Page 44 of The Assassin and the Libertine
“Daphne, you know I’m one for a fair tipple most of the time, but if you’re sleeping in your wine cellar, it occurs to me that you may have a drinking problem.” She sat on the bed and leaned against the pillows. “Although thisisdamned comfortable.”
I handed her a dusty bottle of champagne and she popped the cork with practiced efficiency. She took a swig from the bottle and passed it back to me as I sat down next to her.
“It’s a long story,” I said. I drank deeply. “Tell me, Charlotte, do you believe in ghosts? Demons? Otherwordly apparitions?”
“Of course I do,” she said earnestly. “I believe in everything.” She chugged a good deal of champagne and burped, then laughed at her own rudeness.
“Do you think it is possible to kill them?” I asked.
“Probably. Everything dies eventually. I assume demons and spirits do, too. Why?”
“I think Henri is alive. Or un-alive. Or he’s a ghost. He exists, somehow.” I took the bottle back from her and drank again.
“What, like a vampire?”
“I don’t think so. More like a phantom.”
She snorted. “Figures. He was so much of a fiend that even Satan didn’t want him in Hell.”
“I’m serious,” I insisted.
She peered at me curiously. “Well, I don’t think you kill a ghost,chérie.I believe they need to be crossed over. Demons certainly must be exorcised. Vampires need to be staked, and I’m fairly certain I’ve heard werewolves need to be killed with silver—somehow. Have you spoken to a priest?”
“No. I’m worried they’ll think me mad, or a witch. I don’t know who else to talk to.”
She drained the last of the bottle and stood to choose another one from a rack on the wall.
“You know, if you’re really interested in things supernatural, there isoneperson you could ask,” she offered.
Her sing-song tone told me she was thinking of Étienne. I cringed inwardly. Since our night of passion, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking of him. I couldn’t settle my mind on what exactly had gone wrong. One minute, I was enjoying the most passionate time of my life, and the next, Étienne had completely shut down—gone cold. I was distraught that he thought I would so easily go back to being his enemy after everything we’d shared. Clearly, the connection I felt had not been mutual.
Even when I wrote to him inquiring about our investigation, his correspondence was taciturn and monosyllabic—as if I was inconveniencing him with every missive.Had he heard from the jeweler?No. Was Josephine well?Yes. Had anyone seen Brigitte?No.What should we do next about the sudden and unnatural appearance of my evil husband, and how was he connected to Jeanne? Did the jars of objects in the basement mean Brigitte was dead? And what of the gaming piece from the casino?
No reply. Every night I waited, either for Étienne to appear at my doorstep or for some foul wind bearing Henri’s cruel voice to blow through my home. I needed to find out what was going on. WhatwasHenri? How was he back? Was he dead or not? Was he alone responsible for Jeanne’s death? If so, why? What did he have to gain? If he was working with someone else—someone who had a more intimate understanding of things supernatural, who was it? Why murder the king’s mistress? And if Henri was back and taking part in some kind of nefarious plot or revenge scheme, why hadn’t he come after me?
I found myself frustratingly desperate to speak to Étienne. I wanted to figure things out with him, but his silence and sudden indifference made my head spin even worse than my ceaseless questions about our investigation. Plus, as much as I didn’t want to admit, I wanted some kind of reassurance that I hadn’tacted like a complete fool with him. It appeared that was not an affirmation I was likely to get.
In hindsight, I reasoned that I must have ended up as one of his short-lived conquests after all—the very thing I’d been trying to avoid. I felt completely humiliated. To have behaved so wantonly, allowing myself to be touched by his dark powers and practically begging him to make love to me… I couldn’t believe I’d let it happen. When my final message went unanswered, I cried a river of bitter shame and chalked my behavior up to the vulnerability I felt after such a horrifying evening. I’d learned the hard way that the rumors had indeed been true—he was a reckless libertine who used women for one thing or another. I was lucky to get out from under him when I could. If he didn’t want to work with me to figure out our predicament, I would carry on alone. I didn’t need The Order’s help and I certainly didn’t need Étienne de Noailles.
“I don’t think so. Just because he is a vampire doesn’t mean he knows about everything supernatural.”
Charlotte pulled the cork from the bottle and sniffed it. She nodded to herself and sipped the dark burgundy liquid.
“He’s the supernatural emissary to the king, Daphne. Ifhedoesn’t know about whatever metaphysical mystery you’re dealing with, he probably knowssomeonewho does.”
“Perhaps he does. I’d much rather do it on my own. After all, if someone is going to get to the bottom of Henri’s schemes, it will be me. He made my life miserable before he left, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him make my life a misery again. No…ghost, demon, monster, or plain old murderer, I’m going to see that his reign of terror finds an end,” I muttered.
“So, you will not ask Étienne for help?” Charlotte inquired, offering me the bottle.
“Certainly not,” I huffed.
She leaned in close to my face and stared into my eyes. I backed away, alarmed.
“What?”
“I knew it! You slept with him! Of course you did! I’m so proud of you. What was it like? Was he as masterful as everyone says? Come now, you must tell me everything.”
I almost denied it, but the champagne and Charlotte’s comforting presence unlocked something within me. A tear slipped down my cheek and I sniffed.
