Scholar of Decay Read online

  The decay so obvious in the courtyard was not as evident in the house. Or perhaps the house was just too overwhelming for a visitor to notice the decay. Following the servant across the great hall, Guy stared at the oak roundels in the ceiling, at the curved molding around the paneling, at the stained glass in the windows turned to glorious color by the last rays of the setting sun. They went through a door, dwarfed by the sixteen-foot walls, and passed a second servant in the hall.

  He had much the same expression, or lack of it, as the first.

  These were people, Guy realized, who didn’t see what they weren’t supposed to see. I wonder how I could train my servants to be this discreet. Although his entire staff currently consisted of a cook-housekeeper, he had big plans—plans that this visit would help him accomplish.

  “Wait here, Monsieur.”

  He waited, crushing his gloves in first one hand and then the other as his escort disappeared behind a baize-green door. Although he was alone in the corridor, he felt as though he were being watched. Which is ridiculous, he told himself. He wished only that the protest sounded more convincing.

  A few moments later, the elderly servant returned and ushered him into the Chateau’s library.

  Jacqueline Renier sat in a crimson wingback chair as though she sat on a throne. At a ball, any ball, she shone like a diamond, brilliant and cold. Here in her own home, she was the most beautiful woman Guy had ever seen and, for no reason he was consciously aware of, he felt a return of the terror he’d felt crossing through the dark under the gatehouse.

  “Mamselle.” He bowed gracefully, knowing how crucial it was he make a good impression.

  “You have a personal message for me?”

  “I do, mamselle.”

  “From whom?”

  “I beg your pardon, but I swore not to reveal that.”

  Red lips drew back off ivory teeth. “Swore to whom?”

  His heart pounding harder, faster, Guy spread his arms. “Mamselle,” he said chidingly. When she smiled, he remembered that Jacqueline Renier was a widow and wondered if she’d ever considered remarriage. Now that would definitely make his fortune.

  “And your message?”

  “I was to tell you only that Henri Dubois has been seen in Mortigny.” He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw her fingers tighten on the brocade-covered arms of her chair.

  “And what,” she asked after a moment, her voice sounding as though it had traveled from far away, “is there in this message for you?”

  Guy bowed again. “Only the honor of doing you a favor.”

  “This is news my sister desperately wants to hear.” Louise leaned a little closer to him, wrapping him in the heat of her body. “If you bring it to her, she’ll be so grateful she’ll see to it that your social standing in Pont-a-Museau is assured.”

  Swallowing hard, Guy tried to force his brain to function. “Why don’t you tell her yourself?”

  “You know how it is with sisters.” She drew her fingernail lightly down the line of his jaw. “This man came between us and …”

  “Say no more.” As a man of the world, he completely understood.

  “The honor of doing me a favor? That’s all?”

  He smiled charmingly. “To have the most beautiful woman in Pont-a-Museau in my debt? I think that’s enough.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right.”

  Her smile reminded him very much of her sister’s—but that was hardly surprising as they were twins. When she stood and began to walk toward him, all he could think was that, since they were alone, she was about to show him just how grateful she was. This is incredible. All I really needed was her public approval.

  It was his last thought.

  “I dislike being in debt,” Jacqueline told him, wiping bloody fingers on the full skirts of her dress. Stepping over the body, she walked quickly back to her private apartments through a Chateau suddenly crowded with memories of Henri Dubois.…

  His dark hair had come free of the ribbon that usually held it confined at the nape of his neck, and he shoved it out of his way as he scanned the shadows. Clinging to the wall where it met the ceiling in the far corner of the bedchamber, Jacqueline reveled in the play of muscle beneath the thin cotton of his shirt and drank in his scent.

  Henri Dubois, a human as unscrupulous as he was beautiful, had been willing to play lovers’ games as long as he thought he’d been making the rules. He was charming, funny, and smarter than he looked. He was able to enjoy life in a way she’d never realized a human could, and he made her feel as though anything were possible.

  Of course, she hadn’t intended to fall in love with him. Didn’t even know how it had happened. She knew when though. He’d walked into the room and smiled down at her, dark eyes twinkling, his hand wrapped warmly around hers, his expression an invitation. She’d felt her heart race, her breath catch in her throat … and her body begin to change.

  To her fury, she hadn’t been able to control the metamorphosis. Even as she came to know her heart, her body betrayed her. His look of admiration had turned to loathing as her clothing sagged and slid off sloping shoulders, her muzzle formed, ebony fur covered her body, and her naked tail curled around elongated, clawed feet. Not full rat, but the intermediate form that was, if anything, worse, for there were reminders enough of the human form within it.

  She could see him remembering how he’d shared a bed with this creature. Her heart breaking at his expression, she stretched out a front hand/paw and called his name. He backed up two paces, turned and ran.

  That she could not, would not, allow.

  The Lord of Richemulot did not love and lose.

  Except for this time. Repelled by what she truly was, Henri Dubois wanted nothing more to do with her. Anyone else who offered such an insult she would have killed, but her love for him had become his shield. Which left her only one choice.

  She’d tracked him to this house, to this room and, when he came close enough, she would have him. If he would not be her mate, he would become a wererat and her slave. One way or another, he’d be hers.

  He knew she was there.

  “Jacqueline, I’m warning you!”

  She couldn’t help it: she laughed. He was warning her? His arrogant belief that he was the center of the universe was one of the things she loved best about him.

  Henri whirled to face the sound, a long dagger suddenly in one hand.

  He dared? He dared to draw a blade on her? She stared at him in disbelief. Love or not, this had gone quite far enough. Scurrying rapidly along the wall, Jacqueline flung herself at his head, one paw going around his throat, the other effortlessly smacking the dagger away. When he hit the floor, she straddled his chest and sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his shoulder.

  His scream had as much to do with his sudden realization of what she was attempting as with the pain. She bit him again and again, careful to make no single bite fatal. Licking his blood from her muzzle, she prayed to the dark gods.

  When he lay limp and barely breathing, she carried him back to the chateau and her bed, and she waited. For nothing. Perhaps his disgust of her rat-woman form gave him strength, but his body fought the lycanthropy infection. His skin burned; he lay for three days drenched in sweat and blood, muscles knotted, spine arched, fingers curled into fists.

  And he won.

  He would not be changed.

  Furious, Jacqueline smashed furniture, gouged holes in wood and plaster, destroyed her bedchamber and everything in it but Henri Dubois. When it seemed that even he was in danger, she gained control enough to leave, lest she hurt him in her rage.

  The townspeople of Pont-a-Museau still refused to speak of that night.

  That was the last time she saw him.

  When she returned to the Chateau, he was gone. No one saw him leave, though he must’ve had help. Nor could she find him, though he should not have been able to remain hidden from her.

  Perhaps he’d been praying to the dark gods as well �
��

  Dropping to her knees, Jacqueline pulled a bloodstained shirt from an oak trunk at the foot of her bed and held it to her cheek. Even the lingering scent of his blood and sweat was enough to twitch bone and muscle beneath her skin.

  Henri Dubois, her one true love, had been seen in Mortigny. How could she be expected to stay away? It might be true.

  “Will you be back soon, Mama?”

  Jacqueline took her son’s mournful face between both her hands and dropped a kiss on his forehead. “Soon,” she promised. “Remember, you are the man of the house while I am gone.”

  “Aren’t I the man of the house while you are here?” Jacques asked, brows drawn down in confusion.

  “It doesn’t mean the same thing when I am here.” Her tone warned him not to contradict her again.

  “Yes, Mama.” With all the seriousness of a child of ten, he helped her into the boat. “You’re going to be all by yourself. Won’t you be lonely?”

  Jacqueline glanced south, up the Musarde River toward Mortigny, and murmured softly. “I hope not.” Then she turned and stared at Louise, the deep green of her cloak making her eyes appear more jade than emerald, but just as hard. “If anything happens to my son, I will hold you personally responsible.”

  “What could happen?” Louise closed one hand around her nephew’s slender shoulder. “Jacques and I will manage together just fine. You’ve gone away a hundred times before; this isn’t any different.”

  “No. It isn’t.” She stared at her sister for a moment longer, then finally took her place and indicated that the pilot could cast off. As the boat pulled away from the landing, she called, “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Well aware that she was being warned, that her sister had actually reminded her that she could be back at any time, Louise smiled. Based on the most insubstantial of rumors, Jacqueline would tear Mortigny apart to find Dubois; she wouldn’t be back anytime soon. “Take all the time you need.”

  “That’s all?” Lucien Renier cocked his head and studied Louise suspiciously. “We wait until the human leaves, break into his house, and steal a little statue of his dead wife?”

  Louise nodded. “That’s all.”

  “If it’s so simple, why don’t you do it yourself?” his twin, Jean, demanded belligerently.

  “Perhaps I will. I merely thought you might enjoy the opportunity to get back in my good graces after that disgusting exhibition at Tante Marguerite’s party.” Over steepled fingers, she smiled at her cousins. During an argument, one of them had been overenthusiastic with his gestures and had spilled a cup of punch in her lap. They’d spent the last week blaming each other for the accident and expecting to die. Which made them perfect candidates to break into a wizard’s study, given that she had no intention of risking her own fair skin. Neither did she intend to tell them they were breaking into a wizard’s study. “But if you don’t want to make up …”

  “We do, Louise.” When Jean remained quiet, Lucien kicked him hard in the ankle.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, we do.”

  “Good.” Her smile sliced a few pieces off each of them. “You can keep anything else you find, just bring that statue to me.”

  Lucien reached under his cravat and scratched at a partially healed scar along his collarbone. “What if someone gets in our way?”

  Louise shook her head and wondered for a moment if there was a direct correlation between the intelligence of the females in the family and the stupidity of the males. “Don’t touch Aurek Nuikin,” she said with emphasis. “Kill anyone else you like.”

  “Anyone else?” Jean looked more cheerful. “Now that’s more like it!”

  Amusing himself by pulling the wings off a pigeon, Lucien nearly fell from the roof when Jean yanked on his tail. Claws scrabbling for purchase on the lichen-encrusted slate, he whirled around and smacked his brother in the head with the bleeding carcass, snarling, “Keep your hands to yourself or lose them.”

  Rubbing an ear thick with old scars, Jean silently pointed down toward the entrance to the house.

  Aurek Nuikin and the big, servant stood at the bottom of the steps.

  “Sir, please, just a few more days to regain your strength.” In his attempt to keep his master alive, Edik had switched back to his native tongue. The Borcan words had a desperate urgency he couldn’t give to another language.

  Every movement carefully planned to cause the least pain to healing tissue, Aurek shook his head. “No, Edik.” Without thinking, he answered in Borcan as well. “I’ve wasted too much time as it is.”

  “Then take the young master with you.”

  Aurek stared at his servant for a moment in astonishment. “Dmitri?” he said at last. “Take Dmitri? He hasn’t even spoken to me since—” the day I found my redemption and Natalia’s freedom “—the day I returned from the Narrows.”

  “What are they saying?” Jean hissed, picking gory feathers from his fur. “They’re not making any sense.”

  Lucien’s ears flicked forward. “That’s because they’re speaking another language, you idiot. Now shut up.”

  “If you would explain to him, explain everything to him, I think he would listen.” Edik spread his hands. “The young master has his pride, sir. Just as you do. He knows you are keeping things from him.”

  “I kept nothing from Natalia, and look where it got her. I will not be responsible for disaster happening to my brother as well. The less his life touches mine, the better for him.” His expression darkened. “Especially considering the company he’s been keeping of late.”

  “Sir, I …”

  “Enough.” Aurek chopped at the air. “You presume upon long service.”

  Edik inclined his head. When he raised it again, it wore the slightly blank expression of a well-trained servant. “The boat has arrived,” he said.

  Aurek turned eagerly toward the river, took a step toward the boat, toward the Narrows, toward the workshop, then stopped and, with an effort, turned to face Edik once again. “Dmitri is safest if he lives his own life, but I do appreciate your concern—for us both.” He didn’t wait for a reply; the pull of the workshop was too strong. Moving as quickly as healing muscles allowed, he ran for the boat, and a moment later stood in the bow, leaning upriver as though to speed it on with his body.

  Behind his back, the boatman lifted a hand to Edik, who raised one in return. He stood on the step and watched until the boat and his master passed under the South Lacheur bridge; then, shaking his head, he went inside.

  A bloody feather fell unnoticed as he closed the door.

  In full rat form, Jean climbed down the tower wall, pried open the window, and climbed inside. As his tail disappeared over the crumbling stone of the window ledge, Lucien leaned forward, ears cocked. If the window were trapped, he reasoned, better Jean discover it. A moment later, when there were no sounds at all from the tower room, he followed, grumpily reflecting that only fools and humans were up at this hour.

  Jean sat on his haunches in the middle of the room, head back, whiskers twitching. “Smells like magic,” he hissed, changing just enough for speech.

  “Of course it does, you fool.” Lucien changed as well, quickly combing the fur on his shoulders down into place with his claws. “This Nuikin’s been searching for magic stuff in the city. You never pay attention.”

  “I don’t like magic. It makes me itch.” Jean began to scratch vigorously. “Louise never said there’d be magic.”

  “You think she tells us everything? Think again, Brother. Let’s get the statue and get out of here.”

  With his muzzle, Jean pointed to the figurine on the pedestal. “You think that’s it?”

  Lucien’s only answer was a muttered “Idiot” as he crossed over to the alcove. Dropping down onto his haunches, he studied the area with eyes and nose. He could see no traps, smell no traps, and that usually meant there were no traps, as humans seldom were devious enough to fool the members of the family. Most members, he corrected sho
oting a glance at his twin.

  “What are you waiting for?” Jean demanded. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.” He reached past his brother’s shoulder, but Lucien snarled and batted his paw aside.

  “I’ll take that—” The instant his fingers touched the porcelain, he knew he’d made a mistake. Few things move faster than a terrified wererat, and Lucien snatched his hand away with all the speed his terror lent him.

  Too late.

  The room whirled and dissolved around him, walls melting into windows, melting into doors, melting into the ceiling, melting into the floor. He tried to scream, but something held his throat in an iron grip, and no sound emerged.

  When the room stopped spinning, he saw he was no longer in the human’s study, but crouched at the end of a narrow corridor. Corpse-gray walls stretched up on three sides of him as high as he could see. Claws extended, he leaped for the wall to his right but slid back, unable to gain any sort of purchase. He tried again. And again. And again.

  Finally he stopped, gasping for breath, and took another look around.

  The wall at the end of the cul-de-sac seemed a lighter gray than those on either side. When he pressed his hand against it, he felt it give, though his claws continued to make no impression. Frowning, he stepped back and suddenly realized that something was pressing on the wall from the other side. Strange shapes bulged toward him, moving from place to place as though they were testing the strength of the barrier.

  If whatever lurked on the other side of the wall got through, he was dead.

  He didn’t know how he knew that, but Lucien had never been so sure of anything in his entire life. Changing to full ratform, he turned and ran.

  After about twenty feet, he came to a T-junction—nearly invisible in the gray-on-gray corridor—and without slowing, threw himself to the right. As he cleared the corner, he heard something tear behind him. The wall? He ran faster.