Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Francois: Part One

Paris, 1670

Edmond Dantès leaned against the nearest wall, trying to breathe through the burning pain in his side. His hand was clamped against the wound, blood soaking through his fingers, and he was so tired.

After years of living rough, he'd finally ventured out of isolation. The plague didn't seem like the threat it once was, and he needed work. But on his way to Paris, he'd again fallen afoul of thieves on the road, even though he had nothing for them to steal.

Edmond eased his hand away from his side, trying to see the wound, but fresh blood spilled out, and he covered it again with a groan. It wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed. It wasn't the first time he'd been left beaten and bloody on a roadside.

But this time felt like it would be the end.

A second stab wound on his shoulder ached where it was pressed against the wall. His strength had flowed out of him. He was exhausted down to his bones – it had taken everything he had to reach the city and he couldn't go any further.

This world had nothing to offer but pain and cruelty and suffering, and maybe it was time he left it. What did he have to stay for?

A man walked past, his richly embroidered vest and buckled shoes seeming out of place in this filthy, stinking part of the city.

Edmond stiffened.

Four men trailed the noble, their eyes hungry and hard. Edmond was familiar with their kind. It was men like that who'd beaten him with a birch cane, leaving his back stippled with scar tissue. It was men like that who'd stabbed him – first when he was living with Ysanne, and again today, when he was on his way to the city.

If they got their hands on that young noble, they'd take everything he had, maybe even his life.

As they disappeared down a nearby alley, Edmond pushed off the wall, stifling a whimper as the movement jolted his injuries. He couldn't fight. He was quite sure he would die here, alone and unremembered, but maybe he could use his last moments to save someone from a similar fate.

He staggered to the alley, every step sending fire through his wounds.

The noble still hadn't realised he was being followed, but one of the men behind him was drawing a dirty knife from his belt.

Edmond summoned the last of his strength. "Behind you," he shouted, and it came out weak and hoarse, but the noble still heard it.

He turned.

His would-be attackers froze, caught off-guard now they'd lost the element of surprise, then one of them laughed.

They started to advance, and the noble stood there, watching them come, like they didn't have every intention of gutting him.

"Run," Edmond gasped, then his legs gave out and he collapsed.

Why had he thought he could save this man?

Even if his attackers couldn't stab him in the back, they still outnumbered him, and Edmond knew how that ended. The noble would die in this alley with him.

The man with the knife lunged, and the noble slapped his hand away. The sound of breaking bones echoed around the alley, and the knife clattered to the ground. The man who'd held it let out a thin wail and fell to his knees, clutching his hand. His friends stared down at him, then one of them snarled and attacked the noble. He didn't land a single blow before the noble tore out his throat with one hand.

Edmond tried to blink away his hazy vision.

The noble's eyes were shining red, something he thought he'd never see again.