Michele Hauf - Seraphim

Dominique toed the tip of Seraphim’s abandoned sword. So Lucifer de Morte had set the blaze beneath this angel’s wings. Most likely the dark lord had no idea it was a woman who now stalked him and his brothers in the guise of the black knight. If Sera had been beneath the Dragon of the Dawn’s sword, or worse, his rutting loins, surely the villain must believe her dead.

Why did she yet walk this earth? Mayhap she hadn’t been in Lucifer’s path, only her family? No. It didn’t make sense. Lucifer never made a mistake, nor did he leave a trail. If he’d a grievance against the d’Anges, he would not have left their home until all had given blood to his sword.

But did the reason that Seraphim d’Ange walked this earth really matter? She had survived. And now she sought vengeance. And Dominique had agreed to see her through to the end. They both had their own motivations toward extinguishing the de Mortes. Personal reasons.

Lifting her sword up by the hilt, Dominique tested the weight, found it was surprisingly light for its length, then stabbed it back into the snow. Must have been fashioned especially for her. The black knight had so easily abandoned his—her—weapon. Further proof that this woman was well over her head in the thick of things.

What a hell of a way to begin a partnership. Though he mustn’t consider it such. He would merely serve as guide and protector. Seraphim d’Ange would be the instrument of destruction.

How odd did that sound? He, following a woman warrior? Though, stranger things had occurred in Dominique’s lifetime. He’d best accept Seraphim and get on with it.

“I should go retrieve her.”

“I will,” Baldwin said. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

She clung to the smooth, hard surface of a narrow birch tree. The thin layers of papery bark were cold, like sheets of ice laid around the wooden core. Her breaths worked frantic puffs of condensation before her face, her heart racing—and winning—the pace of each exhale.

Visions, the horrid, horrid nightmares filled her head.

Shoulders pressed to the cold stone floor. Impossible to struggle free. Still groggy; startled awake from a dead sleep—fire everywhere.

One dark man, a face unremarkable in the shadows save the glints of flame flickering in his eyes. Red. Red as the devil’s rage.

“I’ll see you in hell.” The heavy voice curdled over her bones like hoar frost freezing to flesh. He cracked a grin, spat on the floor, and shoved a mail-coated fist against her shoulder.

Pain seared between her legs. Screams pummeled up her throat. Escape. Let loose your voice. Someone will hear…. will rescue.

Where is Father? Antoine? What of Henri? And the guards? What is happening? So much fire, and…this devil grunting above her.

They’re all dead. Their throats cut…

Oh…the pain of the blade slicing across her flesh…

Seraphim pressed her forehead to the cold birch. She clasped her hand to her throat. No more pain. No… Make the memories go away!

But there is pain. She felt the scream, the cry of lost innocence gurgle up her throat. Heavy breaths, unbidden tears, and finally, the whimper of helplessness.

Fear droned from her mouth. It was not the same vivid scream of that night when her family had been slaughtered. Now the scars inside her throat muffled the pain, made it ache.

She had always slept like a dead man. Since taking over her mother’s duties Sera had risen at dawn and worked a long, hard day. At day’s end, sleep came easily, so heavy, and quick. Hypnos, the God of Sleep, always favored her with dreamless rest.

She had only wakened that early morning of the New Year when her chamber door slammed against the wall and that dark-haired man with the red, glowing eyes ripped her from bed.

Too late. Too late to scream for help. The damsel had been damaged.

Now, her soul tattered and torn by Lucifer de Morte, the damsel had shed her robes of silk and finery and donned the black knight’s armor.

It mattered not the violation, the robbing of her maidenhood. It had hurt. Nothing more. She would survive that humiliation. But in sparing her—in leaving her to live amongst the ruins of her family’s home, the silent lamentations of their disturbed spirits—that had been the true destruction. That she had lived to bury her parents, her brother, and her fiancé, had been the ultimate twist to Seraphim d’Ange’s soul-raped shell of a body.

And now, there came another, a man who would toy with her hollow carapace, the remnants of a life once lived with pride. Dominique San Juste.

Sera peered through the fencing of birch trunks. In the distance, Tor pounded the ground. His master paced before the brilliant white beast, his head bowed as if in thought.

No moon to romance him into your dreams.

San Juste could not have known what his threats, his forceful ways, would stir in her. She could not have known she would react so. And much as she hated to admit it, the man had been right. What would become of her when she stood surrounded by Abaddon de Morte and his minions, far from the advantage of riding Gryphon and swinging a deadly blade? It could happen. It would happen.

Mayhap, that is what San Juste had planned all along? To weaken her. To make her question her abilities. She had no idea who he really was. Sent by a higher power? What could that mean? At present, the de Mortes reigned over all of Burgundian France. The English King Henri VI ruled Paris thanks to Lucifer’s influence. Even Charles VII feared and bowed to Lucifer de Morte’s whim. Had not the d’Arc witch’s fate been sealed by Lucifer de Morte’s influence over the English?

Dominique’s claim that he was not the mercenary sent to assassinate her could be a clever ruse. Though, there was no reason why he should not have killed her moments ago. Follow with a blade across Baldwin’s neck and San Juste’s mission would have been complete. The de Mortes’ reign would be saved from total annihilation.

He is not a killer. He must not be.

Sera smirked at her conscience’s foolish pining. She did not want him to be the mercenary any more than she enjoyed this quest. But that did not mean he wasn’t dangerous. De Morte’s minion or not, he was still a mercenary, a man who killed for coin. She could not trust San Juste. Did not want to trust anyone but herself and the man she had chosen to accompany her on this journey through hell.

Blessed Mother. She pressed her forehead to the birch trunk. Her heartbeats had slowed, and her hands had stopped shaking. San Juste had proven her lack of physical strength. And he’d opened her eyes to the forthcoming dangers. She could not ride on to Abaddon’s lair without some protection. Years drilling in the lists beside her brother had given her a false reassurance. Of course, Antoine—why, any of her father’s knights—would have never given their all against her, but a mere woman in their masculine eyes. Hand-to-hand combat, as Dominique had just proven, would be a challenge considering her sex.

She did want to trust him. She wanted to feel the same relief Baldwin had felt at having the mercenary accompany them. Dare she allow him continue at her side? How to judge San Juste’s best interest was for her? What reason could a complete stranger have for joining such a suicidal mission? She had not offered him coin.

Blind to all but this stir of conflicting emotion that threatened to fell her to her knees, Sera let out another horrifying moan as she was grabbed from behind.

“It is me, Sera.” Gentle arms embraced her shoulders. Not harsh. No dagger. No demon horns formed by shadows dancing in the firelight.

“Release me,” she said, with a shove to the squire’s hand. Drawing in a breath of courage she expelled it in a thick cloud between the two of them. A decisive nod chased away the foolish trepidation. “I am better now.”