Vivienne refused Balthazar’s offer of a glass of brandy, staring at him with an unreadable expression.
So he drank alone while she paced the study and Lucas watched out the window to make sure they hadn’t been followed back to Mayfair.
“Is he…?” Balthazar let the question dangle in the air.
“Still alive?” Vivienne replied in a hollow voice. “Yes.”
That came as something of a surprise.
“And I presume you can find him?”
She gave a hard nod, then pressed her palms to her eyes. She looked dead on her feet.
“I have to get home,” she said. “I need my scimitar.”
Balthazar knew she’d lost the sword she brought to the Picatrix. He held up the bottle. “Sure you won’t—”
“I don’t want any of your bloody brandy,” Vivienne snarled. “I want….”
“Alec back,” Balthazar said in a soothing tone. “Of course. Where is he?”
Her eyes lost focus and Balthazar knew she was following the thread of their bond.
“Not far … in the direction of the Channel,” she murmured. “It has to be France.”
“No great shock there,” Balthazar said. “We can Travel—”
“I’ll lose him in the Dominion. The bond doesn’t work beyond the veil.” Her head slowly turned. “What do you mean, we?”
“I’m going with you. Mr. Devereaux will come, too.”
Balthazar glanced at Lucas, who nodded.
“Why?” she demanded.
Because I’m not letting you walk into Gabriel’s lair alone.
Because I owe you a debt, though you don’t remember my name and I sorely hope you never do.
Balthazar sighed. “Because I’m not having him after me for all eternity. I’d prefer to be there when you settle it. One way or another.”
Vivienne hesitated, but she was in no position to turn down his offer. “We need to take a ship. It’s the swiftest way.”
“My man can arrange for passage. We’ll hire horses on the other side.”
Lucas let the curtain fall. “I’ll ride down to the docks,” he said curtly, still brooding over Bekker’s escape. “Find out what’s leaving first thing in the morning.”
Which wasn’t far off now. The sky outside was lightening to dawn.
Lucas strode from the study and Vivienne made to follow. Tendrils of hair had sprung loose from her braid. A streak of blood across one dark cheek made her look like some warrior-priestess from ancient Kush. “I have to go home. I need weapons—”
Balthazar smiled.
He led her up to the attic and unlocked a door. Vivienne stared for a long moment.
“This is quite a collection you have, Balthazar.” She strode into the room and surveyed the gleaming array of swords and daggers, curved sabres and nimble rapiers.
“Why is Gabriel punishing you?” Balthazar asked, curious, as he watched her roam the large space, running her hands over the hilts, lifting the blades and testing their weight. “What did you do?”
“I don’t walk to talk about it,” Vivienne snapped.
“All right.” Balthazar chose a katana sword from the wall and examined the edge. “Will you at least tell me how he managed to take your cuff?”
“He drugged me,” she muttered.
“Ah.” That might explain the aversion to brandy.
“D’Ange pretended to be an abbot,” Vivienne admitted. “He was so convincing. He made me like him. Trust him.” She shook her head. The prospect of revenge seemed to be reviving her spirits. “It was a flawless performance until the end. He even spoke English with a Hungarian accent!”
Balthazar gave a mirthless laugh. “That sounds like Gabriel. He specializes in getting to people who can’t be gotten to. And his schemes are often … elaborate. I suppose it keeps him entertained.”
Balthazar thought about Bekker, about the trap he’d laid knowing D’Ange couldn’t resist coming for him. He’d said Gabriel was good as dead.
But that wasn’t quite the same as dead, was it?
Balthazar had a feeling Jorin Bekker would learn the difference soon enough — assuming D’Ange scrounged up yet another of his feline lives and survived Vivienne.
“I always thought all his talk about being chosen by God was … well, I thought Gabriel was a bit insane,” he said to her. “But the sanctus arma didn’t kill him. And I’m not sure what that means.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s not what you think.”
“Perhaps.”
Yet Balthazar had known both men for centuries. Constantin would never be so foolish as to think an ordinary blade would finish Gabriel D’Ange. And if he tried, he’d damned well better succeed.
“There’s one proven method,” she said tightly. “Cleave his head off.”
Balthazar nodded, feeling oddly conflicted. Vivienne’s reticence made it difficult to say who was at fault in the situation. And he wasn’t at all certain the world would be a better place without Gabriel D’Ange. Safer, yes. There were many who would dance on a jig on his grave. But still….
Holy Father, I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought, wishing he’d brought the bottle upstairs with him.
“I doubt even Gabriel could come back from that,” Balthazar agreed softly, replacing the katana in its brackets.
Vivienne lifted her skirts a few inches to strap a stiletto to her ankle. “What does the Church think of him?”
Balthazar laughed. “Oh, they’ve officially disowned him. He can’t be controlled and Rome won’t tolerate that. But he has … sympathizers. Mostly among the lower ranking clergy.”
“The brothers at Saint George’s knew what he was. They went along with it.” She let her skirts fall. “He was after Bekker at the Picatrix?”
Balthazar nodded.
Vivienne’s jaw tightened. “I’d almost admire the bastard if he hadn’t done what he did. But now….” She trailed off.
There was no need to finish the thought.
It was war.