Belle Morte Bites (Belle Morte 4.3)

Aileana: Part One

Scotland, 1801

The sun hadn't risen yet, and damp mist wreathed the Scottish Lowlands, making the rugged landscape look eerie and mysterious.

Isabeau Aguillon loved it.

The dark shape of an eagle winged overhead, and she watched it glide through the air, silent and deadly.

She'd only been in Scotland for a handful of months, and glimpsing the local fauna still delighted her. Eagles were a particular favourite, though she had a soft spot for beavers too. There was something irresistible about their round bodies and buck-toothed faces.

Isabeau sat on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree and leaned back, resting her weight on her hands.

Seven years had passed since she had fled Paris and the bloody terror of the Revolution, since Celeste and Renee had burned alive in their own home, since Jeanne had chosen to part ways from Isabeau because continuing their friendship was too painful for her.

As she had planned, she had journeyed to England once leaving France, where she'd lived for three quiet years, spending much of the time learning the language. She had picked up some rudimentary English while travelling across Europe, but focusing on improving her language skills had helped keep her mind off what had happened in France. It had helped ease the ache in her heart, the part that had burned away along with her friends.

But being French had made her a subject of interest to the Englishmen and women in the town that she had lived in. They'd all heard the horror stories of the Revolution, and Isabeau was a real link to that, a person who had seen it firsthand and survived. Everyone wanted to ask her about it. Everyone wanted the gory details. Everyone wanted to know about the rolling heads, the slaughter of the royal family, the blood washing through the streets.

Some people had genuinely wanted to understand what was going on.

Some people just loved the macabre, and found a perverse sort of glee in questioning Isabeau.

After three years, she had grown tired of it all, and had moved to Wales, living rurally, as far away from people as she could. Surviving on animal blood wasn't ideal, but it was a price worth paying to be completely alone.

She had lived in Wales for another three years, slowly coming to terms with what she had lost, and by the time she decided to move on again, it was with a fresh spirit, a renewed zest for life.

Scotland had beckoned, and she had willingly gone.

A red squirrel darted up a tree and paused halfway up the trunk, bushy tail twitching. The chatter of another squirrel came down from the higher branches, and Isabeau smiled.

This small patch of woodland was new to her – she'd spent most of the last few months exploring the Highlands before moving into the Lowlands – but the gentle peace of it was something she felt deep in her bones.

Maybe it was time to find somewhere to settle down, at least for a while.

Water splashed in the distance, catching Isabeau's attention.

She turned on the fallen tree, listening, scanning the woods. It had been a big splash, and now that she was listening for it, she could pick up the sound of moving water, the softer splashing of someone swimming.

Who else was out here before the sun?

Isabeau moved through the woods, sidestepping bright patches of wildflowers and large-fronded ferns, until the trees thinned out, and the flower-carpeted forest floor dipped down towards the misty glitter of a small lake.