Alexandre's face twisted. “I see.”
“We
For a very long while, Alexandre Delacroix gazed into the capering flames, his fingers restively twisting a goblet of untouched wine. The light played across his face, his hair, the glass in his hands, creating a mottled, shifting pattern. He seemed a phantasm out of a half-forgotten dream. Claude, in a moment of what was, for him, shocking tenderness, placed a hand on the old man's shoulder and squeezed.
Adrienne realized that she'd been holding her breath, forced herself to take a desperate gasp of air to clear the tightness in her chest and the will-o'-the-wisps that danced before her eyes.
And then, the master of the manor shook his head sadly, his expression utterly defeated.
“I can't tell you where Adrienne might be, Major. I honestly don't know. She slipped out earlier in the evening. Her life is, after all, her own.…” He trailed off. “If I knew,” he finished, his voice steadier if no less saddened, “I would tell you, Major. I'm sorry.”
Adrienne sobbed aloud, just once. None heard her through the window. Between their own voices and the crackling of the fire-and, just perhaps, the subtle efforts of a traumatized god-they remained oblivious.
“…constables to search her room,” she heard Major Chapelle say when she focused, once again, on the voices beyond the window. “They'll be respectful of your property, of course, monsieur, but I'm afraid I must insist. And I'll need to leave a few behind to guard the chamber for a day or two, in case she should return.”
Alexandre nodded shallowly. “Of course,” he conceded in a low monotone. “Claude will show your men where to go.”
“Then,” the major concluded, rising respectfully to his feet and gesturing for his Guardsmen to do the same, “I'll take up no more of your time. My constables should be here in less than an hour.” He paused, and his expression softened ever so slightly. “For what it's worth, Monsieur Delacroix,” he said, his gruff tone almost gentle, “I'm sorry.”
Claude showed them out, leaving Alexandre to stare at the door that shut behind them. And then he hurled his wine goblet to shatter across the room, buried his face in his hands, and wept until his entire body shook.
Almost blinded by her own tears, Adrienne shimmied down the tree and scaled the back wall of the manor, near the window to her chambers. She paused a moment to wipe her eyes, shoving despair to the back of her mind.
She couldn't do it, couldn't go to him, though her heart screamed his name and her entire body quivered. Even if he trusted in her, even if he would help her-and she believed, to the depths of her soul, that he would-she couldn't ask it. He had too much to lose if he was caught.
In the dark, without the proper tools, it took her an unacceptably long time to jimmy the latch. The window creaked as it swung open, though not so loudly as the frantic pounding of her heart. She slithered inside, leaving flakes of dried blood across the sill.
She had only minutes before the constables would arrive to search the chamber, yet she couldn't bring herself to leave without first stripping the gore-spattered gown from her body, replacing it with the first dark-hued tunic and hose she could find. She wished she had the time to wash, to cleanse the blood from her hair, her hands, her skin…but the quick change of outfits would have to suffice.
Adrienne laid out everything she could carry that might come in handy. A blanket swept from the bed and tied shut at the corners made a passable bag. Five hundred gold marks kept on hand for emergencies, and twice that value again in various jewelry and baubles, landed haphazardly on the blanket, followed by a set of brushes and toiletries, and anything in her wardrobe that didn't blatantly scream “nobility.” And then, without really thinking about it, Adrienne swept up the rapier that leaned against the wall. The ornate basket of silver and brass somehow managed to glint in the dark confines of the bedroom.
The weapon dropped from her slackened fingers, bouncing first from the blanket and then from the bed. Sheer luck prevented it from slamming into the bedposts, where the clatter would assuredly have roused the whole household. Adrienne found herself on her knees, hands clutching her stomach as her entire body was wrenched by deep, soul-racking sobs.
“I
Her tear-filled gaze fell again upon the fallen rapier. For a heart-wrenching instant, she seriously considered aiming the tip toward her own breast, ending her anguish in a single, final flash of pain.
Softly, tenderly, she felt a touch on the side of her face. An invisible hand cupped her chin and gently turned her tear-reddened face away from the blade glittering seductively before her. The air came alive, and she felt Olgun's mind brush against her own.
There was no trace, now, of the panic the deity had suffered earlier, no fear or uncertainty in his thoughts. There was only the gentle, calming tide she'd felt before, secure in the confines of his shrine.
And there was need, as well. Olgun-a startlingly weak god, now, but a god nonetheless-needed her. Cared for her. Would never leave her.
She wasn't alone.
Adrienne rose to her feet, drove the rapier into its scabbard without looking, and laid it across the blanket with everything else. She tied her makeshift sack, hefted it from the bed. Within, everything she needed to survive, and nothing but that blade to connect her to the noblewoman she'd been for years. The noblewoman she now left behind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now:
Two years might change a person, but rarely a city. As Widdershins slipped through the darkened alleyways that flowed into Davillon's central marketplace, she couldn't help but remember that hellish night. The sights and sounds and scents were the same. People still shouted their arguments or whispered their black-market deals, and footpads still waylaid lone wanderers through the nighttime streets, taking money and lives.
And demons, Widdershins reminded herself with a shiver, still lurked in the shadows.
She'd escaped the confines of the Finders' Guild with ease-troubling ease, when she thought about it. True, Olgun had indeed remembered their route, guided her through the maze of passages. Still, she'd been certain there would be armed guards waiting at the exit, or skulking in ambush along the way.
But she'd met few Finders, and those she encountered allowed her to pass without incident, either having seen her moments ago with Hubert, or simply assuming that anyone this deep into the guild's headquarters must
She lurked now across the street from the Flippant Witch, and wondered again if she'd been right to come here. Olgun swore he could hide her trail from the creature hunting her, at least for a while. But she knew there were other ways to find her, and she feared she might be putting Genevieve in terrible danger.
All the same, Widdershins felt a desperate need to know that her friend was all right.
“This is stupid,” she berated herself, as she abandoned her hiding spot, flickering across the street in a blur of motion. “I told her to find someplace safe until opening time; she's probably not even in there. Just Robin and the other servants…” Her hand closed on the door's tarnished latch.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle. I wonder if I might impose for a moment of your-”
Considering the evening's prior events, it's perhaps understandable that Widdershins reacted as she did. With a closed fist, she backhanded the speaker across the jaw before he could finish, knocking him from the steps. He landed hard, looking up to find her already standing over him, blade drawn.
“…time,” the young man finished with an audible swallow, his voice rising several octaves, one hand clutched to his bleeding lip.
Widdershins frowned. This gangly, brown-robed youth didn't look much like either a guild assassin or demon
