. I'm not 
sure I want to. It's the mystery that makes it fun. Pheromones, electromagnetism, the 
phase of the moon…

     "Maybe it's fate. A matter of soul mates."

     There's that popular theory that vampires don't have souls, remember? Damned to 
hell without spare change. Proof, contradiction, whatever - I don't know why I felt so 
strongly, but I know that I loved Lucrece, as surely as I knew that I didn't belong with 
her. I knew that - first instinct, pure instinct - but I would have never admitted it. Saying 
it would have made it true. Saying it would mean embracing inevitability, accepting a 
plan that I hadn't asked for, but carrying the liability for it anyway. As much as I realized 
the love in me, I recognized the death of my beloved freedom; freedom - wasn't that the 
purpose of my running? Wasn't it the treasure that put the fight in me, that drove my 
choices and kept me moving?

     If she'd been someone else, I wouldn't have stuck around. I wouldn't have hesitated to 
leave her to her life and never see her again. But with what I felt, I couldn't do that. I was 
willing to tolerate the shadows of these other people that I either didn't like, or that 
threatened the life I'd known and enjoyed up until then. 

     What was that? Freedom's death, or at the very least, its creaking on rheumatic bones 
one step away from it. 

     When The Inka went after Screed, I didn't falter. He wanted Screed erased, and 
Screed didn't deserve that; therefore The Inka was the enemy. It was simple and 
straightforward. But Lucrece had acknowledged that she associated with people of the 
opinion that Screed was a lesser form of life they should wipe from the face of the earth. 
She wasn't going to fight them about it. She was willing to try to persuade me they were 
right. 

     If I hadn't felt love for her, I'd have been out of there. No second thoughts. No debate. 
Even the people I'd cared about when mortal: I'd walked away from them in favor of 
adventure and fortune. Lucrece was different. She caused second thoughts, guessing 
again, and again, and again. I'd never felt that way before. It affected my judgment, 
which...well, it probably wasn't your idea of great to begin with.

     Standing beside Bourbon, catching suspicion by his association, it made me realize 
how much things had changed since I'd met her. The tavern customers took one look at 
me and assumed Bourbon and I were cut from the same cloth - rich men slumming for 
the night - and they resented me for it. 

     It also confirmed that Bourbon's company was mainly desirable within the realm of 
his own imagination. That news wasn't such a big surprise. The way he'd roared into the 
coachyard the night we'd met, the look of fear in the ostler's eyes - obviously making 
friends with the locals and treating them with respect hadn't been high entries on 
Bourbon's list of priorities. The tradesmen and farmers had him made from the moment 
he walked in the front door and had tabulated every past insult and abuse on a ledger, 
finding him wanting. That night, they didn't seem very inclined to tuck their heads and 
keep their dislike private. They felt lucky, and they looked ready for revolt.

     These people, these hard-working and heavy-drinking souls that I'd drifted among for 
over a century, no longer recognized me as a native son. It shocked me. I'd started this 
affair thinking I'd be playing a role for a time. Playing at it. Never had I actually believed 
it could touch my identity. 

     Sin, crime, all those exciting things that you're not supposed to think about lest your 
mortal soul hang in jeopardy - I let go of what I wanted to, and I hadn't missed anything. 
One mandate I held onto for dear life, the only thing that seemed important to respect 
above all things: it mattered that my sense of who I was remained pure. Who I pretended 
to be, the names I assumed with the passing of years, these illusions were just words 
thrown at a raging fire. Inconsequential. What mattered about me could not be said. If 
any part of me was meant to be inviolable, it had to be my spirit. Suddenly, I no longer 
had that certainty, and I wasn't even sure I wanted it back. The price loomed as 
something I didn't want to own up to, just another on a long list.

     That night, Screed was the right guy to know. He spotted me as he turned within a 
circle of locals. "V-Man!" I shipped him a mock salute, and he approached. With his 
acceptance, the tension in the tavern flowed away as quickly as the ale from the kegs. 
Because Screed was willing to talk to us, we'd been branded tolerable for the time being. 

     Bourbon fumed beside me as Screed drew closer. "That's why you wanted to come 
here. To see the carouche." He sounded annoyed. Disappointed.

     "He's my friend." It was becoming a mantra, repeated over and over until it became 
an insensate hum. Did the declaration mean anything anymore, or was it just empty 
words?

     "A *carouche* friend," he spat, as if the words were mutually exclusive. "Wouldn't 
you rather have a dog?"

     I didn't like Bourbon's attitude. Snobbery wouldn't get him anything tonight in the 
current company except a rebellion. Rebellions are only fun when you aren't the effigy 
getting torched by the crowd. "I brought you along, didn't I?"

     Bourbon sniffed at my dig. Apparently being called a dog was complimentary 
compared to the alternatives. 

     I saw his gaze flicker back to Screed and the pair of heavyset men in his wake. The 
two townsmen obviously intended to lend an ear to our conversation, still after 
something, still tempted to pick a fight if they found just provocation. That's when I 
realized he knew. Bourbon wasn't ignorant of the dynamic happening in the tavern. His 
arrogance hadn't blinded him. He recognized that Screed's presence had temporarily 
blocked the crowd from targeting their seditious sentiment toward us, and with odds of 
twelve to one, it would have been a memorable showdown. I saw the calculation spark in 
his eyes: inclination minus common sense and caution. In the end, Bourbon appeared 
resigned to Screed's company along with the other great unwashed. Giving the facade of 
ambivalence, he crossed his arms in front of his chest and appeared momentarily 
innocuous. 

     That's when I realized what Bourbon said and did didn't necessarily equal what he 
thought and planned. He was certainly capable of stabbing me in the back. I saw that as 
clearly as I saw the color of his hair or his big nose. He was also equally capable of 
fighting by my side when I expected him to be fighting me instead. I don't know which 
idea bothered me more: the threat of friendship or the promise of betrayal. 

     Screed jabbed a grin in Bourbon's direction and pulled a gold flask from his jacket. A 
small medallion of a bull with emerald eyes decorated one side. I recognized that coat of 
arms from the items he'd been planning to pilfer the night before: Lucrece's. I supposed a 
little stolen loot was the least he deserved to console him for the lack of hospitality, so I 
looked away, letting him bask in his small victory. 

     Bourbon was less understanding. He recognized the flask as well as I did, and couldn't 
resist saying something. "Ah, the carouche, " he dropped testily, pointedly avoiding using 
Screed's name. "I see you've been touching things that aren't yours again. But then, it 
must be in your nature. Aren't rats the sort of creatures that steal trinkets to build their 
nests?"

     Screed snorted, unabashed. "H'iffen they do, call me Uncle Croesus. Nooo, rats wot 
like h'other material," he said and gestured at a patched section of his breeches. "They'll 
nibble h'a porthole ta yer arse when ya h'aren't lookin', mate, so watch ya fancy pants 
when ya trawlin' h'in tha' neighbor'ood." 

     The two brutes behind him guffawed at that suggestion. Screed's features brightened, 
and he hefted an arm around each set of meaty shoulders. "Mind me manners, an' Aye'll 
make tha' h'introductions. These deux gents," he began, giving his huddle of locals a 
friendly shake, "h'are Pontfort an' Gascogne, best reaver 'n tanner h'in Lyon, respective. 
Tears h'em down 'n wears h'em h'out h'as tha' professional h'opportunity knocks tha' 
door - that h'is their callin'. Ponty 'n Gassy, Aye calls h'em, sweet-like. Been keepin' me 
company throwin' tha' dice, they 'ave. Pair o' chancy blokes wot gave me h'a run fer 
their money!" 

     Screed released the two men and took a deep breath along with another swig from his 
new gold flask, wiping his mouth on the back of his coat sleeve. "'N these lowlifes…" he 
continued, assuming an apologetic tone at our introduction, as if the reaver and tanner 
were impressionable children he was sneaking past a whorehouse. "Fer one, there's 
Bourbon. 'E lives h'in h'a castle, 'n 'as somethin' wot stuck h'up 'is nose 'n can't get 
o'er it, but wit' such h'a bosky name, 'e's got ta 'ave h'a party h'in 'im somewheres, so 
let's not 'old that 'e's h'a rude bastard h'against 'im!" As Bourbon eyed Screed 
dispassionately, he began to hum a tune. "Wit' h'a love o' the liquor 'e was born... H'a 
gallon o' h'a whiskey ev'ry night..." The townspeople listening in clapped a rhythm and 
started to sing along. 

     Considering the whole scene had the eerie humiliation factor parallel to being victim 
of a birthday chant at one of those mortal restaurant chains, Bourbon took it very well. He 
didn't make a move to punch Screed, though I know his fists had to have been burning at 
the time. He could have tried to get Screed back, but he didn't. He was cool about it. He 
didn't flinch. He didn't raise an eyebrow. That's because he'd realized that, intentionally 
or not, Screed had done him another favor. At the end of that song, you'd have thought 
the crowd at the tavern had adopted Bourbon. Any rebellion on their minds - he was 
spared.

     For the rest of the night, he was golden. He didn't go out of his way to be polite to any 
of them, nor was he deliberately antagonistic. He acted normally, like an opinionated 
snob, but after the sing-a-long, they felt like they had a piece of him. He could call 
someone's mother a flea-ridden, ignorant cow, and they'd laugh at his flair with words. 
In his own way, Bourbon worked the situation. They talked, and he listened. The fact that 
he could listen made Bourbon more dangerous. It also made him more useful to have 
around.

     While I revised my opinion of the Frenchman yet another time, Screed got around to 
introducing me. "This mate's wot been runnin' h'as h'a crew wit' ol' Screed fer more 
years than Aye'm gonna mention. 'E goes by 'V-Man,' mais since 'e's been Frenchified, 
could be M'sieur le Vay soon h'as not."

     I shook hands with the reaver and tanner, the only ones paying vague attention. The 
others were busy trying to buy Bourbon drinks he didn't want. "Actually, the name's 
Vachon," I corrected. It was my new name. Why not get some mileage out of it?

     Screed looked annoyed. "Wot?! Since when?"

     "Since now," I said firmly.

     "'Vaah-shawn,'" he pronounced, a philosophical tilt to his head. "'Ow do ya spell 
that?" He snapped his fingers. "Wot wit'? H'a 'c' h'or h'an 's'?"

     Damn. I couldn't remember off the top of my head.

     "A 'c,'" Bourbon's voice filtered from down the bar, disgustingly self-satisfied.

     "That's right," I said, like I hadn't forgotten but had just taken the time to clear my 
throat. "Vachon. V-A-C-H-" An unwelcome pause. Oh, hell. "O-N. Vachon."

     Screed snickered. "Don't care h'iffen ya call yerself me Auntie Boudicca. Aye'm glad 
yer 'ere. 'Appy sight fer h'a sore purse. Ya can pay me back wot ya owe me wit' h'only 
moderate h'in'trest."

     I gave him a dubious look. "I don't owe you anything, Screed."

     His expression became secretive, and he motioned toward Ponty and Gassy, as if to 
say 'not in front of the children!' He pulled me aside a step, gesturing for me to duck my 
head closer as he whispered, "Sure ya owe me clinkers! Aye've wot's been h'a mate 'n 
kept yer room h'at this fine h'establishment fer ten plus moonbeams h'out o' me h'own 
pocket!" 

     "Uh-huh," I nodded. "You just paid the innkeeper without me asking you to. With 
your own money," I added emphatically. "Right. And Cromwell's Catholic." 

     Screed ducked his chin with false meekness and confessed. "Well, 'course Aye wasn' 
h'idiot enough ta give tha' man me 'ard-won coin." He straightened, pulling the lapels of 
his jacket away from his chest with pride. "Aye boozled tha' bloke roight 'n proper. 
Whether h'it's bread h'or du pain, doesn' matter! Ya h'owe me h'a conceptual debt, Señor 
Vash-wit'-a-C-on!"

     "Fine." It was an old game, Screed finding a reason to wrangle for extra funds, and me 
finding a reason to not palm it over. If as much gold filled our purses as our 
conversations, we'd be the wealthiest men in Europe. I swiped a handful of sawdust from 
the floor and threw it into the air between us.

    Screed's nose wrinkled, and he released a honking sneeze. "Wot's that for?"

     "I just paid you back," I said, wiping my hands clean. "Consider it conceptual 
money."

     He let out a groan. "Come h'on. Show h'a bit more charity ta ya ol' pal Screed. Aye 
didja h'a favor h'out o' tha' milky kindness o' me 'eart, seein' 'ow yer not so fond o' tha' 
'ay h'in tha' stable. 'Ow wuz Aye supposed ta know ya'd tangled toes wit' Lady 
Sunshine? Aye thought ya'd retourner h'all sweet." With the last phrase, he eyed me 
curiously.

     On automatic reflex, I almost said, 'I will be back,' but I caught myself. I was thinking 
of Screed and me running as a crew, of the possibility of him hanging at D'Asile and 
Lucrece allowing herself to like him. Nothing was certain. Nothing could be promised. 
Whatever happened, though, I knew the particular lumpy mattress at the inn under 
discussion held no temptation. 

     "I'll tell the innkeeper to give the room to some other customer if you don't want it," I 
said. "I won't be needing it anymore."

     Screed glanced over my shoulder at Bourbon's profile, then back at me, asking 
plainly, "Then wot h'are ya doin' 'ere?"
 
     "Checking in with you. We didn't really get to talk last night before…" I clamped my 
mouth shut. Uh-uh. Wasn't going to explain about Lucrece. Wasn't going to defend or 
disavow anything.

     "Wot?" Screed prompted.

     "Nothing." I shook my head absently. "Anything you might have heard, about 
carouche or whatever, it's not important."

     "Humph! Not ta you h'or me per chaps, but 'tis bloody h'important ta some boh'ies! 
Chats turn ta stake 'n polish, Aye'm not tha' one ta dawdle long h'enough ta play 
pincushion."  His gaze darted in Bourbon's direction again.

     Following his gaze, I nodded at the Frenchman. "Did he threaten you?" I asked in a 
low voice. I wanted it to be true. I wanted Bourbon to be my adversary, for as 
inconsistent as I proved to others time and again, he was far worse. Enemy or friend - let 
him be my enemy. Give me a reason to fight him, because the temptation to trust him was 
growing stronger every day. I didn't want to trust him. I suspected Bourbon would be the 
first to inform me I was a fool for so much as imagining he could be my ally.

     Screed gave a laughing snort. "Nah, not Baron Bosky fer that. Too good fer cheatin' 
h'at cards, that one h'is." He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. "But not too good ta 
watch h'a mate palm h'an ace, mindja. H'all's tha' same, Aye've 'ad me fill o' tha' fan-
cee social h'engorgements, so lose me h'invitations, will ya?"

     He had his pride, and I wasn't about to mention invites to the chateau wouldn't be 
falling out of the woodwork. "If you're sure…?" 

     "Sure h'as fleas h'onna puppy's fanny! Not ta say Aye'm not h'in tha' market fer 
takin' h'advantage o' mates wit' new rich-ee lady h'acquaintanceships… So 'ow s'about 
h'it? Spot me tha' golden library? Gilt me pages proper?"

     "You said you were up a thousand last night. What happened?" An answer hit me 
before Screed could draw a breath. "Is that why Ponty and company are your new, best 
friends? How much did they win?"

     "Jes' h'a quar'er!" Screed said indignantly. "Not h'a bother h'in tha' usual line o' 
h'enterprise h'iffen wot Dumarchais 'adn't played tha' 'ide n' seek wi'out settlin' 'is 
vowels."

     I recalled Screed's gambling excitement when we first hit town. "Dumarchais is the 
revenue officer you mentioned before? Anyone owed coin by a man in the king's service 
is destined for disappointment. You're lucky he's laying low rather than having you 
arrested on some trumped up charge to escape his debts." You can hardly blame me for 
being pessimistic. We're talking a tax collector here. That's the kind of contact that 
profits from your misfortune of coming to town, not the other way around. At that time, 
French revenuers were inevitably corrupt. The possibility of Screed's mark defining the 
exception made great wishful thinking.

     Ponty hadn't given up on eavesdropping and nudged his opinion into our 
conversation. "I don't believe that. Dumarchais has felt the swings of fortune as much as 
any man who rolls the bones. He's always paid his losses before."

     Gassy bobbed his head up and down. "Born and raised here, Dumarchais was. As 
trustworthy as any Frenchman, even if his mother's half-Portuguese." 

     Bourbon had edged into the fringes of our huddle. Hearing Gassy's declaration, he 
gave an authoritative nod, prodding the tradesmen on to further sentimental patriotism. 

     Have Frenchmen ever been humble? Sure, they rioted among themselves, profited and 
ruined off the labor of their countrymen as well as anybody, but to anyone who visited 
their provinces, it was France united against the rest of the inferior world. Fraternité first, 
Fraternité last, rah, rah, rah. With neighbors like Spain, England, Italy and Germany, I 
suppose pride broader than their borders translated as the only way to keep from being 
conquered and carved up for good. Marie Antoinette and the guillotine? She never had a 
chance. She wasn't French.

     As Bourbon and Pontfort congratulated each other via smug smiles on the region of 
their births, Gascogne eyed me suspiciously. "Are *you* Portuguese?"

     I flashed him a dangerous smile. "No." He frowned at my short answer, immediately 
assigning me a far more disreputable, and no doubt more accurate, identity within his 
imagination. 
 
     "Have you met our Dumarchais?" Ponty asked Bourbon casually. "He was last seen 
on the south road. He would have passed the turnoff to D'Asile."

     "I have little dealings with petty bureaucrats," he said with a shrug, then added loftily, 
"Though perhaps I should consider it. The bribes would be smaller."
     
     The tradesmen laughed. I observed as Bourbon watched them shrewdly. He knew 
something about the missing Dumarchais; I'd swear it.

********************************************************
End of Part Six

Words and Meanings (07/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Screed nudged my sleeve. I shifted my gaze, and he nodded toward the door. He 
wanted to lose our company for a private talk. It was easy enough. Bourbon demanded 
that the other men tell him more about the absent revenuer, and the tradesmen, their 
fingers blistering with anxious friction to fondle their money owed, jumped at the chance 
to complain over the subject at length.

     No doubt one or more of the crowd noted our departure, but as soon as we stepped out 
the front door, we flashed with unnatural speed into the stables, leaving a hard trail for 
anyone save another vampire to follow.

      While I'd been away, Screed had settled upon one section of the stable, putting it in 
the mind of the grooms to keep a wide berth. The stall Screed had requisitioned was tidy, 
the ground piled with fragrant hay, a bench pushed in a strict line against one wall. A 
length of coarse twine stretched between the post supporting the door and a nail 
hammered into the wood directly opposite. A dozen rats dangled from the cord, their tails 
held fast by wooden pins. The bench had stations of small earthenware jars beneath each 
small body. It was as if he had a booth at an open market, with a grotesque twist. The rats 
had the same glassy eyes as a rack of fowl or hare for sale, with not a drop of blood out of 
place. Industrious, yet simultaneously unnerving.

     "Who else are you feeding?" I asked. I'd spotted a row of neat wine skins tucked 
under the bench. Obviously Screed had been at the rat draining all day. The result was 
more blood than he'd down in a hungry week.

     "Jes' meself," he said happily as he began to tug the now-dry bodies free of the line. 
"H'inspiration paid h'a visit last night. Stockin' tha' cupboard h'is lookin' ta tha' future-
like. H'add h'a few preservatives, yer good ta' tipple h'at leisure."

     "Why do you need to store away for winter? There's never a shortage of rats," I 
laughed. "If anything, they're dropping into your lap." 

     "Ya don' like h'it." Screed shot me a scowl, his nose wrinkled with revelation. "Yer 
pissy-prancy h'about whiskers onna rope!"

     I held my arms out at either side to protest his unfounded accusation. "Did I say that? I 
didn't say that." 

     Screed hurumphed. "Fine bit o' snarky comin' from you. Tell me one thing - wot's 
tha' difference twix me leechin' h'a few extra squeaks an' wot yer lot plugs h'a corker 
h'in?"

     He was on the defensive, and I didn't understand why. "Plenty. You know I only do 
the bottled thing when we're at sea and there's no choice, and it's always crap."

     "Not 'uman ya mean."

     Oh. Was that it? Maybe talk of carouche bothered Screed more than he'd let on at 
first. "You know me," I answered lightly, as if our differences weren't a big deal. "I'm an 
old-fashioned guy who likes to use his teeth. I do my killing one at a time, face to face. 
No leftovers. If mortals were to suddenly get it in their heads to start giving blood 
donations, well, maybe things would be different." I grinned at the crazy thought. "But 
what are the odds of *that* happening?" I looked expectantly at Screed. If my offer had 
soothed him, he'd promptly issue me a wager on the possibility.

     None was forthcoming. "Don' be h'oblivious. Aye'm not parlayin' h'about 'tween 
ship 'n sail. Ya know h'as well h'as ol' Screed wheres yer smashy party wine comes 
from - human, 'n not tha' face-ta-face."

     I froze. Hell, if he wasn't right, and I hadn't spared a moment to care. The night before 
had been a banquet of blood, and I hadn't questioned who'd provided a drop of it. Mortal 
it had been, all right. Sweet, but empty. None of the echoes that come only from a life 
taken in the heat of passion or the sweat of terror had been in that blood, just the fragrant 
essence of life stillborn. "It's not the same," I said, when I really didn't know the answer. 
I'd been hungry, and I drank. It was as simple as that, I thought, ignoring how well I 
understood that nothing was ever so simple as that. 

     "Bloody 'ell h'it's not, h'unless ya peculiar 'bout rat h'or man." Screed made a 
disgusted snort and delved back into angrily dislodging his rodent corpses from the cord 
and building them into a pile. "'As tha' fancy gone ta' yer 'ead then, V-Man? Ya've 
changed since ya got tangled h'inna silk skirt, givin' me 'abits tha' cross-eyed jammie."

     "That's a crock," I argued. "You're the same person you've always been. I can see 
that."

     He stared at me steadily for a moment, then hoisted his sack over his shoulder and 
began to load it with bodies for their disposal. "Tha's not tha' words Aye said, mate. 
Things h'are same, things h'are diff'rent." He plucked the clothespins from the line and 
added them to his satchel, then followed them with the wine skins and bottles. "Some un-
mate chasin' h'us down, fire h'in their h'eyes... Same ol' la même thingee - wot wit' 
these H'enforcers been squawked about, 'n h'iffen Dumarchais don' turn up ta honor me 
debts, Aye'll be hittin' tha' road soon h'enough. Change h'is, will ya be comin' h'along 
fer tha' run this time?"

     There it stood. He'd asked the question flat-out, at least in flat-out terms for his 
vocabulary. Were we still running as a crew or not? My reply sounded as undecided as I 
felt, 'I don't want to make a decision' painted all over it in mile-high letters.  "I'm not 
ready to leave yet, Screed."

     My indecision insulted him more than anything could have. I don't blame him for 
feeling that way. We'd always put everything out in the open between us, and I was 
trying to change the rules. Screed closed his sack roughly, his hands strangling the handle 
as he slung it over his shoulder. "Tha' h'answers h'a lot, thank ya very much!"

     I caught his arm when it looked like he planned to stomp out of the stable. "You don't 
have to leave town. I'll find the money to cover your gambling debts, okay? Just hang 
around Lyon a while longer."

     Screed sarcastically cupped a hand behind one of his ears. "H'a sorrier bribe h'iffen 
Aye h'ever 'eard tha' like! Would work, mindja, weren' fer tha' carouche-stakin' faction 
could be lookin' fer me h'address." He jerked his arm out of my grasp and made for the 
door. "Gracias, muchacho, mais adios! Aye'm layin' me brainpan low fer h'awhile. You 
coo wit' yer bird h'up h'in tha' castle. Tweet, tweet." Screed paused halfway out the 
stable entrance, his features shuttered in unusual concern. "Do us h'a favor, mate?"

     I stood there numbly as the reality sunk in that he was walking away, and I wasn't 
going with him. Not making a choice hadn't been my choice. I wanted something that 
leaving, returning to scrambling around the globe with Screed couldn't give me. I wasn't 
ready to quit without it. Without her. Silken sheets and Lucrece, or twisted words and 
Screed, and I'd swayed toward staying. I swallowed any remaining doubts, banishing 
them as I made him a confident promise, the only kind I bother giving. "Anything."

     "Aye've got peepers 'n 'earin' fer trouble - h'always h'anticipated that's why Aye 
h'anchored wit' you. This Lady Sunshine might be h'a golden piece; she might soon h'as 
be h'a flashy coat h'over iron." Seeing my quick frown, he lifted his palms in front of his 
chest to ward off my protests. "'Old h'on. Don't know tha' Jane fer good h'or bad. She's 
got ya wound tighter than h'a cuckoo clock, so's Aye speculate there's somethin' worth 
knowin'. Casin' 'er chest, she looks ta 'ave h'a mighty nice -" He made a suggestive 
gesture with his hands.

     "Screed," I growled. "You have a point?" 

     "H'a sharpie," Screed assured me with a nod. His warning came frank and earnest. 
"H'even h'iffen she's golden, Sunshine burns tha' likes o' us, V-Man. Pretty she h'is, but 
ya can judge h'a body by tha' friends they keep. H'it's h'a cold lot she's stokin' h'in 'er 
chateau. No one ta warm ta tha' likes o' h'us. H'iffen ya don' watch yourself 'round her, 
watch yourself 'round them."

     Judge a body by the friends they keep - wise and true words. I looked at Screed 
emptily wondering what to say. I wasn't keeping him - the only friend I'd known to be 
true - what the hell did that say about me? I couldn't think of any reply to his concern that 
felt as solemn as I did in that moment. Instead, I forced a grin and made light of it. "Quit 
worrying. You're acting like my mother. I'll be dancing on your grave first, sailor."

     "Flower me wit' h'affection, why don'cha?" Screed scowled. "Me ass ta' you, 
Spaniard!" With that, he turned his back, dropped breeches and irreverently gave me the 
full moon as he hooted. Split between avoiding the view and shouting with him, I backed 
up until my legs met the bench. Collapsing into the seat, clutching my sides, I felt the 
stretch of twine give resistance at my shoulders, then snap. My laughter began to ebb as I 
realized Screed had gone. Just a draft pushed at the stall door now, giving a squeaky sigh.

     I sat staring at that door. I could still catch up with him.

     I glanced down, catching a glimpse of the frayed edge of twine where it clung to the 
arm of my coat. Picking it up, I rubbed the fibers between two fingers as I searched for 
the other end. Pulling them both taut, they hardly met, certainly not enough to tie 
together. I let the pieces of split twine fall back where they may.

     I could still catch up with Screed.

     But I wouldn't.

**************************************************************

     I returned to D'Asile alone. I figured that Bourbon could handle himself, and if his 
attitude happened to raise havoc, my compliments to the havoc. 

     On my way, I deliberately hunted down a meal. I walked through the streets, the 
darker the better, just waiting for someone to pick me out as easy prey. Their choice - 
more than they bargained for, but their choice, all the same.

     Maybe I ripped into the pickpocket's throat with more viciousness than necessary, but 
the thought that I'd just shucked my only friend distracted me. Face-to-face, death mask 
and last glimpse of life, fangs and flesh seeping red, I was everything I said I was. I was 
hungry, and my victim hadn't intended to do me any favors. Under that shadow, murder 
felt logical, soothing, right. The blood tasted crisp with the fear, full of shock that it was 
too late to escape this path to the afterlife. That kill tasted more satisfying than any I can 
remember, gratifying in the raw mechanics of it. A hungry mortal would bring down a 
deer, bagging the first one that got too close, then seize his fill. Hungry mortals take, and 
they kill. One throat bent back, ravaged by my teeth, it was that same, simple theft: you 
take to survive, and in that ultimate moment of thievery, you feel the rush, the power, that 
you are going to live to see another night.

     Reaching the boundaries of the chateau, I found myself lingering in the gardens, the 
pathways soft with grass, trees pruned into archways overhead. The moon filtered 
through the branches, causing the palest blooms to glow with an inner light. I could taste 
the dew in the air, cool and waiting, clinging with the perfume of roses and bergamot. 
Ah…bergamot and incense.

     When we first met, I hadn't sensed Lucrece immediately, but I could smell her now in 
the night breeze. Her scent was imprinted on my memory, her identity permanently 
branding the associations of soft sheets and hot water, golden hair and bad poetry. I could 
see her with my eyes closed, treading with silent steps on the path behind me, 
purposefully clandestine. I could feel her as she discovered me, the flare of doubt and 
longing, culminating in pleasure. I heard Lucrece approach, steps light enough to tempt 
flying. Her choice to approach me - maybe more than she bargained for, but her choice, 
all the same.

     Capricious fingers slipped over my eyes. "Guess who?"

     The point of the game is to get the answer wrong, to play a fantasy. A name popped 
out of my mouth, prompted by the afternoon's reading. "Circe."

     She laughed at the comparison, her hands leaving my eyes as they settled on my 
shoulders, and she moved to stand in front of me. "Circe. What sort of haven do you 
think I'm running?" she asked with jesting severity.

     I buried my fingers in her hair, losing myself in the silken web of it. "You tell me."

     "Hmm." She pursed her lips together, appearing innocently contemplative, even as her 
hands wandered wickedly low. "If I am a seductress, my motives are highly suspect."

     I let out a groan, reaching under the folds of her cloak, pulling her hips against me. 
"You are a seductress," I whispered in her ear.

     Lucrece rested her cheek against my chest and held me. Her voice came again, soft 
and musing. "Seductresses are, by their nature, very selfish, are they not?"

     She remained very still, so still that I tugged lightly on her hair, leaning back to look at 
her face. "Lucrece?"

     Her features were whimsical, but her eyes carried that same hint of being lost that I'd 
seen before. "Do you suppose I could be someone else?"

     I trailed my thumbs along her cheekbones, knowing that she wasn't fragile, yet 
feeling… "It was just a word plucked from myth and moonlight," I said, my lips brushing 
her lobe again. "Names are moments. You are who you are." One hand scooped behind 
her legs, the other supporting her shoulders, as I swept her off the ground and spun her in 
a circle. 

     She gave a girlish peal of laughter as I rolled to the ground, pulling her on top of me. 
Her cloak entangled us. Less than enamored with it, I made short work with the fastening. 
Lucrece helped push the fabric aside, our fingers clasping as we got in each other's way. 
Her fair skin shimmered once free from the heavy velvet wrap, glowing under the 
blessing of the moonlight. Under her cloak, Lucrece was only wearing her shift, revealing 
tantalizing glimpses of shadows and valleys. 

     I teased her neckline with one finger, still grasping her other hand. "Your normal 
business attire?"

     The corner of her mouth quirked as she swung her unadorned curls over one shoulder. 
"Normal after-business attire would be more accurate," Lucrece murmured.

     I suddenly shifted direction, rolling her onto her back, holding her down with my 
weight. Stroking a line along her jaw, I said, "You never mentioned what kind of business you 
have."

     "I didn't, did I?" she said enigmatically, then laughed at my resulting expression. 
"You've caught me! I'm engaged in trade."

     That had a wealth of meanings. "The trade of what?"

     "Hmm…" she breathed airily as I nuzzled her neck. "I obtain and transport perishable 
goods for the rich and powerful. I am paid appallingly well for their convenience and 
luxury, in money as well as favors."

     "Milady, I have reaped the rewards of your convenience and luxury for some time," I 
declared, back in my gallant playacting mode. I slipped her shift from her shoulders, 
brushing my fingers along her collarbone before drifting down to the laced edging and 
pulling slowly. "I have no money."

     My mock concern had her laughing again. "Do I look inclined toward giving charity?"

     "At the moment," I said, answering practically as I gazed at her naked skin, "it would 
appear you have given the very clothes off your back for the comfort of a poor soldier."

     "Oh, that won't do." Her voice carried her smile. "That won't do at all," she repeated. 
I touched her with my lips, and she sighed. "I'll have your favors," she murmured, "or I'll 
have nothing."

     I sank my teeth into her, savored the buzz of her rushing through my body, then I 
paused, struck by a sudden, intense desire to lift my head and scan her face. She had on 
her death mask, eyes on fire and a predatory smile to mirror mine, fangs flexing with the 
hunger to take and devour and fill another night. 

     Selfish seducers - hell, aren't we all?  

     Her mask flickered questioningly at my lingering study. "What is it, Vachon?" 

     I glanced at the marks I'd left on her throat, then licked at the seeping wound, the drop 
on my tongue transforming into a surge of pleasure that had me closing my eyes for a 
second as I held on for the ride. Eyes open again, I grinned, shaking my head that she 
shouldn't wonder. "Just checking to see if you're real."

     "And am I?" she whispered.

      I kissed her, her plump lower lip beckoning to me. She tasted rich, of gold, scented 
oils and ecstasy. She seemed unsure, as if she worried what my answer might be. "I need 
more time," I said into her mouth. "I need more time to be sure." 

     When I entered her again, I could almost swear her blood tasted like tears. Like the 
best of selfish seducers, I took all that I could.

*****************************************************
End of Part Seven

Words and Meanings (08/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Later, Lucrece fidgeted uncomfortably at my side, one arm stretched over her head. 
"This is unusual."

     I gave a small grunt. That one's not in the handbook of post-coital comments typically 
received. My response had to be inconclusive.

     "Yes," she mused. "Sleeping at the edge of an arbor canopy, the moon and stars 
overhead..." Her voice trailed off as she fidgeted some more. "...Intrusive 
insects...gnarled roots digging into my spine. Yes, this is very different."

     I broke off a blade of grass and propped on one elbow, dancing the tip along her arm. 
"Are you trying to tell me you've never slept a night outdoors?" I asked incredulously.

     "Of course I have. Only there were tents and netting." She made a wistful sound. 
"And cushions."

     "You are so deprived. Come here," I said, pulling her body atop mine. "I'll be your 
cushion."

     She hummed warmly, settling her fingers over my hand splayed across her stomach. 
"And they say chivalry is dead. You're much better than a coat over a mud puddle or a 
posy of flowers."

     "That's good to hear," I murmured, devoting my free hand to winding her hair about 
my fingers as my thoughts turned serious. "Lucrece?"

     "Yes?" she said, her voice thick with languor.

     "There's something I want to ask you about."

     I could feel her body tense, then forcibly relax again. "I'm beginning to live in terror 
of your questions."

     I didn't relent, neither in twisting her lock about my index finger, nor in my 
inquisition. "The blood you served at the banquet, the bottles you pour - where does it 
come from?"

     Her response was bright and gregarious. "Mortals, of course. I didn't expect your 
question to be a schoolroom one." 

     I tugged at the lock of her hair, dissatisfied that she'd chosen to play dumb. My hand 
pressed firmly against her belly, urging her to treat my question seriously no matter how 
simple. "You know that isn't what I was asking."

     "Perhaps I don't wish to discuss it. Does it matter so?"

     I shook my head. "I don't know." My answer was honest enough. Did it really matter 
now where the blood had come from? Did I really care? I had drunk my fill without 
complaint. This was territory better consigned to the past, hands washed clean. Because 
the past cannot be altered, why waste a moment on it? But it's like my telling this story - 
does any of it matter here and now? Not an instant of it can be undone. No simple 
utterance will take away Screed's sickness, or change the way things have passed. But the 
story is an explanation, a way to filter out what's unimportant, letting go of the trivial 
idiocy that confuses the truth. The story is a way of accepting the truth. 

     Screed's words at the stable hung in the back of my thoughts, a driving suggestion. 
He'd learned something while I'd been enchanted by gray eyes and perfumed curves. 
Had pigs begun to talk, I wouldn't have noticed. That's why it mattered. I wasn't leaving 
with the sailor, but in this way, I was still catching up with him. "It's my morbid 
curiosity," I told her lightly. "Humor me."

     Lucrece relented, but she still didn't sound eager to speak. "I hope it is a good humor." 
She twirled one hand absently in the grass, twisting the shoots into a knot as she gathered 
her thoughts. "We passed an accident on the road from Paris. A hospital had caught fire. 
It was a distance from the nearest town, so no one had come to lend them aid in the 
emergency. At least twenty of the victims had crawled to freedom. Some of them gasped 
their last breaths, while others had collapsed on the ground, weeping and howling 
because their hair had been scorched away, their faces and hands spoiled into 
innumerable blisters, their bodies alive, but ravaged beyond their minds' comprehension. 
The racket of their torture, the way they screamed and begged for deliverance - I hated 
it." 

     Lucrece stilled her fingers on the knot of grass, pinching the base and snapping it 
away from the earth. She let the blades fall from her grasp, allowing them to scatter with 
the breeze. "We cut their throats, and they stopped howling. We siphoned their blood for 
another time, crating it away in one of the traveling coaches, and the servants buried their 
remains in a mass grave. It sounds rather grotesque, I know. We robbed them of their 
proper burial in a churchyard, but they were dying - why waste so much blood for the 
sake of appeasing a god that would not spare them such pain? They were mortals - why 
sacrifice anything for them?" 

     She waited silently for my response, the tremolos of crickets the only backdrop of 
sound. When I said nothing right away, Lucrece clasped my hand. "Does my tale bother 
you, Vachon? Do you believe I should have let them be?"

     I caressed her hair as I replied slowly, "You spared them a lingering, agonizing spiral 
into death. That's kindness of a sort."

     As stories go, it was an affecting one. Blood won at a dear price, obtained by chance, 
spilt with a myriad of mortal sins, but with a necessary mercy. I could have fallen in love 
with her again for a tale like that. I could have, if her story hadn't made her a liar.

     You're the detective, so you may have noticed where the pieces didn't fit. When 
Lucrece's carriage had broken down on the road from Paris the night we met, she hadn't 
been able to control her hunger during the wait for repairs. Why feed from Marie if there 
were crates of blood at her disposal in the next vehicle? One story could be true, but not 
both. The agony those mortals experienced before Lucrece slit their throats would have 
transferred to their blood as an edgy kick, but the portion I'd drunk had the infusion of a 
somnolent death.

     I could have called her on the falsehood then and there. I had my answer. She wasn't 
golden to the core any more than I was gallant and noble. Maybe we'd turned each other 
into a matched pair - two liars in love. My deceptions seemed frail and white in 
comparison, sins of omission if they even counted. Her deceit rang loud, large and 
deliberate. Lingering there with my arms around her, I was damned. I couldn't push her 
off of me. I still couldn't let her go. I craved the answer to a new riddle - why had she 
lied? Why did the silence make her uneasy?

     The absence of words had Lucrece shifting in my embrace so that she could hunt my 
expression for the reason. She could sense that something remained unspoken between 
us, so her search progressed warily. I could pick out the signs of remorse in her gaze, the 
hollowness I'd attributed to a woman lost, in need of rescue. Just like a woman - my 
moment of revelation had rendered her no less of a mystery. She could be a selfish 
seductress, or she could be -

     "My love?" she whispered hesitantly. "Vachon?"

     I couldn't reduce how I felt to one emotion and stick to it. I ached, resentment clawing 
at me from the inside as her voice laced each word together in a melodic thread. In the 
usual course of things, when I caught someone stringing me along, I cut the cord, going 
after them like unholy scissors. If she could lie to me once, she could lie about 
everything. My love…it stung my ears like a prayer. Yet, even with the bitterness, the 
surge of mistrust winding through me the same way my grip wound in her hair, she felt 
no different. She felt like longing in my hands, still carrying the scent of bergamot, 
incense and gold. I breathed deeply of her perfume as I answered, shoving the instinct to 
fight down in my gut, clinging to the spell of her fragrance, the Lucrece I wanted. "Yes?" 
I loved her. I nursed my pride with the thought that she could only lie to me when she 
was looking at the fathomless ebony sky. 

     New rule, querida. Face to face, I told her with my eyes, face to face, Lucrece, we 
only speak with our hearts.

     "You asked me about my business earlier," she said softly. "I didn't tell you 
everything."

     "Go on." My voice was flat. I wanted truth and explanations; I wanted her to lay 
herself out naked and genuine before me, but I wasn't going to beg for any of it.

     "I was surrounded by riches as a mortal, but, of course, most of that was lost when I 
died," she began quietly. "Most remained under the control of my husband's family; a 
small portion passed on to my children."

     "Children," I echoed. Of course she had been a mother. I don't know why the 
possibility hadn't occurred to me before, but the image flared in me now. Lucrece ripened 
with some other man's infant. Lucrece screaming as the labor tore at her body with its 
natural ruthlessness. I could imagine Lucrece hating that control taken away from her, but 
finding herself a helpless prisoner praying for deliverance that never came quickly.

     I'd trafficked with very few mothers over the years - avoided them like sunlight. Part 
of it was out of a lingering honor for my own, but the rest was simple superstition. A 
mother had the power of giving life. She was a possessed vessel devoting every cell of 
her being to the force of creation. I've known vampires who would face fire and holy 
water to spill expectant blood, obsessed that an instant double-kill transported them into a 
god-like state of bliss, like we don't feel enough ecstasy as it is. Feeding on that power 
intentionally is the only kind of kill that's ever struck me as parasitic and pathetic. You 
don't take that; you respect it.

     "I had six children that survived the cradle, more that did not," Lucrece recounted. 
"Granted, they are all dead now, as are their children and grandchildren. It was the last 
infant - Isabella - her refusal to enter this world was so strong that she had to take me 
with her. She died almost as soon as she arrived, and I fell into a fever from the struggle. 
Isabella was a spiteful little girl determined to have her way and stay in the womb where 
she felt safe," Lucrece joked feebly. "I'm afraid she inherited her temperament from her 
mother."

     I wondered if Lucrece could sense how her talk of motherhood affected me, even as I 
wondered how the subject related to her business. My attention centered upon her belly, 
slightly rounded, yet now permanently barren, the weight of her curves pressing against 
my stomach. Oh, I never dream of children I will never have. I don't desire or need that 
fantasy, which is just as well, because I'm not father material. But a woman…a woman 
who has endured the process not just once, but over and over…a woman who died for the 
sake of it…a woman like that left me feeling like a weak quitter. Damn, if she didn't awe 
and terrify me all at once. 

     I watched Lucrece's faraway look and shivered. Her private memory of the 
circumstances of her mortal death held a mysticism I could only understand to a point. 
My own end brought to mind the rage of war and pure eroticism. Lucrece's expression 
suggested emotions I couldn't comprehend. 

     She spoke again, solemnly, as if deaths carried no meaning, even when they came 
from her own flesh. "But all that has left me behind. It carries no consequence now." I 
could tell it was another lie from the tense line of her back, this one spoken straight into 
my eyes. My heart cursed her for that, even as I hung on to her words for illumination. 
"My wealth, for what it is worth, has been reclaimed slowly but surely. From trade, as I 
said before, as well as another type of contract. The ladies who wait upon me - haven't 
they roused any curious questions in you?"

     "You mean, about why they linger here, despite knowing that you and Bourbon are 
vampires?" I said wryly. "I had wondered."

     "Some are mortal friends, like Marie used to be." She paused for a pained moment. 
"Most, however," Lucrece continued, "are heiresses in their own right, with fortunes and 
property under their own control coupled with a strong aversion to growing old 
gracefully. This is how I acquired D'Asile - from a contract with Thérèse, the lady whose 
neck I had to pry Thomas off of the other night. She signed her riches over to me, a 
dowry in a sense, in exchange for the promise that I will make her into a vampire in good 
time."

     "'In good time?'" I mocked. "Sounds like a loophole. Either you plan to bring her 
across, or you don't. Which is it?"

     "Oh, I would bring Thérèse across, if she remained steadfast," she assured me. "But I 
have entered these arrangements over many years. In my first two contracts, I satisfied 
the terms right away, only they weren't truly satisfied. I suppose becoming vampires 
wasn't the experience they imagined it to be. They soon walked into the sun and left me 
feeling like a peddler who'd sold them poor goods with false promises. I soon resolved 
that, in the future, anyone who entered such a contract must reside in my household until 
I am firmly convinced they will not have second thoughts. Case in point, there were some 
- Thérèse and two more, Danielle and Annalise - who, perhaps wisely, lost their nerve 
after Marie's death. They're frightened of my temper. They decided to leave tonight," she 
added, almost deliberately casual.

     At this point in my existence, I hadn't brought anyone across. To listen to her speak of 
it in business terms, as though converting a mortal could be boiled down to the basic 
nature of supply and demand, price and quantity - it was weird. She had a gleam in her 
eyes, the pleasure in finance that put me in mind of Screed rambling about his betting 
strategy. "What will you do about them?"

     "Nothing," Lucrece declared, "as long as they keep to certain restrictions…"

     "Why am I not surprised?"

     "First and foremost, they must not breathe a word of the contract terms to any mortal 
once they leave. I make it perfectly clear that, if they do, I will hunt them down."

     "Isn't that pointless overkill with the honor system," I asked, "when you could just 
wipe their memories clean?"

     "I cannot wipe their memories clean."

     "Of course you can," I protested. "You just look them in the eyes and -"

     She rested a fingertip against my lips, cutting off my rudimentary description of the 
basic whammy. "I misspoke. It isn't that I cannot wipe their memories clean, it is that I 
will not. If I did, I would have to restore all their money and property as I found it. Would 
I sacrifice D'Asile for the sake of some debutante's faint heart? No! Speculation is the 
road to ruin. This leads me to my second restriction: if someone decides they do not wish 
to become a vampire, I still retain all of their property as well as half their money. No 
exceptions."

     I let out a low whistle, silently wishing Thérèse, Danielle and Annalise long and 
happy, though considerably less rich, mortal lives. "You charge a high price for having 
second thoughts. Just how many faint-hearted debutantes are we talking about here?"

     "Not counting my poor initial showing, I've made six out of a possible twenty-six 
vampires."

     "That's a lot of mind changing." 

     "I suppose," Lucrece admitted. "Keep in mind that many wealthy people are not born 
with my determination and force of will. The rich don't know what they want. That is 
why they want everything."

     I smiled at her theory. It sounded perfectly accurate to me. "And what do they do once 
you've brought them across?"

     "What do you mean? They live as vampires, naturally."

     "But like you, they've lost all their mortal wealth. What do they do? Make a bunch of 
their own contracts for others to become vampires?"

     She appeared perplexed, bewildered that I bothered to ask. "What would be wrong 
with that?"

     "It's just not sustainable in the long run," I told her practically. Reading may not have 
been my strong suit, but I had no problem with numbers. "Look." I gestured with one 
hand, motioning to a point in space. "You're the one at the top."
  
     Lucrece nodded. "Uh-hmm - which is good."
    
     I motioned a layer in the air below her symbolic point. "Then there's the twenty-six 
people who've made contracts with you."

     "But I've only brought across six!" she reminded me.

     "Right, and they follow your example, making six times twenty-six new contracts. 
That's one hundred and fifty-six new deals!" I signaled a third imaginary level, much 
broader than the second.

     She waved a hand impatiently in the air as if to erase my third layer. "But only thirty-
six new vampires, which is the important part."

     "Very important," I agreed with her, conditionally, "because those thirty-six vampires 
will need another nine hundred and thirty-six contracts to keep their flow of wealth going 
strong."

     "Nine hundred and thirty-six?" she repeated, her voice strained. "But -"

     "Exactly. Your scheme is like a pyramid," I said, outlining the full shape in the space 
beside us. "The people at the top, like you, are all lounging in the grass by arbored 
canopies outside your chateaus, but pretty soon you run out of rich people that want to 
become vampires that aren't already vampires. The bottom's screwed."

     Lucrece scowled prettily. "A pyramid scheme. Really, Vachon, that's a terrible 
metaphor. I've tried business with Egyptians - they don't cooperate at all. They haggle 
too much over the conditions. And even if my scheme does fit a pyramid, I am at the top, 
so the problems of those at the bottom hardly concern me, do they?"

     I rolled my eyes. "They do if -" Another disturbing thought struck me. "Was Bourbon 
one of these contracts?"

     "Oh, no!" she insisted. "No, no! I told you he's a descendent of my brother. I 
*wanted* to bring him across." She'd lost her completely clinical air toward making 
vampires, and now seemed disgustingly thrilled about turning the Frenchman. "He was a 
Musketeer - did I mention that?" She said it like being a Musketeer made Bourbon a 
prince, when he was really just another soldier with a fancy uniform.

     "No," I grunted. "Neither did he." But it wasn't Bourbon's history I wanted to hear 
about. I wanted to know every thread of her pointless past, even as I knew it should 
signify nothing compared to the here and now of the woman in my arms: the beautiful 
lover, the lying bitch, the lady that I couldn't abide to set aside.

     "He took to dueling as much as breathing," Lucrece confided. "Always to satisfy some 
notion of his honor being insulted. It stood to reason - with a name like Bourbon, his 
family's choices when he was a child, people were always questioning his loyalty to the 
Crown, accusing him of Huguenot sympathies, when really nothing was further from the 
truth."

     "He did mention that part," I offered casually.

     "So Philippe would declare his allegiances with his sword," she continued, "leaving 
him with very few allies and quite a number of people who wished him dead."

     "I can sympathize with the feeling," I murmured, then added a bit more graciously, 
"He's a born rebel."

     Lucrece tilted her head, as though I'd presented her with a disturbing prospect. "Is 
he?"

     "He is. That's Bourbon's problem. He was born a rebel, but he was also born on the 
side that rebels tend to strive against. He knows he wants to fight, but he hasn't decided 
what he wants to fight for."

     Lucrece ran a finger along my cheek while her brow furrowed in concern. "Did he tell 
you that?"

     "You're joking, right? Trust me, I'm not his confidant any more than he's my boot 
cleaner." I laughed at the idea. "It's just what I see."

     "If Bourbon fights for anything," she said emphatically, "he should fight for me."

     "Because he's your family?" Bourbon hadn't struck me as devoted to that concept, at 
least not with her same passion.

     "Because I saved him from an early grave. His rebellious nature involved him in a 
duel with a viper who could not bear to lose. Though Bourbon left the field of battle 
victorious, his vindictive opponent had used a poisoned blade. It was only a minor cut, 
hardly a scar to come of it, all things normal, but with poison that was all it took to fell 
him. If I had not taken an interest in my nephew, he would have died alone and 
unlamented."

     "And you wanted to bring him across," I reminded her. She'd wanted to bring 
Bourbon across, and some dishonorable dueler had spared her the bother of asking his 
opinion. "Pretty convenient, the way things worked out."

     "Convenient." Lucrece smiled whimsically. "That's one way of putting it."

     Whimsical, I wasn't. "And all the vampires you've made, the ones you didn't want so 
much as you desired their money, were they also convenient?"

     "You're beginning to make convenience sound like a foul circumstance," she said, the 
humor in her voice turning waspish. "Convenient it is...for a woman, especially a dead 
woman such as myself, to acquire and maintain a chateau such as this in uninterrupted 
prosperity requires as much convenience as she can marshal. I have to appease the King, 
and the vampire community, bribing dozens of stepping-stones in between. Were it not 
for convenience, I would have nothing."

     Love. Freedom. Eternity. Were these things nothing to her? "And me, Lucrece?" I said 
roughly, searching her face for some shadow of the truth.  "Am I convenient?"

     "You are extremely inconvenient to me, Vachon." The raw honesty in her tone had me 
drawing her against my chest. I couldn't trust her, but I wanted to keep her. I heard her 
voice softly incant, "I don't know what to do about you. I don't know what to feel."

     "I don't know what to do about you, either," I whispered into her hair, so gently she 
may not have even heard.

     She spoke again after a while, her cheek resting next to my silent heart. I could still 
smell her perfume. I could feel her, the determination she boasted of radiating from her 
voice, the uncertainty that tangled her tightening the line of her back. "Did you see your 
friend Screed when you went into town?" She didn't want that, I could hear displeasure 
underlying her tone. There was something in the prospect of it that threatened her.

     "No. I don't think I'll be seeing him again," I lied, joining in with the theme of the 
evening. But I didn't meet her eyes when I said those words; I couldn't bring myself to 
do that. I couldn't be that callous. Instead, I stared at the fathomless ebony sky and 
wondered what might be my next direction. She was the one carrying a lost look in the 
center of her world, but I'd become equally lost in her. One of us would either stumble 
across the path out of this web eventually, or we'd become a pair of perpetual strays. 

     I strummed my fingers up and down her back and tried to imagine forever split in two, 
the shape of eternities that came to an end.

************************************************************
End of Part Eight 

Words and Meanings (09/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     As sunrise approached, we raced indoors. We found no sign of Bourbon, but Lucrece 
and I were both more interested in other things at the time to think much of it. She fell 
asleep in my arms, peace covering her like a blanket, but I couldn't rest as easily. 

     I tenderly pried away from her, leaving the bed in favor of the library. I passed 
members of Lucrece's army of servants on the way. One of these domestic foot soldiers 
stationed outside every doorway, primed to satisfy any demand made day or night 
instantly. They stared ahead with unseeing eyes, as if they were blind until told 
otherwise, each one a numb speck of life huddled in their cave along the hall. If I chose to 
hand one of them a casual hello, they would jump, startled at being noticed, then would 
inquire what they could do to be of service, as if I had all the answers to the meaning of 
their lives. Invariably, I said nothing, a damning answer in itself.

     Stopping briefly within the library, I retrieved the copy of 'The Odyssey' as well as 
Bourbon's magnifying lens and carried them back to Lucrece's room. I passed the same 
servant sentries with empty faces and wished them somewhere else, where they could 
live for themselves. Ungracious, I thought, pausing at the foot of Lucrece's bed for a 
solemn study of her languid form curled on the mattress. She wouldn't appreciate me 
consigning her wealth to the devil or Burgundy. Inconsistent of me to desire the rich 
Lucrece in the first place, then resent her gold, retinue and toadies when they kept her 
from being truly mine.

     Moving away, I settled in a chair, propping my boots on a low table nearby, and I 
proceeded to read for hours. Deciphering the words pared my thoughts until all that 
seemed real were the characters of another story pulled from the past, their slow journey 
over the seas mirroring my sluggish progress through the book. Eventually, the drive for 
sleep caught up with me, and I reluctantly set Homer aside. Crawling back into bed, I 
rested my head against Lucrece's breast and drifted off to dreams of a Cyclops that 
couldn't see beneath sheep's clothing.

     The sounds of breaking glass and shouting woke me. I shifted groggily, running my 
hands over the bed linens in search of a familiar, desired form. Empty.

     I rolled over onto my back, experiencing the weight of my late day's reading in my 
arms and legs. I had no precise idea what time it was, but I wasn't ready to get up yet. 
Dozing until midnight sounded like a pleasant notion rather than rising with the sunset. 

     Through lids slit open halfway, I saw Lucrece walk briskly across the room. She'd 
traded her grass-stained shift for something cleaner, and I saw her add a pale blue 
brocade robe, fastening it clumsily about her waist. I wondered at that vaguely, for it felt 
like she inevitably had a half dozen women swarming to buckle her shoes. If she'd been 
undressing, that wouldn't have looked so out of the ordinary. But seeing her grooming 
herself...it was something to think about after I'd napped another round of the clock or 
two.
 
     But the sounds remained, a racket that echoed distantly in the recesses of my 
awareness, as luring as a heart pacing time in my ear, tempting me into full 
consciousness. More glass shattered in the hallway, slightly more muffled this time, like 
an object had crashed against a wall rather than the floor. I heard the bedroom door open 
and close. Lucrece investigating the disturbance, I supposed, and I rolled onto my 
stomach again, one arm stretched over my head. Sleep was a timeless fog: it could have 
been a minute; it could have been an hour. I heard a scream - Lucrece's voice. Instantly, I 
snapped awake and stumbled unsteadily for the door. 

     Time lounging in a castle had sowed the seeds of new habits, but hadn't erased old 
ones. Screaming made me think of two things: war and The Inka. I cursed my 
complacency, the temptation of perfumed sheets and the lowering of my guard. If he'd 
tracked me down here, if he laid the first finger on Lucrece trying to get to me I'd -

     Instead of imagining a concrete answer, I ripped the door off its hinges as I burst into 
the hall.

     But no Inka waited there for battle. Lucrece didn't face my mortal enemy, but a 
bedraggled Bourbon, who looked as though his nobility had taken a solid beating since 
I'd last seen him. She screamed at her own flesh and blood, not some spectre from my 
past. My fingers dug into the molding where the threshold opened into the hallway, 
greedy for action as I tried to reason out the scene. Only the three of us 
remained in the hall. The normal retinue of servants that occupied this space had 
conspicuously departed.

     Without walls and doors between us, her exclamations took on a shape. Lucrece 
appeared furious and frantic, clenching her fists in front of Bourbon. "What have you 
done?! You'll ruin us!" She flattened her palms against her temples, repeating in a wail, 
"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!?"

     "I have done nothing but attempt to rescue us from your corruption!" Bourbon 
snarled. Blood smudged his clothes and face, and he held a bottle in either hand, the type 
we'd been drinking from during the week. He swung them about as he shouted, "What 
have you done, Milady? WHAT HAVE YOU BECOME?!" As his words culminated, he 
let go of his fury in the form of targeting one of the bottles at Lucrece's head. It shattered 
against the wall just by her left ear, spraying her with blood and knifelike shards of glass.

     The next second, I had him knocked to the floor. I'd been waiting for a good excuse to 
clash with Bourbon, a reason to call him friend or foe once and for all. He'd practically 
handed grounds to me on a silver platter. Strike at my woman, the hell if I was going to 
stand around. I threw a blow, brimming with satisfaction as my fist connected with his 
face. That part came as instinct. What didn't mesh was the feeling when he hit back: 
something like familiarity. Maybe it was the fighting, the adversarial conflict bringing 
The Inka back to mind again. But Bourbon wasn't The Inka. That's not who he reminded 
me of anymore. The sense that I felt simultaneously with his knuckles landing below my 
ribs suggested something different from hate, separate from rage against an enemy. 

     He'd pissed me off by attacking Lucrece, yes, but at the same stupid time, I knew that 
in the back of my mind, I'd already given into temptation and branded him a friend. 
Damn. I cursed him for being Bourbon, and I cursed myself for being stupid. What a 
moment to accept someone as an ally: the same moment you're trying to beat them to 
death. I thought of Screed, and the worst of our arguments over the years. I wasn't 
fighting to defeat Bourbon. I wasn't fighting to break free of him. I fought to stop him, to 
snap him out of whatever haze he'd sunk into and wring the reason for his battle out of 
him. Screed had jumped at me the same way after Drogheda, when I'd been slow to flee 
the threat of beheading. What are you fighting for, Spaniard? What are you fighting for? 

     I feinted to one side, then reversed direction and heaved my weight at Bourbon. The 
force of the impact slammed him into the opposite wall, causing a cracking sound. A 
light rain of plaster showered our heads. I asked him the same question that ricocheted in 
my head. "What are you fighting for?"

     His eyes widened at the unexpected question. "Honor," he breathed. "Everything!" 
Bourbon rose up, kicking me square in the chest. I fell backwards, momentarily 
outmaneuvered, the hint of a silly smile creeping loose on my face at his retaliation. You 
can't trust anyone who takes the worst you hand them and accepts it lying down. Real 
friends fight back. Bourbon was my friend. Hell, how annoying was that?

     As I crouched forward on my feet, preparing for the next round, Lucrece ran into my 
path, her arms extended. "No! Stop!" She breathed heavily, a wild glimmer tainting the 
gray of her eyes. She looked like a woman scraping for a way to escape the pair of us 
unscathed. Not trustworthy. Not trustworthy at all. "This…this disagreement…" She bit 
on her lower lip for a moment, unable to swallow her own belittling of the conflict. "It is 
between Bourbon and me." She shook her head, and I watched dazedly as a lock of hair 
fragrant with spilt blood clung to her cheek. "Our business. Not yours."

    I sucked in a gulp of air. Those words hit me. They beat me as much as the plea in her 
eyes to back down and walk away from the pair of them. She didn't want me to defend 
her as much as she wanted me to look in the opposite direction and hear nothing. Love 
stripped naked marked her face, love for me, love for Bourbon, coupled with a gritty 
frustration that she might not be able to control us, or the outcome of this night. The fight 
ebbed in me, replaced by incomprehension. What was going on here, so crucial that I 
wasn't meant to be a part of it? 

     Aggravation coursed through me as well, transferred from Bourbon to my ladylove. I 
felt she had branded me inconvenient again, but this time, the adjective carried no 
flattery. What did it say of her feelings for me that she could want me to stay removed 
from her disaster? It struck me then that power did matter more than love to Lucrece, and 
that inconvenience might translate into a damnable weakness as far as she was concerned. 
That conclusion must have shone in my expression. I must have withdrawn in my eyes, 
because I could see her begin to grieve as she stared at me, even before Bourbon started 
to laugh in harsh, bitter gasps.

     "Oh, how do you think we might settle this disagreement, Milady?" Bourbon taunted. 
"How do you think I should swallow the duplicity your business has become?"

     "How should you?" she said softly. The passion began to eke from her, draining her 
voice into calm. Though she spoke to the man at her back, her eyes never left mine. It 
seemed as if looking away meant an end, and the portent of what might come next 
frightened her. "The same way you have since the night we met." Lucrece breathed 
deeply, acquiring a cool composure. I could see something shutting down inside her, the 
shielding of some emotion she didn't want to touch. "Oh, Bourbon. We have no quarrel. 
There is no honor, and there are no crimes, not in our world." The corner of her mouth 
tilted with a faint smile. "Not in our family. Tell me you'll take it back. Say you'll fix 
what you've done. Promise me that." Her voice became a whisper. "I'll forgive you."

     I wondered that I was the one who saw every flicker, every reaction crossing her 
features, while Bourbon, who had earned each glimpse inside her head and heart, who no 
doubt needed to witness them, saw nothing. I heard Bourbon step forward, but I couldn't 
break away from her gaze. Her eyes begged for me to look only at her. Glance away, they 
promised, and I would be lost. Too late, she was way too late to give a warning. I was far 
gone, lost and wandering, clueless as to where we were headed.

     Bourbon's hands slipped over her shoulders. His tone rang as quiet and unruffled as 
hers now. "Does our family truly forgive?" His grip tightened. "Did you forgive Danielle 
for balking at the terms of your contract?"

     Danielle. I recognized the name. Lucrece had mentioned her as one of the women who 
had left last night. But if they'd simply departed as casually as Lucrece had spoken of 
them, why did Bourbon wield one of their names like a weapon now?

     A crack appeared in her calm. "Don't." 
  
     My annoyance continued to fester. Don't what? Don't speak of that, not in front of 
Vachon? Like I deserved lies and subterfuge? The hell with that! Let Bourbon spill 
whatever words he wanted. I intended to hear them. 

     Bourbon ignored her small objection. The Frenchman raised one hand, pointing in my 
direction as he swiftly added, "What about him?"

     "What about me?" I demanded. I'd held my tongue long enough, trying to reason out 
the truth and what she had eluded confessing.

     The spell of calm broke. Lucrece whirled around, facing her nephew. "Silence. Don't 
say another word, Philippe. Don't." 

     With her back to me, I suddenly understood that she'd hidden nothing from Bourbon 
by not showing him her face. I could see every turn of her features in my imagination as 
clearly as before. Desperation must be all over her. It certainly drowned her voice. I 
wasn't feeling sympathetic. I was feeling suspicious, like I'd been cheated, and I'd only 
just noticed the weighted dice. "No, say what's on your mind," I countered, adding 
grimly, "I'm beginning to forget what that sounds like."

     "Stop this." Lucrece gripped Bourbon's arms and assumed an urging tone. "I have 
never meant you any ill will. Why would you want to destroy anything precious to me?"   

     But her words did not sway Bourbon. He continued to speak as though she'd asked 
him nothing. "Vachon terrifies you. Are you going to forgive him for that?"

     I terrified her? What the hell was that supposed to mean? How could I possibly cause 
her terror? Bewildered, my thoughts latched onto a memory. Lucrece's voice saying, 'I 
don't know what to do about you.' Incomprehensibly, I realized it was true. Whatever I 
made her think or feel frightened her. It threatened her as much as any cold, hard truth, 
and Bourbon had recognized that from the first. And when had he bothered attempting to 
make friends? When it seemed certain that I wouldn't go away, bored with sated lust. But 
even with this mild comprehension, my questions remained, for how could I truly 
threaten her when my heart held no such intention? I was guiltless and unrepentant for 
that. It was her fear. She had to deal with it.

     Bourbon gripped her arms in return, steadying Lucrece in place as he continued to say 
words that she didn't want to hear. "Are you going to forgive Vachon when he learns 
exactly what you are capable of and swallows the truth no more gladly than I did? Are 
you going to hate him for questioning your choices?" Bourbon's bitter laughter returned. 
"There is nothing that you hate more than discovering you aren't adored unconditionally, 
is there, Milady?" He lifted one hand, tapping her on the chin. "You like people to be 
more docile. Dogs at your feet." He smirked in my direction. "Isn't that what you likened 
me to? A kept pup?"

     "Not another word," Lucrece hissed. "Not another word, Philippe, or I won't-"

     "Forgive me?" he finished for her, angling his head ruefully. "I didn't expect you 
would." He seized her wrists, twisting Lucrece's arms behind her back as he said to me, 
"You want to know what I'm fighting, Vachon? I left a trail," he stated, nodding down 
the shambled hall. "Follow it if you want to unravel Milady's secrets, or stay here and 
bind your eyes with whatever story she spins you."

     The desire to know burned in my gut. I was sick of their discussing me. I was tired of 
their insinuations and their disavowals, as if my will had nothing to do with the outcome 
of the argument, even though it involved me. I'd held still and said as little as I had only 
because it seemed my best opportunity to learn anything. Bourbon had offered me an 
alternative. I intended to take it.

     I located the trail Bourbon referred to with a brief search. Broken glass and patches of 
blood led a ruinous path down the hall and out of sight. It looked as if he'd gathered the 
entire feeding store of the chateau and chucked it as he went, like a macabre chain of 
bread crumbs.

    As soon as Lucrece realized I was moving away, she lurched in Bourbon's grip. "No!"

    I hesitated for a moment, because the fear in her voice was palpable, and because I 
hadn't stopped loving her in the past five minutes just because they'd brought to light 
fresh deceit. Part of me wanted to offer reassurance, but whatever hung over her and 
made her such a liar started me moving again. The impulse urging my feet down the hall 
wasn't rejection. I had the need to prove them wrong. Both Lucrece and Bourbon seemed 
so certain that whatever waited at the end of this bloody mess would shock me. They 
expected me to be outraged, maybe just because they didn't think of me as their own 
kind, maybe because they'd been fooled into thinking I did have some shred of nobility. I 
knew better. I'd been around, and I was sure that whatever Lucrece had hidden from me, 
it couldn't be worse than the sins I'd committed over the years. I moved quickly, the idea 
fixed in my head that the sooner I learned the truth, the sooner I could eradicate whatever 
frightened Lucrece about me. 

     "No!" Lucrece shouted again. I could hear them struggling behind me, but I ignored 
the pull to intervene. Bourbon - don't ask me how I knew, it was just instinct - meant 
only to slow her down so I could run without obstruction. Lucrece might have angered 
him, might have given him good reason to be furious, but he didn't mean her any harm. 
He disagreed with something she'd done, and he was calling her on it. Real friends fight 
back. 
 
     Exasperated with dodging the scatter of broken glass on the floor, missing one time 
too many for the comfort of my bare soles, I began to fly. The sconces flashed by my 
head, blurring from stops along the hall into a glowing line. I shifted from relying on the 
scenery as it passed to following my nose, allowing the scent of blood to lead me into the 
recesses of the house. I brushed through one doorway, then another, shifted direction 
sharply, ducked through a small opening, and hurtled down stairs. Down, down, down, to 
a wide open area lined with shelves and -

     I stopped abruptly. Suddenly, I couldn't tell which direction to take. The smell of 
blood surrounded me. I took one step backward, shaking my head to clear it as my senses 
shifted once again. The scent - it had some age to it, but the flavor lilting in the air wove a 
strong enough spell that my fangs dropped to do some damage before I could get a good 
glimpse of what had pulled my hunger to the surface. 

    Broken casks littered the floor in a chamber lined with empty shelves and splintered 
ladders. The wreckage had painted the stones a deep red, leaving puddles of blood 
underfoot. That wasn't the end of the line, though. A narrow corridor stretched into 
darkness from the other side of the room. I could smell more blood as I moved toward it, 
something less preserved, the full, ripe, delicious stink of death pulling me closer. Several 
small cells branched off from this dark tunnel, but the fragrance of only one room 
interested me. I stepped inside. I looked my fill, and I buckled at the knees. 

     I don't know how to describe what I felt. It could have been awe. It could have just as 
well been shame or dismay. All I know was that I kneeled there, looking up like some 
kind of demonic pilgrim, unsure of what I believed in for a fragmented minute.

     It was a castle, just like any castle, with secrets hidden in its bowels. Bourbon's path 
had led me to its dungeon, dark rooms carved from stone that smelled of the sweet and 
sour of murder, the blood, the decay. Eerie quiet dominated the chamber. Nothing living 
roamed this level larger than a rat. At least, not anymore.

     As I looked up, my breath rasped over my teeth. The sight stoked my cravings even as 
it repelled me. More comments flashed through my memory. 'Perishable goods,' Lucrece 
had described her business. Screed, outside the dinner party, had already told me 
everything, and I hadn't listened. 'Tha' juice farm h'in tha' dungeon…Racket, yer lot's 
got.' And Screed had followed their example the very next day, stringing rodents up by 
their tails…

     Lucrece hadn't killed rats. She'd killed mortals, but they didn't have tails. The sight 
that so fascinated and repulsed me translated into dozens of naked bodies hanging upside 
down from the ceiling by hooks. Their throats yawned open, slit by a blade so that their 
life's blood could be harvested. Lucrece had reduced her dungeon to an abattoir, and the 
remains of her work enthralled me. 

     I glanced around the floor, finding more points of interest. To my left, a pile of 
abandoned clothing lay near one corner. Shuffling over to it, I recognized the overdress 
as Lucrece's. Once, its color had been pale silver, something to flatter her eyes. Blood 
had since soaked through the fabric. I held it to my face, drinking in its exotic perfume of 
mortality and bergamot. Lust and anger ripped through me, and I breathed deeper, 
feeding the emotions. I could see her: stripping down to her shift, tossing on a cloak, 
going for a walk outside to clear her head of this blood-soaked fog, and encountering me 
in the moonlit gardens.

     I reluctantly let the clothing fall from my grip. One wall featured a small alcove, like a 
cabinet cut into the stone, hinged doors shielding its contents. Curiosity drove me closer, 
and I found no lock to bar my way. Presumably no one entered this chamber in any 
condition to be so inquisitive. The niche held a set of jars, all filled with various 
powdered substances. The smell of the first I tried carried no recognition for me, so I 
dipped my finger into the jar and tasted it. A strong and bitter flavor laced my tongue, 
triggering yet another memory. All the blood served in D'Asile carried this faint nuance. 
A poison, maybe, or perhaps the foundation of a draught to make the mortals sluggish, 
lulling them into unconsciousness before Lucrece killed them. It seemed to fit. The 
bottled blood I'd drunk hadn't revealed the crispness of violence or fear. The taste had 
been steady and smooth, rich with the marrow of the victim and untainted by the manner 
of their death. 

     Checking all the canisters, the flavors held similar familiarity. Perhaps some were 
poisons, others preservatives. On my palate, the distinction made no difference.

     I turned and crossed the chamber, toward a mound on the floor covered by a finely 
woven blanket. I tugged at one edge, revealing that the material had become a shroud for 
a body. Pulling until I could see a face, I faintly recognized the woman called Danielle, 
pale and dry, her throat slit identically to the others. She'd been one of the trembling 
ladies in Marie Vachon's sickroom, frightened at her death. One of the women who'd 
wanted out of her contract with Lucrece…

     But there had been two more - Thérèse and Annalise, she had said. I searched the 
bodies that dangled overhead, discovering nothing in their slack expressions except my 
own blood lust. 

     A rushing sound broke the silence behind me, and I turned to find Lucrece panting in 
the doorway, her gaze darting between my face and the dead. Uncertainty had her leaning 
against the threshold. I could imagine her thoughts spinning, tumbling over what to say. 
Finally, she swallowed, pushed away from the stone support and spoke frankly. 
"Welcome to my trade. It's not much to look at, but it reaps its benefits." 

     I gestured toward her discarded clothing instead. "At least you do your own dirty 
work. You've got to respect the hand that holds the knife."

     She watched me warily, unsure of how to interpret my words.

     "You do kill them yourself, don't you?" I prompted.

     "The majority," she said slowly. "I've had help with the bottling and transport."

     "Bourbon?"

     "No." She shook her head. "He's never had the stomach for my business. That never 
prevented him from enjoying the benefits," Lucrece added in a scathing tone. "Now he's 
sabotaged my supply…freed the live mortals in holding, paid off the servants and 
scattered them…I'll miss shipments...It will take me at least a month to regroup, and in 
the meantime, I could lose customers and patronage."

     While I'd kept a handle on my temper, she'd relaxed into cool practicality. Her 
business. Her world. She focused upon that to the detriment of all else. Conflicts with 
Bourbon, she would wash her hands of those. Danielle, dead on the floor, Lucrece could 
pretend she didn't exist. Let her rot. And me - what was she thinking about me? If 
Lucrece had ever carried any fear over how I might react to this setting, she now hid any 
signs of it under a quiet stare.

     Did she have any idea how angry I was? Did it matter that I felt the temptation to hurt 
her, striking some kind of blow and hearing her cry, so that I would have some shred of 
proof to cling to that she could feel anything all? Something must have slipped. She must 
have sensed the fury coursing through me, because suddenly Lucrece began to back 
away.

     Oh, I was furious at her. Part of me hated her because of that room, though not for the 
reason you'd pick. Yeah, she'd set herself up as a blood broker. It wasn't the choice I'd 
make, not because of the deaths outright, but because of the parallel to animals penned up 
then herded to the slaughter. I still liked my killing one at a time, face to face. You might 
fault her for taking so many, but looking at it from the other side, she'd killed just 
enough. If Lucrece hadn't set up her draining room, someone else would have. Why 
shouldn't she take advantage, if that's what she wanted? Vampires that drank her product 
would hunt their full share if she stopped. They sure as hell wouldn't go without. The 
number of bodies disappearing in the night wouldn't drop. They'd just spread out from 
Lyon like a dark fog.

     No, I didn't see a crime in the deaths, though I didn't share the drive to have my own 
setup like Screed. No, the reason rage burned in me came down to the way she lied, and 
the way she could care about someone one moment and discard them the next. 

     The tables had turned. She terrified me, because I could see everything ending, and yet 
I didn't want it to stop. I wanted to choke her. I wanted to kiss her. It frightened me that it 
mattered who she was, that I didn't have that unconditional streak in me that she craved. I 
loved her, but I had my limits. I may like the truth, but sometimes I lie. I don't lie about 
death. Never about death. I haven't found a reason to lie about being a killer. Every time I 
sink my teeth in, my motives are pure. Pure hunger, pure lust, pure rage: it's still 
something pure. Lucrece had tarnished her own killing, making it into a secret she wanted 
to hide. I couldn't share that. She'd crossed a line.

     "Was any of it true?" I whispered.

     "What?" she breathed. "Was what true?"

      I lumbered toward her, my fists clenching. "Any of it? Any of it!" I lifted my hands, 
cupping her face with flattened palms, tracing the soft skin of her cheek, the curve of her 
jaw, the fragile line of her throat. My thumbs met at her windpipe. No pulse beat 
rhythmically under her skin. No blood rushing hot and fast because her lover had his 
hands wrapped around her throat. Mortal women, you can snap their necks with one 
twist, and it's over. Mortal women are delicate, requiring consideration and a gentle 
touch. Lucrece didn't need protection or a tender hand. She didn't bruise; she didn't 
break. She dealt in blood and poison. Even as my fingers tightened, as if the small 
pointless tyranny could give me any control over the outcome between us, my teeth 
ground with the desire to rip into her. I leaned closer, my hips pressing Lucrece into the 
wall, my voice whispering low and fevered into her ear, "Pick a moment. Anything. Was 
it true?"

     A sobbing sound broke from her throat, and with it, I experienced satisfaction and 
regret. Maybe Lucrece had a heart after all. She gave a good impression that it could be 
breaking. I wanted to believe in the possibility, but I didn't want to hear her cry. I kissed 
her, swallowing her lies and excuses before they could trip off her tongue, making them 
mine. My hands softened against her throat, brushing lightly on her skin, running over the 
silk draping her shoulders, molding her breasts. 

     She flowed in equal parts of violence and passion. Her arms wrapped around my back 
as though she desperately wanted to hold me in place, imprisoning me with perfumed 
flesh and a net of golden hair. She darted her lips against mine between short gasps, 
promising more than I could ever hope to have. "This is true," she said fiercely, her kiss 
fluttering like a breeze at the corner of my mouth. I felt her long fingers winding through 
my hair as she repeated, "This is true."

     I kissed her again to seal my agreement, then traded places with her, swiveling so that 
my back rested against the wall, angling her so that my touch roamed her waist as I 
nuzzled her neck beneath one ear. I cradled one side of her face, turning her eyes in the 
direction of the dead woman on the floor, forcing her to look hard and long. "What 
happened to the others?" My voice tightened and grew bitter, revealing my mistrust. "Be 
honest, if you can."

     "Annalise should be a fair journey toward Paris by now," she answered quietly. "She 
left without issue and gave me no quarrel. Danielle and Thérèse, however, didn't depart 
with her. They wanted to argue with me." She gave a short, disbelieving laugh at the 
memory. "They wanted everything back: their wealth, their land, D'Asile. As if I would 
give any of it up to them. As if they could control me," she bit out indignantly.

     "You didn't have to give them anything," I countered. "You could have persuaded 
them to change their minds. You didn't have to draw blood."

     She turned in the circle of my arms. "But I am a vengeful woman who likes to draw 
blood. These instincts have been nursed in me since I was a child. I find it difficult to 
resist, even when it is right. When it is a sin…what's left to persuade me to ignore my 
first inclination? What punishment is left that I haven't already earned?" She looked up at 
me with a troubled brow. "Do you think me evil?"

    I had to laugh at the question. "I'm no judge of character." She seemed disappointed, 
needy of an answer or flattery rather than an evasion. "To me, you're foreign. Not good, 
not evil. Spellbinding," I tacked on. It was as fine a word as any to describe the difficulty 
I had not touching her. True to form, I failed at the temptation of her, grasping Lucrece's 
arms above her elbows. "I don't like deceit, not if I can avoid it. Vampires live enough in 
the shadows by nature." I stroked the tip of her chin with one thumb. "The truth, Lucrece. 
Her body isn't here. What did you do with Thérèse?"

     Her eyes flashed, daring me to condemn her. "I recalled Thomas wanted her the other 
night. He's a useful friend to have. I sent her to Nevers as a gift."

     I felt Bourbon outside the doorway. I glanced over my shoulder. Vain ass that he was, 
he'd cleaned up before following us. He appeared ready for the road, sword at his side. 
His gaze narrowed, signaling that he'd heard the end of our conversation, "North to 
Thomas…" he said. "Then that is where I shall go."

     Lucrece stiffened under my touch. She moved toward him reflexively, stepping into 
the corridor. I let go of her, feeling the weight of a goodbye looming. "Philippe, you 
don't want Thomas as an enemy."

     He smiled, brash and confident, shrugging away her worry. When Bourbon looked at 
her again, his face held the suggestion of affection and regret. "I don't want you as an 
enemy, Milady."

     She wasn't placated, propping her hands rebelliously on her hips. "But you will go 
anyway, all to rescue someone you think I have wronged."

     "I will," Bourbon pronounced.

     "And you won't be coming back," she stated.

     "I won't." It was Bourbon's turn to step forward. He clasped Lucrece by the shoulders 
and kissed both of her cheeks. Then, he whispered in a low voice that I could barely 
understand, "You should leave, too. Not just because of what has passed, but because of 
what the future holds. It pleases me no more than I expect it delights you, but I see the 
signs of change. Eventually, holding onto nobility will become a burden. That day, the 
common men will rule through sheer numbers. Do not be left behind again." He briefly 
slipped into Italian, speaking of family and the past. "I miei nonni sono morto molti anni 
fa, Lucrezia. Let their dreams die as well."

     Lucrece didn't reply. She watched Bourbon disappear from sight, her spine a straight 
line of resistance hating everything that had transpired. "What about you, Vachon?" she 
asked softly. "Do you want to leave?"

     I wanted to say no, but I knew it would be a lie. "Yes."

     Her mouth worked silently as she struggled for something to say. "But you want me."

     "I want you," I assured her, drawing Lucrece into my arms again. "But I don't want to 
live in castles for the rest of my life. I don't want to pick my friends based on 
convenience, but on whether I believe they're worth knowing. I don't want to waste time 
at parties filled with people who can't make me laugh. I don't want to watch you scheme, 
plan and manipulate this precious tapestry of a world you've woven into submission and 
still find that lost look in your eyes when you think no one can see. I don't want to 
frighten you every time I say or do something that threatens your grip and that world 
unravels." As I spoke, she began to cry without making a sound. I ached, feeling the 
gravity of what I said. This is real, I thought as I wiped away her tears. This is true. "I 
want to leave, but I want you to come with me."

     She smiled weakly. "You think it is that simple?"

     "Yes, it is." My voice was firm, because I wanted it to be an uncomplicated decision. 
The words Bourbon had spoken in Italian had been regarding the dreams of his dead 
grandfathers, that she should let them go. Walk away from her blood-running. Walk away 
from her position and politics. Walk away from her castles, or she'd never truly be mine. 
"You've always lived in Europe. You've never been farther south than Cairo."

     "No," she admitted.

     "There's another world across the ocean," I pointed out, excited at the idea. "I'll show 
it to you."

     Lucrece shook her head, rejecting the suggestion as if she was under duress. "I can't 
leave."

     Like I would take that for an answer. "Why the hell not?" 

     "Because..." She swallowed and shook her head again. "You just cannot understand 
what you are asking of me. I was a princess." She spoke urgently, as though the meaning 
of life rested in that one word.

     "And I'm not a prince," I finished.

     "No, you aren't," she said plainly. "My world, this thing you do not want filled with 
lying sycophants, plotting, and miserable duties to maintain the status quo - this is the 
only world I have ever known. This is what I am. I have always lived this way." She 
threw her hands in the air with frustration. "I was bred to live this way!"

     "But you don't want it any more than I do," I argued. "You aren't living the life you 
envy, a life where you die standing up and fighting. You're cowering, scared out of your 
wits someone might take your corner of the kingdom away from you. Does that make you 
happy?"

     She stared at me for an incomprehensible second. Her voice came low and brutal. 
"You're asking me to give up everything I have to love you." Her fingers wound between 
mine, squeezing them tightly. "You are not the first man to ask me for that sacrifice, 
Vachon. Do you really believe I will say 'yes' now? To you?"

     No, I don't suppose I did. Maybe that's why I'd asked - to be reminded that love 
didn't mean the same thing to everyone, and that what seemed simple and easy to me tore 
her apart. "Serves me right," I said, trying to act casual. I moved to kiss her one last time, 
but stopped. I couldn't do it. The thought scratched at me - the last time, the last chance 
to touch her. I didn't want to feel her in my arms, knowing it was over. I preferred 
holding on to the longing as it stood in invisible ties between us. "I have nothing to give 
up for you but my freedom. I don't want to do that," I confessed frankly. "I guess that 
makes us a pair." I offered her a short, farewell nod then withdrew down the dark 
corridor.

     "Vachon!" she called seconds later. Her voice had the power to tighten knots in my 
chest.

     I turned expectantly, willing her to have second thoughts. The strongest temptation, 
the best temptation, overriding all instincts of what was safe and what you knew for 
certain - that magic came from the realm of second thoughts. Let her have them. Let her 
have second thoughts...

     Every hope dissipated as she spoke. "If you must go, will you do something for me?"

     I couldn't have refused her, despite her nerve. The moment wasn't meant for pettiness 
or spite, just because she had disappointed me. "Anything."

     "Track Bourbon," she said. She was already backing down the tunnel, shrinking from 
my view. "Keep him from picking fights with anyone who refuses to lose…"

     Her voice trailed away, and I couldn't see her anymore. I couldn't smell her fragrance 
for the spilt blood underfoot, but I could feel her. My eyes drifted shut, and I waited, 
saying goodbye as I stood alone in the darkness. 

     Then I had to laugh. Lucrece had given me something - stupid responsibility for 
keeping Bourbon undead and kicking when he made enemies like weavers strung silk - 
fast and furious. 

*******************************************************
End of Part Nine

Words and Meanings (10/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     Bourbon wasn't hard to catch. Habits ruling, he'd raced north on horseback. I flew. 
Within minutes, I'd landed in the road ahead of him.

     Bourbon, being Bourbon, made a show like he planned to run me down, veering to the 
left at the last moment then circling his horse back so he could glare at me frostily, as if I 
was responsible for making his trip so slow.

     "You're alone," he pronounced crossly, holding his body stiff except for soothing the 
dancing stallion beneath him with a hand.

     I wasn't going to explain anything to him. I certainly wasn't going to pour my heart 
out for his amusement. "Yeah." 

     "Hmmfh." It could have just as easily been the horse making a disgusted sound.

     We were wasting time, time better spent making distance, and Bourbon acted as 
though it was my fault Lucrece didn't love me enough to leave her world behind. I didn't 
want to talk about it, and he waited impatiently, like I was supposed to give him some 
accounting of the gory details. I grabbed his boot below one knee and yanked him out of 
the saddle. He thudded to the ground with an 'Uhf!' Bourbon's fine piece of horseflesh 
reared once, then the stallion galloped off for all he was worth. 

     Bourbon reared next, ramming me in the stomach with his head rather than accepting 
my help back on his feet. "Don't interfere, Spaniard!"

     Me? Interfere? I never interfere. I assist when needed. There's a big difference.

     I held up my hands, remaining cool. "Fine. You can catch your horse and continue 
your amateur attempt at rescuing the damsel in distress. Meanwhile, I fly ahead, get the 
job done, and catch up with you again with enough time to spare that I gloat myself sick 
until sunrise."

     Bourbon dusted off his clothes, forcing his temper into submission. "That's what you 
plan to do, is it?"

     I shrugged then said brashly, "That's what I'm doing," then turned to leave.

     "So you know where to find Thomas?" Bourbon called smugly at my back.

     Damn. I'd forgotten that part, and the Frenchman was having a disgustingly merry 
time of reminding me of it. Nevers, Lucrece had said, but where around Nevers would 
Thomas be? Hell if I knew.

     "You don't," Bourbon continued. "You need my help far more than I need yours."

     It was incredible how arrogant the man could be sometimes. "You're the one screwing 
around on your horse while they have almost a day's lead on us. The girl will be dead by 
the time you gallop the distance."

     "If I get there in time," he countered, "I'll need a horse to transport the mortal to 
safety."

     "So we'll grab horses once we're there," I said, stating what seemed to be the obvious 
answer.
  
     Bourbon lifted his nose in the air. "I'm not a common thief."

     "No, you aren't," I agreed. "You're with me." I motioned for him to make up his 
mind. "So either we stay here and argue about how to attempt a rescue until there's no 
point, or we fly now and quibble about the petty details later. Which is it going to be?"

     Bourbon accepted the flying option, though he made no secret of how he thought it 
was a tediously un-heroic style of going about the whole mission. I had a sneaking 
suspicion that his idea of a good plan involved storming up to Thomas, slapping the other 
vampire in the face with a glove, then demanding he 'Unhand the mortal or die!' 
Bourbon needed a few hands-on lessons that there were heroics, and then there was 
stupidity.

     We traveled above the river for several hours. Naturally, we wound up at another 
castle, this one older than D'Asile, complete with a raised drawbridge and a moat. We 
watched the traffic around it from the edges of the forest: quiet at first, but after a few 
minutes, the evening clattered with the rumble of chains and the creaking of wood. A cart 
rolled from the confines of the stone parapets and began its journey down the road toward 
our position.

     "Recognize them?" I asked.

     Bourbon nodded. "Mortals who have worked in Lucrece's dungeon. She financed 
their release from the local prison before they could be executed for their crimes. I dare 
say that, combined, they have fewer scruples than you do."

     "Flatterer. So they've put Thérèse into Thomas's hands. The questions now are, when 
did they arrive, and how long did they stay?"

     "Lucrece would have ordered that they return immediately to D'Asile once they 
completed her bidding. She likes keeping her pawns where she can see them."

     I could have done without that last observation. I ground my teeth silently for a few 
seconds then asked calmly, "But would they have followed orders if they found they 
could get away with wasting a few hours outside her supervision?"

     Bourbon's eyes narrowed as he predatorily watched the cart draw level with us. 
"There's one way to find out."
	
     I'd been thinking the same thing. "I'll take the one on the left," I said, my death mask 
shifting into place.

     "Why do you get first choice?" Bourbon complained.

     "Because I called it first."

     "But I came up with the idea of reading their blood!"

     He hadn't. I had, then I'd questioned him, hoping he'd stumble across the logic of my 
brainstorm. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I experienced a strong longing for Screed's 
company. I wouldn't have had to lead him anywhere. He'd have known the plan without 
a word, and when he spoke - come hell or high water Screed would speak - it'd be 
because he thought he had a better idea, not to bicker for the sake of bickering. "Fine. 
Take the one on the left."

    "No, I'll take the one on the right." As soon as he'd made his pronouncement, Bourbon 
leapt through the air, jerking his prey out of the cart from behind and tearing into him 
with little wasted motion...
 
     ...And giving the driver a heads-up to be on the defensive, leaving more work for me. 
"Wonderful," I muttered sarcastically under my breath. Lifting off the ground, I darted 
between the branches of the trees, swinging and dodging until I'd gained a hundred yards 
on the wagon. My target repeatedly looked over his shoulder, expecting me to attack 
from that direction. He had a pistol in one hand now, and he carried a cross, entangled 
with the reins in his fist. The next time the driver glanced behind, I broke off a thick 
tree branch and landed on the empty half of the seat, clubbing the man across his chest. 

     The firearm went flying into the road as his body jerked backward from my blow, but the 
knotted strips of leather reins held his arm taut and fast. I heard the limb pop from its 
joint and seized the driver just below the elbow as he shouted in pain. I took a second to 
debate - did I want to bother untying him and relieving him of the cross, or should I just 
go ahead and kill him? He yelled about his injury continuously, wrecking my 
concentration. That racket made up my mind. I tossed his body over the side, his knotted 
hand turning him into a human form of tetherball. His skull crashed against the spinning 
spokes of the front wagon wheel, this time the damage causing more of a snapping thud 
sound than a pop. A much quieter ride ensued except for a repetitive 
thunk...thunk...thunk...as the wheel rattled.

     I assumed the driver's place, carefully taking his limp hand and unwinding the reins 
from his fingers and wrist while staying out of contact with the cross. When it dropped to 
the floorboards, I kicked the icon over the side and slowed the cart, pulling the former 
driver back into the seat. He was dead, dusty, and unappetizingly headless. Damn. I knew 
I'd had a good first instinct thinking to untie him, then kill him, rather than the other way 
around. It's hard to drain someone face to face when their face is missing. Damn.

     I turned the cart off into the forest, ditching it just out of sight in the cover of woods, 
throwing the majority of the dead man's body to his final resting place of leaves and 
rotted, overturned trunks. 

     I returned to the road on foot, walking back to Bourbon and scooping the driver's head 
out of a muddy rut in the trail on the way. The Frenchman had drained his victim, and 
was now wiping his mouth with satisfaction from the full meal.

     "Tell me you found something in his blood. Mine kind of lost his head." So saying, I 
volleyed the driver's skull face-first in Bourbon's direction.

     He caught it with lightning reflexes, holding the muddy, bloody and ragged flesh at a 
distance. "Did you have to kill him in such a brutish way?" Bourbon asked with distaste.

     "No," I said candidly, "but that's what happened. Not really important, when, in one 
piece or two, I still wanted him dead. Did you get anything out of your man's blood or 
not?"

     "Enough," Bourbon confirmed, discarding the driver's head in the forest. "He had 
brandy in his blood. I could tell he had a full meal in his stomach."

     My shoulders hunched in annoyance as I watched Bourbon swing the other corpse 
deep within the shelter of the trees. This news was exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear, 
yet the Frenchman still managed to look pleased with himself. "So Thomas has had the 
girl for hours. We're too late."

     "I doubt it," Bourbon contradicted.

     "Right. Like you would take your time in draining some hot piece of neck you already 
had a taste for, if she dropped into your lap."

     "I would if she'd been drugged. I'd wait until the flavor had a chance to clear her 
blood - until the lady was conscious."

     I found myself grinning. "Lucrece used one of her powders to keep Thérèse quiet for 
the road trip?" Bourbon nodded. "Good for her." My grin became more devilish. "Good 
for us. You didn't scout the exact location where they're keeping the girl in your blood 
reconnaissance, did you?"

     "East tower. First room without windows," Bourbon replied. "We storm the gate, 
battle the guards on the lower level - "

     I cut off his excited planning. "No, we don't."

     "Why not?"

     "Because it's the brutish way," I mocked him. "We fight them head on from the front 
as enemies, we have to bring them all down to get Thérèse out alive. You would have a 
better idea than I, but I'm willing to guess Thomas isn't the only vampire hanging out in 
that castle, and he has plenty of mortal reinforcements."

     "Then what do you suggest we do?" he clipped, like he'd been on the lookout for the 
chance to siege the place, and I was pissing on his campfire.

     "We work as a team," I said, emphasizing the last word. "You, from the inside. Me, 
from the outside."

*************************************************
 
     Okay, I admit that I suckered Bourbon into taking the lame job where he wouldn't get 
to fight anyone unless the plan took a very bad turn, but someone needed to take the lame 
job, and he was the perfect candidate.

     The way my scheme unfolded, Bourbon rode one of the cart horses up to the 
drawbridge bold as brass, acting as though he was on a friendly mission to visit Thomas. 
After all, the other vampire had no reason to suspect the Frenchman's motives, as long as 
he didn't act any snottier than usual. If *I'd* gone riding up to the front door, it would 
have stayed shut, and they'd pile up the reinforcements. That's why, while Bourbon 
inquired after the safe arrival of Lucrece's 'gift' and informed Thomas that there would 
be a delay in the next month's shipments under the guise of a courtesy call, I flew to the 
highest window in the east tower and proceeded to work my way down. Bourbon's visit 
would delay the vampire from enjoying his treat, hopefully giving me enough time to 
spirit her away without anyone raising an alarm. Best-case scenario, we'd be miles away 
with Thérèse safe and sound before Thomas noticed her escape. Worst-case scenario, 
we'd die in a permanent sort of way.

     Like Bourbon suggested, the guards had to be concentrated on the lower floors. I crept 
down the winding stairs with no suggestion of company. A hundred steps passed before I 
picked out the first heartbeat, then the second. Last, but not least, I identified a third 
rhythm, this one slow with slumber. Moving closer, I could hear the guards speaking, 
their deep voices sharing dirty stories about women. Slipping a few steps lower, I could 
observe them from the shadows. One man sat with his back to me, while the other carved 
bites from an apple with a hunting knife.

     As guards go, they were completely unprepared for an attack. I quickly slit the nearest 
man's throat with his own blade. Before his partner even recognized the sight of blood, I 
had already moved behind him and - too late for him to defend himself - his neck 
snapped with a sharp twist of my hands.

     The violence made me even hungrier, but I wanted to avoid any overt signs of a 
vampire being involved with this prison break if I could help it, just in case it would buy 
us precious getaway time. I wiped the knife clean on the back of one guard and slid it into 
my boot. Digging through the pockets of the dead men, I cursed when I found they didn't 
have any keys. The door was locked, so presumably Thomas or one of the resident 
vampires was keeping it close and personal. I'd have to break the door down. Hopefully, 
Thérèse would remain sedated enough that she wouldn't do anything really annoying, 
like screaming and drawing attention while I needed to think out a revision to the plan. 

     Crashing the door in on a run would have caused the most racket, raising suspicion 
from below, so I leaned into the door instead. Using the wall opposite for leverage, I pushed into 
the lock with my back. The surrounding wood gradually began to creak and splinter, 
then, suddenly, the bolt gave way under my persistence and cracked in two. The door 
swung open, dumping me flat on my back just inside the chamber. I glanced up from the 
floor, and there was Thérèse, from my vantage point looking unconscious and a little 
upside-down.

     I jumped to my feet and rushed over to the divan, hefting the mortal into my arms. 
Thérèse opened her mouth, issuing a loud, dreamy moan of protest. I rested a finger over 
her lips and said, "No, shh," like she was in any state to understand instructions. "Be a 
good girl, and let's play 'Pretend You're Dead' before someone gets the urge to stake the 
dashing rescuer. Deal?"

     She remained limp and silent. I took that as an agreement. I stalked over the threshold, 
only to discover Francesca du Montagne stepping onto the landing, a key ring swinging 
in her hand. Yeah, if I could have spontaneously become shadow and mist and 
disappeared, it would have been a very convenient moment to find out. I could see Francesca's 
mind working at the sight of me carrying the unconscious woman in my arms, judging 
the scenario and weighing it against her desired outcome, just like Lucrece would do. But 
with Lucrece, with every trick she conjured, she remained at her core soft and 
questioning. Francesca only reflected the hard, cold calculation of guile. She wasn't up to 
any good, and even as her lips stretched into an inquisitive smile, I knew she didn't plan 
to do me any favors.

     Her voice sounded almost lyrical, a tone engineered to make me drop my guard. 
"Well, well...if it isn't Milady de Valentinois's nameless friend." She spun the chamber 
key hypnotically around one finger then caught it again, pursing her lips in a curious 
bow. "But you're playing rather far away from Milady de Valentinois, aren't you? Still 
friends?"

     "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." I thought I was playing it cool, keeping my 
words casual and smooth. The twist of the truth still hit me, the longing for Lucrece that 
matched my words. This was real. So real, I ached. I saw Francesca, I heard her, and yet I 
was deaf to any song she had to sell. She wasn't the woman I wanted, so I felt nothing 
except the drive to get out of there unscathed.

     "That almost sounds like a toast," Francesca noted, edging closer. She gave her 
shortened canines a swift lick as she eyed Thérèse's throat, a pale expanse propped into 
clear view by my arm. She glanced shrewdly at me. "Are you still nameless, as well?"

     "Considering the circumstances... yes."

     Francesca looked amused. "Not a very sociable attitude, Monsieur," she chastised 
lightly, then machinated a deliberate pause, "but then, you are stealing the sweet heiress 
right from under Thomas's roof." She touched an index finger to her lips, a weak attempt 
to hide her smile at the notion. "How ironic. I came here planning to do the exact same 
thing. Monsieur de Bourbon has everyone so conveniently distracted elsewhere..." Her 
expression became cat-like with pleasure. "...though perhaps he is perfectly aware of 
what he is doing...?"

     I swallowed. Bad, bad, bad, as in 'not good.' It was quiet except for the steady thrum 
of Thérèse's pulse, cradled in my arms. I knew Francesca could hear it just as well as I. 
Her eyes had begun to flicker gold with her thirst. If I made a break for it, she'd shout an 
alarm. Bourbon would have to fend for himself and, most likely, would wind up 
skewered. If I fought her, that'd be interesting, but I might as well skip a step and yell 
down below that I was here, spiriting away the girl. Fighting vampires made far more 
noise than scurrying mice, probably more than a cannonball hitting the side of the castle. 
Annoyed that a shortage of alternatives jumped to mind, I asked flat out, "What are you 
going to do?"

     Francesca didn't appear in the mood for a fight, either. I read her face, and she 
hungered for foul play. "I hadn't planned to share, but since you are here...we could be 
friends."

     Oh, I could imagine what she was planning now, something that involved splitting the 
girl's blood, shooing me on my way, then tattling to her regal vampire buddies that I was 
the culprit so they'd hunt me down. 

     I was hungry - why not share the mortal and get out while the getting was good? I 
could deal with the complications later. Much later, with any luck. Sure, that hadn't been 
the original goal, but Francesca's arrival had shot to hell how I envisioned this rescue 
unfolding. Why not call it a night? Chomp down, and better luck playing good guy next 
time. 

     Watching Francesca steadily, I figured that whatever way I managed to get my ass out 
of this castle, I'd wind up with someone new tracking my tail.

     I moved backward, returning to the confines of Thérèse's holding chamber. "How do 
you propose we share?" I asked. "Cut her in two with a sword?" My expression 
immediately slipped, twisting with irritation. No, I didn't want to think about stories of 
justice. I didn't want to be fair or heroic. That was the old plan. Staying alive. Staying in 
one piece. Having a bite and bailing. That was the new plan. Luckily, I had my back 
turned as I replaced Thérèse on her narrow mattress. When I faced Francesca again, my 
hands were free, and my features were perfectly agreeable, revealing none of my unwise 
thoughts.

     "Cutting her in two..." Francesca trilled. "Close. My preference is to stab mortals in 
the heart, then drain their blood into a cup." She leaned over the mortal, caressing 
Thérèse's cheek with the back of her hand. "Her essence will be especially sweet when 
her life freezes instantly in her veins."

     "Stab her in the heart, huh?" I was having those pesky, reckless thoughts again. 
Thoughts like the idea of playing along with Francesca made my skin crawl. Thoughts of 
Bourbon forcing himself to chat obsequiously with the party downstairs only because he 
believed that I was up here doing the right thing. The honorable thing. The noble thing. 

     Shit.

     I'd had a bad idea. A rash idea. A stinking, what-the-hell-was-I-thinking idea. The 
kind of idea that made jamming a lit candle in your ear and hoping for a lobotomy sound 
like a decent plan. 

     Then again, if you know you're going to do something that'll cause bad blood, you 
might as well go all out and make them really hate you, right?

     I reached down, slipping the hunting knife free from my boot. "Need a blade?"

     Francesca turned, her head bent down as she unsheathed a long dagger hidden within 
her skirts. "I brought my own. Shall I do the honors?"

     "No, let me," I countered. Honor. I had some speck of that after all.

     In an instant, I'd clasped Francesca by the collarbone and sliced my knife between her 
ribs. She'd had enough time to feel the shock of it, to drop her dagger to the floor and 
clutch roughly at me, her tiny choked cry resembling a dying bird. I twisted the blade in 
her heart until metal scratched bone. Her features froze, a haze of disbelief leaving her 
mouth open and silent.

     The scent of Francesca's blood as it slowly seeped around the edges of the knife 
struck me as sharp but musty, like a piece of crystal left in an attic to gather dust until it 
turned gray away from the traffic of everyday life. My hunger still pushed at me, so I 
sank my fangs into her. Draining Francesca would mean she'd recover slowly, giving 
Bourbon time to get out of this place without a struggle. She tasted old, far older than me. 
I drank her emptiness, the ice of her, and my stomach felt filled with lead. No bergamot, 
no incense, not an atom of wistful hope, but I understood then that this was what Lucrece 
would become. I'd left her to her little kingdom that made people like this, weaving layer 
after layer of malice and deceit about them until they didn't realize they were trapped. 
They thought they were the lucky ones: the rich, the noble, the privileged vampires who 
ruled their little communities ruthlessly. They believed they should be envied and 
coveted, all the while unaware that they were the ones bound and enslaved, not free. 
Move one step out of place, and they smothered themselves with their own snarled web. 
One loose end, and it came back to whip them.

     I dropped Francesca to the floor, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I 
listened to the mortal's heart rate. The rhythm had grown faster since I'd located Thérèse. 
Before long, she would awaken, and the situation would become even more complicated. 
Glancing again at Francesca's collapsed form, I picked up her fallen dagger.

     With completely practical intentions, I lifted Francesca's skirts, slicing long strips 
from the hem. I used them to bind the vampire's wrists behind her back, gagged her 
mouth, and tied her ankles together. The hunting knife, I left buried in her heart.

     A woman hiked over each shoulder, I made quick distance up the stairs, but had a 
slower job squeezing out the window with so much baggage. I flew straight to the river, 
heaving one prone form over the banks. I had a tense second as I looked twice, making 
sure I'd dumped the right one. I still had a grip on the mortal, while Francesca bobbed 
once, twice, in the downstream rush of the water, before disappearing beneath the pull of 
the current. 

     I carried Thérèse to the hidden horse cart, where Bourbon and I had decided to meet if 
everything went as planned. I laid the girl in the back, then jogged back down the road to 
watch for any movement of the drawbridge and listen for any outcry.

     A half-hour passed, and I began to pace. Would Francesca come to in the water? I 
should have staked her and been done with it, but I had no idea how far downstream her 
body might be by now. How long before someone pulled her out? Would it be before 
dawn?

     Finally, I heard the clank of running chains. About damn time someone was leaving. 
After one glance of the Frenchman riding out, healthy and whole, I ducked back into the 
woods. I stretched out on the seat of the cart to give the impression that I'd been so 
relaxed waiting for him that I'd taken a nap.

     I opened my eyes when Bourbon roughly slapped one of my boots. "You rescued the 
girl," he said, nodding with approval at Thérèse's unconscious form.

     "You forced yourself to play nice," I countered. "I'm impressed."   

     Bourbon made a dismissive sound. "It went well enough, considering all I wanted was 
to draw blood. You were right - there were other vampires with Thomas. LaCroix, and 
the Comtesse du Montagne...she slipped away during my visit. We may not have much 
time," he warned.

     "Right. Funny you should mention Francesca, because I had to stab her and throw her 
into the river," I said casually. "I'm thinking we should ditch the cart and fly."

      Bourbon scowled as he lifted Thérèse. "Francesca caught you?" He looked at me like 
I was an idiot. "If you overpowered her, why didn't you stake her?"

     I'd already been kicking myself about that, but that didn't mean I had to admit 
anything to him. "Yeah, like destroying her would suddenly make the other vampires all 
cheerful and understanding when they discover what we've done."    

     "She'll hunt you down," Bourbon argued.

     "She'll need to get in line." He was right, but I didn't care. We'd gotten the girl out 
alive, as agreed. My thoughts had moved on to other things. "Where do we dump 
Thérèse?"

     We flew in the direction of Paris, but an accord went unspoken that we wouldn't 
travel the whole distance. Thérèse began to make sounds again, threatening to wake up 
two miles off the ground. Feeling the pressure, we landed at the next large structure we 
came across. This fortress almost measured up as another castle, with major differences:  
it featured a bell tower crowned by a divine symbol, and the soft hymns of a vigil floated 
from within.

     We shouted our presence, and they trustingly unlatched the entrance. Bourbon carried 
Thérèse into the lamp-lit courtyard, while I tried to avoid looking at anything. A mortal 
woman bustled from the building, a lantern held aloft in one hand to show her the way. 
Her black robes melted into the night landscape, leaving only her round face and the 
white halo of fabric outlining her hood visible in any detail. She switched her gaze 
between the three of us, an owl obsessed with keeping the mice out of harm's way. She 
honestly looked eager to offer us aid. I ducked my head lower, muttering to Bourbon, 
"You do the talking."

     I listened absently as he told her a story of finding the girl on the road that made us 
come off as disgustingly honorable types. In the dark, the woman wouldn't see the 
bloodstains on my sleeves, wouldn't smell the violence soaked into my hands. As I heard 
Bourbon offer money to help with Thérèse's nursing, I trailed my fingers in the fountain, 
snatching my hand back as the water burned. I glanced up and found, wouldn't you know 
it, a statue of the Virgin Mother ebbing holiness in the middle.

    I walked impatiently back to Bourbon and said emphatically, "Let's get out of here."

    More females cloaked in black streamed into the courtyard, taking Thérèse into their 
care and ushering her inside. The woman who had spoken with Bourbon lingered and 
overheard my demand. "But, Monsieur! It is so late, and in helping the poor lady, you 
must realize the danger! You gentlemen are welcome to shelter here for the night. The 
Devil works from the veil of darkness," she warned.

     "Exactly," I said, jerking on the Frenchman's coat. "Come on."

     I swear I could feel Bourbon glower into my back as we left. "She questioned nothing. 
She suspected nothing! You should have been less forthcoming in your hurry to leave. 
She's probably praying for our immortal souls as we speak!"

     The gate bolted shut behind us, and I rested my back against the heavy wood, 
releasing a deep breath. I grinned. "Think it'll do any good?"

     Bourbon caught a glimpse of my hands, and his eyes, filled with amazement, shot 
back to my face. "You're shaking."

     I gave him wry look. "We just left a convent. I wasn't comfortable, if that's what 
you're wondering."

     Bourbon continued to appear surprised. "It wasn't as bad as I expected, for a sacred 
place." He issued a confident shrug. "Perhaps it is a matter of perspective."

     "Right. Just take away the crosses, the icons, and the nuns, and you've got yourself a 
party lodge." 

     He grinned in a condescending manner. "If you shared my family's past...religion is 
just another excuse to spill blood and flaunt power. Just another vampire...I wouldn't 
quake in my boots over that." 

     "I'll keep that under advisement," I said sarcastically.

     His expression sobered. "We should have remained until Thérèse awoke and wiped 
her memory clean. She could cause trouble for Lucrece by petitioning for the return of 
D'Asile," Bourbon reminded me.

     "Let her." I pushed away from the gate as I stared up at the ebony of the sky. "I'm 
returning to Lyon," I announced. "I'll drag Lucrece kicking and screaming out of that 
bloody castle if that's what it takes."

     "Sounds like a brutish plan," Bourbon drawled.

     "Rough, tough and perfect," I assured him. "Are you going to help, or what?"

     "Absolutely."

*****************************************
End of Part Ten

Words and Meanings (11/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     So we flew south again, any thoughts concerning the floating Francesca shoved far 
into the back of my mind. I know, for many years, I wished she had remained in that river 
to boil away with the morning sun. 

     "She survived." 

     How would you know?

     "A century later, I killed her. In what you called 'a permanent sort of way.'"

     Oh. Congratulations.

     "Not necessary. What happened when you returned to D'Asile?"

     That's kind of skipping ahead. Like I said, this story isn't about me, so much as it's 
about the people I've known. A lot of stuff went down while Bourbon and I were racing 
to Thérèse's rescue, action I didn't see with my own eyes, words I heard later, when 
Screed had a chance to fill in the blanks.

     "Then what did Screed say happened next?"

     Uh...do you mind if I don't quote him exactly?

     "Try for coherence where it's necessary."

     In that case...

******************************************************

     Screed approached D'Asile from the banks of the Saône, his empty rucksack flapping 
against his side. Every few steps, his path would veer sharply as he darted to investigate 
particular interesting bits on the ground that triggered his attention, a piece of flint in one 
spot, the rustle of a furry animal in another. When he grew close enough for the castle to 
loom in full view, he paused and scratched his temple, shaking his head at the stark quiet 
of it. 

     Screed commenced a half-skip/half-jog, hurrying up the hill. The wind shifted, and 
suddenly he crouched, tilting his nose to catch the stories carried on the breeze. Making a 
curious sound, he shifted direction, humming a tune as he strolled toward the gardens.

     Beyond the cultured hedges, away from the well-kept roses, the arbors and the brief 
rambles of honeysuckle vines, Screed found a nicely trimmed, flat square of lawn piled 
high with dead bodies. Nearby, he spotted Lucrece in her pretty pale blue robe, her hair 
loose, focused upon digging a very large, deep hole. 

     She tossed her shovel aside, bending over at the waist as she visually judged if she'd 
dug far enough into the ground. Screed appreciated the view for several lusty seconds, 
then made another curious sound. "Buryin' treasure?? H'empties? Double duty 'its tha' 
jackpot!"

     Lucrece whirled around. "The carouche!" She didn't give the impression this was a 
pleasant surprise. "What are you doing here?"

     He slipped his cap off his head and twiddled with it as he beamed. "Head's h'up ta 
tha' V-Man. Scorchy tip ta blister ya ears."

     She wiped impatiently at her robe, shooting him a look that could skin a deer. 
"Vachon left. You should do likewise." Lucrece turned her attention away from him and 
lifted two of the corpses, carried them across the yard, then lowered them into the ground.

     "Why?"

     Lucrece passed him a disbelieving look as she stalked back to the pile. "Because 
you're a strange-smelling rodent sucker who was not invited here and is not welcome!"

     "Pretty chit-chat, that, mais Aye meant why tha' vaya con Vachyssoise? 'E's stayin' 
'ere. Told me hisself." Screed wandered over to the dead, poked a couple of bodies, then 
began to copy Lucrece in moving them to the mass grave.

     "He must have changed his mind," Lucrece answered bitterly as she dropped another 
corpse. "He chose to wander like a vagabond with you over living in a castle with me. 
You won. I lost. Happy?"

    Screed snorted as he followed behind her with two more bodies. "H'iffen Aye'd scored 
h'a pot o' gold, tha' would be me h'oyster stew. Ya don' win h'a Spaniard. Tha's like 
winnin' tha' wind." He heaved his load over the side, scratched the side of his nose, and 
went back for more. "Ya don' make h'a Spaniard do h'anythin' 'e don' want ta do, lessen 
ya want h'a scruff. Ya hitch yer sail h'up fer tha' ride, h'or ya goes h'elsewhere. Now, 
h'a nice carouche ass-so-see-ate, onna h'other 'and, h'is h'always receptive ta bribes 
h'iffen ya want some-chosey fait-accompli." Screed patted his chest with pride and 
picked up another body.

     Lucrece did a double take and began staring at Screed's activity. Her posture grew 
livid. "What are you doing?" She dogged Screed's steps back to the grave. "What do you 
think you are doing, carouche?"

     Screed gave her a carefree grin. "Tidyin' h'up!" He dumped the corpse he carried, 
dusting his hands with satisfaction as it clumped at the top of the sunken pile.

     "No!" Lucrece exhaled, storming around Screed in a fit. She shoved him, knocking 
Screed to his back on the ground.  "No, no, no! *You* are not helping me! Of all possible 
people, I refuse your help! You should leave! Trust me, I am the last person to whom you 
should offer aid."

     "H'it's not h'a screamin' problem, chickee. Aye was h'only chargin' ya twenty!"

     She tossed her hair over her shoulder, snapping, "I'm not paying you! Go away!"

     Screed scowled. "Ya coulda told h'a bloke before 'e started helpin'." He scrambled to 
his feet and stubbornly turned back to the remaining dead, lifting another corpse. 

     Lucrece observed his continuing assistance with incredulity. "I said I wasn't paying 
you for any work."

     "'Eard ya tha' first time. Want me ta quit, that'll cost ya h'a 'undred livres," Screed 
negotiated.

     "Are you completely -?" Lucrece broke off, throwing up her hands. "Fine. Stay. Go. It 
makes no difference." She sat where she was, wrapping her arms around her knees as she 
continued to watch Screed's movements.

     "Complainin' h'about losin' tha' V-Man, h'all love-lorn, boo-'ooey," Screed 
commented, shaking his head as he transferred bodies. "H'iffen h'anybody's been shafted 
h'at this Shangri-la-di-da, h'it's yers truly."

     Culpability flickered over Lucrece's features as she shifted her position. "What have 
you heard?"

     "Me purse echoin', tha's wot. Grabbin' mortals ta pump tha' juice outta h'em, Miss 
Fancy 'n friends 'ad ta nab tha' mate wot h'owed me h'a milley!"

     "A thousand livres is nothing," Lucrece sniffed.

     "'H'a thousand h'is nothin','" Screed mimicked in a girly-tone. "H'it was promised ta 
ol' Screed's pocket! Don' get me wrong, Aye likes tha' jammy o' yer business 
h'arrangement - set h'up h'a ratsie production o' me h'own - butcha robbed me proper 
cut. Aye'm pissed h'onna matter o' principal. Wot Aye don' get, mindja - ya let 
Dumarchais an' tha' rest o' 'is batch scamper, but ya tricky-liquored tha' lot so that my 
mate croaks 'afor 'e can settle coin. Stupid move, Sunshine. Nobody gets their gain, 
'cause ya didn' use yer brain."

     "Bourbon let them go. I kept them all drugged so they would remain quiet until the 
time came to drain them. Your debtor must have been in poor health already for a few 
days in a cell and some opium to ruin him. Bourbon gave those people the chance of 
survival," Lucrece said quietly, her chin tilted down as she stared glumly into the grave. 
"I would have killed them all."
      
     Screed made a sound of disgust. "Baron Bosky - tha's h'a mate wot needs ta learn 'ow 
ta 'ave h'a bit o' fun, properly h'improper like, know wot Aye mean?"

     Lucrece had stopped listening. She leaned closer to the edge of the hole, reaching 
down into its depth. "There's so many of them. I slit their throats one at a time - I 
suppose it never registered. I haven't paid attention to the burial before, even the first 
time. Servants always did the work."

     Screed grabbed irreverently at his crotch. "Ha! Serve this!"

     "You are not a servant, Screed," she said, glaring at him crossly. "What you are is a 
scab that, no matter how I pick at it, never goes away. You simply fester and become 
more of a sore place blemishing my view." Lucrece suddenly seized his ankle as he 
passed with another load. "Stop."

     "Wot? Stop? H'it'll cost ya. Aye'm h'only 'alf-through."

     "I did not mean stop entirely," she replied quietly. "Stop putting them in this grave. 
It's too full. You'll have to dig another."

     Screed shrugged and began to burrow with his hands, making quick work of creating a 
second, deeper hole. 

     Meanwhile, Lucrece resumed staring moodily into the first. "Did you say you copied 
my blood supply business with your rodents?" she asked. "You knew about it?" The 
concept left her bemused. 
 
     "Peeked durin' tha' par-tee." Screed nodded. "Clip h'em by tha' tails, give h'em h'a 
squeeze now an' then, fill yer bottle right h'up. Scored me enough squeak fer h'an 
extended h'allez-là."

     "That wouldn't be a problem, would it?" Lucrece said prosaically. "There's only one 
of you. It's not like you have a dozen more carouche crawling underfoot, expecting you 
to obtain their rations in return for gold and favors. How many rats would that take? 
Would you clean out the tunnels of Lyon within a month? Two?"

     Screed paused, scratching his skullcap. "Dunno. Ya know h'a dozen carouche local 
wot would be h'interested?"

     "Hardly," Lucrece replied wryly. "And I don't recommend pursuing it. This blood 
supply business - it is another one of those things Vachon would call a 'pyramid scheme,' 
isn't it? Not sustainable in the long-term. It works fine for us at the top, but when you 
look at the bottom, all you see is..."

     "H'a pharaoh-thee-well heap o' h'empties wot need tidyin'." Screed chuckled to 
himself as he commenced moving the last of the bodies into the new grave site. "Ya 
sayin' that corkin' h'em h'isn't tha' way ta go?"

     "I'm having second thoughts. I must be. I'm discussing it with..." Lucrece glanced up 
from the dead, surprise washing her features. "...You."

     "Sure ya h'are. Aye'm prized h'in certain circles fer me converse-station."

     "So I gathered." Her mouth twisted mockingly. "I've always been simply a prize, at 
least from the cradle to the coffin." Lucrece tipped onto her back and stared meaningfully 
up at the cloudy night sky. "I followed the example of the men who raised me. I thought 
they loved me, prized me, but there's a difference between being prized and being a 
prize. I've just started to understand that." All at once, she climbed to her feet and began 
to trail inquisitively after Screed again. "Where are you going next?"

     "H'outta Lyon. Gettin' too roar fer h'our type thanks ta you. Pourquoi ya want ta 
know?"

     "I've had a bad idea. No, not bad so much as risky...you, being a carouche, and me, 
being the one who... But never mind that. Vachon will be looking for you." Lucrece 
appeared to be talking to herself more than Screed. She nodded as she came to a 
conclusion in her thoughts. "Yes, he will." She reached out abruptly again, grasping 
Screed's arm. "Stop!"

     "Make h'up yer mind h'on tha' job, Fancy! Do h'it, h'or don't Aye?"

     "Do it, but answer a question first. How much? How much would it take to bribe you 
to bring me along wherever will you go?"

     He scoffed. "Come h'agin? Aye seem ta be hearin' lil' voices h'in me noggin. Lady 
Sunshine wants ta tag h'along wit' ol' Screed? Pull tha' h'other one, why dont'cha?"

     "You said you were receptive to bribes. How much to take me along?" She grew 
impatient as Screed lingered over mulling her offer. "I could follow you without paying 
anything," she warned. "If that's the way you want it to be..."

     "'Old ya h'anchor. Aye was h'only adulatin' me h'expenses. Aye see h'a number..." 
He squinted, rubbing his fingers together as he imagined the feel of the coins. "The 
thousand ya h'owe me wit' siccin' Dumarchais, plus double fer toil 'n trouble."

     She didn't blink, making Screed wish he'd tried asking for more. "Deal. My coffers 
are in the castle. Take it." Lucrece angled her chin stubbornly. "In fact, the gold, the 
gems - you can have anything you want. I'm leaving that behind."

     Screed looked as though he'd just sailed off the edge of the world. "Wot? Ya fer 
real?"

     "Yes, I am. I mean it. I don't want the money. I've struggled for it long enough, and to 
no reward."

     "Hoo!" Screed called, abandoning any inclination to finish burying the dead, and 
began to head toward D'Asile with a spring in his step. "Forget tha' mob wot's comin' ta 
poke yer pretty 'ead h'onna pole! Ya've h'already lost h'it! Adios ta braino!"

     "Wait!" Lucrece rushed into his path. "What mob?" she demanded.

     "Tha' mob wot's gatherin' h'in Lyon h'on h'accounts one o' tha' bodies Bourbon 
turned loosy-goosy tattled yer business! Knowin' some richie snatched their amigos, 'n 
gave h'em h'a second smile," Screed said, motioning a slit across his throat, "townsies 
want yer 'ead strung, h'an' yer chatty-toe burnt low."

     She frowned with concentration, quickly regrouping after digesting this new wrinkle. 
"How soon until they arrive?" 

     He appeared mystified as he gave his own response. "Should h'already be 'ere, by me 
h'estimate."

     Lucrece held out her arms at her sides and exclaimed, "Then why didn't you mention 
it earlier?! Do you want to get us killed?"

     "H'us? There wasn' h'an h'us. There was me, h'innocent sailor, 'n you, targeted fer 
slash 'n burn!" Screed made a face, like the answer was obvious. "There was more dinero 
h'innit fer me h'iffen Aye finished buryin' tha' bones. Now, there's h'a castle ta plunder 
quick-like 'afore tha' riot shows h'up tha' sizzle! Fill me 'ands wit' gold, Sunshine, 
*then* there's h'an h'us!"

     Lucrece glanced over her shoulder, back through the arbor toward the grave sites. "I 
suppose we should leave the dead uncovered. The mortals will want to bury their own, no 
doubt with the church's blessing."

     He hopped up the steps of the terrace, selectively ambivalent. "Wot-ever, long h'as 
they don' try ta play churchy h'in ol' Screed's dire-erection."

     Lucrece dodged in front of him at the entrance, shot Screed a displeased glare, then 
propped the door open so he could pass through ahead of her. "The money," she said as 
she clipped down the hall at his side, "I've changed my mind about that."

     Screed groaned. "Now Aye know Aye'm h'imaginatin' things! First, she does want 
h'a cut, then she doesn't want h'a cut! 'H'oh, no! None h'a tha' goldie-shiney fer me!' 
Now she wants h'a share h'all h'over! Jes' like h'a skirt. Make h'up yer bleedin' mind 
h'already!"

     "No need for dramatics," Lucrece countered, motioning for him to turn right as they 
reached the end of the hall. "I only want to leave a portion for the mortals." She tilted her 
head thoughtfully. "Interesting how holy burials aren't for free."

     "Grubby fingers o' religion, h'it is! H'inna portion that was goin' ta me!" Screed 
fussed. "Innit that nice?" he said sarcastically. "Fine way ta treat yer nouveau compadre, 
robbin' 'im blind!"

     "Trust me, you won't miss a paltry fraction out of the whole," she assured him. "Do 
you have any idea how rich I am? I mean, was. It would be impossible to carry it all."

     "Aye can try!" Screed insisted.

     Lucrece stopped walking and gestured for him to move ahead. "Go through there, then 
left. You'll have to break in if you don't want to wait for me to fetch the keys."

     "Keys h'are fer sissies." Screed made a sound of protest when she nodded and turned 
to leave him on his own. "Where're ya goin'? Aye thought ya was followin' tha' 
carouche?"

     "I'll be back," she assured him. "You won't even notice I'm gone."

     Screed watched as she disappeared around the corner, his nose wrinkling contrarily. 
"Aye'm noticin'." After a moment he stiffened, realizing he was wasting precious time in 
which he could be rifling valuables. "Skirts 'n baggage, baggage 'n skirts," he muttered 
as he followed Lucrece's directions to the money. His grumbles shifted into humming, 
and by the time Screed had broken into the coffers he was singing the words to a happy 
tune. "Skirts 'n baggage, baggage 'n skirts...don' mindja manners, grab h'all tha' she's 
worth..."

     Screed filled his rucksack, then ripped down a tapestry that he knotted into a 
makeshift bag filled with gold, silver, and jewelry. As he turned away from his loot to 
hunt for something else that would work as a carry-all, Lucrece reappeared. She'd 
dressed in breeches and boots her size, but had pulled a heavy leather coat over them. 
Obviously borrowed from items Bourbon had left behind, the sleeves hung down to her 
fingers and the body swung loosely, but the coat had many bulging pockets. A baldric 
crossing her chest peeped from underneath; the tip of the sword it hosted bobbed between 
a slit in the jacket's folds. The only feminine frill to her clothing was a blue ribbon that 
secured the long braid down her back. In one fist, Lucrece carried another satchel. This 
item drew Screed's attention finally, and most intently.

     He motioned toward the pack. "'And tha' baggie h'over."

     "It's already full."

      Screed appeared affronted. "With wot?" 

     "My things."

     "'Oldin' h'out h'on yer friend Screed? Ya said Aye could take h'all ya things!"

     "All my *wealth,*" Lucrece clarified, then became pensive. "Though these are wealth, 
of a sort."

     "Lemme roll h'an h'eyeball h'on h'em," he insisted as he unfastened the flap and 
looked at the satchel's contents. "Skirts!" he exclaimed as he rummaged through pieces 
of folded material, his face exuding disappointment.

     Lucrece feigned innocence. "You don't want to take a pretty dress, Screed? I do 
believe this one's your color!"

     "Fun-ny!" Screed dug deeper in the bag, making a noise of even stronger disgust when 
he saw what was buried beneath Lucrece's clothing. "Books! Ya grabbed books?"

     "People pay a great deal of money for books," she countered.

     His expression brightened. "Like rosies ya bud somethin' new..." Screed started to lift 
a volume from the satchel, but Lucrece slapped his hand, packed her items tightly and 
refastened the bag. 
 
     Slipping a leather pouch from one of her pockets, she held it out to Screed. "Fill this. 
We'll leave it with the dead."

     Screed groused and grumbled, but he did as she asked. Tossing a coin-laden pouch 
back to her, Screed shuffled over to one of the locked chests and lifted it from its floor 
recess. "Nev-a' mind tha' sack 'n pack. Aye'll carry tha' boxes Aye've not busted yet. 
No bad h'apples h'in this lot, roight?"

     "No. All pearls in that one, if I remember correctly. I've always liked pearls," she said 
musingly.

      "Like kissies from tha' sea," Screed said approvingly, patting his new treasure chest 
lovingly.

      "Quite," Lucrece said in a humoring tone. "But how are you going to fly with two 
sacks and a dozen chests, when you only have two hands? Strap them to your back with 
brass wire? Tie them about your waist with a rope?"

     Screed gave her a confused look. "Who said we're flyin'?"

     "I thought..." Now Lucrece was the puzzled one. "We're in a hurry to escape a 
potential mob coming this way to burn this castle down. Speed would be appropriate. 
Flying is fast. Did I miss an important detail?"

     "Yeah. Aye 'ave h'a ship 'itched ta tha' dock. Screed don' fly when there's water ta 
sail."

     "Oh." Lucrece still appeared dazed with the addition of this information. Maybe it was 
the shock of understanding the sentiment, and the unexpected source advocating her 
policy of flying as a last resort.  "In that case, I'll help you load your ship."

     Screed smiled greedily as he watched her haul up one of the locked chests. "That's h'a 
mate." He hooked his makeshift sack of treasures over one shoulder, lifted the chest he'd 
selected, then followed Lucrece out of the room.

     As they neared the terrace, the rumble of distant shouts reached them through the 
glass. Lucrece glanced worriedly over her shoulder. "The people from town...they're 
here!"

     "Don' jes' stand there, Sunshine. Run!" He kicked the door out with a booted foot. 
The glass insets shattered, raining in an abrupt clatter against the stone landing outside.

     The shouts intensified and swiftly changed direction. Someone in the mob had picked 
out the crash, and the flow of mortals shifted to cut off any escape. As Screed and 
Lucrece rushed down the steps and through the manicured paths, the crowd flooded 
around the sides of D'Asile, their angry cries encroaching in a wave-like roar. 

     Both vampires' feet flashed over the lawn. Already mortals tumbled down the top of 
the hill, their torches bobbing in the darkness. Glass continued to shatter as the 
townspeople struck at the rest of the windows lining the terrace. The hedges and flowers 
at the edge of the gardens ignited as the frenzied bodies moved forward, a wall of flame 
creeping in their wake.

     In sight of the water, Screed realized that Lucrece wasn't with him. He glanced around 
to find she'd halted by the open graves and now stared frozen as the chateau erupted with 
fire.

     "Get h'a move h'on, girlie!" he yelled.

     Lucrece looked back at him briefly, but D'Asile pulled her attention again as the mob 
surged dangerously close. All at once, the windows on the upper levels exploded from the 
rising heat. She flinched, then moved into action, hefting the chest she carried to support 
it against her leg and tossing the bag of livres so it landed cradled in the hand of one of the 
corpses. Lucrece fled, racing to catch up with Screed. 

     "Mortals teamin' like that turn tha' table," he reamed at her as they ran down the 
dock. "H'all they want h'is ta suck ya down, whirlpool, 'til yer pretty ass h'is ash. Tell 
me somethin'. Wot ya want ta stupid 'ang h'about fer?"

     Lucrece jumped onto the small craft Screed had tied down, unloading her chest and 
satchel, then reached out to accept his other cargo. "I was saying goodbye to all of your 
new fortune that you had to leave behind," she said dryly while Screed heaved off from 
the dock.

     "Aye still think yer h'a ninny," Screed informed her. "Grab h'a paddle. Tha' wind's 
died, 'n tha' current's slow fer h'a good stretch."

     Lucrece began to row through the flat surface of the water. "Good thing your boat 
isn't bigger. You said this was a ship. It's more like one of those dinghies to travel 
between real ships and the shore, isn't it?"

    Screed scowled, insulted that she'd cast aspersions about the size of his prized vessel. 
"Dinghy, nothin'! Wot would h'a puff like ya know h'about h'it? Good fer h'a 'andful o' 
crew, she 'as h'a sail, she 'as h'a 'old. She's h'a ship!"

     "I've been on boats before," Lucrece countered. "Only they had cushions and - " She 
tensed at a nearby splash in the water.

     They'd paddled about fifty feet away from the bank. The forward rush of the mob had 
now reached the dock, and those with torches lobbed them in attempt to hit the small 
vessel.

     "Make h'a screamin' target, why don' Aye?" Screed cursed. "Keep h'up tha' stroke 
while Aye lower tha' sail."

     Lucrece nodded, stroking rapidly through the water as another torch splashed and sank 
within a foot of their stern. More burning hail hurtled from shore, most clattering 
harmlessly into the river, sinking in sizzling afterthought. One torch came farther and 
faster than the others, driving both Screed and Lucrece to duck instinctively as it flew 
overhead. It landed on deck, its flames licking the planks at the base of one of the chests, 
crackling for revenge.

     The vampires reared backward at the first burst of fire. They hovered for a wary 
second in fear, then both moved into separate courses of action. Lucrece snatched at the 
base of the torch, swiping it off of the deck, while Screed grabbed a bucket and doused 
the burning section of the boat. Lucrece aimed the torch at the dock like a flaming 
javelin. Some mortals leapt into the water for fear of being hit and cleared a straight path 
for the missile to strike a man behind them full in the chest.

     "Coo!" Screed exclaimed. "Tha's h'a throw!" He gestured at the now-soaked boards 
tinged with black. "S'right h'enough! Jes' h'a scorch ta mark tha' h'occasion."

     Lucrece flexed her hand and winced. "That's not all that scorched." Screed held out 
the bucket. She accepted it and soaked her fist, checking the dock as he returned to tying 
down the sail. "None of the mortals look interested in swimming after us. Do you think 
they'll find rafts of their own to chase us down?"

     "Keep paddlin' ta be clever, 'til tha' wind blows. They'd 'ave ta come from Lyon, 
where Aye borrowed this floater from one h'of h'em wit'out permission. They're h'at h'a 
disadvantage pushin' tha' babble o' this brook, sailin' from town now. And..." Screed 
added, a grouchy note to his voice. "...She's not h'a raft. She's h'a proper vessel. Mindja 
lip, h'or Aye'll toss ya h'overboard!"

     Lucrece's mouth twisted in amusement at his declaration. "Why do sailors refer to 
boats like they are women? Is it because they so rarely see the real thing?"

     Screed snorted disparagingly. "'Cause their sides h'are curvy, we want ta fill their 
hulls, swab their decks, 'n reach port wit' h'em 'afore they toss h'us ta fathoms below."

     Her smile became wondering. "That was almost poetic. If, granted, poetry had no 
meter and did not rhyme, but was only a matter of rhythm and metaphor, yes, that would 
have been poetic." Lucrece nodded in firm affirmation. "Not poetic, but a nice answer. 
Are all carouche so odd-tongued as you?"

     "Like Aye care ta tongue h'em. Aye speak wot Aye think. Did so 'afore Tha' H'inka 
fanged me, so reckon tha' jammie-talkie h'is me h'own special glib."

     Her eyes narrowed curiously. "The Inka? Who is The Inka?"

     Screed had finished tying down the sail and spotted Lucrece sitting, doing nothing but 
soaking her fist in the bucket. "H'issen h'a pleasure cruise, ya lazy skirt!"

     Lucrece removed her hand from the water and gave Screed a mock-salute. "Yes, 
Captain," she said in a facetious tone. Flexing her fingers again, she seemed satisfied 
with how they had healed. Lucrece dug in her coat pockets, pulled out a pair of leather 
gloves and put them on, then resumed rowing off port.

     Screed joined in on the starboard side, and they passed a period filled only with the 
tranquil splashing of their paddles plowing the water and the current pushing a low 
creaking from the bottom of the boat's hull. 

     Silence and patience suited Screed off dry land, but not Lucrece. Soon enough, she 
gave into the temptation of asking, "Will we pass Lyon by sunrise?"

     "H'iffen tha' breeze rises ta set tha' sails."

     "And if it doesn't?"

     "H'it will."

     "You can't know that it will," Lucrece argued.

     "You h'ren't goin' ta be so bleedin' noisy h'onna permanent basis, h'are ya? Wot, ya 
mus' be h'a real firecracker hip slammy yin-yang fer tha' V-Man ta put h'up wit' blab 
h'in tha' ear, h'on 'n h'on." He shot her a suggestive smirk. "'Course, h'iffen ya were 
partial ta h'a practical demonstration, Screed could get h'a little deaf..."

     Lucrece growled and threw the bucket at his head.

     Screed scrubbed the water from his face with a sleeve and held up a placating hand. 
"Settle ya feathers, Sunshine. Aye's jus' razzin' ya, friend-like."
      
     "Of course, and I just experienced a spontaneous urge to practice my throw, using you 
as a target. Friend-like," she mimicked, then sighed. "My questions about escaping Lyon 
by dawn are perfectly reasonable. I don't want to get trapped in a town littered with 
mortals who might revolt, and you shouldn't be where - " Lucrece broke off and scowled.

     "Wot h'about me 'n where?" Screed demanded.

     "The Enforcers - they're coming for you. To Lyon."

     "Pah! H'issen like someone told h'em me h'exact h'address - " Lucrece's expression 
sunk in, and Screed groaned. "Ya ratted!"

     "I wouldn't use that wording exactly, but, yes, I had a hand in it."

     "An' wot they're gonna do h'if they find me..." Screed began.

     "Destroy you," Lucrece affirmed.

     Screed nodded sharply at her words. "Ya knew wot would happen. Ya made h'it 
happen!" Without waiting for another response, he reared forward and shoved her over 
the side.

     Lucrece plunged into the water with a heavy splash, but she didn't bob immediately to 
the surface. Screed stomped across the deck, cursing angrily to himself. "Set tha' 
H'enforcers h'on me...stab h'a Screed h'in tha' back why don'cha?...h'expect ta tag 
h'along 'n watch h'em do tha' deed, Aye'm wise ta that!" He strode to the port side and 
shook a fist at the silent river. "Probably plannin' ta hand h'em tha' stake...Tha's h'a 
nasty piece o' piece. Bad luck ta 'ave h'a Jane h'on board, 'struth, h'it h'is!"

     "I was wrong," Lucrece's voice said smoothly to his back, "and I knew it, but I was a 
coward."

     Screed turned, his eyes fierce. She stood on the other side of the ship, dripping wet, 
having swum underneath the hull to climb aboard the boat like a whisper while he ranted. "Did Aye 
say yer welcome h'on this crew? Get lost. Make h'it now. See, this h'is why h'a mate 
don't let mates h'associate wit' skirts! First, h'it's h'all moony-dovey, next thing ya 
know, somebody's got wood h'in their chest - tha' fella named Screed!"

     "It was the other night, when everyone saw you at D'Asile. Some of the vampires 
wanted you dead just because you are a carouche."

     He jerked a hand, looking ready to throw her overboard again. "Not h'interested!"

     Lucrece continued to speak, methodically, calmly. "They found out the direction of 
the inn you stayed at in Lyon from one of the acrobats. Though I wasn't the one who 
contacted the Enforcers, they used my paper, my ink, and one of my servants to send the 
message... I didn't come up with the plot, but when I discovered the threat, I did nothing. 
I could have given you a warning sooner, but..."

     "But Aye'm h'a carouche?"

     "No. That's not it." She shook her head earnestly as she tried to explain. "You have 
Vachon's loyalty, and I knew I did not. I did not believe that I could compete with that. 
Loyalty - it's more powerful than fear, more persuasive than temptation, stronger than 
love...no, loyalty *is* love. It's difficult to kill. It was expedient to look the other way 
and have someone else kill you for my convenience."

     Screed made a face. "Phhew! V-Man 'n Aye h'aren' *that* friendly. Haven' h'even 
known 'im fer h'a cen-tree," he said as he pointed at her angrily. "Don' jes' call h'a bloke 
words like 'lovin' 'n 'loyal' 'n ick-spect 'im ta take h'it like h'a compliment. Keep ya 
skirty words ta yisself!"

     "Relax. It's not as if I called *you* loyal." Lucrece gave a small smile. "But you came 
to D'Asile to warn Vachon, even though you had to have known you wouldn't be 
welcome."

     Screed's forehead scruffed rebelliously. "V-Man wouldn' 'ave 'ad h'a problem wit' 
h'it. Sides, Aye h'always planned ta grab me cut from ya collect-shio-nay. Figured ya 
h'owed me. S'not like Aye worried that tha' Spaniard couldn' 'andle h'it."

     "Of course not," Lucrece replied softly. "But it never hurts to have someone watching 
your back. You're right. I do owe you. It isn't a matter of gold - "

     "Then wot good h'is h'it?" Screed interjected.

     "You helped me back at D'Asile," she emphasized. "If you hadn't come there, I would 
have had no warning of the mob attack. I wouldn't have escaped. You protected me. You 
kept me alive. I may have done my part toward putting you in danger, but let me make 
amends for that transgression by watching your back now. From what I've heard, the 
Enforcers travel in twos. Do you really want to be outnumbered if you run into them 
while you're still in France?"

     Screed sniffed, trying to act unaffected. She spoke of the poetic. Her own words failed 
such an examination. She wasn't lyrical so much as she spoke like a woman, soft ideas 
draped in curvaceous logic that could quiet a man's angry thoughts. What did it matter 
that there were a thousand different, possible outcomes on the horizon? Feminine reason 
refused to be denied. The soul of Lucrece's argument latched onto Screed's indignation 
like a barnacle, wearing away the violence of his reaction in the face of betrayal to a wan 
belligerence. "Maybe not, but wit' tha' word h'out h'in Lyon 'bout ya juice farm busted, 
when ya H'enforcer friends get tha' gossip, you'll find yisself jes' h'as popular h'as 
h'inny carouche. Not so big h'of h'a stretch ya makin ta lend h'a 'and when they'll be 
aimin' fer ya ass jes' h'as speedy."

     "Perhaps," Lucrece said, nodding slowly, "but I want to help."

     Screed heard the offer, but he knew better than to believe it. No matter how earnest or 
well meaning, a helpful woman could easily spell disaster. A deceitful woman...well, why 
not just stake yourself and save her the foreplay? "An' 'ow can Aye be sure h'iffen we 
run h'into h'inny o' these H'enforcer types, ya won' jes' double-cross ta save ya h'own 
hide?"

     "You can't," she replied succinctly. It was the only answer she could have given that 
he would have believed. "How can I be sure you wouldn't make a deal with them to serve 
my head on a platter if you could?"

     "Ya can't," Screed retorted. His eyes pierced her like an eagle. With a gruff sound of 
decision, he spit into his palm and held out his hand. "Have ta trust h'each h'other 
whether we like h'it h'or not. An' wit' h'a sneaky wenchy like you, Aye'd rather have ya 
h'on me side h'iffen that's tha' direction tha' prow's pointin'."

     She stared at the sheen of his damp, outstretched palm, hesitating a moment before 
taking his proffered hand in a determined grip. "And I'll risk trusting you."

     They shook hands, eyeing each other for a suspicious minute until Screed stepped 
back, issuing a brusque, "Wot-ever. Back ta tha' rowing, lazy."

**************************************************
End of Part Eleven

Words and Meanings (12/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     They resumed paddling up the Saône in silence. Every few strokes, Screed would 
sense her staring. His head would snap around, and he would look back at her until her 
gaze drifted nonchalantly to the reeds on the distant bank or to watch the blanket of 
clouds overhead thicken. Eventually, the cycle would begin again - he would feel 
Lucrece studying him quietly, and he would flip her a guarded look. Finally, the 
unbroken pattern scraped his nerves beyond patience. "Wot's this?" He swiped one hand 
through the air. "Cut h'it wit' tha' peep-review." Screed straightened his shoulders, 
feigning modesty. "Yer makin' me feel h'objectably objected."

     "That wasn't my intention. I just..."

     "Jes' wot?"

      "I just wondered how you became friends with Vachon." She appeared undecided 
about the desirability of the details, but asked anyway, "What do you have in common?"

     "Don' care."

     Her lips pursed, annoyed at the brevity of his reply, but apparently she was determined 
to be on best behavior. "I see."

     "No, ya don't. Yer 'igh 'n malarkey, like that Bourbon mate ya hang with. H'a droog 
hasta fit h'in wit' ya, puzzle piece people. 'Aye see,'" he mimicked her voice and 
expression. "Two words, 'n Aye wager ya got h'a jackpot scrammin' h'about ya blondie 
'ead. Ya don' say wot ya think, 'n ya don't mean wot ya say. Tha's wot V-Man 'n Aye 
'ave h'in common."

     Lucrece tipped her chin austerely, not thrilled by Screed's pronouncement, but 
enduring it like a draught of bitter medicine. "You mean that you always tell the truth, 
while I am deceitful?"

     "Fah! Wot kind h'a wusses do ya think we h'are? 'True' 'n 'false' h'is jes' words fer 
believin'. H'a mate can change 'is mind h'on wot 'e believes, given tha' provocation. 
H'it's tha' reasons why h'a body believes 'n flaps h'its tongue wot can make h'a 
difference h'in whether they're golden."

     His explanation left her obviously puzzled, her expression slipping into a knot as she 
tried to unravel his meaning. "So, you do lie, but that doesn't count as deceit because...?"

     "'Cause Aye don' care h'bout tha' people Aye slicky-tongue. H'it's when ya lie when 
ya know ya 'ave h'amiables wit' some droog, ya know yer rippin' their sails, 'n ya screw 
h'em dirty anyhoo, ya h'introduce deceit h'into tha' h'equation."

     "So, in your mind, I never betrayed you by keeping silent about the Enforcers coming 
for you?"

     "Don' push h'it, Sunshine. H'it's my fanny ya schemin' inta tha' skewer. Ya not 
gonna talk me h'inta clappin' 'n shoutin' 'Heave-ho!' ta make ya conscience fluffy 
white!" Screed grimaced begrudgingly, then added, "But ya roight, ya didn' betray me. 
Straight-out bitchy-swipe, but not tha' back stab." He saw a shade of relief flicker across 
her features and added sharply. "H'iffen ya burned h'anyone, was tha' V-Man. Maybe ya 
don' care h'about tha' Spaniard." He shrugged complacently. "Fine h'enough. 'Cause 
h'iffen ya did, an' ya still pulled h'a number h'on 'is mate Screed h'outta...what's tha' 
word?"

     "Jealousy," she said miserably.

     "Right, jell-o-see. Well, wouldn' want ta be ya," Screed sniffed thoughtfully as he 
wound his paddle in another arc. "Second thinkin'...h'iffen ya didn't care, Lady 
Sunshine, wot h'are ya still doin' here h'on this boat?" He shook his head ruefully. "Boat 
h'aside, still wouldn' want ta be ya."

     Lucrece made no reply, turning her stares now toward the dark water as she rowed 
steadily.

     They made slow progress up the river. An hour passed before a wind rose up again, 
stirring the stillness of the night with a hollow rushing sigh as the air painted an invisible 
path about the small ship. Lucrece recognized it, felt the strong breeze fluttering against 
her cheeks, but Screed did nothing. She frowned, uncomprehending of why the sailor 
made no acknowledgment. When he continued to spin his oar in the water without a care, 
she prompted, "The wind - aren't you going to raise the sail?"

     Screed shook his head. "Nope."

     "But you said it would be faster."

     "Not wit' this wind." As he spoke, a sharp gust swept by that abruptly shifted 
direction, tilting the ship with its force even without pushing against a field of unfurled 
canvas. The river's surface had become choppy, and clouds crept overhead, weaving into 
a dark blanket that shrouded the sky. "An h'ill one, primed ta tip more 'n h'anythin'. 
Ol' Neptune mus' not be happy wit' h'us. Storm'll be h'up lickety-blink."

     "Rain?" A fat drop splashed against Lucrece's cheek, answering her question. "Ugh, I 
had just begun to feel dry! Shouldn't we seek shelter?"

     Screed set aside his oar and began to move the chests, his rucksack, Lucrece's satchel, 
and the tapestry filled with valuables into the boat's shallow hold, the items joining his 
stores of blood. "H'abandon ship? Not bleedin' likely! We fight ta keep 'er h'on course 
'n h'upright. Wot's h'a lil' damp?"

     Hours passed before the weather cleared, and it took all their efforts to keep from 
losing ground to the waves and the wind. Screed took it all in like a little kid, shouting 
with glee every time the boat heaved at a precarious angle, and rallying encouragement at 
the ship every time her boards groaned under the power of the storm. To Screed, it was 
bliss. He was in his element, manning the open water. He didn't need to concern himself 
with more. Lucrece endured the tempest in as much solemnity as he expressed jubilation, 
but Screed didn't think less of her for it. When he yelled for her to bail water from the 
deck, she bailed. When he barked orders on how and when to row, she dug in her oar 
without aberration. By the time calm regained a foothold with the weather, Screed had 
decided that Lucrece wasn't a useless skirt fit only for trouble, but had potential as a 
sailor. As far as he was concerned, she'd proved she could be part of a crew, something 
that words couldn't convey to his satisfaction.

     Lucrece seemed less certain that she'd accomplished anything. Once the rain ebbed to 
a faint mist, she appeared incredulous at the water dripping off the corners of her coat, as 
well as her chin and nose. She cringed as she moved and her drenched clothing emitted a 
squishing sound. "I'm soaked like a gutter rat."

     Screed almost jigged with pleasure as he began to swab down the deck. "H'it's tha' 
life, h'issen h'it?"

     A stream of liquid piddled over the side of the boat as Lucrece wrung out the hem of 
her leather coat. "It's not death, at least." She glanced up at the sky, now only laced with 
a few idle clouds. "We definitely won't make it past Lyon before dawn if we stay with 
the ship. If we take what we can carry and fly - "

     "No," Screed cut in. "We tie her h'off 'n hide her when tha' time comes. There's not 
room fer h'a body down below wit' me treasures, so we find h'a squat fer daylight. 
Aye'm keeping me boat, H'enforcers h'or no H'enforcers."

     Lucrece looked primed to argue, then a flash of comprehension overcame her features. 
"I understand. She's your castle. Very well. We remain on the water as much as 
possible."

     "Crossin' h'at Dover was 'ardly h'enough ta wet me whistle. S'been too long - Aye 
miss tha' ocean, tha' salt h'in 'er breath. River drift like this h'is dandy, but h'only h'a 
pinch o' tha' real thingee."

     Lucrece's expression became sentimental with the talk of life off dry land. "Have you 
ever been to Venice?"

     Screed demurred. "H'only tha' Mediterranean side o' h'Italia."

     "Venice is a city of palazzos on the sea. On the Grand Canal, the boundary between 
land and water blurs, and what results is beauty."

     "Coo!"

     "Coo," Lucrece agreed. "Venice is the best of both our worlds, I'd wager."

     At her drop of the magic word 'wager,' Screed became all business. "Wot ya want ta 
bet? Ya haven' got nothin' but dresses 'n boundies."

     "I have this." She pried off her right glove, flashing a simple silver band on her second 
finger, the ring of the deceased Marie.

     Screed snapped his fingers. "Divvy h'it h'over then. We 'ead Venetian, 'n h'iffen ya 
floaty castles suit h'a sailor proper, Aye'll give h'it back."

     Lucrece handed him the piece of jewelry with a steady look, and Screed twisted it over the knuckles of 
his pinkie. "What are you going to bet?" she asked.

     "Wot kind h'a stupid question h'is that? Gold, natr'ly." Screed patted one of the 
strapped down chests lovingly.

     "I don't want gold," she scoffed as she replaced her glove. "I just rid myself of it."

     "Then h'iffen ya win tha' wager," Screed countered, "Aye promise Aye won' give ya 
h'any."

     They continued up the Saône, crossing to the right bank as they neared the town. The 
oldest quarter of Lyon loomed off the starboard side as the first wisps of daylight seeped 
out of the horizon. Screed aimed the craft toward the next dock that sprouted from the 
retaining wall and proceeded to tie it down grouchily. "Wot's ta guarantee tha' bloke Aye 
stole this ship from doesn' find 'er 'n steal 'er back wit' me booty while we lay low?" he 
complained.

     "There are no guarantees, Screed," Lucrece said absently as she retrieved her satchel 
from the cramped hold. "If he has the bad grace to take his ship back, we'll just have to 
double-rob him."

     Screed settled his rucksack over one shoulder and studied the fastened fabric of the 
sail longingly. "Poss-see-bull," he allowed, "but wot h'if we tent h'it? No toasty h'if we 
'ide h'under tha' canvas."

     "Yes, so toasty," Lucrece argued. "The sun would pass through, and even if it did not, 
we would be trapped if anyone boarded during the day - " Suddenly she froze, her breath 
catching as she stared toward the shore. "Screed? Grab what you need. We have to 
move."

    "Wottzit?" He followed the direction of her gaze, through a small opening between 
two buildings. Half a dozen men stood in a semi-circle, all dressed in black. "Six 'eads, 
twelve h'arms, hell o' lot h'a gloomy, that."

     "They're Enforcers," Lucrece snapped, jumping onto the dock and yanking Screed's 
sleeve to encourage him to follow her.

     "H'enforcers? Ya promised they traveled h'in duos not 'exagons!!" he accused as he 
jogged after her.

     "I *heard* that they travel in pairs. I've never actually seen any before."

     "Then 'ow do ya know that gang h'is full o' h'em? Could jes' h'as well be 
Cromwell's cronies. Look h'it ta me."

     They'd run further down the retaining wall, slipping through a narrow lane to reach 
the cobbled street. Early morning traffic clattered against the stones as they peered from 
the doorway of a shop at the dark group in the distance.

     "Cromwell in intrigue here?" Lucrece sounded skeptical. "No, I can feel them. Can't 
you?"

     Screed frowned. "H'is that wot that strange tingly h'is? Aye jes' thought Aye 'ad h'an 
h'itchy place. S'different than tha' h'usual vamp zap feelin'."

     Lucrece nodded. "They don't know that we're here. They're searching for us."

     Screed pulled her away from the shop. "So stop playin' peek-a-boo 'n get h'outta 
sight. Sky's gettin' beamed, worse fer h'us. We ditch h'inside h'a quiet nook, 'n lay 
h'invisible."

     In this quarter of Lyon, buildings intertwined via dark passageways and sheltered 
flights of stairs, transforming sections of the city into a giant maze. They ran across the 
street and entered one of these traboules to cross onto the next block, then climbed to the 
second level. Screed and Lucrece ducked through a doorway after peering through its dim 
windows. The covered walk shaded it from the encroaching sunlight, and it looked to be 
someone's home, deserted during the workday.

     "What if they come?" Lucrece asked in a faint voice as she sat on a wooden bench.

     "Mammy h'or Pappy knock-knock 'ome, ya do h'em," Screed said plainly. He juggled 
his wineskin, pausing to take a sip. "Aye'm set fer me squeaker."

     "No. I mean, what if the Enforcers follow us here? We sensed them because they 
weren't looking for us with their eyes. They're trying to pick you out from all of the 
mortals. You, because you're the carouche. The Enforcers are trackers; you stand out to 
them. If you felt them..." She pushed abruptly off the bench, her satchel swinging against 
one hip. "If you felt their presence, they could have just as easily felt yours. We shouldn't 
stay here. We need to move as far away from them as possible."

     Screed grabbed the back of her jacket as Lucrece headed for the door. "'Old h'it. Ya 
mind tellin' me 'ow we get h'anywhere durin' tha' day? 'Ow tha' H'enforcers'll 
bloodhound fer that matter?"

     "We take traboules where we can, the sewers where we cannot. We could traverse 
Saint Jean without a single ray burning us."

     "Aye readja, but can't tha' doom patrol jes' follow?"

     "Not if we lose them," Lucrece argued as she opened the door and motioned for 
Screed to come along. "Maybe they don't know the city."

     Screed stepped outside first and immediately erupted in a curse. "Damn! Bleedin' 
lambs!" He'd spotted two of the Enforcers climbing the stairs, moving purposefully in 
their direction.

     "Run! Go!" Lucrece shouted.

     They raced down the corridor, sprinted the length of a tunnel segmenting another 
house, then followed a sharp left turn around the next corner.
      
     "'Eard 'ow ya h'exterminate h'an H'enforcer?" Screed called. 

     "I don't know how they're killed. If they were like the usual vampire, why would they 
raise so much fear in the Community?"

     "'Cause tha' fancy lot's très chicken ta find h'out?"

      They turned another corner, right this time. Lucrece abruptly stopped running. Screed 
noticed her stillness after a few steps, turned around, and slowed to a backward walk. 
Lucrece scowled and motioned for him to continue. "Keep going!"

     "Ya gone loco? Me dead granny moves faster. Come h'on!" 

     "No!" she shouted. "I'm going to try slowing them down. Go ahead!"

     Screed took a few strides, then whirled around with a groan. "Awwww...Janey scores 
h'a spit 'n Aye get ta tell V-Man tha' luverly story? No yankin' way!"

     The Enforcers moved around the corner. Lucrece leapt in the air, clasped the arch 
overhead and swung out with her legs. She caught the first of the Enforcers in the 
chest, slamming him backward against the plastered railing. The top beam cracked under 
his weight, then caved, and the Enforcer kept falling at an angle, until he landed in an 
illuminated fountain centered in the square beyond the passage. He gave a cry as his skin 
began to smoke and blister in the daylight.

     Lucrece laughed with victorious delight. "Ha! Stay out of the sun!"

     She dropped into a crouch, narrowly avoiding a blow from the second Enforcer as he 
swung at her head. Lucrece unsheathed her rapier and lunged upward, stabbing the 
Enforcer in the belly, but he didn't offer even a minor flinch. Instead, he issued a 
reprimanding sound while he waved a warning finger at her as though she was an 
impudent child. 

     The Enforcer lashed out with his other arm, striking his fist across her jaw. Lucrece 
crashed into the rocky wall behind her, her skull making an audible crack. Her eyes 
drifted shut for a disoriented instant, then she shook her head with a wince, clumsily 
trying to scramble to her feet. 

     The Enforcer helped, pulling her up by her hair. "Stay out of the sun," he cautioned 
maliciously, then yanked the back of her coat, preparing to heave her over the side after 
his burning partner.

     When Lucrece had first been hit, Screed had punched a fist into the plaster of the 
building, then jammed his elbow into the exposed facade until a piece of masonry 
loosened from its mortar. "'Ey!" Screed yelled, now throwing the brick at the Enforcer's 
head.

     The brick struck the Enforcer across his cheekbone, one sharp corner lancing his eye. 
Out of reflex, he released Lucrece's hair to clutch at the injury. With her neck now free to 
turn, she snarled, biting the Enforcer in the arm which still held her by the jacket. He 
immediately released her clothing, striking blindly for her face again. Lucrece ducked, 
scanning the stone underfoot for the fallen brick. Locating it, she rammed the Enforcer's 
chin with the block in a clumsy uppercut. His head snapped back with a crunch, but the 
next second, he turned his uninjured eye on her again. His iris flared red, and he growled, 
cuffing her in the middle of her face. She stumbled, and the Enforcer crowded closer, 
swinging at her again from the side.

     "Ah, bollocks!" Screed groaned. He elbowed another brick free, aiming it at the right 
side of the Enforcer's face again, hitting him in the exact same spot.  

     "Do ya know h'anythin' h'about fightin'?" he demanded as he stalked forward, 
snatching the brick from Lucrece's grip and cracking it against the Enforcer's eye socket 
a third time before the other vampire had the chance to react. Screed held his empty fist 
in front of his mouth, the flat of his knuckles blocking the tip of his nose. "Ya got h'a 
guard, Sunshine. Use h'it, an' maybe yer nose won' get broken next time!" Screed swung 
his brick at the Enforcer's head with a right hook. He nodded with satisfaction at the 
sound of a snapping jaw, then handed the brick back to Lucrece. "Now try h'it."

     She appeared slightly unsettled and glanced at their reeling attacker with unsure eyes, 
then back at Screed. He motioned with his fists, reminding her to watch her guard. 
Lucrece copied his posture, then sought her revenge on the Enforcer's nose with two 
sharp jabs of the masonry. The vampire's legs buckled, and he collapsed in a heap. 
Lucrece looked back at Screed. "Did I do it right?"

     "That's h'a start," Screed said, holding out his palm for her to hand the brick back. 
She did, wiping gingerly at the faint streaks of blood above her upper lip and licking her 
fingers, never dropping her guard fist. Screed went to work on the fallen Enforcer's head, 
hammering on it with the brick like a nail in a loose plank. The grinding of skull against 
stone echoed in rough, grainy scrapes, followed by the muffled impact of the rock on 
spongy tissue.

     Screed straightened, holding the brick stained with blood and specks of clinging gray 
matter high in his grip. He glanced over his shoulder to Lucrece, who watched mouth 
agape, guard still in place. "Wot? Ya through teasin' tha' bears?" Screed asked, nodding 
their escape path down the passage. "'Cause Aye'd like ta scamper 'n hide now 'afore 
h'inny h'others show."

     She finally lowered both her fists, demanding, "Is he dead? Do you think he's dead?"

     "Depends h'on whether h'an h'Enforcer needs h'all tha' lil' bits o' brain, h'or h'iffen 
they run h'automaton, Aye suppose," Screed said, throwing the brick aside.

****************************************************
End of Part Twelve

Words and Meanings (13/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     Leaving the passageway, they cut briskly through a set of rooms filled with men and 
women working industriously at looms, then turned right, traveling another covered 
walkway, following it as it led down a new set of stairs. During their journey, Lucrece 
reached up to touch tentatively at her face. "There's no chance my nose will heal 
crooked, is there?"

     "Dunno," Screed replied blithely. "Nev-a' 'ad me snout compromised by h'an 
H'enforcer, but that one 'ardly gave ya tha' face-squashin' 'e got, so Aye wouldn' fret. 
Wot's h'a bump h'onna muzzle, long h'as yer h'in one piece? H'enforcers," he scoffed. 
"Don' see nothin' diff'rent h'about h'em compared ta h'any h'other vampy."

     "I think they must be hardier," Lucrece insisted as she adjusted her satchel over her 
shoulder. "I stabbed him in the stomach, and he reacted like a mortal treats a mosquito. 
Humiliating..." She stopped short. "My rapier! I left it behind!"

     "Don' need h'it," Screed dismissed. "Poking ta death hardly works h'on h'inny 
vampires, lessen h'it's wood 'n hearts. Ya gotta serve h'a dish o' tha' serious damage, 
Sunshine."

     "Right," Lucrece said, absently misinterpreting the nickname as she continued 
descending the steps. "Sunlight is effective, and bludgeoning their heads off with bricks 
is a strong deterrent, at the very least. We can assume the standards of stakes, fire and 
straightforward decapitation work just as well." She snapped her fingers. "That's what I 
need. Instead of a dueling sword, I need a broadsword, something to hack with."

     "Hoo, kill h'a couple H'enforcers, 'n look 'oo turns feisty!"

     "Four Enforcers still comb Lyon searching for us," Lucrece reminded him. "I am only 
considering our defense."

      "Tha' city hall, that's bound ta 'ave h'an h'armory," Screed suggested, adding 
greedily, "Probably ditto ta more gold."

      "I have a feeling their armory will lean along the lines of cannonballs and muskets," 
she said, then rubbed at her mouth. "I wouldn't mind sinking my teeth into a bureaucrat, 
though." Lucrece nodded. "If Hôtel de Ville is our destination, we'll have to travel the 
last leg of the journey underground."

      Screed raised his eyebrows. "Nev-a' been h'in h'a sewer 'afore."

      "Neither have I," Lucrece assured him. "No doubt they have rats."

      "Gettin' chased by H'enforcers h'is turnin' h'out roight h'up ol' Screed's alley!"

      They turned left, walking along a dark pathway that lined the inn Screed had used 
during his stay in Lyon. He held out an arm, blocking Lucrece's path as his face twitched.

     "What is it?" she asked.

     He held for a moment. "Gettin' h'a feelin' familiar-like..."

     Lucrece released a small cry. "Across the street. Two more Enforcers."

     Screed frowned at the two men in black hovering in the shadowed alley off the other 
side of the sunlit cobbles. "No, Aye was thinkin' more like h'it could be. . ." He broke off 
with an annoyed curse. "They've marked h'us! Time ta vanish 'afore they find h'a way ta 
cross!"

     Screed and Lucrece ran around the back of the inn. "Got h'any bricks h'on ya, 
Sunshine?"

    "No, but..." She dug in her heavy pockets as they moved, searching for something 
specific. Finding it, Lucrece unearthed a small mirror, its back encrusted with pearls. She 
flipped it over and frowned at the glass.

     Screed scowled over his shoulder at her preoccupation. "Wot? Ya nose fixed straight, 
h'already!"

     "That's not what I was thinking," Lucrece countered, showing him the mirrored side. 
"It's broken. That can't be a good omen, however a broken mirror should work even better 
for what I have in mind." She passed the item to Screed as they diverted down a junction 
in the alley. "Can you get the pieces out of the frame?" She resumed digging in her 
pockets. 

     "Wot h'are ya huntin' fer now?"

     "Magnifying lens. I remember picking one up in my bedroom along with a book 
Vachon must have been reading," she said distractedly.

     "Since when does V-Man read?" Screed commented absentmindedly as he pried at the 
glass while running.

     "Since..." she trailed off, then shrugged. "I don't know. That's not important." 
Lucrece issued a triumphant sound, producing the magnifying lens, still intact. "I have a 
plan. Sneaky-wenchy, you would call it."  

     "Les' 'ear h'it, then. Don' be bashful. Cough h'up tha' party-ticklers."

     She did, outlining her idea as Screed snorted his approval. They detoured inside a 
home, causing the inhabitants to shriek in alarm when they smashed a wooden stool and 
clipped off its legs. Leaving through the back, they found themselves in another shaded 
traboule, an open courtyard filled with strong sun in the block beyond.  Lucrece slipped 
between two posts, heading toward the light. Her heavy jacket and leather gloves 
shielded her hands and arms, so she reached into the brightness and used the magnifying 
lens to focus a stream of sunlight, angling that beam with the mirror so that it reflected 
toward the traboule exit. 

     When the second pair of Enforcers erupted from the building, this shaft of sunlight 
struck the first one in the face, blinding him with scorching accuracy. The second 
Enforcer jumped out of the way, dodging down the walkway and shielding himself around 
the corner. Lucrece adjusted the angle of her mirror, flashing it in the direction where 
Screed had hidden. He had another piece of the silvered glass, shifting it in his hand until 
the ray of sun struck the second Enforcer in the back of the head. The Enforcer 
instinctively turned to discover the source of the burn and immediately suffered the same 
blinding blast to his eyes. 

    Screed shoved the piece of glass into his rucksack and approached the nearest sightless 
vampire. Brandishing one of the oaken chair legs, he buried it decisively in the Enforcer's 
heart. Screed then moved to the other, staking him with a second piece of wood. 

     Lucrece clapped at their success as she withdrew her gloved hand from the sunlight 
and moved deeper into the shadows. "Well done!"

     Screed preened as he joined her. "Really don' see wot makes these H'enforcers so 
special. Maybe h'it's jes' h'a name ta set h'em h'apart."

     "Like a title?" Lucrece wondered as she tucked the magnifying glass back into her 
pocket. "I suppose that's possible."
     
     Screed's nodding slowed, then he pointed with perplexity. "'Cept...Get h'a lookit that. 
One o' h'em's twitchin' h'even h'after Aye pierced 'im h'in tha' pumper!"

     Random twitching wasn't the extent of it. Screed and Lucrece's eyes widened as the 
Enforcers climbed to their feet, unfazed by the fragments of wood jutting from their 
hearts, and began to move toward them.

     Screed snapped into action first, grabbing Lucrece's hand and pulling her along 
behind him. "Not h'a dawdle-time, Sunshine!"

     They ran through a small jeweler's shop, Screed only offering a covetous grunt as they 
passed the sparkling wares. Shifting direction, they climbed to the second level, intruded 
upon two more homes before they scrambled down to the ground floor again, the revived 
Enforcers close on their heels.

     "They are chasing us!" Lucrece shouted. "You staked them, and they are *still* 
chasing us! That is not normal!"

     "Muchas un-normal! Ya think that's wot makes H'enforcers h'all special? They're h'a 
lot o' bastards wot can't be staked?" 

     Lucrece appeared distinctly sick at the suggestion. "What if sunlight is the only thing 
that truly destroys them?"

     "Can't be!" Screed called in return. "Chin h'up! Thinks positive! Ha!" He veered a 
sharp left, disappearing through another shop doorway.

     Lucrece started. "No! That's a dead end!" 

     Screed's arm reappeared through the entrance and jerked her inside. "Roight-n-tight. 
H'it's h'a blacksmith's," he countered, tossing a bloodthirsty smile at an axe mounted on 
one wall. "H'anybody fer hackin'?"

     The tradesman protested as Screed tore the gleaming weapon down from its mounting, descending on 
him with a flame-lit bar of iron and shouts of thievery. Lucrece grasped the mortal's arm 
from behind, confiscating the poker as she snarled and ripped into his throat.

     Screed strode toward the entrance, chopping as he moved. The first Enforcer that 
crashed through the door barreled straight into the axe-blade. It cleaved through his neck 
in one blow, shooting the vampire's head across the shop to rebound off of a display of 
horseshoes.

     Recovering from the recoil of the hit, it took time for Screed to reassume his swinging 
for another blow. The second Enforcer focused his attention on the armed carouche, 
shifting out of range as he pulled the stake he'd been carrying in his chest free.

     Lucrece withdrew her fangs from the blacksmith, the man's blood dripping from her 
chin as she yelled, "Screed! Duck!"

     He dove to the floor, giving Lucrece an open target. She missiled the hot poker at the 
Enforcer, the stoked end catching him in the shoulder. He gave a cry of pain, but the 
wound didn't knock him off of his feet. Instead, he turned glowing eyes toward Lucrece, 
repaying her attack by aiming the wooden stake at her instead. 

      Lucrece shielded herself with the unconscious mortal. The shard of wood sliced 
between the ribs of the blacksmith's right torso, piercing a lung. The mortal began to 
wheeze, struggling as pain pushed him into consciousness and he fought to breathe. 
Lucrece immediately clasped his head between her hands and snapped his neck. 

      Screed struck at the second Enforcer from the floor as soon as the stake left his grip, 
hacking at the bone above the other vampire's knee and shearing his leg in two. The 
Enforcer fell to the ground, shocked off balance by the amputation. Screed rose to a 
stand, swiping the loose leg off the floor and tossing it toward Lucrece, who dropped the 
blacksmith's corpse to catch it.

      Screed scowled as he twisted the cooling iron bar from the Enforcer's shoulder and 
tossed it aside. As the fallen vampire attempted to seize the axe from his grip, Screed 
jerked the bladed weapon out of his reach, then swung a second chop at one of the 
Enforcer's flailing arms. "Wot did we conclude h'about pokin' vamps ta death, Missy?" 
Screed lectured as he picked up the second severed appendage by the hand.

     Lucrece smiled weakly, answering over the raging shouts of protest from the Enforcer 
for Screed to spare him. "It doesn't work?" She glanced around the shop, her interest 
pausing at the open grate where the blacksmith had nursed the fire used in his trade. She 
tossed the Enforcer's leg on top of the blaze, adding an acrid flavor to the smoke filling 
the room. 

     Lucrece held up her hands, giving Screed the all clear to throw her the next cleaved 
body part. He lobbed her the Enforcer's arm, and it, too, joined the fire pile. "You have to 
admit, though," she commented as Screed next took the Enforcer's left arm below the 
elbow amid a frenzy of snarling screams, "he didn't seem to like the hot iron. While it did 
not kill him, it certainly counted as helpful aggravation." Catching the leftover hand 
when Screed pitched it through the air, Lucrece cringed at the Enforcer's continuing cries 
of agony. "Can you make him quiet, please?" she pleaded as she added the third 
appendage to the fire. "I don't like other people's shrieking. It's unsettling."

     Screed shrugged. "Since ya said 'please'..." He reared the axe again, finally taking this 
Enforcer's head.
    
     Silence reigned. 

     "Much better. Thank you." Lucrece searched her jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. 
Dipping it in the bucket of water resting by the shop's anvil, she proceeded to scrub the 
blood from her face and hands. She soaked the fabric and wrung it dry, then offered the 
square to Screed.

     "Don' mind h'iffen Aye do," he said, accepting the handkerchief. He set to using the 
fine linen to clean off the axe blade. "Rather than skip h'around tha' surface 'til tha' last 
pair o' tha' gloom squad chases h'us down, les' give those sewers ya men-shinned h'a 
shot."

     "Very well. We find a way below the city, then we walk underground to Hôtel de 
Ville."

     "Mebbe we should dump wot's left o' tha' bodies while we're h'at h'it. Don' like 
leavin' tha' place h'in need o' h'a scrub 'n polish. H'anyone sees tha' smithy, tha' 
mortals'll fuss 'n rabble fresh."

     They tossed the remains of the two Enforcers into one of the quiet, sun-bleached 
courtyards set like gleaming jewels amidst the dark, winding traboules and covered alleys 
that lined the buildings of Lyon. The dead blacksmith found a resting place once they 
located an alley grate nearby that led underneath the market streets. They left him at the 
entrance of the subterranean tunnel, lying facedown in several inches of murky water.

     "'Ow much farther do we wobble?" Screed asked after a while. He plucked up one of 
the promised sewer rats as it skittered by and sank his fangs into it for a snack, while 
Lucrece tried to avoid watching. "Tha' squeakers h'are handy, but they got h'a stink ta 
h'em. Boat bait's better wit' tha' h'extra salt."

     "I believe everything down here has a stink to it," Lucrece said, her nose wrinkling as 
she sniffed her coat sleeve. "Including me."    

     "Wouldn' be so bad, mindja, h'iffen ya cleaned h'up h'a corner, swabbed h'it 'n 
ditched tha' muck. Good place ta keep h'a low profile when busies h'are pokin' noses 
h'after h'a mate. Cheap rent 'n free food - tha's wot ol' Screed likes h'in h'an 
accommodation," he declared, saluting her with his drained rat. 

     Lucrece was prepared to lower her living standards, but not to the level of choosing a 
squat with rodent access. Screed's enthusiasm still generated a mild smile in her. "I agree 
these tunnels under the city are clandestinely circumspect, perhaps too much so." She 
stopped walking and heaved a sigh. "I believe I am lost. All of these passages look alike."

     Screed threw his empty rat into the sludge underfoot and peered up disapprovingly at 
the stone ceiling. "Can't follow tha' sky h'or tha' whiff o' tha' water neither." He gave a 
carefree shrug. "Reckon we'll get tha' hang o' tellin' one slimy passy from h'another wit' 
practice."

     "I'm not inclined to remain down here long enough to improve with practice," 
Lucrece declared. "The major buildings, like city hall, will no doubt have access straight 
to these sewers on their lower floors, perhaps a room outlet with a door, even. All we can 
do is wander and take the first one we find. I'm filthy, and I want to change clothes, and 
as long as we roam the sewers, that is not going to happen. With any luck, we'll stumble 
across Hôtel de Ville. If not, we should accept any place with dry floors and chairs."

     "Don' 'ave h'a problem wit' that."

     But Screed did have a problem with the first outlet they found. It was a short flight of 
rough stairs that led to a dark room. The walls at either side sported empty braziers bolted 
between two sets of long recessed shelves. All but one of the carved shelves housed a 
shrouded form.

     "H'it's h'a crypt." Screed issued a curse as Lucrece kept moving despite his 
conclusion. The next open doorway was decorated unappetizingly with a cross. He 
watched in annoyance as she traipsed underneath it without demonstrating a care. "Ya 
know wot this h'is h'attached ta, don'cha? H'a bleedin' church, that's wot!"

     "Excellent," Lucrece said calmly. "That makes it even less likely that the last pair of 
Enforcers will look for us here."

     "An' fer good reason, wot h'as tha' undead don' 'ang h'out where tha' Father, Son 'n 
'Oly Spirit set h'up shop!"

     "That's what you're worried about?" Lucrece arched an eyebrow, clearly unconcerned 
about any conflict with their heavenly hosts. "True, there will be dangerous icons that we 
have to avoid, but, Screed, my father was a Pope, and my brother, a Cardinal. For a brief 
period, I, myself, had Regency over the Vatican. Believe me, just because a building is a 
church or a cathedral, that doesn't mean the place has God in it. Just because a man wears 
a tonsure, that doesn't make him virtuous."

     Screed rubbed at his own closely-shaved head. "Aye give ya that, but this place's 
bound ta 'ave priests runnin' h'about." He scowled. "Aye'll get me h'a rash h'iffen they 
hover wantin' ta save h'us h'or somethin'."

     "Lucky for us," Lucrece countered blithely, "priests are even more susceptible to 
bribes than you."

     Screed's scowl deepened. "Wot? Bribe h'em from me cut? Aye'd rather waste h'em!"

     Until they reached the vestry of Saint Jean's, the two whispered argumentatively into 
a compromise. They neither killed nor bribed the monks and priests of the cathedral, but 
overpowered them, forming a neat little row of nine pairs of terrified eyes peeping over 
their gags, while the mortals' wrists and ankles were bound together with strips cut from 
their own vestments.

     Lucrece used the confessional as a changing room, trading her sewage-stained 
garments for one of the dresses in her satchel. She emerged with an ivory comb in one 
hand, addressing the tangles that sailing and combat had added to her hair. Settling at the 
end of one of the pews, she surveyed their captive clergymen merrily. "If I didn't know 
better, I'd say we've put the fear of something into them."

     "An' h'it took h'all o' ten minutes," Screed complained from where he was prodding 
at the oval face of a large, ornate astronomical clock that stood in one corner. Its hour and 
minute hands were molded from gold, and the top of the timepiece featured an intricate 
automaton structure that included a three-tiered tower protected by two small model 
guards. Screed, naturally, commenced prying away the gold hands. The clock seemed to 
protest his fiddling, soundly ringing in the nine o'clock hour, making him cover his ears 
to dampen the chiming.

     Screed stepped away from the clock but continued complaining once its racket ended. 
"Stinkin' borin', starin' h'at padres 'n crucifixes h'all day. Aye need me h'a distraction." 
A greedy light entered his eyes. "Wouldn' be h'in'trested h'in h'a game o' dice, would 
ya?"

     Lucrece paused mid-stroke, thoughtfully musing the idea. "I don't know. I've never 
played before."

     Screed interpreted this ambivalence as a 'yes.' He jumped over the pew and pulled her 
down from the bench to settle on the smooth stone floor opposite him. "H'it's like 
touchin' ya nose wit' ya tongue - h'anybody can do h'it!"

     Lucrece was curiously awed. "You can touch your nose with your tongue?"

     "H'iffen Aye squish me nose wit' me finger, Aye can."

     Lucrece rolled her eyes, less impressed. "Anyone can do that!" 

     "That's wot Aye toldja! Dice h'is h'easy," he said sternly, "but ya got ta pay h'a 
smack o' h'attention. Listen tha' first time. Two steps: place ya bet, then roll tha' bones."

     "We've gone over this before," she said impatiently. "I don't have anything to wager, 
and you don't have anything that I want to win."

      "Give h'it h'a try!" Screed groaned. "Aye'll go cat-toe-tonic h'iffen there's no fun ta 
pass tha' day. Aye'll h'even be chair-hittable." He nodded gestured toward the row of 
tied-up priests. "You can h'use tha' parsons' toes h'as ya kitty. Ten h'apiece, that's 
ninety - h'a swell pot ta start."

     "All right," Lucrece allowed. "I will wager the parsons' toes, but not against the 
treasure you've collected."

     "Come h'on - Winnin' h'a little gold nev-a' 'urt h'anybody." Screed ostracized the 
merest suggestion that it could.

     Lucrece shook her head with finality. "No. For every roll I win, you have to tell me a 
story... A story about Vachon."

     "Phhew!" Screed hooted, then nodded frankly in agreement. "Words h'instead o' 
gold? You, Sunshine, h'are h'a first-class sucker!"

     "Perhaps, but I will be entertained. I shudder to imagine what practical use you might 
have for an almighty toe collection."

*************************************

     So they spent the day hiding out in the Saint Jean Cathedral. Apparently, Lucrece had 
natural talent: the priests kept their feet intact.

     "And Screed had to pay up and tell her all your secrets?"

     I don't think that he did. I don't know for sure; I didn't ask for a list, and Screed didn't 
volunteer one. I guess I never thought it mattered. None of it matters if he's dead 
tomorrow. None of it.

*********************************************
End of Part Thirteen

Words and Meanings (14/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     We ran into a storm as we neared Lyon. Bourbon and I, we wanted to get back to 
D'Asile, but we had no urgency beyond our own impatience to push us. Call us lazy or 
stupid, but we thought rain was a good reason to sit out of the game for a while. 

     We found a shack, the type of place shepherds hang in when they've rotated their 
flock to the local field. Someone got lucky, for it was empty, and the roof only had a 
couple of leaks. Bourbon complained about every single drip at length, as if I was the one 
who had put them there. Since that was his attitude, I began to pick up objects the 
shepherd had left behind - a cup, a knife, a polishing stone - and throw them at the cracks 
in the thatch. The drizzle of rainwater would halt for a second, then resume falling in 
fuller force through the now-enlarged hole. Sure, the shepherd wouldn't thank me when 
he eventually found the place uninhabitable without a workload of patching, but from my 
point of view, it was worth it to watch Bourbon grow more and more pissed. The third 
time he told me to 'Stop it!' like some petulant kid who'd had his sand castle busted, I 
cracked up laughing. I couldn't help it. 

     While I laughed at his expense, I knew he had two options: he'd either hit me, or he'd 
leave in a huff. Call me twisted, but I was kind of disappointed that he went for the latter. 
I felt a little sorry for the guy - he'd been itching for a fight while we rescued Thérèse, 
but he hadn't seen any action. Since I'd kept my word to Lucrece and kept him from 
openly nipping at any of the big, bad dogs, I felt the least I could do was give the 
Frenchman the opportunity to punch me and get it out of his system. It was typical 
contrariness on Bourbon's part to not take me up on my magnanimous offer.

     We returned to flying in the rain, but the storm had moved along enough that our path 
had cleared. As we approached D'Asile, I don't know which one of us noticed first that 
something was wrong. We didn't smell smoke in the air; the rain had taken care of that, 
washing the breeze into something that smelled clean, with only a hint of gray. 

     We couldn't miss the damage. Vast areas that had been covered by green lawn and 
flowers when I left were replaced with black ground. The pruned trees now looked like 
brittle skeletons ready to blow away with the next gust of wind. 

     D'Asile was still standing, but during the night, it had been soundly whipped. It didn't 
seem so much like a haven anymore as a stone coffin. The windows were gone. Scorch 
marks spread in a dark, tendriled halo from each opening, screaming echoes of the fire 
which had created them. Fresh wisps of smoke now fought their way into the air, 
struggling to exist in the damp wind. The castle had obviously raved with an inferno for 
hours until the rain doused the party.

     "Lucrece!" It was Bourbon who yelled. He's the one who thought to do that. I just 
stood and stared, listening as he bellowed her name over again. No answer came.

     What had happened since we'd left earlier that evening? We didn't know. I didn't like 
the way my imagination turned. First instinct, pure instinct, I thought whatever had gone 
down in the night, I had walked away from it for some windmill tilting bullshit. I'd 
crashed Bourbon's mission of rescue and scored trouble with Thomas and Francesca, all 
to help some mortal whose appearance I could barely recall, much less gave a damn 
about, in exchange for what? So that I could come back triumphant, only to find my 
love's home ravaged and death in the echoes of a Frenchman's voice? 

     No. No, I didn't remember making that deal. The decision to never see Lucrece again 
had been bravado in a passionate moment, the kind of melodrama that results in the bad 
Spanish poetry I hate. But after passionate moments, second thoughts come. I'd had 
second thoughts. She was supposed to be here, sitting in her castle, waiting and alone. I 
had imagined I would stride in, conquistador, set upon taking what I wanted from her 
kingdom. My second thoughts commanded to take her with me come hell or high water. 
Apparently, hell had other ideas.

     "Lucrece!" Bourbon called again.

     I started, snapping out of a daze into which I hadn't realized I'd sunk. At some point, 
I'd moved onto the terrace and through the gutted threshold once blocked by doors of 
wood and glass. I kicked an ember from the wreckage into a standing puddle and watched 
as it hissed and faded into dead, black silence. D'Asile felt empty, robbed of any beauty it 
had claimed until only a pervasive bleakness remained. That sense of desolation burnt me 
as badly as if the place still roared in a gulf of fire. 

     "Whatever happened," I said quietly, "she's not here anymore."

     Bourbon brushed by me, sneering, "You don't know that."

     I seized his upper arm in a vise, preventing him from venturing further inside on a 
search. "Let me rephrase that: if there's anything of her here to find, I don't want to 
know."

     He stared at me, his expression angry, his eyes searching for grounds to issue a denial. 
I saw his mind clawing for arguments. I saw him give up. He looked away, his gaze 
settling on the charcoal landscape painted on the walls, and said in a low voice, "What do 
we do?"

     "Does it matter?" I said, then shook my head, taking the careless phrase back. "We go 
to town. We find out what happened."

     "And if there's no word in town?"

     "We go somewhere where there is." 

     That was the plan. We were going to find answers. We felt robbed, and neither 
Bourbon nor I had any concept of losing gracefully. The Frenchman simmered with a 
need for revenge. I simply itched to fight something, to break some enemy down to 
eclipse the experience of something broken in me. Pain, grief - the fear of them scratched 
at me, and I refused to let it win. We were going to Lyon to draw blood, and the prospect 
filled us with purpose.

     If we'd had cautious or self-preserving intentions, we would have skulked into town. 
Instead, we practically strutted back to the inn, commandeering one of the few tables with 
stares that promised we would love for someone to argue with us about it. The tavern 
hosted a paltry fraction of the usuals, but then, it was the early hours of the morning, 
nearing sunrise. Those present whispered amongst themselves, shooting threatening looks 
at Bourbon and me. I experienced déjà vu, superimposing the mortals' sun-worn faces 
with the pale austerity of the vampires at Lucrece's banquet. They bustled as though 
more than one carouche had just waltzed into their tidy little world, stinking up the place. 
I caught a swift, murderous glare from one of them from across the room, and I had to 
smile in anticipation of a kill. I willed the man to come over, get into my face and make 
something of it. Damn, he looked away quickly. Four of them sat there, circled in their 
own little conclave, but they only appeared full of talk - empty talk that would never 
bring any satisfaction to my restlessness.

     The desire for a fight shifted within me. A random brawl wouldn't quench my 
restlessness this time. I wanted Lucrece, or I wanted the people responsible for whatever 
had happened to her. Anything else was a waste of energy.

     A woman moved to slip past our table, but she wandered too close. I recognized her as 
the coarse one looking for my patronage almost two weeks earlier. I caught her before 
she moved out of range, pulling her roughly down to sit on the bench beside me. Ignoring 
the handful of townsmen motioning angrily amongst themselves - as if they were 
organizing what to do about it, but never got over that hill - I said in a casual voice, "My 
friend and I could use some company...Talking company. Are you free?" 

     She opened her mouth to answer, from her expression, with a dissent. "I - "

     But I didn't care what her opinion was. I was interested in facts. I wanted information. 
I cut off her excuse. "Sounds like that's settled, and she's proven she can talk." The 
woman jerked, trying to bolt off of the bench, but I held her fast. "No," I warned her, 
probably sounding ready to kill. "You go when we say you go."

     She swallowed, stubbornness seeping into her eyes as she darted sharp glances 
between Bourbon's and my unrelenting stares. "I know you're from D'Asile," she said 
rebelliously, then nodded at the other people in the tavern who watched our every move. 
"They know it, too. If I were you, I wouldn't waste time talking, when they might decide 
to join in the fight any minute and go after *your* heads."

     "What fight would dare go after my head?" Bourbon demanded venomously. From his 
point of view, he'd done the people of this town a favor by cleaning out Lucrece's 
dungeon.

     "The news has spread through town," she said. "Dozens that were missing now lay 
sick and dying in their homes. The people want revenge. Javier Dumarchais is dead, and 
everyone knows the Lady of D'Asile is responsible." Her face flared with rebellion. "You 
thought no one would care about their missing family members? You thought the men 
Dumarchais owed money to would lie down with empty bellies so a rich bitch could 
grow fat off their blood?" She spat at the table in disgust.

     The woman acted as though she thought she knew the whole story, as if, because the 
number of the men in the room outnumbered us, she had protection. She had no idea how 
near she was to disaster, how close Bourbon and I were to throwing her down and tearing 
her apart. Did she think mortals were the only ones with families? Could she really 
believe that peasants were the only ones destruction could scald into a frenzy? We were 
starving dogs, one kick short of breaking loose and mauling whoever got into our path.

     "We know what happened at D'Asile," I clipped, keeping my teeth close together lest 
I give in to the temptation to bite and brawl, then ask the questions later. These mortals 
were weak. If they had any strength to them, they would have marched off self-
righteously with the rest of the mob. No, these were spectators. It would be nothing to 
snap them and toss them out of our way. Bourbon and I weren't in the mood for cheap 
blood. We wanted to draw blood that had a price. "They torched the castle. What 
happened to the lady?"

     The woman looked petulant, but some caution crept into her, as though she was 
starting to sense how dangerous giving us an answer we didn't like might be. "I don't 
know. No one has returned here with news."

     Not good enough. I caught her gaze, plundering her will with my eyes as I said 
quietly, "If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead before any of those slugs scratching 
themselves on the other side the room noticed anything had happened. Unlike us, they're 
too busy talking about the size of their balls to actually use them." I let my voice hover 
for a second, as though her fate hinged on my next question. "Are you sure you haven't 
heard anything more about the lady?" 

     As a motivational speech, I suppose it was effective. Any spirit deserted her. Terror 
added a stutter to her answer. "N-n-no...I swear I know nothing!"

      Since I believed her, she had no more use to us. I let her go, tossing the woman to the 
floor like any other piece of refuse.

     Bourbon watched as she scrambled away, a faint hint of deathly glimmer still 
simmering in his eyes. I studied him, resting one fist on the tabletop, rubbing at my 
knuckles to stop the itch of swinging it, daring him to match my stare.

     He must have felt my fury, because his gaze suddenly rebounded to me. "What are 
you thinking?" he snapped.

     "I'm thinking how you're the one who set Dumarchais free without bothering to clean 
his memory so that he wouldn't lead anyone straight back to Lucrece. Are you really that 
dense, or were you so excited playing vampire hero for the first time that it slipped your 
mind?" 

     He hit the table in frustration. "I wiped everyone I could wake. He was the only one 
who wouldn't regain consciousness. I thought him harmless - too far gone! He was at 
death's door!"

     "You should have finished the job," I countered unsympathetically. I was brilliant in 
hindsight when I put my mind to it, never mind that I'd been the one for leaving 
Thérèse's memory intact back at the convent when I hadn't thought it made a difference. 
But my mistake hadn't come back to haunt us, Bourbon's had.

     "His disappearance caused too much talk," he excused. "If they had his body, if he 
died quietly, and Lucrece stopped collecting blood, I thought - "

     "You didn't think," I bit out. "If you'd thought, we wouldn't be sitting here right 
now."

     "You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" Bourbon countered. "Let it be the 
Frenchman's fault. That way, you don't have to wonder about why, if you wanted her so 
much, you didn't take her when you had the chance."

     I was across the table, my hands at his throat in a flash. Bourbon, the bastard, kept 
talking. "Yes, I'm stupid," he declared. "I should have realized Dumarchais was a loose 
end and tied it, but you, Vachon...If her fate mattered to you, you should have thought of 
that before you left her."

     I froze. Yeah. I should have thought of that. Passing the blame to Bourbon was 
hypocritical and pointless, especially when I hadn't had a problem with what he'd done 
until the local dropped the revenuer's name. He'd made a choice that I might have picked 
in the same circumstances. Inconsistency plagued me, and I was looking for someone to 
hate, but I knew that the Frenchman wasn't the proper target for either phenomenon. 
"You're right." My grip on him slacked. "We're a pair of damned fools." I dropped back 
to the bench. "I'd like to stake you, Bourbon, but we deserve putting up with each other 
more."

     He cracked a smug smile at that comment. "You? You aren't worth the effort of 
staking," he vowed, then cursed in annoyance. "But Javier Dumarchais - if he wasn't 
already dead, I'd love another opportunity to kill him."

     Dumarchais. Dumarchais. I'd known the revenuer meant problems from the first time 
Screed had mentioned him. I'd known, because I'd walked in his boots. He didn't fit in 
with the people he'd gambled with, and he could never fulfill their expectations. They 
wanted a piece of him anyhow. They wanted the money they imagined Dumarchais had 
access to, and their determination to get it had brought Bourbon to heel, just like The Inka 
kept hounding me to satisfy our eternal marching orders. Dumarchais never came 
through; he never would have, even if Lucrece hadn't laid a hand on him. Just like I 
never would, even with The Inka, Tracy, and you simultaneously on my case about doing 
the right thing. 

     The way things worked out with Vudu, it wasn't about living up to my responsibilities 
toward anybody. I showed up because I happened to catch the bad guy in a lie, and ever 
since I met Lucrece, I've had a sore spot about calling people on deceit and betrayal. 
Vudu waved a red flag, and I went after it. I never do anything that I don't want to do; I 
only make promises I plan to keep. If I decide I don't want any part of a scene, I leave. If 
I choose to stay, I head into the fight straight on, regardless of the consequences, just like 
a lemming headed for the cliff. Yeah, I understood Javier Dumarchais, the reckless risk-
taker who couldn't resist rolling the dice, even when the odds were against him, even if it 
might cost him his life.

     But Bourbon and I realized the tavern wasn't so empty anymore. We glanced toward 
the entrance and found a pair of men dressed in dark, plain clothes who appeared to have 
the personalities to match. The Frenchman and I faced each other again, each confirming 
the other's verdict with a glint in our eyes. The inn's vampire population had just 
doubled, and we had mixed reactions when it came to welcoming them.

     They walked up to our table, taking seats beside each of us without preamble. The 
taller of the two deliberately rested one hand on the table surface, idly toying with a 
stake. I shot Bourbon a brief, incredulous look. These guys were planning to shake us 
down? Incredible. Laughable. "Comfortable?" I asked archly, giving them one of my 
'bring it on' smiles.

     They didn't have a wealth of social skills. The one with the stake simply sat there, 
glowering in what I guess was his best imposing manner. The other one studied Bourbon 
with black, round eyes, saying in a thick Old World accent, "Neither of you are the one 
we're hunting."

     Bourbon made an amused sound of discovery. "Ah, you are Enforcers." He shot me a 
smirk that said, 'Yes, our night just got worse.'

     He picked the word 'worse.' I considered it interesting, myself. "Who are you looking 
for?" I'd guessed already, but I wanted it confirmed.

     "A carouche. We learned there was one roaming Lyon. In fact, we've already felt him 
in this vicinity. We shall find him, and we shall enforce the Code." He sounded overly 
proud of himself.

     Bourbon leaned back from the table, his features closed in the condescending French 
way he had. "Killing carouche isn't part of the original Code. It's a preference dictated by 
a privileged few."

     The talkative Enforcer smiled thinly. "Isn't all law? The Code has always meant to 
instruct those who may not know better what is acceptable, and what is not, to the 
vampire community." Underlying his speech, the suggestion hovered that we agreed with 
this instruction, or we joined the list of wayward fangs demanding permanent correction.

     "Well, there you go," I said conclusively, completely unimpressed by the threat of a 
Code or the people who would prescribe it. Those rules came from Lucrece and 
Bourbon's world, not mine. I hadn't begun to learn them and had no plans to start. "That 
carouche you're looking for is a friend, and I don't twiddle my thumbs while friends are 
dying. You're going to have to find me unacceptable by association." 

     "As for myself," Bourbon added, "while I find the rat-drinker has an odd smell about 
him, I wouldn't want him to perish for such a trivial reason, especially as I sit here, and 
you Enforcers stink three times worse."

     Bourbon and I exchanged a high-five glance. Separately, we'd declared war against 
anyone who would attack Screed. So Bourbon's allegiance came from the fierce desire to 
strike out at someone in the wake of the destruction at D'Asile. Bourbon hadn't embraced 
any personal wish to make the world safe for carouche, but he was still standing up for 
one as a form of battling his own demons of conscience. As for me, Screed was still my 
friend. He would always be my friend. Just the suggestion that he roamed Lyon, a lynch 
squad chasing him down, was enough to make me feel like I could sense him nearby, in 
need of my set of fists to cover his back. 

     From what I've gathered, I was supposed to be too blown away by the Enforcers' 
reputation to consider fighting them. Too bad. I hadn't hung around long enough for the 
brainwashing of vampire gossip to work, and I'd never lost anything that I couldn't 
afford. I didn't have the experience where caution would sway me. My past encouraged 
the opposite. Maybe if I had a stronger sense of self-preservation, second thoughts would 
have prevailed, and I would have tried the tack of smooth talking them, manipulating 
them with words so we could all stay buddies forever, like someone who actually cared 
about their position in the vampire community would have. Yeah, someone might have 
tried that, but I was the Javier Dumarchais Vachon at that table. I didn't care about the 
risk. I didn't care about vampire legends. I didn't care about the consequences. I wanted a 
fight just as badly as Bourbon did, and this pair of Enforcers had made the mistake of 
getting in our faces. 

     As I pushed off the bench, I assumed my death mask, flashing my fangs at the meager 
number of mortal patrons. They shrieked and scattered even before I recommended, "Get 
out. We're going to have a hell of a fight now." 

     As the mortals pushed out the door, Bourbon made a performance of shaking his index 
finger at me. "Badly done, Vachon. You revealed that you were a vampire to the 
unsuspecting populace. You broke the Code."

     I struck a casual pose, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "You think?"

     He held out his hands, gesturing toward the other vampires. "Yes, and in front of the 
very people who would stake you for such an infraction."

     "Oh." My bad. Like I cared. At that moment, I didn't.

     The taller Enforcer rose from the table with a snarl, brandishing his weapon. He 
moved faster than I expected, lunging toward me. I cuffed his elbow, knocking away his 
arm, and felt the tip of the wood scratch against my shoulder. I braced one hand against 
his arm carrying the stake to slow him striking again, and punched him repeatedly in the 
stomach. I took a split-second to ask myself - did I want to play dirty? I decided I did, 
and kneed the Enforcer in the groin. He snarled anew, but he wasn't nice enough to drop 
the stake. I was the one with a grip on him, though, so when he staggered, then lunged a 
second time, I jumped backward out of range.

     As soon as the Enforcer with the stake made his first move on me, Bourbon turned on 
the other, swinging his feet from underneath the table to kick his opponent off the bench. 
He drew his sword, and, as a former Musketeer, he didn't flirt with using it. Bourbon 
didn't simply stab his Enforcer. He lashed at the vampire's stomach, in three swipes 
effectively disemboweling him. It was impressive, but his efficiency aggravated me. 
Within ten seconds, Bourbon had his guy on his knees, while mine was still trying to play 
'hide the stake' in my rib cage. The Frenchman was trying to make me look slack. 

     I scanned for a weapon as my Enforcer loomed, preparing to thrust the stake at me 
again. Grabbing a bench, I slammed it into his chin, causing his head to snap back with 
an abrupt crack. Sensing the fight momentum shift my direction, I jammed the bench at 
him a second time, striking the vampire in the middle of his chest in the style of a 
battering ram. He stumbled backward, but he didn't make me happy by dropping the 
stake. Instead, he barreled forward, swiping at me again. I ducked, tumbling the 
Enforcer's body over my back, and whirled around to catch whatever he tried next. He'd 
dropped into a roll as his hands met the floor and twisted around to grab me by the 
ankles. Sure, I lost my balance when he yanked, but he let go of the stake to do it, and I 
found myself in the perfect position to kick him between his glowing, gold eyes. Even 
with my boot planted in his face, he acted like I'd just tickled his nose. He immediately 
recovered the stake and dove forward, going for my heart a fourth time.

     As fun as fighting for my existence was, I wasn't in the mood for all the foreplay. It 
had been a long night, filled with one battle and unpleasant discovery after another. The 
sun had to be up by now, meaning we were in for a long, tedious day in town, when I'd 
rather be finding Screed or discovering what had happened to Lucrece. It seemed just my 
luck that, out of the two Enforcers, I'd drawn the silent, stubborn type. As I jolted to the 
side so that the stake stabbed harmlessly at the floor, he jabbed me in the jaw with a 
random punch. Typical. On top of everything, my guy had a wicked left cross.

     I gathered my patience and my killer instinct, consoling myself that the only reason 
Bourbon had had a swift time of his battle was that his Enforcer was the talker, not the 
fighter. Lucky, lucky break. I weaved and bobbed, but my opponent bypassed targeting a 
blow at my head again, and shot for my lower ribs. I felt my bones crack and dig into my 
chest. Another lucky, lucky break.

     He must have thought that would slow me down, but how could he have known I'd 
spent almost seventy years in constant battles mirroring this one, only against The Inka? 
He's the one who took too much time, anticipating the kill. The Enforcer leaned back 
slightly, like he wanted to see the look on my face as he staked me. His center of balance 
shifted in doing that, so I grabbed his hand that held the stake, tilting the tip toward him 
as I flipped around to his back, then fell against him with all my weight. The hardness of 
the ground worked as my partner, shoving our hands into his chest. Landing with a grunt, 
I could feel the prickle of the stake tip now poking out of his back. I crouched on my 
knees and turned the Enforcer's body over, finding the stake had pierced the dead center 
of his heart. Perfect.

     Climbing to my feet, I found Bourbon with one boot on his Enforcer's face, holding 
him down as he sliced through the vampire's neck. I walked around the body as though I 
was evaluating his work. "Bourbon, you've cut off an Enforcer's head. I'll make a wild guess and say 
that's breaking the Code."

     He struck an arrogant pose, tilting his nose in the air. "You think?"

     "Yeah. I think. And if it's not, I'm sure they'll make an amendment." I extended my 
hand toward him, making our team official. "Welcome to the crew of the unacceptable."

     He finished wiping his sword and sheathed it, then gave me a dubious look as he 
brushed off his gloves, like he had to give my offer consideration. After an annoying 
delay, he shook on it, but that's just the way my friendship with Bourbon went - moments 
of camaraderie interspersed with long periods of each of us calculating the best method to 
dig into the other's spine.

*************************************************     
End of Part Fourteen

Words and Meanings (15/16)
By Bonnie Rutledge
Copyright 2001

     Bourbon, now that he'd decided to join the group, tackled his duties seriously. "We 
should find Screed. There could be more Enforcers roaming the town."

     I had to grin at the way he declared it. He made the idea sound like his royal 
command, as if Screed had been running with him for decades, and I was the one allowed 
to tag along for the ride, not vice versa. "We find him if he's here. He was supposed to 
leave two nights ago. I don't know what would have held him up, unless - " My eyes 
widened as I saw a sudden flash of movement behind Bourbon. I clasped the 
Frenchman's shoulders, attempting to jerk him aside. "Move!"

     The Enforcer I'd left for dust had recovered and had returned obstinately with a one-
track mind of staking someone. He'd had a good target in Bourbon's undefended back. If 
I hadn't been looking at that moment, it would have been bad news for the Frenchman. 
As it stood, he'd only shifted a couple of inches before the stake pierced him. 

     I felt him tense, then weaken, as the wood ripped into his flesh, and I swung Bourbon 
around, regrouping. I withdrew the Frenchman's sword while I balanced to keep him 
propped on his feet. The Enforcer was no longer armed with anything dangerous, seeing 
as the stake was buried in Bourbon, so I took advantage, hacking at the vampire the old-
fashioned way. I skewered his side and twisted the blade, then kicked out at him with my 
boot when he moved to grab my weapon, knocking him over a table.

     I wanted to finish the Enforcer, but Bourbon leaned against me, on the verge of 
falling. Getting him somewhere defendable became a more important desire than my 
need to win, just in case there were Code-loving reinforcements on the way. 

     I knew the inn had a kitchen. I'd never been in it, but I'd seen the tavern serve meals 
off and on to passing travelers while I'd been in residence. I hefted Bourbon's body over 
the bar, offering a brisk 'sorry' when the end of the stake caught on the edge and he 
grunted in pain. Pulling him in front of me, I remained on the lookout for the Enforcer 
following us as I backed through the flap of leather barring the passage connecting to the 
kitchen. 

     The innkeeper's red-faced wife was there, stringing a chain of sausages overhead. She 
took one look at the color of my eyes and tripped off her stepstool, running out the other 
side of the room with a gasp. I set Bourbon on the stool, bending him at the waist to 
survey the damage. The stake hadn't split his heart, but it looked like it had come close 
enough to scratch it. Anything less, he'd have been rumbling regardless. Anything more, 
he'd have been a potential goner. "That's got to hurt," I offered in simpatico as I pulled 
the wood free. He straightened with a hiss, his eyes blood red. "Hold that feeling," I 
suggested. "Our death-resistant acquaintance should catch up with us momentarily."

     I scouted the kitchen. Its hearth boasted a healthy fire, nursing a cauldron of fragrant 
liquid into rolling steam. I stoked the stake in the firewood, then used the hook propped 
against the flagstones to lift the pot away from the heat.

     I didn't need to feel the Enforcer coming; he crashed over the bar like a clumsy ox, 
telegraphing his approach. I glanced down at the boiling cauldron swinging awkwardly 
from the end of the hook. Bourbon had taken a bad one for the team; I figured my turn 
had come. I gritted my teeth as I grasped the searing rim of the iron pot, swinging its 
contents toward the kitchen entry as our opponent appeared. The stock splashed across 
the Enforcer's face and chest, swelling his skin in angry ripples. 

     I always say you get back on the horse that threw you. As the Enforcer scratched at his scalding 
clothes, I tossed the cauldron aside and returned to the hearth, pulling the stake out of the 
fire for another try. 

     The sharpened end of the wood bristled like a torch, and I plunged it decisively into 
the Enforcer's heart again - the same spot as before, with the same enthusiasm. He didn't 
pass out or stiffen with surprise. Instead, he began to claw at the dry nub jutting from his 
chest. No, the stake in the heart wasn't going to destroy him. The fire - that's what took 
him out. I stepped back as I watched. The Enforcer seemed to incinerate from the inside, 
his face and hands turning gray, then darker, flaking in layers as his features collapsed. 
He exhaled in a whiff of smoke, then he ended, leaving behind only the wet clothes and 
ashes.

     I found Bourbon alert, but looking a little gray about the edges himself. "Didn't you 
kill that one once already?" he muttered snidely.

     "Yeah. Apparently nobody told him stakes were bad for his heart. He got the briefing 
on fire, though."

     Bourbon flexed his shoulders, wincing at the pull on his injury. "If stakes cannot kill 
Enforcers, this must mean I am not eligible."

     "You're not dead yet," I said glibly, then frowned as I studied the half-closed hole in 
his chest. "You haven't healed completely?"

     He shook his head, then tried to push to his feet. "We still need to locate your friend 
Screed." Bourbon wobbled in place as he searched dazedly for the door.

     And Lucrece. We still needed to discover what had happened to her. I agreed both 
items on the agenda were urgent, but daylight acted as a hindrance in whatever we 
wanted to do. I directed him back onto the stool. "The good news is your stubbornness is 
in perfect health. The bad news is you're having trouble fighting gravity, much less 
additional Enforcers. You need blood."

     "I won't find any here. You chased away all the mortals with your face," he 
countered, straining to stand again, and stubbornly moving with stiff steps. 

     Bourbon's always been full of charm like that. He made steady progress for the back 
exit, so I didn't try to stop him. I just mentioned, "How far can we get with the 
traboules?" He gave an indeterminate grunt, but I had a feeling that this was the first he'd 
thought of the sunrise. 

     When we were sheltered outside the inn, he stopped and leaned against the wall. 
"These trail throughout the quarter. Do you know any places Screed might go to hide for 
the day?"

     "He liked to hang out in the stables here, but we can't get to them without a dash 
through the sunlight." I weighed the idea for a minute, then began to move in that 
direction. "Wait here," I told Bourbon.

     "You can't go out there!" he protested.

     "I'm not planning to take a nap and try for a tan. It's just around the corner," I called 
over my shoulder. "It's worth it if Screed's there, and I can practically jump the 
distance."

     True enough, if you added the detail that getting to the stables felt like a jump through 
a cloud of acid. My face stung as I reached the first stall, and the smoke from my own 
burning flesh clogged my nostrils. The horses caught a whiff of me, too. They began to 
buck and whinny, bringing out the groom with a shout, who demanded to know what I 
was doing to his charges. I knocked him out rather than discuss my implosion issues, then 
continued on to the last stall, Screed's favorite. I found it deserted, just like he'd left it. 
Frustrated by the discovery, I glanced pointlessly around the stable. I had no idea where 
Screed might wander, and he might not even know the Enforcers were after him. We'd 
have to cover as much of the town as we could, building by building, and since the maze 
that was Lyon encompassed more than one level, it wouldn't be a straightforward search. 
At least any other Enforcers trolling the town would have the same problems.

     I hitched the ostler's unconscious form over my back, using his body to shield my 
head as I rejoined Bourbon under the shelter of the walkway. I set the man down, giving 
the Frenchman the option to drink first. The irony hit me as I watched Bourbon feed. This 
was the same mortal I'd protected when Bourbon had come riding hell-bent into town the 
night we met. Now I took his life without regret. We needed our strength - we needed the 
mortal's strength - to heal our wounds. That's the way it goes - fates turn, shit happens, 
you get hungry.

     We left the body in an alley near our starting place and began our search across Saint 
Jean. Our progress turned out less than methodical: we saw a turn, we took it; we saw 
stairs, we climbed them. In the first hour alone, we concluded we'd backtracked twice, 
repeating ground accidentally. 

     In the second hour, we made a discovery that changed everything. We were traveling 
a passage on the upper level when we saw the body. It was another man in black, his head 
smashed to a pulp. I studied his wounds, noting they weren't fresh, and asked, "Another 
Enforcer?" but Bourbon had focused on another item. 

     He picked up an abandoned rapier from the stone tiles. "I recognize this. It came from 
D'Asile."

     I remembered that Screed had lifted a few items on his way out of the castle the night 
of the banquet; this sword could have been one of them. That was easy to believe. Harder 
to accept was the idea of Screed leaving something with gold and jewels embedded in the 
pommel carelessly behind him. Hard to believe anyone would, for that matter. We had to 
have been in a place that received low foot traffic for such a valuable piece to remain 
without a new owner until our arrival.

     "Screed wouldn't have left it if it was in his possession," I said aloud. "If he had the 
opportunity, he would have kept it until he had a chance to sell it. He wouldn't have 
forgotten it."

     "Screed wouldn't have," Bourbon reasoned, "but Lucrece would."

     "Lucrece," I repeated, my voice breathy. Of course. She was a princess. That would 
make a fortune in steel garbage. That would also make her alive. I felt a kick in my chest. 
Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was just the thrill of the chase.

     Bourbon held the sword, judging its weight between both hands. "She's used this 
when I've given her lessons. She's not very good," he commented as an aside. "She 
always drops her guard."

     I stepped over the body, tapping a mottled block of masonry lying to the side with my 
boot. "Maybe that explains the brick." My eyes followed the trail of broken rail, moving 
on toward the fountain in the middle of the lit square. Floating in the water, I saw dark 
clothing, no owner. "There," I said, pointing toward what I'd found. "Do you recognize 
the clothes?" I asked in a curt tone.

     He looked inconclusive. "Not for certain, from this distance. It looks like breeches, 
though. More black clothing. Perhaps another Enforcer?" Bourbon shook his head. "It's 
difficult to imagine Lucrece fighting two of them. And why? They made no mention of 
the mob or D'Asile at the inn. They're hunting a carouche."

     I walked further down the passage as he mulled the possibility, pausing to examine the 
damage at the corner, noting the gaps in the mortar. "Maybe she's not alone."

     Bourbon scoffed. "She wouldn't have anything to do with Screed. I wouldn't be 
surprised if she was the one who informed the Enforcers where to find him."

      I had a hand on his jacket, ready to slam him against the wall in defense of her honor 
before I caught myself and reconsidered. I slowly loosened my grip, saying, 
"Unfortunately, that does sound more realistic. Still ... that's not enough reason to stop 
looking. Come on, you're slowing me down."

     Predictably, he rushed to stay ahead of me.

     It took the entire morning before we found anything else of interest. Passing the same 
square for what seemed the tenth time, we were contemplating giving up until nightfall. 
We hadn't seen signs of any more Enforcers, and, while we wondered if we'd locate any 
members of the mob that had burned D'Asile when they recognized us as residents, we 
hadn't had a confrontation for hours.

     As we started discussing places to lay low, I noticed a matronly woman across the 
courtyard, stringing out laundry to dry in the sun. What caught my eye was that the 
garments she hung were black, and didn't resemble the standard peasant wardrobe. "Give 
me the sword we found," I told Bourbon.

     He handed it over, but he wanted an explanation. "What are you going to do?"

     "Talk."

     I walked to the edge of the shadows and called the woman over. "I'll trade you this for 
the suit in black," I promised, holding up the sword.

    She looked avidly at the glitter of the rapier's pommel, but I saw a wave of conscience 
drift over her round features. "Yes, yes. I would, but I should warn you. The clothes 
aren't fully mine to trade. I found them. They don't belong to anybody around here, but 
you never know when someone might come stomping around expecting them back. Then 
again, who's to say the owners are in any shape to raise a fuss? These aren't the only 
clothes I found, " she confided. "The others - the armholes were missing. The breeches - 
someone had cut off one of the legs, neat as you please! Now, I ask you, what good is a 
suit like that?"

     "Depends on where you found it," I murmured.

     "Oh, right over there," she supplied quickly, pointing a work-reddened finger toward a 
sunny spot between her laundry and us. "There they were, just lying on the ground 
without a care, all dusty."

     "Excellent." I handed her the sword. "You've been very informative. Take this. Never 
mind the suit."
    
     She looked amazed at the prospect. "You can't do that...It must be worth - " Suddenly 
her eyes narrowed reprovingly, and she propped a fist on one broad hip. "It's not stolen, 
is it, young man?"

     I had to smile at the way she said 'young man.' "It's not stolen," I assured her, giving 
the woman a small salute as I stepped deeper into the shadows. "It's your lucky day."

     "Someone's been here," I told Bourbon as soon as we were in the alley. "Two more 
Enforcers, their bodies left in the sun."

     "You gave that woman the sword for *that* information? How does that help us?" 

     "Think - what direction would you head from here? We've covered parts south. That 
leaves heading out of the quarter, or..." My voice trailed off, and I gestured toward a 
grate at the opposite end of the passage. "Where does that go?"

     "Probably the sewers," Bourbon theorized. "They run underneath the town, with 
outlets at the Saône and Rhone."

     "If you'd taken on four Enforcers in one morning, with the sun as a fifth unfriendly 
shadow, wouldn't you head underground for a change of scenery?" I reasoned, pulling 
the iron cover aside. 

     Sewers - it's a good thing they don't make them like they used to. Ducking my head 
inside the opening, I glanced around the tunnel to get an impression of the layout. The 
rank scent of sewage hit me, suggesting an abyss of odor and filth. There are times when 
a heightened sense of smell is a real bitch. "On second thought," I mumbled, "Screed's a 
stickler for keeping his dumps clean, and Lucrece..." I gave Bourbon a satirical look. 
"...Like she'd jump at the chance to skip through Lyon's chamber pot."

     Bourbon checked below to satisfy his curiosity, almost immediately withdrawing, his 
face infused with every ounce of revulsion he could muster. "That's disgusting!"

     I continued to stare through the sewer entrance, keeping my nose at a decent distance. 
I caught sight of an interesting mound almost directly below the outlet, discordant with 
its bilgy surroundings. A faint hint of blood teased my perception among the flood of 
unwelcome stench. "There's something down there," I announced. "I'm going in."

     "Ugh." Bourbon was less than thrilled with my judgment, but he refused to miss the 
opportunity to mock it first-hand if I was wrong. He swung down into the dark tunnel 
right behind me, holding his nose. 

     The lump turned out to be another corpse. The body smelled of smoke and iron, and 
he was dressed like your average laborer. Some vampire had broken his neck after taking 
a bite. It seemed to point toward Lucrece preying on a mortal for sustenance, except for 
the post we found staking his chest. The wood hadn't pierced on target, so we agreed the 
dead man hadn't been a vampire.

     "He was caught in the crossfire," Bourbon believed. 

     I closed my eyes, sifting the flavors of our surroundings, willing the perfume of 
incense, gold and bergamot to waft among the mix. Realizing I was caught in the trap of 
wishful thinking, my eyes snapped open and I moved deeper into the tunnel. "Close the 
grate, will you?" I called to Bourbon.

     We started walking, looking for any signs of a path she could have taken. "What 
makes you think Lucrece took this direction?" Bourbon said after a while, growing less 
impressed with the sewers with every step.
     
     "It's the opposite of where she came from," I reasoned, then paused. "Maybe you're 
right. She might have chosen to hang underneath Saint Jean until sundown rather than 
leave it."

     I started to turn around, but Bourbon called for me to halt. He gingerly picked up a 
well-chewed rat from the refuse lining the passage. "Perhaps your whim that she might 
be traveling with the carouche isn't so incredible."

     I gave him a steady look. "The question is...Since when?"

     We continued in the direction of the rat. When we passed a narrow arch with a flight 
of steps winding upward, I definitely felt that I sensed a familiar presence. Glancing at 
Bourbon, he must have agreed, for he'd stopped to stare at the same doorway. Silently, 
we climbed the rough stairs, emerging in a crypt connecting to yet another flight of stairs. 
My gaze immediately focused on the cross hanging over the threshold. "Great. A church. 
If we keep dropping in these places," I said sardonically, "I might get the idea to move 
into one."

     Bourbon showed a little more enthusiasm. "What better place to elude vampires 
hunting you?" 

     "It's not perfect," I countered as we ascended the steps. "We're searching here, aren't 
we?"

     Our exchange withered as we moved upward, closer to the heart of the cathedral. The 
quiet loomed, no sounds of life, but both of us could feel the spectre of company 
swelling. After another flight of stairs, I detected a faint cacophony of heartbeats 
competing in anxious throbs. The church wasn't deserted of mortal life, after all. I rushed 
through the last doorway, then froze.

     Screed stood in front of me, wearing what looked like a cleric's surplice over his 
normal clothes. He had his hands wrapped in cloth to protect them from the burn of the 
enormous, gold crucifix he held up to ward off any vampire invaders. Behind him, I saw 
Lucrece, incongruously dressed in one of her ornate gowns while poised to do some 
damage with an axe.

     Screed looked disappointed that I wasn't a fresh Enforcer hoping to kill him. His 
fierce expression deflated into an annoyed frown, as though my arrival spelled an end to 
the party. "Bah, h'it's you! Took ya bloody time showin' h'up, V-Man!" he grouched as 
he tossed the crucifix out of sight.

     I didn't answer him. I had my attention focused on Lucrece. She looked just as I'd left 
her: her hair a little wild, her mouth giving away nothing of her thoughts, her body 
drawing me to sample a touch. But, no, Lucrece didn't look exactly as I had left her. She 
looked better, because she wasn't lost. 

     As Screed talked, her posture relaxed, and she lowered her guard with both the 
weapon and her expression. Suddenly, her features filled with delight. Maybe she could 
tell what I was thinking without my saying a word. Maybe she had no idea, but she was 
past the care of rejection. Lucrece absently handed the axe to Screed as she moved to 
stand before me. I took her hands, and I lost track of time and place. We could have stood 
there for an instant, or we could have exchanged drunken smiles for an hour, I don't 
know.

     I felt like I should say something, to lay my heart out on my sleeve, or repent for 
walking away, or simply thank her for staying alive. Words, vows, and promises paled 
beside the welcome in her eyes, so I drank in the silence as I pulled her into my arms. 
Instead of speaking, I kissed her, and that expressed everything.  

     The first kiss is never the best. It's a new world and discovery, but it's killing a 
stranger. It's trying on a coat for size or dipping your foot in the lake to see how warm 
the water really is. A first kiss can be good and hot and make you beg for more. It can 
touch you and leave you solemn and reflective of the definition of love. A first kiss can 
also knowingly be the last kiss. That's its crime.

     The last kiss is never the sweetest. I think I've said it already - I don't like to savor an 
ending. Final kiss - last chance. It's like an ultimatum and a dare to torture yourself for 
fun all at once. Take the last kiss, and keep a picture of what you'll never have again. I 
hate the sound of doors closing. I refuse to accept defeat. Give me a choice between one 
last kiss and walking away, and I'll walk every time.

      The perfect kiss comes when you think you have forever. When no barriers remain, 
when love has tied an invisible band between two souls, and they come together without 
fear or question, that is the perfect kiss. It's the first of eternity. It's the end of loneliness. 
It's freedom. What's more perfect than that?

     Her mouth tasted of temptation and magic, wicked and clean, profane and redeeming - 
woman, seductress, home. The sweetness of our mingled breaths beat a heady refrain: 
This is real. This is true. This is love.

     We broke apart as Screed issued a sound of protest. "Fine bit o' thanks, that. Ol' 
Screed saves 'Er Fanciness h'at least twice - h'at h'intensive personal risk, mindja - 'n 
don' get tha' first pinch h'on tha' cheek. Wot? H'all V-Man 'as ta do h'is show h'up 'n 'e 
gets tha' snoggin' credit!"

     "He almost sounds jealous," I said softly in her ear. "Have you been making friends?"

     "Mmm," she whispered back playfully. "Screed and I have decided to run away to 
Venice - care to join us?"

     "Yes, but you'll have to make room for a fourth."

     Her expression brightened. "Bourbon?" She stepped around me, turning eager eyes 
toward the Frenchman. He'd been watching us with an almost formal interest, but as she 
drew closer, he pulled Lucrece into an embrace, swinging her in a circle until she 
laughed.

     He slipped into the realm of words, murmuring an apology, asking forgiveness for his 
mistake with Dumarchais. It was the first and only time I ever saw humility in Bourbon. I 
looked away from their communion toward Screed and gave him a silent salute. He 
nodded, appeared a little embarrassed by the wealth of emotion going around, and waved 
my attention away from him. 

     When I turned back to Lucrece and Bourbon, she was speaking Italian in a soothing 
tone, "Penso che siate diventato un uomo migliore che i vostri nonni. You did what I did 
not have the honor to do. Don't apologize. You should be proud."

     I rolled my eyes. Like Bourbon needed another excuse to feed his pride.

***********************************
End of Part Fifteen

Words and Meanings (16/16)
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

     We took the time to exchange stories of our adventures, starting with Thérèse's rescue 
and ending with Screed and Lucrece's arrival at the cathedral. Bourbon and Screed did 
almost all the talking, while Lucrece and I sat together, exchanging speaking looks, only 
injecting audible comments when it suited us. 
     
     The number of mortals bound, gagged, and lined against the far wall of the sanctuary 
had grown to include a number of the townspeople, ironically members of the mob that 
had sieged D'Asile. They'd trickled in gradually during the day, alone or in pairs, seeking 
burial services for their dead using a share of the purse Lucrece had left at the makeshift 
graves for that purpose. 

     She was brusque about revisiting three of her victims, insisting that she would not kill 
the mortals escorting the bodies. The townspeople stared at her with murder in their eyes, 
but she shrugged away the threat as a pointless snit. These people were incapacitated; 
they could do no harm, and we'd be gone come nightfall. She didn't see any advantage 
now in killing them just for the sake of it. Bourbon and I saw it a little differently. We 
still had the desire to take revenge on the people who had attacked the castle, but we 
accepted her decision. She was the one they'd struck, and if Lucrece didn't choose to 
draw their blood, who were we to supersede?

     Screed, however, didn't hesitate to quibble with her over reclaiming the burial money. 
"H'iffen h'a jangle deducted from me bribe turns h'up like h'a bad penny, h'it's welcome 
'ome ta poppa mine."

     "No. Nothing has changed in that respect. Get your hands out of their pockets, 
Screed," Lucrece insisted.

     They settled the debate with a roll of the dice. Lucrece won. Muttering about rigged 
bones and sharps, he continued to send covetous looks at the helpless townspeople. The 
thought of their gold brought a gleam to his eyes, but Screed kept his hands off after that.

     Lucrece and I left Bourbon and Screed to manage the lookout, slipping into a smaller, 
private chapel branching off of the sanctuary. Stations of the cross, statues of saints - with 
Lucrece in my hands, the icons filling the chamber became transparent. I felt her, craved 
her, filled myself with her. I imagined that no power existed stronger than that, nothing 
more pleasurable, nothing more complete.

     The chapel had small stained glass panels beyond its altar. Streams of tinted sun 
angled to strike the floor with a mosaic of light beyond our feet. I found the sight 
strangely peaceful as we lay entwined there, my face buried in her hair, the scent of gold, 
incense and bergamot flooding my senses. Then the idea hit me. "I know what you smell 
like," I murmured. "A church."

     "That's a heavy scent for anyone to carry," she said musingly. "Should I be adorned?"

     "Adored," I corrected.
     
     "Beatific?"

     "Beautiful."

     "Deconsecrated?"

     "Deflowered."

     Lucrece chuckled, pleased with the direction our verbal sparring had taken. 
"Communion?" she said hopefully.

     I didn't plan to disappoint her. "Consummation."
 
     She nodded slowly as she hunted for her next offering. "A martyr?"

     I shook my head. "Mine." I cut off the game, repeating the word against her lips in 
every language that I knew.

     "Yours, then," she murmured, her breath against my jaw. "If you are possessed by this 
desire, by all means, let me smell like a church." Her nose twitched whimsically. 
"Though my first guess, after today, would be that I reeked a bit of the sewer."

     "I was being gallant. Thought it better to not mention that part."
   
     "Ah." Lucrece shifted in my arms, raising her head so that she could look me in the 
eyes. "There was something that Screed didn't mention earlier regarding the Enforcers. 
Actually, I am surprised that he didn't seize the perfect opportunity to complain."

    I squeezed her waist lightly, urging her to give details, sensing an impending truth. 
"Complain about what?"

    "I knew the Enforcers were coming for him days ago," she confessed. 

     "Bourbon and I guessed," I said sardonically, giving her a look that promised she was 
a book I was enjoying learning how to read. "But you warned Screed at the last minute?"

     Lucrece grimaced. "Yes, but it did not make any difference in the outcome."

     "You don't know that," I told her with confidence and broke into a thoughtful grin. 
"How did old Screed take the news? I'm surprised Bourbon and I didn't hear him scream 
and cuss a hundred miles away."
 
     "He demonstrated remarkable restraint," she assured me. "He only threw me into the 
river once. Had our situations been reversed...Well, when they were, I allowed his 
location to leak to the Enforcers. He behaved much better. It's true what Screed said - he 
saved me. When we encountered the first pair of Enforcers, he could have fled, could 
have thought only of saving himself, but he didn't. Carouche or not, he's better toward 
his friends and more tolerant than most vampires. Screed may be odd, and a greedy fiend, 
but I like him, Vachon."

     I grunted with approval. I felt like, as Screed would say, all my ships had come in, and 
with bonus cargo. I'd hoped that she would learn to tolerate Screed with time, and 
overnight she was speaking of him indulgently, as if she was the one defending her 
carouche friend to me. Much more of that and I'd be the jealous one. I shifted the subject 
to focus away from Screed on principle. "By the way, I chose a first name."

     She wriggled with pleasure, tapping my chest as she said, "In between rescues and 
fights to the death? Very assiduous. What name did you pick?"

     "Javier."

      She tried it out, her voice meditative. "Javier Vachon...Hmm...why 'Javier'?"

      What could I say? 'Because I'm reckless, and I thought you were dead?' The reasons 
seemed hollow, devoid of importance now that we were together. I gave a careless shrug. 
"It just seemed to fit me."

      "You mean it fits this moment," she countered as she caressed my cheek, then threw 
my own words back at me. "'A name is a moment. You are who you are.' Names are all 
just words. They hold no meaning or power unless we give it. I suppose, just as I will 
choose to put the name of 'Valentinois' to rest very soon, you'll remain 'Javier Vachon' 
as long as you believe you are 'Javier Vachon,'" Lucrece said softly, then gave me a light 
kiss, her breath dancing over my lips as she added, "And when it no longer suits you, you 
will move on to another name, and it will be just as perfect."

     My arms tightened around her reflexively, and I hugged her tightly. "Not if it means 
letting go of this moment," I told her seriously. "Not if it means letting go of this."

     Was it unreasonable of us to resent the dark for interrupting our idyll? The sun 
inevitably set, and the four of us gathered to wipe the memories of our prisoners clean of 
all they had seen and heard during the day before we left town.

     The night was flawlessly cloudless, the moon on the wane. We remained cautious 
until we reached Screed's beloved ship, but we had confidence because the shadows 
equaled our territory. No mortals would notice as we drifted past unless we wanted them 
to catch a glimpse. When no Enforcers dropped into our path on the way out of Lyon, we 
began to relax. As the boat made distance from the dock, a good wind picked up from the 
east. 

     Screed and I did all the work raising the sail, but Lucrece studied every move we 
made. She reduced our progress with her attentive inquiries about the rigging, wanting 
names and explanations of the various hitches, blinds and loops we tied. We promptly 
responded to each question by undoing whatever knot we'd just finished and repeating 
the process slowly to impress her with our knowledge.

     Bourbon was uninterested in a shipmate's lesson, so he watched half-heartedly, his 
gaze drifting as boredom demanded. By the time he'd sensed our attackers' presence, 
we'd already drawn even with their position. Before he'd called out an alarm, the ship 
had begun to float away from the danger, but it was already too late.

     We all heard the whistling sounds moving high and fast, birds with explosive wings 
cutting swiftly through the air. I recognized the advent of arrows, an excellent weapon for 
anyone wanting to avoid face-to-face combat. 

     I shouted for Lucrece to take cover, but she started to fall before her name escaped my 
tongue. I stopped her from hitting the deck, dropping to my knees and leaning 
protectively over her still form, not comprehending that a shield could make no 
difference at that point.

     I strained to hear any sound from her, any word, any whimper, but Lucrece was silent.  
The only stray signals that met my ears as the volley of missiles subsided were the 
billowing of the sail and the creak of the mast as the ship began to skim fluidly over the 
water. I guessed that Screed had kept his ground during the attack. Rather than seeking 
cover himself, he'd completed the rigging so that we would move quickly out of range.

     I began to run my hands over Lucrece's body, searching for the location where she'd 
been hit. I stilled, swallowing convulsively as my fingers found a wooden bolt embedded 
in her back, directly over her heart. I snapped off the end of the shaft, then violently 
pushed it through her chest so that I could pull it out from the front. Lucrece failed to 
respond with any flicker of reaction. No screams, no sighs, and no tears. She draped 
limply in my arms, her head rolling in a ragged loop as I turned her over, willing her eyes 
to look into mine as I worked at her wound.

     Bourbon collapsed beside us, hissing as he squeezed his right thigh where he'd been 
hit in the onslaught. "The bastards! The arrows..." he cursed, holding up the one he'd 
taken from his leg. "...They tipped them with crosses. It burns like the sun under your 
skin."
 
     That was exactly what it felt like: I grasped the point, ripping the arrow free from 
Lucrece's heart with my bare hand despite his warning, and I howled. It wasn't because 
the cross bit into my flesh, trying to punish me into some measure of penitence. It was 
because I knew she was dead. Extinguished, without a second to think and realize that it 
was the end.

     "Who was it?" I demanded. "Who did this?"

     "I saw Thomas...Francesca...a few others..." Bourbon said distantly, his face lined 
with shock as he stared at the arrow squeezed tightly in my fist. I didn't let it go, because 
the moment was all about the pain. What was a burning hand compared to the loss I 
suffered? It was just another reminder of the difference between life and death: life hurts. 
When you're dead, you feel nothing.

     Screed joined us, crouching by my side. "They ditched tha' bank. H'all h'outta sight. 
Musta got wot they came fer." He stiffened, nudging a lock of Lucrece's hair 
questioningly as he asked with sudden somberness, "Lady Sunshine?"

     I shook my head, my voice catching temporarily. "She's gone," I whispered. "She's 
gone."

     Bourbon was instantly on his feet. "We'll track them down and tear them apart. We'll 
hunt them like dogs for this!"

     Screed added to the rallying cry. "We'll rip h'em damn better than barkies fer this one. 
Takin' h'out part o' h'our crew - tha' pretty bit h'at that. H'iffen they 'ad ta skewer some 
droog, why couldn' they take Baron Bosky, 'ere? No mate would give h'em h'a miss." 
His face wrenched into a knot. "H'alls 'cept tha' chickee they plucked, tha' rottie 
pussers!" Screed clapped his hands, ready for war. "We 'it tha' shore 'n give h'em tha' 
business 'afore tha' moon bangs midnight. No slugs h'or snails, roight? We break h'em 
down ta-night 'n feed wots left ta tha' fishies, h'apologies ta tha' fishies."

     "No." My voice didn't ask for a debate. "We keep sailing. We keep moving. We don't 
stop."

     They looked at me as though that was the last thing they expected me to say. Up until 
then, they would have been right. I'd been ready for a fight after D'Asile, because I still 
had the faint belief that she had survived. The unknown had been my ally. Now that I 
carried no such luxury, my fists were slow to react, even when a cross-tipped arrow had 
eaten halfway through my hand. I was still alive, and she was... 

     "But they're so close!" Bourbon's angry protest broke into my scattered awareness. 
"We must avenge - "

     "No!" I cut him off as I finally opened my hand, and the broken arrow clattered 
forlornly to the deck. "She's dead." To me, that was the complete argument. "Let them 
go. We can always hunt them later. Later..."

*************************************

     I don't know what perfect moment I thought would come that would mean it was the 
right time to fight again. Life isn't like a switch, no matter how, in just that type of 
moment, it feels like someone killed the lights. Life happens, but nothing really changes 
in an instant. The trick is you don't see the changes coming. Life gradually churns time 
and space, pushing callously forward. Lucrece was dead, and the world didn't stop. 
Neither did we. 

     We went to Venice, just like the original plan, and that's where we committed 
Lucrece's body to the sea one morning before sunrise. Screed was happy about that. He'd 
have mutinied if we'd followed Bourbon's idea of detouring and placing her body in her 
family tomb at Ferrara. Screed couldn't stand the thought of a burial within stone walls. It 
had to be near the water; he's always felt strongly about that. 

     Me, I wasn't in much of a fit state to have an opinion, but I knew I didn't want to give 
her back to some kingdom she'd left behind. Lucrece had chosen Venice, so that is where 
I took her.

     Screed liked the place well enough: it had gondolas and plenty of gambling. He lost 
the fortune he'd accepted from Lucrece within a month, wagering every bit of it away in 
ill-advised bets - except for Marie's ring. He never gave into the temptation to risk that 
piece of silver on a roll of the dice, turn of the cards, or length of a track. You couldn't 
pry it off him. Look at his left hand. He's still wearing it.

     Lucrece was right in what she said about loyalty: it's more powerful than fear, and 
more persuasive than temptation. It's another form of love, and it's more difficult to kill 
than an Enforcer. It's not the kind of thing you bring down with arrows. And, sometime 
during that brief period Screed and Lucrece joined forces, they'd won each other's 
allegiance. It may sound strange, but then, after what I've told you, maybe it won't. Out 
of the three of us, Screed was always the one who pushed hardest to get even for 
Lucrece's death. Bourbon and I wanted payback, but we could still let other fights get in 
our way. Not so for Screed. Vengeance, he was as greedy for that as any game of chance 
or trade wind.

     "And did you ever find your revenge for Lucrece's death?"

     Eventually. Most of the time, with his finger in every pie, Screed tracked down the 
ones we wanted, and Bourbon and I joined forces for the punishment. Thomas was the 
exception; we needed a different sort of connection to catch Thomas, but we finally ran 
him to ground a few years ago. When that was done, we split up as an official crew for 
the last time. 

     Right after Lucrece died, though, I wasn't ready for revenge. I needed to mourn. The 
months in Venice grated on me. Every night felt like she should be there. Every sunset 
felt like another cut that wouldn't stop bleeding. It was bad, and I slipped into that funk 
where I only wanted to run away and escape everything that chased me, only this time it 
was all in my head. I ditched Screed and Bourbon - the first time, the longest time our 
crew split up. I crossed the Atlantic, returning to the New World where the story all 
began, I suppose.

     While I was running solo in the colonies there, the sting of grief ebbed, but the lessons 
that Lucrece taught me sank in for good. After scouting in the forest for a week, I'd start 
to crave a hot bath and a clean bed as much as fresh blood. Whenever I'd stop at a fort or 
outpost, I'd ask around for any books, but usually there was nothing on hand but a bible 
or accounting ledgers. I'd found the copy of 'The Odyssey' Lucrece had thought to pack 
with her things; I brought it with me from Venice. I read it over and over until I could 
recite every word of the epic by heart. I almost managed to hold onto Homer as long as 
Screed kept his ring. The copy was pretty much worn thin when I lost it in the plane 
crash.

     Those first years after her death, I thought that I would stay apart from mortals just as 
I always had. I would forget their faces and never learn their names. I would pick a side 
in their battles and fight until the sun came up, but I would never call them friends, 
because there would always be a price. They would die, or I would kill them, and that 
was one risk that I swore I wouldn't take.

     But, I started running with the Northern tribes, and I couldn't remain completely 
detached. I couldn't avoid the risk anymore, because I'd already become addicted to it. 
Now I knew there was no safety in making ties and enemies only among my fellow 
immortals, because I'd learned that none of us are truly immortal. Sooner or later, we all 
find a battle that we can't win, and it ends. That doesn't mean we stop fighting. That 
doesn't mean we always turn tail and run when things get a little too intense. No, we keep 
trying, even when the odds seem impossible.

     That was the last thing that Lucrece taught me: love is just a word, a name for 
something with no meaning until we give it one, until we sacrifice fear or prejudice and 
risk giving it the power to bring us to our knees. We hold it while we can, and maybe it 
changes us into a different person, maybe it doesn't. Maybe we never really let it go, but 
carry the people who have come and gone in our hearts for as long as we walk the earth, 
however brief or enduring a span that may be. As painful as love felt when Lucrece died, 
the ache was worth it, because I wouldn't have traded feeling what it meant to love her 
for anything. No amount of safety, solitude, or even freedom could have matched it. 

     If life never hurts, then you're not really living. If grief never touches you, then you're 
a dead man walking.

     "And 'carouche' - is that another word without meaning?"

     No, I've given it one. It's the name they call my best friend...my first friend...my 
friend who looks like death. His mask is red and white, blood stained lips and innocence 
lost, but the gold has gone, the fire has left. Look at him lying there...can you see it? 
Suddenly he looks his age.

     This hurts, this knowing that the odds are impossible, this not knowing what I can 
fight to make it stop. This hurts, but it's worth it. Oh, yeah. Every moment is worth it.

     "Vachon, I'm sorry."

     What do you have to be sorry about? Anyway, thanks...for listening. You should 
probably get back to the precinct before your partner starts asking uncomfortable 
questions.

     "I'll tell her I was visiting a sick friend."

     You do that.

***********************************************
Fin

 < ' 
  | |__ _/ 
  |  __  |        Bonnie Rutledge 
  | |  | |        llamababe@carolina.rr.com 
   ^    ^