Aramis stepped forward toward the pair. A moment later, his eyes went wide, staring at the empty space behind the boy’s left shoulder.
“Oh, look,” he said conversationally. “Are those large, armed men approaching us friends of yours?”
The terrified boy craned around, trying to see what Aramis was looking at. The dagger wavered against the girl’s skin, drawing a thin line of red and then falling away from her neck as he twisted his body away. The blade slid out of harm’s way, Aramis calmly pulled his pistol and shot the boy through the temple.
With a cry, the older girl swept forward and pulled her sister away from the lad’s fallen body, embracing her and rocking her back and forth as the younger girl clung to her.
“Oh, Madeleine, thank God,” she said. “Thank God! You’re not injured, are you?”
Madeleine pulled back, wiping her eyes with a sleeve. “Just a scratch on my neck, I think, where the knife caught me when he turned away. It’s not too bad, is it, Christelle?”
Christelle examined the cut and kissed Madeleine on the forehead with relief.
“No, ma petite,” she reassured. “It’s barely bleeding. Stay back, now, and cover your eyes. Don’t watch.”
With a final squeeze of her hand, Christelle turned and stalked toward the man that Porthos had shot in the leg, her stolen dagger clenched tightly in one hand.
“Mademoiselle—” Athos began, but allowed himself to be moved aside as the young woman brushed past him single-mindedly.
She stopped and crouched in front of the boys’ father, sneering at him as he writhed on the ground, clutching uselessly at his wound as blood continued to pulse through his fingers. He glared up at her, features twisted with hatred and pain.
“I told you I would see you dead for this, Jean Paul. I wasn’t lying,” she said, and stabbed him through the heart. The man grunted, body jerking and twisting for several seconds before going limp. When the last glimmer of life had left his eyes, she turned back to Madeleine. “It’s over now, little sister. You may look.”
Madeleine lowered the hand that had been covering her eyes uncertainly. D’Artagnan could see that tears once more spilled down her cheeks.
Aramis stepped forward, hat in hand. “Now that this unpleasantness has been dealt with, may we conduct you somewhere safe, mesdemoiselles?”
“Please, messieurs,” Madeleine said in a quavering voice, “Our grandmother is hurt. Our house is only one street over—please help her!”
“Of course,” Athos said immediately. His eyes swept over the scene, resting a brief but assessing glance on d’Artagnan before he continued. “Aramis and I will escort the young ladies to their home and determine what assistance is needed. Porthos? Stay here with d’Artagnan and keep an eye on the horses. You might also see about organizing someone to deal with the refuse currently littering the roadway.” He jerked his chin the bodies.
Now that the thrill of the fight was wearing off, d’Artagnan felt his earlier weakness coming back with a vengeance, but even through the wisps of gray fog crowding the edges of his vision, it seemed that Porthos’ gaze, too, rested on him for a beat longer than necessary before he nodded to Athos and answered, “Guard the horses, eh? Right you are.”
The other two ushered the sisters away, and Porthos turned to d’Artagnan, clapping him on the back companionably. D’Artagnan barely managed to suppress the wince as his half-healed whip marks flared with pain. His feet seemed very far away, for some reason, and his head felt like it was floating high above his shoulders.
“Bet you never expected anything like this when you offered to shoe our horses, eh?” the big man asked. “Still, it was good of you to jump into the fray. These days, not too many would risk their own skin for strangers.”
D’Artagnan opened his mouth to ask Porthos why he was speaking from inside a tunnel, and frowned when no words came out. The gray fog swirled over his head in a rush as the ground swelled up to meet him, and he knew no more.
AWARENESS WASHED OVER d’Artagnan in waves. It was dark behind his eyelids, but he couldn’t summon the effort or ambition to drag them open—they were far too heavy. The dull buzzing in his ears resolved into voices, though they echoed oddly, as if heard underwater. Some he recognized; others he did not.
“Will he recover?”
“He’s weak and malnourished, but he should pull through all right. There’s an untreated head wound, though the skull is intact and it didn’t seem to be slowing him down much, earlier.”
“What happened to his back? Are those whip marks?”
“Yes, it seems so. Self-inflicted, judging by the pattern.”
“A flagellant, then? God. Are people still actually doing that?”
The buzzing grew louder, drowning out the conversation. Time passed in comfortable, warm blackness.
Later, the voices returned.
“What was the mood of the clergy in Vendôme, Aramis?”
That was one of the unfamiliar voices. Gruff. Older. Male.
“They are loyal, for the most part, but unwilling to tip their hand without certain assurances beforehand,” the chevalier replied.
“The townspeople are frustrated.” Porthos, this time. “Troops are enforcing the price controls ruthlessly, and nothing gets people riled up faster than reaching into their purses. ‘Specially now, when they feel like acquiring gold is the only happiness they can get...”
D’Artagnan drifted; more time passed. This time when he surfaced, the voices sounded clearer; more immediate. His fingers twitched, awareness of his body returning by degrees.
“... not sure exactly what you expect us to do, in that case,” said the gruff voice, irritation evident in the tone. “We can’t stay here forever.”
“I am merely pointing out that rushing ahead before we are sure of all the details is foolhardy.” The new voice was rich. Feminine. It pulled at d’Artagnan’s thoughts, making him want to open his eyes and see the speaker. A soft groan escaped him, and he sensed movement around him. The scent of rosewater teased his nostrils.
“He’s waking up,” said the low female voice, from close beside him.
His eyelids fluttered and opened, revealing a smear of light and dark hovering over him. He blinked rapidly until his vision cleared to reveal the most beautiful face he’d ever seen—pale skin, wide blue eyes, and ruby lips, topped by riots of curly hair swept into a loose chignon.
“Am I dead?” d’Artagnan croaked.
“Of course not,” said the vision hovering over him. “What would make you think such a thing? Are you feverish?”
A slender hand reached out to press against his forehead.
“I must be dead, though. Why else would I be met by an angel?” he told her, as though it were obvious.
A sharp brow rose in disbelief and wry humor, transforming the face in front of him from divine to something altogether more earthly.
“I’m overwhelmed,” said the very human angel in a voice dry with disdain.
“Acquiring yet another admirer, Milady?” came Aramis’ voice from somewhere behind d’Artagnan, out of his line of sight.
“Do shut up, Aramis,” said the woman.