A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

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A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

AN: This is in response to Challenge #136, on Mick’s jewelry. I do want to mention, before you read this story, that it has a character who is a Roman Catholic bishop. I don’t think it’s a spoiler to say that, well, he’s not a nice person. This is no way intended to be a criticism or indictment of the Church. The character is quite fictional. As for a disclaimer, it may come as something of a shock to you all that I do not own any of the Moonlight characters. Who knew?

A Daughter of This House

I.

The brilliance of the white and gold salon, with its ornately gilded furniture lavishly upholstered in spotless brocade, was a contrast to the dark beyond the tall windows. Large mirrors reflected and multiplied the candlelight from the sconces and chandeliers, and on the whole, the room seemed like an utterly civilized and cultured place, where aristocrats and their ladies might gather for music, or conversation. Naturally, nothing could be further from the truth.

A young woman, her white powdered wig at odds with her large, lustrous dark eyes and red lips, sank in obeisance before the Prince de Chevreuse. She ignored the luxuriousness of her surroundings, focusing only on the pacing figure whose favor she sought. Chances were, she was on a fool’s errand, and she would end up worse than she already was. Furtively, she twitched a fold of her faded lavender satin dress, hoping to disguise an unfortunate spot the skirt had somehow acquired, but she managed to stop herself from reaching up to reposition the long corkscrew curl that rested artfully over her shoulder.

Even with her new strength, holding the deep curtsey her mother had taught her was growing tiresome. She raised her head and looked her father in the eye. “I demand to be recognized in this family,” she said.

The old man, who appeared to be no more than thirty-three, came close before her, and she fought to keep her emotions from her face. At this distance, the spices kept in his closet to sweeten his clothes could not overcome the rancid odor of decay emanating from his body. His satin breeches might gleam in the light of the candles glowing in the room, but Coraline only registered the stench. He reached out with a gesture that looked almost lazy, and struck her sharply across the face. “Watch your tongue, girl. I’ll have no truck with impertinent wenches.”

Coraline staggered, but managed to hold her balance, helped by the wide panniers of her skirts, as well as her determination not to show any weakness that might persuade her father to deny her. “I thought you valued me for my spirit, father.”

“Spirit is not insolence,” he replied. “A man may warm his hands at a fire once, without seeking to be scorched. And you’ve already had the experience of being staked for a fortnight. Do you wish to repeat it?” He paused, waiting for her reply, and adjusted the creamy lace that fell over his hands to his knuckles. “Your brothers would certainly relish another round of such amusement.”

She put out the tip of her tongue to catch a trickle of blood from a rapidly healing split lip. She would show none of the fear she felt. “You are a prince, and my mother was the daughter of a duc. I have noble blood in these veins,” she replied. “You know this to be true, father.”

He flipped a lace handkerchief dismissively. “Your mother was the daughter of a duc’s whore,” he replied. “And you are nothing more than a bastard yourself.”

Coraline cast her eyes down, trying to hide her rebellion. “But I was turned, nonetheless. Does that mean nothing?”

The Prince sighed. He’d not intended for this girl, for all her beauty, to be brought into the royal bloodline. Even without the circumstances of her birth against her, the king had specified that only males should be given the gift of immortality. Women were a convenience, even wives were only for mortal progeny. And this one. Baseborn, for all her claims of nobility. This youngest of his by-blows, the last he’d gotten on a woman before he’d been turned, was an embarrassment to the family, or she would be, unless she was taken into hand, none too gently. He supposed he should have her beheaded, before dawn. The king would agree, would perhaps even order it himself, should the situation come to his attention. Still, the Prince was not one to waste an opportunity, and perhaps this chit of a girl could be of some use to him, before he cast her aside. It was unlikely, but there was always a possibility. In his breathing life, he’d been a sportsman, fond of the hunt. And he’d learned that there was always the chance that the quarry could turn back on the hunters, and that a cornered beast was never safe. He could see in his daughter’s eyes that she was at that limit of desperation, and there ought to be a way to use that to his own advantage. “Even your brothers had to earn their place in the family,” he said. “And they were trained for it from birth. Should I be less strict with you?”

Coraline felt a small spark of hope light within her breast. He wasn’t denying her. Not completely. She wobbled a bit in her curtsey, but stiffened her spine to maintain her balance. “Of course not, father. All I ask is a chance to prove myself.” She’d heard stories of what her brothers had endured to gain the Prince’s favor, and she thought she was willing to live through whatever he required.

After all, the circumstances of her turning had been horrific enough, and she’d survived that. Survived an attack from her oldest brother that left her torn and bleeding, expecting to die. Only the mercy of one of her younger brothers, an unforeseen grace, had spared her. He’d always been kind to his half-sister, the little dark girl who haunted the edges of the chateau’s grounds, seeking glimpses of the family that chose to leave her unrecognized and poor. He’d picked her up, brought her, dying, to his father, and begged the old man to save her.

Whatever whim had driven the Prince to indulge the fairest of his sons that night, had long since waned. Sebastien was gone to court in Paris, sent off to find a wife and bring money to the family’s coffers, and sons to the family’s table. He could no longer intercede for her, and de Chevreuse’s concession to his softer feelings had vanished. But she knew that without the protection of her family, she would never be able to evade the wrath of the human peasantry for very long. Even her mother, faded and hopeless at thirty-seven, had cast her out, once she realized that the girl had been turned. Coraline’s father was her last chance, and a slender hope at that.

“Set me a task, father, I beg you. I will prove myself worthy.”

Her father, her sire, gave her a long, measuring look. “I might have something…” he said. He turned and walked to the doors of the room, the velvet skirts of his coat swirling, his red heels clicking on the parquet floor. This was a private matter. Before he spoke, he took a quick turn around the room, making sure no one watched through the windows, or listened at the doors. Finally satisfied, he came again to his daughter.

“You know Bishop de Renaud?” he asked.

Coraline nodded, her eyes wide. The bishop was well known in the area as a venal, grasping man, one who believed himself destined someday to be a cardinal, a prince of the church. His palace, in the nearby town of Saint-Séverin, was said to be even more splendid than the Prince’s chateau. He was exactly the type she would have thought would be a boon companion of her father.

“Good,” said the Prince. “I want you to kill him for me.”

“But—but, how, father?” Coraline stammered. Since she’d been turned, she’d fed, of course, but she had never killed.

“You’re a vampire. Death is in our nature. You must find your own way.” He turned, as if to leave her, but looked back over his shoulder to deliver a parting admonition. “If you’re caught, they’ll likely burn you at the stake. And as a loyal son of France, and of the Church, I will not lift a finger to save you. I’d advise caution.”

Not for the first time, she was grateful for the lack of a heartbeat that kept the blood from draining from her face. “And if I succeed?”

He shrugged. “Then you become a daughter of this house, in truth. I shall await the outcome of the game.”

Coraline rose as her sire departed, leaving the room echoing and empty behind him.

II.

Raising gloved hands, Coraline pushed back the hood of her cloak. In the dimness of the cathedral, she no longer needed protection from the sun. Far overhead, the late afternoon light turned the stained glass of the rose window into a glowing crown of jewels, shedding splashes of color across the stone floors below. She frowned at her hands. The gloves were ill-fitting, too large for her slender fingers, and she knew she needed to look her best, if her plan were to succeed.

Then again, she thought, perhaps a slightly desperate, unprotected air would serve her well.

She had not often come to the cathedral; in her youth, she had gone with her mother to a smaller church, one where the Prince’s cast-off mistress and her whelp attracted little attention. She’d not seen Père Charpentier, the old curé who’d been so kind to her in her human life, since her turning. Perhaps it was just as well. How could she bear to tell him the sins she’d committed, that had been visited upon her, these past months? Her beauty might have been as fixed as though sculpted in living marble, but she knew there were shadows in her eyes that would trouble the gentle old pastor with fear for her soul. Well, she thought bitterly, much good his concern did for her now. Even though she doubted his imagination had encompassed the change that had befallen her.

But that was all beside the point. She faded over toward the wall, where the shadows ran deepest, heading toward the chapel in the transept. At the entrance to the chapel, she dipped a quick curtsey, genuflecting. When she straightened, she shifted her cloak back on her shoulders, exposing the low neckline of her dress, and the narrow edging of lace that drew attention to the cleft between her breasts, that tempting declivity she was hoping would prove bait enough to hook a bishop’s lust.

She pulled a small coin from the palm of her glove, and placed it in a box, taking a candle. The chapel was already glowing with votive offerings, and she lit hers from one of the larger candles standing before the chapel altar. Above, a life-sized statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary, robed in blue and white, gazed down serenely, reminding Coraline of her years in convent school. From twelve to eighteen, she’d been immured with the nuns, and she’d hated every moment of it. She had no religious vocation, and little use for the education they tried to drill into her. Pious readings, needlework, and other accomplishments deemed suitable for young ladies. She’d been so happy to come back to her mother; she’d thought her life was just beginning.

Coraline genuflected again, and knelt on a conveniently placed prie-dieu, arranging her wide skirts carefully around her. Her thoughts were far from heaven, but if nothing else, her years in convent school had taught her how to feign the outer semblance of devoutness. She bent her head, and waited.

While her mind might be wandering through the past, her senses were alert. And soon enough, she was rewarded with the quiet sounds of a sacristan, his worn shoes making almost no noise on the flagstones, creeping by to see who had come to pray in the Lady Chapel. He would not disturb a penitent, of course, but he might well mention a pretty young girl to the priests around the cathedral, and that trail might lead higher.

She’d miscalculated a little, however. She was hungrier than she’d expected, and the scent of warm human brought on her fangs. Pressing her lips together, she kept her head resolutely bowed, even as the sacristan came close. She moved a little, as though stretching a back grown weary with prayerful posture, and flexed her shoulders back, to show off her décolletage. That should get his attention, she thought. After all, even an elderly caretaker was still a man. He had eyes to see.

By the time she rose from her prayers, tucking a worn rosary into a pocket in her skirt, a young priest was waiting for her, although he made some small show of pretending he’d just been passing by, perhaps on some normal ecclesiastic errand.

He crossed himself, as though blessing her, when she rose and turned, curtseying to him. “Bless you, my daughter,” he said. “Are you in need?”

She hung her head, wishing she could call up a pretty blush. “Oh, Father, I am,” she replied. “I fear greatly for my—my spiritual well-being.”

The young priest looked pleased. He would enjoy the opportunity to offer solace to such a beauty, even if it cost him some prayers in penance later for impure thoughts. “Come, walk with me. Tell me what’s troubling you.”

Coraline blinked rapidly several times. The priest’s blood would slake her red thirst, to be sure, but taking him might cause problems. She could not allow herself to be diverted from her mission. “Oh, Father, I thank you,” she said, her voice low and trembling with manufactured emotion, “but I could not—I must not bring you into my troubles. My father might learn of it, and…and…”

“You need not fear that,” the priest replied, a hint of stern authority in his voice. “Our heavenly father is a higher force.”

“But you do not know...” she paused helplessly, looking around as though to assure herself they were quite alone. “My father is Prince de Chevreuse.”

The priest frowned, trying not to let his dismay show. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps you would wish to talk to my superior?” After all, he thought, no sense getting himself involved with the affairs of the local aristocrats. And besides, the Bishop would be interested in this girl.

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Oh yes,” she breathed, “that might be for the best.”

One thing she noticed, was that the priest was not accustomed to offering courtesies to a woman. He led the way, expecting her to trail penitently in his wake, leaving the sanctuary of the cathedral and going out into a colonnaded walk in the cathedral close. The sun laid treacherous patches of bright light every few feet, through stone arches, and Coraline raised the hood of her cloak again, protecting her complexion as she followed, her downcast eyes on the hem of the long black soutane of the priest.

The priest turned into a small, pleasant courtyard, and stopped. “Wait here,” he said without ceremony, and went to an ancient, iron-bound door to knock. “Deo gratias,” he called out.

Coraline looked around her, found a shaded stone bench in a corner of the courtyard, and sank onto it in a dejected slump, as though overcome by her troubles. With her enhanced hearing, she could make out the murmur of angry voices within the office, so she was not startled when a stout, imposing man in the robes of a Benedictine monk emerged, his face stormy. She rose, both from the habits she’d been trained to in her time in convent school, and also to make sure her presence did not go unnoticed. She dropped a curtsey, head bent. The monk, an abbot from the look of him, frowned more deeply, and sketched a blessing in her direction. Coraline heard the gust of his sigh, and the whisper of his sandals as he walked by.

A few minutes passed, and she was beginning to wonder if she’d be left here until the sun shifted the shade away from her seat. Finally however, she heard the creak of the hinges, and looked up to see the young priest beckoning to her. She hoped she was about to meet the bishop, but if she had to work her way up the hierarchy more slowly, she would. She was patient.

But indeed, the office she was ushered into was that of the bishop. She had an impression of dark paneling, and shelves of books and papers. Behind a desk, she had her first glimpse of her quarry.

He was younger than she’d expected, a solid thirty-five, perhaps thirty-eight, but no more, although his hair had turned to steel gray. He was lean, with a nose like the beak of a hawk, and brown eyes as hard as flint. He looked, she thought, more like what her own father should look like. A predator. His scent was interesting, too. She could catch the tang of his anger with his last visitor, overlaid with…something not quite lust, but akin to it. For her, she thought. For her.

“Kneel for the bishop,” her guide hissed at her.

Coraline sank to her knees, bending her neck so that her hood completely concealed her face, even as she parted the front of her cloak to display her neckline again.

“Now, now, Père Girard. No need to speak harshly to the lady,” said Bishop de Renaud. “You tell me she is in need of spiritual advisement.”

She could hear the priest, and now she had a name for him, bow humbly, the skirts of his soutane moving with a clerical whisper. “So she has told me, Your Grace,” he said.

“Then perhaps you should go, so that she may ask for my guidance in private,” he replied. “Unless you think your presence is needed?”

Père Girard bowed again. “No, Your Grace,” he said. “If I have your leave to retire?”

“Come, my son.”

Peering from beneath her hood, she could see the Bishop hold out a hand, offering his ring for the young priest to kiss. It was a heavy ring, with a diamond-set cross curving over a gray stone that caught the light and gleamed from within. The metal of the setting was embellished with flourishes and curlicues in bas-relief. A ring worthy of the high position he held, and a promise of heights he had yet to scale. Coraline thought it was a cold ring, a symbol of the powers that tried to rule her. She could sense de Renaud’s satisfaction as the lips of his subordinate met the metal and stone that graced his hand.

“Peace be with you. Now go.”

After Père Girard had closed the door quietly behind him, Bishop de Renaud approached her, halting so close before her that she was forcibly reminded of how her sire had taunted her when he gave her his challenge. She saw the bishop’s ring again as he reached down to tilt her face up, spilling her hood back off her hair.

The bishop took in the pale face and dark eyes of this young beauty, her aristocratic features contrasted with the simple arrangement of her black hair, and her dress, the rich, dark green moiré silk in a style behind the times by fifteen years, and worn almost threadbare here and there.

“A daughter of Prince de Chevreuse, you say,” he commented quietly. “I’ve known this area for several years, and never heard mention of a daughter of the house.”

Coraline didn’t blink, meeting his eyes steadily. “The Prince is my father,” she replied. “He would tell you so himself, should you inquire.”

“A natural daughter, then.” de Renaud smiled. “And an uncommonly pretty one, to be sure.”

“Your Grace flatters me.”

He moved away from her, to sit in a cushioned chair in the corner, his hand hanging over the edge of the arm, flashing that ring towards her, the stone winking at her like a malevolent eye. “What brings you here, then, my daughter?”

Coraline feigned helpless embarrassment. “It took so much—for me to come to you. My father does not approve of you, you know.”

“Your father is a man of many and varied sins. But we are discussing your problems.”

She twisted her hands together. “I cannot—I don’t know how to express it. My father is—vile.” Raising her eyes to him, she widened them in distress, wishing her capacity for tears had not vanished with her humanity. “I fear him. I fear what he means to do,” she said, her voice lowering to a bare whisper, “to me.”

The bishop concealed his triumph well, she thought. A human would never have known. “You think he has designs on your virtue?” he asked.

Coraline nodded, dumbly. Her virtue. That was a laugh, she thought. As though that had been her only value.

Bishop de Renaud rose, and began to pace the room, thinking. Coraline could almost read his thoughts, not through any otherworldly power, but simply from his attitude, from the looks he cast in her direction. Even in this, his kingdom, he dared not lay hands on her now. He would expect her to protect what he’d termed her virtue, and too many people had seen her, surely, in the vicinity of his office. But he needed some sort of ruse to draw her back, once darkness could cover his actions. Coraline let no trace of this cross her countenance, but she smiled inwardly. This hunter did not yet realize he was the prey.

“Tell me, my child,” he said at length, “do you think you are in danger this very night?”

“I fear so, Your Grace,” she replied. “The Prince and my brothers—my half-brothers—are spending the day in hunting, and idle pursuits. Tonight, the wine will flow, and, and, oh, Your Grace, I have no protection. No one to succor me in my need!” She hoped she hadn’t overdone it, but so far, in her limited experience, men confronted with a heaving bosom and a pleading look were foolish enough to believe whatever lies she cared to tell. She dabbed, quite unnecessarily, at her eyes with a handkerchief.

He smiled. “My child,” he said, “my dear daughter, do not despair. I will take you under my protection, and the sword and buckler of the church will protect you.”

“But—but how, Your Grace?”

“Before you leave—“

“Why must I leave?”

He raised a warning finger. “We do not wish your father to learn what has become of you, do we? You must go home, act as though nothing has changed.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace.”

“When you leave, Père Girard will show you the location of the postern gate. After darkness is well fallen, steal away from the chateau, and come to the cathedral close. You will find the postern unlatched, and Père Girard will bring you safe to me. And from there, I shall take care of you.”

Coraline bowed her head again. He was pleased with himself, the hypocrite, she thought. She could smell it on him. She allowed herself a small smile, the barest curve of her lips. And looking over at this luscious morsel he had in mind to take for himself, Bishop de Renaud was smiling, too.

III.

Through the cracks in the planking of the postern gate, Coraline could see a few gleams of light. Apparently the bishop was reliable, as far as the arrangements went. She paused a few yards away from the gate, gathering her courage for the next steps. There had been no problem leaving the chateau, of course. She was venturing out with the full approval of her sire.

Wrapped in a dark cloak, and carrying a bag into which she’d folded a few pieces of clean linen, just so she’d look as though she believed de Renaud’s lies, she had moved across the fields and through the woods of the estate, sure-footed as in daylight. Even the creatures in the arm of forest that separated her father’s holdings from Saint-Séverin avoided her, recognizing the scent of a hunter. The great gray wolf who usually ruled the area watched her pass with yellow eyes, and turned to pad away and find easier prey.

Getting into town was easier still. There were few citizens abroad on wholesome business, so late into the night, and the men who moved furtively in the streets never saw the figure who blended so effortlessly into the black shadows of the streets. Coraline had never had occasion, since her turning, to wander the town by night, and she found the game exhilarating. Even at this hour, she could see the flickering of candles through the windows of the cathedral, faintly illuminating the stained glass saints. She avoided the great church, however, and circled around, following the walls that surrounded the cathedral close, listening for the sounds of activity within the compound.

She knew the rhythms of the monastic day, from her time in the convent, and from her memory, this should be a quiet stretch of the night, after Compline but before Vigil. Coming closer to the gate, her silent feet covering the distance in scant seconds.

The weathered wood of the planking was rough beneath her hand, as she pushed gently on the gate. The hinges moved without a sound, and she could smell traces of oil mixed with the faint odor of the metal. Just inside the gate, a lantern sat at the side of the flagged walk, casting a circle of light around it.

And just beyond, Coraline could see the dim outline of a slender, robed form. “Pere Girard,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” the priest replied. “His Grace sent me to watch for you.”

“That was good of him. I was so frightened, coming through the forest.”

He gave her a patronizing smile. “Of course. A dangerous journey, to be sure, for one so young and frail.”

She crossed herself. “The saints watched over me, I think.”

Pere Girard approached her, a hand out to take her elbow. “His Grace wishes to see you in his study. Come along, I’ll take you to him.”

In the unsteady light of the lantern, the priest never saw her hands moving, a pale blur as she reached up to put her arms around his neck. “I was so afraid,” she whispered. “And you are so warm…”

He had a fleeting thought that he’d not felt the close embrace of a woman since his mother had bid him farewell, before he went into holy orders, before he felt the sharp pressure on his neck, and the mouth against him gulping the hot pulse of his blood. By the time he could formulate a question about what was happening to him, a red velvet curtain of darkness had begun to sweep down across his consciousness, and all questions were over.

Coraline felt Pere Girard’s heartbeat slow, and stutter to a stop. She was not happy about having to kill the priest, but he would not be telling anyone later that he’d seen her enter the enclosure. She was unprepared for just how limp his dead weight became in her arms, yet she managed to catch him before he slithered bonelessly from her grasp, and shifted him into a position where she could carry him. It was awkward, and almost beyond the limits of her strength. He made no complaint when his head flopped hard against the stone portal as she squeezed through the gate. She was fortunate the postern was not within the sight of town buildings, yet. There was little chance of anyone overlooking her as she bore the body a fair distance into the woods. He’d be found, of course, in time. She had no intention of wasting the night in concealing his body further. And she supposed he’d be given a good Christian burial, as befitted an upstanding man of the cloth. She could not begrudge him that. She only hoped that the foxes, and the other scavengers, concealed the marks of her fangs sufficiently to divert suspicion about his death. It would be a mystery in any event, but there were mysteries and mysteries, and the ones where people did not whisper “vampire” to each other in hushed tones were infinitely safer for her kind.

When she re-entered the gate, she pulled it shut behind her, and picked up her bundle and the lantern, opening the glass pane to extinguish the candle within. She was perfectly capable of finding the bishop’s study, and without drawing attention to herself. The colonnades and walkways of the cathedral close were clear to her in the moonlight as they had been in the afternoon sun.

Perhaps young Pere Girard would have knocked on the study door, but Coraline was disinclined to stand on ceremony. She pulled up the latch on the door, and swung it open easily.

Bishop de Renaud was seated at his desk, a candelabra lighting the papers he frowned over. Even expecting a tempting diversion, he was filling the time with the work of the Lord. Or the work of the Church, at least. He looked up in annoyance at the interruption, his quill pen poised in his long right hand. “What do you—“ he started, then smiled with false benevolence. “Well, if it isn’t my dear distressed daughter. I was beginning to doubt you’d appear.”

“The way through the woods was longer than it seems in daylight,” she replied. “And I wanted to offer a prayer of thanks for my safe arrival.”

He nodded. “A devout child you are.” He was going to enjoy this, he thought. The idea of stealing away a daughter of the Prince de Chevreuse, even a natural daughter, was intoxicating. And now, when she was almost in his grasp, he could already taste the sweetness of her skin under his hands. He might have to set this one up, somewhere in a discreet little apartment. Saint-Severin was not a large city, it would not be as easy as it was in Paris, or Rome, but he thought it might be managed.

Coraline put down the small bundle she carried as the bishop rose and came around the corner of his desk. She made no move to evade him as he drew closer, but she was unable to suppress a start when he laid his hands on her shoulders.

“I’m glad you were able to get away,” he said. “I have plans for your future.”

She flicked her eyes up to his face. “Do you, Your Grace?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, and then his hands gripped her shoulders, his mouth descending on hers, hard and demanding. Thinking he had her contained, he moved one hand to fumble at her breasts, crushing the flesh painfully under his fingers.

She struggled, not to the full extent of her power, but enough that the two of them staggered sideways, knocking a chair over. She was starting to feel a rush of strength from the blood of Pere Girard, starting to feel the impact of her own anger. She was done being a victim, done being manhandled by anyone. Finally, she managed to break free of his grasp. “No,” she said. “I won’t let you—”

Frustrated, de Renaud backhanded the girl, seeking to teach her a lesson in submission. His ring caught her across the mouth, drawing blood. He was going to break this one. He was going to enjoy—

Coraline licked the tip of a pink tongue out to catch the trickle of blood from her split lip as it healed. Her eyes flickered from brown to icy blue, as she regarded the bishop. She stepped close to him, laying a hand on either pale cheek of his horrified face.

“You should know,” she said, “my father sent me. I had instructions from him, to kill you. And for his sake, I had planned to toy with you longer. But I want you to know, that now, I’m happy to do it for my own—“ she twisted her hands, his head between them, and there was a quick gasp and a muffled crack as his neck broke, “pleasure.”

This time, she let the body drop without trying to catch it.

She stood, silent, looking down at her handiwork and listening to determine whether their brief struggle had attracted any attention. There were no sounds from outside the study, and she decided he’d probably made sure no witnesses would be on hand for his own reasons. She had to smile a little at that.

She thought for a moment. There was no point in trying to conceal the body, but she might be able to misdirect anyone about what had happened. She looked around the room, noting the gold and silver ornaments on the mantelpiece. It was fast work, grabbing a silver bowl here, a gold crucufix there, and stuffing them into her bag. After she’d looted the room, she reached down and ripped the jeweled episcopal cross from his chest, wrapping it in a bit of cloth to protect it. She threw in an old, richly illuminated missal for good measure. And lastly, she forced herself to take his dead hand, and pull the bishop’s ring from his right forefinger. That piece, she tucked away in the bodice of her dress, separate from the other items.

She blew a kiss at the bishop as she slipped from his study, and closed the door softly behind her.

On her way through the gate, she retrieved the extinguished lantern. She’d had an idea, but it didn’t require artificial light.

Even with her sharp night vision, it took a little hunting to find the body of Pere Girard, where she’d hidden it in the woods. Her nose told her as much as her eyes, the truth be told. Dropping the bag of plunder and the lantern next to him, she murmured an ironic “Deo gratias,” over him before turning away. She’d seen no evidence of evil in him, but he was de Renaud’s creature, and she doubted anyone could have worked closely for the bishop without being touched by his corruption.

Her task completed, she felt a wave of exhilaration sweep over her. The heady draught of fresh blood, the intrigue, the danger…for the first time since her turning, she felt she was truly enjoying her vampiric state. She was in control of her destiny, and the world was filled with possibility. She could feel the night around her, like a living entity, and she was ready to dance with it. She began to run through the forest, skimming over the rough ground, and laughing with the wind. She wanted to run until the dawn, to riot through the woods like a pagan goddess.

But she had somewhere to be, a place to claim.

IV.

Coraline started to slide in the door of the chateau quietly, then changed her mind and pushed the door open with a bold shove. The startled look she got from the footman told her that she was right to show her confidence, but putting a hand up to smooth her hair, she discovered she was in more disarray than she’d thought. Her run through the woods had left twigs and leaves caught in her dark tresses; she must look a perfect fright. A stop before one of the great mirrors of the hall confirmed that, and she spent a few minutes doing what she could to repair the ravages of the night wind.

She knew exactly where to find her father and brothers, at this hour. They’d be in one of the larger dining salons, carousing through the hours of darkness. She’d always avoided the banquets, when she was able. It was too easy to become the target of her brothers’ rough humor, and her father was always short of temper and quick to anger.

Tonight, though, she lifted her chin and strode forward, her skirts swaying around her as she walked. At the door, she paused to take in the scene. Four of her six brothers were gathered around a large table, gold-chased goblets of blood and wine in their hands, watching their sire closely. Serving men stood with their backs to the walls, holding pitchers to refill any cup that seemed to be growing empty. Upon the table, a naked girl lay, stretched out, her body strewn with rose petals, her demeanor languid. As Coraline watched, her father raised the girl’s head with one hand, and dribbled a bit of wine into her mouth. She sputtered a little, then swallowed, and her eyes rolled back in her head, as her father let her drop again to the table. Coraline knew the centerpiece probably wouldn’t live to see the dawn, but she was in no mood to spare much sympathy for the unfortunate girl. On the other hand, she was pretty, for a peasant. Maybe one of her brothers would take a fancy to her, and save the little fool for another night. She knew her father would have no such compunction for a mere mortal.

With a twitch of her besmirched skirts, Coraline stepped forward. “Father,” she said, “I’ve come to take my place here.”

The Prince de Chevreuse looked up, narrowing his eyes. “How so, girl?”

“The Bishop of Saint-Severin is dead. And by my hand.” It was bluntly said, but with her sire, that was sometimes best.

“Can you prove it?” He stretched the corners of his mouth in what might have been a smile.

Coraline dipped a finger into the neckline of her gown, and pulled out de Renaud’s ring. The gleam of the moonstone was a little obscured by a smear of blood left on it from her lip. She moved forward, ignoring the sharp looks and muttered complaints of her brothers, to place the ring in her father’s hand. “Do you recognize this?” she asked him.

He turned it over in his fingers, examining it closely. “White gold, diamonds, and moonstone. It’s the old fox’s sigil, all right,” he said. “And how did you come by it?”

She cocked her head on one side, indicating the torn shoulder of her dress. “I took it from his dead hand, after I broke his vile neck.”

“And how did you get close enough to do that, daughter?”

Coraline exulted at his form of address. She was winning, at last. “Why, father,” she said, “I was whispering your compliments in his ear.”

The prince’s expression was sardonic. “Were you.”

“Yes.” She decided to make no mention of his assault on her. That was immaterial, she realized. No one would care about that; only that she had done as she was told.

Her sire regarded her for a long time, without speaking. He seemed to be weighing many factors in his mind, much as he weighed the heavy gold ring in his hand, tossing it up a few inches, and catching it again as it fell. Slowly, her brothers fell silent as well, focusing their attention on the ring, rising and falling, rising and falling, and always in their father’s control.

At last, he held out his hand for Coraline’s, turning it up. He put the ring in her palm, and folded her hand around it.

“This is yours,” he said. He flicked his gaze up at the other four vampires around the table. “Hear this, my sons,” he proclaimed, “I set a challenge, and made an offer. This girl has proven she is of my blood. From henceforth, she is, in truth, a daughter of this house.”

When Coraline curtseyed this time, she kept her back straight and her chin high. She was acknowledged, at last. She was home.


Coda: 1952

Through the glass walls of Coraline’s hilltop house, the night was filled with the shimmering lights of Los Angeles. Even with the wedding coming up a week from tomorrow, Mick hadn’t quite assimilated the idea that this modern fortress was about to become his home. Perhaps his situation was outpacing his ambitions, but he thought he would have been happy in more modest digs. Coraline had been a little evasive, when he mentioned selling this property and looking for something in the suburbs. He knew she came from money, but he was thinking of starting a nest egg, college funds for the kids, that sort of thing. She’d agree, in time.

For now, might as well enjoy the view.

Dinner had been good, the prime rib at Musso’s had been excellent as always, Mick thought. It was a shame that little stomach upset had kept Coraline from enjoying it, too. Anyway, after a good meal, it was pleasant to snuggle up, here on the couch with a drink in one hand and Coraline’s slender body on his other side, the full skirt of her satin dress spreading across his lap as she pressed her thigh to his.

She put one hand into a concealed pocket in her skirt, and handed him a small object, one of her more enigmatic smiles curving her scarlet lips.

Mick frowned down at the little, leather–covered box. “What’s this, Coraline?”

She dimpled, looking completely kissable. “Early wedding present, lover. Open it up.”

One-handed, he flipped the catch and raised the tiny lid. The ring nestled in black velvet, the diamonds in the cross twinkling in the light, the gray stone beneath cool and somehow distant. “My God, Coraline. This is—magnificent. Where did you get it?”

“It’s been–in my family—since the 1750s. I got it as a sort of symbol of, I guess you’d say, coming of age. Becoming a full member of the family.” She laughed. Letting this ring out of her possession had been a hard decision, but she knew she was right. Mick was going to be with her forever. She thought he deserved a token of the blood-line he’d be joining so soon.

Mick put an arm around her. “Sounds serious, baby.” The box rested in the palm of his hand, heavy for its size, and he couldn’t seem to stop staring at the ring within. “And you want me have a family heirloom? Are you sure?”

She shrugged. “Why not? It’s mine, and I choose to give it to you.” She tilted her head to one side. “It’s going to look good on you, I think.”

“Really?”

“Let me show you.” She squirmed out from under his arm, and turned to face him, while he watched her indulgently. Plucking the ring from the box with one hand, she used the other to capture his right hand. Mick let it lie, loose and relaxed, trusting, in her smaller hand. A mischievous expression flitted across her face. She licked her lips, lifted his hand in hers, and in a gesture he found deeply arousing, slid his index finger into her mouth to wet it with her saliva.

He watched the ring slide home on his finger, a tight fit, but not uncomfortable. It brought thoughts of other pleasures to mind. With Coraline, everything reminded him of sex, and he wondered if he’d ever get enough of her. He sure planned to find out.

“I told you, the moonstone is perfect for you,” she said. If there was a strangeness in her smile, like a shadowed memory coming to her at the sight of that ring on a man’s hand, she said nothing of it. That was the past, the blood and pain she’d been through to earn that ring. She intended to be with Mick, if he ever met any of her brothers, or, God forbid, her ancient sire, but she knew that with this ring on his finger, they’d know him at once for a member of the bloodline. They’d accord him the respect she had earned.

“It’s beautiful, baby,” Mick said. “You’ll have to tell me more about it, sometime.”

“I promise,” Coraline replied, suddenly sad that his innocence would have to be destroyed before he could even begin to understand the history of the ring. “Maybe on our honeymoon.” She paused. “It’s kind of a long story.”
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by jen »

Lucky

This is outstanding!

Completely plausible and perfectly in keeping with the intrigue of France blended with the alternate Moonlight history, this provides a glimpse into Coraline's roots and a wonderful explanation of the ring.

I heard somewhere that it is the St. John crest, but it has no such meaning here?

Coraline gave it to Mick as a bit of necessary protection. I wonder if he ever came to know the meaning behind his ring. Perhaps that is why he still wears it.

Truly fabulous answer to the challenge!

Thank you!

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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by francis »

I LOVE this! Finally some more Coraline backstory, and what a wealth of history you give her! There's so much to see and smell and hear, the city, the demeanor of the people, the language. Coraline was quite the spy back then, ruthless and looking out for herself and to prove herself to the family.
This also shows how much she fell for Mick. She included him into her bloodline even before she turned him, and wanted him to be protected. I wonder if that's why Lance knew him immediately.

Awesome!!! :cheer:
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

Thanks so much, jen, frances. We saw Coraline on ML as a femme fatale, but such women are made, not born, and Coraline had to learn her tricks somehow. I'm sure it wasn't an easy life, for her.

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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by MoonShadow »

Absolutely pitch perfect. I don't know how you write the magic that you write.
I saw Coraline, I saw the cathedral, I could smell the damp night air of the forest...
Thank you yet again for an excellent piece.

and I totally agree, such creatures are made. :notworthy:
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by jen »

Francis has a fabulous point upthread.

Was that ring the way Lance knew Mick immediately?

When I saw the episode, I thought that Lance would have known his name and have checked up on him and went to the address. Whoever showed up to act like they belonged there was who he came to see. However, Lance was from a time without computers and technology and while he may learn those things I would think that he turns instead to more familiar methods of identifying people. Josef may be the exception as other vampires do not assimilate to the times as well.
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by cassysj »

You have such a gift for painting pictures with words. This ring was a hard fought symbol for Coraline and the fact that she gave it to Mick before the wedding speaks volumes for how much she loved him.

I'm with francis I wonder if that is why Lance knew him instantly
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

That is a good question. I'm surmising (though it's a story for another time...) that Lance had checked Mick out pretty thoroughly before he showed up at the FoS.

I liked the idea that the ring had been her symbol of coming into the family, and she used it the same way with Mick.

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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by allegrita »

Lucky, this story is an amazing exploration of a time and culture that are utterly unfamiliar to most of us. Yet you bring them to life, make us understand how things work, and give us a view of what it must have been like to live in that world. The fact that the world you've drawn involves vampires, in addition to bastard children of nobles, French royalty, and corrupt Church officials, is even more of a testament to your ability to bring history (even alternate history) to life.

I loved this view into Coraline's past. It felt totally real to me. And I damn well cheered when she won her victory, too. :yahoo: As you say, a femme fatale is made, not born. Coraline is who she is because it's the only way she could survive. How can we blame her for being a monster when she was turned into one, no less than Mick was?!

And speaking of Mick, I love the way she gave him the ring--her reasons for doing so, and the way she put it on his finger. It's so very... them. And so is the fact that she put off explaining of the history of the ring until a later time. I wonder if Mick ever heard what she went through to get it, or what it really meant. Maybe if she'd told him then, he'd have had a greater appreciation for what it meant... and what an honor it was that she was bestowing it on him (and also that other little wedding gift... immortality).
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by AussieJo »

:clapping:
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by wpgrace »

librarian_7 wrote:Thanks so much, jen, frances. We saw Coraline on ML as a femme fatale, but such women are made, not born, and Coraline had to learn her tricks somehow. I'm sure it wasn't an easy life, for her.

Lucky

I so agree. TMC surely made that clear.

Very cool backstory, brilliantly told. And I doubt Mick ever heard the "full" backstory, as he didn't know about her brothers or the surviving fire bloodline biz....

And yeah, guessing she "distracted" him, anytime he tried to get the particulars... :laugh:

Tho, I do wonder exactly what story she DID tell him about that ring! :chin:
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by r1015bill »

Wonderful history.

Not only do we learn about the ring, we learn a lot about what drives Coraline. This does explain that despite her beauty, Coraline has had to scrap for everything she has in any way she could.

I'd love to see an extension on this. I'm wondering why Mick still wears the ring despite the facts that their relationship had ended and that he thought he killed her in 1985.
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by darkstarrising »

Wow! What an incredibly imaginative story of Mick's ring, Lucky :hug:

You stories are always a sensual delight, the words creating visual images of times long past. I could feel the cool of the church, see the light of the flickering candles and the opulence of the period clothing. But it's the subtleties that make the story.

Coraline is on a mission - to be recognized for who she is, a daughter of a Prince, and to do so she must fulfill her father's challenge.
She frowned at her hands. The gloves were ill-fitting, too large for her slender fingers, and she knew she needed to look her best, if her plan were to succeed.

Then again, she thought, perhaps a slightly desperate, unprotected air would serve her well.
This is what I'm talking about. This is a young (vampirically speaking) Coraline, yet she is wise to the ways of the world. Her finery would attract the attention of the bishop, but her vulnerability is what would ensnare him.

Even Pere Girard falls victim to Coraline and I love the way you describe his dying thoughts.
He had a fleeting thought that he’d not felt the close embrace of a woman since his mother had bid him farewell, before he went into holy orders, before he felt the sharp pressure on his neck, and the mouth against him gulping the hot pulse of his blood. By the time he could formulate a question about what was happening to him, a red velvet curtain of darkness had begun to sweep down across his consciousness, and all questions were over.
Reading this passage of Pere Girard's death, I had an image of Mick in his wedding finery, laying on his blood soaked bed, wondering what the hell had just happened.

Simply wonderful, Lucky!! A fantastic answer to the challenge. :hug:
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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by librarian_7 »

Oh, my, what wonderful comments! I knew this story was going well, as I was writing it...and I'm so glad my vision of the story came through.

(I guess all those years of reading historical fiction have paid off. Who knew?)

:ghug:

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Re: A Daughter of This House (Challenge #136) -- PG-13

Post by Marigold »

Lucky, this was absolutely wonderful! :rose: :notworthy: :clapping: :hearts: I love all of your stories, but I especially enjoy your historical pieces. You write them so well, as though you lived in that time. Hey... Are you a vampire? :laugh:

This story was fully of such vivid imagery - you did a wonderful job of writing from the senses.

It was fascinating to learn more about Coraline's backstory. She has had a tough life. This is probably part of the reason why she acts how she does. In order to survive, she was required to act in a certain way.

The coda of this story was also interesting. Mick was once again thinking with the wrong head. Perhaps things would have turned out differently, had he tried using his brain.

Thank you! :flowers: This was an amazing response to the challenge! :rose:
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