It won't be much longer. Watch their eyes. They are communicating among themselves. Can Frey understand what they're saying?
Frey must have answered in the negative because Vlad is shaking his head.
Unfortunate that there is not communication among shifters as there is among vampires. Frey has no knowledge of the language they're speaking.
I sigh. Vampires think communication is like Esperanto . . . universal to all.
Vlad continues, But Frey did say the timbre of the conversation is becoming heated. I don't think it will be long now.
Vlad is right. The spokesmen for the group steps forward once again.
"We do not know what plan Steffan had for us. But one unusual thing transpired tonight that we will share with you as a token of our goodwill. One of our ranks, Louis Archambault, disappeared shortly after you . . ." He clears his throat, starts again. "After the unfortunate scene with Steffan."
"Disappeared?" Vlad's tone is sharp.
"We were all transfixed, as you might imagine, by what was taking place in front of us. When it was over, we noticed that Archambault was gone. None of us saw him leave nor did he tell us where he was going." He looks away, almost as if afraid to continue, but feels he must. "We thought he was overcome by the brutality. It may indeed be the case."
Vlad ignores the knife-sharp accusation. "Where does Archambault live?"
"Near Paris. Asnières-sur-Seine." He rattles off a street address.
"If he took a car," I say to Vlad, "we could beat him cross-country."
Vlad crosses to the door and, opening it, calls to his guard. He snaps something in French and the guard disappears, to return an eye blink later. His answer brings a smile to Vlad's lips.
"His car is gone."
Frey addresses himself to the shifters. "What form does Archambault take?"
"Bear," the spokesman answers.
Frey's expression is almost blissful as he looks at me. "A challenge. It's been a long time."
"No, Frey," I snap back at him. "It's too dangerous. You can't come."
But Frey has already retreated to a corner behind the bar. We hear rustling and I know he's stripping off his clothes in preparation for making the change.
I sigh. Unless I'm prepared to hog-tie him, arguing with Frey when he's made up his mind is useless.
Vlad is waving a hand to dismiss the shifters when I stop him. There is still one more piece of the puzzle to snap in place.
"Did something happen tonight between Archambault and Steffan?" I ask. "Did Steffan borrow something of Archambault's maybe or-?"
One of the younger of the shifters speaks up for the first time. He looks to his friends. "The tie?"
"Tie?" I say encouragingly. "What happened with the tie?"
His face reddens. "It seems Steffan liked Archambault's tie better than the one he was wearing. He asked if they might trade. At the time we all laughed, it seemed silly. But the two did trade. And Steffan put Archambault's tie on immediately."
I nod to Vlad. He waves the shifters off and they waste no time beating a hasty retreat back to the party.
"Well, at least we have more than suspicion. Even if Steffan's leap to Archambault was unsuccessful, he was planning on trying it if things didn't go his way."
I pause as another thought strikes me. "Which means Steffan must have suspected you might show up tonight."
Vlad shrugs. "Ours is a tight-knit community. There are those whose allegiance to me is strong. Word can and does pass both ways."
"And was it Chael who told you of Steffan's plan?" I speak the words without giving them conscious thought. Chael played a major role in getting me here. And his cryptic words in the car about history to be made all make sense now.
"Chael is a friend," Vlad replies.
He says nothing more.
The rustling in the corner stops. Frey emerges, a sleek black panther, and flashes us a green-eyed greeting-a growl emanating from deep within his chest.
He pushes against my legs until my hand lies on the top of his head.
Vlad watches, a smile touching the corner of his lips. "I may have been wrong about your panther," he says. "He is not so biddable as I thought."
Frey snaps in Vlad's direction and I swear, I see him smile.
Vlad looks down at himself, then over to me. We are not so fortunate as your cat. We cannot shed our human forms, but we can shed these clothes. Steffan has a gymnasium in the house, which means he must have something we can use to make our travels more comfortable. Come.
Once again Frey and I follow Vlad through another door and up a staircase to the second floor. Frey bounds up the stairs with feline grace. Every time I see him in this form I'm amazed at the powerful muscles that ripple under midnight black fur. He is beautiful. My heart races. And mortal. I will protect him at all costs tonight.
The "gymnasium," as Vlad called it, is in fact an exercise room: recumbent bike, free weights, a treadmill. Attached is a shower room and then another door that leads into what I guess is Steffan's bedroom.
Not what I would have imagined a "king's bedchamber" to be. It is spartan. A plain bed of rustic wood, a huge armoire with simple lines, a writing desk. And yet, a search of the closet and armoire yields Steffan's clothes, finely tailored suits, slacks, silk shirts of the palest hues. In a drawer, we finally find what we are looking for. Sweatpants and shirts, sports shoes.
Vlad hands me a sweatshirt and pants, a pair of socks and a pair of Steffan's shoes. They may be too big, he says, although I have found American women to have surprisingly large feet.
I would object but for the fact that Steffan's shoes look to be a pretty good fit. I head back for the shower room to change. As I shut the door, I see Frey take up position in front of the door and it brings a smile.
When I've changed, I lay the dress Steffan bought for me on the bed, reflecting that I never thanked him for the gift.
A moot point now.
CHAPTER 24
VLAD, FREY AND I LEAVE THROUGH A BACK ENTRANCE. THE HOUSE BEING PERCHED ON THE TOP of the hill makes the first part of our journey effortless. Downhill all the way, we easily pace each other, panther and vampire. Vlad is our guide. He knows the countryside, and once we reach the main highway to Paris, he keeps us to underbrush when we can find it or out-of-the-way back roads when we can't. An auto trip of five hundred miles takes about eight hours. We should make it in three.
Vlad and I exchange very little communication during our race. He once comments that I have remarkable stamina for a new vampire. That gets a chortling snort from Frey and no comment at all from me.
The countryside goes by in a blur. I can't distinguish village from town from city. It's still dead of night and at our speed, even farmland and gently rising hillock flow under our feet and paws like a smooth river. The star-dazzled clear sky above is a Milky-Way smudge. It's a most wonderful feeling-as close to flying as an earthbound, flesh-and-blood being is likely to get.
My worry that Frey would be unable to keep up with us is unfounded. He sometimes bounds ahead like a frisky puppy off the leash and I realize we, he and I, need to make sure we set ourselves free like this on a regular basis.
It's almost as satisfying as sex.
Then you must not be doing it right.
Vlad. Impertinent and insolent as ever.
Keep out of my head.
I can't help it. You American women think such delicious thoughts. Like children, whatever pops in your mind, you express.
My mind, Vlad. My mind. You don't find me violating your privacy.
He chuckles. You should. Oh, the things I could teach you. Frey would thank me.
Frey would chew you up.
So provincial. Wait until you've been around as long as I have. Morality becomes an archaic concept.
And love? Does that become an archaic concept as well?
No reply. Vlad turns his thoughts off like a curtain coming down. Good.
We're approaching the outskirts of Paris. Vlad stops and Frey and I gather near him.
"Archambault lives in a northwestern suburb of Paris. Rue de Château is a main street. We have beat him by many hours. We will go directly to the address. We can rest there and wait for him to show up."
Frey presses against my legs and I scratch the top of his head. An act that sets Vlad to laughing.
"A girl and her pet," he snorts.
Frey raises a paw and growls a retort.
* * *
ARCHAMBAULT'S HOME TURNS OUT TO BE A BIG VILLA on a street studded with them. It is approaching three in the morning yet there are lights on inside. We can only guess that he must have called ahead to let someone know he was returning-perhaps a servant. Or a wife. I realize we should have asked for more particulars about his household.
Too late now.
The house has a huge walled garden in the rear. Frey bounds over the fence easily. In a moment, he is back, taking my hand in his mouth to pull me toward the yard.
"I think it's clear," I tell Vlad.
Frey is gone again, clearing the six-foot-plus wall in one graceful leap. I follow, Vlad close behind. We alight in a garden, newly planted along one wall, centered by a stretch of green lawn, bordered on two other sides by flowers and what look like fruit trees. Nothing much in the way of shelter. But Frey has already found a place between the greenery of some big, flowering vines and a cherry tree. He lays down and looks up at me. I snuggle next to him, my head on his chest. He nuzzles the top of my head before letting his body relax. His breathing becomes deep and regular, his heartbeat slows. In a moment, he is asleep.