Between Burning Worlds

by Jessica Brody

  The cell door opened with a clank, and Alouette ripped her bound hands out of the sac.

  “Let’s go,” came the gruff voice of Officer Leclair. “Everyone out.”

  “What’s happening?” Heloise asked, startling awake.

  “By order of General Bonnefaçon, you’re being transferred to Vallonay.”

  “What?” Heloise squeaked, tears welling up in her eyes again. “Why?”

  “Shhh. It’s okay,” Alouette whispered. She reached out with her cuffed hands and linked her little finger around Heloise’s. “Just stay close to me.”

  Heloise cried quietly against Alouette’s shoulder as they were all marched out of the cell and down a long corridor. Just as they neared the Precinct’s entrance, another door opened and out stepped Officer Sauvage, leading a cuffed young man from the cell. The prisoner was tall with shaggy dark hair and a stubbly beard. Sauvage gave him a rough push and he stumbled into the moving line, right in front of Alouette.

  “Well, well, do my eyes deceive me?” Officer Leclair said when his gaze fell upon the prisoner. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. The infamous Gabriel Courfey. Captured at last.”

  “We caught him trying to tunnel under the wall to the Second Estate quartier,” Sauvage said.

  “Good,” replied Leclair. “It’s about time you were shipped off to Bastille where you belong.”

  The young man—Gabriel—flashed a roguish grin. “C’mon, mec. You don’t want to do this. If I go to Bastille, what will you people around here do all day? Your lives will be so incredibly boring without me here to run you around in circles.”

  “Shut up and keep walking.” Officer Leclair menacingly waved his rayonette.

  Gabriel snapped his spine straight. “Yes, sir. By the way, how is Madame Leclair?” He winked at the officer. “Will you tell her Gabriel says bonjour?”

  Officer Leclair gave the young man a swift kick in the back of the leg, and he went down, landing hard on his knees. When he made no attempt to stand again, Leclair snapped his fingers again at Sauvage. “Get him up.”

  “All right, all right, mec,” Gabriel said as the officer lifted him to his feet. “No need to get handsy. If you want to cop a feel, all you have to do is ask.” At that moment, he finally seemed to notice the line of girls shuffling down the hallway with him, and he spun around, his gaze flickering inquistively over each of their faces.

  “What is all this? You mecs bust a female crime ring or something?” Then his eyes swiveled from Madame Blanchard to Clodie before landing on the bandaged puncture wound still throbbing on Alouette’s arm, and his mouth fell open. “They’re busting the blood bordels now? Sols, is no one safe around here anymore?”

  “Keep walking, Courfey!” Officer Leclair boomed.

  Gabriel started to turn back around but his gaze suddenly latched onto Alouette and his expression shifted. He stared curiously at her, a shadow of recognition passing over his eyes. “Hey,” he said slowly, raising his bound wrists to point at her. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Alouette shook her head, growing uncomfortable from the man’s inquisitive gaze. “I don’t think so.”

  “Walk, déchet!” Leclair shouted.

  Gabriel shuffled his feet backward as he continued to gape at Alouette. “No, I definitely know you. How do I know you?”

  Alouette kept walking and tried to ignore the niggling sensation that the young man did look vaguely familiar. Although she didn’t have the slightest idea why he would. In the past twelve years, she’d had virtually no contact with anyone but Hugo Taureau and the sisters.

  As the line moved forward, out the front doors of the Policier Precinct and toward an idling transporteur, Gabriel sidled up next to Alouette and whispered, “Did we knock off a manoir together a few years back?”

  Alouette blinked in shock. “What? No. I—”

  “The Tremblay job, then.” He pointed another finger at her. “That was it. You drove the getaway moto.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, “but you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “So, what? You’re not a croc?”

  “A what?”

  “A criminal.”

  Alouette shook her head but then immediately thought about the stolen object that lurked at the bottom of her bag.

  “Shut your mouth, Courfey,” Sauvage warned. “Or you’ll spend the entire ride to Vallonay with a numb face.”

  “Will it look like yours?” Gabriel shot back, stifling a laugh at his own joke.

  Sauvage raised his weapon, taking aim at Gabriel’s forehead, when suddenly, a voice from nearby snatched his attention.

  “Well, would you look at that. A bunch of blood whores got themselves arrested.”

  Alouette looked over to see two men leering at the girls from the street. They were dressed in tailored velvet jackets and shiny leather boots, and their perfectly coiffed hair blew in the damp breeze.

  “Good riddance,” the taller of the two men guffawed. He waved a nonchalant hand at Officer Leclair. “Just shoot them, Officer. Don’t even bother with Bastille. It’s a waste of time to get them there. Set your rayonettes to kill and do us all a favor. We could do with a few less déchets in Montfer.”

  Beside her, Gabriel’s whole body stiffened, and Alouette saw his wrists strain against his cuffs.

  “Oh fric off!” the madame shouted at the men. “You’re going to miss these girls, and their blood, when you have to go home to your wrinkled old wives who can’t get their hands on any more rejuvenation creams.”

  Anger flashed over the taller man’s face. And then, in an instant, he was stalking toward them, rage in his dark eyes. But he didn’t go for the madame, as Alouette expected. Instead, he scooped up a handful of wet, sticky mud, and lunged for the girl closest to him. Zéphine.

  Alouette felt every one of her muscles tense as she watched the man shove the handful of mud down the back of Zéphine’s dress, staining her skin and the dull yellow fabric.

  Zéphine let out a piercing howl that filled the damp morning air. “How dare you, you rotten clochard!” she growled before leaping like a wild animal toward the man and sinking her fingernails into his smooth, clean-shaven cheek.

  Everyone froze in their tracks. Alouette felt Heloise’s little finger clutch even tighter to her own. And then, suddenly, a strange sensation began to trickle through Alouette. It started in her chest. A clenching and tightening. Her palms tingled, like tiny needles were puncturing her skin. She felt oddly alert and numb at the same time.

  It was the same sensation she’d felt in the Forest Verdure, right before she’d fought off Inspecteur Limier.

  She could feel her limbs aching to move. Her hands yearning to arch, loop, strike. But the cuffs were holding her back, limiting her movement.

  “You filthy blood whore!” the man yelled, his hand flying up to his scratched face. He turned to Officer Sauvage. “Keep this girl in line, will you?”

  But Sauvage was already on the move. He grabbed Zéphine by the hair, spun her around, and slapped her hard across her face.

  At the sound of his palm hitting Zéphine’s sickly and hollowed cheek, something unleashed inside Alouette. A million stars suddenly colliding and exploding. She felt it everywhere, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet.

  Sparking.

  Burning.

  A searing hot lightning strike through every part of her being.

  And Alouette knew, cuffs or no, she would not, could not, hold it in.

  Shoving Heloise behind her, Alouette lunged forward. Her bound fists struck. Her elbows jabbed. Her feet wheeled and sliced through the air. Every movement her body knew. Every kick and stab was written directly into her nerves and into her muscles. These were the moves of the Tranquil Forme, the meditation sequences taught to her by the sisters in the Refuge.

  Except now they were sped up a thousand times.

  Now they were fast and furious and powerful. Even with her hands bound
.

  Within seconds, Officer Leclair was on the ground. Officer Sauvage rushed forward, coming to his colleague’s aid, but another swift sweeping kick flung him backward, into the mud. His rayonette looped off in a soaring arc toward the transporteur. The two well-dressed men, who moments ago were all swagger and smirk, scurried off down the street, vanishing like terrified rats into the gray drizzle.

  “Holy Fric!” Gabriel shouted from somewhere behind her. “Are you sure you’re not a croc?”

  But Alouette wasn’t listening. Officer Sauvage had scrabbled up from the ground and was diving toward her. She whipped around and faced him dead on, her mind and body still alight with fire.

  “And now we move into the third sequence,” she could hear Sister Laurel’s soft voice in her head. “Orbit of the Divine.”

  Alouette’s elbow arched up, and with a crack, it met the officer’s jaw, throwing him off-balance and into the mud once again.

  “RUN!” Alouette shouted to Madame Blanchard. “Get them out of here!”

  After a stunned beat, the girls, Clodie, and the madame scattered like a flock of panicked birds. Alouette turned back, immediately noticing the empty space in the mud where Leclair had fallen. Her gaze snapped up, searching for the officer. But a second later, her stomach curdled when she heard three consecutive rayonette pulses searing through the air, followed by a body crumpling to the ground.

  Alouette spun back toward the girls, fully expecting to see one of them lying in the street. But it was Officer Leclair who was on the ground. And holding his rayonette was Gabriel.

  Somehow, he’d gotten out of his cuffs and was now staring down, utterly dumbfounded, at the weapon in his hands, like he wasn’t quite sure how he’d managed to wrangle it from the officer.

  But a second later, Sauvage leapt up from the mud and swiped the rayonette from Gabriel’s grasp. He took aim at Alouette.

  “Watch out!” Gabriel cried. Alouette attempted another kick, but Sauvage was ready this time, dodging the blow. He fired the rayonette. The pulse tore past her, missing her face by a centimètre. But the force knocked her off balance and she went down, landing in a patch of mud. Alouette struggled to get back to her feet, but her cuffed hands and the slick ground were making it difficult.

  Officer Sauvage stepped closer, his rayonette outstretched. “You’ll pay for that, blood whore.”

  There was a flash of movement. The rayonette fired again. Alouette shuddered. She heard the sickening sound of the pulse burying itself into flesh but was surprised to feel no pain anywhere.

  “Holy fric, that hurts!”

  Confused, Alouette glanced around to see Gabriel on his knees next to her, clutching his shoulder.

  But before Alouette could fully grasp what had happened, Gabriel had crawled toward her. She felt a tug on her wrists, and a split second later, the two PermaSteel loops clattered to the ground.

  Officer Sauvage took aim again, but Alouette didn’t hesitate. She was a bird let out of its cage. A prisoner broken from chains. Her whole body coursed with newfound energy. With freedom. She sprang to her feet, landing in a deep squat. Then, using the force of her legs, she launched forward. Her liberated hands arched up and around and across, with a flow, strength, and precision she’d never felt before.

  The fourth sequence: The Darkest Night.

  There was a grunt, followed by the sound of bones breaking, and by the time Alouette was released from her trance, Sauvage was on the ground, moaning in pain and holding his bloody, shattered nose.

  Alouette stared down at the fallen officer, her mind whirring with questions and adrenaline. But then the sound of sirens crashed into her. She looked up at the building of the Montfer Policier Precinct, where orange lights were flashing from the roof.

  “Come on,” Gabriel said, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her away. “We have to get out of here.”

  - CHAPTER 23 - MARCELLUS

  THE BITTER COLD OF THE Terrain Perdu sliced through Marcellus’s flimsy coat and stabbed at his skin. As the rough, frozen tundra skimmed beneath his moto and the frigid air bit at his fingers, one word crashed endlessly through his mind like a recurrent clap of thunder.

  Albion.

  Laterre’s longest standing enemy.

  Albion.

  Home of the Mad Queen.

  Albion.

  General Bonnefaçon’s new ally.

  Marcellus banked his moto into a shallow turn. It felt like he’d been riding for days. For weeks. For lifetimes. Even though it had only been a few hours. Finally, the twinkling lights of the exploit city of Montfer came into view on the horizon. Right now, that city was his only hope. His last hope. He had to tell the Vangarde what he’d discovered. But when he’d gone back to his dead drop location before leaving the Frets, he’d found his last message was still there.

  Untouched.

  Unreceived.

  Unanswered.

  And he just couldn’t shake the feeling that, after the devastation on Bastille, the Vangarde might never answer him again. That it was the end. That the general had already won.

  The thought sent a ripple of determination through him, and he leaned into the throttle, pushing his moto faster.

  No. It couldn’t be the end. There had to be more Vangarde operatives out there. Mabelle had told him there were cells rising up everywhere. Like in Montfer, where he’d first made contact with Mabelle three weeks ago.

  The landscape whizzed by in a blur, made even hazier by the cold pricking at his eyes, causing them to water. All the while, he kept his grandfather’s voice firmly in his mind, letting it stoke that fire that was burning inside of him. Right now, that fire was the only thing keeping him going. And the only thing keeping him warm.

  “… the perfect moment for us to move forward …

  “… the Regime will finally rid itself of the déchets and be brought to order …

  “… our dark nights will be over.”

  “Or they’re just beginning,” Marcellus muttered into his helmet.

  On some level, an alliance between the general and the Mad Queen made sense. What better place to develop a game-changing weapon than on the planet that had been the leader in weapons development for centuries? And Queen Matilda would certainly love nothing more than to see the Patriarche overthrown. In a disturbing way, it was the perfect alliance.

  But, in so many other ways, it was completely senseless.

  What about Commandeur Vernay? Queen Matilda had executed the general’s closest confidante and friend—and perhaps the only woman he’d ever loved. Was the general so willing to simply forget that? Was that how desperate he was for control?

  And Marcellus also couldn’t shake another unanswered question. One that chilled him to the bone:

  What was Albion getting out of this alliance?

  On the horizon, the city grew larger, and Marcellus’s teeth were beginning to chatter from the cold. There was a reason no one crossed the Terrain Perdu on a moto. But Marcellus had no other choice. He couldn’t hire a cruiseur. Inspecteur Chacal would surely be tracking for that. He was a fugitive now. A wanted traitor.

  Something flickered across the rear view on the moto’s console. It looked unnervingly like a headlight. Marcellus jerked his head back over his shoulder, causing the moto to swerve and dip. He fought to regain control as his eyes desperately scanned the vast horizon. But he saw only the cold, bleak landscape of the Terrain Perdu. Swathes of frozen grass, rocks jutting violently out of the ground, forlorn and tangled shrubs, and vast sheets of slick, unforgiving ice.

  Was his sleep-deprived brain still imagining things?

  He leaned farther into the throttle, pushing the moto up to top speed. The bitter wind tore through him and battered noisily against his helmet. By the time he careened into the city limits of Montfer and through the Bidon slums, he could no longer feel half of his body.

  The muddied, trash-strewn streets were quiet, the city still asleep. He passed by rows of rusting makeshift dwellings
before finally coming to a halt in front of the two-story ramshackle building at the end of a deserted alleyway.

  After parking his moto where it wouldn’t be spotted, he approached the Jondrette Inn with caution, checking to make sure his disguise was well in place. He remembered all too well how the people in this city treated unwanted members of the Second Estate. The bruises of that beating were still fading from his skin and his memories. Which was why, before leaving the couchette, Marcellus had stolen some of Monsieur Renard’s clothes and, not wanting to leave any evidence behind, had stashed his officer uniform in a sac which was now strapped around his chest.

  Steeling himself with a breath, Marcellus slowly climbed the steps of the inn and slipped through the rickety front door. But the moment he was inside, he came to a crashing halt.

  This was not the inn he remembered from three weeks ago. The walls and ceiling and floors were the same, but there were no longer any tables or chairs in the room. The entire first floor of the building had been emptied of all furniture and replaced with people. So many people. Apart from the Marsh on Ascension Day, Marcellus had never seen so many bodies crammed into one place before. The inn was swarming with Third Estaters. Far too many for Marcellus to even take in at once. And there was a buzzing energy about them that unnerved him. It was electric, energized, bubbling like a pot just about to boil.

  Marcellus’s stomach tightened like a vise. He pulled up the hood of Monsieur Renard’s coat and stood on his tiptoes, searching through the ocean of faces for the man he’d come to see. Would Marcellus even recognize him if he saw him? He dug into the back corners of his mind, grasping at the memory of the last time he was here. He couldn’t remember exactly what the man looked like, but he remembered him standing behind the bar when Chatine had asked him about Mabelle.

  Marcellus was only a few paces from the bar now, but with the crowd this thick, he may as well have been planets away. He began to push his way through, scanning every face. There were so many of them.

  What are all these people even doing—

  Marcellus’s thought was cut off by a commotion. Shouts and cheers erupted all around him as everyone’s attention was suddenly directed toward the back of the room.