Seraphim

“A child’s tap!” he mocked. “You’ve not leveled me, black knight. Come. Right here. Double me over.”

Determined feminine courage eyed his gut as he tapped and taunted. Her right fist hovered near her chin, though it wasn’t building to a punch. He sensed she had never before encountered such opposition. The devil take her soul, if she would not encounter such a thousand times over if she were determined to see the black knight’s goal to the end.

This had to be done. He had to make her understand just how vulnerable she would be in Abaddon’s lair. That she needed him at her side. For he would not allow her to cut him out of this bargain. Whether or not he approved that she was a woman, he would see this quest to its end.

This time Dominique saw her fist lunge toward his stomach—but he didn’t dodge. He wanted to feel her anger, to gauge the fire that blazed in this wounded angel’s heart.

Her fire was more forceful than he had expected. The initial blow doubled him. Breath wheezed out from his lungs.

“Seraphim!”

The squire suspected his master had actually hurt him? And what sort of name was that anyway? Seraphim? An angelic name for a woman whose punches wielded the power of a demon?

Dominique staggered, but he would not fall—not in front of a woman.

Although—on second thought…

He fell to the packed snow. The cold kiss of winter bruised icy crystals into his cheek, and he rolled to his back. A forced groan was necessary to lure his prey. She leaned over him—

“A-hah!” Dominique gripped Seraphim by her upper arms and laid her on the ground with a deft flip and a foot hooked under her mail-sheathed knee. He pinned her hips with his knees and pressed her shoulders into the snow. Her hood had slipped from her head, exposing a wild crop of black hair. Dominique stifled a chuckle. Had the woman thought to change her appearance by cutting her hair? And who was her barber? A fingerless blind man?

“Off!” she rasped, in what Dominique guessed to be a scream.

Her voice was not natural. Most likely she’d been injured. It had served her well for a day or two as disguise, but now…

She struggled like a pinned weasel, her head twisting from side to side, her eyes closed, and her fists blindly beating at his chest. ’Twas a child fighting for freedom from the monsters that haunted her nightmares.

Enough. She now knew the danger that could befall her.

Dominique pressed against her shoulders for leverage, bringing his weight upright to stand. The fallen angel sprang to her feet. Like a rabbit sprung from a trap, she dashed off to the woods.

“Seraphim!”

“Stay away,” she called back to her squire. “Keep him away!”

“What the hell did you do that for?” Baldwin shoved Dominique’s right shoulder. About all the man dared, Dominique wagered, for the flicker of uneasiness in the boy’s heavily lashed brown eyes. “You’ve sent her off in horror!”

“She fares well enough.” He brushed off ice crystals from his braies and cape. “I wanted the woman to see how truly helpless she is against a man. One single man. And do you know how many men await her at Abaddon’s castle?”

Wisely, the squire remained silent, his gaze switching from the woman’s retreat, and back to the ground before his feet.

“Morgana’s blood, a woman!” Dominique said, clenching his fingers into a useless fist. For what sense could his punches press into the woman’s head? She had come this far. And he certainly had no reason to stop her. To see her through this senseless quest would give him the answers he sought.

But a woman?

Dominique sheathed his sword and paced a short tread before the squire. “What devil got into her head to make her do such a thing?”

“Lucifer de Morte.”

He found on Baldwin’s square-jawed face a chill calm. The lank boy scrubbed a hand through his dirty brown hair and stared off toward the wood where Seraphim had retreated.

Lucifer de Morte. Known to many as the Dragon of the Dawn. “I suspected as much.”

“Aye, well you don’t know the whole of it.” Now the squire dared raise his voice and pound the air with an admonishing finger. “And you would do well to show a little more compassion. Sera’s been wounded. And she won’t rest until the demon that haunts her nightmares is extinguished.”

Dominique toed the tip of Seraphim’s abandoned sword. So Lucifer de Morte had set the blaze beneath this angel’s wings. Most likely the dark lord had no idea it was a woman who now stalked him and his brothers in the guise of the black knight. If Sera had been beneath the Dragon of the Dawn’s sword, or worse, his rutting loins, surely the villain must believe her dead.

Why did she yet walk this earth? Mayhap she hadn’t been in Lucifer’s path, only her family? No. It didn’t make sense. Lucifer never made a mistake, nor did he leave a trail. If he’d a grievance against the d’Anges, he would not have left their home until all had given blood to his sword.

But did the reason that Seraphim d’Ange walked this earth really matter? She had survived. And now she sought vengeance. And Dominique had agreed to see her through to the end. They both had their own motivations toward extinguishing the de Mortes. Personal reasons.

Lifting her sword up by the hilt, Dominique tested the weight, found it was surprisingly light for its length, then stabbed it back into the snow. Must have been fashioned especially for her. The black knight had so easily abandoned his—her—weapon. Further proof that this woman was well over her head in the thick of things.

What a hell of a way to begin a partnership. Though he mustn’t consider it such. He would merely serve as guide and protector. Seraphim d’Ange would be the instrument of destruction.

How odd did that sound? He, following a woman warrior? Though, stranger things had occurred in Dominique’s lifetime. He’d best accept Seraphim and get on with it.

“I should go retrieve her.”

“I will,” Baldwin said. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

She clung to the smooth, hard surface of a narrow birch tree. The thin layers of papery bark were cold, like sheets of ice laid around the wooden core. Her breaths worked frantic puffs of condensation before her face, her heart racing—and winning—the pace of each exhale.

Visions, the horrid, horrid nightmares filled her head.

Shoulders pressed to the cold stone floor. Impossible to struggle free. Still groggy; startled awake from a dead sleep—fire everywhere.

One dark man, a face unremarkable in the shadows save the glints of flame flickering in his eyes. Red. Red as the devil’s rage.

“I’ll see you in hell.” The heavy voice curdled over her bones like hoar frost freezing to flesh. He cracked a grin, spat on the floor, and shoved a mail-coated fist against her shoulder.

Pain seared between her legs. Screams pummeled up her throat. Escape. Let loose your voice. Someone will hear…. will rescue.

Where is Father? Antoine? What of Henri? And the guards? What is happening? So much fire, and…this devil grunting above her.

They’re all dead. Their throats cut…

Oh…the pain of the blade slicing across her flesh…

Seraphim pressed her forehead to the cold birch. She clasped her hand to her throat. No more pain. No… Make the memories go away!

But there is pain. She felt the scream, the cry of lost innocence gurgle up her throat. Heavy breaths, unbidden tears, and finally, the whimper of helplessness.

Fear droned from her mouth. It was not the same vivid scream of that night when her family had been slaughtered. Now the scars inside her throat muffled the pain, made it ache.

She had always slept like a dead man. Since taking over her mother’s duties Sera had risen at dawn and worked a long, hard day. At day’s end, sleep came easily, so heavy, and quick. Hypnos, the God of Sleep, always favored her with dreamless rest.

She had only wakened that early morning of the New Year when her chamber door slammed against the wall and that dark-haired man with the red, glowing eyes ripped her from bed.

Too late. Too late to scream for help. The damsel had been damaged.

Now, her soul tattered and torn by Lucifer de Morte, the damsel had shed her robes of silk and finery and donned the black knight’s armor.

It mattered not the violation, the robbing of her maidenhood. It had hurt. Nothing more. She would survive that humiliation. But in sparing her—in leaving her to live amongst the ruins of her family’s home, the silent lamentations of their disturbed spirits—that had been the true destruction. That she had lived to bury her parents, her brother, and her fiancé, had been the ultimate twist to Seraphim d’Ange’s soul-raped shell of a body.

And now, there came another, a man who would toy with her hollow carapace, the remnants of a life once lived with pride. Dominique San Juste.

Sera peered through the fencing of birch trunks. In the distance, Tor pounded the ground. His master paced before the brilliant white beast, his head bowed as if in thought.

No moon to romance him into your dreams.

San Juste could not have known what his threats, his forceful ways, would stir in her. She could not have known she would react so. And much as she hated to admit it, the man had been right. What would become of her when she stood surrounded by Abaddon de Morte and his minions, far from the advantage of riding Gryphon and swinging a deadly blade? It could happen. It would happen.

Mayhap, that is what San Juste had planned all along? To weaken her. To make her question her abilities. She had no idea who he really was. Sent by a higher power? What could that mean? At present, the de Mortes reigned over all of Burgundian France. The English King Henri VI ruled Paris thanks to Lucifer’s influence. Even Charles VII feared and bowed to Lucifer de Morte’s whim. Had not the d’Arc witch’s fate been sealed by Lucifer de Morte’s influence over the English?

Dominique’s claim that he was not the mercenary sent to assassinate her could be a clever ruse. Though, there was no reason why he should not have killed her moments ago. Follow with a blade across Baldwin’s neck and San Juste’s mission would have been complete. The de Mortes’ reign would be saved from total annihilation.

He is not a killer. He must not be.

Sera smirked at her conscience’s foolish pining. She did not want him to be the mercenary any more than she enjoyed this quest. But that did not mean he wasn’t dangerous. De Morte’s minion or not, he was still a mercenary, a man who killed for coin. She could not trust San Juste. Did not want to trust anyone but herself and the man she had chosen to accompany her on this journey through hell.

Blessed Mother. She pressed her forehead to the birch trunk. Her heartbeats had slowed, and her hands had stopped shaking. San Juste had proven her lack of physical strength. And he’d opened her eyes to the forthcoming dangers. She could not ride on to Abaddon’s lair without some protection. Years drilling in the lists beside her brother had given her a false reassurance. Of course, Antoine—why, any of her father’s knights—would have never given their all against her, but a mere woman in their masculine eyes. Hand-to-hand combat, as Dominique had just proven, would be a challenge considering her sex.

She did want to trust him. She wanted to feel the same relief Baldwin had felt at having the mercenary accompany them. Dare she allow him continue at her side? How to judge San Juste’s best interest was for her? What reason could a complete stranger have for joining such a suicidal mission? She had not offered him coin.

Blind to all but this stir of conflicting emotion that threatened to fell her to her knees, Sera let out another horrifying moan as she was grabbed from behind.

“It is me, Sera.” Gentle arms embraced her shoulders. Not harsh. No dagger. No demon horns formed by shadows dancing in the firelight.

“Release me,” she said, with a shove to the squire’s hand. Drawing in a breath of courage she expelled it in a thick cloud between the two of them. A decisive nod chased away the foolish trepidation. “I am better now.”

“What happened back there? Did he hurt you?”

She managed a mirthless snort. “I am not injured. I merely…needed some time apart. A moment to myself.”

She found in Baldwin’s silent gaze an understanding that neither need speak. For he had found her the night Lucifer had descended like his namesake upon the d’Ange castle. This man knew. He had seen the blood, her torn skirts, the devastation. He would keep her secrets—“Why did you tell him? I trusted you!”

“For your own good. You know well yourself, we need him, Sera. San Juste knows Abaddon’s secrets.”

“How? Did you ever pause to think about that? How do you know we can trust the man? We know not who he is. He claims a higher power sent him?” She propped her arm against the birch trunk and vacillated her attention between the squire and the distant mercenary. “To me that is Lucifer de Morte. How else would the man have such intimate knowledge of the layout of Abaddon’s lair?”

“You think Lucifer would send a man to watch the black knight extinguish his brothers?”

“Of course not, but perhaps this is San Juste’s way—deliver me to Abaddon’s hands, then watch a grand slaughter.”

“He would have killed you by now.”

She found conviction in the spark of white centered in Baldwin’s brown eyes. A certain integrity that had not been there during morning rituals in the cool shadows of the chapel. No, the church did not hold solace for this man. Not yet.

“You trust him?”

“I do.”

She gazed across the expanse of whiteness that separated her from her self-proclaimed protector. Her running footsteps had made deep prints in the snow, with Baldwin’s long strides stamping craters alongside. San Juste stood by his horse, brushing a reassuring hand along the rich ivory mane. He had frightened her something fierce by pinning her in the snow. Had she not seen the glint of violet in the man’s dark eyes she might have died of pure fright right then and there.

Violet. The color of peace and royalty. A gorgeous, passionate color. A color she could—wanted to—trust.

“If he indeed wishes to protect you,” Baldwin said softly, “then you can go about your business without fear. At least you will have someone watching your back.”

“And what is wrong with you?”

“Sera, I am not a knight. I’ve no inclinations to the sword. I am but a miserable toad-eater who relies on a bag of worthless bones to see him through strife. But I do wish the extra protection San Juste can offer.”

“And if it turns out he really is the enemy, sent to kill me at the finest moment?”

Baldwin opened his mouth to speak, but Sera stopped him with a curt response to her own question, “Then so be it.”

At least she would die knowing she had given her all to avenge her family.

Trust him? Never. But use his knowledge to make her quest easier?

“Perhaps Dominique will share all he knows of this castle of the seven hells?” Baldwin offered.

“He will, or he will answer to my blade.”

Baldwin opened his mouth to comment but Sera cut him off. “I thank you,” she muttered in the quiet of the chilled air. “You allow me to see through my rage with your simple wisdom.”

He shrugged, allowed a smile to wriggle his mouth. “I think that was a compliment.”

Despite her misgivings, the knowledge of this new protection released a cord of tension from Sera’s neck and shoulders. She had much to face in the coming days. Instinct must be honed, reaction burnished to mere seconds, and above all, she must keep her senses about her.

But now they were three. And Sera had to admit, this man did not so much frighten her, as put forth a challenge to the heart of the silk-clothed damsel hidden deep within.

FIVE

The moon glowed high in the sky when the traveling trio decided to stop at the edge of the thick forest that bordered the winding green waters of the Seine. Sera, who had been silent since granting San Juste his desire to protect, now settled against the rough, icy bark of an elm. She spread her wool cape out around her thighs and tucked it up over her knees to fight the chill.

They’d passed the Abbaye de Royaumont a half hour earlier. Now its single spire rose up majestically in the distance, decorating its little unpopulated spot of land with quiet grace. A sanctuary from evil, open to all who sought sanctity. Save the English.

Yes, please, Sera thought now, as scrapes of flint striking stone produced sparks at her traveling mate’s direction. Grant me sanctity. I want to be free of this quest, free of the rage and anger.

But Sera knew that such freedom must be earned. ’Twas the price she must pay for being the only survivor. Her brother and father would have done the same.

Soon a roaring blaze lighted their snug encampment. Fire sprites danced up toward the unreachable moon. Gryphon, tied close by, had settled to rest and Tor, untied, wandered the edge of the forest, seeking sustenance. The squire followed Tor’s untethered steps, then looked to Dominique—who offered but a silent shrug.

The mercenary excused himself, and took off over a hard pack of snow.

He needed a few moments away from Seraphim’s hard blue gaze to collect his thoughts. Every time she looked at him she gazed straight into his eyes. Not an evasive, coy look, as most women were wont to express. The feeling that she touched his soul with an imperceptible appendage was so strong. What did she spy in his own eyes of such interest?

He also sensed she still did not completely trust him. Wise woman.

But all for naught. He had every intention of protecting Seraphim until her mission was complete. Woman or no, he would not be granted release from the burning question of his parentage until he did such.

The chill air quickly attacked his exposed cock as Dominique drew a line in the snow with steaming urine. A man should wonder if the thing might take up the freeze and fall off for the times he must whip it out just to relieve himself. He could think of far warmer places to put it. Though present company would go unconsidered. The last woman he wanted to expose his starving lust to was a sword-wielding vixen like Seraphim d’Ange. That woman could emasculate with a mere glance. Rather, with the evil eye.

Securing the leather codpiece to his soft linen undershirt with a tug of the points, Dominique then slipped his fingers over the narrow slash in the thigh of his leather braies, courtesy of the black knight. ’Twas shallow, the cut. His flesh had taken on the chill, though the wound had already healed. There was not a drop of blood on his skin or clothing—at least not of the red variety. He smoothed away the congealed iridescent liquid, rubbing it between his fingers until it became powder and glistened into the air.

The only pain he felt was that of succumbing to his opponent’s blade. A woman’s blade, for the love of the Moon! He most certainly was not accustomed to such a bold woman. She deserved to be put in her place.

No. She deserves as much respect as you wish for yourself.

Indeed, he must set aside petty male/female comparisons. Seraphim d’Ange traveled a perilous course; she deserved nothing but his support. As their path drew closer to Creil, that course would only become more dangerous.

Tugging down his jerkin and drawing his gauntlet back on his hand, Dominique then punched a fist inside his other palm to stir his blood to a faster pace. He hated the chill and was most susceptible to drafts. Especially right between the shoulder blades. Once he exposed a bit of flesh the cold crept under his skin and remained until spring. He much preferred to grow a thick bushy beard to keep in the warmth, but the damned thing would do no more than sprout a thin shadow over his chin and upper lip.

Sorry man he’d turned out to be.

“Damned faery blood,” he muttered, as he cupped his palms before his mouth and blew. His warm breath briefly touched his nose and cheeks, but disappeared all too quickly.

“Your mission is progressing nicely.”

Dominique spun around, a stealthy movement bending him at the waist and crouching him into fight position, his dagger unsheathed and flashing before his face.

“You?” He relaxed his fight stance and jabbed the dagger-tip into the snow. “Morgana’s spine, but you follow me even when I am taking a piss!”

The Oracle remained serene, an odd expression on the figure that appeared to Dominique to be a boy of perhaps nine or ten. Short spikes of palest brown hair spurted here and there, as if bed-tousled. A flat nose only made his eyes appear all the more generous. A sweet fragrance, like a fresh spring meadow, overwhelmed him always.

The wide brown gaze of innocence teased Dominique to question his beliefs every time the Oracle glimmered into form—for that is the only term Dominique could summon for the sudden appearance of the apparition—swept in on a glimmer.

But for as young as he appeared, Dominique suspected the Oracle was decades older in wisdom. And if he were really a ghost of some sort, he could have been dead for ages.

“Do you realize the black knight is a woman?” Dominique asked.

“I…did not know that until now.”

Difficult to believe, knowing what Dominique did of the Oracle.

He regarded the vision with a careful summation of his visage. Not a flinch to his smooth features, the brown eyes held a frustrating clutch on naiveté. The Oracle knew everything. He’d given Dominique the layout of Abaddon’s castle, provided him with the information that he would meet the black knight en route to Creil, had even relayed details from both battles that saw the first two de Mortes fall. Why hadn’t he informed him of this important fact?

“A woman!” Dominique jabbed the trunk of a twisted elm with his boot, not hesitant at letting the Oracle see his disappointment.

“Can you keep her safe?”

“Against Abaddon, Sammael, and Lucifer?” Dominique shrugged a fall of snow from his shoulders then lifted his chin in challenge. “Sounds like a battle already won. And not by the black knight.”

“You must believe in yourself, Dominique San Juste,” the Oracle said in his whispery adolescent timbre. “You are of the earth; Seraphim is of fire. I chose you, knowing you would be a formidable match—as well a complement—to the d’Ange woman’s fire.”

“D’Ange,” Dominique muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. “An angel riding a quest against the darkest demons in France—wait! You said you did not know she was a woman. And yet—you just said you chose me to match her fire.” He raised an accusing finger on the glimmering figment. “You lie to me to serve your own selfish needs? What is the truth of my mission? Who are you, and why did you come to me?”

“You ask far too many questions, and already know the answers.”

“And you are a double-talking nuisance.”

“Have I yet steered you wrongly?”

The Oracle had first appeared to him three years ago. Dominique had been contemplating joining the English on the raid against Rouen, where Jeanne d’Arc would finally fall. No—contemplation had been all of a moment at sight of a purse gleaming with coin. He’d avoided siding with the English for years. But the coin…oh, that bright and sparkling coin.

The Oracle had appeared, insisting he go home. His mother needed him. Dominique had arrived only to hear his father’s dying words. “I have loved you so, son.”

Son. A word wrought of pure, priceless gold to Dominique’s troubled soul. Far more valuable than any English coin could offer. Yet beneath the gild lay a bronze core.

“Tell me, do you know why she quests so?”

The Oracle shrugged. Actually shrugged, which seemed to Dominique a very odd movement from one so otherworldly. “You have not asked her?”

“The woman is not one for conversation.”

“She fears adversity.”

“I am not the enemy.”

“Make her believe it and together the two of you shall triumph. She fears the same thing you fear, releasing the anger and following her heart.”