by Adam Millard
Seven hours was all that stood between them and the final piece, but a person could do a lot of things in seven hours, cover a lot of miles. If the big man was already on to them, he might arrive in Paris before they even had a chance to get to the museum. Then what? They had been lucky thus far, but there were only so many times they could dodge that armoured wolf of his.
Alcorn settled onto the bed opposite, and it creaked beneath his considerable frame. “What was it in when you stole it?” He stroked his chin, which rustled through two-day-old stubble.
“A dinosaur egg,” Abigale said. “Why?”
Alcorn leaned forward, focussing intently upon the object nestled in beside Abigale. “If they’d been able to detect this thing before, wouldn’t they have it by now? I mean, there are three of these things outstanding, is that correct?”
Abigale nodded. “They already have the other nine.” The thought sent a chill coursing through her.
“So if they had been able to sense these things inside the museums, what would have stopped them just taking them? No, I think there’s more to it.”
Abigale, suddenly brightening, clambered to her feet. “What if the objects where they’re concealed somehow stifle the noise they make, so to speak?”
Nodding, Alcorn said, “Sounds like a theory. But how?”
“Okay, so someone…The Guild, I don’t know…deemed these objects dangerous. They knew that some wizard, at some point or other, would try to complete The Configuration. So they scattered them far and wide, placing them inside ancient artefacts, thus making them almost impossible to find.”
“Why didn’t they just destroy one of the pieces?” Alcorn asked. It was a damn good question, and one that had been bothering him since they left Saint Petersburg.
“Maybe they can’t be destroyed so easily,” Abigale said. She was clutching at straws, but what did Alcorn want from her? She was a thief, not a philosopher. “Or whoever scattered them in the first place knew that, one day, they might need to call upon whatever power they contained.”
“Greed?”
Abigale shrugged. “Hey, people have to take care of themselves first. Anyway, I digress. So these ancient artefacts mute the pieces, better than any other object could. Why is that? Why is the chainsword-wielding maniac able to find me wherever I am? And don’t give me any nonsense about that magical wolf of his.”
Alcorn shrugged. “Too much perfume?” he smiled.
“Very droll,” Abigale said. “No wonder you’ve never caught me. It’s because my satchel is not ancient. Sure, it’s a little tattered around the edges, and it smells sometimes, but it’s only a few years old.”
Pushing himself to his feet, Alcorn’s brow furrowed. “So, you’re suggesting that old objects can stifle these things.”
“Makes sense,” Abigale said. “Think of all the history behind that Chinese vase, and I’m pretty sure the dinosaur egg had seen some stuff. What if that history, all those years of just existing, has given the ancient artefacts some sort of blocking ability?”
“Like an aura?” Alcorn said. It sounded feasible in the grand scheme of things.
“Precisely. Take the pieces out of those artefacts and you might as well just telephone the wizards and tell them where you are.”
“Not feeling better about that one,” Alcorn said, pointing at the S-shaped piece sitting upon Abigale’s bed. “So we need to find it somewhere…old to live, just for the time being.”
“It might be enough to scramble whatever signal it’s emitting,” Abigale said. “Kind of wish I hadn’t smashed the dinosaur egg now.”
“You weren’t to know,” Alcorn said.
For the first time, Abigale felt that she had him on her side, and that, however it ended, he would see it through with her.
“So we need to find something seriously old,” Abigale said. “Throw that monster off the scent, at least for today. Where the hell—”
“Remember what I said about flirting?” Alcorn interjected. The early stages of a smile curled the corner of his lips.
Abigale frowned, and then she realised what the detective was suggested. “Oh, you think…”
“She must have something,” he said, taking the S-shaped piece from the bed and moving toward the door. “Just lock the door behind me, okay? If I’m not back in thirty minutes…well, just wait a little longer.”
With that he was gone, leaving Abigale to wonder just what the hell he was going to do with the Parisian landlady to get his way.
25
“Ah, I knew you couldn’t resist,” Anasthasie Blaine said through the crack in the door. She glanced across his shoulder. “You’ve left that daughter of yours back in the room, have you?” She smiled like a cat that found itself faced with an impossible amount of cream.
Alcorn nodded. “Just a little drink,” he said. “It’s been a very long journey and…well, I’m sure you can understand my yearning for a proper conversation with a, shall we say, beautiful adult.” It was a little bit much, but he had an agenda, one that he could ill-afford to screw up. Once inside, he would ease off, lest he be seduced entirely by the landlady’s ample charms.
“Then you’d better come in,” she said, allowing the door to fully open. “It would be most pleasurable to share a drink with someone so charming.”
Alcorn stepped over the threshold and was immediately assaulted by an incongruous scent, one that could only be resultant of combining perfumes. It settled at the back of his throat like a bitter grape, and it was all he could do not to splutter and cough it back up. “Nice room you have here,” he said, scanning Anasthasie’s quarters. Everything was pink, or a shade thereof. It was like walking into a fairy princess’s dream.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Anasthasie said, easing the door shut. “Whiskey?”
Alcorn nodded. “Whiskey would be wonderful. He hadn’t taken a drink in some time, but for the first time in years, he believed he had good reason to imbibe. There was something about being pursued by violent giants that brought out the potential alcoholic in him.
“So, what’s your story?” Anasthasie asked as she sauntered suggestively across what was essentially a boudoir. Arriving at a large, wooden bureau, she began to prepare the drinks. A large—Too large, Alcorn thought—glass of whiskey for him, and something horribly opaque for her.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have one,” he lied. “Just sightseeing. You know? Taking in some countries while I’m still young enough to care about them.”
Anasthasie, sucking something or nothing from a perfectly manicured finger, sniggered. “You’re a very handsome man for your age,” she said, whatever that meant.
Alcorn took it as a compliment, even though he hadn’t been fishing for one. She carried their drinks across the room and handed Alcorn the tumbler containing what smelt like decent scotch.
“And you’re a very beautiful woman,” he said, clinking her glass with the edge of his own. “And I must say…congratulations on this place. It’s a remarkable feat to maintain a successful business in this day and age, something which you seem to be achieving with some aplomb.” He waved a hand through the air, encompassing Le Maison d’Anne in its entirety.
She settled upon the arm of the chair in which Alcorn presently sat and glanced around the room. “Yes, and it’s all mine. My husband, God rest his soul, was never much help when it came to running the business.”
Shrewd. Throw in a mention of the deceased husband. Anasthasie Blaine was no amateur when it came to seduction.
“Well, you should be very proud.” The smell of the whiskey was doing a good job of stifling the perfumed surroundings. He took a large gulp and was pleased to find that it all but killed the gross tang at the back of his throat.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “There are times when the company of a good man would be most appreciated, but as you can see, I’ll take it where I can.” She allowed a long, slender hand to fall upon Alcorn’s arm and began to make small circles upon his wrist with a fing
ernail long enough to puncture a man’s throat.
It took a few seconds for Alcorn to remember his purpose in the room. “Ah, yes, I’m mostly here for the museums,” he said, changing the subject and allowing his arm to slip away from Anasthasie’s grasp. “I’ve always been intrigued by artefacts, things that have survived the centuries only to end up behind glass for all to see.”
Somewhat disappointed at her gentleman caller’s sudden reserve, Anasthasie stood and ambled across to the centre of the room. “Yes, though I can’t be doing with all that nonsense, myself,” she said. “How such things can be worth so much money is beyond me.”
Alcorn, realising that he was losing her, said, “Oh, come now. You must have a few desirable objects yourself, a woman of your immense class.” Yes, that ought to do it. Just sit back and wa—
“Why thank you!” she squealed, fluttering eyelashes long enough to fan a warm sheikh. She guzzled her opaque drink as if it would somehow calm her.
Alcorn was all of a sudden worried that things were moving much too quickly.
Wiping her lips with the back of her hand, she said, “I do have a few old pieces. Though they’ve seen better days, I’m afraid.”
Alcorn waved an indifferent hand through the air. “Ah, the best pieces are the ones that have been well-worn. I’ve always wondered what the Mona Lisa would look like now if it had simply hung in some old lady’s drawing room.” He had never thought such things.
“My great-great-great-grandmother handed down a few remarkable objects though you wouldn’t think it to look at them.” She placed her glass upon the escritoire and gestured to a door at the edge of the room. “If you’re in no rush to return to that daughter of yours, we could perhaps share a few more drinks, and I could show you my inheritance.”
She looked hopeful, and if Alcorn had not been in the middle of a very important mission, he might have felt sorry for misleading her.
“That would be wonderful,” he said, swallowing down the remains of his tumbler.
Anasthasie clapped her hands together excitedly and disappeared into the other room, where a series of clatters and curses ensued.
The things I do for my country, he thought.
*
Abigale glanced at her timepiece. Half an hour, he’d said, but surely that had already passed. She was on edge, pacing across the room, considering all the terrible things that might have happened to John. He was big enough and ugly enough to take care of himself, but that didn’t offer her much comfort. Anasthasie Blaine had all but devoured him with those massive eyes of hers, and though Abigale had never seen Alcorn as anything other than a very interesting enemy, she felt somewhat possessive of him.
How dare you steal my nemesis! How very dare you!
Wandering across to the window, Abigale glanced out over the city. Paris, in other circumstances, would have enchanted her. It was difficult to be seduced when she considered her reasons for being there. It was self-preservation of the highest order. She was simply there to avoid death. It was hard to try to enjoy a city with that hanging over her head.
Down below, the river flowed smoothly along. All the innocent people, completely oblivious to the existence of wizards and devil dogs. Abigale had been one of them, once, though perhaps slightly less innocent.
Since then, she had been tasked with something of great import, something that would either save the world or destroy it. She wanted to scream down at all the innocents, Hey, up here! I’m the one keeping you alive! You’re very welcome!
“Where are you, John?” she mumbled, turning away from the window. She had never had to rely on anyone, except for Octavius, but that was different. However, now that the rest of the errand included Alcorn, she found herself wondering how she’d ever believed it possible without him, he was up to lord-knows-what with some tricky vixen. Something just didn’t sit right in her stomach.
Collapsing onto the bed, she closed her eyes. Six hours and counting…
*
Alcorn examined the patina of the small wooden box Anasthasie Blaine had just handed to him. It was well worn as she’d previously informed him and had clearly been polished to within an inch of its life, but that did nothing to detract from its obvious beauty.
“They don’t make them like this anymore,” Anasthasie said, easing the lid back on its hinges. Inside, a series of cogs and gears sat on the left side, while a large brass barrel sat at the uppermost edge. An array of thin white tubes extended downward from the barrel. “I believe it is a segmented comb, something that changed in the early part of this century. Would you like to hear it?”
Alcorn nodded. Why the hell not.
Anasthasie wound the brass key upon the box’s side. “It’s capable of playing two tunes,” she said.
Alcorn could smell her breath, such was her close proximity, and he came to the conclusion that she had been drinking something similar to tar—or at least, that was his guess.
“I have no idea what the tunes are, so please don’t ask me to explain their conception, but they are quite infectious if you listen to them for too long.”
She handed the box to Alcorn and walked across the room to pour another drink.
The box began to tinkle, and then the music kicked in proper. It was a high-pitched tune, not what Alcorn would have referred to as infectious, but quite soothing, nevertheless. He watched as the barrel rolled over and over, the white lines beneath it crawling along with their little protrusions striking the right notes at precisely the right time.
“It’s a thing of beauty,” Alcorn said, and he wasn’t just humouring her, not on this occasion. “Something like this should take pride of place in one’s home.”
Anasthasie snorted. “While I do find it entrancing, it is nothing more than a dust collector, yet another object in need of cleaning. No, it’s far better placed in the suitcase beneath the bed. At least there, the dust forgets all about it.”
Alcorn listened to the music box as it slowed to a complete halt. With the flick of a single switch upon the box’s edge, the innards jolted suddenly. He turned the brass key and waited, and a few seconds later, the second tune began to sound.
“I know this one,” he said. “I believe it is Haydn, perhaps Symphony No. 8?” Though he wasn’t certain, he knew he wasn’t far off.
Anasthasie seemed impressed with her guest’s impeccable knowledge. “Not just a charming face,” she said, walking toward him and thrusting her hips out suggestively. “Why don’t I return that to its proper home and then…you and I waste no more time with these pointless frivolities.” She licked her lips and arched one eyebrow.
Alcorn almost erupted with laughter. “Yes, I see,” he said, handing her the music box.
As soon as it touched her fingers, the music ceased to play.
Was that an omen, perhaps?
She left the room and returned a moment later empty-handed. Her blouse was slightly lower than it had been a moment before, and Alcorn could see the gentle slopes of her breasts. He swallowed, but there was no saliva.
One thing he could say about Anasthasie Blaine was that she knew exactly what she wanted, and he’d bet, nine times out of ten, she got it.
She climbed onto Alcorn’s lap, hoisting her frock up so that it wasn’t in the way. “Kiss me,” she said, though there was more than a slur to her voice.
Alcorn knew he had to see past her appalling, tarry breath and just do it. He leaned in, pressed his lips tightly to hers. He’d heard all about how the French liked to kiss, and he was having none of it.
She groaned and moaned, and Alcorn felt rather terrible about the whole thing. It was during that kiss that thoughts of Abigale entered his head. God. He’d left her all alone in their room. If she was still there. How foolish! He’d trusted her not to run away, left her to her own devices, and there he was, kissing the landlady for the purposes of stealing something from her. Something that was still sentimental, despite living in a suitcase under a bed. It was madness.
After about a minute of passionate kissing, Anasthasie seemed to relax into it. Gone was the forcefulness of her initial attack, replaced by a more lethargic mauling. However, as if by a stroke of luck, Alcorn realised something.
The landlady was snoring.
Dear God, am I that bad? Alcorn thought, but then he remembered the amount of drink the woman had consumed, more than enough to euthanize a small animal, and clearly enough of a dose to knock out a fully-grown woman.
He pulled his lips away, carefully. He didn’t want her suddenly regenerated. She was wholly unconscious, her huge eyelashes trembled as she continued to snore her pretty little head off.
“Let’s put you down for the afternoon,” Alcorn whispered. She was a lot heavier than she looked.
*
There was a gentle rapping at the door. Abigale thought she was dreaming for a moment, but then it came again, marginally louder. She stumbled to her feet and walked across the room.
“Who is it?” she asked with a groggy voice as she wondered how she had fallen asleep and how long she had been out for.
“It’s the pope,” came the reply. “You wouldn’t happen to know the way to the Vatican, would you?”
Abigale turned the key in the lock and flung open the door. “Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been worried sick.”
Alcorn stepped into the room and watched as Abigale frantically worked the key. “Where do you think I’ve been?” he said. “The lion’s den. Purgatory. Anasthasie Blaine’s own private boudoir, and let me tell you, I didn’t enjoy one moment of it.”
Abigale leaned in, examining his face. “Then you simply traded make-up secrets?” she asked. “I didn’t have you down as a pink fellow.”
“Well, she took a lot of convincing,” Alcorn said, rubbing feverishly at his lips. He held out the small, wooden music box. “She won’t miss this for a few hours. We can always leave it in here when we check out.”
