XI
Ansel’s brain was so soaked in fear that it took Slate calling for him three times before he blinked and turned his head up to the second story window. Whatever greeting he had disappeared when he saw Ansel’s morose expression, carrying with it all the joy of a man stalking to the gallows. Slate ducked back into the mansion with no further questions, for which Ansel was grateful; he doubted he had the capacity for speech at the moment.
Heavy feet carried him unerringly up the steps of the porch, over the threshold of the front door, and down the hall to the parlor. His glamour blinked out before he’d even rounded the corner and he crossed into the receiving room before his body had the chance to betray him and pull him away.
Baptiste was alone on the settee, looking for all the world like he’d stayed there overnight, his attention still on the puzzle scattered over the handsome dark surface of the table. Olive sat in one of the armchairs in the corner, her legs draped over one side, a book in her lap. Her eyes took in Ansel’s body language in an instant and she shrank herself down into the upholstery, unable to leave the room without first passing the two men.
“I didn’t get him,” Ansel said. No fanfare, no build-up, no attempt to circumvent the truth, he reported on the fact like a statement on the weather.
Baptiste was as still as a statue, his hand poised to strike at a puzzle piece. Olive could almost match him for motionlessness, but Ansel was trembling too badly to do anything but control the expression on his face. The silence in the room stretched out painfully until it was broken by the loud snap of a puzzle piece slotting into place. “Encore une fois?” Baptiste said.
Ansel’s stomach lurched and he heard himself answering in perfect French, “I didn’t catch him. He got away.” He had the powerful urge to append his confession with an apology, even knowing from experience it would do him no good.
Baptiste pulled himself to his full height and pivoted to face Ansel. Bracing himself for the impact of his Thirst, Baptiste instead looked away from him at an indiscriminate spot on the wall with the glazed look he had when he pulled a memory. Olive took the opportunity to slip out of her seat and into the hall, the tip of her ponytail disappearing around the corner just as Baptiste’s focus returned. Ansel’s feet itched to follow her, but he was pinned in place.
“It weren’t Slate’s fault,” he stammered in English. Cold fingers wrapped around his neck and his scars lit up, burning the rest of his excuse to cinders in his throat.
“It was yours?” Baptiste says, digging the tips of his fingernails into soft flesh. Their eyes were locked together and his Thirst raged at Ansel as if it was going to swallow him up.
“A Hunter,” he gasped.
The fingers slackened. “A Hunter.”
Like a drowning man, Ansel grasped at anything that might save him and words poured out of his mouth. “He was strong. Had magic like I’d never seen. And a sword, big as life. And he just — he was terrifying. So I — he almost had my head off, I — ”
“Enough. Show me.”
The parlor faded from view and the pain in his neck grew distant as Baptiste pulled the memory of the encounter from him. Picking up just before the point of impact, Ansel had a strange sympathetic pang for himself as he was sent sprawling across the road. From this new vantage point he saw just how close that dangerous blade had come to his throat, how even a second's hesitation would have seen him dead.
The fear of the encounter hadn't even fully left Ansel before it wrapped itself around him again, constricting his chest. Compounding the feeling was Ansel's knowledge of just who was on the other end of the sword. Strangely, though, the playback of the scene had distorted Hector's face and body into a blue-tinged blur, his features indistinct. All that was recognizable was his outfit and the murderous intent with which he carried himself.
"He didn't look like that," Ansel whispered, as if it might have been his fault.
Baptiste's cool gaze slid over to him. "Divine magic interferes with our own. Hunters use it to imbue themselves with strength, to ward off attacks. Cheap tricks, but effective in the short term."
Ansel absentmindedly rubbed his abdomen where Hector's fist had caught him. "So they ain't really as strong as all that."
"We're stronger, but their magic cuts right through our defenses. I only tell you this to say he would have killed you if you hadn't been lucky."
Or if he hadn't been recognized. Ansel couldn't say whether that had tipped the scales in his favor just yet and he wouldn't dare tell Baptiste he'd had a prior meeting with the man.
The parlor again melted into view, the harsh outlines of reality overwriting the memory's murky projection. Pain rushed to meet Ansel as his consciousness returned to his body with Baptiste's fingers still wrapped around his throat. He jerked away involuntarily and the grip tightened like a constrictor's coils. Swallowing down the searing pain, he forced himself to remain still as Baptiste stared at him, seemingly deep in thought.
"Stay away from him," Baptiste said at last, taking back his hand. Ansel felt a whisper of relief; it was only a warning, a command would be impossible for Baptiste to enforce.
As Baptiste turned his back to Ansel, he stayed rooted in place, gnawing on the inside of his cheek with his molars. Only when the man had crossed the room and taken his place on the settee did he wet his lips and speak. "Could I get a feeding?"
Baptiste showed no immediate signs of having heard him and Ansel was about to take that for his answer until he replied, "You will feed in one week."
A flash of heat hit Ansel's face and he couldn't stop himself from protesting. "It's nearly been a week now. I used a lot of my reserves chasing down Malczyn—"
Baptiste was back in his face in an instant, his body exploding into a swirling black mist that engulfed Ansel before he solidified again. "Your reserves are your own to maintain," he said, his face so close their noses almost touched. "Perhaps in the future you will be more judicious with how you use them."
Ansel bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood and swallowed the bitter fluid down. Baptiste rarely policed his personal activities outside of the mansion, but he never had liked Ansel discovering on his own how to manipulate his glamour. "Right."
Again, Baptiste turned and resumed his idle task at the table. "I'll have more work for you later in the week. Until then," he said, pausing to snap a puzzle piece in place. "Leave."
Without another word, Ansel stepped out of the parlor as if he was leaving a courtroom. The abject fear he had been carrying melted into a simmer of anxiety and he rounded the corner into the entryway. Ignoring Olive’s curious eyes as she peered at him from her perch at the top of the stairwell, his glamour rippled out over his body and his scars — now invisible — burned in protest.