Chapter 7
The morning after the robbery, Monsieur Gravois was ushered into the dressing room of the Marquis de Vernoux. The day was bright with sunshine, and it streamed in through the long windows, making the room glow. Bolts of cloth—navy blue, dark brown, black worsted, lengths of pale ivory brocade, red-striped satin, yellow silk—lay piled on the settee and draped across every available place to sit. The marquis, an elegant man, slim, proud of his carriage, was standing before a glass as his tailor fitted him with a new frock coat.
Vernoux still used his title, despite the fact that the use of such trappings of the nobility were discouraged and even dangerous since the Revolution. He had allied himself with the revolutionaries, said the correct things, acted in the appropriate manner during the Terror to save his skin—and his head from being separated from his body on the guillotine. As a result, he had been granted this one indulgence. Although officially he was called Monsieur Moreau, to those who knew him well, he was still the Marquis de Vernoux. Gravois had known the marquis for a long time.
“Ah, Gravois, just in time,” Vernoux exclaimed. “That yellow silk you sent me will make an excellent waistcoat. I believe it will go well with this new frock coat, n’est-ce pas?”
Gravois ran his eye over the burgundy wool draped across Vernoux’s shoulders. “Oui, mon seigneur. It will go very nicely.” He watched the tailor tuck and pin, then cleared his throat. “Vernoux, I have come on quite another matter. A rather delicate matter.”
The marquis met Gravois’s gaze in the mirror. Vernoux’s eyes snapped cold and dark. “You know I despise being bothered with problems this early in the day. Come back later, when I have fortified myself with a cup of chocolate.” He paused. “In fact, don’t come back at all. Handle it yourself.” Striking a pose, he surveyed himself in the glass.
Monsieur Gravois bowed his head and sighed. “I’m afraid I cannot, mon seigneur. You see, it has to do with a frog.”
The marquis went very still, stared at his image in the glass, and gave no indication that he had heard. With an abrupt gesture, he snapped at the tailor, “Get out.” He pulled at the skeleton of the frock coat hanging on him. “And get this infernal rag off me.”
Gravois watched the frightened tailor ease the lovely burgundy wool from the marquis’s shoulders, bow, murmur an apology, and scurry from the room. Vernoux was a frightening man when he was disturbed, and Monsieur Gravois had deeply disturbed him. The silk merchant swallowed in a dry throat. What he had to say would make the marquis furious.
Slowly, Vernoux turned to face him. Gravois thought the man had the eyes of a snake—deadly, cruel, without feeling, completely amoral. Those eyes pinned him where he stood.
“What, Gravois, about the frog?” Vernoux said very quietly.
Clearing his throat, Gravois said, “A thief broke into my house last night.”
Vernoux hissed with impatience. “I told you to hire more men. I don’t know what you expect me to do. Don’t waste my time.”
“He stole the Silver Arrows.”
Once again, Vernoux stilled. Gravois felt those eyes on him as if they were two fangs biting into his skin. The Silver Arrows were magical artifacts that could help the Legion of Baal find the pieces of the Sphere of Astarte. He had been entrusted with their keeping when Vernoux discovered that one of the pieces of the Sphere was here in Paris.
After what seemed like an eternity, the marquis drawled, “You never cease to surprise me, Gravois, with your stupidity. I am amazed the Lord High still allows you to remain a part of the Legion and has not sacrificed your heart to the god before now.”
The idea of being sacrificed to Baal struck terror into his soul, but Gravois had a card up his sleeve. He decided the time had come to produce it. Bowing his head as if he were humbly contrite, he said, “The thief was someone you know, Vernoux.” He paused dramatically. “The brother of your mistress, the lovely Madame de Volonté.” Gravois glanced up in time to see the fury run through Vernoux’s eyes, then an expression cold enough to lower the temperature of the sunny room.
“How do you know this?” The words of the marquis were uttered so softly that Gravois had to strain to hear them.
“Three of my footmen, ones that you recommended to me, caught him, then let him go. They said he had only plucked flowers from the garden. I recognized the boy’s description.”
“Flowers.” Vernoux’s expression became shuttered. “Young Gide has become quite the talented sorcerer, n’est-ce pas, to be able to transmute silver arrows to flowers?” He wandered to the window to look out at his own garden with its riot of blooms. After several moments, he turned back to the silk merchant. “I want you to send Madame de Volonté some flowers, Gravois, cartloads of them. Denude your garden if you must. But do not allow her to know they came from you. I will retrieve the Silver Arrows for you and save your miserable heart from the Lord High’s sacrificial knife.”
Gravois bowed low, thanking Baal and whatever other spirits watched over him that all he had to sacrifice were the flowers from his garden. “Merci, Monsieur le Marquis.” Straightening again, curiosity made him ask, “What will happen to Madame de Volonté?”
With an arrogantly raised brow, Vernoux said, “She will be staggered with delight at such an extravagant display of generosity, and then I will show my overwhelming affection for both herself and her brother. Especially her brother.”
With another quick bow, Gravois took his leave, sorry he had asked.
Solange greeted the Marquis de Vernoux in her drawing room the night after the robbery. Dropping into a deep curtsey, she murmured as she always did when he arrived, “Monsieur le Marquis. I am honored by your presence.”
“Ma petite putain.” My little whore. Vernoux’s words purred with the satisfaction of a contented cat.
Uneasy at his apparent good mood, Solange cast a quick glance at him. His mouth smiled, but his eyes held a dark glint. She had seen that expression before, and it did not bode well for her safety. Rising from her curtsey, she pretended she had not noticed.
“May I offer you some refreshment?” She indicated the tray holding a decanter of brandy and a selection of bonbons.
Ignoring her question, he said, “I see you have a generous admirer.” He cast his gaze pointedly at the abundance of flowers scattered about the room in many vases.
Solange gave a nervous laugh. As soon as the flowers had arrived, she knew they were an ominous message. She’d fought panic all day. Now, as her heart galloped in her chest, she feigned ignorance. “I have no idea who they are from. They arrived this morning by the cartload.” She paused as if an idea had just occurred to her. “Mon Dieu! Vernoux! They are from you!” Grabbing his hand, she kissed it. “Oh, merci! They are beautiful!”
“Do you like them?” Vernoux asked blandly.
“Of course I like them.” Solange pouted. “How could I not like them? You know how much I adore flowers.”
“Are there enough flowers to satisfy your craving?” His tone contained only mild curiosity.
Solange knew he was leading her into a treacherous quagmire. She could do nothing but respond. “I am humbled at your generosity, Vernoux.”
“You did not answer my question.” Vernoux’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“Oui. Of course there are enough. But now that you have been so generous, you know I will expect such gifts again in the future,” she said coyly as she tried to distract him by swaying closer and running her finger provocatively down his chest.
“Oh, I intend to be most generous,” he murmured. “Since I have gifted you with all of these flowers, perhaps you could ask your brother not to steal them from the gardens of others.”
Solange fell back a step, once again feigning innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
Cold, deadly fury turned Vernoux’s eyes black. Grabbing her by the wrist, he pulled her toward the door of the drawing room. “Let us go speak to him now, shall we? And perhaps we will also explain that he should not steal from the houses of those who protect him and his sister.”
Terror clutched at her. Having seen that look in his eyes before, she knew it foreshadowed pain. She did not wish to see him inflict it on Gide. Yanking against his grip, she fought to slow his progress. “Vernoux. No. Wait. Please.”
Surprisingly, he stopped and turned to her, and appeared to be merely the calm gentleman. Solange knew he raged beneath that exterior.
“The robbery last night was my idea. Gide wanted nothing to do with it. He went along because I convinced him. Please. It was not his fault. Don’t hurt him. Please.” She hated to plead, but she knew that humbling herself before this man was the only way to dissuade him from his intent.
“Why should I not hurt him? He stole the Silver Arrows. They are very valuable.” His flat, unemotional statements only underscored to Solange how enraged he was.
Desperate to protect Gide, she blurted, “We will return them.”
“Of course you will.” Vernoux once more dragged her toward the door.
Resisting, she said, “If you must punish someone, then punish me.”
Stopping again, Vernoux’s lips curved into a tight, cruel smile. “Ma petite putain, did you think I would forget you?” He ran his finger down her cheek like a caress. It threatened rather than seduced. “You know how much I like to hear you whimper.” Tapping her lips, he said, “Tonight, I feel the need to hear you beg.” His smile disappeared, and his eyes took on the black, cold-blooded expression of a snake. “You will beg me for mercy, first for your brother and then for yourself. You will learn that you may not do whatever you wish. You are allowed to thieve because it amuses me, but you have gone too far. You have stolen from the Legion of Baal.”
Discarding caution, she snapped, “We thieve because Le Chacal demands it.”
“Ah, yes, Le Chacal.” Momentary amusement flitted through his eyes. “Who do you think protects Le Chacal? If it had not been for me, the scum would have lost both hands.”
“And if it had not been for Le Chacal, your precious l’hôtel would be rubble, trashed and looted by the revolutionaries.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had pushed too far. “Forgive me, mon seigneur,” she said with head bowed. “I do not know where these words come from.”
Vernoux’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Do not try to distract me. I know your charming tricks.”
He dragged his nail across the swell of her breast that peeked from her gown. She clenched her jaw at the scratch of pain, a minuscule reminder of what lay in store for her. His gaze heated. He jerked her close and drew her hand to his crotch where his erection strained against his form-fitting doeskin breeches. Only rage aroused him that much.
“I am anxious to begin, and I am tempted to bugger your brother,” he said. “You would not wish to watch that, would you, ma petite putain? Because I can easily accomplish it before I bugger you.”
Solange swallowed and shook her head.
“Bon. Then let us get on with it. Your brother will learn his lesson, and then it will be your turn.”
As he pulled her toward the door again, she resisted. “No, please, Vernoux. I beg you!”
Swinging around to face her, he lifted his arm, his hand a hard fist. His sleeve fell back, exposing the frog glyph tattooed on the inside of his wrist. It glowed faintly. Solange flinched away. It was not his blow that she feared, but the burn that glyph could inflict. She had felt it before. It scalded like nothing she had ever experienced. It bit under her skin and into her brain, where it seared away everything else until it was the center of existence.
“Do not force me to use this on you. I would regret marking you in such a manner, but I will do what is necessary. You have mocked the Legion of Baal, and you will be punished.” Cruel lust flashed across his face, and again he jerked her close. “And after, when I take you, you will remember exactly who your master is.” His hand came down and clamped on her breast. At her wince of pain, he smiled thinly. “There, you see? You have already begun to learn your lesson.”
As he dragged her through the doorway, Solange closed her mind against the torment that was to come.
The night after the robbery, Tonio entered Solange’s bedchamber through the window. Flowers were scattered everywhere—across the floor, across the furniture, trampled underfoot, clinging to the draperies, strewn across the bed, some even dangling from the sconces on the walls. Although the covers on the bed were rumpled, Solange was not in it. Puzzled at the disarray of the room, surprised that she was not abed at this hour of the night, he crossed the room to search for her. He had come with the intent of venting his irritation at what Gide had done the night before. He would not leave until they came to an understanding.
A whimper from a dark corner beside the bed drew his attention. Glancing over, he saw a small form curled into a tight ball on the floor. When he moved closer, he realized it was Solange. Something was very wrong.
Solange? he asked. He crouched down and reached out to touch her. When his fingers brushed her shoulder, she cringed away. The warm tingle he had felt before was barely perceptible.
“Don’t. Please.” Her words were thin with pain.
What is wrong? Are you ill? Concern made the questions tumble from him.
“Please, see to my brother. The room across the hall.”
What has happened?
She drew a shaky breath. “It’s nothing. I’m all right.”
Uncurling, she sat up. Pain flickered across her face. Her lashes were spiky from tears. With an effort, she tried to pull herself to her feet. Tonio held his hands out on either side of her and used his mind to support her until she could stand. As she grabbed the bedpost, he saw the shredded back of her nightdress. Dark stains speckled the material. Blood.
Solange, what happened? Anxiety ripped through him. Who did this?
She would not look at him. “Please, go to my brother. He needs help.”
Tonio was reluctant to leave her but realized he would get no answers until he did as she asked. Let me call your maid.
She did not respond, did not move. Her shoulders drooped, and her head hung down. As angry as he was with her, he ached to see her in such pain. He wanted to ease her suffering. Stepping back, concentrating, he held his hands out in front of him, palms up, and lifted her from the floor. She gasped, and panic rose in her eyes. It’s all right, he reassured her. I won’t hurt you. Slowly, gently, he floated her above the bed where he allowed her to settle, face down. He heard a muffled sob.
Resting his hand on her head, he asked, Did I hurt you?
“No. Please. My brother.” Her words were barely a breath.
He gave her a last, light caress, then did as she asked. With a twist of his wrist, he forced the bell pull beside the bed to dip, calling her maid as he exited the room. He found Gide in his room, slumped against the bedpost. His wrists were tied above his head, the back of his shirt ripped open, his back a bloody mass of welts. Beside him on the floor lay a switch from a thorn bush. He was barely conscious and in much worse condition than his sister.
With several quick flicks of his fingers, Tonio untied the drapery cords binding him and eased him gently to the floor. Gide moaned in agony. A burn in the shape of a frog glyph marked his shoulder. Whoever had done this was a member of the Legion of Baal. Tonio suspected he knew who it was.
He bent over Gide, and placing his fingers against Gide’s pulse, entered his mind quickly, inducing him to sleep. He could at least give Solange’s brother that small relief. Both Solange and Gide needed help. He bounded to the window and jumped to the rooftop of the adjoining building.
Tonio raced home, his rage bubbling inside as he flitted from rooftop to rooftop. He first roused Piero, then stood outside his brother’s bedchamber. Alessandro would not be happy being pulled from the bed he shared with Sabrina, but Tonio could think of no other alternative. As Shadow, he was not about to expose himself to the fright, speculation, and gossip of servants. Alessandro would have to step in and take control. For this moment, he was glad of his twin’s presence in Paris.
Sandro. He sent the call through the heavy wood of the door. Tonio sensed his brother awaken, then his reluctance to leave the side of his beautiful wife. Sandro, I need you.
After a moment, the door opened. Looking annoyed, Alessandro stood naked in the opening. “I hope you have an excellent reason for rousing me from my bed.”
I need you to take my identity. There’s trouble.
Tonio explained the situation, and when he had finished, concern darkened Alessandro’s face. “I’ll wake Sabrina. She’ll be able to help.” He paused, and Tonio felt his twin’s searching regard. “This woman… Have you touched her?”
Antonio shrugged and let his gaze slip away.
“Christo!” Alessandro’s word was a quiet explosion. “Do you understand what you have done?”
Tonio glared at his brother. What I have done is endanger this woman’s life. Will you help or not?
“Si. Of course. But you must promise me you will not touch her again.” Concern tinged his words.
Tonio remembered the madness that had taken hold of Alessandro during the Hunger after he had touched Sabrina, the madness that had prompted Tonio to kidnap Sabrina for his twin. If he did not touch Solange again, would he be able to avoid the same kind of madness? Would he be able to restrain himself from touching her again? He shook his head, both in answer to his twin and his own questions.
If you’d had more time as Shadow, would you have refrained from touching Sabrina? he asked quietly.
Alessandro sighed. “This is not going to be easy, Tonio. Please, don’t get yourself killed.”
With a grim smile, Tonio said, I’ll do my best.
Solange lay quietly, blocking out the dull throb that radiated up her back and down the backs of her legs. Tonio had returned with the Duke of Auriano, his servant, and a lovely woman named Sabrina, who was wed to the duke’s brother, the prince. The duke was very much flesh and blood, so Gide’s suspicions that the shadowman and Auriano were one and the same had been wrong. But he was not the magnetic, sensuous man she had met at her salon, despite his beauty, nor the dangerous man who had trailed her into the Catacombs. He was polite and solicitous, but cool. Perhaps he had lost interest in retrieving his property. Or perhaps he had lost interest because of what he had learned about her connection to Vernoux. Although she was relieved she did not have to deal with his advances, a tiny part of her regretted the loss of his interest. But she hurt too much to give the matter much thought.
The three of them had taken control of the household. Sabrina had applied an ointment to the welts across Solange’s buttocks, which had blunted the sharp knives of pain, and had made her swallow some vile concoction that would help her sleep. But Solange’s humiliation at the abuse Vernoux had inflicted on her would not recede, nor the memory of the torture he had inflicted on Gide.
The others had gone, and only Tonio remained standing at the side of the bed. She could feel his eyes on her, those golden, molten eyes. She wanted him next to her. At the same time, she could not bear to look at him. Her degradation sat in her chest like some dead thing she could not cut away. She did not want to see pity in that golden gaze. Keeping her eyes closed, she hoped he thought she was sleeping.
She sensed him stretching out beside her. His weight was nothing on the mattress. She felt his hand at the base of her neck, and the touch soothed her. The warm tingle she had felt before radiated outward, trickling down her spine, dulling the pain.
Solange, who did this to you? His words in her head were quiet, but she heard the underlying anger.
Not willing to reveal her misery, she opened her eyes and smiled. “Thank you for taking care of Gide.”
Why would I not take care of your brother? The tone of his words was cool.
Realizing she had insulted him, she tried to smooth his feelings. “I know you do not trust him.”
Annoyance rippled across his features. Did you think I would leave him to suffer?
“I… No.” She lapsed into silence, closing her eyes against the affront that lingered in his gaze. At least it was not pity.
What of you, Solange? Should you not also be grateful that I took care of you? he baited.
Trying to deflect his anger, she looked at him and smiled seductively, slipping forgetfully into her role as Madame de Volonté. “I will be when I have recovered.”
His hand lifted from her back. You will not play the whore for me. You know that is not what I meant.
She sighed, regretting that her words pushed him away. “I have always taken care of Gide first.”
Perhaps that is his problem. Perhaps that is why he foolishly stole flowers.
Surprised, Solange stared at Tonio. He did not know. She debated for a moment about telling him, then decided he deserved the truth. “Gide did not steal flowers. He stole the Silver Arrows, artifacts that are supposed to locate something called the Sphere of Astarte.”
Tonio went completely still, then he rolled from the bed. He looked around the room, at the flowers scattered everywhere. When his gaze landed on her once again, she saw he had put all the pieces together. When your brother thought he would get caught, he turned the Arrows into flowers, he said.
“Oui.”
And whoever did this to you took back the Arrows.
“Oui.”
The Marquis de Vernoux. Tonio’s statement was flat.
Solange did not answer.
I know of Vernoux. You played a dangerous game by robbing a house belonging to a member of the Legion of Baal, he scolded.
Stung at his accusation, she snapped, “If you’ll remember, you were the one who urged the theft of a grand house. I had no idea l’Hôtel Carnavalet was owned by a member of the Legion.” In her agitation, she moved against the sheet covering her and sent slivers of pain radiating up her back and down her legs. An embarrassing whimper escaped her throat, and a tear trickled from the corner of her eye.
Shh… Solange. Dolce mia. Tonio crouched beside her on the bed. His hand brushed her cheek and cupped her head. His thumb rubbed lightly just below her ear.
At his touch, calm settled on her once more. Sleep began to pull at her, the effects of the tisane she had drunk. Before she slipped into unconsciousness, she murmured, “He did not get all of the Arrows. One seems to have gone missing.”
His amusement rippled through her mind like a warm breeze. She smiled, satisfied that she had pleased him. When he brushed his thumb across her lip, she felt his emotions turning solemn.
I’m sorry, dolce mia. The words were barely a whisper in her head. The touch of his lips at the corner of her mouth sent warmth through her and cradled her as she descended into sleep.
Tonio stood in the doorway of the kitchen of Vernoux’s l’hôtel. His anger had overridden his good sense in going there; but as he watched the two people in the otherwise empty room, he was glad it had. Before him were Vernoux, still clothed, and a young woman, naked. She was younger than a woman. A girl. No doubt one of the scullery maids, the most vulnerable of the Frenchman’s staff. The marquis had her bent across a work table, splayed out on her stomach, her toes barely touching the floor. He supported himself with one hand. The other crushed her cheek to the table and held her down. He used her brutally, remorselessly. Every thrust pushed her frail hip bones into the stone-like wood of the table. Every thrust wrung a cry of misery from her.
Tonio’s revulsion fueled his rage at the Frenchman, whose cruelty had evidently not been sated with his punishment of Solange and her brother. He was taking it out on his servants. It was time to teach him some restraint.
Tonio wanted to kill the man right there but did not wish to traumatize the girl any more than she already was. With a controlled movement of his hand, he slid a knife from the wooden block where they were stored. Turning it in midair, he let it fly with deadly accuracy. It thunked into the worktable a scant inch from Vernoux’s hand. The marquis froze. The girl screeched. Tonio stabbed a second knife into the table on the other side of the Frenchman’s hand. Vernoux’s head snapped around in astonishment. Tonio sent a third knife through the air, stabbing it down between the Frenchman’s spread fingers. The marquis jerked his hand away from the deadly blades. With another quick movement, Tonio flung him sideways, away from the girl. The marquis landed in an inelegant sprawl on the floor.
He immediately surged to his feet. Tonio observed with satisfaction that his member hung limp within his unbuttoned breeches.
“Who’s there?” Vernoux demanded. “How dare you…” His words trailed off when he saw Tonio emerge from the shadows.
I dare. Tonio stepped farther into the room. Didn’t you get enough sick pleasure from abusing Madame de Volonté and her brother?
Vernoux’s eyes widened, then hardened. Grabbing the girl’s arm, he pulled her from the table and flung her away. “Out,” he commanded her, keeping his eyes on Tonio.
The girl picked herself up and scurried to collect her clothing. As she hastened past Tonio to the door, he saw bruises along her arms, more on her tiny breasts. Her lip was swollen and split, her cheek mottled purple, and the dark smudge of a black eye was beginning to form. She cast a quick glance in Tonio’s direction, and her mouth dropped open. He sent a gentle nudge into her mind, urging her to run. Gratitude replaced the shock in her eyes. In her hurry to escape, she left the door ajar. Tonio closed it with a subtle movement of his hand.
Casually, Vernoux rearranged his clothing. “I know what you are,” he said as if he were having an informal conversation over a glass of brandy. “The curse. I always wondered if all the rumors were true.”
Then I am pleased I could provide some enlightenment. Tonio’s answer dripped sarcasm. I think we have a few things to discuss, Monsieur le Marquis.
“I have nothing to discuss with a monster.” Vernoux pulled one of the knives from the table and tested its sharpness with his thumb.
Ah. A monster. I’ve been called worse. But which of us is the true fiend? Tonio watched Vernoux’s movements closely.
The marquis chuckled. “Oh, I have no difficulty in pinpointing the culprit.” He flipped the knife in his hand and caught it by the blade.
Excellent. Tonio nodded. Then you will not mind if I teach the monster a few manners.
“I think not.” Vernoux flung the knife. It whistled past Tonio’s ear and stuck into the wall behind him.
Really, Vernoux, is your aim truly that bad? Tonio sauntered closer, daring the Frenchman.
Anger narrowed Vernoux’s eyes. He wrenched another knife from the table and examined its sharpness. “Does a shadow bleed?” he asked, mildly curious. He flipped this knife also, catching the blade, the handle, the blade. “Can a shadow die?” Without warning, he threw the knife.
Tonio jumped easily out of the way. Pathetic, he observed, as he flicked his hand, giving the marquis an invisible push.
The Frenchman stumbled backward. Glaring, he said, “You do not scare me with your silly tricks.”
Not tricks, Tonio disputed. A warning.
Vernoux sneered. “A warning of what?”
Tonio swiped his arm through the air. The pots hanging on a rack over the table tumbled from their hooks and crashed onto the marquis. Vernoux uselessly tried to protect his head.
You will not touch Madame de Volonté, Tonio said, moving to within a few arm lengths of the Frenchman. With another flick, he pushed the man again.
“She is my whore,” Vernoux said scornfully.
She is no one’s whore. Tonio whipped his arm in an arc and sent the Frenchman crashing into an étagère piled with crockery. The pots and dishes exploded into pieces.
Vernoux scrambled up. Small cuts on his neck and ear showed red. “I own her.” Scooping up a pile of broken pottery, he flung it.
Tonio stopped it in midair and threw it back at him. You do not. He stalked closer. She is owned by no one. If you hurt her again, know I will come after you. Next time, I will not be so gentle.
With another wide sweep of his arm, he propelled the marquis forward, against the table, where he sprawled across it in the same position he had held the girl. As his genitals slammed against the wood, he let out a bellow of pain.
Not so much fun when you are on the receiving end, si? Tonio taunted.
Vernoux’s hand closed around the handle of the knife still sticking into the tabletop. In a single movement, he jerked it free, surged upright and swept it in an arc. Tonio jumped back, but it raked across his ribs. He felt nothing but knew he would have a scratch there when he turned to flesh and bone. It would probably hurt like Hades.
Annoyed he had allowed the marquis to surprise him, he swung out his arm and slammed him onto the table. The Frenchman’s head hit the hard wood with the crack of a pistol. His eyes glazed as he sprawled across it. The knife skittered to the edge and hung there.
Tonio jumped up onto the table and crouched beside him so he could look into the man’s eyes. You will not abuse Madame de Volonté in any way. He flicked his fingers to collect the knife. It flew into his palm. Nor, he said, will you flog her brother. He let the Frenchman see the blade. Do I make myself clear, Monsieur le Marquis?
Vernoux glared at him but refused to answer.
Tonio wanted to stab the knife into one of those glaring, snake-like eyes or perhaps into the Frenchman’s ugly heart but refrained because he surmised that Solange might be considered suspect. No suspicion would fall on her over what he did this night. Instead, he held his free palm in the air over the Frenchman’s groin, slowly closed his hand into a fist, then twisted. Vernoux grabbed his crotch and his face convulsed in pain. He let out a strangled groan. Tonio tightened his hold on the man’s privates. Vernoux’s groan escalated in tone and volume.
Am I making myself clear? Tonio sent his words stabbing into the Frenchman’s mind.
“Oui,” Vernoux gasped. The hatred in the man’s eyes simmered.
Bene. He released his hold on the man’s privates. The Frenchman’s hand relaxed open on the table near Tonio’s knee. Just to remind you to behave… Tonio said, then he jabbed the blade through Vernoux’s palm.
Vernoux howled a combination of pain and outrage.
Too late, Tonio saw the flash of intent in the man’s eyes. He caught the upward movement of his arm out of the corner of his eye, the glowing frog glyph on his wrist, and jumped away, but not soon enough. The Frenchman’s wrist caught his shoulder, and the frog glyph grazed his skin. The burn seared him.
Cazzo! he swore, surprised that he felt the sensation. Was that frog glyph lethal while he was Shadow? He should have felt nothing. Tendrils of icy-hot pain began to twine across his shoulder.
Vernoux emitted an ugly laugh.
From beyond the kitchen door, Tonio heard the sound of running feet, the cries of alarm. The altercation had roused the household. It was time to leave. Perhaps he would have the opportunity to kill the man another time. Besides, his shoulder needed attention.
Satisfied the Frenchman had learned his lesson, Tonio said, I am so glad we had this chat. He pulled the knife from Vernoux’s hand and stuck it into the table far from his reach.
The marquis bellowed in pain. His dark eyes burned in his bloodless face. “You will pay for this,” he rasped. “The Legion of Baal will destroy you.”
Ah. Well, they will have to catch me first. Ignoring the poisonous sting from the burn on his shoulder, Tonio executed an elaborate bow, then lightly stepped across Vernoux’s prone form, and floated to the floor. Buona sera, Monsieur le Marquis.
As he slipped out of the kitchen, he heard Vernoux calling for his footmen to catch the intruder. Chuckling, Tonio disappeared into the shadows.