Traitor's Chase (4 page)

He expected he'd hear from her soon, however. There'd been something strange in Milady's voice. For the first time since Greg had met her, Milady had sounded afraid.

THREE

G
REG EXITED THE THRONE ROOM, SHAKEN BY HIS BRIEF
encounter with Milady. He found himself alone in the palace; the messenger who had brought him there had doubtlessly been dispatched on another errand. Greg headed back toward his quarters, hoping at least one of the other Musketeers might be there. It would be nice to resume his conversation with Aramis, or to get a bit more practice in with Athos, or to have Porthos leaven his spirits with some jokes. As he passed his parents' room, however, he heard his mother call out, “Gregory. Is that you?”

Greg froze in mid-step.

“Mom, for the hundredth time, don't call me Gregory,” Greg hissed. He hurried into her room and closed the door. “Everyone here thinks my name is D'Artagnan.”

“Don't change the subject,” his mother said. “Do you have any idea how late it is? It's eight-thirty at night!”

“But my curfew at home was eleven-thirty.”

“That was in the twenty-first century! This era is far more dangerous after dark.”

Greg rolled his eyes and was about to reply when he heard his father fumbling with the oil lamp by his bed. “Oh, what I wouldn't do for electricity!” Dad grumbled.

“Do you have a match, Greg?” Mom asked absently.

“
D'Artagnan
, Mom. And yes, I have two. But since they're the only two matches in 1615, I'm saving them for emergencies.”

The oil lamp clattered on the floor. “Curse it!” Dad snapped. “I have to go find a candle.” He hopped off his bed, then promptly slipped in the spilled oil and crashed to the floor.

Greg failed to cover his laughter as his father stormed into the adjoining room.

“Don't laugh at your father,” Mom cautioned. “You know this hasn't been easy on us.”

“Me either, Mom.”

“You weren't the one who was captured and sentenced to death immediately upon arriving in this time. You weren't the one who was held in the world's most horrid, disease-ridden prison for three days....”

“No, but I
was
the one who rescued you from there.”

“I'm well aware of that. But it doesn't make what we went through any less difficult.”

“I know.” Greg lowered his eyes, feeling a bit ashamed. The truth was, as hard as things had been for him in 1615, they had been far worse for his parents. Their time inside the prison was traumatic. They had been treated horribly and forced to live in filth. Unaware that Greg was planning a rescue attempt—or that he was even alive—his mother had lost all hope. Even now, months later, she was still plagued by nightmares of her time in La Mort.

“The point is, we're worried about you,” his mother said. “This time is dangerous enough as it is—and being a Musketeer is just asking for trouble.”

“I understand your concern, Mom. But I need to be a Musketeer if I'm ever going to find your amulet again.”

Greg's mother stared at him blankly. “What amulet?”

Greg frowned. His mother was also having memory loss. No matter how many times Greg explained it, she often forgot about the amulet.

“The one with the dark stone on a silver chain,” Greg explained. “It had been handed down through our family for generations. The stone is one half of the Devil's Stone. And when the two halves are placed together, they give whoever holds them incredible power. A long time ago, the Devil's Stone made Dominic Richelieu immortal and he tried to overthrow the king, but the Musketeers defeated him. They locked him away in the Bastille and separated the halves of the Devil's Stone. One half was given to Dominic's family to protect. That was ours. We're his descendants.”

Greg's mother looked horrified; the memories were beginning to come back to her.

Greg continued. “Dominic ultimately escaped prison and spent centuries plotting his revenge. He changed his name to Michel Dinicoeur, found the other half of the stone, and then tricked you into giving him yours at the Louvre.”

“Yes, I remember now. Michel offered to buy all our family heirlooms, and we needed the money....” Mom paused, and a look of sadness came over her. “Oh Gregory, I'm so sorry.”

Greg put his hand on hers and tried to sound reassuring. “It wasn't your fault, Mom.”

“But I
did
give my amulet to that horrible man. And he did something with it. At the Louvre. Something incredible …”

Greg nodded. “The stone can turn any picture into a time portal. Dinicoeur did it with an old painting of the Louvre. But when he jumped through, we followed him. That's how we ended up here. In this time. Unfortunately, we now have to find both halves of the stone so we can go home.”

“But how? There are no paintings of the future.”

“True. But I have
this
.” Greg reached into the small leather pouch that hung from his belt and removed his most prized possession: his phone. He'd kept it on him twenty-four hours a day for the last two months. “I have photos from home on this. If the Devil's Stone can turn a painting into a portal, maybe it can turn a photograph into a portal, too. This is our ticket home.”

Greg's mother looked relieved for a moment—but then a worried look crossed her face. “Do you have any idea where this Devil's Stone might be?”

Greg shook his head sadly. “No. But Michel Dinicoeur does. Remember, he's already lived through this time period once. He knows where the stone is now, and he and Dominic have gone to find it. They need it to make Dominic immortal so that he can be rich and powerful for eternity. We need to stop them before he can do that.
That's
why I need to be a Musketeer, Mom. So I can track them down and beat them to the stone. So I can set things right and get us home again.”

“Not necessarily.” The words came from behind Greg, far quieter than his own, but somehow more powerful.

Greg spun around to see his father returning with a lit candle. He brought it to the bedside and perched on the mattress beside Greg's mother again. “You don't have to be a Musketeer to get the Devil's Stone back,” he said. “I'm sure the other three could get it for us.”

“I can't do that!” Greg protested. “I'm D'Artagnan! We're a team! All for one and one for all …”

“You're not like them,” his mother cautioned. “You're not of this time. All of them have grown up using swords....”

“So have I.”

“It's not the same,” Dad said. “You studied fencing. And no matter how good you were, the fact is, when you lose a fencing match, you only lose points. When you lose a sword fight, you die.”

Greg frowned. He knew his father was right, and in truth he was terrified of facing his enemies again. The only thing that scared him more, however, was being stranded in 1615 for the rest of his life.

“I know the Musketeers might not be the most formidable team in the world,” Greg finally admitted. “But I also know that they need me. That's why the king made me one of them. Without my help, they'd never have been able to rescue you from La Mort. And without me I don't think they'll ever track down Dinicoeur—or the Devil's Stone.”

In the dim light of the candle, Greg saw the color drain from his mother's face again. Even his father looked a bit shaken. He put an arm around Greg's mother, doing his best to comfort her.

Greg's mother turned to him, her eyes wet with tears. “Gregory, I don't want you putting your life at risk for us.”

“Don't worry, Mom. The Musketeers and I will find Michel and Dominic—and the Devil's Stone. If all goes well, we won't be risking anything,” Greg said, although he was quite sure that was a lie. Dinicoeur had lost the Devil's Stone once and it had cost him dearly. He wouldn't want to make that mistake twice. This time, Greg knew, when Dinicoeur found the stone, he would do everything in his power to protect it.

FOUR

T
HE NEXT DAY
, G
REG AND THE OTHER
M
USKETEERS WOKE
at the crack of dawn to ride to the royal hunting grounds along with the king—and the king's staggeringly large entourage. There were four falconers, a squadron of soldiers, two dozen servants, and a coterie of distant relatives and other hangers-on. Despite all the attendants, King Louis was the only one allowed to participate in any of the actual falconry—although in truth, Louis really just sat on his horse and had other people do everything for him. The falconers brought him the birds. A stable boy held the reins of his horse. There were even servants armed with parasols to shade the king from the sun.

And for what? At the far end of the field, a gamekeeper would release a previously captured dove. Then, with great fanfare, Louis would remove the blindfold from his falcon, which would take off—and kill the dove.

That was it. To make it all worse, even if Greg had wanted to watch one bird kill another, the attack generally happened very far away, often quite high up in the sky, so that it merely looked like one dot flying into a slightly smaller dot.

While Greg found the whole process mind-numbing, everyone else seemed absolutely enthralled. Even Aramis, who Greg wouldn't have expected to root for the death of
anything
, was beside himself with excitement. “I never thought I'd ever get to see a real-live falcon hunt!” he confided to Greg. “Isn't it amazing?”

Amazingly dull
, thought Greg, but he pasted on a smile for Aramis. “It sure is,” he agreed, wondering what would happen if Aramis ever saw something that was actually exciting, like an action movie or the Super Bowl. The shock would probably kill him.

Greg shifted uncomfortably on his horse and took in his surroundings. The royal hunting grounds were merely a wide, open field of grass, bordered on three sides by farmland and on the fourth by woods. It
was
a pretty setting—Greg had to admit that—but it was also nasty hot out in the direct sun. Underneath his thick, woolen Musketeer outfit, Greg was sweating buckets.

Athos and Porthos were perched on their own horses close by. Athos seemed impervious to the heat, his back ramrod straight, looking like a soldier at all times. But Porthos made no secret of his discomfort as he slumped lazily in the saddle, his coat unbuttoned. “What say we make this interesting?” he called out, fanning a wad of money. “Anyone care to bet on the dove this time?”

Athos laughed but stopped suddenly, staring past Greg, his eyes narrowing. Greg turned in his saddle and found Milady de Winter approaching.

She rode a white horse and was dressed all in white to match. “Mind if I join you gentlemen?” she asked as she approached, fluttering a lace fan to keep from flushing in the heat.

“Not at all!” Aramis said, a bit too quickly. “It'd be our pleasure!”

Milady smiled and pulled her horse in between theirs, as close to Aramis as she could get. Greg glanced reflexively toward Athos, who failed to mask his jealousy.

Greg looked back at Milady and thought he caught
her
staring at Athos as well. As if, perhaps, she knew exactly what effect she was having on him—and was trying to provoke it.

It was the first time Greg had seen Milady since she'd whispered to him in the king's chambers the day before. “Good day, Milady,” he said. “I was hoping to see you again. I was wondering if we could discuss …”