The Prince of Midnight Read Free Page A

come here was the painting in the armory.
    In one dark corner an unsheathed sword lay askew against the wall. He'd let
it go to rust, along with the brace of pistols wrapped in their dusty rags. But
the saddle and bridle he kept clean and oiled, hanging neatly from their pegs,
just as if he were going to use them.
    He rubbed Nemo's head with his boot. The wolf sighed in heavy pleasure, but
didn't bother to bestir himself from his long-limbed sprawl against S.T.'s feet.
Chapter Two

    It took Monsieur Leigh Strachan until late afternoon the next day to produce
herself at Col du Noir. S.T. was a little surprised; he'd expected her by mid
morning at the latest. He'd moved his work out into the courtyard as he usually
did to catch the north light on these clear October afternoons, breathing the
scents of linseed oil and tarragon and lavender and dust that clung to his paint
rags and his hands. Nemo panted softly in a shady spot, his solemn yellow eyes
following S.T.'s short perambulations back and forth to get a perspective on the
canvas. But when the wolf lifted his head and looked toward the gate, S.T. put
his brush in a terra-cotta pot full of oil, wiped his hands, and sat down on a
sun-baked stone to wait.
    Nemo heaved himself to his feet. A soft word from S.T. kept the wolf still.
He heard the ducks break into disturbing muttering—a noise which seemed to him
to come from somewhere off to the left where there was nothing beyond the wall
but a sheer cliff. He turned his head to catch more of the sound with his good
ear, then realized what he'd done and faced the gate directly with a little
frisson of self-annoyance. He'd yet to become accustomed to the disorienting
effects of his one-sided deafness. Even with Nemo's alert gaze trained on the
obvious direction of approach, S.T. had a difficult time convincing his brain
that their visitor wasn't somehow advancing on thin air across the canyon from
the left. And worse, if he closed his eyes or turned his head too quickly, the
whole world seemed to go into a tumbling spin around him.
    Wisely, she created plenty of deliberate noise as she came. A clever
greenling, this. She knew better than to try to sneak up on a desperate and
dangerous highwayman with a king's ransom on his head.
    The thought made S.T. smile. Once upon a time, he'd considered himself quite
a perilous character.
    He leaned over, tugged at some weedy bushes within reach, and sat back armed
to the teeth with a fragrant little bouquet of lavender and chamomile. After a
moment, he added a few trailing stems of rockrose for color and composition.
While he turned the nosegay in his hand, idly inspecting the arrangement, she
appeared beneath the crumbling gateway.
    She paused just inside the shadow. He waited. Nemo stood still, growling.
    S.T. could see her eyeing the wolf warily. Nemo was something to see: huge,
with his coat of black and cream and silver, his teeth bared and a light
afternoon breeze ruffling his handsome markings. He was very clearly what he
was—no chance of mistaking him for a mere oversized watchdog.
    Ignoring S.T., she took a step toward the animal. Nemo's hackles rose. She
took another, and then began to walk steadily straight at the wolf. Nemo's growl
became an open snarl. He crouched, his splendid tail waving slowly, his yellow
eyes fixed on the slender figure. She kept walking. Nemo took a step forward,
his whole body rigid with the savagery of his warning. The courtyard echoed to
the sound.
    But she kept walking.
    She was three feet away when Nemo's courage evaporated. The snarl gave out,
his tail flagged, and he turned in a little circle. His great head lowered and
his ears flattened in dismay as he slunk across the open space and crept into a
safe place behind S.T.'s back.
    "I know," S.T. said soothingly. "Terrifying creatures, these females."
    She stood silent, frowning at them.
    "Watch this," S.T. said to Nemo. "I'm going to walk right up to her. No