by Jess Faraday
*
Corbeau and Sophie stepped off the stairs onto the dirt floor of the basement, greeted with a crash of glass and metal that shook the air. Corbeau put out her arm to keep Sophie back, but Sophie pushed past, instinctively running to a door on the far side of the corridor.
“Hermine!” Sophie pounded on the door with her fist. She shook the doorknob and then ran at the door shoulder-first.
“Stop!” Corbeau grabbed her as she backed up for another run. She held Sophie by the arms, marveling at the fire in the other woman’s eyes and the determination thrumming in her small bones. “You’ll dislocate your arm. “
“But—”
“And then you’ll be no help to Hermine Boucher or anyone else.” Your beloved Hermine, Corbeau wanted to say, who kidnapped a woman and a child and is holding them prisoner. If she was unsure where Sophie’s loyalties lay, her desperation to batter down the door clarified things a bit. She placed Sophie against the wall where she could keep an eye on her. “Is that where she’s keeping them?” Sophie nodded. “Right. Then stand back. Don’t even think about moving until I say so.”
Taking a breath, Corbeau raised her knee to her chest and brought her foot down hard on the wood to the left of the doorknob. The wood splintered, and the voices inside came to an abrupt stop. Corbeau lifted her leg and kicked again. The door flew inward and bounced off the wall, where it swung weakly from the mangled hinges. Corbeau stepped back and peered around the doorjamb.
Time and experience had taught her not to rush into an unknown situation, but when she saw Kalderash cowering by the table in a pool of broken glass, a powerful surge of protectiveness threatened to sweep her into the room, caution be damned. This brilliant, compassionate woman had risked her life—who knew how many times?—to continue her healing work. She’d been persecuted by the police and falsely accused of a crime that never happened. Corbeau herself had been ready to arrest her earlier that day. Now that Corbeau knew the truth, she’d be damned if she’d let any further evil befall Maria Kalderash. She might not have been able to save the people that her chemical concoctions had hurt in the past, but here, now, she could at least ensure this. “Sûreté. Is anyone injured?”
“No,” Dr. Kalderash said in a tone Corbeau had heard before, from other women afraid an honest answer would result in worse injury once the police had left. Corbeau balled her hands into fists as she watched the inventor slowly straighten, brushing broken glass from her skirt with shaking hands. Kalderash adjusted her hair and cleared her throat. “No one is injured, Inspector.”
Corbeau stepped cautiously into the room, Sophie slipping silently in behind her. From behind her came a voice that sent a chill up her spine.
“Very pretty.”
Corbeau whirled. “Madame Boucher?”
Sophie swung the door shut. The bent hinges kept it from closing completely, but the meaning of the gesture was clear. A sharp-edged smile broke across Madame Boucher’s pale face, sending a shiver of recognition up Corbeau’s spine. Hers was a tormented soul. The torment derived not only from the unwanted spiritual energies Corbeau could feel crackling in the air, but also from the inexpertly compounded chemical remedies to which she had subjected herself.
“Did Vautrin send you in first to distract me?”
Madame Boucher wouldn’t have looked out of place at Charenton, Corbeau thought as she took in the woman’s frantic gaze, disheveled clothes and hair, and the hysteria bubbling at the edges of her voice. The pistol trembling in her hand. Not a few of Corbeau’s former customers had found themselves at Charenton. The doctors there were kind but had no understanding of supernatural disturbances.
As Corbeau glanced around at the wreckage strewn across the tables and floor, she felt the low hum of supernatural energy in the air. The jars on the far worktable rattled together. A hammer clattered to the ground.
“I understand,” Corbeau said, falling into the calming patter she used to approach a person in the throes of a supernatural outburst. Putting the pistol out of her mind for the moment, she said, “When you’re upset, objects move of their own accord.” Madame Boucher’s eyes enlarged. The suspicion that pinched her features seemed to abate slightly. Encouraged, Corbeau said, “You can control it, you know. It’s in your power to make it stop.”
“Demons.”
Corbeau shook her head. One eye on the pistol, the other on Sophie, she circled around slowly, stopping before Maria Kalderash, who relaxed as Corbeau positioned herself between her and the gun. Corbeau felt an unexpected satisfaction; at least she could provide the inventor this small protection. A flash of motion in the corner of her eye told her that Joseph was nearby. Willing him to stay where he was, she put her hand into her bag and felt for her bottle of pills. “You can control these outbursts with training. But right now—”
“Liar!” Corbeau jerked her hand away from the bag. “You’re an agent of the Sûreté. You’re just trying to keep me busy until Vautrin gets here.”
“Believe me, Gustave Vautrin is no friend of mine,” Corbeau said. She smiled encouragingly, but the spell was broken. Madame Boucher had brought her other hand up to steady the pistol, which meant if she pulled the trigger now, she might actually be able to hit someone.
“She’s an alchemist,” Sophie suddenly said. Hermine glanced over, and Sophie stepped toward her. Hermine flinched as Sophie laid her hands on her shoulders, then relaxed slightly. Corbeau felt some of her own tension depart—until she remembered that Sophie would betray them all the minute Vautrin arrived. Or would she? “A real alchemist,” Sophie said. “Not like me. She can help. Please let her help, Hermine.”
Corbeau narrowed her eyes. Sophie had sent her to Vautrin, not to the building where she and Hermine were hiding from Vautrin. She loved Hermine Boucher but was feathering a nest on Vautrin’s side, just in case events shook out in his favor. Madame Boucher swallowed. She glanced from Sophie to Corbeau and back again. She had less reason to trust Sophie than Corbeau did. But they could sort that out after the pistol was out of the equation.
“Lay your weapon on the table,” Corbeau said. Looking closer at the pistol, she saw that it was an old blunderbuss—the kind that shot a single lead ball. It had probably last seen action before any of them were born and had most likely been hanging on someone’s wall since then. Was it even loaded? But one look at Madame Boucher’s face, the white knuckles barely restraining themselves against the trigger, made Corbeau unwilling to take the risk. “Put the weapon down, or—”
A sudden impact shook the house. Corbeau and Sophie exchanged a look. The crash came again, this time so hard that it shook the floorboards above them.
“Back door,” Corbeau said. “Vautrin?” Sophie nodded.
Hermine glanced from Kalderash to Corbeau, as if trying to evaluate which was the greater threat. Then she trained the pistol on Corbeau. Corbeau stepped backward, hands raised. She felt the warm solidity of Maria Kalderash at her back, felt her heart pounding through her simple dark dress. She reached backward and found the inventor’s hand, whose fingers closed around hers. Her hands were surprisingly steady, and Corbeau was surprised that her touch conveyed as much comfort as Corbeau had hoped the doctor would receive from the gesture.
What was not a pleasant surprise was the realization that crept over Sophie’s face, and the steel in her eyes as she took in their locked fingers. Corbeau was very grateful Sophie wasn’t holding the pistol. She took another step back and realized Dr. Kalderash was now trapped between her and a table. She gave the inventor’s fingers a squeeze and stepped to one side, keeping herself in the path of the gun.
Footsteps clattered up the stairs to the second floor. Vautrin’s men were checking the upstairs rooms first. Corbeau glanced upward at the sound of slamming doors and surprised cries. Bertrand and Fournier, from what Sophie had said. The women glanced at each other, from one to the next, as the sounds of struggle moved along the second floor hallway, back down the stairs.
“They’re comi
ng,” Hermine whispered. Corbeau held her breath as Hermine’s eyes tracked the path of the footsteps.
Dr. Kalderash sprang past Corbeau, pulling a heavy wrench from the folds of her dress. Corbeau stepped out to stop her, but Kalderash pushed her aside with astounding speed and swung the wrench down on Madame Boucher’s gun-arm with all her strength. Metal met skin with a sickening crack.
There was a flash and a roar. Some unstoppable, invisible force propelled Corbeau back into a workbench. Pain radiated out from her left shoulder, enveloping her in a numb wave. She watched as Sophie ran to Hermine’s side, and Kalderash, clearly horrified, watched Corbeau slide to the floor.
The blunderbuss had been loaded, then, Corbeau thought. And the pistol had been fully functional. Sticky warmth spilled over her breasts. Breathing was agony. She couldn’t feel her left arm.
“Inspector!” Kalderash cried.
Corbeau fought back the fog gathering at the periphery of her vision. She concentrated on the shards of glass poking through her borrowed trousers. She rolled a metal screw between her fingers, marveling at its coolness. Swallowing, she forced herself to speak. “I know about the Left Hand of Justice…about…the Department of…of the Unexplained.”
“Don’t speak.” Kalderash knelt beside her, nudging the pistol beneath the table. She unbuttoned Corbeau’s coat.
“I know you’ve committed no crime, and that…that…you’re here against your will.”
“Be quiet.” Corbeau tried to help Kalderash get her out of the coat, but every time she moved, the pain threatened to swallow her. Yet the pain was the only thing standing between her and oblivion. She clung to it like a drowning man. “We have to stop the bleeding.” Kalderash brought her face to Corbeau’s. There was no sound, save for the clicking and whirring of the mechanical eye. “It’s going to hurt.”
Corbeau looked into the depths of the inventor’s natural eye. She nodded. “Do it.”
Kalderash glanced over her shoulder, to where Hermine, whimpering, was cradling her ruined arm in her lap.
“You broke her wrist,” Sophie said.
“Splint it.” Kalderash nodded toward the assortment of canvas and metal on the worktable.
Corbeau’s left arm was free, the coat hanging loose from her right. Dr. Kalderash ripped open the front of her blouse. As Kalderash bound her wound, Corbeau watched Sophie fashion a competent splint. She had been a good assistant, Corbeau remembered. A fast learner. As if sensing Corbeau’s thoughts, Sophie glanced over at her. Madame Boucher’s wrist was swelling, the hand at an unnatural angle. But the splint was sound. Excruciating pain called her back to the situation at hand.
“Sorry,” Kalderash said.
Corbeau’s upper arm looked like ground meat. There was so much blood it was impossible to tell where it was coming from. Everything hurt.
Kalderash bound her shoulder with canvas. “Have to stop the bleeding, stabilize the arm. I’m not going to try to take the bullet out now. We have to get out of here before Vautrin finds us. Are you able to stand?”
Corbeau’s legs shook as Kalderash helped her slowly to her feet. The room swayed for a moment. Corbeau leaned against a table. “I was supposed to be helping you.” Her voice came out a painful gasp. Kalderash looked at her quizzically, a smile playing at the edge of her lips.
“I do appreciate it, Inspector.” Kalderash paused for a moment, then produced a small metal disk from somewhere in the folds of her clothing and pressed it into Corbeau’s good hand. “I believe this belongs to you, now.” The disk was cool against her palm. It was etched with designs that swam before her eyes as she tried, futilely, to focus on them. Kalderash closed Corbeau’s fingers around the disk and slipped her hand into her pocket. “I’ll explain later,” she said.
Corbeau’s entire left side throbbed. Her mind went to the sedatives in her waist bag. They would certainly take the edge off, but they would also render her useless—not that she was much use as it was. Footsteps shuffling across the floor above them reminded her that Vautrin and his men were still in the building. Raised voices. Someone moving furniture. They were probably securing Bertrand and Fournier so they’d have their hands free when they came down to the basement.
“Make a barricade,” Corbeau heard Kalderash tell Sophie. But her voice sounded far away. The room swayed. Corbeau faltered, catching herself on the table at the last moment. In an instant, Kalderash was at her side. When Kalderash looked at her shoulder, she paled. “There’s too much blood,” she said. “I’ll have to redo the dressing.”
“No time,” Sophie said as footsteps rang in the staircase once more. “They’re here.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Make a barricade,” Maria said. Glancing at Hermine, Sophie jumped up to obey. Joseph, stuffing his bits and bobs in his pocket, scrambled to help her clear the canvas scraps from a table and push it across the doorway. “No good. Turn it on its side and put whatever you can behind it. Wedge a chair beneath the knob.”
“It won’t work. The door was compromised when I kicked it in.”
Maria looked down at the inspector, hoping her fear didn’t show on her face. She’d done the best she could with the wound, but there was so much blood, pooling around her legs and soaking into the packed earth of the basement floor. The bullet was lodged in Corbeau’s shattered shoulder. The wound was ugly, and the inspector was sweating and pale.
“Be still,” Maria said as Corbeau clumsily felt around her coat pocket. Ignoring her, the inspector pulled out Armand’s medallion, running a finger over the etched design. Double protection. Inspector Corbeau had come to protect her, had put herself between Maria and Hermine’s gun. Now Maria was protecting her from her injuries—and from Vautrin, if she had anything to say about it. Not double protection, then, but mutual protection. She cocked her head. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation that was even remotely mutual.
“Finished,” Sophie said, interrupting her thoughts.
Maria inspected the new barricade. Sophie had jammed the edge of a table underneath the doorknob and piled the remaining furniture behind the table. The door was in bad shape, as the inspector had said. But all things considered, Sophie had done a good job. She also appeared to have made an excellent splint out of the admittedly meager available materials. “I’m impressed,” she told Sophie. “Do you have medical training?”
Sophie looked away. “I used to help Elise when…well…that was a long time ago.”
Corbeau and Sophie glanced at one another. Maria felt something pass between them and was surprised that she felt a little jealous. But she didn’t have time to entertain emotional fancies. She wished Corbeau were more mobile. She’d have been good in a battle.
“There’s no way we’re going to simply walk out of here, is there?” Sophie asked.
Maria shook her head. It was only a matter of time before Vautrin found them. Even if the barricade held, they would just wait them out. Maria glanced over at Hermine. She had stopped whimpering, but she was cradling her arm and staring at the wall, her mind somewhere very far away. At one time, Maria might have felt her pain, or at least felt remorse for having caused it. But that time was long past.
“Where’s the gun?” Corbeau rasped.
Maria almost answered, but something in Corbeau’s voice told her that if she did, Corbeau would dive under the table to retrieve it. Maria glanced under the table, but she didn’t see anything. Perhaps she’d kicked it harder than she’d thought.
“You find somewhere safe to sit this out. You’re not fighting anyone with that arm.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Corbeau countered.
“You certainly will if you don’t do as I say.” She caught Sophie’s eye and gestured toward Hermine. “Put her in the corner behind the table. You too, Inspector.”
A door slammed overhead. Footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. Several sets of feet thundered down toward the basement, wood splintering beneath their weight. Another crash sounded above.
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“Hurry!” Maria cried.
Maria helped Corbeau away from the machine table and propped her against a wall. Then she and Sophie swept everything off the table, tipped it over, and moved Hermine behind it. Joseph, Maria noted with irritation, had run to Corbeau’s side. She was leaning down close, and he was speaking excitedly into her ear. The gun was nowhere to be seen.
“I really wish the two of you would get behind the table.”
“While you fight them off all alone?”
Maria gaped at Joseph’s temerity, but the sudden silence drowned her objections. Even worse than the silence was the subsequent, and most incongruently, polite knock on the door.
“Madame Boucher?” Maria recognized the chief inspector’s voice. His tone was solicitous. Mocking. “I know you’re in there, Madame. Why don’t you come out?”
Maria glanced at Hermine, who had begun to tremble—though whether it was from her injuries or from imagining what Vautrin would enjoy doing to her once he found her, Maria wasn’t sure. Maria’s gut clenched at the sound of the masculine laughter that followed. She counted four distinct voices. She and Sophie were two—with Joseph, perhaps two and a half. It was futile. But she’d escaped futile circumstances before.
“Arm yourself,” she told Sophie. Hermine’s lover had shown unexpected medical skills. Perhaps she’d be better in a fight than she looked. “Grab anything. Anything. Fight like hell and run when you can.”
“What about them?” Sophie asked, gesturing toward Hermine.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Maria nodded, and Sophie positioned herself next to the doorjamb, an iron bar in her hand.
The door gave way beneath the first kick. The second sent the table and chairs crashing backward.
“Now!” Maria cried as the first man pushed his way through the crack.
But Sophie stepped back, letting the bar drop to her side. “Great Prophet,” she said, bowing her head as Vautrin entered.
