Follow The Night (Bewitch The Dark) by Michele Hauf Read Free Book Online Page B

sewage.
    Toussaint directed the driver to stop outside a three-story limestone building sandwiched between others of its like.
    Gabriel stepped out onto the cobbled street and stretched his neck to look over the perimeter. Long iron brackets attached to the building fronts thrust over the street, their precious lamps dangling precariously, so that a high-seated coach driver must duck to avoid a fierce thunking. None were lit, for the increasing moonlight. High above, an assortment of chipped and heavily-sooted gargoyles stared down upon the street.
    A flying chunk of stone? Truly, his mental state had taken a bruising since the night of his attack.
    He untwisted the rapier from its sheath and slid it up and down.
    At that moment a miserable moan preceded a creeping shadow that may have been female, but for the oddly distorted skull. Releasing his blade, he went en garde.
    The woman suddenly noticed her observers as she took the steps to the same apartment building. She literally held up her head, one hand to a massive confection of wig, ribbons, curls and flour powder. The creation soared three feet into the air and would have given a giant a megrim.
    “I’ve no interest, messieurs,” she muttered weakly. Dipping her head forward to enter the building, she toppled across the threshold.
    Gabriel dashed up the steps and caught her arm, preventing her from a painful landing. “Careful.”
    She pushed him away, but sunk to her knees and literally crawled toward a door but five strides away. The wig collapsed and folded over her forehead. “Please, monsieur, I am well.”
    Silently cursing a female’s need to possess such extravagant hairstyles, but at the same time noting the woman wore a very plain dress—hardly a match to the wig—Gabriel stepped to her door and opened it for her. As he sheathed his rapier, she crawled inside and kicked the door shut. Sobs seeped out into the foyer like imperfect jewels discarded with a toss.
    Toussaint merely shrugged and gestured they take the dark staircase.
    Reluctantly, Gabriel took the first creaking wood step. “You don’t think we should attempt to help?”
    “Help her with what? Pry the hideous monstrosity from her head?” Toussaint snorted. “Women.”
    “Something was wrong,” he said. “Beyond the wig. I sense it.”
    “Save your charity for those who need it.”
    “That’s what I’m trying to do, but no one will touch my money.”
    “They’ll touch Leo’s money. Soon enough. This must be the place.” Toussaint landed on the second floor and pointed out a plain door with a dash of gold paint swirled in a loose ‘S’ in the center. “What’s the ‘S’ for?”
    “May be from a former resident.” Gabriel rapped with the head of his walking stick. “You’re sure of the place? It looks dismal.”
    Still concerned with the woman’s crying, he glanced down the darkened staircase. The sobbing could no longer be heard. Had someone hurt her? He really should—
    The door opened to emit a gush of warm candlelight and Roxane’s surprised face, enswathed in the faded ruffles of a night robe.
    Gabriel had to catch himself from gasping. A woman endishabille. What easy plunder she offered. The balding blue velvet robe clutched at the bottom of her face looked a night flower seeking the sun.
    A nudge from Toussaint redirected his straying thoughts.
    “Oh, er…yes. I’ve come to beg your apology, mademoiselle,” he spoke the practiced lines. “My treatment of you earlier was unforgivable. I had no right to speak to you so.”
    “You are fearful to spend the night alone?” A lift of brow exposed her sneaky mirth.
    “Of course not. I merely—”
    “I talked him into it, mademoiselle,” Toussaint tossed in over Gabriel’s shoulder. “The two of us know little regarding my master’s condition. If that is what it can be called? A condition? It would be a tremendous boon if you would see to staying a night or two and teaching us all that you