Claude lifted his gaze and met Zita’s. “All right. Brace yourself, though.”
He motioned for his friend to follow him and led her down his secret ladder without a word. Zita remained silent, another unusual reaction for her. He wished she’d break the tension with a snappy joke and bring their relationship back to better-known grounds. Considering what he was about to show her, however, that might never be a possibility again. Claude entered his basement, then stepped aside to give her a full view of the exocore pile on his table.
Zita crossed her arms. “You’re just adding more questions, not explaining anything.”
“The disappeared witches you followed here? They’re in the pile. They are the pile.” Claude strode to the table, his stomach squeezing. It still hurt to even think about it, despite spending over an hour talking to them last night. “They’re likely conscious to some degree, too. If you don’t believe me, Seek them out. You’ll see.”
Zita’s expression had gone blank, and she closed her eyes to use her powers. More receptive witches would have detected the shift in magic, like an imperceptible change in the air, but Claude’s strength had never been there. He wielded his shallow reserve of power in either low burns or sudden bursts that always affected him, not his environment. As such, his sensitivity to his surroundings remained less-than-stellar. He waited for Zita to finish. Horror darkened her eyes when she met his gaze again, and he instantly felt less alone.
“You’ve been stealing them, haven’t you?”
Claude couldn’t help but snort. “Don’t you read the newspaper? The Exocore Thief. I even have a nickname!”
“Avoided them as soon as I heard the larch Soul Tree had been attacked by a witch. I didn’t want to deal with the fear-mongering.”
“Zita…” Claude rubbed his forehead, struggling to word the irony of this. Zita had stepped back fast enough to avoid the one detail that mattered. “It wasn’t any attack. It was ice. Livia’s ice.”
Zita’s eyes widened and she released a soft curse. Mentally, Claude added Don’t let the Saints hear you, but he didn’t reprimand Zita. Most people cursed these days, anyway, and the situation certainly warranted it. Instead, he strode to his desk, where all his files on Montrant Industries piled up, and he rummaged through them until he found the Quotidien. Recognition flashed in Zita’s eyes the moment she saw Claire’s portrait.
“No wonder you no longer invite me to wild escapades in the Quartier des Sorbiers. Here I thought you’d grown old and preferred to rest at home!”
“No… I’ve been using Claire as a cover to steal exocores. Kinda regret it now. Been feeling more like a woman for a few days, but I don’t dare present accordingly at the bakery in case someone puts one and one together. Even without the mask and purple hair, Adèle might recognize me.”
“Adèle?”
“The police on this case. She’s a customer. You’d like her, I think.”
“No? Why would I? She’s trying to arrest you!”
“But she’s gorgeous.”
“Claude!” Zita snorted, folded the newspaper in two, and slapped him with it. “This is not the time. But do point her out to me as soon as you have the chance,” she added with a wink.
Claude stifled a laugh—Zita was right, this was really not the time, but joking with her lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. They exchanged a smile before he turned towards the pile of exocores. “When I started stealing them, I had no idea what was happening, only that I disliked the way they made me feel.”
“Yeah, it’s… icky. Sorry, buddies. How did you even run into one in the first place? These things cost the skin off your ass.”
“Looked into them for the bakery. I use a lot of energy for the ovens and I wanted to save. When I touched one, though… something was wrong. That’s why I called Livia over. She was always more perceptive, and she knew instantly. So we started investigating together and…” He trailed off, unable to finish—not while staring at the exocores, their red glow filling him with dread. What were the chances even that Livia wasn’t a gem now?
Zita moved behind him and set a hand on his shoulder, reaching up. “I’d sense her if she were an exocore. I think she’s still with Clémence, and ols suppressing magic is blocking me.”
She might be dead, or too far away for Zita to sense, but Claude didn’t point out either of those things. He refused to believe Livia was lost to him forever. “Right. We think an exocore connected to a power grid forcefully removes magic from the witch it hosts. Soul-sucking, really. I have no idea what I’ll do with all of these. We’ll need to figure it out once Livia is safe and we’ve stopped exocore production.”
“You could have told me,” Zita said. “I’m helpful.”
Helpful, and talkative. Had they known Zita could sense the witches even in exocores, however, they would have tried. “This is a secret, Zita. We thought our chances were better if it didn’t spread because we had no idea who would do such a thing. Not you, of course, but…”
“I’m not good with secrets.” She finished for him, without a hint of resentment. Zita knew herself, at least. “I can keep something this big to myself, Claude. I’ve been sick with worry!”
“I’m sorry. After Livia vanished I really lost… perspective, I think? Tunnel vision. I couldn’t think past the next step, or anything around.” Even before she’d been captured, knowledge of the exocores had hit him like a brick. His twin had steadied him, and without her he’d quickly sunk into a frenetic confusion.
Zita squeezed his shoulder, then leaned on him. “Just… don’t do it again.”
“I won’t. I’m glad you’re here, Zita. Clémence works with them, so that’s at least one witch greedy enough to sell their community. Who knows how many others there are?”
“Clémence isn’t greedy. They have something on ol.”
Claude pressed his lips tight and crushed any thoughts of arguing with Zita. At this point, it didn’t matter whether or not ol had been coerced into helping, only that ol had kidnapped Livia. “You said you sensed a lot of others in a second location, didn’t you? Even more than are here?”
“Y-yeah. Tons of them. Are those all exocores too? How many could there be?” Her voice cracked towards the end, and she stepped back, away from the table. “These things… they’re all over the rich neighbourhoods, aren’t they? Oh dear…” Obviously, the enormity of this was beginning to sink in. Tears shone in Zita’s dark eyes, and she stumbled back until she could crumple into a seat and drop her head in her hands. “Why are people so horrible? First they hunt us down, and now they devise an entire industry out of our souls and deaths? How are we supposed to fight that and–and do anything?”
Claude wished he had an answer, even a small one. Despair like Zita’s had been hammering at him for days, and in truth he saw no way out of this. Montrant Industries wasn’t a single person: it was a system, built in the shadows to slowly exterminate them, and it wouldn’t exist without the approval of people in power. Once again, he wondered if the mairesse knew, or even suspected. Hard to imagine Denise Jalbert, unyielding and loyal to his parents, accepting this. He didn’t want to, either; she meant too much to him, had taught him to value his aromanticism. Claude would rather think of her as someone else to ally with, if they could gather proof.
Thinking too far ahead would overwhelm them, however, so Claude focused on the next steps. He sat beside Zita, put a hand on her stocky shoulder, turned her his way. “It’s not over. This second location might be a storage for Montrant Industries. Take a few hours to wrap your head around everything and help yourself to the pastries upstairs. I need to sleep, but when I wake up again, we’ll investigate together. We’ll save everyone.”
Empty promises, perhaps, but Claude couldn’t help it—not with the hollow despair settling in Zita’s eyes. She straightened and met his gaze, searching for the lies in his word. He prayed that, just this once, he’d prove a good liar. Zita smiled, nodded.
“Okay. Yes. You’re rig
ht.” She clenched her fist, and determination returned to her expression. “We can’t give up. Go to bed, and I’ll be ready when you’re rested!”
Claude squeezed her shoulder before standing up. “We’ll crack their mystery open,” he said, before climbing back upstairs.
Exhaustion settled in his muscles as he heaved himself up the ladder. Zita’s sudden appearance had terrified him, but sharing his burden had lightened it considerably. Maybe they did have a chance. He had options still, could go to Nsia Kouna if this didn’t work. Claude returned to his bed and sat on the edge for a moment. He had a friend with him now, someone he trusted with his life. He knew he’d sleep better this afternoon than he had in days, and hopefully, by the end of the night, he’d have saved several more exocores and gained a solid lead on Montrant Industries.
One could dream.
-14-
LE FEU AUX POUDRES
Adèle stared at the warehouse, one hand on her revolver, the other deep in her pocket, fingers tight around the anonymous tip that had led her here. She had returned home frustrated by the interview with Kouna and Élise’s persistent focus. Claire and Montrant Industries couldn’t be separated, and she wished she could investigate the exocore producers while they prepared their trap, not after. Clearly, someone else was of the same mind. The note read “1162 Rue des Quenouilles, Quartier des Grands Sapins, Tonight” and she suspected a certain journalist had left it for her. At least it had been slipped under the door. Adèle had still checked every room and window when she arrived, half-convinced she would find traces of Claire’s passage. The last thing she needed was proof someone had broken in again considering how slowly her sense of home was piecing itself back together.
She’d stared at the note for a long time, then set it aside to fix herself a quick summer dinner: grilled corn, a cucumber sandwich, and a delicious chickpea, parsley, and tomato salad she’d prepared the previous day. Adèle preferred to keep heavier meals for rainy fall days, and her stomach felt particularly tight as she contemplated her options. If she waited until tomorrow, she might miss one of their best opportunities to investigate Montrant. And if she showed Élise… what if she again insisted not to look into it until Claire was caught? Adèle didn’t want to dawdle if Montrant hid sinister activities, but feared Koyani would consider going a lack of team spirit. She ate through her meal slowly, her decision changing with each bite.
Ultimately, Adèle changed into comfortable civilian clothes, grabbed her revolver, and headed to the Quartier des Grands Sapins. She stopped at a messenger station on the way and paid a young man to cycle to their headquarters and drop off the anonymous note, with her “investigating” scribbled beneath the address. Just in case. She could explain later, and good team members relied on each other’s individual initiative too, no? Her gut insisted she check this out, and she had long ago learned to trust herself.
Adèle parked her vélocycle some distance from the warehouse and approached on foot, to scout the surroundings first. Coming here without a partner was already a risk—no sense in rushing in. She couldn’t help but note that this would make a perfect stakeout spot if they needed to trap Claire. Several buildings around offered shadowy hiding locations from which to spy on the warehouse, and one had an abandoned floor for a full team to lie in wait. The warehouse itself didn’t have many entrances: a large double door in front, a back door, and four flat and high windows which would require effort to use. It’d be easy to watch the old wooden structure, and hard to escape unseen. Ideal.
Her survey finished and fairly certain no one was watching her, Adèle returned to her vélocycle, grabbed her lamp, and entered the building from the back. The door creaked as Adèle stepped in, and chills ran up her spine. Had the air turned colder? Long shadows surrounded her as she advanced one deliberate stride at a time, weapon at the ready, lamp held high. Large crates flanked her on the left and right, nailed shut, and the scent of old dry wood filled her nostrils. No dust covered the surfaces or drifted in the air; this place had seen recent use. Hard to tell when they had moved the exocores in, but not long ago. Adèle tried to peek inside but none of the crates glowed red within. Perhaps inactive exocores lasted longer when protected from light.
After a summary inspection of the area, she sidled to a door along the right wall. Adèle stored her pistol long enough to grab the cold handle, and stopped short as she turned it. Was that… weeping? She froze, fear tightening her throat, and listened. A strangled sob, a sniffle. In the eerie nighttime silence, someone was crying.
Adèle doused her lamp to a minimum, and pushed against the door, sighing in relief when it didn’t creak. Whoever was in there might not have heard her yet, and until she knew what was happening, she wanted to go unnoticed. The crying was coming from another exit, barred with a heavy metal rod. Adèle advanced into this second, near-empty storage area. The only crates piled under a narrow window, glowing grey in its light, or on the opposite side of the weeping sound. Neither provided cover for her to move across the room safely. She slunk in the shadows along the wall, lengthening her stride, until she noticed a third source of light from inside her target room, slipping out through the door’s cracks.
Adèle extinguished her lamp and set it down—if she didn’t need it, she would rather have her hand free. When she approached, her revolver led the way. She slid the metal rod away, wincing at the scraping sound. No response emerged from inside, only the continuous whimpering and the light flickering. Adèle’s heart pounded. What was going on? She set her palm flat on the door, inhaled deeply to steel her nerves, then shoved it open and stepped in, brandishing her firearm.
Frightened screams greeted her, and Adèle stopped short, her urge to use the weapon drained in an instant. Only habit kept it up as horror seeped into her bones.
A dozen people curled up on the floor, their limbs a sickening thinness. Some had scrambled to their feet to stare at Adèle through greasy hair while others held themselves tighter. An old lady angrily hummed a lullaby to herself, as if willing the rest of the world away. Her eyes never left the ground. The red glow came from a teenager with long red hair shining like embers. She retreated on all fours, and her light glinted off metal bands at her wrists. Adèle had seen those before: police corps used them to restrain witches and negate their powers.
“No, no! I wasn’t doing anything. I didn’t—please, it’s not my fault. It hurts. I don’t want to, but you took her and her ice and it hurts so much.”
Flames flared for an instant along her thin arms, only to be snuffed out. Her metal bands hissed with a red glow and she gasped. Adèle lowered her firearm in a hurry, eager not to increase the young girl’s panic.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt any of you.” She cast her gaze around the room, her stomach twisting, shock slowing her thoughts to a crawl. Whatever was going on here could not be good. Questions bounced in her head, a disorganized whirlwind, slipping away before she could work through an answer. Who were they? Who had locked them in here? Had they eaten? Did they need medical assistance? Adèle silenced the questions for now. She could piece everything together once they’d left this ridiculously small room—once everyone was safe. “Let’s get everyone out.”
She put her revolver back in its holster and walked to the flaming girl, crouching next to her. Age varied widely in the group, but she couldn’t be more than sixteen. She withdrew at Adèle’s approach and stared without a sound. Adèle extended a hand, and she wrestled horror out of her tone, to speak calmly and firmly.
“I am l’officier Adèle Duclos, and I’m here to help. This nightmare is over.” She would do whatever she could to make it so, at any rate. The horrible experience would cling to them, surely, but at least nightmares would be confined to this girl’s nights from now on. Her voice soft, she continued, “I don’t know what happened to you. We can find out together. But first, you need a safe place, food, new clothes—time to breathe and settle. Come with me?”
The girl cast a
glance back to the others, and they in turn looked at a dark-skinned woman with short-cropped hair—one of those who had stood up at Adèle’s entrance. She met Adèle’s gaze and studied for a brief moment. “We’ll follow.”
The whole group reacted. They stood up, helping each other up but shying away from Adèle, always staying behind their leader. The teenager grabbed Adèle’s hand and pulled herself up. She swayed on her feet for a moment, and the ember glow of her hair diminished as she settled. Adèle smiled at her encouragingly then helped her towards the door. They’d need to find someone and call for help as soon as possible. Would any of them be in a state to bike and fetch reinforcements? She’d rather not leave the group alone and unarmed.
“What’s your name?” The heavy silence weighed on her, and she hoped her voice would help. Only the shuffling of weak bodies and the groans of pains from behind broke the stillness otherwise. She wished she could make everyone instantly better—as if even time would ever erase this experience completely.
“C-Celosia, ne/nir pronouns.” Ne stumbled over the name and pronouns, then swallowed hard. Adèle squeezed nir hand as encouragement, and Celosia leaned more heavily on her. “Please help. My wrists—they hurt so much. I can’t control it… this is too much.”
“Your wrists?” Adèle stopped, picked up her gas lamp on the other side, opened its valve bigger, and cast the light on Celosia’s wrists. Deep burns marred nir pale skin under the metal bands, and Adèle recalled the way they had hissed when flames had flickered along the teenager’s arms. Witch cuffs would suppress powers in two manners: many had dampening magic embedded into them and, when that didn’t suffice, they turned white hot and seared their owner. Their goal was to inflict such overwhelming pain that witches judged dangerous wouldn’t manage to maintain dangerous spells. Adèle still remembered when the cuffs only contained the dampening effect and no pain; after the Meltdown, however, people had been quick to clamour for more “efficient” methods of containing magic users, ethics be damned. Despite the constant pain Celosia must endure, nir powers seemed to have a mind of their own.
Baker Thief Page 13
