“How do you know all of that?”
Chatine shrugged. “Everyone around here knows that.”
The truth was, it was the Renards—her parents—who had recognized the empty building’s potential and converted it into an inn. A place where the locals could drown their troubles—and themselves—in her father’s homemade weed wine.
As they wound through the familiar pathways and passages, getting closer and closer to the building that lay at the east end of the Bidon, Chatine felt her body caving in on itself. As though her very flesh were trying to protect her from what was about to come.
Once they’d cleared the last alleyway and the rusting structure came into view, the reaction was worse than Chatine had expected. Her knees wobbled, and she felt as though she might collapse under the weight of the pain. She forced herself to keep moving, keep walking. She didn’t want Marcellus to see the effect this building was having on her. But with every step she took, a new memory—a new ghost—jumped out to attack her.
Henri learning to crawl on the dirt patch out back.
Henri crying quietly in the middle of the night and six-year-old Chatine running to his crib to comfort him before their parents woke up.
Henri giggling when she kissed the small birthmark, shaped like a raindrop, on his shoulder.
Henri sitting on her lap on the metal swing that hung from the roof.
Her gaze fell upon that same roof, and suddenly she could hear him laughing. Giggling into her ear as she held him on her lap and pumped her legs, making the swing go higher and higher. There was no swing there now. Just bits of rope dangling down like abandoned nooses.
And then, all she could hear was the silence.
The silence that had hit her like a speeding cruiseur the moment she’d walked into the inn to find him gone. Her mother had sent her into town to buy vegetables, and when she’d returned, less than two hours later, she’d known in her gut that something was wrong. Something had happened.
“Where’s Henri?” she’d asked her mother, running from room to room, listening for his little coos of laughter.
Her mother had been stirring a pot of stew in the kitchen. She didn’t answer. Chatine searched the town, the streets, the alley behind the inn, all the while relentlessly asking, “Where is he? Where’s Henri?”
Finally, a day later, her mother responded. Chatine could still remember the callous way she’d flicked her free hand, as though swatting away a gnat. “The little clochard killed him. Madeline. She dropped him on his head. We sent his body to the morgue.”
That’s when Chatine’s whole world had imploded, like a dying star. To this day, she could still hear his soft coos and hushed sobs almost everywhere she went.
He had always been a quiet baby. Even when he’d cried, it was never loudly. It was as though he’d known, at less than a year old, that he couldn’t be a burden. He had to be a good little boy so that his parents wouldn’t cast him out on the street the way so many parents did when they couldn’t afford to feed their children.
And yet, despite his efforts, he’d died anyway.
“Are you okay?” Marcellus broke into her thoughts, and it was only then Chatine realized she’d stopped walking. She was now just standing in front of the inn, staring at it like she was staring down an army of bashers. She touched her cheeks, and her fingertips came back wet. They felt like the exact same tears that had stung her eyes twelve years ago as she’d run to the Med Center, as she’d burst into the morgue, as she’d searched the countless gurneys for a tiny body. As she’d finally realized she was too late. It had already been disposed of. Little Henri was already minuscule slivers of ice, melting into a pit in the ground.
Chatine sniffled and wiped hastily at her cheeks. “Yes. I’m fine,” she insisted. Even though she knew it was one of the biggest lies she’d ever told. She would never be fine when it came to Henri. She would never forgive that girl, Madeline. For as long as she lived.
A few weeks after Madeline had left the inn, Inspecteur Limier had shown up at their door, offering a hefty reward for the man who took her. Twenty thousand tokens. That’s when Chatine had learned that he was actually an escaped convict, wanted and highly dangerous. This information had comforted Chatine. She’d felt consoled in her grief knowing that with a reward like that on his head, the white-haired man would inevitably be caught and sent back to Bastille, and Madeline would be all alone. Exactly as she deserved to be.
“So, are we going in?” Marcellus asked.
Chatine blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the phantoms from her vision.
She turned and scrutinized Marcellus, looking him up and down, taking in his crisp white shirt, pressed white pants, and the titan, Sol-shaped buttons running down the front of his jacket, marking him as an officer of the Ministère.
“What?” Marcellus asked, looking self-conscious as he patted down his shiny hair.
Chatine sighed. This was going to be a lot more work than she’d thought. “You’re not going anywhere looking like that.”
- CHAPTER 30 -
MARCELLUS
“IS THIS REALLY NECESSARY?” MARCELLUS looked and felt ridiculous.
They were standing behind a decaying building that Théo had called an “inn.” The boy had managed to scrounge up an old tarp, which he’d fashioned into a cape-like garment and tossed over Marcellus’s head. He’d also rubbed mud onto Marcellus’s boots, the sleeves of his coat, and the bottoms of his pant legs. Any part of his uniform that was still visible was now caked in dirt. Marcellus had half a mind to think this had nothing to do with making him “blend in,” as the boy had insisted, but was more about seizing the rare opportunity to humiliate and disgrace him.
“This is an exploit town,” the boy explained. “The people are harder here. Montfer is not like the Frets of Vallonay. They don’t like the Second Estate here.”
Marcellus scoffed. “They don’t like the Second Estate in the Frets, either.”
“True. But this is different. The people here, they’re not afraid of fli—I mean, Ministère officers.”
“It’s okay. You can say ‘flic’ now. I know what it means.” Marcellus flashed Théo a proud smile.
Théo looked like he wanted to punch Marcellus in the face.
“Anyway,” the boy went on, “these people grew up inside dark tunnels and haunted exploits. You won’t be able to terrorize them into talking, the way you do back in—”
“Hold on a minute. The exploits are not haunted.”
Théo shot him a look. “Have you ever spent thirty hours straight in total darkness with only the sound of your own breathing to keep you company?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.”
Marcellus schooled his expression. “Fair enough.”
“Just . . .” Théo seemed to be struggling for the right directive. “Just . . . don’t talk. Okay? Let me do the talking.”
Marcellus opened his mouth to ask a question, but Théo cut him off. “And whatever you do, don’t say ‘basher.’ ”
Marcellus’s brow crumpled. “Why not?”
“Because you say it wrong!”
“Bash-er,” Marcellus tried. “Bah-shur. Ba-sher. Baaaa—”
“Stop! Just don’t say anything at all. Don’t do anything. Don’t look at anyone. Just stand there and don’t talk. To anyone.”
Marcellus stood up straighter, pushing back his shoulders the way his grandfather had taught him to do since he was a child.
“No,” Théo said. “Don’t stand like that. You’re poor and hungry and have lost all hope in life. Slouch!”
Marcellus tried to slouch, caving his belly in and tilting his body to the side. He felt as though he might fall over.
The boy gave him another once-over, and Marcellus could swear he saw the hint of a smile on his face. But he also knew he couldn’t argue with the kid. Théo seemed to know what he was talking about. He seemed to know this town like he’d promised he did. Plus, this place—thi
s metal-hut city—unsettled Marcellus. It was worse than anything he’d seen in the Frets. And he hadn’t thought that was possible. Did his grandfather even know how bad things had gotten out here in Montfer?
“You’re still too clean,” Théo said, stepping back to study Marcellus’s features.
Marcellus glanced down and spread out his arms, causing his tarp to rustle in the faint wind. “Huh?”
“Your face. And hair. They’re not dirty enough. No one will ever believe you’re Third Estate with that glossy hair and perfect skin.”
Marcellus cringed, knowing what was coming next. And he was right. He watched as Théo bent down and dragged his fingers through the wet dirt. Marcellus closed his eyes as the boy streaked mud right across his forehead and cheeks.
What would his grandfather say if he could see him now? Standing there, letting a Fret rat literally cover him in dirt? He didn’t even want to let his mind go there.
When he finally opened his eyes, Marcellus flinched. The boy’s face was so close to his own. Closer than he had ever been. And his eyes were so . . .
Marcellus couldn’t put his finger on it.
There was something about that boy’s gray eyes. Something that wasn’t quite right. For just a flicker of a moment, they weren’t the eyes of a hardened boy from the streets of Vallonay. They were soft, tender, curious. It was almost as though . . .
What? Marcellus thought.
But again, he couldn’t quite figure it out.
Théo quickly blinked and looked away, as though he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Marcellus felt the urge to check his pockets to make sure the boy hadn’t robbed him while he’d stood there with his eyes foolishly closed. As the boy stepped back, Marcellus could swear he saw the faintest hint of pink peeking out from behind the dirt streaked on Théo’s cheeks.
Was he blushing?
But before Marcellus could get a closer look, the boy turned and mumbled, “Okay, you’re ready now. Let’s go.” He walked briskly toward the inn, as though he were desperate to get away from Marcellus.
A few moments later, Marcellus stood frozen in the doorway of the Jondrette.
The inn was jammed full of people, most of them standing or leaning over a long, rusted bar where two men poured dark, syrupy liquid into glasses. On a table near the bar, a woman danced in strange pointy-heeled shoes, while a child sucked on a chicken bone. Atop another table, an old man slept and drooled, despite the noise around him. Laughter, shouting, the clink of glasses, dancing feet, the whine and squeak of a stringed instrument from a distant room, and the rumble of fists as patrons demanded more drinks.
Marcellus blinked out of his trance, reminding himself that he had to blend in, just like Théo had told him. If he stood there staring like an imbécile, everyone here would know he didn’t belong. But Théo didn’t move either. The boy’s face was blank, his mouth agape, his gaze transfixed on something in the corner of the room. But when Marcellus turned his own focus in the direction of the boy’s stare, he found just an empty corner, as though the boy were looking at a ghost.
“Are you—are you okay?” Marcellus mumbled as he gently placed a hand on Théo’s shoulder.
The boy startled at the touch and quickly brushed him off. “Yes. I’m fine. Give me something valuable.”
Marcellus blinked, certain he’d misheard. “Excuse me?”
Théo sighed. “You really are ignorant. That’s how you get information around here. No one gives anything away for free.”
“Oh,” Marcellus replied, feeling stupide once again as he searched around in his pockets, coming up empty-handed. “Um, I don’t—”
“Your titan buttons,” Théo prompted.
What? He wanted the buttons from his uniform?
The boy gave him a pointed look. Marcellus relented, reaching under his makeshift cape and pulling off one of the titan Sols from his jacket.
He dropped it into the boy’s hand.
“Seriously?” Théo asked. “I thought you wanted to actually know where this Mabelle person is.”
“I do,” Marcellus replied, confused.
“Then you’re going to have to do better than this.”
“Fine.” Marcellus reached back under his tarp and began to twist the next button on his jacket, waiting for the thread to snap. But apparently he was taking too long, because a moment later the boy huffed, shoved Marcellus’s hand aside, and roughly ripped the remaining titan Sols from his uniform one by one.
Marcellus crossed his arms protectively over his chest. “Are you done?”
Théo seemed to study him for a long moment before finally taking off toward the bar. “Wait here,” he called over his shoulder.
Marcellus watched the boy approach a lanky man with a ragged beard standing behind the counter. Théo whispered something inaudible to him. The man shook his head and gave Théo an unrelenting look. Théo whispered something else, but still the man’s expression didn’t change.
“He’s refusing to talk,” Théo said a moment later, returning to Marcellus. The boy’s eyes raked over Marcellus’s body. “What else do you have to give him?”
“Nothing. I gave you everything I have. I swear.”
“What about that?” Théo asked, jutting his chin toward Marcellus’s right hand. Marcellus looked down.
“No,” he said, twisting the ring on his finger. “Not that.”
Théo sighed. “Okay, then what?”
Dread sank into the pit of Marcellus’s stomach. “I—I don’t know.”
Was that it? Had they come all this way for nothing? Surely there was something he could do. Somewhere else to try. Marcellus glanced up at the bearded man behind the counter. Perhaps he simply didn’t know anything. Or perhaps . . .
“Tell him Marcellou wants to see Mabelle.” Marcellus blurted the words out before he could stop himself.
Théo shot him a baffled look. “Marce—what?”
“Marcellou,” he repeated. The nickname made him feel exposed and slightly sick, but he knew it was the only card he had left to play.
Théo shrugged and returned to the counter. Marcellus watched Théo whisper to the man, evidently repeating the nickname. Then, a moment later, the man beckoned Théo into a back room, looking over both shoulders before they disappeared behind a door on a faulty hinge.
Marcellus glanced uneasily around before finally finding a chair to sit on. When he lowered himself down, the old material squeaked and whined so loudly, every pair of eyes in the inn turned to glare at him. Marcellus flashed a smile and gave a little wave as he leaned back, trying to get more comfortable. But every move only made the chair groan louder. Finally, Marcellus decided just to stay standing. Keeping his eyes glued to the door behind the bar, he anxiously waited for Théo to return with information so they could get out of this Sol-forsaken place. But the longer Théo stayed on the other side of that door, the more Marcellus started to wonder if something had gone wrong.
Or, if something had gone very, very right.
For Théo.
Marcellus’s cheeks heated with shame and frustration as he soon realized what had just happened.
The boy had conned him.
Again.
Théo was not coming back. He’d taken the titan buttons and made a run for it. The whole thing had been a ruse! He’d probably whispered nonsense into the man’s ear, or even offered him a cut if he played along. All that friendly banter in the cruiseur and on the walk here had just been part of the con. They hadn’t been bonding, like Marcellus had thought. Théo had been winding him up, preparing to make his play. He had no intention of helping Marcellus. He clearly just wanted to rob him.
Marcellus should have known better than to put his faith in a member of the Third Estate. Inspecteur Limier would never do that. Commandeur Vernay would certainly never have done that.
And now he was alone. A Ministère officer in an exploit town with no guide and no plan. How would he ever find Mabelle now?
“Hey!
You! Boy!” Marcellus swiveled his head until he was looking into the eyes of a squat, wrinkly faced man who barely came up to his shoulder. Marcellus recognized him as the old man who was asleep on the table just a moment ago. His lips were painfully chapped, and a dark rust color stained his clothes. Marcellus could smell something sharp and bitter on his breath.
The man was waving a hand in Marcellus’s face, but Marcellus wasn’t sure how to respond. Théo had warned him not to speak. And despite everything that had just happened, he did agree this was good advice.
“Hey!” The man staggered slightly, the constant waving knocking him off balance. “Why don’t you be a nice boy and buy an old man a drink?”
Marcellus smiled and shook his head, hoping the man would take the hint and leave. But Marcellus’s dismissal only seemed to anger him.
“Whassa matter?” the man slurred loudly. “You too good for thisssplace? I can see it in yourreyes. You don’ belong heeere!”
At these words, everyone in the inn seemed to turn at once, as though looking to confirm the man’s accusations. Marcellus felt his throat go dry. There were too many eyes on him. And far too much distrust in those eyes. His gaze flickered to the door as he calculated just how fast he could get there without drawing even more attention to himself.
“Answer me, you worthless piece of—” The old man started to tip forward, and Marcellus put up his hands to stop the man from crashing right into him. But the drunk clearly interpreted this as an act of aggression. He jerked upright, swinging his arms violently. “Don’t you push me, monsieur!”
Marcellus ducked to avoid being clocked in the face. The man stumbled from the missed punch and started to go down. His hands grappled the air, searching for something to stop his fall. They soon found the edge of Marcellus’s tarp.
Suddenly, every single sound inside the noisy inn seemed to cease, and all Marcellus could hear was the ripping of fabric. The tearing of seams.
The man hit the floor with a crash, and as Marcellus glanced down, he saw white.
Sky Without Stars Page 20
