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beautiful, his bloodless flesh as cold and creamy as the marble statues in the rose garden. His muscle-roped arms were splayed open to the sky; his cock lay along his belly, still hard and magnificent. Dark, damp hair curled like swathes of ink across his forehead, and his silver blue eyes were open wide to the ceiling, as if the ornate, gilded scrolls above his head held the messages of archangels.
    Had the dying man seen angels as his two lovers slashed his throat? The gash they made yawned across his neck like a wailing red mouth, the only imperfection in a form that was flawlessly still.
    “Wasn’t he glorious, Lucille?” sighed Marie de Mortoise, sitting next to Lucille in the sheets. “Didn’t our revolutionary taste delicious as he experienced his final death?”
    Marie chuckled at her own pun. Etienne had experienced death in more ways than one that afternoon.
    “I’m so happy that you were here with me, ma petite ,” Madame murmured, stroking Lucille’s sweat-soaked curls. “It was a work of art, what we did here today. Don’t you agree?”
    Lucille turned her head sharply, choking back the vomit that rose in her throat.
    The games had gotten darker, more dangerous, as the months passed. Marie de Mortoise grew bored with pimping Lucille; her tastes had turned wild and warped as she pushed their private orgies to heights that went way past the usual courtly decadence. Today, for the first time in Lucille’s recent memory, Marie’s icy mask had melted into ecstasy as she watched Etienne Dordogne die between Lucille’s bare thighs.
    Holding a silver chalice, Marie curled closer into Lucille’s warm curves. If not for Marie, purring beside her like a well-fed cat, Lucille might have wondered if she were dead herself. Marie dipped a finger into the dark red fluid inside the cup, then painted Lucille’s belly with strange symbols, her own secret alphabet of desire.
    “You must drink, too, cherie. Don’t be afraid.”
    Marie lifted the chalice to her own mouth. Her thin lips opened to receive the life wine. Then she held out the chalice to Lucille. Lucille pressed her lips together into a tight line as she tasted the bitter bile in her throat again.
    “Come, come. Are you going to reject your lover’s blood? You didn’t reject him when he was here in your bed. This is the blood of the revolution—this was one of the men who would slaughter us like sheep if they had the chance. One sip, and your little rabbit heart will pound straight out of your chest.”
    Hot tears slicked Lucille’s cheeks. She closed her eyes. The cold lip of the chalice was cutting into her soft mouth; still, she refused to drink. Marie spilled the blood down her chin and throat; she was screaming. She opened her eyes to see that her breasts were smeared with the life fluids of the man who had made love to her only minutes before.
    “Look at me, Lucille,” Marie ordered. “Look at the woman who loves you. I do love you, you know. When I saw you ride Dordogne, with your wild eyes and greedy mouth, I knew you were more than a protegee to me. And when you took the knife by the hilt and held it over his throat, I realized that you mean more to me than any of my lovers. I don’t know what we are to each other, but I do know one thing.”
    “What?” The smell of Marie’s desire, lingering on her skin, made Lucille’s stomach turn. When her hand brushed across Lucille’s cheek, the younger woman heaved.
    “When we first began playing together, you were a vain, empty-headed little girl. Today you’ve become a woman, Lucille, and so much more. When you shared the knife with me, you became something close to immortal. You became mine.”
    “No! You disgust me.”
    Marie clutched Lucille’s cheeks and turned her face so that she couldn’t avoid meeting the countess’s eyes. Marie’s pupils were so dilated that the black edged out the surrounding color.
    “You are culpable, too, Lucille. Never forget that.”
    Marie smiled