Page 81 of To Vanquish Darkness

He shrugged. “Depends.”

Olivie leaned over the table and lowered her voice. “Amalie, we’re your friends.” Her fingers twitched, but she didn’t move.Neither of them had touched her or come close enough that she could touch them.

Amalie wanted to be angry, but she couldn’t. If it were Olivie in her position, if she’d never come to Normandy and learned the truth about guardians, she wouldn’t have believed it either.

That understanding clarified what information she could share, even if they were friends. “Nothing the Pourfendeurs do will vanquish a vampire, Marcel. They feel pain, but they regenerate.”

Marcel’s eyes narrowed. “Amalie, we’ve killed hundreds?—”

“No.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t work. Not permanently. I saw it with my own eyes.” Amalie watched them both, but couldn’t discern their thoughts. “I have no motivation to lie to you.”

He scoffed. “No motivation? A vampire telling the Slayers that they should stop slaying?”

Amalie swallowed hard. “An excellent point.” She dropped her eyes, searching for some other explanation, but found every argument besides the truth wanting. And she couldn’t tell them that. “There’s a relic.”

“What kind of relic?” Marcel asked.

Amalie looked up. She took the olive branch. “A sword.”

“And you know where it is?”

Amalie pursed her lips. “No, but—” She paused and glanced up, scanning the passersby for stormy eyes and sandy, shoulder length hair. He was there somewhere. “I’m going to find it.”

The server brought their coffee in delicate porcelain cups set on saucers with a small spoon for sugar and cream. He set the croissants in the center of the table, and bits of buttered pastry flaked onto the embroidered tablecloth.

“How?” Marcel picked up his cup and held it in front of his nose, breathing it in.

Amalie’s shoulders tensed. “I need to get back to my family first. Then . . . I have some ideas.”

“Why are you up north?” Olivie broke off one end of her croissant and dipped it in her coffee.

“Someone has an interest in her.” Marcel flicked a glance at Amalie before taking a sip from his cup.

Amalie realized two things at once. Olivie was nearly her same height and she was wearing a cap, and they’d passed a storage closet when they’d entered the café. “Olivie, I need your help. If you’d be willing to give it.”

34

1824 BLOIS, FRANCE

Rachel's footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, her breath coming in quick bursts as she wove through the narrow streets. The city around her buzzed with life despite the gloomy weather—merchants calling out their wares, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, the scent of burgundy stew wafting from homes nearby. She scanned the faces of the people passing by the abbey, searching for any sign of Florent.

She hadn't seen him for six days. Each day she'd woken, reaching for him, only to find the bed cold and empty. That wasn't unusual. He often left early or arrived late, but the fact that he hadn’t come at all niggled at her. Making her desperate enough to trek into town after harvesting green beans since dawn.

Her mind wandered back to the girls at home, and her chest tightened. She'd noticed Maurielle's side-long glances whenever she disappeared into her room at odd hours. She'd noticed the way her sister-in-law held back when she spoke. Things had been tense for weeks now, but she didn’t know how to rewind.

Rachel's heart twisted as she thought back to the night before. She'd been reading a book in the parlor when Bethany had burst in, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I had a baddream," she said. "There was a monster. It was—" She'd paused when she saw Rachel's face, and her eyes had widened.

Rachel had pulled her into her lap, stroking her hair and whispering that it was nothing but a nightmare. That she was safe. But Bethany had wriggled from her grasp, calling out for Maurielle.

The next instant, Maurielle had appeared, her eyes tired but soft. Rachel had looked away as her husband’s wife carried Bethany upstairs and tucked her back into bed, humming the same lullaby their own mother had sung to them when they were children.

Rachel's face burned with shame. She'd been so consumed with her own search for answers that she'd neglected the girls. She'd ignored her brother and his family.

Rachel quickened her pace, her eyes darting from side to side. She had to find Florent. She had to know what he was hiding from her. She needed to be at peace.

Ignoring the questioning glances from a few passersby, Rachel turned down a side street and found herself in a quieter part of the city. The buildings here were older, their stone facades weathered and crumbling. She passed a small chapel with its heavy wooden door ajar, the sound of chanting drifting from within.

Rachel's heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance. Sandy hair. A distinctive gait. She'd know it anywhere. Her breath caught, and a rush of adrenaline washed over her like a wave. It was him. It had to be.

---