Michele Hauf - Seraphim

Dominique had heard of these odd, masculine women that chose to live their lives the way of their betters. Why, Jeanne d’Arc’s ashes still smoldered in the square of Rouen. Did Seraphim not see what she might bring upon herself if she were discovered? The label “witch” would be slapped upon her forehead. For the misguided d’Arc wench had seen to that.

“Release me!” she argued, as Dominique wrangled her wrists into a tight clutch. She was much stronger than he had anticipated. And now he could see she matched him in arm strength, as well as height.

“Much as I am stunned at what you have achieved thus far, my lady,” he said, twisting and bending to keep the fiery angel in grasp. “Tell me how you expect to continue? The black knight has become a legend, quite literally with the swing of your bloody sword. But you’ll not gain entrance to Abaddon’s castle without also gaining an arrow to your brain.”

“I shall think of something.” Her sneer stretched pale, full lips to reveal tightly clenched teeth.

“Damn! I cannot believe this!” With a thrust, Dominique released the struggling woman. He stepped back, half expecting her to explode upon him.

Something fired a mighty rage inside that slender form. And if rage is what compelled her to exterminate the entire de Morte clan, he could only guess it had been put there by one of the five demons.

But the fact remained…she was a mere woman.

“How do you expect to survive? Hmm? Tell me!” Dominique would not allow her the distance she sought. With frantic steps back and to the side he matched her every move, finding agility with ease, even in the thick snow. “Riding into battle upon your great steed and swinging a sword is one thing. But what of hand-to-hand combat? There is no sign Abaddon has even considered siege or attack. He will be tucked away in his lair, surrounded by his minions, lying in wait for you. Make me believe you can survive that!”

“I can, and I will.” The dark circles under her eyes had receded since last eve. Rest had served her well. Now only the glow of rage lit her pale eyes. Eyes of an indeterminable color, save the anger that flared there. Indeed, this woman had been sorely wounded by the de Mortes.

And it was now Dominique’s responsibility to see she survived to achieve her goal.

A woman? Il diable! Had the Oracle known as much?

Of all the fine disasters. He should just mount Tor and ride off, abandoning this fool to her idiotic quest.

There is but one reason you agreed to this insane mission. A reason that had haunted Dominique for over two decades.

So be it.

Using a trick to draw her attention, Dominique skrit around behind her, his movement faster than a mortal man’s sight. “Show me your strength!”

She spun round, surprised to find him behind her, but not commenting on his change of location as her anger held her in check.

Fired by this woman’s verve, Dominique jutted up his chin in defiance. Certainly he would not allow a woman to best him.

“Here.” He tapped his chin and matched her steps, a swift side-to-side lunge, a stride back across the hoof-pounded snow. “Deliver me your best. Come on then,” he coaxed at her reluctant pout with beckoning fingers. “Are you afraid to prove your mettle—”

Pain shuddered through his jaw. The retreat of Sera’s fist flashed in Dominique’s blink of astonishment. He pressed a hand to his jaw and stretched his mouth wide. No loose teeth. Indeed, she did have strength. But where speed was concerned, she was no match to his fey footwork.

“A child’s tap!” he mocked. “You’ve not leveled me, black knight. Come. Right here. Double me over.”

Determined feminine courage eyed his gut as he tapped and taunted. Her right fist hovered near her chin, though it wasn’t building to a punch. He sensed she had never before encountered such opposition. The devil take her soul, if she would not encounter such a thousand times over if she were determined to see the black knight’s goal to the end.

This had to be done. He had to make her understand just how vulnerable she would be in Abaddon’s lair. That she needed him at her side. For he would not allow her to cut him out of this bargain. Whether or not he approved that she was a woman, he would see this quest to its end.

This time Dominique saw her fist lunge toward his stomach—but he didn’t dodge. He wanted to feel her anger, to gauge the fire that blazed in this wounded angel’s heart.

Her fire was more forceful than he had expected. The initial blow doubled him. Breath wheezed out from his lungs.

“Seraphim!”

The squire suspected his master had actually hurt him? And what sort of name was that anyway? Seraphim? An angelic name for a woman whose punches wielded the power of a demon?

Dominique staggered, but he would not fall—not in front of a woman.

Although—on second thought…

He fell to the packed snow. The cold kiss of winter bruised icy crystals into his cheek, and he rolled to his back. A forced groan was necessary to lure his prey. She leaned over him—

“A-hah!” Dominique gripped Seraphim by her upper arms and laid her on the ground with a deft flip and a foot hooked under her mail-sheathed knee. He pinned her hips with his knees and pressed her shoulders into the snow. Her hood had slipped from her head, exposing a wild crop of black hair. Dominique stifled a chuckle. Had the woman thought to change her appearance by cutting her hair? And who was her barber? A fingerless blind man?

“Off!” she rasped, in what Dominique guessed to be a scream.

Her voice was not natural. Most likely she’d been injured. It had served her well for a day or two as disguise, but now…

She struggled like a pinned weasel, her head twisting from side to side, her eyes closed, and her fists blindly beating at his chest. ’Twas a child fighting for freedom from the monsters that haunted her nightmares.

Enough. She now knew the danger that could befall her.

Dominique pressed against her shoulders for leverage, bringing his weight upright to stand. The fallen angel sprang to her feet. Like a rabbit sprung from a trap, she dashed off to the woods.

“Seraphim!”

“Stay away,” she called back to her squire. “Keep him away!”

“What the hell did you do that for?” Baldwin shoved Dominique’s right shoulder. About all the man dared, Dominique wagered, for the flicker of uneasiness in the boy’s heavily lashed brown eyes. “You’ve sent her off in horror!”

“She fares well enough.” He brushed off ice crystals from his braies and cape. “I wanted the woman to see how truly helpless she is against a man. One single man. And do you know how many men await her at Abaddon’s castle?”

Wisely, the squire remained silent, his gaze switching from the woman’s retreat, and back to the ground before his feet.

“Morgana’s blood, a woman!” Dominique said, clenching his fingers into a useless fist. For what sense could his punches press into the woman’s head? She had come this far. And he certainly had no reason to stop her. To see her through this senseless quest would give him the answers he sought.

But a woman?

Dominique sheathed his sword and paced a short tread before the squire. “What devil got into her head to make her do such a thing?”

“Lucifer de Morte.”

He found on Baldwin’s square-jawed face a chill calm. The lank boy scrubbed a hand through his dirty brown hair and stared off toward the wood where Seraphim had retreated.

Lucifer de Morte. Known to many as the Dragon of the Dawn. “I suspected as much.”

“Aye, well you don’t know the whole of it.” Now the squire dared raise his voice and pound the air with an admonishing finger. “And you would do well to show a little more compassion. Sera’s been wounded. And she won’t rest until the demon that haunts her nightmares is extinguished.”