Noble Mind by Susan M. Garrett CHAPTER 7 Tossing a lose-fitting robe and silk leggings at her, LaCroix hissed, "Dress quickly. Don't utter a sound until I come back for you," then closed the door behind him. He wasn't surprised that Vivian did as he said--obedience was implied in his tone of voice and that much reached through even her addled brain. One problem temporarily solved. The second--and third--were currently working their way through the antechamber door. LaCroix glanced around the room for a weapon. Lifting a spindle-legged chair, he smashed it easily into the wall, shattering it. The legs were long and sharp, sturdy enough to serve as solid, wood stakes. He nodded to himself in approval as he checked them. To reach their objective, the fools would have to hold him and subdue him. He, however, was under no such constraint and would settle for nothing less than their utter destruction. When they broke through he was ready for them, standing just to one side of the opening. In their adrenaline-crazed state, they hadn't bothered to determine his position before the door finally buckled beneath their assault. Flipping one of the shortened chair legs in his hand, LaCroix brought it down upon the back of the neck of one of the vampires, dropping him to the floor. Before the other could blink, LaCroix had crossed the room, beyond the range of his flailing hands. How inept they were! Neither was fit to be Archivist. It suddenly occurred to him that the Enforcers had known exactly what they were doing by sending the applicants after him--he'd weed out the unworthy quickly enough. The appearance of a third young vampire in the doorway--a woman--surprised him. As did the sound of heartbeats from outside the door. Mortal heartbeats. Why would they slow themselves by bringing humans? The moment's contemplation almost cost him--the woman was beside him, fingernails splayed as if to rake out his eyes. He tilted the stake slightly and shoved it into her chest, pinning her to the wall. Her eyes blazed just for an instant as he pushed it all the way through, then jostled it slightly. Her expression went slack and he released her. One down. An arm snaked around his neck from behind, pulling him backward. He started to relax, planning to take his assailant down to the floor with him, but the move was intercepted by the other young vampire, who delivered a telling blow to his mid-section, following that with a kidney punch. LaCroix snarled in fury and sudden pain. The makeshift stake fell from his hand as he was released to fall forward, to his knees. Before his head could strike the floor, a kick landed squarely in the side of his ribs, then another flipped him over on his back. For a brief second he could see only red and wondered whether he had miscalculated even this--that they would not wish to kill him. The eyes of his assailants blazed as brightly as his own. A hand reached down and lifted him by his shirtfront, then threw him back against the wall. It took the wind from him and he slid helplessly down atop the ashes of the female vampire, who had since dissolved to nothing. He , damn them, and it was instinct born of centuries that forced him to ignore that fact and to struggle to his feet. The piercing scream froze even his chilled blood, the sound followed by the shattering and splintering of wood. A flash of flesh and silk and satin sped in front of him, colliding with the startled vampire who been prepared to kick him again. There was an audible crack of bone and another scream as the blur that Vivian had become slammed the other vampire into the remnants of the metal door, impaling him there. Before he could move, she'd fastened herself on his neck and began to chew and tear and drink, as if she was going to feed her way to his soul. The other attacker was stunned by the sight, but LaCroix had enough experience on his side to take advantage of the opportunity when it presented itself. Bending slightly as he ran, he scooped up the second make-shift stake and shoved it into the vampire's chest. His victim moved, so that the stake plunged off-center. As the vampire howled, LaCroix snaked forward his foot to knock the legs out from beneath him. LaCroix grabbed at the stake when the vampire tumbled and wrenched it from the falling body. He fell onto the man's back, pinning him. With a meaty 'thump,' he slammed the stake into the vampire's back, pulverizing the heart in one movement. LaCroix leaned on the stake for a moment, catching his breath. When he rose to his feet he noticed that he was spattered with gore-- some of it his own, like the blood that dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, his side began to ache. A broken rib, at least, and his internal organs had been shifted a good three inches and bruised badly by those kicks . . . but they'd heal. Wiping the back of his bloody hand across his lips, he suddenly realized that he'd forgotten Vivian. She was still feeding from the other vampire, who'd been drained nearly past reviving. Her hunger was insatiable after having been denied for so long, and she growled at him when he placed his hand on her shoulder to pull her away. "Vivian?" he asked, in a quiet voice. She did not reply, but continued to feed. Digging his nails into the silk robe that hung from her shoulder, he pulled her away from the body. "Vivian!" Her mouth and most of her face was crimson and covered with shards of torn flesh. Eyes blazing, she stared at him and growled again, showing her fangs. Then, just as suddenly, her eyes were blue and terrified. She'd never fed on her own, never hunted . . . and he doubted that Dorian had ever allowed his mortal secretaries watch him drain anything more than a cup or bottle of blood. If her mind had not shattered before, this might easily have done it. But instead of falling to his feet sobbing, or fainting dead away, she staggered toward him, her expression concerned. "Samuel! My, God, you're hurt!" With the edge of the silk robe, she dabbed at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, darling, they've hurt you!" However touching, the scene was ludicrous at best. LaCroix grabbed her wrist, held her hand away from him. "Vivian--" "I'm Tia," she said, voice wounded. Her gaze was searching as she stared into his eyes. "Oh, darling, I'm your Tia! Don't you remember me? Or is it the amnesia again? The doctors said you were cured--" It was his turn to stare. She was raving. Best to humor her and- - A sound from outside, the smell of dry wood alight. It clattered down into the antechamber, tumbling into the room past the drained body of the vampire still impaled on the remnants of the metal doorway. If her mind was shattered, her instincts were still tuned to their finest. Vivian shrieked, making his ears ring, and ducked behind him at first sight of the flames. LaCroix shook her off and moved forward to toss the burning sticks from whence they'd come, but he smelled the gasoline an instant before it splashed down the steps and into the antechamber. The burning sticks roared to life in the form of a fireball. He paused long enough to peer through the flames, but saw only shadowy forms outside . . . at least one vampire and several mortals. What in Hades was going on? Vivian grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back to the far end of the room and temporary safety. "Samuel--we have to get out of here. We have to get the plans back to Peter." "Plans?" He moved past her into his storage area and picked up a heavy canvas carryall, then shoved several bottles of blood into it. As he guessed she might, Vivian followed close behind. "The plans for the new factory. If we can get them to Peter in time, the Guillards won't be able to put through the take over. We'll be able to prove that they bribed the governor!" Her words made no sense, or as little sense as her actions thus far. Ignoring her for the moment, he concentrated on essentials--a clean shirt and trousers, something for Vivian to wear, his cellular phone, his wallet. He'd been through this often enough, leaving a place in a hurry, survival instincts kicking in. There was no time to regret. He only knew that would pay for the loss of this investment--he'd see to it. And the price would be very, very dear. Again, Vivian grabbed his shoulder. "The fire--!" "Don't touch me!" he snarled, whirling on her. He glared, seeing her through a crimson haze as she backed away. He expected to be snarled at in turn, to see another version of that blood-crazed beast he'd watch rip out an older and stronger vampire's throat without so much as a pause for breath. But, again, she surprised him. Her eyes widened, still the fairest and palest of blue, tears appearing at the corners. "You . . . you remember me." Her fist moved to her mouth, the gesture theatrical at best. "Oh my God, you don't remember me. You don't love me anymore!" A hiss of fire from the room next door and a hideous scream-- the impaled vampire no doubt regaining the barest sentience before being engulfed by flames. But Vivian simply continued to stare at him, her expression heart-wrenching, as if she'd lost the center of her world. It startled him, that look of utter loss. He almost--, mind you--would have felt pity, if he hadn't thought that such a thing was beneath him. As it was, he wasn't sure what to do with her. When she ran to him and buried her head against his shoulder, sobbing, he could do nothing less than enfold her in his arms. She was quite, quite mad. And she was also an integral part in his plan for survival. He knew how long they would have before the fire would make escape impossible and counted down time till the last second, holding her in his arms. It made no difference to his shirt, which was torn and bloodied from the fight. Tear stains were the least of his worries. He stroked her hair and comforted her with small, soothing assurances. His movements were far less awkward than he'd expected them to be. When it came time to disturb her, he was loathe to do so. But he called her name softly. "Vivian?" She didn't respond. LaCroix reached down and lifted her head to look up at him, his hand cupping her chin. "Tia?" She blinked, eyes red and puffy from tears, but that faded in seconds. Vivian's face was the face of a vampire, mortal made more than mortal, beauty made perfection. He found it fascinating and, for a moment, unfathomable. She wasn't one of his own; he couldn't read the chapter and verse of her mind. "We have to leave," he told her, keeping his voice quiet. "Those people outside--they want to kill us. If you do as I say, I'll keep you safe." "I won't let happen to you, Samuel," she promised, sorrowful eyes suddenly adoring. "I'd die for you." "With luck, it won't come to that. But I'll keep it in mind." He managed to extricate himself from her embrace, shifted the canvas sack over one shoulder, then held out his hand to her. "This way." The tunnel was concealed behind a piece of paneling. LaCroix shoved it away roughly with one hand, then peered inside. For all that he could see, it was still intact--the remnants of some drug or smuggling operation long since abandoned. He'd thought at the time of purchase that it might suit his purposes some day. He'd been right. Pulling a reluctant Vivian behind him, he entered the tunnel just as the door to the store room began to smoke-- the fire had consumed most of his subterranean residence and was now, no doubt, an inferno. "Quickly!" he hissed, knowing that it wouldn't be long before they would feel the effects of the heat and flames in the confined space. Vivian cried aloud and might have managed to escape him, to run back into the flames, if he hadn't caught her wrist and held her. Unable to free herself, she shrieked again and buried her face in his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around him. Her body trembled like a taut piano wire, ready to snap at any moment. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong--they were underground. After her entombment, she'd be terrified of enclosed spaces. And he'd just led her into an earthen tunnel. Vivian tried to break free again, pushing him back, prepared to run into the flames rather than face the scent of rich, wet dirt and the darkness of a premature burial. But his grip held. Placing the sack to one side, he shook her and shouted above the roar of the flames that consumed the room behind them. "Fear , not the darkness. The darkness can't hurt you, but I ." Her eyes were wide, but there seemed to be little sense in them. Between the fire and the dark earth her fears had surrounded her, threatening to finally destroy the few strands of sanity that held her shattered mind in place. Almost too late, he realized that frightening her would prove useless--she was beyond that. The fire would run the length of the tunnel soon, shooting through to find the outlet of fresh air at the other end. He had no intention of being there when it did. If he had to abandon her, then so be it. He'd get the information from Dorian some other way. "Die here, if you wish!" LaCroix told her, throwing her against the rough dirt wall of the tunnel. He left her in the darkness, hefted the canvas sack easily, and began to make his way through the winding, upward bend of the tunnel, as it snaked through the ground far beneath the street. He heard the distant echo of her voice behind him. "Die?" she asked. "But Samuel . . . you die." She moved as a vampire, with speed and certainty, and was beside him almost instantly. But her rapid movement brought the fire after her, the rush of oxygen welcoming it into the tunnel. There were no words, no time to speak them aloud. LaCroix merely grabbed her arm and dragged her, knowing that his speed would keep them ahead of the fire . . . as well as draw the fire after them. The bombastic roar of the flames echoed the length of the tunnel and he felt the heat of it at his back, singing his clothing and his hair. The fire left no time for niceties--he barreled through the closed end of the tunnel and into the basement of the shop across the street. Looking around quickly, he realized that he wasn't certain what goods were sold the floor above. Frankly, he didn't much care. He dragged Vivian over a broken shelf--shoved aside by their hurried exit from the tunnel--then threw her to the floor and fell on top of her just as the fire erupted from behind them. It shot through the air like a blowtorch, then dispersed as quickly, leaving small, flickering bits of flame scattered around the room. Old and dry wood, refuse, and stock caught fire easily enough. Scrambling to his feet, he lifted her by one hand, his other still clutching the canvas sack, and rushed to a metal loading door. It was rusted--no doubt used infrequently--and barred inside, with a combination lock. He snapped the lock from the catch, the metal bending in his hand. The bar gave way with a rusty groan and LaCroix shoved the doors aside. Grasping Vivian again, this time by the shoulder, he hauled her after him, taking to the sky too quickly for mortals eyes to see. It could only be seconds before another burst of fire fed through the tube and-- The store beneath them erupted into flame, glass bursting from the windows. He kept to the air, not pausing to even glance at the destruction, knowing that their attackers might still be nearby. Distance was needed, and a moment's rest, before they could continue. He found some safety on a roof, the overhang concealing them from immediate view. A smokestack beside them would put off enough heat and sound to disguise their presence, if a vampire was searching for them using innate talents rather than aerial surveillance. Only when he had landed on the roof did he shift Vivian in his arms. Her eyes were closed and the side of her face was burnt. An ugly bruise appeared on her shoulder as the light robe slipped aside, revealing skin. LaCroix dropped to his knees and opened the canvas sack, one hand reaching around inside for a bottle of blood, the other supporting Vivian. He threw the bottle lightly, caught it so that his hand was at the neck, then removed the cork from the bottle by flicking his finger across it with an ease he'd developed through long practice. He took a long drink from the bottle, almost surprised that he didn't much notice the taste. Shifting Vivian in his arms, he tilted the bottle to her lips and allowed the smallest trickle of blood to fall upon her tongue. She was quick to respond, grasping at the bottle and drinking the rest down, even though her eyes remained closed. When she had finished, she sighed in contentment and snuggled against him, her arms wrapping around his neck. LaCroix didn't quite know what to do at first. He settled on sweeping her into his arms, snagging the sack, and walking to a concealed corner of the rooftop. Sliding down the wall, he sat on the tar and stone covering. Another bottle of blood was opened and Vivian stirred at the scent of it, but her eyes remained closed as she slept against him. His wounds were healing--he could feel the tingle throughout his body as cells began to replenish themselves; tissue was restored, bone mended. LaCroix drank and stared into the distance, still not quite tasting the blood and no longer caring whether it was inferior to his usual sustenance. It had been too close. He never would have imagined that three striplings--and they youngsters of not even so many months, perhaps even weeks--could have caused him so much damage. Without Vivian, they might well have captured him. Without Vivian, they might well have destroyed him. The thought did not sit well with him and he moved as if to shift her from him . . . but his hand stayed itself, hovering over her hair. He brushed the length of it in fascination, amazed at the transformation from the creature he had rescued from that pine box, buried in cement. Her hunger was incalculable, the intensity of it rivaling that of Janette. She was a fierce creature when provoked and, so it seemed, desperately loyal. To him. The bottle was empty; he tossed it aside and watched it clatter along the rooftop for a moment, then spared another glance at her. He'd been prepared to leave her, to discard her despite the trouble he'd taken to free her and still she folded herself into his arms with no sign of discontent. Without second thoughts, she'd fought instantly on his behalf and it was only fear for his safety that had shaken her from the terror that had trapped her between the fear of fire and the fear of another dark, earthen tomb. How was he to respond to this? Had he not responded already, by trying to protect her from the flame from the tunnel mouth by falling on top of her, by dragging her out of harm's way, by assuring himself that she was fed and healed? Surely it was self-interest that drove him. He owed her nothing. Her devotion made no sense to him. She was Dorian's creation, groomed to serve him, as had so many others over the centuries. He'd seen enough of them. Vivian was far from the first of Dorian's servants to have caught his attention . . . . "You murdered her." LaCroix hadn't bothered to turn his head. He'd looked over the walls of Kenilworth Castle, again marveling at the innovations installed by Simon de Montfort more than a century and a half before. "The water defenses are nothing less than brilliant," he remarked, smiling as he followed the flow of the moat with a slice of his hand through the air. "I should liked to have met de Montfort. A pity I was otherwise engaged. Although, in fact, I think I saw him on a battlefield once. That was long before his son failed him and he was massacred." He knew that Dorian was less than impressed with the facts he'd presented and would have cheerfully have pushed him over the battlements and into the moat if it would have ended his existence. Since they both knew it would only serve to anger him and cause no lasting damage, Dorian contented himself by standing no more than a hand's breath away. "Do you deny it? That you murdered my servant?" LaCroix had raised his gaze to Dorian. "I've fed from a shepherd, a lady of fancy, and a young man on horseback. Were any of those your servants?" "No--" "Then I deny it." He looked back to the defenses. They really remarkable. What a general this de Montfort must have been! "You lie." LaCroix straightened at the accusation, but continued to stare over the walls. "Tread softly, Archivist." "She was waylaid by thugs this morning. They stole the money in her trust, then took their time with her." Dorian's eyes darkened as he leaned forward, the tips of his fangs visible in his anger. "Do you deny that you hired them?" "Why would I spend even a King's penny on a worthless mortal?" A slight smile, as if puzzled--let him chew on that! "Because you wish to destroy me." "No. You're wrong." LaCroix let the smile broaden. "I've promised to destroy you. Or, rather, to let you destroy yourself. There is a difference." "She was under my protection." "Then failed her, not I." When Dorian turned and walked along the stone battlement, LaCroix followed him. "You did, didn't you--fail her? Was she cold, Dorian, when they brought her torn and bloodied body to you . . . or was there yet a spark of warmth within her?" He'd wondered if the man who'd hired those thugs had earned the extra coins he'd been given--to make certain the girl died in Dorian's arms and not before. Dorian's reaction was all he needed to reject the suspicion that he hadn't threatened the man sufficiently to ensure compliance with his instructions. Dorian froze, remaining deathly still. LaCroix saw his fingers clench and leaned forward to whisper, "Could you have brought her across, into darkness? Could you have given her a new life with your blood?" When Dorian whirled to face him, eyes red and burning, LaCroix leaned against the wall of the castle keep and folded his arms. "Ah . . . so that's the way it was--you refused to pass along your gift. You fail her. Just as you failed at breaking me. Just as you've failed at everything to which you've turned your hand." He thought, just for an instant, that Dorian might attack him. But, no . . . his self-control still held, if barely. How odd it was that Dorian never fought for himself, for his own honor. he a coward? "I'm the last of my line," answered Dorian. He held up the palm of his hand--he'd scratched the skin, having clenched his fist so tightly, and flickers of blood clung to his fingernails. "My blood remains within me. How could I ever interview one of my own and not find them wanting? And before that might even happen, there are too many who'd destroy what I'd make, too many who'd take out their anger on the innocents I'd create simply because they share my blood. " " I understand," said LaCroix. It was his turn now to fight his outrage, well remembering his last encounter with Dorian. "As does Janette, all too well." Silence was his best weapon. If anything, the Archivist paled and looked to the sky, eyes wide and weary. There was no apology, no remorse--not that LaCroix expected any--but a sense of embarrassment, quickly covered with the mantle of his authority. "I have an interview with the Lady of Hastings tomorrow evening. I assume you know enough not to interfere?" "Interfere with an interview? That would break the Code. And you should know I'd break the Code." LaCroix's hand rose to his chest, as if he'd been wounded by the accusation. But he let a smile slip into place as he added, "How long shall she be allowed to walk the night when you've done with her?" "If the lady speaks truly, she need not fear--" "Then why have the last four walked into the dawn rather than face you?" When Dorian looked away, LaCroix walked around to his other side, forcing him to meet his questioning gaze. "Even the Enforcers question your severity." Dorian glared, dark eyes filled with defiance. "You should have no complaints. I studied your lessons well. I am what you've made me." "You are what you've made yourself," returned LaCroix, with no small amount of amusement. "You've become what you accused Nicholas of being . . . a thug. A bully." Dorian straightened and turned to leave, but LaCroix caught his shoulder closest to the wall, pinning him there for a second, surprising him. "You take what you wish and what you cannot take, you break, all the while hiding behind the mask of your office. You're a disgrace." Dorian met his eyes evenly. "I'm the Archivist." "For how long?" Releasing him, LaCroix stepped back. He glanced up at the battlements of the keep that stood behind them, hearing the call of the watch. Their argument had been quiet, not meant for mortal ears. But it seemed they'd not been overheard. "I can wait, Dorian." "Then you'll wait for eternity. Because I won't let this happen again." He smiled, genuinely amused. "You won't escape me." "Perhaps not." Dorian's eyes were darker than the night around them. "But you'll never be able to reach me again in this fashion. I'll watch over them and I'll provide for them and I'll protect them . . . but I will care for them." It was Dorian's turn to threaten. LaCroix knew then that he'd been wrong to think of Dorian as a coward, as Dorian stepped forward and faced him, fist clenched. "I learned from you, LaCroix. I thought that I need only be more righteous than you to be your better. I was wrong. I needed to be not what you were, but what you could not hope to be. Your flaw will never be mine. And your weakness, your children, will be my salvation." The words were bitter from the lips of the loser. LaCroix had smiled, secure in the knowledge that Janette hated Dorian beyond passion and that Nicholas had sworn revenge against the Archivist. His children, should they ever turn against him, would never think to turn to Dorian. "We shall see," he'd murmured, letting the wind take his whisper as Dorian left the battlements. "In time, we shall see." Absently, he pressed his dry lips to Vivian's hair. Dorian had erred yet again. Janette had been true to him, Nicholas had betrayed Dorian to the Enforcers for him and now Dorian had handed him the weapon for a final, telling blow . . . by leaving him Vivian. With her aid, he'd free himself from the trap the Enforcers had set for him. And after that-- She made a small sound against him, shifting in her sleep. LaCroix looked down at her and told himself that she was of Dorian's blood. Certainly, he'd have to destroy her. There was nothing else to be done. He couldn't allow a mad and masterless fledgling to wander astray. There'd be no profit in keeping her, in caring for her. That decision made, he rummaged in the canvas sack and withdrew another bottle of blood. His hand brushed against the cellular phone and he paused before opening the bottle--he'd best call Nicholas and find out what had happened with Janette and in what condition they'd found Dorian. The night wasn't getting any younger and the sooner this problem was resolved, the happier he'd be. It surprised him to find that he'd opened the bottle of blood, rather than picked up the phone. Still--he took a swallow from the bottle--Nicholas could wait for a few minutes more. How relaxing it was to simply sit, and drink, and watch the stars follow their courses. The scent of blood caused Vivian to stir again. He ran his finger around the mouth of the bottle, then brushed it against her lips. Her tongue slipped out, licking the blood and his finger. She sighed, snuggling sleepily against him and he took care not to disturb her. It was too perfect, this moment. Too full of peace. Too full of contentment. And LaCroix decided to let Nicholas wait even a few moments more while he enjoyed the respite with which he'd suddenly been blessed. End of Chapter 7