Seraphim

Seraphim
Michele Hauf

Winter, 1433 — and Jeanne d'Arc's ashes still glow… In the battle between Good and Evil, the Black Knight's sword fells enemies with silent grace. The Knight has sworn that fallen angel Lucifer de Morte and his cruel brotherhood will pay for their reign of terror over France — and over the d'Ange family, where nearly all have died a terrible death. All but one…Yet the Knight's hard-won battles and dented armor hide a larger secret. For "he" is actually Seraphim d'Ange. She is traveling to de Morte's demesnes, executing his demon henchmen along the way. Now, aided by Baldwin, a family retainer, and San Juste, a mysterious stranger, Sera grows closer and closer to her final target. Yet little does she know that there is one more aspect of power she herself holds…

Seraphim

Michele Hauf

www.LUNA-Books.com

To Jesse Marvel Hauf, aka Bob

Because this story is filled with all the things guys like:

Danger, adventure, sword fights, giant bugs, fire demons,

poison-dripping castles—with just a touch of romance.

But you know what? We girls like that stuff, too!

Love, Mom

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

COMING NEXT MONTH

PROLOGUE

France—1433

The black knight’s sword-tip drags a narrow gutter in fresh-fallen snow. The tunic of mail chinks against outer protective plate armor. Footsteps are slow. It is a struggle, the short walk from horse to a wool blanket laid upon the snow. There, a squire stands waiting to disassemble the heavy armor and remove it from the knight’s weak and weary shoulders.

Thick white flakes have begun to blanket the muddy grounds surrounding the Castle Poissy, making foot battle difficult, slippery. Yet successful.

Mastema de Morte, Lord de Poissy, Demon of the West, has fallen, his head severed by the very sword that now draws a crooked line in the snow.

“You did well,” the squire says, not so much encouraging, as merely words spoken to break the hard silence that follows the soul-shredding events of the evening.

The squire, lank and awkward in a twist of teenage limbs, takes to the removal of armor. Gauntlets are tugged off and deposited on the blanket with a cushioned clink. He unscrews the pauldrons starring the knight’s shoulders, and lifts the heavy bascinet helmet off the mail coif. Working from shoulder to leg the squire carefully, noiselessly, sets aside the pieces of armor. Wouldn’t do to draw attention to their dark hideaway a quarter league from the castle. Earlier, the squire had found the perfect spot tucked away inside a grove of white-paper birch limning the river’s edge. The Seine flows in quiet grace, accepting with little protest the fallen soldiers who have given up the ghost in battle.

“Hold out your arms and I’ll lift the tunic from your shoulders. Steady.”