by Zoë Archer
It had been the same with Nemesis. Creating change through assiduous planning and organized mischief. Even better, because he worked directly to undermine the elite and their entrenched power.
Yet he never spoke to anyone of his early years with British Intelligence. Though he’d picked up the work quickly, he’d still made his share of mistakes, and he’d no intention of reliving those.
Just as it would be a mistake to pursue his interest in Bronwyn while in the middle of a mission.
When the waiter came by with grease-smeared glasses for wine, Marco ordered coffee instead. Likely the coffee would taste as bad as they made it in England, but it was already midnight and Devere hadn’t shown. He and Bronwyn would have a long night of waiting ahead of them. And it was growing more and more difficult to remind himself why he needed to keep his distance from her right now.
For the moment, he couldn’t have her. And even after the job was done, he could only give her a few weeks, maybe a month. That was the most he’d ever been able to offer his lovers.
Maybe she wouldn’t want that arrangement. She was a good, decent woman and he was … himself. The kind of man who was poison to good, decent women.
Not that he’d tried—because he knew himself. He lived and worked in the shadowy, nasty corners of life. Hardly the sort of man who could ever be allowed honorable intentions toward a woman. Especially someone like Bronwyn.
But knowing that, during the job, they shouldn’t share a bed or anything else besides the mission only frustrated him. And when something frustrated him, he always found a way to get around the obstacle.
But this would be his first retreat. A strategic one, but a retreat just the same.
* * *
They hadn’t had any success. Devere hadn’t shown for the whole of the night.
So the following evening, he and Bronwyn stood in the shadows opposite a defunct fabric warehouse in an industrial part of the city, the site of tonight’s game. There weren’t any cafés in which they could wait, leaving them on the street. He kept them well away from the light cast by a lone gas street lamp. Pedestrians in this part of town were few, and those who did appear all hurried furtively into the gaming hell, paying him and Bronwyn no attention. A few stray dogs nosed through the garbage. The infrequent rat also made an appearance, scrounging for dinner. Bronwyn saw the vermin, but didn’t shriek or gasp. Though she did shudder.
Marco and she waited in silence. A function of not wanting to attract notice, and also the strain between them that had lasted for days.
The bell of Notre Dame de Clignancourt struck one o’clock. Another man hurried toward the gaming hell, this one glancing around with more caution than anyone else. He looked gaunt, as if he’d been on the run for a long while, his hair wild, and his shoulders were hunched in defense.
Bronwyn gripped Marco’s wrist. “That’s him,” she whispered. “Devere.”
“Stay close,” he muttered. With long strides, he crossed the street, and heard her lighter tread behind him on the pavement.
“Good evening, Mr. Devere,” Marco said in English, stepping in front of his prey.
The man drew up short, his bloodshot eyes wide. Judging by the way his shabby suit draped his body, he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in weeks, if not months. His skin hung in sallow folds from his cheeks.
“I don’t know you,” Devere said tightly.
“But we’re old friends.” Bronwyn stepped out from behind Marco, crossing her arms over her chest. “You, me, and my late husband, Hugh Parrish.”
“Don’t,” Marco growled when he saw Devere tense, preparing to run. “Unless you want to give me an excuse to knock you down.”
“You already have a reason,” Bronwyn said angrily. She stepped close to Devere, her face rigid with anger. “I’ll thrash him if you don’t.”
Their target looked back and forth between Marco and Bronwyn, trying to decide who was a bigger threat. Seeing the fury on Bronwyn’s face, and the coldness in Marco’s, Devere finally seemed to realize that he’d find no ally or easy way out with either of them.
“What do you want?” he shrilled.
“My money,” she retorted. “You stole it from me, and I want it back.”
Devere’s mouth folded. “Impossible.”
Marco stepped between Bronwyn and Devere, and knotted his hand in the other man’s neck cloth. He dragged him into an alley, and Bronwyn followed. “You’re going to answer that question again, and this time, I advise you think a little harder.” For emphasis, he knocked Devere into the wall, then grabbed the man’s hand and twisted it.
“I can’t get you the money!” the man whined. “It’s not mine anymore!”
“Whose is it?” Bronwyn pressed.
“These … men,” Devere finally admitted after Marco strained the thumb joint of his hand. “They loaned me money, and I had to pay them back.”
Marco snorted. Of course. A hardened gambler like Devere would go to loan sharks to help finance his expensive habit. And such men weren’t particularly forgiving when it came to repayments.
“Give me their names,” Marco demanded.
But despite Devere’s obvious fear, he wildly shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“I think you can,” Marco said through his teeth.
“You don’t understand. If I say I’ll—” The rest of his words were cut off by a muffled scream. He screamed because Marco had dragged a small, claw-shaped blade down his cheek, and the sound had been muffled because Marco had clapped a hand over Devere’s mouth.
“Don’t!” Bronwyn cried.
Marco didn’t take his eyes from Devere’s, nor did he remove the blade from where it rested against the other man’s cheek. “My companion here, she’s tough but tenderhearted. Myself … I wonder sometimes if I even have a heart. The chances aren’t good. For me, or for you. Given that I’m bigger than Mrs. Parrish, what I decide to do is the prevailing law. And the law isn’t on your side. So,” he continued, digging the small blade into Devere’s flesh, “I advise that you reconsider your silence.”
Devere said something into Marco’s hand, so Marco took his palm off the man’s mouth.
“Les Grillons,” Devere finally confessed. “I borrowed money from Les Grillons.” He looked terrified at his admission.
Fuck.
Marco removed his grip on Devere’s hand, but kept him pressed up against the wall.
“The Crickets?” Bronwyn translated. She sounded dazed. “Not a very dangerous name.”
“The name’s something of a joke,” Marco answered. “Crickets can be harmless little creatures, or they can be a pestilence. Same with Les Grillons.”
“So you know of them?” she asked.
He nodded grimly. “The oldest and most dangerous crime syndicate in France.”
* * *
Marco’s use of violence was … shocking. It felt like lead in Bronwyn’s stomach, seeing him unleash that brutal part of him. Her own threats had been minuscule compared to what he’d been capable of. But this was a new world. One where violence was the common currency.
By this point in her dealings with Nemesis she should be past being shocked. But between Marco’s cruelty and the revelation of an actual crime syndicate she was stunned. She’d read of such organizations in the British papers, but even so she could hardly believe they existed. The grim expression on Marco’s face, and the terrified one Devere wore, proved not only that the syndicate existed—it flourished.
“Everything,” Marco growled, still clutching Devere’s neck cloth in his fist. “Tell us.”
“The investments were supposed to pay off,” Devere piped. “They told me they couldn’t fail. I’d make my money back threefold. I’d be wealthier than my richest client, and retire on the profits they’d made for me.”
“But the investments did fail,” Bronwyn said. “And you had gaping holes where your clients’ fortunes used to be.”
Devere’s face twisted in anger. “Tried to gamble in Lon
don to earn that cash back, but I was bloody unlucky there, too. Damn luck’s always against me.” He started to spit, but must’ve thought better of it with Marco looming over him, so he gulped down his saliva. “Les Grillons loaned me money to fill up my clients’ accounts. The ones I’d used to make the investments in the first place.”
Nausea clogged her throat. This man played recklessly with money that didn’t belong to him.
“You didn’t pay me back,” she pointed out.
“Someone had to reimburse Les Grillons,” the man answered. “I took the money, but I knew you wouldn’t be without resources. The world you come from … your kind always sees to its own.”
“Not always,” she answered tightly.
“Don’t you understand?” he said piteously. “I have no one. And all I needed was some cash. I wasn’t out to ruin you, but you were the easiest source of money. You’ve got family to look after you.”
“If it wasn’t for him,” she said, tilting her head toward Marco, “I’d be on the street.”
Devere’s disbelieving laugh turned into a choking sound as Marco’s grip tightened. Glancing down, she saw Devere’s feet actually leave the pavement as Marco hauled him higher in a choking hold.
“Who … are … you?” Devere gasped.
“Someone who can make your life either safe or very unsafe.”
The cuts on Devere’s face proved this. Bronwyn still didn’t know where Marco’s clawlike knife had come from. God, what other weapons did he carry? He himself was a weapon. Terrifying to contemplate.
“I’m already … buggered,” the other man wheezed. “Couldn’t pay … Les Grillons the … full amount. Still … owe them.”
“And now they want your head on a spike,” Marco said thoughtfully, as if talking about the price of apples at the market instead of a crime syndicate wanting a man dead for unpaid debts.
“Let me … down…” Devere managed to gulp.
Marco seemed to debate this. “One condition.”
“Anything.”
“You do. Not. Run.” He held Devere up so that he and the other man were eye to eye. “We’ll be going after her money, and Les Grillons has it. And you’ll help us.”
“I can’t!” He glanced up the street, and yelped.
Several blocks away, a figure stood, outlined by the weak streetlights. Menace radiated out from the figure.
“It’s them,” Devere gulped. “Les Grillons.”
“Stay by my side,” Marco said, “and I’ll protect you.”
Devere seemed to consider this. “Promise you’ll … keep me … alive.”
“No promises,” Marco answered. “But your chances of surviving go up if you remain with me.”
Devere’s gaze strayed to Bronwyn, as if she’d actually consider protecting him. She only stared back at him.
Seeing that he wasn’t going to be the recipient of her feminine sympathies, Devere turned his wide gaze back to Marco. “All … right. I won’t … run. I’ll … help.”
Marco still looked dubious, but Bronwyn said, “We can’t hold him in this alley forever. Or keep cutting him,” she added.
Slowly, Marco lowered Devere back down to the ground, and gradually released his hold on the man’s neck cloth. Devere bent over, coughing.
Suddenly, his hand lashed out, grabbing her ankle. He pulled, and she went toppling over, landing hard on her back. Marco immediately was at her side.
Devere’s running footsteps echoed on the street. Followed by the Grillons man’s steps.
“Dio cane,” Marco swore, helping her to her feet. He glanced back and forth between the place where Devere had disappeared and Bronwyn.
“Go after him,” she urged.
“Not leaving you in Clignancourt alone,” he rumbled.
She lifted the hem of her skirt to reveal the sturdy boots she’d secretly purchased at the modiste’s. “I championed in running at my boarding school.”
He muttered another curse, then dashed off in pursuit. Bronwyn took a deep breath—thank God she’d thought to lace her corset a little looser tonight—hiked up her skirts, and joined in the hunt.
EIGHT
The night city streaked past her as she kept Marco’s shadowed form in sight ahead. He was like a bullet racing through the twisting streets and alleys of Paris. She’d suspected he was in excellent physical condition. Now she had proof as he ran swiftly and with purpose in pursuit of his target. But always Devere and the Grillons man were in the distance. She’d turn a corner just in time to see them disappear down another street. Something glinted in the Grillons man’s hand. A gun.
Her breath was hot and rough in her throat, her lungs. Despite what she’d said to Marco, it had been years since she’d run, and even longer since she’d done so at this pace. But anger and desperation and fear pushed her, far more than any timed sprint or race, and so she ran. She still couldn’t believe what Marco had done in that alley. His savagery, and how very good he was at it.
She ignored the solicitations and jeers from men she passed. Only kept on running, her gaze always fixed ahead on Marco.
Bronwyn tried to keep up as best she could. She wanted to shout to Marco that the man from Les Grillons was armed, but to do so would put everyone in danger. Where would this mad chase end?
Up ahead, she glimpsed Devere push open the heavy doors of a large, elaborately adorned building. The man from Les Grillons was next. Marco immediately followed. It took her several moments to catch up, and as she neared the structure, she read the words COLLÈGE SAINTE-BARBE carved beneath an ornate stone clock above the doorway. A school. She could only hope that the students didn’t board there, lest they be caught in the middle of the danger.
Shouldering open the door as it started to swing shut, she stepped forward to find herself in a stone arcade surrounding a dark courtyard. The pillars of the arcade formed long, sinister shadows. Bare-branched trees made skeletal shapes in the courtyard. For a moment, there wasn’t a sound, not a hint of movement, and she stood beneath the colonnade, wondering what to do.
A gaunt shape that could only be Devere darted out from the shadow of a pillar.
He shouted toward the Les Grillons operative. “I don’t know them! I didn’t go to them for help!”
The Grillons man spoke from the shadows. “It’s too late for you, ami. No one can help you now.”
Devere scuttled across the walkway surrounding the courtyard and prepared to vault down into it. Just as the man’s hand touched the stone balustrade, a shot rang out.
Devere fell to the ground.
“Marco!” Bronwyn called out.
“Take cover, damn it,” he growled at her. Marco found shelter behind one of the stone benches in the courtyard, and Bronwyn covered her mouth as she saw the gleam of a gun in Marco’s hand.
A shape emerged from the darkness—the Grillons man. He stopped twenty feet away from where Devere, wheezing in pain, lay splayed upon the stone. In the vestiges of moonlight, the assassin’s face was revealed. It was surprisingly mild, despite the man’s cold eyes.
“He isn’t worth protecting,” the Grillons assassin said in French toward where Marco crouched.
“Maybe not,” Marco answered, also in French, “but you’ll get no more money from him.”
The killer only shrugged. “Everything comes with a price. But if you meet our terms, we can be very agreeable.”
Marco moved out from his cover, positioning himself between Devere and the assassin.
“Step aside so he can pay,” the man said.
Marco didn’t lower his gun. “The bank is closed, and I’m the guard.”
Bronwyn’s heart climbed into her throat as Marco and the assassin continued to aim their weapons at each other. Neither man moved or blinked. The only sound came from Devere, groaning in agony.
She felt ready to scream. Who would shoot first? Or would they fire their guns at the same time, and both wind up dead? Surely, there had to be something she could do. But if she took a s
tep toward either Marco or the assassin, she risked having their guns turned on her—on purpose or by accident.
Noise sounded above—the students and faculty waking.
Finally, the Grillons man lowered his weapon. “This won’t be forgotten. We have spies and informers all over Paris, all over France. We know you now. And your time will come soon. Bonsoir.”
With that, the assassin melted back into the darkness. Bronwyn scurried away from the door, but the killer never passed her. He’d found another way out.
She hurried over to Marco.
“You hurt?” he demanded. “He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“No.” Something black pooled beneath Devere’s prone form. Blood. She was no stranger to it, but not spilled upon unfeeling stone. “We need to get him to a doctor.”
Marco dispassionately studied Devere. “Only saints can perform miracles.”
Stumbling back, she looked down and saw that Devere’s bloodstained chest was still, his eyes open and staring at the cold night sky.
My God. A man was murdered tonight. His life just … gone. And I witnessed it.
Bile rose in her throat.
Marco tucked his gun into his coat. “We’ve got to get out of here.” He glanced up as lights came on in the second story windows, and confused, panicked murmurs about a gunshot floated down into the courtyard.
Before she could say anything, he grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her away. In seconds, they were outside and striding quickly away from the school.
Behind them came the shrill of a gendarme’s whistle.
“Cold?” Marco asked in a low voice.
She realized she was shaking. “I can’t believe … I didn’t think it would go this far. As far as murder.” She stumbled over the last word, barely believing it was leaving her lips.
“A little killing is nothing to Les Grillons,” he answered grimly. He turned them down a street and then another, leading her through twisting lanes and deserted boulevards. She barely noticed where she was, or indeed, could feel anything but a numb sickness.
Her mind whirled, trying to make sense of everything. She needed a distraction. “That group—Les Grillons—how … how do you know them?”
