by Kat Ross
He kept waiting for an explosive sneeze from behind, but thankfully, none came. Maybe Lucas had stuck his face out the open window.
When he reached the third floor, Balthazar found the room where the last light had gone out, at the front of the house on the left. A small window facing the street provided faint illumination. The door was stout wood, but he had broad shoulders. Balthazar drew a bracing breath and retreated a few steps, judging the precise angle he’d need to send the door slamming wide. One… Two… Thr—
Wood splintered and he felt his heart stop. He blew backwards, the carpet rushing to meet him. A high-pitched whine rang in his ears, the wavering note of a struck crystal glass. Smoke drifted lazily from a charred hole in the door. Balthazar blinked seven times in quick succession. Flurries of tics marauded across his face like a troop of marching ants.
The door creaked open, light flooding the hall, and Nazari crabbed out in a sideways crouch. Sweat rolled down his brow. The scar to the left of his nose resembled a pitted hole from an icepick. He glanced up and down the hall with wide, buggy eyes. His hair was slicked back with pomade that smelled of tea roses and he wore a velvet smoking jacket with shiny lapels.
Balthazar absorbed these details with a head that felt as if it had been swathed in wool and pounded with a hammer.
“I know there’s another one of you,” Nazari yelled in a reedy voice. “Get up here or I’ll cut his fucking head off!”
His accent was hard to place. A little British, a little French, with a hint of Punjabi or Urdu underlying the vowels. But that meant nothing, really. When you were as old as Nazari, cultural identity lost all meaning.
“What the fuck, Balthazar?” Nazari muttered, dragging him by the heels into the room. “What the fuck?”
There were more cats inside. One sniffed Balthazar’s ear, whiskers gently tickling. Nazari gave it an absent-minded pat, the chains linked to his wrist rattling. Then his clammy hand slapped Balthazar’s cheek. “Talk, you motherfucker.”
Talk? He wanted to snarl. I can hardly breathe.
The bedroom was tiny and crammed with porcelain figurines of felines on lace doilies. Nazari had a lantern set up on the floor, with the shutter cracked. It felt like an attic space where you might keep some crazy maiden aunt.
“You’re lucky the door was in the way.” Nazari’s eyes kept darting here and there, his hand fingering the scar. “Ah, shit. Stay here.”
Balthazar managed to turn his head enough to see Nazari perform the same odd crab-walk to the hall, where he grabbed the rapier and scuttled back inside. Hands groped him, unearthing the small arsenal strapped to frozen limbs.
“Sweet Jesus, a garrote,” Nazari whispered brokenly. “What the hell did I ever do to you? Eh?”
A creak came from the direction of the staircase, followed by a soft thump. Balthazar felt a blade press against his throat, probably his own stiletto.
“Crawl in here on your hands and knees or I swear to God…. Do you fucking hear me?”
Balthazar tried to make his index finger move and was rewarded with a feeble twitch. Good, good, good. The heavy wooden door had indeed blocked the worst of it. He might even be able to sit up in a few minutes. Of course, most likely he’d be dead by then.
“What did you tell him, you lying—?” Here Nazari spat something in a guttural language that Balthazar guessed was a variation on motherfucker. “What? I need to know.”
“Told … who?” Balthazar wheezed.
“Who? Who?” Nazari’s voice climbed several octaves. “You know who. You damn well know who. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Only that you did Ainsley and…. What the fuck?”
Something sailed into the room, bouncing off Nazari’s forehead. The cats went running over to it. Lucas’s head popped inside and another missile detonated with a moist splat. Nazari flung out the hand linked to the chains and unleashed a bolt of black lightning at the very same instant Lucas doubled over in a sneezing fit. It sailed past, scorching the wall beyond.
More foul language erupted as Lucas stumbled inside the bedroom. Balthazar saw Nazari’s knife flash down and executed a rigid roll, landing on what felt like a fluffy Persian. It yowled and flew at Nazari’s face, claws extended. A blue streak of cursing followed, but he couldn’t see what was happening. Fur-infested carpet pressed against Balthazar’s lips. He clamped them shut. Everything tingled now, not in a good way, but far better than the buried alive sensation.
Balthazar righted himself in time to see Lucas’s blade whistle past in the equivalent of a drunken roundhouse punch. It missed Nazari’s head but took off the arm with the chains. No more black lightning.
Impressively unfazed by his missing arm, Nazari ran for the window but slipped on whatever Lucas had tossed into the room. His feet shot out from beneath him and he landed hard on his back. Lucas floundered over, red-faced and watery.
“Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll triple it,” Nazari shrieked. “Or maybe it’s not money you want. I don’t care, anything! Just—”
Lucas looked down at him without a trace of pity and hacked his head off.
The cats fled.
Balthazar lay back on the carpet. He drew a long, slow breath. Exhaled. In the corner of his eye, he saw Lucas leaning on the sword, waiting for the revenant. When it smashed through the floorboards a minute later, his sword took the head with a single clean stroke.
An arm went around Balthazar’s shoulders, helping him to sit.
“Brandy,” Balthazar croaked.
Lucas propped him like a mannequin against the foot of the bed and wandered off, returning a few minutes later with a cut glass decanter. He unstoppered it and took a whiff. “Armagnac,” he said.
“Perfect.”
Balthazar drooled a little but managed to get some down. It swiftly revived him.
“He hit me straight through the door,” he told Lucas, wiggling his toes in the socks. They were still a bit numb. “I didn’t make a damned sound coming up. He was expecting us.”
Lucas took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “Constantin?”
Balthazar shook his head. “It was Bekker. Otherwise Nazari would have fled. He must have been under orders to wait and there’s only one man who could give such an order and have it obeyed.”
Lucas considered this. “I think we should leave Brussels,” he said decisively.
“No,” Balthazar snarled. “I’ll keep my promise.”
“But—”
“If he wanted us dead, he would have done it at the warehouse. It was some kind of test.” He pushed to his feet with a groan and waded through the detritus of smashed figurines. Nazari’s head was wrapped in a sheet and stuffed into a pillowcase embroidered with daisies.
“What is that anyway?” Balthazar asked, eyeing the pink globs on the floor.
“Hamburger. Icebox is full of it.”
He laughed. “La Maison des Chats. One to remember.”
“It is, my lord.”
“If you’d been in the hall with me, we’d both be dead, you know. Probably tortured first.”
Lucas sniffled. “The cats saved us. I told you they liked me.”
Bekker was waiting at the warehouse in the Quartier des Quais. A flicker of surprise crossed his face when Balthazar appeared and dropped the pillowcase at his feet.
“Here you go,” Balthazar said with a razor-edged smile.
Bekker flicked a finger and the giant necromancer named Lars shook out the contents. They all pondered Nazari’s head for a moment. He looked like he’d still be cursing them if he had the breath.
“I nearly died tonight,” Balthazar said, “because someone told him I was coming. The list of possible candidates is very short.”
Bekker gave him a frosty look. “Come, Balthazar. You offered no proof Nazari was plotting against me. I have no proof he wasn’t either. And frankly, I don’t much care. It seemed more useful to see which of you turned up. That man is of value to me. The other….” He shrugged. “I’ll admit, I expecte
d it to be Nazari since he had forewarning. So you’ve surprised me. Now why don’t you go back to your hotel and change? You look a fright.”
His men laughed. Balthazar wished he could beat the smug half-smile from Bekker’s face. Sudden rage flooded him. For once, he could think of no cutting retort – or at least, not one that wouldn’t get him killed. He spun on his heel and strode for the door.
“There’s a reception tomorrow night for the Dutch ambassador,” Bekker called after him. “You can come as my guest. I’ll make a few introductions.”
“Sounds smashing,” Balthazar replied without turning.
Lucas waited anxiously outside. He’d wanted to come, but Balthazar wouldn’t let him. Just in case.
“We’re in,” Balthazar said, his tone curt.
“What did the bastard say?”
Balthazar recounted Bekker’s words, his temper cooling as they hurried through the streets. The sun was coming up. “He didn’t deny it. He’s always operated that way. Pitting his followers against each other. Testing their loyalty. Carving out the weak spots.”
“You’ll have to stay on your toes, my lord.”
“I was born on my toes.”
“Sure you want to go through with this? I won’t hold it against you.”
Balthazar sighed. “No, you wouldn’t. But I couldn’t stand myself if I walked away now. He’s thrown down the gauntlet. And he’s got to have a weakness. Everyone does.”
Lucas nodded. “I’ll get a few hours rest and start researching his properties in greater depth.”
Balthazar thought of the mess waiting back at their suite and sighed. “If you weren’t covered in blood and cat hair, I’d stop for a stroopwafel on the way. The cafes will be opening soon.”
Lucas brushed ineffectually at his coat. “Don’t, my lord. Not on top of Armagnac. Here, have a nice digestive.” He fished in his pocket and took out a biscuit. Blew on it to dislodge the clump of orange fur.
Balthazar eyed it askance. “That’s kind of you. But I’ve consumed my quota of hair today already.”
Lucas shrugged and munched on the biscuit as they slipped through a rear service entrance into the Metropole. When they reached the suite, Balthazar shoved the mattress back into place, then toppled like a felled oak. “Don’t wake me,” he muttered. “I intend to sleep all day.”
He hadn’t been hit with black lightning in… Oh, a very long time.
“I have a katen,” he murmured. “A terrible, terrible katen.”
Lucas laid a sheet over him, pulled the drapes shut, and blessed darkness descended.
Chapter 10
On the sixteenth day after leaving Bermuda, the Dreadnought sailed into the prosperous city of Le Havre. Ramparts and fortifications along the coastal hills recalled its past as a war port, but now it served as a bustling hub for barge traffic up the Seine and steamships carrying emigrants to the Americas.
Anne found Gabriel on deck watching the crew as they prepared to moor at one of the long piers. He turned with a wan smile as she approached. They stood in silence for a minute.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” Anne said.
“Nor do I,” Gabriel admitted quietly.
“What if I came to Paris with you?”
He hesitated but only for an instant. “I’d like that. I should have a few days before we go to Brussels.”
She smiled. “I want to see the Eiffel tower.”
Gabriel winced. “Yes, the Exhibition Universale. It will be a madhouse. Do you wish to tour the pavilions?”
She shook her head. “I just want to spend some time with you.”
Gabriel’s gaze moved past her shoulder. Anne turned and saw Julian watching them. As soon as their eyes met, Julian looked away. She’d managed to avoid him on the ship, but she suspected he wouldn’t be pleased at the change of plans.
“I’ll go down and get my valise,” she said. “Do you think the others will mind?”
“Not at all,” he said lightly. “I’ll tell them now. Meet us on the pier. We’ll go to Paris by train. It’s faster.”
Anne nodded and made her way below. She was already packed but diplomatically waited a few minutes to give Gabriel time to break the news to Julian Durand. Then she said goodbye to Captain Dunham and found the five of them waiting with hired carriages. Jacob held the door for her, showing no sign of surprise. Julian ignored her, riding in the second carriage with Miguel and Jean-Michel.
They switched tracks at Rouen for the train to Paris. As Gabriel predicted, the city was bursting at the seams with visitors and Gare Saint-Lazare was a madhouse. The moment they stepped into the street, Anne craned her neck for a glimpse of the exhibition’s crowning jewel.
“Look!” She pointed at the latticed steel structure rising above the Champ du Mars. It was growing dark out and hundreds of gas lamps shone along the supports, with a beacon at the pinnacle sending out beams of red, white and blue light to symbolize the French Tricolour.
Gabriel stared at it for a long moment, expressionless. Then he grunted in distaste.
“It’s very large,” she pointed out.
“So was the Tower of Babel.”
“I think it’s monstrously beautiful,” Jean-Michel Fanastil remarked.
“Or beautifully monstrous,” Miguel Salvado added.
“It’s certainly something,” Jacob Bell said. “What do you think, Julian?”
Durand gave Gabriel a dark look. “I agree. It’s an eyesore that doesn’t belong here.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed and Jacob cleared his throat before the situation escalated. “Let’s find a cab, shall we?”
A line of horse-drawn fiacres waited in front of the station. They hired a pair and crossed the Seine to the Latin Quarter where the Order kept several adjoining flats near the Sorbonne in a lively area of narrow, cobbled streets. After they deposited the luggage, Gabriel went straight to the telegraph office with Jacob and Julian. Anne accompanied Miguel and Jean-Michel to a bistro around the corner for a quick supper. They wanted to walk around afterwards, but she begged off, claiming she was tired from traveling all day. In truth, Anne couldn’t shake a mounting sense of unease. She needed to speak with Gabriel alone — a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to. Perhaps she should have done it on the ship, but she wanted one last day. Something to remember if he never wanted to see her again.
The room was shabby but clean, with a single bed and view of the alley below. Anne didn’t bother unpacking. She unpinned her hair and curled up in bed, listening to the laughter of rowdy students drinking at a bar down the street.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, she thought. And then the choice will be his.
The next morning, Gabriel knocked on her door. She’d already been up and dressed for hours, too jittery even to go in search of coffee, let alone breakfast.
“I have to stop in at the cable office,” he said when Anne emerged with her parasol. “Do you want to walk there with me? Then we can do anything we like.”
She forced a smile and nodded. “I’ll send one myself. I promised Henry Sidgwick I’d keep in contact.” Anne made a wry face. “Since Romania, he’s been very insistent.”
Gabriel glanced at her as they walked down the street. “You mentioned him before.”
“Henry? I thought I’d told you about him. He’s the president of the Society for Psychical Research in London. He has contacts around the world. They send him any reports they come across about supernatural phenomena and he passes on the most promising ones. Most are bunk, of course. Outright fabrications or witnesses who see things staggering home from a tavern at one o’clock in the morning.”
Gabriel laughed. “How do you tell the difference?”
Anne considered the question. “I’ve developed an instinct for it, I suppose. The ones that simply mimic established folklore tend to be false. It’s the deviations I look for. Contradictory or unique details. And who the witness is, naturally.” She smiled. “Believe it or not, children are far more reliabl
e than adults.”
“And if the story is true? What does the Society do about it?”
She smiled. “Nothing. Not if the creature is harmless. I try to observe it in the field. Make sketches if I can. Study its behavior. Diet, mating rituals, habitat.”
“You’re a supernaturalist,” he said with a grin.
Anne found herself relaxing. She grinned back. “Exactly. And then I send it all to Henry for his archives. He’s a lovely man, with a doctorate in philosophy. I hope you meet him someday.”
“Your brother and Vivienne work with him as well, don’t they? Vivienne gave me their card when I met her at Saint George’s.”
“Yes.” Anne glanced away. “But they tackle the more dangerous cases. Ghouls and the like. Creatures that must be sent back to the Dominion.”
At the telegraph office, she dashed off a quick cable telling Henry she was in Paris and would let him know when she was ready to take a new assignment. A telegram awaited Gabriel. He read it and seemed pleased. “I have contacts in Belgium,” he said in a low voice after sending his reply. “They’re coming to Paris tonight with information on Bekker.”
Anne nodded, her stomach turning to lead. They stepped outside and pressed against the window of a haberdashery to avoid the river of humanity flowing along the street.
“What do you want to do now?” Gabriel asked. “We still have most of the day.”
“I’d love to go for a walk.” She frowned. “But there’s so many people.”
“You live in London,” he said in a bewildered tone.
“I’m hardly ever there. Honestly, I don’t care much for big cities.”
Gabriel smiled. “I know just the place.”
They took an omnibus down the Boulevard Raspail and hopped off at the rue Campagne Première, not far from the entrance to the catacombs. The sudden quiet was a balm.
“Montparnasse Cemetery,” Anne said dryly. “Brilliant choice.”
