The Mammoth Book Of Vampire Stories Written By Women

And the chevalier, giving his version of La Hire's shrug, all sleek muscle under fine scarlet velvet.

"But I simply do , Citizen Sansterre."

Adding, in a whisper — a hum? That same hum, so close and quiet against the down of Jean-Guy's paralyzed cheek, which seems to vibrate through every secret part of him at once whenever the blood still kept sequestered beneath his copper-ruddy mixed-race flesh begins to flow

For who do you think it was who told her to look out, in the first place?

In Martinique — with money and time at his disposal, and a safe distance put between himself and that Satanic, red-lined coach — Jean-Guy had eventually begun to make certain discreet enquiries into the long and secretive history of the family Prendegrace. Thus employed, he soon amassed a wealth of previously hidden information: facts impossible to locate during the Revolution, or even before.

Like picking at a half-healed scab, pain and relief in equal measure; and since, beyond obviously, he would never be fully healed, what did it matter just what Jean-Guy's enquiries managed to uncover?

Chevalier Joffroi d'Iver, first of his line, won his nobility on crusade under Richard Coeur-de-Lion, for services rendered during the massacre at Acre. An old story: reluctant to lose the glory of having captured 300 infidels in battle — though aware that retaining them would prevent any further advancement towards his true prize, the holy city of Jerusalem — the hot-blooded Plantagenet ordered each and every one of them decapitated on the spot. So scaffolds were built, burial pits dug, and heads and bodies sent tumbling in either direction for three whole days, while swords of d'Iver and his companions swung ceaselessly, and a stream of fresh victims slipped in turn on the filth their predecessors had left behind.

And after their task was done, eye-witnesses record, these good Christian knights filled the pits with Greek fire, leaving the bodies to burn, as they rode away.

Much as, during your own famous Days of September , a familiar voice seems to murmur at Jean-Guy's ear, 378 of those prisoners awaiting trial at the Conciergerie were set upon by an angry horde of good patriots like yourself, and hacked limb from limb in the street .

Eyes closed, Jean-Guy recalls a gaggle of women running by red-handed, reeling drunk — with clusters of ears adorning their open, fichu-less bodices. Fellow citizens clapping and cheering from the drawn-up benches as a man wrings the Princess de Lamballe's still-beating heart dry over a goblet, then takes a long swig of the result, toasting the health of the Revolution in pale aristo blood. All those guiding lights of liberty: ugly Georges Danton, passionate Camille Desmoulins

Maximilien Robespierre himself, in his Incorruptible's coat of sea-green silk, nearsighted cat's eyes narrowed against the world through spectacles with smoked-glass lenses; the kind one might wear, even today, to protect oneself while observing an eclipse.

La Famille Prend-de-grace, moving to block out the sun; a barren new planet, passing restless through a dark new sky. And their arms, taken at the same time an axe argent et gules , over a carrion field, gules seulement .

A bloodstained weapon, suspended — with no visible means of support — above a field red with severed heads.

We could not have been more suited to each other, you and I. Could we

— Citizen?

1793

Blood and filth, and the distant rumble of passing carts; the hot mist turns to sizzling rain, as new waves of stench eddy and shift around them. Dumouriez rounds the corner into the Row of the Armed Man, and La Hire and Jean-Guy exchange a telling glance: the plan of attack, as previously determined. La Hire will take the back way, past where the prostitute lurks, while Jean-Guy waits under a convenient awning — to keep his powder dry — until he hears their signal, using the time between to prime his pistol. They give Dumouriez a few minutes' lead, then rise as one.

Crimson-stained sweat, memories swarming like maggots in his brain. Yet more on the clan Prendegrace, a red-tinged stream of sinister trivia.

Their motto: nus souvienz le tous . "We remember everything."

Their hereditary post at court: attendant on the king's bedchamber, a function discontinued some time during the reign of Henri de Navarre, for historically obscure reasons.

The rumour: that during the massacre of Saint Barthelme's Night, one — usually unnamed — Prendegrace was observed pledging then-King Charles IX's honour with a handful of Protestant flesh.

Prendegrace. "Those who have received God's grace."

Receive.

Or, is it take God's grace

for themselves?

Jean-Guy feels himself start to reel, and rams his fist against the apartment wall for support. Then feels it lurch and pulse in answer under his knuckles, as though his own hammering heart were buried beneath that yellowed plaster.