She choked on the words. First Michel had come to scold her again. She had remained strong. Then Jérémie had abandoned her. But she had stood tall. Thinking of Xavier, however, made her despondent. She awoke this morning to find him battered, his face a bloody pulp. He could barely get out of bed. He told her that he was attacked by a mob, the thing that she feared the most. How he escaped alive was beyond her. She sat on the bed for an hour, holding his hand and comforting him as he cried and cried. She was strong throughout, never betraying her distress or adding to his misery. He finally fell asleep and she slipped into the hall and broke down.
She wiped away the tears, wondering how this had happened on Thomas’s watch. How had a vampire lost a battle, the same man who had run through Paris carrying her and another man? Her answer came too soon, in a note:
Dear Catherine,
I apologize for Xavier’s condition. I pray that he heals. You cannot know the suffering I feel at his wounds. I am completely responsible for it and ashamed. He could have been killed.
I will never forgive myself. I write only to tell you that, because of my failure, I can no longer protect him. I cannot even see him. Please make arrangements for his nighttime safety. On a personal note, I still love him, though he may say words of hate to you. I deserve them.
I am sorry to put you in the position of safeguarding him at all times, but it is necessary. Yours affectionately, Thomas
“Catherine, what is it?” Michel asked. “Xavier. It’s Xavier.” Catherine collected herself to regain her dignity, still puzzling over
what Thomas might have meant. Had he been unable to stop the mob? And now he felt guilty about it and kept himself away from Xavier?
“Catherine?” Michel, pushing.
She looked at him, gathering her thoughts. She loathed exhibiting this weak, feminine behavior in the middle of a confrontation. At last composed, she continued. “Xavier came to the house last night a bloody mess. His face—well, I’m sure that he has broken bones in it. He was viciously attacked. He says that it was an anti-clerical mob. His face was completely shattered and he’s badly bruised all over his body. It’s a miracle they didn’t kill him.”
Michel stared at her. “Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Because, Michel, this is exactly what I was trying to tell you. I run this family. Xavier came to me, and by the time that he arrived there was nothing any of us could do, the damage was already done. Maria brought him to the hospital. The doctor assured me that he’ll be fine.”
“I’ll talk to him about his safety,” Michel said.
“And what do you suppose the rest of us have done? Sat around and watched him meander throughout Paris? Your butting in will only strengthen his resolve.”
Michel laughed mockingly at her. “My concern will anger him but yours is fine. You’re unbelievably vain sometimes.”
“I’ve had enough.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m ready for you to leave. I’m sure that Xavier will want to see you, but he’s sleeping so you’ll have to come back this afternoon.”
“Catherine, I won’t take orders from—”
“Out, Michel. Out.” Catherine pointed toward the door and stared at him. This time the message penetrated his thick skull and he sulked away. She had enough to worry about. First she had to tend to her brother, then she had to see to it that she delegated Jérémie’s responsibilities, then she must do her daily tasks, and then, only then, would she do anything regarding Michel.
30 August 1791
XAVIER ALWAYS LOVED sitting on the balcony this time of morning, especially during the late summer months to bask in the last warm days of the year. The quiet of the hour also appealed to him. Even with the salon and a raging revolution, the early morning offered serenity in which to admire the beauty around him and appreciate the quiet.
But many things plagued his mind. Of course the revolution itself, with its violence, constant changes, and uncertain government worried him. And he fretted about his flock now that it was even harder to minister to them. The danger of traveling to his parish meant infrequent visits to those whom he loved, and no one allowed him to wander by himself, and, despite opening the Saint-Laurent chapel to everyone, few people dared cross town to see him.
Even more than the church, his heart was broken. Xavier still had Catherine, Maria, Anne, Michel, plus the people who had always been close to him. But Thomas was gone, and no one could fill the gaping wound he felt in his stomach that forever bled and would never heal. Every night he watched for his love, but he didn’t see him, the last time had been on that fateful night.
Yet what would he do if Thomas came? His face had healed, the bruises disappeared and he could see out of both eyes, though his left eye was still a little blurred. The aches and pains, too, had dissipated. Only his left cheek bone ached, the one the doctor said had shattered, but it felt a little better each day. If Thomas came, could Xavier forget and forgive? Xavier would demand an apology, but would Thomas offer one?
Xavier kept the assault a secret from everyone, who believed his story about a mob. Did he lie because the truth embarrassed him or to protect Thomas? He wished he knew. How could he explain that his friend hit him without revealing their love? Whatever the answer, it had to do with Xavier’s persistent love and longing for the man that had plunged him into constant depression and irritability. He hated what Thomas had done, but there was more to that man than the violence that masked a profound wound within him. Xavier was miserable.
Except at times like this when he watched the birds without the noise of combat, when the world was tranquil. He was so content that the sight of Michel overjoyed him, even though he usually quarreled with Catherine.
“Hello, Michel,” he said with genuine joy.
“You’re looking better and better. Are you staying out of trouble?”
“Of course.”
“You aren’t sneaking out?”
“I haven’t done anything alone since you and Catherine talked to me in July.” That is how Xavier dated the event. It avoided mention of an attack that only stirred up painful memories and feelings. Instead, he simply referred to it as the moment everyone increased his security.
“Xavier, I hate to be abrupt, but I haven’t much time. May I speak with you about something?” Michel fidgeted with his hat. Today he wore his uniform and looked very noble, very much the leader. But he also wiggled his fingers nervously. “It’s about Catherine’s engagement to Marcel.”
Xavier had predicted this. He, too, despised Marcel, and Michel did not even know about the spell. But what could they do? Anne was right: nothing.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Xavier said to preempt his brother.
“It only makes her angrier.”
“I know, I know, but you don’t understand my responsibility in this matter.” Michel sat opposite him.
Xavier thought for a moment before he answered. He did realize the responsibility that Michel felt, yet he also thought that much of it was invented. He had indicated as much to Michel but never directly.
“You take on too much responsibility. I think that you want to become our father because he died and you’re the eldest. Believe me, I know that society wants you to do this. Do what you can, but wait until we need you. Then Catherine will listen, then she’ll know that you have her interests in mind.”
Michel’s eyes teared, which shocked Xavier, coming from this controlled and repressed man.
“You’re right. Father almost said the same thing to me as he died. But—”
Xavier hugged his brother.
“Let it out, Michel.”
“I was too young. I was supposed to serve my time in the military, then slowly move into the family business. But he died. And there I was, with a million people telling me about the grave accountability I had to the family and what we represented. I knew that I had to handle you both differently than what other family members and friends told me to do, but I worried so much about what they thought that I could never stop myself.” Michel sat up straight. “And now it’s too late.”
“No, it’s not. You could change how you deal with her tomorrow and she’d accept it.”
“I’m not sure that she’s ready. I don’t want to upset her again.”
“That’s exactly your mistake with her. You try to predict her reaction and then adjust what you say to this prediction. She wants you to just speak with her. It’s not about whether or not she agrees with you. She doesn’t mind differences of opinion, it’s your attitude she hates.”
He got up but came back before leaving and hugged Xavier tightly, then released and stood over him.
“Are you fine?”
This question surprised Xavier, who detested conversation about himself. He was alone with his misery, which suited him. He paused too long, though, for his careless shrug to appease Michel.
“We don’t always have to talk about me,” Michel said. “You haven’t seen Thomas recently.”
“No, he’s—” Xavier wondered what to say. “Busy with things. I’m not sure, anyway.”
Michel ruffled Xavier’s hair and left.
In truth, Xavier was far from fine. The pit in his stomach throbbed constantly. He wept every night before passing out. He was lonely. All his life, he had ignored these feelings because he never dreamt that other people shared them. He had consumed himself in work to shelter himself from prying eyes, then he wedded the church. That worked for several years, until Thomas had made his fantasies a possibility.
Then in one night all that vanished, and Xavier increasingly blamed his stubbornness for the failure. Thomas’s violence was worse than anything, and Xavier knew he did not deserve that punishment. But damnation, his idiotic worrying about heaven and hell had ruined it, too. Yet even now it plagued him. His righteous behavior caused each of the confrontations with Thomas. Perhaps he could have handled it differently and Thomas would still be there, his protector. If he had quelled his own holy fear, maybe he could have led Thomas away from his inner rage.
Yet Xavier could not abandon the church, either.
Xavier left the porch, heading for the parlor. A few days ago, by mistake, he discovered how to make the pain go away in his first drunken stupor since Thomas left. His head swam, things were funnier, the pain buried deeper, and he spoke his mind more clearly. He tried it again the next night, and last night, each time with the same result. Why not ease the sting a bit earlier?
The wine, bitter yet tasty, burned his throat as he tossed one glass back without pausing. His head floated immediately. The world seemed to make more sense. He poured another and flung himself onto the couch, propped his head against the arm, and glanced at the ceiling. Another drink. He giggled at the thought of a priest sitting so inappropriately. Did it matter any more? Did anyone care?
He remembered that he had appointments that afternoon for something, but what? Now he laughed that the wine caused memory lapses. He swung his leg back and forth, a million things racing through his head, and when he thought of Thomas, which happened too frequently, he took another gulp of wine.
January 1792
SITTING ALONE IN a corner of Anthony’s flat, Thomas glanced to see if his friend watched, but he still chatted with the little beauty he had picked up near the river. Anthony had “found” a lovely seventeenyear-old, a strapping youth who looked more in his twenties with those hard sailor’s muscles. This was not about killing. Anthony sought sex and the young man was ready to please, not even demanding cash.
Even if they had gone, however, Anthony forbade Thomas from leaving his flat alone for very long. Though he had maintained control for six months—six months since that catastrophic night when he lost Xavier—he still struggled with it. He often wanted to run back to Xavier and beg forgiveness, something Anthony strictly outlawed, the one rule that he enforced. So Thomas and Anthony did everything together. It was good companionship, though Thomas obsessed over his lost abbé.
The hours of every night trudged along like an eternity, as Thomas waited for Anthony to let him go to Xavier.
Thankfully, the revolution amused them. With his British bias coming out all of the time, Anthony laughed every night, snorting that the French had no idea what they did. One day they loved Louis, the next they wanted to assassinate him. One day all was calm, the next they rioted. Thomas’s American views made him more dispassionate, but the disorder did confound him.
And Anthony attempted to get him interested in casual sexual encounters as they had enjoyed before he met Xavier, but none appealed to Thomas.
Thomas glanced at Anthony and his latest toy again, wanting to be alone, but Anthony was still there. He wanted to push the rule just a bit to the edge. No harm done. Even in his depression, these little games entertained him. He hated following the ethic exactly and giggled at how he slipped away occasionally, if even for a moment, from Anthony’s prying eyes. He never spoke to Xavier but the vampire had seen the abbé.
Thomas hurried to see Xavier from afar whenever he had a chance away from Anthony by concealing himself in the shadows. The first time, just to know that Xavier was safe, he spied and saw Xavier in lay clothing at the Saint-Laurent home. He returned a week later to see the same.
Then his spying on Xavier became more frequent, almost every night, but he never approached or violated Anthony’s commands because he feared Xavier’s rejection, and he never stayed long, only a minute or two.
Thomas had recovered from his morose attitude after the disaster with Xavier and renewed his quest for a relationship, but he reined in his emotion and patiently waited for things to develop, without pushing anything. This new outlook had led him to peek at Xavier the first time, knowing that he controlled himself. Next he sought Denys Girard and began a clandestine payment to him and the men who protected Xavier, thus ensuring twenty-four-hour guardianship.
Thomas breathed in the night air, fresher than usual, as the stars twinkled above. Thomas loved the night. Unlike Anthony, who missed the sun, Thomas never regretted his reality. If darkness gave him eternal life, so be it. There was something daring, exciting even, about the vampire’s mastery over darkness. They feared nothing, could see things in the pitch black, and far fewer people annoyed him. And, since lanterns illuminated so much, including most of Paris, cities came to life at all hours. Thomas was so lost in thought that he had not heard Anthony approach.