Time for Eternity (33 page)

There was nothing more she could say and they both knew it.

Emotion rolled deep inside her, her own fear, and the fear and uncertainty that came from this person named Frankie as well.

They could feel each other.

She closed her eyes.

There was a slow exhale, whether her own or the voice ’s she didn’t know. She slid down the tree trunk and sat at its base.

Now. Now she would know.

She was standing in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles again. The mirrors were dim and smoky in the darkness across the
room. A shadowy figure was reflected there. It began to run forward and she picked up her skirts and ran too. As they
neared each other, she saw that the figure had her face, just as it had in her other dream. But it was dressed scandalously
in tight leather breeches that went all the way to the ankle, heeled boots, and the veriest scrap of clinging bodice with a
knitted silver net pulled over it. One could see every curve of her body. Her eyes were lined with kohl and her lashes
thickened though she wore no white powder or patches.

And then they collided, melting into one another. The mirror melted away, the grand room spun round.

Françoise gasped and clutched her head as the room in the vision disappeared and was replaced by cascading scenes complete with drenching emotions. A garret, Henri leaning over her, forcing her to drink his blood. Sickness. Being alone and afraid.

Realizing what she was. Vampire. Strong. A monster. The period of crying and not getting up from the bed. Her first taste of blood.

The revulsion when she killed those from whom she drank, the guilt. The first attempt at suicide. The knowledge that she couldn ’t end it, but was doomed to live the life she’d been handed forever. Learning to take less blood more frequently, so she didn’t have to kill.

The images started coming faster, whole lives-full of memories. The melee of Paris greeting a triumphant Napoleon. The ship to the Americas. Living alone in cabins in various woods. Civilization encroaching on her again and again. Industry belching smoke.

The horror of war again and again. Moving on, always moving on before anyone could find her, know her, love her. An endless string of places and faceless people arching up their necks for her to drink. And through all the despair, even as it died down to glowing coals, beneath it the self-hatred. The dreams of killing Henri before he could infect her.

The images started to slow. A city of hills by the ocean, all sleek and strange. Glass glowed. Buildings were impossibly tall and featureless. A tavern with a glowing O with a tiny 2 hanging onto its hip above the door. She floated inside and there she was, talking to a beautiful woman. She knew what had been said, who the woman was. Donna. The excitement of believing that she might have a chance to come back and change everything consumed her. Then there was the pretty girl in the bookshop confirming that the book about the time machine had been written by Leonardo da Vinci. Rome. Florence. Il Duomo. The Baptistery. The gleaming machine. And Versailles.

The machine was at Versailles, and it had brought her back to now.

Frankie was Françoise herself. Only a Françoise who had been infected by Henri, abandoned by him —whether that was his fault or not—and who had learned to hate herself so much she was willing to kill Henri to prevent him making her a vampire.

She opened her eyes. The Place Royale seemed strange or maybe a little quaint. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you,” she said.

Silence.

“Are you there?” What if revealing herself
had
killed Frankie? Panic choked her throat. She needed Frankie to help Henri, and Gaston and Jean and Pierre and the families …

Yeah. I’m here. Which may mean that we’re going to get infected by Henri no matter what we do. That’s the only way
there is a Frankie.

Françoise felt Frankie’s horror at that as if it were her own. Which it was, in a strange way. “We’ve still got to save him, Frankie.” She stood, still leaning against the trunk of the elm tree. She understood now what Frankie meant by “in a jam.” They surely were in a jam. “Jennings.” Maybe Jennings could help them.

A long pause. Frankie was deciding.

“We’ll sort out the part about getting infected later. But we can’t stand by and do nothing about what’s happening around us.”

I’m with you.

“Maybe forever. Might be dull for you. As you said—no special powers.”

Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just disappear if there’s no longer a chance to get infected. The whole thing is a little wild, huh?

Not how she would have put it. But she understood what Frankie meant. “At least I’m not insane.” She started back across the park, toward the river. Time to go to the warehouse.

Wait. If they’ve posted guards, you’ll need a reason to get inside.

Françoise chewed her lip. Very well. A tray of food for Jennings. From a pretty young girl. She started back to the house. Pierre would provide.

Nineteen

Madame Croûte lifted her skirts in distaste as she came into the cell. “This floor is filthy. Wash down the stones twice a day,” she commanded. At the shock in the guards’ eyes, she snapped, “Not for him, idiots. For me. I refuse to dirty my shoes.”

Henri was feeling better, at least physically. The drug was almost out of his system. His wounds had nearly healed. He could probably muster enough power to transport away. But the minute he did that, this despicable woman and Robespierre would descend on the warehouse and number sixteen, and tear them apart looking for him. People would get arrested, killed. Even Françoise, God forbid. They might find the prisoners behind the back wall of the warehouse. Or they might burn it down and almost a hundred people with it. He had to keep this creature focused on him until the barge could take the prisoners and Françoise down the Seine to Le Havre and safety. He wasn’t quite sure just how to do that, short of letting her torture him. And he was not about to give her the satisfaction.

And then there was the problem of how to get the prisoners out. He always loaded the escapees onto his barge in specially made crates right under everyone’s noses. But Françoise was right. They’d be watching the warehouse and his barges. They must realize that was how he was spiriting the families out of the country. Only the drug had kept him from seeing the problem.

The depression that had dogged him since Françoise left settled on his shoulders. She ’d been appalled at what he was, of course. She might not have intentionally betrayed him, but she’d wanted to escape him enough to drug him even before she could acknowledge to herself that she knew what he was. Now that she knew, she hated him. Just like Cerise de Haviland four hundred years ago in Alcaise. He’d made sure of that. What choice had he? She was in danger every minute she stayed in Paris. She should never have come to visit him, for God’s sake. He only hoped all her talk of hearing voices didn’t mean her mind was fragile. She’d grow strong again once she wasn’t faced with the horror of a vampire in her life. She must. She was young. As for him, one way or another, the work he’d used to stave off madness was about to end. If he got this shipment of prisoners out, it would be the last.

Had he made a difference? Perhaps it had all been pointless in the face of the evil the world seemed to spawn.

As Croûte sauntered over to him her eyes widened. “So you weren’t lying,” she remarked to the guards around her. “He does heal.” They were setting up the brazier and the table with her implements arrayed on it. They had entered reluctantly, keeping nervous eyes on Henri.

He just stared at her. Let’s see if she had the courage to torture him now that he was something she couldn ’t explain in her rationalistic world. She ran a hand over his chest, marked only by the faint pink of new skin.

The woman looked up into his face, speculating. She wasn’t yet afraid of him. He healed—what of that? That wasn’t a threat to her. Or maybe she did not comprehend anything beyond her small view of nature.

She touched his back where she had cut him during her last session. He could practically hear her thinking. She cupped his buttock as she said to the soldiers, “Send troops to search his residence for more of the drug the girl used on him. It was in a kind of soft lilac bottle.”

Even if there was more, they couldn’t force it on him now. But the fact that she was calling for reinforcements showed that she was realizing she might not comprehend exactly what was going on here. A guard clicked his heels and nodded to acknowledge the order, turning crisply to stride out of the cell.

“In the spirit of scientific experimentation …” She held her hand out to the side, her gaze never leaving his face. “Knife,” she barked. The big guard who had beat him senseless the last time put the handle of her favorite curved blade into her palm. “Let’s just see for ourselves.”

He’d let her have one cut. Let’s see if she retreated when it healed. He flinched as she drew the blade across his left pectoral, leaving a deep cut. Fine Stoic he was. She motioned to the guard. “Hold that torch over here.”

She stepped back, staring intently at his chest. He could feel the wound begin to seal itself. Not as quickly as once it would have, but enough to be perceptible.

“Blessed mother Mary preserve us,” one of the guards muttered.

Madame Croûte only grinned, though invoking Catholic saints was technically against the law. “A useful talent. That means you can heal whatever I choose to do to you. That will prolong our game, perhaps indefinitely.”

Damnation. How could he keep her focused on him and not on Françoise and the others if she wasn’t even frightened of him?

“But wait!” She seemed to consider. “Can you disappear?” She shook her head. “I think not, or you would have done it. Still, that last guard died swearing it was true.”

Yet again he was the cause of death. But his was not the only blame here. This woman was evil. A plan began to form. Could he compel her to leave those he loved alone? Maybe with frequent renewals of the compulsion. And maybe if she knew he was nearby, and had to find him, that would keep her focused on him.

Let’s play a little hide-and-seek.
He let his eyes go red.

She stepped back, visibly shocked.

“Like what you see?” he murmured. He captured her gaze and watched her go slack. “You won’t hurt Mademoiselle Suchet or any of my staff. You will not touch my property. Now,” he added conversationally as he released her, “I’ll be taking another family out. See if you can find me.”
Companion!
The whirling darkness rose around his knees from the stones. Not as fast as he liked, but the effect was not lost on Croûte and the guards. Their eyes were wide. “I’ll be joining you here later for another visit. Shall we say, an hour?” And he winked out of sight.

“I need a tray of food, Gaston,” Françoise said, hurrying through to the kitchen.

“How is he?” Gaston trailed in her wake. He didn’t have to say whom he was talking about. “Did you find him well?”

“Not good.” She set her mouth. She wouldn’t tell Gaston how bad it was. Or that Henri was a vampire. Or about the prisoners concealed in the warehouse. Or how much danger he and the other residents of number sixteen were really in. “Have the gendarmes been here?”

“Not yet. The mob is milling about in the park.”

She glanced back at him. He knew his danger, then. “Don’t tell them I have been here.”

Gaston reached out and grabbed her shoulder. “Don’t do anything foolish, mademoiselle. You must wait. Three days. It will all be over in three days.”

She searched his face. Gaston knew about the prisoners hidden in the warehouse.

“They’re watching the warehouse. He can’t get them out.”

Gaston looked perplexed.

“Besides, he can’t last three days.”

Gaston paled, but he gathered himself. “He is strong.”

Did Gaston know how strong? “We can’t let him suffer.” She watched Gaston blanch further. “We have to hurry things along somehow.”

Gaston straightened his shoulders. “What can I do?”

“I don’t know.”

Yes you do.

Frankie, as always, was right. “Wait. You can get the household out before the mob attacks. Is there somewhere you can go?”

“Calais. I have a cousin there.”

She nodded. “Now, how can we get the servants out of the house?”

Gaston tapped his finger against his prim mustache, thinking. “I shall send them on errands one by one.”

“They will be followed.”

“Ahhh, but the market is crowded. One could lose oneself. Annette to Fanchon, the groom to the ironmonger, another to the saddler … I see how it can be done.”

“Appoint a meeting place outside the city.”

Gaston smiled. “And me, I go to the warehouse with you.”

“No, no, my friend.” She took his shoulders. “The staff depends on you for leadership. Their safety is in your hands.”

“What about his grace?” Gaston was frowning again.

“His grace can escape when he knows everyone else is safe.” Gaston didn’t need to know how. “I will be sure he knows that all is well with you … and with everyone at the warehouse.”

He got a mulish look about his mouth. She raised her brows in challenge. Gaston sighed.
“Oui,
mademoiselle. I shall do my part.”

She smiled and patted his shoulders. “Now, go.”

Françoise hurried up the quay toward the warehouse with her covered tray. The sky was that peculiar greenish blue that would shortly deepen into twilight. It must be after seven. Torches were being lighted up and down the street. To her right, the Seine, a miasma of effluvia from a large and dirty city, rolled sullenly beyond the stone wall that lined the Quai Henri IV.

Two guards were posted at the warehouse. Several others lounged against the stone wall.

I told you so.

She swallowed once and hurried forward with her tray just as a whole marching troop of soldiers rounded the corner and spread out along the quay.

Uh-oh.