The Shadow War

by Lindsay Smith

  Liam nodded slowly, his thumb making slow circles over the back of Daniel’s hand.

  “He was always obsessed with medieval mysticism, alchemy, all that nonsense. Convinced he was the greatest, that his breakthrough would make some kinda celebrity out of him. I’m sure he’d cozy up to all kinds of monsters to get the power he thinks he deserves—and that includes Kreutzer.”

  “You think Kreutzer helped him find a way out of the shadow realm?”

  “He must’ve. Though someone like Pitr . . . he probably likes that world better than our own. There, he gets to play God.” Liam shook his head. “There’s no telling how much his time in the shadow realm has twisted him. And if Kreutzer’s offering him the manuscript, a permanent way to link our two worlds . . .”

  “You want the manuscript too, though.”

  Liam’s thumb stopped. Shadows stretched along his face, and the air between them felt suddenly cold. “We need that energy. All of it. And if we’re gonna have it, then someone has to be in control of the gate between the two worlds. Better me than him.”

  Daniel watched him for a moment. “Are you so certain it isn’t the corruption driving you?”

  Liam blinked. “I—no. I can resist it. I have been resisting it, I promise.” He scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “And once the bridge is open—”

  “But what if instead you were to close it for good?” Daniel asked. “Seal the rifts, like you and Phillip talked about. So no one could access it. Not you, not them.”

  Liam was quiet a minute too long. “That isn’t a choice for me.”

  Something unfolded inside of Daniel, like a tightly clenched fist finally forced to relax. He knew what it was to have no choice. He’d been working his way through the SS with every chance he got, but now they stood on the precipice of an incredible discovery. Kreutzer was sure to be there. Heinrich Himmler wouldn’t want to miss such a momentous event. So many SS officers, ready and waiting . . .

  His heart sank. It was a suicide mission, no matter what Liam thought. Especially if Pitr was there, ready to counter him. He couldn’t send Liam to his death—he couldn’t bear it.

  This ambitious, mad, and maddening boy—he deserved to live. He didn’t have to wallow in the darkness any longer, desperately seeking control. But for Daniel, the darkness was the only possible ending to his path. The wrong Eisenbergs had paid with their lives; he had to repay that debt. His debt, and no one else’s.

  “Don’t you see?” Liam asked him. “I can harness the shadows and keep them out of the Nazis’ grasp. I’m strong enough to do it. I can end the war.” He looked hard at Daniel. “You’ll be free.”

  There was no freedom for Daniel. But he smiled, the pain of it sharp. Liam didn’t have to know what it would cost.

  “Daniel,” Liam breathed. He swallowed, the sound so loud Daniel felt it like a blow. Liam’s lips were parted, and Daniel yearned to lean in . . .

  “I’ll fight for you, Daniel.” His eyelashes fluttered as he glanced away. “I’ll fight to keep you here. I know I’m obsessive, disastrous—”

  Daniel laughed, throaty, and climbed onto Liam’s lap. With a gasp, Liam’s arms fell open, inviting him closer. Daniel’s knees bracketed Liam’s hips as he settled onto his thighs.

  “I’d rather fight along with you.”

  Liam started to laugh, but Daniel quieted him with his mouth. The sound dissolved into the cool darkness of the chalet until they were only two boys, kissing like it could hold off the dawn. Liam’s lips were an embrace all their own; they were salt and sorrow and promises of something Daniel could never deserve. He kissed Liam tenderly, like he might fall apart if Daniel pushed too hard, but then Liam’s hands came to his hips and held him firm. An anchor. A bond.

  It didn’t matter what darkness waited for him. He would have this, this moment of goodness and warmth, before farewell. He used to find release in music, then with a knife in his hand. Though the killing wasn’t over yet, he could experience this, too: a gorgeous, soft, brilliant boy beneath him and a desperate rhythm in his heart.

  Liam’s lashes feathered across his cheek as he pulled back, looked up. “I want you,” he whispered. “I want whatever you’ll share with me. Your words. Your breath—”

  Daniel slid his legs wider until their hips were flush and stifled a groan. Liam’s body was burning, it was so sturdy beneath him, and it did horrible, wonderful things to him.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing,” Daniel confessed. But he wanted Liam to absolve him. He wanted his forgiveness.

  “Whatever you like,” Liam breathed.

  Daniel’s fingertips skimmed Liam’s chest, the buttons of his shirt. Their mouths drew them together again as Daniel worked the buttons open, kissing and gasping for air, kissing and pausing to look into Liam’s eyes, a question at each step. And each time, Liam nodded, biting at his swollen lower lip and stoking that fire fiercer in Daniel’s gut.

  Daniel kissed the pale skin of Liam’s chest, his muscles, the fine golden hairs. God, he was beautiful, lean and powerful where Daniel, in less dire times, had been gentle and soft. He’d been embarrassed by his body then and by the feral thing he’d become, but as Liam stripped Daniel’s shirt away, the sly grin on his face eased Daniel’s fears.

  “Just gorgeous,” Liam murmured, then melted back as Daniel mouthed at his neck. Liam’s back arched and he bucked forward with a groan as Daniel’s hands teased lower, tugged and tugged until finally he worked Liam’s belt free.

  “Show me,” Daniel gasped. “Show me everything.”

  “You’re sure?” Liam’s voice had twisted with yearning, but he held himself very still. Waiting.

  “Yes.” Daniel cupped Liam’s face in his hands, thumbs grazing those strong cheekbones. “Completely.”

  Liam seized him by his hips and rocked forward, and—oh.

  And slowly, fumbling, hands linked to steady each other, they found their way. They moved together, and Daniel quickly realized he’d had nothing to fear at all. Everything felt—right. Like he’d been wearing his shoes on the wrong feet until this moment, like before Liam, he’d never really known how to breathe. He’d fretted for nothing. It was the most natural thing in the world to love Liam Doyle, and the sensations Liam teased out of him, the things he whispered—

  Daniel wanted more of this. He wanted it to never end.

  Just for one night, he dared to believe in an after. Murmuring, kissing, caressing—Liam let him believe.

  The fires would rage tomorrow. The dark depths of Wewelsburg Castle could wait. For tonight, at least, Daniel no longer felt the blade pressing into his back. He forgot, just for a moment, the sword dangling over his head. The world ablaze around them. He felt bliss, he felt this boy he was in love with beneath him, and the rest of the world fell away.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SIMONE

  It was hard to remember now, but Simone had been thrilled she’d been offered the apprenticeship at the Pirripin brothers’ atelier menuiserie off rue Tourneux. The French school system had no use for her once she became a teenager, and she’d worked hard to grasp a new purpose; long hours at the drafting table after vocational classes ended for the day, her hands stained from cyanotype paper and her pencil wearing a groove into the side of her finger, followed by work at the jigsaw and miter saw until sawdust filled her lungs. But she’d wanted it so badly. The vocational schools had taught her, had put her hands to use, when France itself would not. She ached to shape wood into something else altogether, leave her fingerprint in the slate-roofed palaces on the Champs-Élysées or in the mosques of her fragmented memories of Algiers.

  She’d wanted something, like she feared she might never want something again.

  But the atelier was nothing like what she’d expected. Jean-Pierre had no intention of giving his secrets away, and his brother, Jean-Claude, no interest in advancing the career of an
“invader,” or so he said. She became little more than their errand runner, sorting lumber, haggling with vendors, organizing the desk drawers bursting with crumpled receipts that were the atelier’s recordkeeping system.

  So when they came to her with a new project—a project all her own, to manage unsupervised!—she was already looking for the catch.

  She found it as soon as she reached the client’s address.

  “I want you to understand something, mademoiselle,” Monsieur Gaturin drawled, steering Simone through room after room of saccharine opulence with an iron grip on her shoulder. “The bones, yes, the bones of Château à Pont Allemagne are flawless. I don’t want you injecting your foreign . . . sensibilities . . . into this storied estate.”

  Simone could already spot several flaws in the “bones” of the monstrous mansion that, unaddressed, would lead to complete foundational collapse, but Monsieur Gaturin left her no opening to speak.

  “I told those damned brothers this is to be a cosmetic repair only, to restore the carvings to their former glory and save us from this regrettable water damage. You, however, do not appear up to the task.”

  “I have completed all the requisite exams, monsieur.” Simone’s grip on her satchel tightened as she felt her old anger rising. Blistering the air around her. “But if you would rather let your home crumble around you—”

  His nostrils flared like a cobra readying its strike. “Do you dare to speak back to me?”

  “Papa. Are you tormenting the help again?”

  Simone looked up to find the most stunning girl she’d ever seen standing in the peeling, crooked doorway. Not beautiful—not in the way of Château à Pont Allemagne, with its gold leaf and wooden parquet and elegant plaster—but stunning. Her aquiline nose stretched long on a long face and longer neck. Her arms floated, ethereal, at her sides, their pale creamy color framed by breezy teal sleeves. Her lips were brushed a pale rose that nevertheless looked riotous against her bone-white face. And the way her green eyes turned on Simone—

  She was a Gorgon, Simone was sure of it. One look from those eyes and Simone felt made of stone.

  “Do you see this?” Monsieur Gaturin cried, gesturing at Simone like he’d been delivered another man’s suit. “They sent me a bloody Arab. A girl. Not even a woman, a girl, and they think somehow she can salvage the dining hall—”

  “You’re hardly in a position to judge someone’s carpentry skills, Father.” Simone slipped forward silently—she might as well have been floating. “And if you have such a strong dislike of Arabs, then maybe you should stop voting in favor of continued annexation.”

  “That’s quite enough, Evangeline. This is not your concern.” Evangeline—alhamdulillah, but the syllables even tasted good as Simone tested them on her tongue.

  “The dining hall wouldn’t need salvaging in the first place if your tasteless guests hadn’t left the bathwater running while you occupied yourselves with—”

  “Enough. And you dare to wonder why the Villiers’ son fled from you the first chance he got.”

  “No, Papa. I don’t wonder at all.” Evangeline lifted her chin. “I only regret he didn’t do it quicker.”

  Monsieur Gaturin’s hand twitched at his side; Simone knew all too well the gesture of a man just barely restraining himself from delivering a blow. She leaned forward on the balls of her feet, ready to stop him forcibly if necessary. Damn whatever these rich people thought of her.

  Evangeline paused in front of Simone and examined her in a way that felt both formal and gloriously, painfully intimate at once. “You are a carpenter with the Pirripin brothers? You can fix the damaged paneling and carvings?”

  Simone nodded and matched her defiant gaze.

  “Then you are quite welcome here.” Evangeline turned on her delicate heel and, with a viper’s strength, snatched her father’s arm and steered him from the dining hall. “Don’t you have better things to do, Papa? A meeting with the German ambassador or something?”

  Simone wondered if Evangeline herself might not be better suited to that task.

  With a smile, Evangeline turned back around, and Simone’s heart stuttered at the sight of her.

  “Please,” Evangeline said softly. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

  After sketching up her proposed alterations and presenting them to Evangeline for approval, Simone began her work at Château à Pont Allemagne. But it wasn’t easy. She worked slowly, painstakingly, her desperation to do right by Evangeline stifling her progress, sending her elbow skidding every time she tried to carve the perfect cornice piece. She’d spend long hours at the Pirripin atelier, long after the brothers had left for the night, repairing the pieces she’d botched.

  And Evangeline was always at the château—nearly always. She’d sip tea while studying for her entrance examination to the faculté des lettres, sometimes narrating her notes to herself. Or she would play piano—Saint-Saëns or Ravel or Chopin, her delicate fingers too small to hit the big chords, but what she lacked in technical prowess she more than made up for in emotional sway. More than once, Simone had to remind herself to breathe, her heart was so full inside her throat as Chopin’s mournful journey pulled her along and laid her soul bare.

  Once, Evangeline spread out a blanket next to Simone’s drop cloth and unpacked a picnic. A veritable feast, even though she claimed it was nothing, really, just a little something she’d picked up on her way home. Cheese and bread and succulent roasted quail, which Evangeline assured her was every bit as good as the cured jambon she kept for herself.

  Simone never said much during their afternoons together, but she didn’t need to. She worked with her hands like she was untangling all the knots she didn’t know had been present for so long inside her soul. Evangeline filled the vast, chilly mansion with her carefree chatter, and it warmed them both.

  Simone sorted her own life out in her head while Evangeline talked, doling out bits of herself like delicate confections. Her fear of spiders, her disastrous experiment with ballet. Her desultory habit of picking the pockets of her father’s dinner guests, lifting pocket watches, opera receipts, once even a letter from a mistress that would have caused quite an international incident if she’d revealed it. She drew—and drew well, judging by the charcoal sketches of herself that Simone found one afternoon, even though Evangeline laughed it off later.

  But mostly Simone learned of Evangeline’s dream of becoming a diplomat. Like her father. A civil servant of great esteem. And then, a prized wife to someone much like herself, and yet this mystery man was sure to take precedence, her work only a slim shadow of whatever glowing accolades he’d gain.

  This last bit, Evangeline disclosed with her face partially hidden behind the knees she’d drawn up under her chin. But Evangeline wouldn’t admit to being afraid. She wanted—needed—to be too strong for that.

  Slowly, inevitably, Simone’s work drew to a close. She’d been dreading it; she dreamed about her afternoons with Evangeline, who never complained when plaster dust drifted down on her head or when Simone’s finger slipped and she cursed in Arabic. She found herself working slower just to postpone the inevitable.

  Fortunately, Evangeline rescued her in this, too.

  “It’s too gorgeous a day to spend inside,” she declared as Simone finished installing a new panel casing. “I simply must go for a walk. You’ll join me, right?”

  “Your father doesn’t pay me to walk.”

  Evangeline leaned closer, conspiratorial. “My father is detained in a lengthy parliamentary debate on how we should respond to the annexation of Poland, and it’s expected to last well into the evening. So he’s in no position to judge how either one of us spends our time.”

  Simone’s breath fluttered. She’d been taking care with how she dressed, but she was still a girl from the immigrant neighborhood of Goutte d’Or, after all, scraping and scratching and clawing
for work. Evangeline had braided her white-gold hair and coiled it on top of her head; in the sunlight streaming through the room, it gleamed like a halo. Her delicately draped sundress further canonized her. And Simone, well—she wore trousers and a tunic and boys’ leather shoes; wood shavings lurked in every crease of her clothes. Despite her best efforts, tufts of her fluffy hair had drifted free from the cap she’d pulled snug on her head. She had no business walking around Trocadéro—with Evangeline besides.

  Evangeline gave her an assessing look, as if reading her mind. “Let’s brush that dust off you. Maybe I could style your hair?”

  Simone’s breath rushed out of her. “I’d love that.”

  Evangeline winked and beckoned her into the closest powder room.

  She twisted up the sides of Simone’s hair, then joined them with the rest to sweep it into a carefree bun like showgirls wore. There wasn’t much to be done about her clothing—she was too tall and broad-shouldered for anything of Evangeline’s, not that she dared ask—but Evangeline wiped a smudge of grease from her nose and declared her perfect.

  Perfect.

  Simone clutched the word close to her chest, like it might fly away.

  They stepped out onto the promenade, and Evangeline immediately slipped her arm through Simone’s, smiling and staring straight ahead. Simone became painfully aware of her own gait, the way she bobbed and jerked, and tried to even out her paces so she wasn’t yanking the smaller girl around. She couldn’t think of anything clever or insightful to say, but the silence between them carried its own cool melody. Slowly, as they moved further from Château à Pont Allemagne, Evangeline began to relax and pointed out whatever shiny bits caught her attention: an old woman with an oversize hat, a pair of dogs wearing bow ties, a willow tree whose branches shimmered like a waterfall.

  It was a beautiful Paris that Evangeline lived in, impossibly far from Simone’s 18th arrondissement, and the more Simone took it in, the less comfortable she felt.