Gascony, 1667

Ysanne

The carriage wheels jolted over an uneven patch of road, and Ysanne's hands tightened around the potted apple tree in her lap. No apples grew on it yet, but she hoped that, once planted, its branches would be weighed down by fruit.

She couldn't eat them, of course, but . . .

Ysanne swallowed and closed her eyes.

Apples had been Julien's favourite. He would have liked to see them growing in the grounds of the house that had once been their home.

How long was it since she'd been back here?

Thirty years, at least.

She wondered if she would ever be able to let the old place go. No matter how far she travelled, or how long she stayed away, she always found her way back to that house.

Maybe she always would.

The carriage came to a stop, and a gloved hand knocked on the windowed door.

"Mademoiselle?"

Setting the apple tree on the floor, Ysanne moved across the padded seats, pushed aside the curtain, and opened the door. Marcel, one of the guards she had hired to escort her on the journey out into the countryside, stared back at her. His cheeks were flushed red with cold, his breath steaming on the frigid air.

Ysanne felt a faint pang of guilt.

It was a very long time since she had been aware of the cold, and sometimes she forgot that humans did still feel it. Still, the men were being paid handsomely for their trouble.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, leaning out of the carriage a little.

Flakes of snow settled in her hair.

"The road ahead is blocked," Marcel said. "A tree has come down. We'll need to go back and find a different route."

"Can't we go around it?"

Marcel hesitated. As usual, he didn't quite meet her eyes. All her guards were cautious around her. Even though she didn't claim any titles, it was clear to anyone that she had wealth and breeding, but Ysanne wasn't sure if that commanded their caution and respect as much as the fact that she wasn't human. They didn't know that, of course – any sensible vampire knew to keep their true nature well hidden – but they knew she was . . . different. On some primal level, perhaps, they sensed that she was a predator, something stronger and more powerful than they could ever hope to be.

"Begging your pardon, mademoiselle, but that would mean coming off the road, and the snow is getting deeper."

It would be deeper still by the time they had backtracked and found a different road, and there was no road leading to the house itself. One way or another, they would have to make their way through that snow.

"Go around the tree," Ysanne said.

Marcel's lips tightened, but he didn't object.

Ysanne closed the carriage door, and outside, Marcel's footsteps crunched in the snow as he moved off.

Settling back in her seat, Ysanne lifted the potted tree into her lap. "Not long now, my love," she whispered, stroking the leaves.

She wasn't fool enough to think that planting a tree for Julien would heal the aching wound that his loss had left in her heart, but she liked to think that this little tree would grow big and strong, that it would still be there long after she gave up on the house and it fell to ruin for good. She liked to think that, no matter how the world changed, this tree would survive, even though no one else would know what it signified.

The carriage started moving again, the men outside calling instructions to each other as they guided the horses through the snow, and Ysanne leaned back in her seat, smoothing her brocade skirts. Breeches and a shirt would be easier to wear when she finally arrived at the house, but the scandal of appearing in menswear might give her guards an aneurysm. Better to wait until she was alone.

A small smile touched her lips, remembering the first time Julien had seen her donning one of his shirts rather than her heavy gowns. He hadn't been scandalised. He'd liked it.

But that was Julien.

He'd known that she didn't play by the usual rules, and it had only made him love her more. Ysanne glanced at the empty seat beside her. He should be here. They should be making this journey together.

She closed her eyes again, swallowing the painful knot in her throat.

The carriage gave a sudden jolt, knocking Ysanne's wooden trunk off the opposite seat. It thunked loudly on the floor. Outside, someone shouted, an edge of panic to his voice.

Ysanne's eyes flew open, instincts prickling. Something was wrong.

She waited a moment, expecting Marcel or one of the others to come to the door to tell her what was going on, but there was only more shouting, and then the clash of steel on steel.

Ysanne's nostrils flared, smelling freshly spilled blood.

She set down the apple tree.

It wasn't uncommon to encounter thieves on the road, but she had hoped that the presence of her guards would dissuade any would-be attackers. Something slammed against the carriage, and Ysanne's hands curled into fists, itching with the urge to leap out and help. She could dispatch any threat quicker than Marcel and his men, but that meant revealing her true nature, and one thing that Ysanne had learned in her long life was that humans were rarely welcoming of her kind. She couldn't risk revealing herself to her guards, only for them to turn on her when they realised what she was.

The carriage door wrenched open suddenly, and a strange man leaned in, his lean frame draped in ragged layers of clothing. He grinned, showing off blackened, broken teeth.

"Look what we got here," he said, his eyes raking over her, lingering on the string of diamonds around her neck before drifting over the rest of her body. "You're as fine a treasure as your jewels, mademoiselle."

When Marcel called her that, it was respectful.

This man made it sound like an insult.

He probably expected her to shrink away or whimper, or maybe even swoon, and his gap-toothed grin faded when Ysanne stared back at him, her glare cold and hard.

Something ugly slid through his eyes, then he lunged forward, climbing half into the carriage.

"Come on, lovely," he said, making a grab for her.

Ysanne caught his hand before it could touch her, and snapped his wrist.

For a split-second, he gaped at her, as if he couldn't believe what had just happened, then the pain hit, and he let out a howl. He fell back, out of the carriage, and Ysanne followed him, anger blazing in her veins.

This wasn't the first time she had been attacked like this, and it wouldn't be the last, but she had come out here to say goodbye, to take steps towards healing a broken heart, and she was in no mood for these bastards.

Outside, the night-time world was thickly blanketed with snow; Ysanne's feet sank into it as she jumped out of the carriage. If she could deal with the threat without her guards realising –

As soon as she saw the bodies scattered around, Ysanne realised she had underestimated the situation.

She'd expected her guards to handle this, but the thieves had struck hard and fast, with no mercy, and in barely minutes, all but two of the guards had been slaughtered. The remaining two – Marcel and a boy whose name she couldn't remember – rushed to defend her, swords at the ready.

"Back in the carriage," Marcel ordered, standing in front of her as the thieves began to advance.

Ysanne almost laughed, bitter and hard. It wouldn't make any difference if she hid in her carriage or not. These thieves were desperate, and now that they had seen her – a woman who clearly came from wealth – nothing would stop them. If she was human, she would almost certainly die tonight.

But Ysanne Moreau hadn't been human in a very long time.

"You should run," she told Marcel and the boy.

"What?" Marcel gaped at her. "We cannot abandon you."

"Trust me, I can take care of myself."

One of the thieves darted forward, taking advantage of Marcel's distraction, but Marcel was a seasoned fighter, and he whipped around, his sword blocking the thief's path.

"We will not leave you," he fiercely said, without looking back at her.

Ysanne realised then that Marcel was willing to die for her. He might have been vaguely suspicious of her since she had hired him, but she was a lady, and he considered it his duty to protect her.

Now it was Ysanne's turn to protect him. Even if it meant revealing her true self.

She strode out from behind the two men, cursing her skirts as they dragged through the deep snow.

"Well?" she said, looking around at the thieves. Two of them were dead in the snow, leaving six still standing. The man whose wrist she had broken still lay in a heap, whimpering and clutching his arm.

For the longest second, no one moved.

Ysanne spread her arms, letting the thieves get a good look at her fine dress, the diamonds around her throat, the pins glittering in her hair.

"You want treasure? Here I am. Come and get me," she challenged.

There was another second where nobody moved – perhaps their subconscious was warning them of the predator they had unwittingly stumbled upon. But greed was too loud a voice to ignore.

Two of the thieves rushed at her, their eyes gleaming.

Ysanne met the first with an open-handed slap that cracked his jaw and sent him spinning into the snow. The second she seized by the throat, lifting him off his feet.

One of the thieves crossed himself, and she heard Marcel whispering a prayer behind her.

"You picked the wrong carriage to rob," Ysanne said, her eyes blazing red, and her lips curling back to show off her fangs.

The man she had held let out a little sob, and the sharp tang of urine filled the air. Ysanne tossed him away from her.

That should have been the end of it. These thieves knew now that something more than human walked among them, and they would be fools to challenge her. But as they stared at her, Ysanne knew they weren't going to back down.

"Demon," one of them said, his eyes narrowed into hard slits.

"Monster," whispered another, fumbling for the wooden cross hanging around his neck. "Destroy it."

Ysanne had hoped to scare them off; instead, she had strengthened their resolve to kill her.

The thieves charged, and with a shout, Marcel tried to throw himself in front of her, but Ysanne was faster. She hit the first man so hard he died instantly. The youngest guard rushed forward, still determined to protect her, but his fighting form was all wrong, and the man he had attempted to attack neatly impaled him.

Ysanne broke his killer's neck in return.

But those wretched skirts, caked and weighed down with chunks of snow, made her slower than normal, and when another thief charged her from behind, she didn't turn fast enough. A dagger plunged into her side, the blade scraping her ribs, and Ysanne snarled.

"Demon," the man hissed again.

He tried to twist the knife, but Ysanne grabbed his wrist and pulled, dislocating his shoulder. He howled and let go of the knife, leaving it stuck in her side. Ysanne left it there; it would stem the bleeding.

She grabbed him by his dislocated arm, and swung him against the side of the carriage, cracking his head like a melon. He dropped to the ground, and blood spilled across the snow.

Ysanne whirled around, just in time to dodge a strike from the man who'd wet himself. Terror and hatred warred in his eyes. He slashed wildly at her with his sword, and Ysanne hit his arm with the flat of her hand. Bone shattered and he dropped the sword. Ysanne picked it up and ran him through. She turned to see who was next, but the other thieves were already dead, courtesy of Marcel.

Marcel himself was slumped against the side of the carriage, his head hanging on his chest, blood darkening the snow around him. He had no heartbeat, but Ysanne knelt beside him anyway, holding her sword in front of his mouth. No breath misted the blade. He was gone.

Ysanne rested a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

They should have been paid well for their services, and then they should have returned to their families. They weren't supposed to die out here in the snow.

A wave of pain washed over her, and Ysanne hissed, pressing one hand to the carriage to steady herself. The handle of the dagger still jutted out of her side, but without fresh blood to help her heal, she didn't dare remove it.

Her guards had bled out into the snow; they couldn't help her, but . . .

Someone was quietly whimpering.

Someone was still alive.

Ysanne rose, staring around the bodies strewn in the snow. A few feet away was the man who'd first tried to pull her out of the carriage. He'd tried to crawl away, but the snow was too deep and he was in too much pain – he hadn't got far.

Ysanne strode over to him, the need for blood roaring inside her, a hunger that had teeth and claws, clashing with her self-recrimination. She shouldn't have been so clumsy as to get stabbed in the first place. She should have protected her guards.

Reaching the man, she rolled him into his back. Splintered bone poked through the skin of his wrist, and his face was the colour of old milk.

"Please," he whispered.

Once, his plea might have stirred her sympathies. But there was no mercy in Ysanne's heart tonight. She grabbed a handful of his rags and hauled him into a sitting position, intending to drain him dry, when her nostrils flared.

No . . .

The bastard was dead already – he just didn't know it.

But Ysanne could smell it, the reek of wrongness, of disease.

The plague had first arrived in France before she was born, but since then, over the long years of her life, she had seen the recurring outbreaks. She had seen the horrendous epidemic that had claimed hundreds of thousands of lives, nearly forty years ago.

This man didn't have the telltale symptoms yet, but the plague was in his blood, and soon it would boil to the surface in the form of tumours and black spots. A fever would wrack his body, his fingers and toes would blacken, he would bleed from his eyes, nose, and mouth.

It was a grim way to go.

The plague couldn't kill Ysanne, but drinking diseased blood wouldn't do her any good, and it wouldn't help her heal like she needed to.

He was no use to her.

She let out a soft growl of disgust.

"Spare me," he begged, tears shining in his eyes.

Ysanne bent low over him. "I'm giving you a mercy you don't deserve," she said, and broke his neck.

She straightened up, pressing a hand to her wounded side. The strength was fading from her limbs – she needed blood.

But with the humans all dead, that only left her one choice.

Her eyes went to her horses, shying and stamping in the snow, huffing out clouds of steamy breath.

Ysanne approached them, dragging her heavy skirts, and the horses recoiled from her, their eyes rolling in their heads, showing whites all around.

She didn't know how to soothe them; she'd never been very good with animals, but attacking them would panic them more, and she could ill afford an injury from a well-placed kick.

Ysanne weighed her options.

Animal blood wouldn't help her heal as well as human blood, but she had precious little choice. She edged closer, one hand pressed tightly against the wound, and reached out her other hand to the nearest horse, hoping to catch the reins. The horse shrieked and tried to rear, kicking out with its front hooves, and Ysanne stumbled back, tripping over her snow-caked skirts and falling to the ground. Pain seared through her, and she shoved her fist into her mouth, stifling a cry.

Snow drifted down from the night sky, thick, fat flakes settling on her face, but they didn't melt; her skin was too cold.

What would it be like to die out here, alone and in the cold?

Julien flashed into her mind.

Had he been alone? Had he been afraid? Or had it all be over too quickly?

And Richart too. Had either of them suffered?

Snow collected on her eyelashes, blurring her view of the night sky. She thought of the men she had loved and lost. She thought of Joan, her strength and defiance, and determination solidified in her chest.

She would not die here. She would tear the horses apart if she had to.

But . . .

Ysanne frowned and lifted her head.

The sound of the horses snorting and pawing at the snow, the jingle of rein and bit almost drowned it out, but now that she was listening for it, she could hear the faint thump-thump of a human heartbeat.

Someone else was out here.

Shout-out to HogwartsIsHome_ for this giving Ysanne this beautiful, beautiful cover!