Michael Scott - The Magician

The twins turned to look at the Comte de Saint-Germain, who was standing to one side, arms folded across his chest, smiling delightedly. “They’re old friends,” he explained. “They’ve not met in a long time…a very long time.” Saint-Germain coughed. “Joan,” he said politely.

The two women broke apart and the woman he’d called Joan turned to look at Saint-Germain, her head tilted at a quizzical angle. It was impossible to guess her age. Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, she was Sophie’s height, almost unnaturally slender, and her deeply tanned and flawless skin emphasized huge gray eyes. Her auburn hair was cut in a short boyish style. There were tears on her cheeks that she brushed away with a quick movement of her palm. “Francis?” she asked.

“And these are our visitors.”

Holding Scathach’s hand, the young woman stepped closer to Sophie. As the woman approached, Sophie felt a sudden pressure in the air between them, as if some invisible force was pushing her back, and then, abruptly, her aura flared silver around her and the air was filled with the sweet aroma of vanilla. Josh grabbed his sister’s arm and his own aura crackled alight, adding the scent of oranges to the air.

“Sophie…Josh…,” Saint-Germain began. The rich, sweet aroma of lavender filled the courtyard as a hissing silver aura grew around the short-haired young woman. It hardened and solidified, becoming metallic and reflective, molding itself into a breastplate and greaves, gloves and boots, before finally solidifying into a complete medieval suit of armor. “I would like to introduce my wife, Joan…”

“Your wife!” Scatty squealed, shocked.

“…whom you-and history-know as Joan of Arc.”

Breakfast had been laid out on a long polished wooden table in the kitchen. The air was rich with the odor of newly baked bread and brewing coffee. Plates were piled high with fresh fruit, pancakes and scones, while sausages and eggs sizzled in a pan on the old-fashioned iron range.

Josh’s stomach started rumbling the moment he stepped into the room and saw the food. His mouth filled with saliva, reminding him just how long it had been since he’d last eaten. He’d only managed a couple of sips of the hot chocolate at the cafe earlier before the police arrived.

“Eat, eat,” Saint-Germain said, grabbing a plate in one hand and a thick croissant in the other. He bit into the pastry, spilling wafer-thin flakes onto the tiled floor. “You must be famished.”

Sophie leaned in close to her brother. “Could you get me something to eat? I want to talk to Joan. I need to ask her something.”

Josh glanced quickly at the young-looking woman who was pulling cups from the dishwasher. Her short haircut made it impossible to guess her age. “Do you really think she’s Joan of Arc?”

Sophie squeezed her brother’s arm. “After all we’ve seen, what do you think?” She nodded toward the table. “I just want fruit and cereal.”

“No sausage, no eggs?” he asked, surprised. His sister was the only person he knew who could eat more sausages than he could.

“No.” She frowned, blue eyes clouding. “It’s funny, but even the thought of eating meat is making me feel sick.” She grabbed a scone and turned away before he could comment, and approached Joan, who was pouring coffee into a tall glass cup. Sophie’s nostrils flared. “Hawaiian Kona coffee?” she asked.

Joan’s gray eyes blinked in surprise and she inclined her head. “I’m impressed.”

Sophie grinned and shrugged. “I worked in a coffee shop. I’d know the smell of Kona anywhere.”

“I fell in love with it when we were in Hawaii,” Joan said. She spoke English with the merest hint of an American accent. “I keep it for a special treat.”

“I love the smell; hate the taste. Too bitter.”

Joan sipped a little more coffee. “I’ll bet you didn’t come here to talk about coffee?”

Sophie shook her head. “No, I didn’t. I just…” She stopped. She had just met this woman, yet she was about to ask her an incredibly personal question. “Can I ask you something?” she said quickly.

“Anything,” Joan said sincerely, and Sophie believed her. She took a deep breath and her words tumbled out in a rush.

“Scathach once told me you were the last person to have a pure silver aura.”

“That’s why yours reacted to mine,” Joan said, wrapping both hands around the cup and staring at the girl over the rim. “I do apologize. My aura overloaded yours. I can teach you how to prevent that from happening.” She smiled, revealing straight white teeth. “Though the chances of meeting another pure silver aura in your lifetime are incredibly slim.”

Sophie nibbled nervously on the blueberry scone. “Please excuse me for asking, but are you really…really Joan of Arc, the Joan of Arc?”

“Yes, I really am Jeanne d’Arc.” The woman gave a short bow. “La Pucelle, the Maid of Orleans, at your service.”

“But I thought…I mean, I always read that you died…”

Joan dipped her head and smiled. “Scathach rescued me.” She reached out and touched Sophie’s arm, and immediately, flickering images of Scathach on a huge black horse, wearing white and jet armor and wielding two blazing swords, danced behind her eyes.

“The Shadow single-handedly fought her way through the huge crowd who had gathered to watch my execution. No one could stand against her. In the panic, chaos and confusion, she snatched me right out from under the noses of my executioners.”

The images flashed in Sophie’s head: Joan, wearing ragged and scorched clothing, clinging to Scathach as the Warrior maneuvered her armored black horse through the panicking crowd, the blazing swords in either hand clearing their path.

“Of course, everyone had to say they saw Joan die,” Scatty said, joining them, carefully slicing a pineapple into neat chunks with a curved knife. “No one-neither English nor French-was going to admit that the Maid of Orleans had been snatched out from under the noses of perhaps five hundred heavily armed knights, rescued by a single female warrior.”

Joan reached out and took a cube of pineapple from Scathach’s fingers and popped it into her mouth. “Scatty took me to Nicholas and Perenelle,” she continued. “They gave me shelter, looked after me. I’d been injured in the escape and was weakened from months of captivity. But despite Nicholas’s best attention, I would have died if it had not been for Scatty.” She reached over and squeezed her friend’s hand again, not seeming to notice the tears on her cheeks.

“Joan had lost a lot of blood,” Scathach said. “No matter what Nicholas or Perenelle did, she was not getting any better. So Nicholas performed one of the first-ever blood transfusions.”

“Whose blood-” Sophie started to ask, until she suddenly realized she knew the answer. “Your blood?”

“Scathach’s vampire blood saved me. And kept me alive, too-made me immortal.” Joan grinned. Sophie noted that her teeth were normal, not pointed like Scatty’s. “Luckily, it has none of the vampire side effects. Though I am vegetarian,” she added. “Have been for the last few centuries.”

“And you’re married,” Scathach said accusingly. “When did that happen, and how, and why wasn’t I invited?” she demanded, all in one breath.

“We got married four years ago on Sunset Beach in Hawaii, at sunset, of course. We looked everywhere for you when we decided,” Joan said quickly. “I really wanted you there; I wanted you to be my maid of honor.”

Scathach’s green eyes narrowed, remembering. “Four years ago…I think I was in Nepal chasing down a rogue Nee-gued. An abominable snowman,” she added, seeing Sophie’s and Joan’s blank looks.