“Then you must come with us.”

“To take up the sword and shield again? Or to armor you for eternity?” The monk’s mouth bent at the corners. “I would sooner go to Marseilles and fling myself before Philip the Fair’s throne.” He went back into the room and took the sack from the knight. “If I am to give form to this damnation, then you will meet my price.” He looked at the other knights. “Leave us.”

When Tremayne nodded, the other knights filed out of the room and disappeared down the corridor. No one paid any attention to Frémis, who dared not twitch an eyelid.

The dark knight frowned. “What will you have? Gold or blood?”

“Protection.” Brother Noir hefted the sack. “Once it is done, I shall conceal it from the eyes and the greed of the world. Only I will know where it is hidden.”

Tremayne shook his head. “It is too dangerous a thing for only one to know.”

“Those who share my name will shoulder the burden,” the monk said. “And when the day comes that I am no more, their finest will serve as its guardian.”

“You ask too much.” Tremayne’s gaze dropped as Brother Noir offered him the sack. “You would have us rely on the honor of mortals.”

“The honor of my name. Those who bear it have never betrayed my trust.” He cocked his head. “But you would know nothing of that, would you, my fine lord? For Blanche told me the brat was yours.”

“As she told a dozen others they were his sire.” Tremayne let the words hang between them for a long moment. “Your kin will betray you, Cris. Just as she did.”

“That is my concern, not yours,” Brother Noir assured him. “Those who prove disloyal will die by my hand. Even as I am gone from this world.”

The dark knight fell silent for a time, and then slowly nodded.

“From here we travel to England,” Tremayne said. “The king will be persuaded to offer us sanctuary during the trials. By spring we will divide the territory and establish our strongholds.”

“When the work is done I will return to France and begin the education and training of my kin.” The monk glanced at Frémis. “You will not kill this one. He is an innocent.”

“They always are.” The dark knight stepped out into the corridor and helped Frémis to his feet. “Come, brother. Come with me now.”

The heavy scent of cherries made the monk’s head spin. “Where do I go, my lord?”

A strong, hard arm steadied him. “Back to your post.”

Chapter 1

October 12, 2011

Provence, France

D

uring the day the waitresses at La Théière Verte delivered filling but forgettable meals from the cramped kitchen of the restaurant to the table of any hungry tourist who had wandered in through the old green doors. The owner, Madame Eugenie, prepared all the dishes herself, using the cheapest ingredients and as much garlic as she dared. She considered this blatant desecration of God’s bounty an economical measure as well as her patriotic duty. The tourists, ignorant cretins that they were, never seemed to notice. As long as they were served a plate close to overflowing, they happily handed over their euros.

Only after dark did madame’s chef arrive to cook for the villagers who came to dine, and whose standards were French. The local residents could not be appeased by a stew of shredded lapin smothered beneath a montagne of carrots, the blandest of radishes glued by oleo to day-old black bread, or gallons of cheap Spanish wine funneled into empty, French-labeled bottles. If in a moment of madness Eugenie ever dared to serve such swill to her neighbors, they would consider it their patriotic duty to lock her and her staff inside the old restaurant before setting fire to the place.

For these reasons madame was not at all pleased when her waitress Marie nudged her and nodded toward a tall, flaxen-haired stranger standing just inside the threshold.

“Zut, not a German at this hour. He must have run out of petrol. Unless he is an American.” Eugenie almost spit on the last word. To her, the only thing worse than the Berliners were those loud, nosy imbeciles from across the Atlantic, forever thumbing through their phrase books and mangling her native tongue. Or the ones who waddled in, their rotund bodies shiny with sweat and sunscreen, to demand to know whether she served low-fat this and sugar-free that.

“Whatever he is, he’s handsome,” Marie said, and shifted to get a better look. “Such a big man, too. Look at those shoulders, and all that hair. It must fall to his waist.”

“Et alors?” Eugenie gave the girl a hard pinch on the arm. “Forget his hair. Ask if he has a reservation. He will say no, and you will tell him to call for one tomorrow.”

Marie rubbed her arm and said in an absent tone, “We do not take reservations, madame.”

“Does he know this, you goose?” she hissed, and then saw it was too late. “There, now, because you are lazy and stupid, he is already sitting down. Go and see what he wants. If he asks for the cheeseburger do not tell me. I will choke him with his own hair.”

Korvel stopped listening to the conversation between the women behind the bar and checked the interior of the restaurant. Only a third of the tables were occupied, most by couples and some middle-aged men. One delicate fairy of a schoolgirl sat picking at her food while her parents bickered in half whispers. Apart from sending a few uninterested glances in his direction when he had walked in, no one paid any further attention to him.

As transparent as a bloody specter, but not half as interesting.

When the young, smiling waitress approached his table his empty belly clenched, but years of self-denial quickly dispelled the involuntary response. He listened as the girl stammered through a brief recital of the evening specials before he ordered a bottle of a local Bandol and the vegetable soup. The wine would not satisfy his ever-present hunger, and if he attempted to eat the soup he would puke, but they would buy him a half hour of quiet and rest before he continued his journey.

Or I could have the waitress and be gone in five minutes.

He had no time or particular inclination to give his body what it needed: a woman. There had been a time when any woman would do, for no matter how different they were from one another, they all shared the same soft warmth, the same intense fragility. He had thought mortal women as lovely as an endless meadow of flowers.

So it had been until he had fallen in love with Alexandra Keller. The only woman he had ever truly wanted for himself, now gone from his life and forever beyond his reach.

For a time, being caught between his physical needs and his broken heart had produced ungodly urges that had nearly driven Korvel out of his head. Fortunately those, too, were now gone. His will, or what remained of it, permitted him to don a brittle mask each day and carry on with this imitation of life.

God in heaven, he had wearied of this charade, of everyone and everything in it. More than that, he was sick unto death of himself.

“Monsieur?”

Korvel glanced up at madame, who had brought a dark bottle to his table, but seemed more interested in examining him than in pouring the wine. She measured every inch of the hair he kept forgetting to cut, and the garments he had tailored to fit his overlarge frame, which cost more than the average tourist spent on ten vacations. Doubtless she could also name his weight to within five kilos’ accuracy.

Her gaze flicked down to dwell with disapproval on the mark that encircled his throat. It resembled a garrote of dark green thorns, and as most mortals did she would assume he had been tattooed. He could not explain that being hanged for weeks in a copper-barbed noose had caused the marks. Copper proved lethal to his kind only when it entered their veins or heart, but its poisonous effects were such that even touching it caused burns. Any extended surface contact with the dark metal left permanent, green scars on immortal flesh; grim reminders, in a sense, of humanity’s loathing of their dark Kyn.

He also doubted she would care. “S’il vous plaît?” He gestured at his glass, earning a mild frown from her before she filled it to the rim.

“You are American?” she asked in English as she wiped a dribble from the bottle’s neck.

Another reminder of what could never be. “No, madame. I am from England.”

“Ah, les anglais.” She nodded to herself with some satisfaction, and the lines bracketing her mouth softened. “You come with the caravan, oui?”

“I am here on business.” The business of playing courier for his master, for reasons that had never been adequately explained to him. “Thank you for the wine.”

“Il n’y a pas de quoi.” She bobbed her head and smoothed her hands over the sides of her apron before reluctantly turning away and resuming her post behind the bar. He saw the flicker of confusion that passed over her narrow features before she returned to her task of sorting flatware.

Korvel reached over to open the window a little wider before sampling the glass. Mortals considered Provence a fine-wine void, something the residents likely encouraged to protect their supply of some of the best red and rosé wines in the world. Madame had brought him a Mourvèdre-based red wine with a pleasing amount of spine to it, and Korvel breathed in its tannic perfume while he removed a flask from his jacket. He had to sip some of the wine before discreetly adding a measure of the darker, thicker liquid from the flask to the glass, but his next swallow instantly eliminated the leaden sensation the first swallow had left in his gut.

The mixture of blood and wine went to work, spreading slowly through him to warm his cold flesh and loosen his stiff muscles. It would tide him over until he reached his destination, where he planned to see to his needs once he retrieved his master’s property. He took out the small GPS device that had been attached to the car’s dashboard to check his current position.

“That no work here, monsieur.”

“Indeed.” Korvel eyed the plump face of the waitress as she set down a steaming bowl of soup. “Why not?”

“The wind very bad Sunday. The tower, send signal?” When he nodded his understanding, she straightened her hand and then let it fall to mimic something toppling over.