The Hunger (43 page)

Her eyes filled. Was she sorry she was about to die? She had lived so many, many years. She was sorry that in all that time, there had been only fleeting moments with John. If she could have made him love her . . . if he had not known what she was . . . if he had not gone after Asharti, or been infected with the Companion. He had come to save her out of his innate sense of honor, even though she had made him into a monster, not because he loved her. You could not make someone love you, at least she couldn’t. She had not made her mother love her or Stephan. She had learned to be fascinating. But love? You could not coerce true love. You had to be worth it.

“Are you ready to meet your maker?”

Asharti’s sneering contralto shocked Beatrix into the present. Asharti stood in the doorway to the cell block, dressed in old gold brocade, high-waisted with a heavy train that fell from the shoulders. Her sandals revealed gilt-painted toenails. She carried a fan, black swirling figures picked out with gilt. She clicked it shut and moved into the light. She had not brought John. Beatrix was half devastated, half relieved. She stared into Asharti’s smug smile and said, “As ready as I can be,” in a voice that was steadier than she felt.

“Into the tumbrel with you.” Asharti motioned to a vampire who unlocked the bars.

Asharti was taking no chances. She added her power to the five pairs of red eyes around her. One of them was Jerry, but he had never spoken to Beatrix after that first night of his return. Beatrix felt herself go numb under the onslaught of power. That was good. They bound her hands with heavy rope, as though that was necessary, and Jerry looped a loose circle of rough hemp around her neck, by which she could be led. In a dream, she moved forward because they wanted her to move forward. She could not feel her bare feet on the stone. The walls wavered around her. Somewhere, Beatrix heard a dull roar of sound. As they wound through the prison the noise grew louder. Now they glided through the Gothic archways of the great hall, and the roar resolved itself into the shouting of a crowd. Asharti’s minions threw the hoods of their cloaks up over their heads. They meant to conceal their red eyes from the crowd, Beatrix thought calmly, from a great distance away. Huge wooden doors swung open on pandemonium.

Lunging faces shouted for her head, or called out that she should be whipped, or made other, more provocative suggestions. Men and women, some with babes in arms, children and doddering old crones, humanity in all its ugly diversity, surged against a thin line of gendarmes and soldiers. The press of smell was overpowering; unwashed bodies, onions and garlic, the acid of urine, the smoke from torches dotting the crowd, all overlaid by the faint sweet scent of rain from the shower that had moved through sometime recently. In the center of this chaos stood a rough cart rocking behind a plunging horse. The boy at his head shouted at him to whoa with an opposite effect. It was a nightmare of violent emotion and flickering light.

A breeze from somewhere made the flame of the torches flap. Beatrix shivered. She wore only her fine gauze night shift. Some of the men’s calls grew more generally lewd. Asharti was going to give them all a show, that was sure. Asharti turned her attention briefly to the chubby Percheron between the traces of the cart. The animal quieted immediately.

One of the vampires leapt into the cart and tugged at her rope. She pulled herself up by grasping the sides. Her rope was tied off to the back of the driver’s bench seat. The vampires ranged themselves around the sides. Asharti walked in front, looking like a queen, as indeed she was in all but name. A drummer with a huge bass drum and a piper struck up a dirge hardly audible over the roar of excitement the crowd let out as the cart moved forward.

Twenty-Three

John could no longer deny the twilight as they cantered through the village of Bagnolet. It must be close on nine o’clock. The clouds were streaked with that molten lava color no one believed in a painting. His mouth was set in a grim line. They had changed horses twice, but still their beasts were lathered. They had done the miles from Meaux at a gallop until the frequency of villages slowed them. Now the outskirts of Paris were before them. The tower of Notre Dame was a black outline against the streaked pink and orange clouds that made the sky seem green.

Pray to God the execution was not scheduled until midnight.

He was well aware that he was probably arranging a reunion of two lovers. He knew Sincai still cared for Beatrix. The Byzantine portrait was certain proof, even if the fact that he was living in her house was not. He was fairly certain Beatrix still loved Sincai. Oh, the man had hurt her. So she hurt him in return. All this talk of an experiment had blinded her to his true feelings for her. But they had been made for each other for seven hundred years.

He would grant fate that Sincai and Beatrix were made for each other. But he would not grant fate her death. When she was free, then he would stand back, and she would rediscover the feelings for Sincai she had been denying all these years. And he, John, would go his way alone, unless Sincai killed him. At that point it would not matter. It all seemed so clear, so inevitable.

John had been trying to keep his strength up for the last hour. Thank God for Sincai’s blood or he would never have made it. The sun had been relentless. Though he had doused his head in a watering trough when they had changed horses at Chateau Thierry, still he was bone-weary. Sincai and Khalenberg seemed tireless. A trail of late laborers wending home crowded the entrance to the Pont de Bagnolet. One swung round to talk to his neighbor. John’s attention had wandered and the laborer’s hoe scraped the shoulder of John’s horse. The creature shrieked and sidled.

“Come on,” Sincai yelled over his shoulder. He and Khalenberg surged over the bridge.

John straightened in his saddle and kicked his horse forward. The beast leapt onto the stone bridge. The horse still had strength. The problem was John. He had to be there when they reached Beatrix. Sincai and Khalenberg might be so intent on killing made vampires they would miss the chance to save her. And they might be old, but he had spent his life in surreptitious action. He swallowed and decided.
Companion, give me enough strength to do what must be done
, he thought. Instantly a thrill of power glowed along his veins. The outlines of the small neat houses of Bagnolet lining the lane sharpened. He could smell the green and the rot of the huge cemetery of Père Lachaise off to his right, his own sweat, the leather of the saddle, the hot animal scent of horse. Dinners were being made in the houses around him. Onions and garlic cooked in butter. He took a long breath, feeling the
strength come back to his aching body. Then the aches themselves faded.
Thank you
, he sighed internally.
Thank you for your gift
.

They galloped into the outskirts of Paris on the Rue de Bagnolet. The infernal carts and drays that had blocked their way turned to carriages. There were too many people on the streets for the hour. Everyone was hurrying, on foot, in carts and carriages, toward central Paris.

Sincai drew up. Khalenberg wheeled and came back when he saw Sincai drop behind.

“What do you think, Langley?” If Khalenberg was surprised that Sincai left it to John, he didn’t show it. “Do we make for the Place du Trône?”

“She is being held in the Conciergerie,” John panted. “But they moved the guillotine to the Place des Grèves. If we go straight down Rue Charonne through the Place de la Bastille we can hit the Place des Grèves before we reach the Conciergerie. That way we are sure.”

Sincai nodded. “Remember, no display of power in front of the crowd. After it’s over, we rendezvous at the north transept of Notre Dame, under the rose window.” He turned his horse and spurred forward. John followed and Khalenberg brought up the rear.

The cart’s progress was necessarily slow, since the soldiers in their bright red uniforms had to clear a way through the crowd. Was it so long since they had had an execution that everyone in the city must line the streets to see her go by? Peasants from the countryside and laborers, tradesmen and their women, trollops and thieves, but also gentlemen and ladies safely in their carriages, all made their way over the Pont au Change. Beatrix could hardly imagine the throng that must be crowding the square that held the guillotine.

She wavered in the jolting cart, staring ahead at Asharti’s back, shutting out the shouts and taunts of the
crowd. It was lonely here, standing straight in the cart, in spite of all the people around her. She should be used to that. The cart turned slowly onto the Quai des Gesvres. The Seine lapped at the stones to the right. The crowd surged ahead now, those on the riverside afraid of being pushed into the water. The cart made faster progress.

They turned left into a great square.

Beatrix jolted into awareness. The giant silhouette of the great machine in the center of the press of people rose like a tower, its diagonal blade gleaming in the light of a thousand torches.

They had moved Madame Guillotine to the Place des Grèves. A roar went up as the crowd spotted the tumbrel. The blood lust in the air was palpable. Elegant façades of buildings from previous centuries rose around the square. But the scene was dominated, not by the coarse crowd or the buildings, but by the wickedly simple elegance of Antoine Guillotine’s invention.

Beatrix tried to breathe. Her neck prickled in anticipation. Her Companion stirred in protest, but it was weak. She beat it down.

The crowd made way for the tumbrel. Time seemed to race ahead. Beatrix had eyes only for the scene on the platform that held the end to a long, long run of years. A brawny man stood ready to pull the lanyard. Behind him a man in a uniform must be the lord high executioner. A wizened man in a severe blue coat held a large scissors with which to cut her hair. MM. Guillotine had touted his invention as the only humane way to execute a human being. A slither of metal as the heavy blade was released, one quick whack and it was over. The eyes might blink as the head was held high. The lips might move. But still, in the scheme of things it was only an instant, then nothing. She hoped it was nothing. She did not want to feel again, ever, even in an afterlife. Her wish might not be granted. She could burn in hell for what she had done with
Asharti. Whatever happened after death, she was about to find out.

The cart stopped at the base of the platform. The tall frame of the guillotine held its blade poised, high above her. Asharti stood right in front, gloating, her face inhuman in the flickering light. Beatrix didn’t see John anywhere. Smoke from the torches wafted over the crowd. Their roar resolved itself into a chant. Beatrix could not make out the words.

Asharti motioned to the others. It was Jerry who cut Beatrix’s rope and led her to the back of the tumbrel. She was lifted from the cart and set on her feet. Her knees were curiously weak. Jerry and another gripped her elbows and dragged her up the stairs. She jerked away.

“I am capable of walking to my death,” she murmured, and hoped it was true. The power grew around her, as they thought she might attempt escape at the last moment. The executioner motioned to her to face the crowd. Asharti was front and center, her eyes gone red to ensure that Beatrix remained obedient. The man behind her twisted her hair in one hand. She could feel the scissors hacking through it. Was John being brought up perhaps from within the crowd? She scanned the throng. But no. He was not in evidence. She should be relieved. The sight of him enslaved by Asharti would have been unbearable. Why did she want to see him? Perhaps because she still didn’t know why he had come back for her at the Conciergerie. Unless she saw his face, she would never know. Perhaps all she would see in his eyes was an accusation that she was abandoning him to Asharti through her death. But he was not here.

It was too late for anything.

“Mademoiselle, ici.”
The executioner pointed to the place she should kneel.

She knelt. “Be certain of your stroke, sir,” she managed with a fair amount of sangfroid.

“Your neck is delicate, mademoiselle,” he said, with a professional assessment. “My blade will cut it like butter.” He looked sorry, though. Perhaps he was no longer used to hacking off the heads of women who at least seemed young and innocent. She turned to face the crowd. Asharti stood smirking right below her. She could feel Jerry and the other vampire behind her.

The crowd hushed. In the corner of the square there was some commotion. Shouts. A woman yelled,
“Regardez-moi!”
Screams and the clatter of hooves.

The executioner stopped pushing her head down into the groove that waited for her neck and turned.
“Qu’estce que c’est?”
he asked no one in particular.

John spurred his horse straight into the milling crowd. There she was, kneeling at the guillotine! “Go for the vampires holding her,” he shouted to the others. “I’ll create a diversion!”

The executioner pushed her head down. The blade seemed to tremble in the torchlight, eager to descend. “No!” John yelled. The crowd swirled around him. He kicked at the nearest heads and shoved his way forward. His horse reared in fright. The crowd scattered in front of the flailing hooves. Even as the horse came down, he drove it forward into the gap and reached for the saddlebag. He ripped it open and flung its contents up to his right. A fountain of gold glittered in the torchlight. The crowd gave an avaricious howl and lunged for the coins. Sincai shot through the gap they made. John drove forward. He flung the contents of the other bag into the air. Khalenberg pushed after Sincai. John had eyes only for the platform. He saw the executioner pause, glance toward the hubbub. Around him the crowd had descended into a snarling mass, tearing at each other to get the coins.

Sincai and Khalenberg pushed toward the platform, their figures surging above the crowd. John spurred his
horse until it squealed and leaped forward, frothing in fright. Beatrix, so fragile and pale in her fluttering white shift, glanced toward him. Did she see him? He thought her mouth formed a silent “John.” He raised his hand. “I’m coming,” he shouted.