“I’m looking for a place to pass the night. Possibly two. Have you room?”
“Aye. If you’ve coin.”
“I do.” I pull two from the purse at my waist and hold them out to him.
The wariness leaves his eyes as he plucks the coins from my fingers. “Would you like some supper as well?”
“I would, thank you.”
After a satisfying meal in the common room, I retire to my chamber, fully expecting to drop into sleep like a stone into a river. But instead, I toss and turn restlessly.
It is not, I tell myself, because I miss the hellequin.
The next morning I am up early, grab some bread and cheese from the common room, then venture out into the streets of Guérande. They are much busier now, with people scurrying everywhere about their business. It is easy enough to blend in with the crowd. I pause and admire a ribbon seller’s wares, pretend to consider purchasing one of the scrawny chickens at the market, but all the while I am forming a map of the city in my mind. The cathedral acts as my true north as I get a feel for the streets of the city and the gates that they lead to. When all of that is firmly fixed in my mind, I make my way to the palace and spend the rest of the day committing the entrances, the exits, and the comings and goings of the sentries to memory. I will return tonight, under the cloak of darkness, and do what must be done.
Back at the inn, I have an early supper, then retire to my room and wait. When it is three hours after nightfall, I carefully arm myself with every weapon I possess, slip the vials of poison into the pouch at my waist, and sling my quiver over my shoulder. I carry it lower than is comfortable, but this way it will be hidden by my cloak.
As I make my way down the narrow staircase, I realize that the common room is quiet—unnaturally quiet. I lighten my footsteps on the stairs to make as little noise as possible and draw one of the knives from its sheath. When I reach the landing, I slowly ease into the main room.
The innkeeper is holding a blacksmith’s hammer and scowling at the front door. Following his gaze, I see a tall, darkly cloaked figure glaring back, the reek of the Underworld rolling off him like a mist from the sea and filling the entire room with darkness and foreboding.
I blink, wondering briefly if hellequin can be summoned merely by allowing oneself to think of them.
“Let me through.” Balthazaar’s voice is deep and low and altogether threatening.
“You’re not coming into my establishment.” The innkeeper makes the sign of the cross with his right hand. He holds the handle of the hammer in a loose grip with his other hand and hefts it over his shoulder.
Muttering an oath, I shove my knife back in its sheath and hurry forward, my mind scrambling for some way I can pour oil on these troubled waters. “My lord?” I make my voice young and light and breathless. “I told you I would come to you.” I am hardly even aware of what I am babbling, I know only that I must create some distraction that will keep these two from coming to blows.
Slowly taking his gaze from the bristling innkeeper, Balthazaar looks at me, an entire thunderstorm of emotion roiling in his eyes. I glance nervously around us, then lower my voice, as if ashamed. “I . . . I did not wish to meet you here. In front of others, my lord,” I whisper. As I drop my gaze and pick at my skirt, I see a look of understanding—and disgust—flare in the innkeeper’s face, but the tension across his shoulders lessens somewhat and he lowers the hammer a fraction of an inch.
“You know this man?”
“Oh, yes!” I step forward to subtly insert myself between the two men. Giddy—I would be giddy if I were meeting a lover. I stare up at Balthazaar with open admiration. If I did not think that the blacksmith’s life hung in the balance, I’m fairly certain I would sicken myself. “I am ready to leave, my lord.”
He stares down and blinks, his dark eyes unreadable. He nods once, grabs my arm, then hauls me toward the door.
I link my arm through his and snuggle up against him so that it will look more like he is escorting me and less like he is hauling me off to be ravished or dragged to the Underworld. “I will be back shortly,” I call to the innkeeper.
“We lock the doors at the third bell and do not open them again till morning. If you’re not back by then, do not bother.”
“Thank you! I will be back before the third bell rings.” And then we are at the door. Balthazaar flings it open, shoves me out into the night, and shuts it behind us. Before I can berate him for creating such a scene, he presses me up against the wall, lowers his head, and captures my lips with his.
The force of it fair steals my breath and for a moment, I can do nothing but stand there and reel. Taking advantage of my inaction, he wraps his arm around me, pulling me closer, as if even the small space between us is too much. Luckily, the movement brings me back to my senses, and I—less forcefully than I should—shove him away. “What are you doing here?”
He stares down at me, and I must force myself to look away for fear I will lose myself in that gaze once again. “Were you not acting my lover just then?”
I glance around to see if anyone has witnessed our display. Luckily, we are alone in the courtyard, most likely because his enormous black stallion is tossing his head and pawing at the ground like the creature from the Underworld he is. “Yes, you lummox, but only so you and the innkeeper would not come to blows. Now, get off me. I have work to do.” I want to ask him why he left me and where he went, but refuse to let those questions pass my lips. Lips that still feel the press of his upon them.
“I finished my work in Nantes,” he says.
My head snaps up and I half fear he has read my mind.
“That is what I am doing here.”
I push away from the wall. “What business did you have in Nantes?”
“A new hellequin has been sworn to our service.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Because lies fall as easily from his lips as ripe fruit from a tree, I press further. “What sins is he seeking redemption from?”
“He was overcome with lust for his own sister, and yet died trying to protect her. In his moment of death, he begged for a chance to redeem himself, and so it has been granted.”
“So that is why you left with not so much as a by-your-leave.”
His voice softens. “I said goodbye.”
So. That was no dream, then. I study him suspiciously. “You left not even knowing if my sight had returned.”
“But it had.”