So it seemed the GPS was useless, and the French he spoke hadn’t been used in this region for half a millennium or better. He reached out to rest his hand over hers. “Do you know the road to Garbia?”
“Mais oui.” Her expression brightened. “Go this way”—she pointed north—“until you reach the second turn. Then go this way.” She pointed east, but this time her fingers quivered under his, and her breathing grew fast and uneven. “I come with you. I show you. Madame, she not care.”
Korvel eyed the scowl being directed at them from the bar. “Actually I do believe madame will mind.”
“You take me. With you?” She released one more button of her blouse, which exposed the sweat beading between her full breasts. “I want go with you.”
He knew exactly what she wanted, and carefully removed his hand from hers. “You have been quite helpful,” he said as he deliberately shed more of his scent to bring her under his command. “Thank you. You should return to your work now.”
The light vanilla fragrance of larkspur enveloped the two of them as l’attrait caused the waitress’s pupils to dilate.
“Oui.” She backed away, bumping her ample hip into the edge of another table. The pain released her from Korvel’s control, and she clapped a hand over her giggles as she fled toward the kitchen.
Once he pocketed the GPS, Korvel drank the last of the bloodwine and sat back to let it finish its work on him. While he waited, he checked his mobile for messages. Stefan, the senior lieutenant Korvel had assigned to serve in his place during his absence, had texted him a brief status report before Korvel had left Paris. The men had been drilled, the night patrols assigned, and the high lord had retreated to his study for the night.
All was as it should be, as it would have been if Korvel had never departed. It should have reassured him, but it only made the hollow sensation inside him grow.
Since becoming one of the immortal Darkyn, Korvel had served Richard Tremayne as the high lord’s seneschal as well as the captain of his guard. Seven lifetimes he had devoted himself to his duties and honoring the oath he had made to his master. Eight, if one counted his mortal life.
Now it seemed his absence was not even noticed.
“You look sad, monsieur.”
The ethereal little girl who had been sitting with the bickering couple slipped into the empty chair beside his. Confusion filled her eyes, as if she weren’t quite sure why she was speaking to him.
Korvel knew exactly why the child had come to him. She must have been just on the verge of puberty; his ability to influence female mortals never affected the very young. “I am well, thank you.”
“You are a Viking, no?” The girl darted a look over her shoulder. “My maman said you look like one, which made my papa very mad. But I think you are more like the beautiful angels.”
Korvel glanced around the room and saw he had gained the avid attention of the child’s mother and every other female in the place. He’d made a serious error shedding so much scent to influence the waitress, for he had not considered that the cold air outside might have acted as a natural barrier at the ventilation points. His scent saturated the inside air now. If he did not leave at once, all of the women would come over to his table, drawn to him like moths to a burning lantern.
“I must go now and continue my journey.” He managed a smile for the little girl. “Au revoir, my sweet.”
“Take me with you.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Please.”
He could not explain to her that what she felt would disappear as soon as he departed, but he would not see her suffer even a few seconds. “What is your name?”
“Tasha.”
“Tasha.” He touched his hand to the side of her little neck, where the connection of his will to her mind was the strongest. “Go back to your parents. Forget me. Be happy.”
“Go. Forget. Happy.” She turned like a sleepwalker and shuffled away.
Quickly Korvel took out enough euros to pay for a case of wine and dropped them on the table before he rose to his feet. The habits of many lifetimes compelled him to attend to one final detail: the memories of madame and the waitress, who intercepted him at the door.
As they were both already bespelled, he had only to command them. “You will attend to your work and your patrons. Once I am gone, you will forget me. It will be as if I never came here.”
The women spoke in monotone unison. “Attend. Work. Gone.”
Korvel left the restaurant, checking the street to ensure it was empty. As the chill of a dark wind streamed against his coat, he turned his head to look back through the front window and saw the waitress taking an order from an older couple. Madame stood once more behind the counter, her expression no longer as sour as it had been when he had walked into the place. For them he no longer existed; he had never existed.
He envied them.
In all the centuries Korvel had lived since rising from his grave to walk the night, he had never considered his own memory to be anything but useful. Indeed, every bit of knowledge he acquired he carefully added to, stockpiling all he knew like weapons. Now he would gladly empty his head of all of it, if it meant he could forget forever what had been. What would never be.
You’re supposed to love me.
He had put so much practice into banishing Alexandra Keller’s voice from his thoughts that he could silence her in an instant. Her scent, however, still haunted him. But no, what filled his head came on the wind, scoured from acres of blooming lavender. Provençal farmers grew so much of the fragrant herb for the wine and perfume industries that one couldn’t drive a mile without passing one of the vivid amethyst fields.
He walked down the deserted street to the spot where he had parked the gleaming black Audi he had rented in Paris. Most of his kind preferred to travel on horseback rather than by automobile, and many refused to learn how to drive, but the demands of serving his master had forced him to make regular use of modern technology. A horse had to be frequently rested, fed, and watered on a long journey; the car required only brief stops for petrol.
As he took out the keys to the vehicle, Korvel stared at them. As the first Kyn ever to be made seneschal, Korvel had set the standard for all the others, one that had yet to be fully matched. He had personally trained every warrior who had ever served in the high lord’s garrison, and had taught his methods to the captains of other jardins around the world. His unwavering loyalty to the high lord had earned him a spotless reputation as the most trusted and valuable second among all the territories. None would be shocked to learn that he had been sent to France to attend to his master’s wishes and retrieve a priceless artifact before it fell into the wrong hands.
To serve Richard again, this time as his errand boy.
Korvel did not succumb to sudden and bizarre urges; nor did he intend to start. He would never turn his back on his duty to walk into the shadows and disappear into the night. Such a thing would violate his oath and break faith with his master, and his honor forbade him to behave in such a cowardly manner.
But oh, how he wished he could.
As he unlocked the car, he could imagine the keys dropping from his hand to the ground. As he got in and started the engine, the sound of grass brushing against his trousers whispered in his ears. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, he could feel on his skin the fearful silence that would fall over the forest creatures as they witnessed his departure from the world of Kyn and man to enter their peaceful realm.
It would be so simple. So uncomplicated. And there, where no one could command him, the loneliness and despair would do their final work.
“Turn around,” a muffled voice ordered from his pocket.
Korvel removed the GPS, which he had switched off in the restaurant, and tried it again. The screen displayed his current position as being in the middle of nothing. As he reached to reprogram it, the screen blanked.
He swore softly as he shifted the Audi into drive and executed a three-point turn. The faster he reached Garbia and retrieved the scroll, the sooner he could return to the island, and his duties, and the sanity they preserved.
“Do you know what time it is?”
In complete darkness Simone Derien lifted a mass of worn, cream-colored cloth from her washbasin and gently twisted it to wring out the water. “Time to buy new bedsheets. These have so many holes they are turning into lace.”
With the slow but sure steps of a person who could not see in a very familiar space, Flavia Roux came in and sniffed the air, then bent and groped until she touched the clean, damp wash Simone had placed in a basket. “You should be sleeping, child.”
“The wind, and the broken shutter outside Terese’s room, would not allow it.” Simone dropped the sodden sheet onto the top of a basket before drying her hands on the threadbare towel pinned to her skirt. “Just as well. I wanted to get an early start so I can weed the winter vegetables.”
“That is Nichella’s responsibility,” Flavia scolded. “You have taken on enough chores.”
“Nichella hates bugs, and the last time I asked her to pick some potatoes, she brought me morels.” She reached for the clothespin bag hanging over the rust-edged sink and clipped it to her belt. “Besides, I have to pick out a baking pumpkin for you. Father Robere will be here for dinner tomorrow, and you know how much he loves your autumn bread.”
Flavia picked up a basket and followed Simone out to the moonlit yard. “I suspect the wind was not all that drove you from your bed tonight.”
Simone shook out the wrinkles from a pillowcase before she clipped the left corner to the clothesline. “I did try, as you suggested, to count sheep jumping over a fence. They ignored my wishes, stampeded over the pumpkins, and disappeared down the hill. I expect now they are grazing their way through Madame Lambert’s beet patch.”
“Child.”
She smiled down at the petite tyrant whom she had loved all her life. “You worry too much about me, Mother. You know I will sleep when I need it.” She bent and kissed her furrowed brow. “Now go back to bed, and I will see you at breakfast.”