Next thing I knew, he was guiding me away from the table. Away from his study. He escorted me through the deserted Bureau Cramoisi, past the stern portrait, through the private apartments, to the bedroom. I stood very still as he eased the clasp from my hair, so it tumbled around my shoulders.
“I wish I could stay.” His lips brushed my neck. It took every grain of my self-control to not stiffen. “There is much to be done, but all of it will come to fruition, Luce. Soon.”
“Let me help.” I touched my fingertips to his nape. “At the least, I can keep you company.”
“Another time. Tonight, you must rest.” He kissed me once on the lips before he moved away. “Sleep well.”
I forced a smile. As soon as the door closed behind him, I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, tasting lemons.
I had learned enough to fill in some of the gaps in what I already knew from Arcturus. But I had needed more. Not just for Ducos, but for myself.
I needed the exact location of Sheol II. No matter how great the danger, I would have to return. I carefully laid Frère on the floor on her side, and arranged her hair as if she had fallen.
As I left her body, an idea occurred.
****
I woke feeling cold and heavy. A silhouette appeared above me.
“Flora,” a voice said. “Can you hear me?”
I nodded. The tube was already gone, like before, leaving my throat sore.
The agent standing over me was amaurotic, tall and lean, about the same age as Cordier. They wore a navy sweater tucked into trousers, the sleeves rolled up to show toned brown forearms, and their dark curls were pulled into a ponytail that clouded at the base of their neck.
“Stéphane,” I said hoarsely. “I presume.”
“The courier. Hello.” A ring glinted in their nose. “I see Ducos put you straight to work.”
“She did.” I rubbed my throat. “Thanks for keeping an eye on me.”
“Yes. Very weird to be watching your body while you are . . . out and about.” Stéphane raised a thin eyebrow. Like the other agents, they sounded French. “Hungry?”
Now that I thought of it, I was. I accepted a shard of almond brittle.
“So,” I said, “what does being a courier involve?”
“I take intelligence and equipment from the sub-networks of Paris to other agents across France.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“The most dangerous job in Domino. When I am not doing that, I sometimes cover for Albéric, who is spread thin, and Cordier, who does as she pleases. And Ducos thinks she is the overworked parent of Mannequin.” Stéphane checked their watch. “She asked if you got what we need. If not, you can stay here tonight and make a second attempt in the morning.”
I swallowed. The brittle was hard on my throat. “I’d like to stay,” I said. “I have some promising information, but I think I could get more.”
“Super.” Stéphane pulled on their jacket. “If you want more food, there is a very good Greek place next door.” They slapped some banknotes onto the counter. “Welcome to Mannequin.”
I had barely managed a thank you before they were gone, leaving me alone in the apartment.
Now I had the whole night to myself. And a plan. What I intended was a risk, but I had my doubts that the façade with Frère would hold up for another day. Ménard was far too sharp.
No, I would do what I needed to do tonight, prove to Domino I was a safe bet, and carry on working for my own ends. Before anyone else woke, I would possess Frère one more time and get into the Salon Doré. I would crack the safe and steal its contents, anything that might hint at where Sheol II was.
I would have to do it without a ventilator. For that, I would need to be quick—and much closer to my host. With my dissimulator in place, I locked the apartment and stepped into the evening chill.
An enticing scent drifted from the Greek cookshop next door. I bought a slice of spinach pie and two hot flatbreads to go. While I ate, I walked south.
The Hôtel Garuche loomed sinister in the blue light of the streetlamps. I sensed Frère inside. Even though it was past sundown, day Vigiles stood guard, armed to the hilt. Ménard must not want to employ clairvoyant Vigiles on his own doorstep, even if he saw the use in stationing them elsewhere.
Unsurprisingly, there were no derelict buildings near the mansion, nowhere to use as a hideout. It would have to be the rooftops. I took note of how the nearest buildings connected, spied a service ladder that would allow me to get up high without the Vigiles seeing me.
The golden cord gave a soft ring. Arcturus, wondering if I was on my way back.
Tomorrow.
He would only tell me not to go. I needed to do this now, before my window of opportunity closed.
I would not leave another colony standing.
****
With my approach sketched out, I returned to the safe house and slept until the alarm went off. Moments later, I was heading back toward Luce Ménard Frère.
I used a drainpipe to climb one of the buildings I had scouted. The service ladder took me higher. For the first time since my arrival in Paris, I could see the spire of the Eiffel Tower, shining as if with moonlight. Nick and I had planned to climb it together one day.
I could marvel later. Once I was off the chimney, I picked my way along the mansard roof until the Hôtel Garuche was back in sight, then used my belt to fasten my ankle to a flue. I didn’t want to slide to my death while I was only semi-present.
Do not think of it as splitting yourself, Arcturus had told me once, but leaving a shadow behind.
The last thing I saw through my own eyes was the stars above Paris, half covered by cloud.
****
Unbroken darkness. The scent of fresh linen. I took a few slow breaths and reached blindly to my left. Smooth fabric slithered under my fingers. Frère had closed the curtains around her bed.
It had worked. I was distantly aware of my own body, the chill of the metal roof beneath it. If I could get the hang of this, I could take or leave my life support.
My hand slid across the disheveled sheets, searching for any trace of another body. Nothing. Frère was alone. Either the couple slept in separate beds, or Ménard was still working.
Frère was slow and heavy with sleep. I drew back one of the curtains and craned her out of bed.
I felt my way to the lamp. There was a tiered box of accessories on her dresser. I opened it and selected two hairpins. With tweezers from the bathroom, I bent one of them and straightened the other. A lever and a pick. As if to tell me off, a little flutter came from my passenger.
The bedroom door opened without a creak. Every breath, every tiny rustle of nightdress, seemed painfully loud. The carpet hushed my footsteps as I padded into the Salon Blanc, where the only light was the glow from the hearth.
I glanced over my shoulder before I tried the door to the Salon Doré. It was locked. Ménard had retired for the night.
Good.
The lock was a dead bolt, to blend in with the old-fashioned grandeur of the mansion. I slid the hairpin in, the way Eliza had shown me when I first joined the gang. I edged the pick in above my lever and used it to hook the closest pins. Once I had a feel for them, I worked on the first one until it gave way.
Sweat pearled on my brow as I coaxed the next pin, and the next. At last, the lock admitted defeat. Now for the electronic defense. Heart in my throat, I turned to the scanner beside the door and pressed one finger to it. With a tiny beep and a click, the door opened.
I was in.
Darkness hung thick in the Salon Doré. I retreated a few steps, took a candle from the mantelpiece, and lit it on the embers of the fire. Beneath my heartbeat, there was another patter. Rain against the windows.
My own body would be soaked to the bone before long. I needed to get this done and get out.
I stepped into the study and closed the door. Gold leaf reflected the candlelight. A chandelier, dripping with crystal, adorned the white ceili
ng. And there was the desk, near the north wall. As I made toward it, I glimpsed my host in the mirror. Frère looked as if she was sleepwalking. When I reached the desk, I turned the lamp on low and blew out the candle.
In this amaurotic body, I almost missed the threat. Elsewhere in the mansion—two rooms away—a creak sounded.
For a displaced spirit clinging to the mind of a pregnant woman in a nightdress, I moved fast. I switched the lamp off, rushed back into the Salon Blanc, and gently shut the door to the Salon Doré. I had barely turned around before a man appeared on the threshold.
Not Ménard. A little taller. And as his features came into relief, I remembered them.
Remembered him.
Light brown skin and asymmetric eyes, one hazel and one dark. His hair had grown out a little since I had seen him last, forming small russet curls. A face from the past.
David.
From the Bone Season. The red-jacket who had known too much. The oracle who had spoken in riddles.
His gaze was intent. I was so stunned to see him at all, let alone here, that I half-forgot I was in Frère. I watched him slide the bolt across. How had he escaped the colony? Why the hell was he here?
“Madelle Frère?”
He came to stand right in front of me. Close enough for me to count the freckles on his nose.
“Luce,” he said, softer, “what is it?”
I was too shocked by his appearance to speak. Before I could form another clear thought, my face was cupped between his palms, and a moment later, his mouth was on mine.
The shock hurtled me back to myself. My own eyes snapped open—rain, darkness, bitter cold—before I looked through hers again, at the bolted door, the gilded walls. I felt as if I was in freefall. Heart thudding, a high-pitched note in my ears, sweat on my palms.
Muscular arms wrapped around me. Strong hands roved over my hips, my back, up to my waist, gathering me against a hard chest. A tongue roamed in my mouth, tasting of mint. A white wind of panic blasted through my mind. What the ever-loving fuck was happening?
Raw instinct jolted me out of my freeze. I wrenched free, took aim, and socked David right in the face.
Frère had a weak arm, but her spousal ring caught David on the cheekbone. He managed to strangle his own shout of pain. I plastered myself to the wall as he reeled back, staring at me like I had lost my mind.
“Merde—!” He covered his bloody cheek, eyes watering. “When did you learn to punch like that?”
“How dare you put your foul hands on me?” I made a grab for the sharp letter opener on the desk. “I will send you to the guillotine for this, anormal. When I tell the Inquisitor—”
“Paige?”
We stared at each other through the gloom of the study. “How did you know?” I whispered in English.
“It’s my job to know. I sensed a voyant lurking near the mansion, but I never imagined she was already inside.” He nodded east. “Your body is that way, isn’t it?”
I turned cold to the marrow. “You’re an oracle. You can sense the æther to that extent?”
His smile was grim. “You’re close,” he said. “Very close. Roof of the Swedish Embassy?”
“Is anyone coming?”
“Not yet.” He looked at the blood on his fingers. “There were four hundred people you could have used to spy on him, and you chose her. The person he would raze citadels to protect. You have a death wish, dreamwalker?”
He had sounded English when I met him in the colony. Now he sounded distinctly French.
“I don’t need to wish for death,” I said. “Sooner or later, it always comes back for another go.” I kept a tight hold on the letter opener. “What the hell are you doing here, David?”
“Catching you red-handed, apparently.”
“You work for Ménard now?”
“I always did.”
I didn’t wait for more. Instead, I started to dislocate from Frère.
“Wait,” David hissed, and I stopped halfway into the æther. “Let me give you a gift. For old times’ sake. The gift of choice.”
“Shove it, red-jacket.”
“You came here for a reason. You’re looking for something, and presumably, you haven’t found it. Unless you do as I say, you never will.” His gaze seared into mine. “Ménard suspects.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“He asked me to check Frère for . . . la tache de l’anormalité. He’s called a doctor for her,” David said under his breath. “You won’t get away with it again. But there is another way.”
“You can pretend you never saw me.” My arm was too weak to break his grip. “Let me get what I need.”
“From his study?” He nodded to the doors. “Anything important will be in the safe.”
“You think I can’t crack a safe?”
“Not this one.”
Elsewhere in the mansion, I sensed another person moving. Apparently he did, too, because he glanced over his shoulder and pulled me close enough to smell the mint on his breath again.
“Listen,” he whispered. “I need to prove my worth to survive in here. So I’ll help you. But first, I need you to do something for me. Let me tell them where you are. Let them detain you.”
“I didn’t come up the Seine on a soap bubble, you shit.” I shoved him away. “That’s not a deal. It’s an execution warrant.”
“Ménard won’t kill you. You’re too valuable. You’ll be imprisoned, like I am—but in a perfect position to spy. And I’ll help you. If that’s what you want.” He drew away. “Allow yourself to be captured.”
“And then what—you’ll help me onto the guillotine?”
“I’ll help you get out of here. You know about me and Frère. It’s in my interest to keep my word.”
I searched his face for deceit.
“If you leave now, you’ll never know what’s going on in here,” David went on, “and believe me, you want to know. It will change everything you think about Ménard. About the Rephaim. If you don’t want to stay after that, I swear I’ll help you leave. If I break my word, send me and Luce to the guillotine. She deserves it. Maybe I do, too.” Those striking eyes held mine. “Choose.”
“I don’t trust you,” I said. “I couldn’t prove your affair to Ménard. There’s no evidence.”
His gaze flickered. A moment passed before he swallowed.
“Yes,” he said, “there is.”
Slowly, he looked down, and I followed his line of sight. To the bump. The words died on my lips.
“Time to choose, Paige. I’m going to raise the alarm.” He wrapped an arm around me. Around her. “If you want to run, this is your head start.”
I didn’t need a second invitation.
My silver cord hurled me back into my own body. On the rooftop, in the downpour, I scrambled to release my leg from the flue. I was soaked to the skin, my nose streaming, shivering so hard my teeth rattled. Coughs wrenched my insides as I wrestled with the belt.
If you leave now, you’ll never know what’s going on in here. My fingers were clumsy with cold. And believe me, you want to know.
The Trojan horse. I could almost hear Hildred Vance, the flat-toned voice that had betrayed a shadow of approval. An ancient stratagem. You presented yourself like a gift to your enemy, and your enemy took you into their house.
The belt came undone. I yanked my ankle free and ran. My boots slewed on wet metal, almost throwing me over the edge.
You have a death wish, dreamwalker?
Chest heaving, ribs aflame, I lunged for the chimney and caught it with one hand. Stayed to catch my breath, to draw my panic-stricken thoughts into some semblance of order.
The deal David offered was madness, suicide. Only a reckless fool would try to trick the anchor twice . . .
Arcturus would never forgive me for risking my life again. And yet wasn’t this the way of war?
Wasn’t this a chance to get everything we needed?
I was torn between the streets and th
e mansion. If I ran now, there was no way back in. No guarantee I would ever find the location of Sheol II, or the truth about Ménard and the Rephaim. Domino would discover what I had done and cut me off. There would be no money, no support. I peeled off the dissimulator and shoved it between two bricks in the chimney.
Reckless fools are dangerous in this line of work, Ducos had told me.
Dangerous.
And necessary.
****
When the squadron of Vigiles reached the roof, they found me sprawled by the chimney—as if I had slipped and twisted my ankle. They were not gentle. I put up a convincing fight as they handcuffed me and hauled me up to face their commandant.
Armored hands. Steel-capped boots. Like those that had battered my body in the Archon.
“Your Majesty.” A red visor burned in the dark. “Welcome to Paris.”
His baton snapped out. The last thing I felt, after the shattering blow, was a shock wave from the golden cord.
PART II
Turn the Anchor
You will soon hear of me with my funny little games.
—Jack the Ripper
9
The Butcher of Strasbourg
FEBRUARY 2, 2060
I woke on my side, wearing a loose nightshirt that smelled of dust and pepper. A throb above my temple kept time with my heart. Sunlight gleamed onto my face through a tall window.
The room was in a state of neglect, its grandeur long since faded. There was a free-standing wardrobe, a coffee table, and the daybed I was lying on. A heavy mantle covered me to the waist. I found the lump on my head, fingers barely surfacing from the cuffs of too-long sleeves.
“Arcturus?”
A figure moved to my left. It took human shape, and a warm hand touched my upper arm.
“Paige. Are you all right?”
Every breath hurt. The light made a smear of him, but now I remembered his voice.
“David,” I croaked.
“Sorry to disappoint, but yes.” A cut flecked his nose where I had punched him, and he sported two black eyes. “I take it this means you’ve accepted my deal.”
Little by little, I remembered where I was, and why. What I had done.
The Mask Falling Page 16
