been able to win an argument with Epaphras when he was real. And he had no delusions that the voice would stop if he managed his indirect vengeance.
But however long it took, Sebastien would pursue it. One thing about being old, and ageless, and immortal.
One learned to wait.
It was perfectly possible to love someone abjectly when you could barely stand to be in a room with them. Of all the mysteries of life, Sebastien thought, that one might be greatest.
"La b锚te anthropophage du G茅vaudan," Jack said. "The cannibal beast of Languedoc, I should say."
"I know where G茅vaudan was," Sebastien said. "And it was a long way from Paris."
Jack stopped speaking and hooked the cup of tea Sebastien had served him closer with one finger. He sipped with closed eyes, and Abby Irene kicked Sebastien under the table with the side of her foot.
"Well, I didn't," she lied, and Jack opened his eyes and smiled at her over the rim of the cup. "Tell me of la b锚te."
"There are certain inconsistencies," Jack admitted, setting his coffee aside. "Both between the different stories of la b锚te herself, and between those stories and our current murderer. But I think the similarities outweigh, in this case."
Phoebe was already pouring herself a second cup of coffee. The circles under her eyes were heavy, but she looked brighter. She took bread and placed butter on it, then dripped jam from a spoon. "Herself," she said. "What sort of beast was the beast, Jack? A wolf?"
"Ah," he said. "That's the romance of it. No one knows. And it was less than a hundred and forty years ago." He picked up his sheet of notes and consulted it. "The first attack was in late spring of 1764; a young girl tending her family's cattle was pursued by a great beast and only saved when the bulls drove it away. The attacks continued for several years, although a number of wolves were killed, and each of them was claimed for a time to be the beast. However, every time, the attacks were swiftly resumed."
"But she was killed eventually?" Sebastien asked. He picked at the linen tablecloth with a thumbnail, hearing the tick as he scraped it over the fibers.
"She was not. Or rather, perhaps she was. In June of 1767, a hunter named Jean Chastel killed an animal described as a large malformed wolf with two silver bullets. After that, there were no more killings."
"But?" Abby Irene asked, and Jack gave her a strained grin.
"But la b锚te did not act much like a wolf. She attacked during the day; she preferred children and women to sheep and cattle; she liked to leap from high places and ledges and carry off her prey. She consumed the corpses so completely that in some cases not enough remains were left for a church burial." Jack caught Abby Irene's eye before he delivered the next sentence, and Sebastien saw her hands tighten on her spoon when she heard it. His own blood could not chill, but it might as well have, from the prickling sensation that crept along his arms. "She is said to have sucked or licked the blood of the victim, devoured the entrails, stripped the flesh from the face, and in some cases severed heads with a bite or a blow."
"That sounds more like a cougar than a wolf," Phoebe said, just as Abby Irene said, "But our creature hunts by moonlight."
"Ah, but that's not the best of it." He smiled, half-gloating. "She was sometimes associated with a man. A sorcerer, said to control her actions."
Sebastien's fingers moved on the table, as if he stroked something.
Jack continued, "She wasn't the only one of her kind, either. Histories of such black beasts are not uncommon, all over Europe."
"And none of this helps us find him." Sebastien said. "Her. Pardon." He gave Jack an eyebrow, and Jack smiled and shook his head.
"Well, I have a bullet-mold, and I shall be making silver bullets. For anyone who wants them. That's the only thing I've found that might be of use. Those who hunted la b锚te tried bait, poison, dogs. She never returned to a kill. She never took a slaughtered sheep or a poisoned carcass."
"A ghost," Phoebe said. She wasn't eating, only playing with her food. "A very smart ghost."
"Oh," Abby Irene said. "What if it is a ghost?"
"You don't mean the wolf ghosts?"
"No, the ghost wolves are hungry, but they can't do anything about it. But there are ghosts that can."