Helen clenched her hands, digging gloved fingernails into her palms. If his lordship went for the journal too … No, she could not even begin to imagine the ramifications of it. The lies upon lies she would have to tell. The betrayal.
‘I know of no journal written by Benchley,’ Carlston said. ‘You have been misinformed.’
‘No, my friend, it exists and it is in the possession of a man called Lowry. A slippery fellow, I am told. Very hard to find.’
‘Lowry,’ Carlston said softly. ‘I know of him.’ He rubbed the back of his head, clearly perturbed. ‘Such a journal, if it exists, would be very dangerous. I could not pass it into your hands, Louis.’
Helen eased out a breath. He knew about the journal now — there was nothing she could do about that — but at least he wasn’t going to give it to a Deceiver. Did the Comte know it was a Ligatus as well?
The Comte inclined his head. ‘I understand.’
‘Would it suffice if you received just the information about you and the Comtesse?’
Carlston pointedly did not look her way. She knew his profile, every bold muscle and contour, and there was no mistaking the tightness along his jaw. He was clenching his teeth, forcing his way past his own conscience.
She understood the urgency of finding some way to stop the sickness within him, but even without the fact that the journal was a Ligatus, the deal was rapidly heading into territory that bordered upon treason. But then, who was she to point the finger?
‘That would be acceptable,’ the Comte said. He set down the snuffbox on the small table by his side, his smooth bonhomie dropping away to expose something far more implacable. ‘I want something else as well.’
‘Go on.’
‘This is my last body, Guillaume.’
Helen frowned. Did that mean what she thought it did? He had no offspring to shift into at the death of his current body and so would die. But she was sure he had a son.
Carlston regarded the Comte thoughtfully. ‘I take it you are going to spare Julien?’
Yes, Helen thought, that was the son’s name. Comte Julien.
‘You are correct,’ the old Comte said. ‘He is my only offspring and it is my decision not to take his body.’
‘Decision!’ Helen exclaimed. ‘I thought the shift was involuntary?’
‘No, Lady Helen. It is indeed a very strong drive, but it can be overcome.’
‘Why?’ Carlston asked.
‘Antoinette,’ the Comte said simply. He looked at Helen. ‘My wife. She, of course, is of your kind. Her life will inevitably end, and frankly I do not wish to continue without her at my side. Nor do I wish to extinguish the talents she has bestowed upon our son by taking his flesh. He is a marvellous musician. You have heard him play, Guillaume?’
Carlston nodded. ‘I have. Still, I find this hard to believe. You are the great survivor, Louis. To give up your existence for another is not in your nature.’
‘It is because you do not believe my kind can love, Guillaume. I think you do not even believe your own kind can love.’ His keen eyes darted to Helen again. ‘Your mentor is a hard man, my dear. All of his passion reserved for his duty. But he was not always like that. Oh, no, not at all.’
Carlston crossed his arms. ‘Get back to the point, Louis.’
‘I have existed within these flesh bodies for many centuries now. Is it so much of a surprise that I have been affected by the emotions that endlessly course through them? Some of my kind call it a taint. But there is a small group of others, like myself, who think of it as a gift. We have overcome our instinct for isolation and call ourselves the Society of Sensation. Amusing, non?’ He closed his eyes, his fingers toying with the gold fob attached to his fob ribbon. ‘Your senses … mon Dieu. You humans do not appreciate the glory of your senses. To taste food, to touch skin, to hear music.’
Helen sat forward. ‘Are you all affected so?’
The Comte nodded. ‘But most eschew the nobler sentiments and embrace the vile passions.’
‘Do your wife and son know what you are?’
He gave a small laugh. ‘Such good questions, Lady Helen. My wife does. Many times she has succoured me with her life force. Her beautiful, vibrant life force. It is one of a kind, so strong.’
Helen studied her fan for a moment. Her most important question — what would they face if the Deceiver door was ever opened? — could not be asked. Even so, she could go some way to obtaining an answer.
‘Comte, can you tell me where you and your kind come from? Are you from Hell?’
He clapped his hands, a delighted smile lighting his face again. ‘Do you know, that is only the second time any of you have asked the question. Even you, Guillaume, have never asked the straight question. Always it is the intrigue or the killing.’ He regarded Helen fondly, like a pleased parent. ‘Do you remember your beginning, Lady Helen? Your conception? Your birth?’
‘No, of course not.’
He gave a very Gallic shrug. ‘Voila! Nor do I remember my beginning here.’
Helen released her breath. No clues, then, to what lay behind the door.
‘But I will tell you this much, because you asked without guile,’ the Comte added. ‘I came to my first senses in the body of a small child in a very low household. It was the saving of me. Many of my kind were not so lucky. They awoke in adult bodies and failed to come to an understanding of the world before their intrusion was discovered. They were called mad, witches, evil spirits, demons. Many, many of them died.’
‘But so did the child that you possessed, and the many other children afterwards,’ Helen pointed out curtly.
He sighed. ‘True. It is the tragedy of my kind.’
‘Of your kind? What about humankind?’
‘Humans can propagate themselves, Lady Helen. They create more and more humans. We cannot do so; our number is finite. Thus we pass from generation to generation in the hope of finding a way to reproduce. Some think the answer lies in a union between Deceiver and Reclaimer; others seek an alchemical solution that would have us fundamentally changed. There is even a small misguided number who believe that the change will just occur over time.’
‘Frankly, I hope you do not find such a solution,’ Helen said with asperity. Just the thought of it was appalling.
The Comte gave a soft laugh.
‘What else is it that you want, Louis?’ Carlston asked, bringing the Comte back to the deal at hand.
‘I think you may guess.’
‘Julien?’
‘I want him protected.’ The Comte held up a finger, forestalling Carlston’s comment. ‘Not reclaimed. I am convinced that it is, to a small degree, my vestige that gives him his creativity. I want him left alone to live out his human life. To play his music. I think he will be one of the greats.’
Helen glanced at his lordship. He truly believed in reclaiming the souls of offspring. Surely he would not agree to protect one of them from salvation.
Yet there he was, giving a slow nod. ‘All I can guarantee is protection for the extent of my lifespan.’
The Comte smiled. ‘I have great faith in your ability to survive, Guillaume.’
‘However,’ Carlston continued, ‘protecting Julien from my colleagues will be quite an undertaking. You will need to give me something more.’
‘What do you want?’