Montrovant was no fool. If he'd come to Gren.o.ble he'd done so with a specific plan in mind, and he would not waste a lot of time over it. The dark one had his own agenda, and it did not allow a lot of time for wandering about city streets. Without the refuge of the cathedral to count on, Abraham knew he would be wasting valuable time.

He moved through the center of the city quickly, heading for the older part of town. Near the fringes things were falling into disrepair.

There were abandoned homes, others gutted by fires, even a church with the wooden doors swinging loosely. The place had been vandalized and looted long before and left to rot.Beyond that was a small cemetery. Abraham moved closer, considering...but he caught several dark flitting shapes, just out of the line of his vision, and decided against it. There were others there. He could sense them, and knew they had felt his presence as well. They were waiting to see if he would move into their territory, and he had no time for such confrontation. They might offer him sanctuary, or they might drag him off and drain him for their own strength. He moved further to the edge of the town, and he saw what he was looking for.

An old house stood, shutters long rotted away, windows open and gutted, but with a shed still standing out back. There was no sign that any other had set foot on the property for years, but somehow the shed still stood. It would do to hide his horse from the road. As he approached, a second pleasant surprise met his gaze.

There was a rotted wooden door flush with the foundation of the ruined house, angled downward.

A wine cellar. It was perfect, if the door did not crumble in his hand.

He might not have to take to the earth after all.

He opened the door to the shed, peering inside and inspecting the walls, the floor, looking for any sign of recent inhabitation or use. There were none to be seen. It was empty, musty, and smelled of the musk of cats. Still, for a single day, it would do the animal no harm. He could leave food and water.

The beast was well trained...it would not give him away, and if it did, still, there would be no reason for any to search the cellar.

He made a quick circuit of that dank place as well. There was a low table that was still st.u.r.dy, and though it was slimed with mold and very old, it would hold his weight nicely. Rats peered out at him from the little cubbyholes that had once held wine, and vermin crawled along the base of the walls. There was not a c.h.i.n.k in the wood of the door. No light would enter, and if by some odd fluke the doors were opened, he would be far enough inside that direct sunlight would never reach him.

It would do. He left the majority of his things in the cellar and returned to his mount, heading back into the city. It was later now, and there were lights and sounds rising from the squares and taverns. He smelled the scent of fresh, red blood, and very suddenly realized how long it had actually been since he'd fed. Too long.

Now that he was among mortals again, too close for control, it was driving him mad. He caught a sudden, close scent, and then the sounds reached him. A low, chuckling voice, rang out. The smooth sound of a blade being drawn...a dagger. m.u.f.fled cries. Abraham slid from his mount quietly, making it fast to one of the posts that lined the street and slipped along the nearest wall to the mouth of the alley.

Inside Abraham saw two figures, one large, the other slender. He slipped into the mouth of the alley and the scene became clearer. A large bearded man was facing a young woman. She was pressing her back to the wall, and though he stood two heads taller than she, there was a fiery glint in the girl's eyes. She had a very small blade gripped tightly in one hand, and though he was laughing at her, her a.s.sailant stood back a bit warily, his own dagger gleaming brilliantly in a small patch of moonlight filtering down between the buildings.

Neither heard Abraham as he approached. He stepped closer, the scent of their blood pounding through him...driving his thoughts deeper as he fought for a few more moments of control.

"Come on," the man grated lazily. "You will like Pierre."

The girl said nothing, but her expression spoke volumes. There was no defeat marring the soft beauty of her features, and her muscles were tensed to spring. She glanced up the alley, watching as the big man foolishly allowed his gaze to track hers along the wall. In that instant she moved. Her blade whipped out in a quick arc, slicing through the back of the man's knee and dropping him instantly, drawing a howl of rage from his throat. He was drunk, and it was possibly numbness brought on by the alcohol that allowed him to react at all.

His ma.s.sive arm swung, catching her ankle, barely, and sending her tumbling forward. He gripped her by the thigh with his huge paw of a hand and drew her toward him with a roar. She lifted her blade, but he caught her arm easily.

It was then that Abraham moved. He slid from the shadows without thought, his hand gripping the man's before it could snap the girl's arm.

Abraham gave a twist and the man released her, yelping in sudden pain, then whipping around to his new opponent in maddened rage.

"You have interfered in the wrong fight, my friend," Pierre grated. "I will kill you now, and then I will kill this little tramp for what she has done to me."

Abraham laughed then, an empty, lost, hungry laughter that echoed up and down the alley and sent the girl cringing against the wall.

"You will kill nothing, ever." Abraham said softly. "You will beg, and you will die, and you will not even die an honorable death, because one who would attack young women deserve no honor."

As he spoke, Abraham twisted the arm he'd grabbed, slowly, feeling it giving way, bones snapping.

Pierre was gibbering, then screaming in pain, and Abraham covered the man's mouth with his boot, pressing down to stifle the sound. Then the hunger rose and he could no longer deny it. With a roar more animal than human he fell on the hapless Pierre, latching onto the man's throat, sinking his fangs deep.

He held the bigger man easily...lifting him and arching into the hunger...the pleasure...feeling the warmth and strength flowing through him. He fed quickly, without regard to his surroundings, or the girl. It was not until he staggered back, letting Pierre's near-lifeless form drop to the dirt of the alley floor that he remembered her at all, and then only because she gasped.

He spun. She stood very still, backed against the stone wall as he'd first seen her, but frightened now, trembling like a leaf in the wind and ready to blow off down the alley and run for her life. Only the combined shock of Pierre's attack and the horror she'd just witnessed held her pinned in place.

Something in him brought his mind back to sudden focus, and he managed to speak.

"Wait," he said. "Wait, do not go."

She nearly bolted then, but he'd caught her in his gaze, and she remained, pinned to the wall helplessly.

"Please," she managed to gasp. "Oh please..."

He stepped closer, wiping his lips on his sleeve, trying to steady his nerves. He spoke again, soothingly.

"It is all right, little one. He deserved it. I am sorry you had to see, but surely you do not mourn for Pierre?"

She shook her head slowly back and forth, but Abraham could not tell if it was in negation of mourning or what she'd just witnessed. He moved closer still. He knew he would have to calm her, or kill her. There was no room for such a rumor to spread if he was to reach his goal.

He stopped short of touching her, watching her quietly. "I am sorry to have frightened you, but I a.s.sure you, you have nothing to fear from me. What is your name, little one?"

Her eyes went wider for a moment, then some of the steel he'd noted when she faced off against Pierre returned. She cleared her throat, and managed to say, "F- Fleurette, Monsieur."

Abraham grinned at her. "Little flower...a very deadly blossom, it would seem. Another moment and you'd have gotten away from you friend over there," he pointed at what remained of Pierre, "without my help."

She did not answer, only watched him, warily, as if she were ready to turn and run. He decided the direct approach was the only one he could afford time for.

"You did not see what you just saw," he told her matter-of-factly.

"You were in a fight, you killed Pierre, if any ask. You never saw me at all."

She shook her head, an almost stubborn light coming to her eyes.

"What did you do?" she asked suddenly. "How did you kill him so easily? You broke his arm. I saw you. You broke his arm and you drank his blood. You are vampire..."

He nodded. "Yes...and you never saw me. You don't even believe in me. Pierre was drunk, and slow, and he picked the wrong girl to a.s.sault in an alley. I have things I must do this night, others I must find. I cannot let you run off and tell the city to beware of 'the vampire,' so I will tell you a last time. You never saw me." "I will show you," she said softly. "If there are things to be found in Gren.o.ble, Fleurette can find them faster than you." Her gaze swept up and down him, eyes dancing. She still feared him, but that fear was giving way quickly to something else...recklessness? Curiosity?

"I would be slowed," he started to say.

"You will be slow without me," she retorted before he could finish.

"Fleurette knows every tavern, every alley in the city. Tell me what it is you seek."

She grew silent for a long moment, then met his gaze once more.

"You have saved my life. Let me help you."

He watched her a moment longer, then realized that it was either allow her to guide him, or kill her, and also that she was right. He had not been in Gren.o.ble in years. She would better know where he might find Montrovant, or his men.

"Very well, little flower," he said, letting his hand slip out very, very quickly, so quickly she could neither follow the motion or prevent it. He let his nails slide caressingly over her cheek. "Do not disappoint me. I have a very important task to complete, and I promise you have nothing to fear if you aid me in this."

"I will help you because you saved my life," she said, pulling away from his touch for a moment, then leaning back into it. "I will not betray you.

Fleurette is as good as her word."

He nodded again. Then, as quickly as he could, he gave her a description of Montrovant. He had only the vaguest of descriptions of the others, but the dark one's features were imbedded in his memory.

He couldn't rid himself of them, even when he tried.

She listened carefully, then nodded. "And he will seek information?"

she asked. Her face grew thoughtful for a moment, then she turned to him, very serious. "He is like you, this Montrovant? He is a vampire?"

Abraham nodded. "Montrovant is old...much older than I."

Her smile widened. "Then he would go to the places he remembered...the old places."

She turned and disappeared into the streets, and Abraham followed. In the alley, the final gasp of breath signaled an end to Pierre, but none noted his pa.s.sing. Not immediately.

_.

Although he'd acquiesced to Lacroix's insistence that they make their entrance to the cathedral, Noirceuil had no intention of remaining within those walls until the sun rose. He entered, stood patiently by, nodding and affecting the proper deference to the cardinal, and made his exit as swiftly as possible. His needs as far as quarters had been made clear before their arrival. It took only moments to find a servant and order them to show him where he would sleep away the daylight, and less time than that to find another to lead him to a side door and into the streets beyond.

He couldn't brush off a feeling of restlessness. He sensed that their prey was about, the dark one, and possibly others. It was intolerable that Lacroix would have him waste an entire night of the hunt as their prey slunk off behind their backs. The man was weak, and a fool. Both signs of his mortality.

Without a backward glance, Noirceuil pulled his cloak more fully over his dark features and slipped down a side street, moving steadily inward toward the center of the city. He wasn't certain what he sought, but he knew he would not find it in the cathedral. Lacroix could handle the social amenities.

Noirceuil had as much respect for the Church as his partner, but a very great deal more respect for the opposition as well.

Evil walked the Earth. He himself had been tainted...soiled. It was his curse, and only the quest, the tireless struggle to rid the Earth of his own kind, gave him even a moment's release from the torture of it. The hunger boiled through his veins, but he channeled that pain, focusing it inward.

He would feed. It was as inevitable as the sunrise. No matter his prayers, no matter his strength. He would feed. Noirceuil served many masters, but of them the hunger for blood was master.

That was the basis of his pain. He knew he was d.a.m.ned. Nothing he could do would erase the suffering he caused others. No single act could redeem the murder and theft of a man's lifeblood. It didn't matter if he chose a beggar, or a king. It was a life, and he was forced to take them, again and again.

Each time he did, another bit of what he had been died.

The city was waking to its night face. There were those not comfortable, or safe, moving about by day who would slide from the cracks at each nightfall.

These lined the streets, leaned against the stark, shadowed doorframes, gathered in the entrances of taverns and other dark houses.

The shops were closed. The families, children, well-dressed ladies, all in their beds, or the beds of others. Noirceuil prowled these streets unnoticed.

He spoke to no one, and most never even noted his pa.s.sing, or, if they did, they saw him turning in ways he did not, taking paths he ignored. His image was uncertain, there one moment, then seeming to turn away...and yet he moved in a steady line.

He was close enough to the main streets that there was little threat of attack, but far enough in the shadows to avoid the main traffic of the night folk. He avoided the sounds of the bars, turned from the revelry of the wh.o.r.ehouses. They would not hold what he sought. He moved further in, finding the buildings growing steadily older, more corrupt and decayed, the sounds and movements of those awake and alive more scattered.The scent of blood hit him very suddenly, and he stopped, tottering in his tracks, fighting the sudden wave of hunger, cursing himself for a fool in waiting too long to feed with such an abundance of humanity surrounding him. He calmed himself slowly, fighting the madness...

suppressing it. He would not succ.u.mb to it.

Slowly his mind calmed. He did not turn toward the scent of blood, not yet. It was old, cooling, and though it would have sufficed, it was not what he needed. It might well be the trail he sought, but he needed to feed before that would be possible. With a sudden leap he was on the first landing of the nearest building, not looking back to see who might have noted his pa.s.sing, and a second swift movement took him over the ledge of the rooftop.

He moved so swiftly that one watching might have believed him an illusion, there one second, gone the next, to reappear atop the next building.

He did not go far. These were old buildings, dilapidated, but still tenanted, and it was not long before he found what he sought, a balcony, just below the level of the rooftop, and an old woman, alone, sitting in her chair and watching the empty streets below. She did not look up as he approached, and he watched her for a long moment, the old war beginning anew in his heart, raging through his veins and melting in the fire of his hunger.

He listened carefully, stilling his senses. There was no movement below, no sign that there was any other in the small room beyond the balcony. She was alone, or if not, the others slept.

He did not hesitate further. It was a life, but if she were a good woman, she would go to eternal glory, a gift forever denied him. If she were not, she had little of her life left to remedy that, and in any case, his work must continue. There was no other the Church could turn to, no other who could survive, who could hunt the blood-sucking demons and bring them to judgment. It was one life; an old life, nearing its end.

Noirceuil dropped to the balcony with the softness of a falling leaf, and though he did not speak, he saw her stiffen. The woman did not turn, but he heard her heart speed, and knew that she sensed his presence, and his approach. Still he did not hesitate; there was nothing she could do.

"So," the woman said, still gazing out over the street below, voice wavering slightly, but strong, "it is true. You come for me in the night, like a shadow, dragging me from this world of pain. I have been waiting for you a long time, monsieur."

He did not immediately understand, but he slowed his steps, listening.

"I will not look upon you yet," she said, rocking gently in her old chair. "I know that is the moment of my end, and though I am prepared for it, I will not leap to your arms, even for the promise of a better world. I will savor my last moments, sir, drink them in like the wine from the market, soft, sweet, warm, and I will await your cold touch on my shoulder."

He knew then. She had recognized him after all, though her mind had painted a more romantic picture than reality would provide.

Death. She knew him as the angel of her death, and it was a bittersweet moment. An angel...the only angel he would ever be, the only glory he would ever achieve. Only in bringing death was he proficient and pure.

He moved closer still, but hesitated. "Old mother," he said, guessing of her children, "each lives only a certain allotted time. Yours is done, and yet you will be of service to your Lord, and should be glad."

She nearly turned at the sudden sound of his voice, then settled with a shiver. "I will be glad for the days in the sunlight, and the sound of my daughter's voice. I will remember with pride the things I have done, and those I have helped, and for those who have done me wrong, I will leave forgiveness. I will not be glad for death until I reach the other side and determine the truth of the promise made."

He watched her a moment longer, then the hunger boiled up suddenly, fueled by the reminder of that promise. It was a promise made him as a boy, a boy who had lit candles on the altar of the church each Sunday and sung the hymns with a voice of pure silver. A promise that had been ripped from him cruelly, replaced by a curse.

He fell on her then, clamping onto her wrinkled flesh, fangs biting, driving in deep, hands pressing her forward to hold her still. She cried out softly, once, and then was still, shivering against him, then pressing back, reaching to that d.a.m.ned, dark light that had called to him so long before, and claimed him. He felt it seducing her, felt it drawing her from him even as he drew the life from her veins. He cried out, pulling free, letting her slump against the short wall of the balcony. With a quick flick of his wrists, he flung her over, watching as she tumbled toward the street below, finishing what he'd begun.

He would never Embrace another. He would never pa.s.s the curse, but would spend his existence putting it to an end. Turning from the balcony, putting thoughts of the strange old woman and her words from his mind as he climbed swiftly back to the roof and returned the way he'd come, carefully wiping the blood from his lips.

He dropped back to the street, glanced up and down and saw no one.

The scent of the blood was still there, but much fainter. It had cooled completely.

There was no life in it, no sentience moving it about.

He found the mouth of the alley and slipped inside.

The mound of flesh that had been Pierre immediately caught his eye and he moved closer, flipping the body over to its back with one boot.

There were no marks, but he had already sensed the truth.

Turning, he let his eyes scan the alley, sweeping the walls, the ground, searching for anything to lead him after the one who had drained the body. There was nothing; nothing, but a faint tingle shivered deep within his mind. He slipped back to the street and away, moving toward the nearest lights. As he neared the first corner he stopped very suddenly.

A single bright red drop glistened on the road at his feet. He leaned, taking that drop on the tip of one fingernail, bringing it to his lips. The same. He moved down the road more quickly, following the scent and trail of death. There were several hours remaining to the night, and the hunt was on.

TEN.