Double Cross

by Stuart Gibbs

  He had to sheathe his sword now, needing both hands to climb. He went up into the rafters, past the massive beam that supported Emmanuel, until he reached an open trapdoor at the top. He scrambled through it and found himself in the center of a large, flat square of stone without so much as a safety railing. Below him, to the east, he caught a glimpse of Condé’s massive army gathered outside the wall and the fires burning in the city. He spun around, searching for where Milady had gone. . . .

  Only to see her coming right at him. Her sword gleamed in the moonlight.

  Greg dodged and the blade barely missed him, but he couldn’t avoid Milady. She bowled him over, and both tumbled to the edge of the roof. Greg stopped with his head dangling over the precipice, Milady atop him, her face just inches from his. The last time they’d been this close, she’d been batting her eyes at him, acting as though she was entranced by him. Now he saw only cold, murderous hatred in those eyes. Milady clenched one hand around his neck, digging her nails into his flesh, while she tried to shove him over the edge.

  Greg struggled to fight back, but his strength was almost gone. Climbing the tower had sapped the last of it. And now Milady had the power of the stones. Even though she hadn’t put them together, she was gaining their strength. Her hand was like a vise on Greg’s neck, cutting off his air. Soon she would send him off the edge, and he’d plummet to the street far below.

  “I thought you wanted to rule the world with me,” he gasped. “I thought you wanted me by your side.”

  “I only said that to get the stone, you fool.” Milady’s eyes reflected the distant fires, making them seem a devilish red. “But now that I have them, I don’t need you or anyone else by my side. I can rule this country on my own!”

  Milady started to give Greg the final shove over the edge . . . and then she stopped. Her smile faded, and her eyes now registered surprise.

  Greg looked up. The blade of a sword was now pressed against her neck. Aramis stood above her, holding it.

  “There’s one big problem with only looking out for yourself,” the Musketeer said. “You don’t have anybody to watch your back. Now help D’Artagnan get to safety.”

  “Or what?” Milady sneered. “You’ll kill me? If you do, he’ll drop and die himself.”

  “I know,” Aramis replied. “I have no intention of killing you if you don’t comply. Instead, I’ll just cause you a great deal of pain. I assume you don’t want a hideous scar on that perfect neck of yours.” Aramis spoke with a determination neither Greg nor Milady had ever heard in him before. He pressed the sword deeper into her flesh.

  Milady winced in response. Her eyes narrowed in anger, but unlike Dinicoeur, she had the presence of mind to control her rage. She pulled Greg back onto the safety of the roof and removed her hand from his neck.

  Greg gasped for air, relieved to be alive.

  “Now hand D’Artagnan the stones,” Aramis demanded. “And know this: Now that he is safe, if you try anything untoward, I will kill you.”

  Milady might have been conniving, duplicitous, and traitorous, but above all else, she valued her own life. Aware that she was beaten, she took the halves of the Devil’s Stone and pressed them into Greg’s hands.

  For a moment, Greg stared at them in amazement, unable to believe that after so long, he finally had both pieces of the Devil’s Stone.

  He looked to Aramis. “You saved my life,” he said.

  “Of course,” his friend replied. “We’re a team. All for one . . .”

  “. . . and one for all,” Greg finished.

  And then, from the east came a thunderous crash. Greg spun around. In the light of the fire from the blazing city, he could see that a portion of the city wall had collapsed. Now Condé’s men were streaming through the gap into the city.

  Paris had fallen.

  EIGHTEEN

  ATHOS WATCHED FROM THE RAMPARTS AS THE BATTERING ram slammed into the wall. The ground trembled as the stones came tumbling down. A mighty roar went up from Condé’s army and the soldiers funneled toward the gap. Athos and his men fired their last arrows, hitting a few of the enemy in the legs and arms and taking them down, but they might as well have been throwing sticks at a tidal wave.

  At the same time, on his other flank, a drawbridge dropped from a siege tower onto the top of the wall. Condé’s men streamed over the ramparts.

  “Abandon your posts!” Athos yelled, although in truth, the few members of the guard who had stayed this long were already deserting. Athos raced down the steps from the ramparts to the ground.

  The opposing army poured into the city, wielding weapons and torches. They swarmed through the wall and over it. Athos tried to sprint for the safety of the alleys of Paris, but his wounded leg finally gave out on him. Pain shot through it, and he tumbled to the cobblestones. No one stopped to help him. Instead, the guards he’d commanded—even Henri—disappeared into the alleys. Athos didn’t bear them any ill will, though. He understood: Anyone who stopped for him would fall behind, and falling behind meant death. Condé’s men would show no mercy.

  Athos rolled over to find the enemy coming at him from all sides. His sword lay on the ground nearby. Even though he could no longer stand, he picked it up and brandished it menacingly. If he was going to die tonight, he would at least take some of the enemy down with him.

  He only hoped that his death wouldn’t be in vain.

  The triumphant roar of Condé’s army echoed through Paris. Even all the way across the city, in the bedchamber of King Louis, they could hear it. Everyone glanced out the window toward the eastern wall. They were too far to see the individual men in the darkness, but they could see the light of the enemy torches moving into the city.

  Porthos’s heart sank. Condé grinned cruelly. He called to King Louis, who was still battling Condé’s man. “Put down your sword, cousin! As you can see, there is no longer any point in fighting. Your city has fallen. Your reign is over.”

  “If you drop that sword, he’ll kill you,” Porthos warned. “He’ll march you out into the town square and make a spectacle of your beheading. It is far better to die with honor.”

  Condé wheeled back on him, waving the tip of his sword in Porthos’s face. “It doesn’t matter how much honor you display in this room,” he snarled. “The victor is the one who tells the tale. And when people ask how you went, I will tell them you showed no honor at all, that you groveled for your life and cried like a little girl. What do you think of that?”

  “To be honest, I’m not too fond of it,” Porthos replied. “Let’s try something else.”

  There was a flash of silver, and Condé’s sword was knocked from his hand. He spun to find Catherine armed with Porthos’s sword, which she now directed at his throat.

  “For starters, we could see how you behave when faced with death,” Catherine said.

  “Yes,” Porthos said. “I like that idea considerably better.” With Catherine keeping Condé at bay, he lunged across the room to help the king. Condé’s man had Louis backed into a corner, but Porthos blindsided the man and slammed him headfirst into the wall. He groaned in pain and went down in a heap.

  “A thousand thanks,” Louis said.

  “It is my honor, Your Majesty,” Porthos replied.

  Now that he was on the wrong end of a sword and his men were out of commission, Condé’s bravado quickly faded. “Killing me won’t solve anything,” he said, his voice quavering. “In fact, you need me. My army has taken Paris. Soon, they will mob the castle. The soldiers will tear you all limb from limb unless I tell them to spare your lives.”

  Porthos, Louis, and Catherine all shared a look of concern. None had intended to kill Condé, but the man had a point nonetheless. Out the window, the flood of torches was now spreading farther into Paris. Even though Louis’s life had been spared, it seemed that his rule had come to an end.

  “I assure you, you will not die by any of our hands,” Louis said diplomatically. “And in return, I ask the same of you. I wil
l abdicate my throne peacefully in return for you sparing the lives of all who have served me.”

  Condé smiled. “Of course.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Porthos warned. “Condé’s word is no better than that of a snake. The moment his army gets here, he’ll throw us to the dogs.”

  “What other choice do I have?” Louis asked sadly.

  Before Porthos could answer, there was a blinding flash of light atop Notre Dame.

  The moment Greg put the two halves of the Devil’s Stone together, an incredible surge of energy burst forth from them. He had experienced it once before, in the Louvre, when Michel Dinicoeur had first made the portal to the past, but the sheer power of it still caught him by surprise. It rolled out from the stone like an invisible wave, so strong that it knocked Aramis and Milady off their feet and nearly sent them skidding over the edge of the bell tower.

  But that was nothing compared to the power that Greg could now feel inside him.

  He felt invincible. No, he knew he was invincible. Anything he wanted . . . his greatest desire . . . could be his.

  If he chose, he could be immortal as Dinicoeur had been. If he wanted, he could be powerful, as Milady had desired. He could almost feel the stone speaking to him, filling his head with ideas about what he could be, the greatness he could have if he harnessed its power. Forget about Louis or Condé. He could be the ruler of France. And he could rule it forever, immune to the petty fears of mere mortals. If he wanted, the army below would bow down before him and install him on the throne.

  The whole purpose he’d wanted the stone for, the reason he’d sought it—to get back home again—seemed like a foolish idea. A waste of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. What would the point be? If he went back to Queens, he’d only be an anonymous, insignificant, unhappy teenager again. But if he stayed here and used the stone the right way, he could be one of the most powerful men in history. Sure, he might be changing the future of the world, but who cared? Why couldn’t his name go down in the history books?

  Do it, Greg thought, although he wasn’t sure whether it was actually himself thinking it or the stone doing it for him. Make yourself king. Make yourself immortal. Make yourself invincible forever. Your greatest desire will come true.

  Greg opened his mouth, prepared to say the words.

  And then he saw Aramis.

  His friend was staring at him in fear, as if he knew Greg was about to be corrupted by the stone.

  Then Greg looked to Milady. She was staring at him with her hypnotic eyes, basking in the power of the stone. She, too, seemed to know what was in his mind, and she certainly approved.

  And then Greg looked down to the city beneath him. For the moment, the attack had ceased. The explosion of light atop Notre Dame had grabbed everyone’s attention, and now all eyes were looking his way. The people of Paris and the soldiers of Condé’s army all stared up in awe and fear and amazement. Even though he was far away and in the dark, Greg could somehow sense Athos, surrounded by the enemy, seconds away from death. He could sense the others, too, when he thought about them: Porthos and Catherine and Louis and his parents. He held all their fates in his hand.

  He looked back to Aramis, and the inscription from the crypt came back to him: To all who would use the stone, beware. Know the difference between what you desire and what you need.

  The tempting voice in his head faded away. Those desires, Greg knew, were not his own. He didn’t really care about power—and as Dinicoeur had proven, immortality was a curse, rather than a gift. That was why they called this “the Devil’s Stone,” because it tempted you with what was wrong. Even wanting to simply go home was a selfish desire. It didn’t serve anyone but his parents and himself.

  No, there was one thing he truly desired. One thing the world needed.

  Paris had to be saved.

  Greg unleashed the power of the stone.

  There was a sudden burst of light even greater than the first. It radiated out from Greg and rocketed into the sky. All the people in Paris gazed up at it in wonder.

  Then another wave of energy exploded out, only this time, Greg could control it. It blew through the city streets and knocked Condé’s soldiers off their feet. It snuffed out their torches and doused the burning buildings. Their war machines collapsed. Their swords bent into useless chunks of metal. Their wonder turned to terror.

  And they ran.

  They ran in fear of whatever unknown power protected Paris, aware only that it was great and terrifying and that it didn’t want them there. The soldiers dropped their weapons and scrambled back over the ramparts and raced back through the hole in the wall. They abandoned their camps outside the city and fled into the surrounding countryside, desperate to get as far from Paris as they could.

  Within a minute, the city was free of invaders, and Condé’s army was in full retreat.

  Greg felt the power dissipate, as though the Devil’s Stone was spent. The light dimmed until, instead of a blinding beacon, there was only the stone glowing in his hands.

  Greg looked to Aramis again.

  His friend was laughing, thrilled by what had happened. “I think you just saved France,” he said.

  NINETEEN

  ARAMIS AND GREG CAREFULLY LED MILADY DOWN through the bell tower. They would have tied her hands, but there was no way for her to climb down the ladder from the roof that way, so instead they had to proceed with caution. Greg had no doubt that Milady was still plotting to get the upper hand in any way she could—and if that involved shoving them through the flimsy rail to their deaths at the bottom of the tower, she’d do it. Thus, he kept both halves of the stone safely tucked away in separate pouches and his sword trained on Milady’s back. It took far longer going down than it had coming up, and by the time they reached the base, the city was already celebrating.

  A great number of people had gathered in the plaza in front of the cathedral. It seemed as though half of Paris was there—and all of them wanted to know what had happened at the top of the tower. Several were relatives of Aramis, including the family members who had been so kind as to give Greg shelter after the last time he’d had a battle in the tower.

  “Aramis!” they called, speaking for the crowd. “What happened up there?”

  “A miracle,” Aramis replied with a smile.

  This seemed to be enough for most of the people, who cheered in response. Church bells began to ring in triumph all over the city, so the priests at Notre Dame realized they had better literally chime in. Soon, Emmanuel was ringing as well.

  The only person who wasn’t happy was Milady. Now that they were safely on the ground, Aramis got some rope and cinched her wrists behind her back. Throughout it all, she didn’t say a word. She simply kept her eyes narrowed at Greg with disgust.

  “Gregory!” Mom and Dad had made it out of the ancient city. They shoved through the crowd to hug their son tightly. Greg hadn’t seen them so happy in months.

  “D’Artagnan!” Athos came from the other direction. He’d found a piece of debris and was using it as a crutch. He, too, gave Greg a hug, any distrust he’d ever felt long gone. “That was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Greg admitted sheepishly.

  “It was incredible,” Athos said. “I thought I was done for. One second, there was an enemy mob around me, ready to hack me to pieces, and the next they were all running for their lives. You should have seen the terror on their faces! I don’t think they’ll stop running until they get to the sea.”

  “So, the stone did all that?” Mom asked.

  “Yes,” Greg replied. “When you put the pieces together, they have far greater power than I ever imagined.”

  Aramis tilted his head toward Milady. “Let’s get her to the palace, shall we? We can lock her up in the dungeon there.”

  “Plus, we need to see how the others fared.” Athos looked worried as a thought came to him. “If Milady got loose, then Condé must have as well.”

  “Everyone is all right,
” Greg told them. “I could sense them all before, when I was up there. I can’t explain it, but . . . Porthos, Catherine, and the king are all alive and well.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t believe you,” Aramis told Greg. “But I’d like to see that with my own eyes.”

  They all set off through the city. Their path took them over the Bridge of Saint Denis again and past the house where Greg had rescued his ancestors. As he stared at the still-smoking wreckage, he couldn’t believe that had only happened a few hours before. This day had been the longest of his life. It felt like months had gone by. And yet he no longer felt exhausted, though he had no idea whether this was from the power of the Devil’s Stone or adrenaline or the sheer joy of having succeeded in thwarting the enemy.

  As they passed onto the right bank of the river, Milady brushed close to Greg. “Your friends may all be very proud of you,” she whispered, “but you’re a fool. All that power and you don’t even know what to do with it.”

  Greg fixed her with a hard stare. “No,” he said. “You’re the one who wouldn’t know what to do with it. You don’t understand the stone at all.”

  “What do you mean?” Aramis asked.

  Greg realized everyone else had heard him and was looking at him with great interest.

  “It’s true that the stone can give you whatever you desire, but I think that’s the catch as well.” He turned to Aramis. “Remember when you figured out how to translate my great-great-grandfather’s diary? The last page was missing.”

  “How could I forget?” Aramis asked. “It was about to tell us something important about our enemies.”

  “‘Hopefully, you will never have to confront Dominic, but if you do, there is something else you must know,’” Greg recalled. “I remember because I read that over and over again. It was so frustrating. But now I think I can guess what those pages would have said.”