The Vampire & Her Witch

The sun had set behind the walls of Lothian City nearly half an hour ago, and Ashlynn could feel the difference in her chest.

Nyrielle was awake.

The heartbeat that echoed faintly beneath her own had quickened from its deathlike stillness to the slow, steady rhythm that meant her lover had risen from the withered husk of daylight sleep and returned to herself. Somewhere beyond the walls of Lothian City, outside the sacred wards that kept vampires from crossing the threshold, Nyrielle was standing in the cold night air, and she was close enough that the echo of her heartbeat felt like a second pulse beneath Ashlynn’s ribs.

The carriage swayed gently as it turned onto the broad avenue that led toward Lothian Manor, and Ashlynn touched the brim of the cavalier hat on her lap, running her fingers along the upturned edge until they found the feather pinned to the hatband.

It was Nyrielle’s feather, carefully plucked from one of her lover’s raven-dark wings. The long, sweeping plume of midnight blue-black caught the carriage lantern’s light and shimmered with an iridescence that no natural feather possessed. It was pinned to the hat by an ornate pin set with a scintillating midnight blue jewel that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflecting it.

Marcel had presented her with the hatbox just before they’d left the Gilded Horns. He’d intercepted her at the door as she was preparing to board the carriage, a rectangular box of dark lacquered wood tucked under one arm and an expression on his face that was almost apologetic.

”From Lady Nyrielle,” he’d said simply, holding the box out to her. ”She asked me to deliver it before you left.”

The hat itself was cut in a cavalier style, broad-brimmed and rakish with a flat top and a crown that tapered to a rounded point at the front like the prow of a ship. It was made from dark felt, stiff enough to hold its shape in the wind, and the band was black silk embroidered with silver thread in a pattern of rolling waves that matched the coat she was wearing over her breeches and boots.

Tucked inside the crown was a note in Nyrielle’s flowing, precise hand, written on parchment so thin it was almost translucent.

’Since you can’t wear any of your own hats, take this and carry a greater piece of me with you.’

Ashlynn had pressed the note to her lips and then tucked it inside her blouse, against her skin, where it rested now like a whispered promise over her heart. The hat, with its feather and jewel, she held in her lap while the carriage carried her through the darkening streets.

Across from her, Samira sat with both hands resting on her belly, her face pale but resolute in the lantern light. Beside Samira, Morwen kept her hands folded tightly in her lap to hide the slight tremor in her fingers, though her dark eyes were steady and watchful. And next to Ashlynn, Isabell sat with her spectacles slightly crooked on her nose and a leather-bound notebook open on her knee, though she hadn’t written anything in it for the last quarter of an hour.

None of them spoke. There wasn’t much left to say.

A second carriage followed behind them, carrying Ignatious, Diarmuid, Hugo Hanrahan, and Liam Dunn. Outside, moving in a loose column alongside the carriages, Ollie and Cadeyrn walked at the head of the Blackwell knights and Templars, their emerald-and-midnight gambesons blending into the deepening night. Devlin, Elgon, and Beathan were with them, along with every fighting man and woman they’d brought from the Gilded Horns.

They made a strange sight moving through the side streets of Lothian City before turning onto the central avenue that led to Lothian Manor. A number of children had pointed or waved, calling out to the knights and soldiers as they passed.

”Who’s in the carriage?” a young boy asked excitedly as the carriage trundled past. ”Is a lord going to visit us here?”

”Templars!” an older boy shouted, pointing at Sir Beathan and his men. ”Those are Templars from the Church!”

”Templars?” a girl on the cusp of womanhood asked as she looked at Sir Ollie, Sir Elgon, and the other knights wearing tabards bearing their crests over their armor. ”But there are handsome knights too... Three, four, five.... So many knights! It must be a baron to command so many... or a count!”

”Look, look, that one has a lighthouse on his tabard!” a shopkeeper’s apprentice said, pausing his sweeping to watch the procession roll by. ”And another one has a giant fish with a nose like a sword! Those are Blackwell knights, they have to be!”

”Blackwell knights?” another person said, leaning out the window of their shop to get a closer look. ”Does that mean Count Blackwell has come to see Lady Jocelynn’s wedding?”

Inside the carriage, Isabell shook her head at Ashlynn, though a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

”You certainly have a way of attracting attention, Ashlynn,” she said with a light chuckle. ”Won’t this cause problems?” Isabell added as the smile faded from her lips. ”If word reaches the manor before we do...”

”It’s too late,” Ashlynn said, shaking her head. ”Once the last of the knights at the rear of the procession entered Lothian Manor, Owain or his Steward, whoever that is now, would have ordered the gates of the manor closed. They won’t want anyone disturbing the evening.”

”They might open the gates for a constable or the Sheriff,” Ashlynn mused. ”But if any of them hear that there are Blackwell knights moving through the streets, they’ll just think it’s Sir Elgon and his men. The fact that they’re right will only do more to put their minds at ease.”

The common people of Lothian might not remember which knights from Blackwell had been visiting since Lady Jocelynn’s arrival in the March, but the Sheriff certainly would. If someone went running to him, as soon as he asked after the crests worn by the knights marching through the streets, he’d realize it was only Sir Elgon’s men arriving late to the grand ceremony.

At which point, he was unlikely to be concerned, especially when the alehouses and taverns of the city were packed to overflowing with people celebrating the ’joyous occasion’ taking place in Lothian Manor. The constables would be hard at work tonight, and they’d have no time to waste on knights who were late to their own party.

The carriage slowed as the avenue narrowed, and the sound of the horses’ hooves changed from the hollow ring of cobblestones to the sharper clatter of smooth, well-worn flagstones. They were close now. Through the small window, Ashlynn could see the torchlit walls of Lothian Manor rising above the rooftops of the surrounding buildings, and the dark silhouette of the gatehouse with its heavy timber doors barred against the night.

She placed the hat on her head, adjusting it until the brim sat at the angle that felt right, with the feather sweeping back along the crown and the brim tilted lower on the right than the left, where it curled up. Then she touched the feather one last time, feeling the faint echo of Nyrielle’s heartbeat pulse beneath her fingertips as if the plume itself were alive.

’I’m here, my love,’ she thought, knowing that Nyrielle could feel the echo of her heart just as clearly. ’I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.’

The carriage rounded the final corner, and the gates of Lothian Manor came into full view.