Jean came staggering home in the wee, wee hours of April

first, more or less carrying Julian.  Fortunately for him,

there was still some spare time before dawn.  Not so

fortunately for him, Gen was waiting, along with Evan.

"Drinking and whoring," Gen said, looking at the wrecks of

Sith and Jedi as they both blinked blearily at her.  "Some

knights."

"'s what knights did, darling," Julian murmured.  "Ask

Nims."

"It is fortunate for you she is not here."

"We had to celebrate Julian's victory," said Jean

defensively.

Gen wrinkled her nose at the breath that eminated with that

speech.  "What were you drinking?"

Jean shrugged.  "It would seem that absinthe does not blend

well with beer."

"Absinthe!  And to think I have to share a bed with you.  Go

take a shower at least.  You smell like a brothel."

"D'accord, d'accord," he griped.  Leaving Julian slumped

against a wall, Jean moved towards the bathroom.

Evan grinned.  "We could make the two drunks sleep together,

and you and I could share a bed," he suggested.

The look he got could have riveted him to the wall.  "And

have another duel fought over me?  I think not, Evan, I

really think not."

"It was worth a shot," said Evan calmly.

"Just help Julian."

As he turned to manhandle the inebriated mage, Gen caught

him on the arm.

"Thank you," she said, more softly.  "For being Jean's

second, and for coming to France for this silliness."

"You know I would do anything for you, Gen."

"Oh, go to bed.  I had best make sure Jean hasn't drowned."

There was a light in her eyes that suggested that drowning

might be kinder than the tongue-lashing Jean was about to

receive.

Evan laughed and hauled Julian into the guest bathroom, got

him as cleaned up as possible, and put him to bed.  Then he

put himself there, too.

Evan woke up once, to check on Julian. The mage hadn't moved

a muscle and not even any snores emanated from him.  Evan

popped open one eyelid.  What he saw there was a

magnificently bloodshot eyeball.  But at least it elicited a

groan.  There was life!

Evan slept until late afternoon (it had been a hard night

even for him).  When he rolled over the mage was missing.

He showered and dressed and made his way out into the

livingroom of Jean's apartment.  Julian was draped across

the couch, still looking green around the gills.

"What did you drink? Rather how much did you drink?" Evan

asked.

Julian groaned.  "Remind me never to try to drink a vampire

under the table.  I swear he cheated; went out for munchies

to clear his head."

Grinning, Evan said, "Vampires can't get drunk, Julian."

"Now he tells me.  Incidentally, you hog the covers."

"So I've been told."  Evan stepped into the kitchen and

busied himself in there for several minutes.  He came out

with a vile-looking concoction.  "I had a feeling this might

be needed," he said, pressing it into Julian's hand.

"Drink."

Julian drank.  "Goddess!  Were you an alchemist in your long

and varied career?"

"No, but I've often been drunk."

"Good to know you're human."

"Actually, technically, I'm not.  Finish that off, now,

you'll feel better.  Or at least not worse.  Gods, Julian,

absinthe?  Are you insane?"

"Possibly."

"And whoring... Nimue's going to kill you."

"Likely."  The mage looked glum on that note. "On the left

hand death might be easier than what she might actually do

to me."

Evan shook his head.  "You are an ass."

"Oh, right.  Quite.  No argument there.  I don't suppose

you'd be willing to call her for me and let me know I'm

alive?"

"Let _her_ know you're alive, you mean."

"That, too."

Evan grinned and moved to the phone.  "So you and Jean are

square, then?  No more duels or jealous rages?"

"At some point we stopped drinking and rutting and talked,

yes."  Julian looked up, eyes still sadly bloodshot, but at

least the green had gone.  "It was never about Gen," he

said. "And that's all I'm saying about that."

"Hmm," said  Evan, hand hovering over the phone.  "But do

you really want Nimue to know you're here with Gen?"

The green was back.  "Oh.  Oh, hell.  Ask for Spence.  He

lies really well."

It was Mabel who answered the phone.  ""Allo?"

"Spence please," Evan said.

"Evan Jones?  I recognize that voice.  What have you done

with Julian?"  She sounded as if she was more than willing

to drag the Uzi out of storage and rush off to rescue her

boss.

"He's safe, Mabel, darling," said Evan, although he was

wondering if he should go find Julian a nice bucket to puke

in.  "A little worse for a night on the town.  Jean must

have robbed a bank or something before the duel, if he paid

for the whole thing."

"Drunk, I suppose," Mabel said.

"Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder," Evan told her.

Mabel said something.  It wasn't in French.  It was in

Anglo-Saxon.  Evan winced. He wasn't sure, one on one, who'd

win a showdown between him and Mabel.

"Where is the reprobate?" she demanded.

"Jean?  Out like a light.  They're so cute when they're

asleep."

"Don't you be smart with me, Evan Jones.  You aren't the

only one who can beat butt.  Where is Julian?"

Evan sighed.  "Jean's house.  In the Faubourg St-Germain.

But if it gives you any comfort, he came home about an hour

before dawn roaring drunk, and I put him to bed and shared

it with him.  And I don't fancy men, even pretty blond ones,

so it was safe as houses."

Mabel sniffed.  "When is he coming home?"

"No idea.  How mad is Nimue?"

"No idea.  Haven't seen her since last night."  Mabel hung

up.

"Well," commented Evan.  "She hasn't ripped your house down.

That's something."

"I feel rotten," Julian muttered sliding down to a more

prone position.

"Well, they know where you are.  You know, I can't believe

that concoction I gave you didn't work better."

"You didn't see what I drank last night," replied Julian

turning a lighter shade of puce.  "Hell, I didn't see what I

drank last night."

"You want some more?" Evan offered. He started walking

towards the kitchen.

"I'm pretty sure there's still some tobasco sauce..."

"Gods, no.  Let me die in peace."

Evan made him go back to bed.  Julian didn't put up much of

an argument.

The Nameless One, feeling a bit bored but unable to leave

the house because he now had two dead vampires and a drunken

mage to tend, found the duelling sabre that T'beth had sent

Jean. He took it down off its wall pegs and swung it

experimentally.  Wow.  Nice weapon.  Typical of the woman,

he thought with a grin.  He and T'beth had duelled, although

not with edged weapons, unless tongues counted.

He was still playing at duelling with an invisible opponent

(who was, of course, sorely pressed and on the verge of

surrender) when his acute senses informed him he now had an

amused audience.  Genevieve and Jean were watching him from

the doorway of the living room.  Gen was leaning against

Jean's arm, so obviously he'd done some spadework on being

forgiven.  Since it was not that long after sunset, it was

equally obvious that he hadn't been _completely_ forgiven.

"Oh, don't stop, cher Evan," said Gen, eyes dancing. "I do

so like to see a master swordsman at work."

Jean glowered briefly, but a nudge in his side reminded him

to behave.  "One day, we will fight," he said.

"Anytime, anywhere," Evan replied promptly.  He bowed to his

defeated enemy and replaced the sword.  "Only please, no

lightsabres."

Jean had the grace to laugh.  "No, no lightsabres," he

agreed.  "I will turn in my Jedi badge.  After all, I

surrendered to the Dark Side."

"Jean," said an amiable voice behind him, "you surrendered

to the Dark Side years before you met me, admit it."

The vampires both turned, grinning, on Julian.  The mage was

looking better, though it was still obvious he'd been out on

a tear. Jean, of course, damn him, looked great.  Bloody

damn vampires.

"Julian," Genevieve smiled at him.  "Will you dine with us?

And then you really should go home, chere Nimue must be very

worried about you."

"Uhm.  Right.  Yes, I'll be delighted to dine," he replied

although he wasn't at all sure he wanted to face actual food

yet.   And was absolutely sure he wasn't ready to face Nimue

yet.

"Oh, mon ami!"  Jean thumped Julian manfully on the back,

causing the mage's knees to nearly buckle under the

unexpected assault. "You drank magnificently last night!

Merde!  Your name will be remembered long into the future in

the halls of..."

"Never mind," Julian interrupted.

"Ah, yes.  Quite."  Jean replied rather more Britishly than

he usually spoke, having perhaps picked up a few stray

non-Gallic phrases from his drinking companion of the night

before.

Evan laughed.  Gen didn't look amused; she had a strong

suspicion she knew exactly which halls Jean meant.  But

since she was scarcely in a position to complain, she simply

turned to Evan.

"When will you be going back to Maine, cher?"

"Tomorrow morning," Evan replied. "I can't stay away any

longer, someone has to keep Francis in a constant state of

fear."

"He really is behaving very badly."

"Well, he's grieving, Gen.  But yes, he is behaving badly.

I don't want to have to beat him again, but I'm horribly

afraid I might."

"Not with that horrid leather belt, I hope."

"I wouldn't actually use that on anything but a razor.  And

since I use an electric one..."  Evan shook his head.  "So,

Jules, what would you like to not eat for dinner?  Or

rather, is there anything that the sight and smell of it

won't make you hurl?"

"Uhm... No... Possibly gruel. Although a steak might be

nice."

"Oh, bad form, old chap, to mention steaks in this

household."

"Very amusing," Jean said.  "Go, cook your dead cow."

Gen's cell phone rang at that moment, and she excused

herself.  She listened at length, spoke in rapid and

unhappy-sounding French, listened some more, spoke some

more.  Finally she said "D'accord" and ended the call.

"Merde," she said, with some feeling.

All three men looked at her in amused amazement.

"What?  I am entitled, after all.  I must go out.  That was

Benoit.  It seems there is a problem at Le Chat Noir.  The

usual.  Someone passing through wishing to throw their

weight around and show these effete French vampires what

being true undead is all about."

All three men stood to attention, or slumped, in Julian's

case.  "We'll go with you!"

She sighed, shoved her cell phone into the pocket of the

capris she'd donned for that evening, and headed for the

door.  "You will not.  You will stay here and cook steaks

for dinner and then see that Julian returns safely to his

apartment.  It will hardly show confidence in the Prince and

master if she arrives escorted by three men."  On that note,

she left, not quite slamming the door.

Julian waited until Evan headed to the kitchen then sat.  He

sat there glowering at Jean.

"Quoi?"  Jean asked.

"What are you doing living here?" Julian asked sitting back

more comfortably.

Jean walked over to the window and looked out at the lights

of the city.

"I adore Paris."

"You adore Gen and she adores you.  Get that sorry ass of

yours to the Loire."

"You don't know what you are talking about, Julian."  Jean

still stared at the lights.  "Do you know how many times I

have tried to live with that woman?"

"No, and I don't care.  She needs you, Jean.  She pretends

not to, but she does."

Jean shook his head.  "I love her, Julian," he said.  "But I

am not the one she wants.  I am not Claude."

"Claude's dead, Jean," said Evan, wandering back into the

room.  "And Gen knows it.  Sure, she misses him, but that

doesn't mean she doesn't love _you_."

"Don't you start on me, Evan Jones," Jean finally turned to

face his prosecutors.  "Neither of you are vampires, you

cannot understand.  She is..."

"If you say Prince and master, I swear to any gods that are

listening that I will kick your ass," said Julian.  "It's

Gen that loves you, not the bloody Prince of France."

"She is my turndam.  I am her fledgling. Nothing can change

that."

"Then leave her. Utterly. Totally. So she can forget about

you and find someone to love.  She's sitting out in that

wretched stone sarcophagus alone, night after night, longing

for you.

Let her go if you can't find it within yourself to bend that

silly pride of yours an inch and accept that a woman

outranks you."

Jean bowed his head, staring at the floor.  "Why can't she

come to me, then?" he asked. "Why can't she live here, in

Paris, with me?"

"Maybe you could just pitch a damned tent halfway," Evan

suggested.  "Jean, why the hell should she give up a

lucrative wine making business for you?  She won't leave the

chateau, and you know it."  The Nameless One softened his

tone.  "Jean... you are insanely jealous when she sees

another man, but you will not unbend to live with her.  You

can't have it both ways.  If you want to be the only man in

her life, then you have to go to her."

"But I won't be the only man in her life," Jean said.  "He

is always there.

In every stone and piece of furniture in that damned

castle."

"For a Jedi, you're not very observant, are you?" Julian

drawled.

Jean looked at him blankly.  "Pardon?"

"Mon ami... I really do despair of you.  She hasn't worn

that chain with the ring on it in months."

Jean sank to the floor under the window, face even paler

than usual with shock.  "I had not noticed," he said.

"Jean," Julian said, not unkindly, "I do not claim to

understand love or women. But they do love us.  Most

fiercely when we least deserve it.  Go back with her. Don't

let her live there with all the burden and none of the joy."

The vampire nodded, deep in thought.  Evan and Julian left

him there to stew and tended to the steaks, Julian eating

rather delicately and Evan voraciously.

"We're under orders to escort you back home," Evan said once

the supper things had been cleared away.  "Very distinct

orders, from a highly placed personage whose titles I am

forbidden to utter."

"I suppose it must be done," Julian sighed.  "Would you mind

going armed?"

"I always am, Julian," Evan replied, dead-pan.  "And legged,

too."

"One hopes I'll still have all three of mine once I see

Nimmie."

--------

Jean got back into his car and kept it pointed towards the distant valley.

There, at long last, the familiar outline of the chateau.  He considered it

as unemotionally as possible. There really wasn't much you could do about

the outside.  It was a castle.  They tended not to lend themselves well to

extensive renovations.  It was no fairytale piece of fluff like castles on

the Rhine, but a working fortress.  He wondered, briefly, how many invasions

Claude de Monet had been expecting.  Unfair.  The man had had enemies. 

Obviously.  The chateau had proven useless against one of them.

Jean had not known Claude.  But he found it very difficult to think

charitable thoughts of the departed Prince and master.

He parked beside Gen's little convertible and got out.  Nobody around.  None

of the assorted Bertrands, nor the little cousins.  A few lights shining

told him that the lady of the house was home... well, of course, her car was

there.  He got out, leaving his bags in the car for the moment, but taking

out the duelling sword, the one T'beth had sent.  Carrying it in peace

position, he walked to the door and rang the bell.

Elrich came to the door and stared at him.  "Genevieve?" he asked.

The ghoul pointed.  Ah, excellent, she was in the drawing room, the one room

Jean could abide.

"Don't announce me," Jean waved the sword playfully at Elrich.  "I'll go up

myself."

Elrich bowed and walked away.  Jean spared him a dirty look, then went to

the drawing room door.  He didn't knock, but opened it slowly, sword still

in hand.

Gen was sitting with a book in hand.  She looked up as the door opened. 

"Qui est-il, Elrich?" Then she saw who it was.  The book dropped.  "Jean?"

"No, don't get up, cherie," Jean said.  He walked over to her chair. 

"Please.  Stay seated.  There is something I must do."

She glanced at the sword in his hand.  "I dread to think what," she said,

trying for lightness and nearly making it.

Jean knelt, and raised the sword in both hands, presenting it to her.  "I

Go to Fraser's Fractured Fiction

Go to Laura Place