Her hands grasped a splintering wooden plank, and she pulled herself up into a crouch on a crossbeam. She opened her eyes, and when they’d adjusted to what now seemed like an unnaturally murky room, a red sweep of coat was already trailing out the front door like a snake’s tail. While the wiseguy she’d been interrogating dragged himself through the smoke out the back door, R7 dropped from the rafters and sprang off the floor to sprint out the front door after the vigilante.
Outside, she ignored startled pedestrians and scanned the street, casting back and forth for her quarry. She was certain there was no way that he’d gotten far enough to lose her in the seconds it had taken for her to escape the smoking El Fey Club. And sure enough, her practiced eye glimpsed a flurry of red a block down Forty-Fifth. Red was great for making a splash, she thought, but not so great for hiding.
She shot into motion again, chasing after the vigilante. As she focused on gaining speed, time stretched slightly around her, slowing the people hurrying through the street into a sleepy stroll. She veered and skidded around them as she ran, jostling street vendors’ carts, hurdling over strollers, and blowing the hats off passing pedestrians until she was within grabbing distance of the Red Death. The vigilante glanced over his shoulder, and R7 saw surprise peeking out from under the hat and behind the mask.
But before she had time to feel smug about that, the Red Death slid out of her grasp again: he kicked over a barrel of bootleg liquor, sending it rolling toward her, and flicked a lit match down at its alcoholic trail. The cheap hooch caught fire instantly, and so did the tumbling barrel it was leaking from. People screamed and scrambled out of the way, boxing R7 in and making it impossible for her to circumvent the hurtling fireball that blocked her way to her target.
It had to be fire. She gritted her teeth as the Red Death ducked into an alley ahead of her. She could easily clear it in a jump at this speed...but that fire wasn’t getting any smaller, and there were too many people, crowded too close together, to chance it. So instead, she braced herself and reached down to grab the barrel.
The searing, white hot agony from the fire consumed her senses as her arms wrapped around the burning wood and tears poured down her cheeks, turning into steam. But she gripped the burning barrel and kept running, chasing after the Red Death into the alley without missing a beat. By the time she got there, she could barely breathe, a scream of pain ripping itself out of her. But by force of will alone, she held on long enough to hurl the barrel onto a trash heap before she dived to the street and rolled.
The tattered, smoking remains of R7’s uniform stopped burning, and the trash heap—thankfully, next to a brick building—remained the only thing safely on fire. As she pushed herself to her feet, the pain in her arms, torso, throat, and eyes from the fire started to slowly subside, and she began to breathe again as her scorched skin and throat started repairing themselves. Focus, she told herself, listening closely as she crept down the alley. He can’t have gone far.
“I’m impressed,” a rich, resonant voice called from overhead. “I’ve never seen a trick quite like that.”
Fire escape, R7’s ears told her, and she turned to look for the vigilante—but no one was there. What did that mean?
“How about I show you the one where I catch the fella who just interrupted my interrogation?” she asked, searching the narrow, grimy space for the telltale red fabric.
“Not as much of a showstopper, sweetheart,” said the voice.
This time R7’s hearing put the source at a few yards in front of her, behind a sheet left hanging to dry on a clothesline. But when she slid forward and shoved the sheet aside, again, no one was there. This is some kind of trick, her instincts told her. Keep him talking.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said conversationally. “I’m pretty sure that’ll stop your show.”
The voice chuckled. Third-story window on the right, R7’s hearing located it—but she closed her eyes to focus on listening more closely, even as frustration, exhaustion, and the aftermath of intense pain started collaborating to pound at the insides of her temples.
“You’re sharp,” the vigilante’s voice called from the empty window. “Ever think that maybe your talent’s being wasted on shaking down mafia garbage?”
There was something about that echo. It wasn’t quite right. Almost like he was...
“I could ask you the same thing,” she called back. “I haven’t met too many people who can throw their voices like that.”
Only she could’ve heard it when he inhaled sharply, surprised, and his shoes crunched on the gritty alley surface as he started to move. She whirled to find the Red Death just inches behind her. Grinning in triumph, she slid forward a little faster than a regular fella could and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, just like she had the mobster. The vigilante’s eyes widened behind the red domino mask as R7 hoisted him up and slammed him against the ash and brick wall. Unlike the wiseguy, he was a head taller and several inches broader than she was, and he seemed surprised yet again when she was able to hold him steadily in place.
“Gotcha,” she snarled. “Now tell me why you keep showing up wherever I go. What’s going on with Tony and the robots? What kind of collection was in that safe at El Fey?”
But the Red Death just gave her a rakish smile in return.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “We just haven’t gotten to know each other well enough for me to share that with you yet.”
R7 opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, the vigilante flicked his wrist toward the inside of his coat, pulled out a playing card, and threw it like a knife. She flinched aside reflexively, her gaze following the improbable missile while it sliced past her and stuck in a wooden post. When she recovered and turned back to the Red Death, she found she was holding the lapels of an empty red coat.
She swore furiously, looking around to find, of course, no sign of the vigilante. Gritting her teeth in renewed frustration, she stalked over to the post and yanked the card out. The Queen of Spades, she noted, shaking her head. Maybe it meant something—a message, perhaps?—or maybe it was just a blindly chosen card. At the moment, it only raised more questions.
She sighed and turned away. There was only one person she could be sure had an answer, she thought as she tossed the card on the burning trash heap on the way out of the alley. It was time to go see Tony.
Chapter 20—In My Place
I woke up to the sound of insistent knocking on my cabin door. You’re welcome now, but still must wait; the first is not the only gate, my drowsy mind recited. Wait. That wasn’t how it went. Oh, never mind. I don’t want to be awake anyway. The events of the night before came flooding much too vividly back into my head, intensifying my headache. Still wrung out and exhausted, I had no intention of answering the door.
“I’m sleeping,” I shouted, and burrowed deeper into the covers. A few seconds later, though, I heard the telltale click of the lock being picked, and then familiar footsteps entered the miniature room.
“Not anymore, apparently,” said Alger, shutting the door behind him and walking over to the compartment window. I kept my eyes shut and pretended to have drifted back off again.
“I know how you hate to be woken,” he said, “but we’re not far from home now, and I thought you might be interested to know the plan before we get there.”
He was right, of course; I always wanted to know the plan. But I usually had to ask a hundred times or wait like everyone else. Clearly, in lieu of an apology for yesterday, he was trying to bribe me into cooperation with valuable information. But I wasn’t about to be bought that easily, so I decided to continue feigning sleep.
“I suppose maybe you’re not interested after all,” he said. “But once we deliver our most recent acquisitions, our target will be a certain Martin Cointreau.”
Oh, hell. He certainly knew my weak spot. A sometimes-acknowledged cousin of the wealthy liquor-producing family, Martin Cointreau’s name was on the lips of every socialite within
a hundred miles of Paris. He was notorious for ostentatious parties, tabloid-worthy upper crust scandals—and the rumor was, an absolute treasure trove in his cellar. The kind of mark any thief would just die to sink her teeth into.
I opened my eyes.
“Ah, so you are interested,” he said with that mocking little smile it was so painful for me to see at the moment, leaning lightly against the door and crossing his arms. “Well, it’s a self-initiated job, so it’ll be no easy task. We’ll have to do a lot of our own intelligence gathering. Which in this case means going to one of those extravagant get-togethers Cointreau likes to put on. But the catch is, I can’t attend personally.”
Now, why would that be? My interest was more than piqued by now. Well, the jig was up anyway. I sat up, still wrapped in blankets, and Alger’s smile broadened. I looked at the window at the French countryside tumbling by.
“They’ll know who I am,” he explained, “which will cause all sorts of problems. I need someone else to do it, someone less known. Someone who’s capable of finding out all the information we want without arousing suspicion.”
I saw what he was getting at. I had to admit that it sounded like exactly my cup of tea, but part of me was still insisting that I shouldn’t give yet. Either way, it was becoming impossible to avoid speaking any longer. I stretched, loosening my stiff joints, and sighed.
“Why me?”
“Because I need someone who can learn from people without asking too many questions,” he said. “Someone who can hear everything said and unsaid, and see everything visible and hidden. Not to mention remembering it all later. It’s simply too subtle a task for anyone else. If I can’t be there, it has to be you.”
Well, he had a point. I mean, he was obviously trying to bring me around with flattery, but it was working. I wasn’t ready to forgive him, but my wooden reticence was certainly softening.
“Victoria, this is very important,” he said, his voice absolutely sincere. “There’s a particular item I want to acquire from Cointreau’s collection to gain the Baroness’ attention, and she’s still the surest route to solving the puzzle.”
“You mean the puzzle box,” I grated, still looking out the window. The only thing you really care about.
“That’s still the objective, yes,” he agreed.
I forced myself to look at him.
“I don’t get it, you know,” I said. “If we’re breaking into Martin Cointreau’s cellar, we could get our hands on all the money we’d ever want. So why do we even need the stupid box?”
Something flickered in Alger’s eyes, but almost instantly, his mask hid it.
“The box’s value is more than monetary,” he said, control squeezing everything else out of his voice. “As I’ve told you, it’s unique. Many people who will never want for anything material in their lives would sacrifice a great deal for it. If we’re to be the ones who find it first, I’m certain that this operation is necessary to accomplish that goal, and you’re the only one for the job. So will you do it for me, or won’t you?”
I met Alger’s gaze for a long moment while I thought it over. Part of me wanted to refuse: whatever he might be saying now, after last night, I knew he didn’t really appreciate me, so let him search for his damned puzzle box without my cooperation, if it was so important to him.
On the other hand, there was no way he didn’t have a backup plan in case I said no. There was always a Plan B, right? He’d find another way to rob Cointreau, only I’d be sitting on the sidelines. He’d get what he wanted, but he’d never really see what I was really made of…and neither would everyone else. And so, just as traces of frustration started to show in his face, I finally answered.
“I won’t do it for you.” I said. “But I’ll do it.”
§
A few days later, I stared dismally at the back of the Driver’s seat as we headed out towards the Cointreau residence. The Ghost, who’d been too polite so far to interrupt my brooding, had come along scope out the cellar. He was also doubling as my escort; a girl appearing solo at one of these things was apparently something of a faux pas. I’d never really thought about it before, because I’d always been with Alger…but thinking about that just clawed at my newly formed scabs, and I sank down into my seat and sighed.
“Forgive me,” the Ghost said quietly, “but my concern overpowers my courtesy. What troubles you, my Mata Hari?”
“Great, I’m Mata Hari now,” I muttered, giving him a morose glance. “She was executed, you know.”
He just laughed, that near-silent rush of air I’d come to recognize.
“Then let us be thankful the stakes are not quite so high tonight.”
“Right,” I answered, rolling my eyes, “unless I don’t find out everything important.”
He reached out and squeezed my hand comfortingly.
“If our captain has put his faith in you, then surely it is well-deserved,” he said.
I winced.
“What if we don’t talk about that right now?” I suggested, my mind racing to escape that train of thought. I was sure I caught a flicker of curiosity illuminate his expression, but he snuffed it out skillfully.
“As you wish, milady,” he said, sweeping the air gracefully with his free hand as if to bow.
I couldn’t help smiling a little at that, letting the exaggerated gesture lighten my dreary mood for a moment. And then, watching him appreciate my reaction, I started to pay a little more attention to him, too. Just as I’d noticed at the auction, even with all the black, he dressed up pretty convincingly. I didn’t really think of him as the fancy event type, but he pulled it off just fine. And actually, I realized, he looked younger than he acted—maybe four, five years older than me? I started to wonder, could someone really pick up his many and varied skills in such a short time? Where had he learned all of those tricks, anyway—before or after he’d joined up with the Gang? And what about that whole sea monster story? And exactly how far back did he and Alger go, anyway?
But as I opened my mouth to drown him in a river of questions, we pulled up in front of Martin Cointreau’s house. With three stories, two fountains, gold statues, an elaborate bas-relief façade, and sculpted hedges, it was exactly as ostentatious as I’d expected. I stifled a giggle as the Ghost stepped out of the car and helped me down, folding my hand neatly into the crook of his elbow as we walked down the red velvet carpet laid out across the walkway. What seemed like a mile later, we reached the enormous carved oak door. I took care of the gatekeepers there with a smile and a wink, and we passed by without any need for an invitation.
When we got inside, I could see why it had been so easy to get in: the place was a madhouse. More like a club than someone’s home, it was swarming with people in fringe and sequins, glitter and feathers. Fireworks of color and texture exploded across my vision. A barrage of smoke—cigar smoke, cigarette smoke, and definitely a trace of opium—assaulted my nostrils and wrenched tears from my eyes. And the noise. God, what a racket. The number of guests alone raised the volume to a dull roar, and the brass band music blaring from the radio, which I would’ve enjoyed under any other circumstances, didn’t help either.
With the violent invasion of my sensitive senses, I suddenly felt the rising panic of chaos and overstimulation. But in the last year, after having to do things like, say, reciting a list of names while being chased and shot at, I’d learned to deal with this sort of problem. Panicking is useless. Wasteful. I’d taught myself how to concentrate no matter what else was going on, to filter out what I didn’t want to see and hear. Focus.
I started to feel better. The world slowed to a reasonable speed, and I could pick out the distinct sounds of clinking glasses and particular conversations. The melee became simply a very energetic gathering, and I was ready for my espionage. It was time to find Martin Cointreau.
As it happened, that turned out to be very easy; I didn’t even have to ask anyone. The place was a maze of medium-sized parlors, each elaborately decorated
of course, some punctuated by glass french doors, some simply connected by empty doorways and short halls. For a few minutes, the Ghost and I wandered from room to room, allowing ourselves to blend into the sea of color and picking up snippets of gossip to be ferreted away for possible later use.
Then we came to a large room near the back of the house, and as we walked in, I knew we were breathing more rarified air: fewer guests getting drunk on older liquor and wearing more expensive clothes, some that probably would’ve impressed Marie Riviere. They were also paying a lot more attention; all the heads in the room turned, some more subtly than others, the second we came through the door. No one seemed to notice the Ghost at all, because they were all looking at me.
I only gave myself a few seconds to drink in the attention, smiling at the people who accidentally made eye contact with me as we walked in, before I made a beeline for the man in the corner, sprawled on the sofa with a glass of champagne in his hand, who just had to be Cointreau. He was a handsome enough fella—young, blonde, and on the tall side—but what made him stand out was the way he dressed. He wore a black velvet jacket with gold cuffs, a gold bow tie, and two-tone shoes. Clinging to his arm possessively was a striking but severe-looking woman in a low-cut black dress and gold sandals, with olive skin, stylishly short, dark red hair, and a whopping twenty-karat diamond ring on her finger. She could only be Cointreau’s controversial Italian fiancée, Tia della Rossa.
I stopped a strategic distance from them and nudged the Ghost when a servant walked by. As he took a glass of champagne, tasted it, and handed it to me (immunity to poison being one of his many inexplicable talents), I raised my eyebrows at him to indicate that this was the fella, and that he could make his detour to the cellar whenever he was ready. He smiled and turned to whisper in my ear.
Canon in Crimson (Symphony in Red Book 1) Page 15
