The Watchtower

over the centuries.
    In a single stride five times the length of his normal one, he was at her back, pushing her headlong into the alley, one hand over her mouth to stifle her cry, the other bracing her fall—his humanity lingered—as his mouth opened and his tongue tasted teeth-drawn juice of her neck. As she fell prone, only his incredible arm strength kept her above the ground, her face never quite touching the rough and soiled pavement of the alley.
    When his swallows ceased at last, he lowered her gently to the ground. He caressed her neck gently, feeling for her pulse to assure himself that she was still …
    “Alive? Yes, she’s still alive.”
    Will looked up and found to his horror that he was not alone in the alley. A hooded figure was standing in the shadows.
    “But not all your victims will be so lucky,” the man said in an angry snarl.
    “Who…?” The man’s voice was familiar and—more amazing still—he seemed to know his thoughts, as if he somehow shared his mind. “How…?”
    “Is this where you want to spend eternity? In the shadows hiding from your beloved, or…” The man stepped out of the shadows and lowered his hood. Will gasped at the sight of the man’s face. He’d thought discovering that Marguerite was mortal was the worst surprise of the night, but this … this got even further under his skin.
    “Or would you like me to show you another way?”

33
    Château Hell
    The coach took me across the Seine to the Left Bank and went south down a long, straight street. Although much looked different from the Paris I’d left a few days ago, this street looked familiar. I recognized the imposing edifice of the Sorbonne and a number of other academic buildings. Although they weren’t wearing jeans and backpacks, the scholars in robes walking the streets in rowdy groups laughed as loudly and drunkenly as their twenty-first-century counterparts.
    As we drove farther south, though, the city looked less and less familiar. Where I’d have expected the Luxembourg Gardens we passed instead a monastery. We drove through a gate in a stone wall and into a rural area, then pulled up to an elegant château, its limestone façade distinguished by a tall, octagonal tower.
    Which looked familiar.
    As I got out of the coach, I turned around in a slow circle, trying to get my bearings, but without the Eiffel Tower flickering in the distance or the light of the observatory tower …
    “Monsieur,” I asked the driver, “what sort of monastery did we just pass?”
    “It belongs to the Carthusians.” Then, crossing himself, he added, “But this ground was once the site of Château Vauvert, which many say was the home of the devil himself. It is not a good place, mademoiselle, but it is where Monsieur told me to take you.”
    “It’s okay,” I told the driver. “I think I know who lives here.”
    As soon as I’d given him permission, he whipped the horses into a gallop and sped away. As I walked to the door, I recalled that the Château Vauvert had taken up the ground that was occupied in twenty-first-century Paris by the Luxembourg Gardens and the Paris Observatory. I also remembered that the expression go to Vauvert was synonymous in French with go to hell because of the reputation of the château, from which strange screams and cries were often heard. It was a lonely place, I reflected, staring up at the enormous doorway of the later château that had taken its place. This château was decorated as if it guarded an entrance to the underworld. Caryatids framed the doorway, voluptuous women whose lush bodies resolved into scaly tails. Sea creatures swarmed across the arch above the door. I lifted the heavy iron doorknocker—carved in the shape of a seahorse—and knocked twice. The sound echoed in the still night. When the door opened, I was only half surprised to find Madame La Pieuvre, her silver hair piled high on top of her head, wearing a low-cut brocade dress with a wide lace collar from which hung a long train.
    “Octavia,” I said with a relieved sigh. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in all my life!”
    A smile dimpled her plump, white cheeks, but she looked confused. “Do I know you, my dear?”
    “You will,” I said with a more tired sigh. “It’s a long story. I know it’s a lot to take on faith, but…”
    “I’m sure I’ve taken a lot more on faith,” she said with a sympathetic pat on my shoulder. “Come on in, ma chère , and you’ll tell me your