Darkness In The Flames (76 page)

“I don’t know.” Rowan closed his eyes. “To think what she suffered. To even begin to imagine the horrors, her pain, her anguish—I don’t know, Marcus. My heart is bleeding for her, my soul writhing with hers.” He opened his eyes again and turned to his friend. “I love her so much. I would have spared her this if I could. I would tear those fiends apart with my bare hands had I the chance.”

Marcus reached for him, stroking his chest soothingly. “As would I. As would we all. It explains so much too. Her years of taking men, toying with them, killing them without compunction at her whim. Feeding from them. Occasionally turning them into what she herself had become.”

“She’s nearing her end, I think.” Rowan spoke idly but it dawned on him that perhaps that was more than a supposition. “She’s not aging as we understand it, but perhaps her limits are approaching.” He shrugged. “’Tis just a notion.”

“It would explain a few things. The changes in her behavior, which you’ve all mentioned now and again. Her injuries from Sidney’s holy water, the fact that she appeared to me without summoning me. Her powers may be weakening. Yet I would not underestimate her, Rowan…”

“No, I do not. Even though I ache for her, in every fiber of my body. Even though I would willingly die for her if it would lessen the burdens she carries. Can you imagine, Marcus?” He reached out and clasped his friend’s hand, holding it tightly against his chest. “Can you imagine how it must be to spend centuries with that kind of horror buried and festering in one’s soul?”

Marcus shook his head. “No. ‘Tis beyond my abilities to comprehend.”

“Mine too.” He shook his head. “And still I love her.”

“Perhaps you see the woman she once was, Rowan. You saw past the horror and the anguish, past the desire for revenge. You fell in love with the spirited girl who refused to submit to outrageous charges. Who protested her innocence, rightly or wrongly, with a strength of character I cannot help but admire, even now—even knowing what she is and what she’s done to you all.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. I can’t even describe what love is, anymore.”

“You don’t need to put it into words.
I
know.” Marcus lifted their joined hands and brushed them across his cheek. “I’ve found one kind of love with you, Rowan. A kind that has become a friendship I value above all others. And you’ve found a love with Thérèse that goes beyond the normal definition of love. Nothing she’s done, nothing she
could
do, would change that love. And now that you know why she is the way she is—you love her even more.”

A shudder racked Rowan’s chest as he bit back a sob. “I weep for her, Marcus. I want to kill something or someone for her. I want to make the pain go away for her. And for me.”

Marcus gathered Rowan close, a touching of warm skin to cool flesh that broke the dam inside Rowan’s heart. He cried then, a welling of emotions too great to be held back any longer.

Safe in Marcus’ arms, Rowan let his feelings release themselves in shattering sobs, an eruption of everything he’d held in check while listening to the atrocities committed against the woman he loved.

He cried for the pain she’d suffered, the agonies inflicted upon her body. He cried for the frustrations she’d experienced knowing she was innocent and yet unable to persuade anybody of that fact.

And he cried for her loss—the terrible grief she must have endured in those long moments when she held the body of her little sister lifeless in her arms.

When he could cry no more, Marcus held him even closer. “’Tis good to release it, Rowan. To move on from this, to remember this but not to dwell on it. We must use this information, this new picture we have of Thérèse.”

Weakly, Rowan nodded.

“Perhaps Sir Sidney will have some suggestions after what he’s learned. I have great faith in his perceptions. And I think even you can now agree that to end her torment would not be unkind.”

A great sigh left Rowan’s lungs. “That knowledge both pains me and sustains me. You’re right. She cannot go on like this. She cannot be allowed to wither and disintegrate still suffering as she does. It’s not…” He paused, at a loss for words.

“Human?”

Wryly, Rowan’s lips curved in the ghost of a smile. “Odd word to use given the circumstance, but apt I think.” He yawned.

“Rest now, my friend. Leave it all for a little while. Refresh yourself and let your thoughts settle. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

Rowan surrendered to the darkness and shadows of his daily little death, knowing even as he slipped deeper that he was safe with Marcus. His torment would cease as he slept.

He wondered, with his last waking moments, if Thérèse ever knew such relief.

*~*~*~*

“You old
devil
!” Sidney sat bolt upright in bed, regardless of the fact he’d tossed and turned for hours, only to finally grab less rest than his body needed.

He was right, dammit. He
knew
he was right.

Being mortal, Sidney’s bones ached with weariness, but in spite of that, he had not found ease in slumber. His mind had refused to let go of the situation, twisting it this way and that in his thoughts until he was as weary in his head as he was in the rest of him.

All his ponderings led back toward one theory. One possible explanation that seemed to stand out head and shoulders above the others. He’d begun by condensing the emotional story down to its fundamental elements, much as he reduced substances to their basic constituents.

Setting the horror aside, setting the sexual abuse and tragedy aside, he was left with one question—who was the old crone?

He replayed her words over and over, led inexorably to one conclusion.

It had been
Saint Chesswell
who had betrayed her. His very own saint, a cleric revered by so many—a vision who had done his best to save Sidney’s life and steer them along a path that would defeat Thérèse.

Had he done so out of a selfish desire to suppress the truth of his own involvement? Or had he done so out of a genuine desire to end this period of horror he may have inadvertently begun? And had he lied to Sidney during that momentary vision when he’d sworn he’d not touched Thérèse?

Probably not. He’d never
known
Thérèse. He might, however, have known her predecessor. Was it this woman Saint Chesswell had referred to? He’d flat out denied ever fucking her.

Did saints lie?
Could
saints lie without being de-sainted or something?

Sidney sighed. He needed information he just did
not
have and it was very frustrating to his fundamentally ordered mind. In his neat way, his thoughts skirted around the issue, trying to view it from a new perspective, search for concepts or ideas that might have eluded him, or discover some element he’d overlooked.

And sure enough, there
was
one.

He eased himself from his bed. The
book
—the book he’d found after St. Chesswell had appeared to him—the one with the clue about unmaking the
maker
. Why he’d never thought of deciphering some of the other material, Sidney had no idea. But then again, he forgave himself. There
had
been quite a bit going on recently.

It was still where he’d left it, on the desk in his study. Awkwardly struggling into his robe, Sidney grabbed his cane and made his way downstairs. Perhaps there was more in that book than he’d realized. He’d never even figured out who’d written the darn thing, let alone what else was contained in its texts.

He shook his head at himself. It was unlike him to overlook something that could be of vital import, but next to the experiments on his family’s blood samples, the urgency with which he pursued a “cure” of sorts for their vampirism—well, there were only so many hours in a day and he was just one man.

And a man who relished his new son—just being surrounded by the family he’d never imagined he could have. So many changes wrought in his life…it was no wonder one or two things had slipped past him.

With a renewed sense of urgency, Sidney recovered the ancient tome, placing it carefully on his desk. And then he sat down to read.

Not too far away from the old man and his studies a sword hung on a wall—and began to glow.

*~*~*~*

Cheverly was lighting the lamps as Adrian and Katherine walked in to the parlor, followed by Nick and Verity. Rowan and Marcus were already there, quietly chatting about inconsequential matters far from what really occupied their thoughts.

Marcus glanced at the couples as they entered, quickly realizing they’d fed from each other. He knew enough now to tell that the slight flush on their skin, the energy radiating from them and the closeness between them indicated an exchange of passion—and blood.

He understood. They’d needed each other’s comfort as much as Rowan had needed his. Perhaps they too had awoken close to each other, nestled in arms that clung desperately, as Rowan had clung to Marcus.

His heart ached for them all, for this new knowledge of pain and suffering that had altered so much of what they’d lived with—perceptions, beliefs, even the anger that may well have sustained them for some time. Rowan had awoken slowly then jerked—once.

It was at that moment Marcus knew the recollections of Thérèse and their previous night’s experiences flooded back into his mind. They’d never really left Marcus’ thoughts—even his dreams had been troubled.

He’d heard distant screams, even waking several times to listen and assure himself they were not real. He lived with the knowledge that his days were numbered. He even lived with some pain and discomfort from time to time. He certainly experienced exhaustion to a greater degree than was expected for a man his age.

But Marcus could not begin to imagine what Thérèse had suffered. Nor could he imagine Rowan’s agony at hearing such things about the woman he loved to the edge of madness and beyond.

Thus he kept their conversation light and undemanding, letting his friend dictate the paths of their discourse. If Rowan needed a shoulder, Marcus was there. If he needed to discuss the weather, then that was acceptable too.

It was all Marcus could offer—friendship and a steadfast commitment to do whatever he could to help. As the others settled themselves, Marcus knew that commitment now went further than just Rowan.

He
liked
Adrian and his wife. He
liked
Nick and Verity as well. He was becoming most fond of Sir Sidney Chesswell—developing a profound respect for the older man’s intelligence and vast storehouse of knowledge.

It would seem that in spite of his reclusive habits and detached emotional state, Marcus Camberley had found himself friends—possibly even a family. One that he would find it hard to leave when his time came.

Of course, that presupposed they’d all survive what lay ahead.

“It’s…
different
today, isn’t it?” Katherine spoke quietly, smoothing her skirts with an absent motion that told Marcus her thoughts were not on her wardrobe.

Nick nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.” He glanced up as the door opened to admit Sir Sidney.

Beneath Sidney’s arm was a large book, a very old one by the looks of the bindings. Adrian quickly rose and relieved his father of the burden, helping him to his customary chair and making sure he was comfortable.

“Well, I’m glad you’re all here.” Sidney nodded his thanks. “I need a cup of tea. No, wait. Make that brandy.” He grinned at Adrian. “While you slept, I worked. I think I’ve earned a sip or two.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes as he poured the requested liquor. “You have a look about you, Father. You’re on to something, aren’t you?”

“Sir Sidney?” Rowan leaned forward. “Is he correct? Have you discovered something?”

“Patience, lad.” Sidney took an appreciative sip of brandy. “Ahh. Better.” He put down the glass and picked up the old book. “Now, let me see here…”

Marcus could sense the anticipation rising within the room like a breath that suddenly becomes a gasp instead of a sigh. And when Rowan’s hand touched his in a brief gesture of excitement, Marcus knew his friend felt it too.

Sidney arranged the book comfortably and looked around at the little gathering. “Last night,” he began, “I remembered this book. Adrian knows that it came originally from Saint Chesswell after our first encounter with Thérèse. I know not how he delivered it, or if it was already here waiting for the right moment to make itself known. Honestly, I don’t think that matters. What
is
important is that it’s here—now. And that I was able to decipher some of the other writings, not just the clue Saint Chesswell pointed out to me.”

“I remember the clue.” Verity nodded. “I never thought to ask more about the book, though.”

“Neither did I.” Sidney sounded rueful. “But in my own defense, I did have a few other matters to occupy my thoughts.”

They all smiled in agreement, smiles that varied from warm to thoughtful. Marcus knew his own lips curved as he considered the “other matters” sitting across from him. Sidney would always put his family first. He must have labored for many long hours to develop the potions he constantly offered to them—combinations of herbs that lessened the urge to feed and strengthened the still-mortal components of their blood.

“However, last night I recalled this book. This grimoire—only it’s not a real grimoire. It’s more of a
memoir
. Saint Chesswell’s memoir.”

Adrian blinked. “Really? Saint Chesswell wrote his own biography?”

“He was a monk, Adrian. He would have had the ability to read and write. And it turns out he was from a fine family too. Well-educated before taking his vows. There was certainly time for him to turn to writing. And his interests…well, they didn’t quite match those of his superiors.”

Katherine nodded. “That, I do remember. He was a bit of a dabbler in the black arts or something, wasn’t he?”

“That’s where it gets interesting.” Sidney flashed an approving glance at her. “Yes, he was—as you so appropriately put it—a bit of a dabbler. But he had good reason. Let me tell you about it.”