The Prince of Midnight (46 page)

More smoke. More doors. He yelled again.

He stood fixed, sweating, turning his head and trying to listen above the
crackle and sucking
whoosh
of the flames. Smoke hung everywhere, a
lowering murky cloud lit by flickers of orange and yellow, the bitter taste of
charcoal in his mouth and throat. He had to bend over to breathe. A smoky billow
erupted suddenly into a sheet of flame from the skirting on a window seat. He
jerked away, shielding his face from the blistering heat.

He limped to the nearest door and went through, found a hall and a breakfast
room untouched by the fire, dimlit in the reflected flames from the other rooms.
Her voice sounded: very faint; high-pitched and muffled. He yelled for her and
it came back louder.

There was panic in the sound. It sent him blundering down the smoky hall into
the darkness.

He ran into something that whacked his injured thigh and doubled him over in
agony. For an instant he couldn't move. He pressed his palm over the wound,
coughing and groaning. When he put his hand up to his eyes in the murk, he
smelled fresh blood and felt the abundant liquid smear on his skin.

"Devil take it," he muttered hoarsely. He pulled down the neckcloth from his
mouth.
"Leigh,
"he shouted to the black ceiling.
"For God's sake,
where are you?"

No answer that he could hear. Cursing weakly, he retied the neckcloth over
his face, turned, and blundered back toward the glow of the fire.

Smoke grew thicker as he neared the doors. He gulped a breath, wincing back
from the inferno in the crimson room, coughing and bending over to find air as
heat poured out.

His head pounded from the smoke; he braced his hands on his knees and took a
painful breath. His injured leg trembled, threatening collapse.

With a helpless sob, he pushed himself upright, pulled the rug around him,
and plunged back into the red drawing room. He moved toward another pair of
doors—stood in that opening and shouted her name into the firebox of burning
drapes that lined the walls of the room beyond.

No answer.

He shouted again, his voice muffled by the neckcloth. Only the blowing noises
and blister of flames came back. His leg kept buckling with each step as he
lurched back to the last pair of doors. The green saloon again, lined in flames
on the outside wall.

He yelled for her ... but the flames were too loud now—he could not have
heard her even if she answered.

A burning gilt pelmet crashed to the floor halfway down the room. S.T. forced
himself to go forward. He moved in a half stagger, half crawl, tears coursing
down his face from smoke and frustration. Every room seemed like a nightmare,
lit by burning tapestries or drapes that glared through the blinding smoke.

He wasn't sure how much longer his leg would support him. His voice had gone
to a croak. But he kept on yelling for her, a raw sound, until he didn't have
the voice or breath to do more than weave crazily through the glare and smoke to
each door. He was afraid he would pass out; his lungs already labored just to
keep him on the edge of consciousness.

Smoke and tears blinded him, made everything a smear of dark and light. When
he opened the last door he couldn't even close it; he hung on the knob, his
knees caving under him as he fell through.

"Seigneur! Are you here?"

He heard her voice, clear and close. His eyes refused to open to another
smoky hell. She called again, and began to cough. As his brain cleared, he
realized the flames were behind him, sucking and blooming on the cool air that
poured past his face.

He wrenched his eyes open, saw the cold darkness ahead and staggered up,
slamming the door to shut out the fire.

"Leigh." He could barely make a sound. Ahead of him, dim columns rose into
blackness far above.

"I'm up—here." She choked on the words.

He stumbled to his feet, his leg trembling with pain. "Where?" he croaked,
pulling the neckcloth from his mouth.

"Up." The word echoed, dissolved in a gagging cough. "The—gallery. You're in
the family chapel."

He couldn't seem to think. It was hard enough to breathe, to drag air into
his burning throat and lungs. "How?" he whispered. "How—I—" he lifted his head
feebly "—up there?"

"The stairs—in the chapel—sitting—room." Her husky voice drifted eerily above
him. "Left. Door to the left. Next . . . room."

He wet his lips and glanced left. He could see the door she meant by the glow
along the floor. Smoke curled under the panels, sliding up the wood.

He groped to it and grabbed the brass handle. Pain flashed across his hand;
he jerked back and the door exploded open.

A boom of flame and smoke flung him backwards. The room roared, his back hit
the floor and he pushed up, terrified by the rampart of fire sucking air and
life into a howling blaze beyond. His body felt seared, burning where his
clothes touched his skin. He scrambled onto his knees, barely aware of the
flames that colored the wooden panels in weird translucent light, curling peels
of varnish that withered and vanished into charcoal. Kicking out with his boot,
he slammed the door shut on the destruction. He stumbled up against a marble
column and hugged himself against it, clasping the cool stone to his scorched
face.

"Seigneur!" Her voice was a squeak of anxiety. "Are you there?"

"I can't—go that way," he gasped. "Sunshine—"

"The pulpit." The words floated down out of tenebrous shadows. "Can you climb
up the pulpit?"

He peered blearily at the dark mass of wood beneath the gallery. The curved
steps led up almost a man's height to the pulpit, and then a heavily carved
canopy doubled that. The top touched the base of the overhanging gallery floor.

He put his hand on the ornate wooden stair rail and dragged himself up the
steps, using his unburned hand to take his weight and ease the strain on his
injured leg.

From the black interior of the pulpit, he gripped the edge of the canopy and
hiked himself up. His knee wedged against a wooden carving on one side. He put
his strength into the push and tried to climb, grimacing against the pain.

A sudden cough racked him, his lungs protesting the effort in the condensing
smoke. He lost his hold, grabbed with his burned hand, and fell back, grasping
for purchase with fingers that screamed in agony.

"Here," she said. "Can you reach my hands? Just get my hands free."

He squinted upward. He saw movement in the obscurity, heard a frantic
thumping as she maneuvered. The pale shape of her hands appeared through the
rail.

He let go, dropping to the pulpit floor, and rested his head back against the
podium. It took a monumental effort to push upright and drag his stiletto free.

In the smoky darkness he could barely see; he had to feel for the cord, and
she yelped when he slipped the blade underneath the knot.

"Sorry," he muttered, sawing as carefully as he could manage. The cord fell
loose. She pulled away before he got it unraveled.

"Give me the knife," she hissed, reaching through the banister. "My legs!"

He flipped the stiletto and laid the handle in her open hand. "Have a care."

"Aye—I'd rather not have my ankle sliced off, too," she muttered with a
little gagged cough. "There—that's got it. Come on!" She stuck her hand through
the railing again.

"Up there?" he rasped.

"Are you going out the way you came in? There's no other down there."

He glanced toward the closed door of the chapel. Flames glowed beneath the
edges, blurred by sliding smoke.

"I'll help you, Seigneur." She stood up and leaned over the rail. "Grab my
hands."

"Do you propose to pull me up?" he grated dryly.

"We'll do it together. Do you think I'll leave you?"

"Together."

"Come on!" she urged. "Get up on the parson's seat and give me your hand!"

"Nay—you won't hold me." He searched in the black cavern of the canopy and
stepped up onto the seat. He found the carving with his knee. "I can do it
myself." He shoved upward, grabbing in the dark for purchase among the carvings
on the top of the canopy, but his blistered fingers couldn't take the full
weight of his pull. He strained, grunting through his teeth, and fell back.

"Give me your
hand
!" she cried. "What's wrong with you?"

He hoisted himself onto the seat again and grabbed the carvings, kicking off
hard with his good leg for leverage. For an instant he swung from his hands as
he tried to heave his upper body onto the roof. His tongue tasted of fresh blood
and charcoal. He heard himself, whimpering like a puppy while his injured leg
blazed with pain and his fingers felt as if he held them to a red-hot forge.

Suddenly he felt her hands around his arms, dragging hard, stronger than he
ever would have thought a female could pull.

The grip gave him the half inch that he needed. He thrust his knee over the
top of the canopy, unable to contain a sob as he dragged his other leg up. But
then he was on top, breathing hard in his raw throat.

"Hurry?" Leigh's hands groped for him. "This way—there 's a window."

He levered himself over the rail, stumbling after her. She was already
leaning out the open window. She hiked her legs across the ledge and dropped
down. S.T. peered out, and saw with relief that the ground was only two yards
below.

He hauled his injured leg over the sill, turned around and braced his foot
against the wall, easing himself down into the tangle of weeds below. He stood
holding his aching thigh, drinking deep draughts of sweet air and choking in
between each one.

Leigh gripped his arm, pulling at him. "Come away— get away from the house!"

He let her drag him, coughing and tripping, into the cold darkness. When he
found his breath he straightened up, groped, and caught her shoulders, grabbed
her face between both hands and kissed her roughly.

To his amazement, she dug her fingers into his hair, returning the kiss,
trading the burnt taste of charcoal and blood, pressing herself to his scorched
body until he almost fell off his balance with the force of it. He clutched at
her shoulders as she pulled abruptly free.

"God damn, Sunshine," he breathed.

"I knew you'd come," she said, and turned away toward the dark.

S.T. stared after her through the smoke. He felt his burnt face break into a
painful grin. He leaned back, turned his face to the sky and sent a raucous howl
of elation into space.

It ended up in a coughing fit.

"You put me forcibly in mind of a Bedlamite," she snapped out of the
darkness. "Come along to where it's safe, will you?"

S.T. made it as far as the line of trees that edged the overgrown garden. He
caught at one of the trunks as Leigh passed it, sagging against the bark.

"Sit down," he croaked. "Have to ... rest."

His injured leg crumbled beneath him. He put his arm around the tree and slid
to his knees.

Every breath was punishment for that one elated whoop, burning down his
throat and into his chest. Leigh crouched beside him. He could see part of her
face, illuminated in yellow by the flames.

She pulled his hand away from his leg and bent over it. Then, without a word,
she untied the neckcloth hanging loose around his throat and knotted it over the
wound. S.T. gritted his teeth against a groan. The sword cut hurt, but it was
his seared skin that took up all of his awareness. Everywhere his clothing
rubbed him felt blistered. The cold air on his face and hands was like ice on
fire.

"You didn't tell me you were hurt," she hissed. "Impossible idiot!"

"Hurt?" he repeated in a grating voice.
"Sang dieu,
boiled lobsters
have felt better."

She shifted out of the light. "Where are you burned?"

He lifted his hand and turned it over. The smell of charred wool rose
strongly, mixing with the sweet odor of woodsmoke. "Palm's the worst, I think."

"Where's your knife?" She took his wrist in her hands, more gently than she'd
touched him before. "I'll have to cut your mitt off."

Before he had a chance to protest, she'd felt at his waistcoat and found the
stiletto. S.T. panted, gritting his teeth as she slit the wool across the back
of his hand and began to peel it from his palm. An involuntary shudder gripped
him.

"Lie down," she said, abandoning the project. "Do you feel light-headed?"

He swallowed, leaning against her, suddenly shivering uncontrollably, hot and
cold at once. "M'all right," he said, but it felt damned good to allow her to do
the work for him, supporting his shoulders until his head rested on the ground.
The slight slope sent fresh blood to his head, clearing the mist.

"Bells?" he mumbled, wincing again as she renewed her effort to strip the
burned mitt from his hand.

"Aye—they're ringing alarm at the church. Stay here," she said, as if he had
any intention of moving. "I'm going for water."

She darted away, and S.T. realized the night was beginning to spark with more
than the fire. Distant shouts drew nearer, and torches flared. He straightened
up on his elbow and looked around. "Wait—" He couldn't force his voice past a
gritty rasp. "Leigh, wait!"

She didn't turn, already too far to hear above the flames and commotion. A
bucket brigade was turning out from somewhere, men and women with ruddy faces
and working clothes—a few of Chilton's girls, but more of the gathering forces
of the neighborhood come to fight the fire, the way they'd banded together for
centuries against a common enemy. Leigh ran down the hill and accosted one of
the men, pointing and shouting in his ear. She reached out and put her hand on
the arm of a girl with a bucket.

They turned together and came back. S.T. sat up against the tree, his
instincts crying out that he'd best fade into the darkness before he was trapped
here, injured and defenseless. He got to his feet with an effort, but Leigh was
there before he could make any coherent decision.