Elijah stared through the haze of light to read the names on the stones within her circle of candles. He saw at least three marked DALLIENCOURT—Ysabelle was trying to contact her ancestors. He didn’t know why, but if he could help her communicate with them, he was sure he could leverage that to gain her trust. He did, after all, know a thing or two about witches.
“There was no murder,” he reminded her firmly. The idea continued to take shape in his mind as he spoke. “If you want, we can speak with the shade of the man himself, and he will confirm that he died naturally. Assuming, of course, that such a spell is not beyond your abilities.”
Ysabelle’s eyebrows drew together, and her mouth tightened. She obviously didn’t want to admit that Elijah was right.
“I see that you are interested in ancestry, Madame Ysabelle,” he went on before she could invent a reason to refuse and save her pride. “How much do you know of mine?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard, and she hesitated again before choosing an answer. “I have heard of your family,” she admitted cautiously. “Your mother is a legend.”
We are legends, too, he wanted to retort. Esther’s reputation was the one that mattered for his purposes, but the existence of vampires was her most impressive achievement. “She worked the immortality spell on me, and here I stand before you, as alive as I was that day.”
Ysabelle’s lip curled in disgust. “It is not usual for a witch to fear death so,” she said.
To his surprise, the criticism stung. Ysabelle was still fairly young, and didn’t have a husband or children of her own yet. How could she know what a mother would do to protect her family? Esther had fled a plague only to find her family surrounded by werewolves. She had done what she believed necessary to keep the Mikaelsons together.
“Yes, but her answer to her fears provides us with a rather neat solution to both of our problems,” he compromised.
“I doubt that a vampire has much to offer when it comes to my particular concerns,” Ysabelle said. “If it’s your tainted blood you’re offering, go peddle that nonsense elsewhere. It is clean, pure magic I wish to do here, nothing mingled with the stuff that keeps you in this world.”
“My blood is not available for purchase or trade,” Elijah answered stiffly. And you couldn’t afford it if it were. “The legacy of which I speak is a set of books containing all of the spells my mother ever worked or learned. ‘Clean, pure magic,’ as you say...for the most part, at least. Have you heard of a grimoire? I never knew if they were common among witches, or just a habit of my mother’s own.”
Ysabelle’s mouth hung open in speechless surprise. “A grimoire—Esther’s grimoire? It was lost centuries ago; it’s nothing but a myth.”
“It’s a family heirloom,” Elijah corrected. “It has remained with her family. Although I’m sure you can imagine why we thought it better to let the world believe it was gone.”
“If we had known...the things she could have taught us...” Ysabelle twined a long lock of auburn hair around her fingers pensively. Elijah could almost see the calculation taking place in her mind. “I understand you did not want to be hunted for them, but the books are no use to you.”
“They are family heirlooms,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a stern rumble. She shook her hair back behind her shoulders and folded her hands together, an oddly girlish demonstration that she was listening. “What I offer you now is the use of them only, not possession. They could help you with whatever you are trying to accomplish here tonight. There is a spell that will allow you to speak with the dead; it will reach both your ancestors and Hugo Rey, who gave his house to me last night. You will speak with him to confirm the story I have told you, and then, in exchange for the gift of this spell, you will cast another one for me.”
Ysabelle’s face was rapt as she listened to his terms, but at the final condition he saw doubt creep into the set of her jaw. “Which spell?” she breathed, as if she were afraid to hear the answer. “The bargain you offer seems tempting, but I must know what you want in return. I cannot betray my people or my principles, no matter what gifts you promise in exchange.” In spite of her decisive words, she licked her lips, and Elijah smiled confidently.
“It is a simple matter,” he assured her. “There is another spell in the grimoire—a protection spell. It is meant for a dwelling, to defend a home and those within it from surprise or attack.”
“And you have a home now,” Ysabelle finished, looking somewhat relieved. Elijah could tell that she had feared he would name some terrible price. In her eagerness, she had already conceded that the house was rightfully his.
The candles between them suddenly, inexplicably extinguished themselves. Ysabelle stepped forward and held out her hand to shake his, confidently as any man would have. “Come at dawn with the spell book. I’ll be waiting for you.” For a moment she reminded Elijah of her bold, lovely niece, Vivianne. But he hoped, for Klaus’s sake, that Vivianne was not so eager to compromise her values.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ONCE THE FRENCH soldiers recovered from the initial surprise of the attack, it hadn’t taken them long to gain the upper hand. Rebekah could tell that the werewolves were cunning, using their knowledge of the wild environs to their advantage, and laying one ambush after another. Their plan was clever, but it hadn’t been enough to overcome the larger, well-organized, and better-armed French soldiers. By the time the sun rose red as blood, the wolves had melted back into the countryside.
When the sounds of ringing metal and bursting gunpowder were finally silent, Felix was called away from his guard of Rebekah. He was needed, he explained tersely through the door of her tent, to command the men in the aftermath of the battle, and to supervise the care of the wounded. Still mulling over the discoveries from Eric’s room, it took some time for Rebekah to realize the full implications of Felix’s new responsibilities. What he described was the role of a commander, not a second-in-command. And if Felix was in charge of the army this morning, it meant Eric was not.
She knew her brothers would say it was for the best. Eric’s knowledge of vampires was dangerous, and normally Rebekah would have agreed without a second thought. There was even a possibility that he specifically knew about the Originals, and had been sent from Europe to find them. It was feasible that their father had sent spies to the New World to locate them—even if he’d probably want to save the honor of slaughtering them for himself.
If Eric had met some glorious end in a battle with “rebels,” she should be grateful that he had saved her the effort of killing him herself. And yet, every time Rebekah considered the possibility that Eric Moquet was dead, her throat felt tight.
She kept picturing his strong hands and his smiling eyes. She could not believe that he wished her harm. If only she could ask him about the room, her heart insisted that he would be able to explain. She could see all of the might-have-beens so clearly that it would be too cruel for the universe to simply take them away from her.
Besides...she had to learn if he truly had a wife back in Paris.
She ventured out of her tent in search of information. It was a ghastly scene outside, and the enticing smell of blood was almost overwhelming. The damage was mostly contained to the outskirts of the army encampment, but the battle had been devastating. Structures had been knocked down, trampled, and burned. The prison hut was nothing but ashes. By Rebekah’s count, not many soldiers had been lost, but dozens were wounded, and some might yet die—the thought whetting her appetite. It had been days since she had fed—almost a week. She knew she should have drained the wagoner’s wife as well, and she regretted that oversight now. It was almost impossible to prevent her fangs from extending.