Father gripped her arm with such strength she winced. “I won’t let them have you.”
Jehanne pulled away. “I’m staying. If nothing else, the demons or whatever you’ve drawn here can take you, but I won’t let you hurt anyone else.” Even with the conviction behind her words, her heart darted to and fro like a hummingbird, and somehow, Moreau seemed larger, closer.
Father turned to Clair and spat, “You are completely useless.”
Clair winced and ducked her head. “I’m sorry.”
He continued, “How difficult is it to keep your eye on a girl before she ruins us all? You’ve always been a waste, ever since I found you in that filthy establishment.”
“Why were you there if it was so filthy?” Clair’s protest was meek, but took such a resolve that heat colored her cheeks pink. “Why employ me if I’m so useless?”
Jehanne shook with rage at Father. Why wasn’t Moreau saying anything? Why wasn’t she? This new Father—God, she still hadn’t mourned the old Father, and she wasn’t certain what to do with a Clair who spoke like her.
Father said, “Because you’re utterly forgettable, and if you happened to die, who would cry for you, hmm? Certainly not your destitute drunkard of a father.”
Clair replied, louder than Jehanne had ever heard, “You’re one to speak of drunkenness!”
“You disgusting, deceptive, pitiful whore—”
Jehanne found her words. “Leave her alone! She’s just as worthy as anyone God’s made, and you’ve no right to judge her.”
Father’s eyes still held a baleful gleam. “This isn’t your concern.”
“So I’ve been told, but yes, it is!” Jehanne protested. “You can’t speak to her like that.”
“I employed her. I can treat her however I like unless she’d like to retreat back to the diseased rat’s nest she crawled out of.” Father snapped his fingers. “Jehanne, go.”
“No, you’re completely mad! You’ve killed people in war, and I understand why, but do you think you can speak to others like this and I’ll let it stand? That you can speak to someone like they’re nothing?”
Father broke. “You ungrateful—you’re defending her, are you? Her, of all people? I’ve given everything for your life, and I won’t see you—”
Ungrateful? Dear God, she was offering to help. Jehanne rested a hand to her collarbone. “It’s mine, my life, my body, and I won’t let her or Marcy or anyone else be hurt. Speaking of which—”
Before Jehanne could inquire about her friend, Clair revealed her hidden hand, and it wielded a knife. When Father saw it, rather than showing alarm, he sneered. “Did you enjoy twisting that into your father’s neck?”
“I did,” Clair answered, “and I’ll do the same to you.”
Before the woman could do anything, Father lashed out and clutched Clair’s wrist. Jehanne reached forward and jerked his hand away. It almost hurt, how his skin burned. Eyes wide for a second, Father rose a hand to strike Clair, and Jehanne grabbed his sleeve—
A hot, biting jolt snapped across her cheek, and Jehanne wasn’t meeting Father’s gaze anymore. She clattered back, flesh yielding to knuckles, and pain surged from her head to her mouth. Burning and strewn on the hard floor, she twitched and snapped so suddenly it was as if something broke.
When she looked up, it was Clair she noticed first, Clair with her hands to her mouth, the knife gleaming like an unnatural smile. Jehanne blinked, rubbed the corner of her lips with the back of her hand, and locked her eyes on the blood. She was mist, devoid of soul. Not here, barely even a witness. Sifting through the bitter syrup of her thoughts, she looked to Father. He was silent, mouth gaping, eyes wet, but she couldn’t find a way to care.
Father said, all the menace and fury melting, “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll explain this later, just leave.”
He offered his hand, but, still feeling its sting, Jehanne sat up, knelt, and looked at nothing but her lap. Her mind skewed and expanded like frozen water, adjusting and twisting in its bone prison.
Nobody could move her; not even God. More than anyone else, Jehanne wanted Marcy by her side because she was truly alone and wanted to be warm and safe again. Even that passed into the roaring Lethe. Again, the pounding against locked doors.
Father took a loud step and said, “Look at what you’ve done. This will be the last time you inconvenience me.”
Clair’s voice was grave and steady. “No, listen to me, you bastard, you swine. You can’t have me, my body, not anymore.” A squelch, a broken wheeze, and wetness, wetness on Jehanne’s nape. Weight collapsed on her. Jehanne gave in to it, let it roll off her.
Gasps. Moreau cried out. A door opened somewhere, and there were shouts and curses thrown, an argument she couldn’t care about because her mind had locked down.
Father left her side. Bullets on both sides flew and chipped at the banister, and there were at least four men in black on the main floor.
Father must’ve knocked her unconscious, because, as she followed his feet, he disappeared over the banister beside her. He was then on the wall below, standing like it was the floor and her world had slanted. Not sparing a look toward her, he freed the braquemard he once showed Marcy, and before Jehanne could shout, could find her mouth, he was on the main floor; she couldn’t tell if he jumped or ran down. He staggered a little when two officers buckled their feet and shot at him, but, because she must’ve been dreaming, he didn’t stop until he raised his sword quickly. Jehanne averted her eyes, but still heard squelching clatters amid her stunned uselessness.
As she forced herself to see the dream again, the hall rippled and became the blue-green of stormy seawater. An invisible hole must’ve been somewhere in the space, a depression making the world crumple.
Moreau—God, she had forgotten he existed—looked the same: no wings, no glowing eyes, yet his feet barely touched the ground as he sauntered. Moreau had no gun, and like Father, he hardly flinched when the officers’ bullets hit him like errant rosary beads. He was so swift, it was as if time skipped, like a shoddy gramophone needle, and he twisted an officer’s head so while the man’s back faced Jehanne, his eyes gleamed up at her in surprise. As Father wielded the sword with ease, a bizarre, practiced grace, and Jehanne couldn’t bring herself to movemovemove, Moreau was at a poor man’s neck, latching on, she thought absurdly, like little pups nursing on their mother. It started off with the gentleness, and despite the beginnings of a struggle, the officer had too little time to properly panic or fight Moreau off. They splayed together on the ground like twisting swan necks breaking under the water’s weight. Father stood over Moreau and beamed wistfully as if recalling the first time he taught his only child to walk. When Jehanne’s eyes followed the banister on each side of her, every person whose name she, in her arrogance, hadn’t bothered to know lay on the blackened floor with their useless pistols.
Jehanne was iron and crumbling wax all at once as she looked to see the weight that’d slumped off and fallen before her. Amid the fading cries, the truth directly in front of her took root: Clair, twitching and convulsing, her neck sliced neatly open, her hand still grasping her knife like a precious childhood token.
Jehanne muttered, “No, God, no no no no no.” She reached forward and brought Clair to her lap, but the woman kept turning her head away whenever Jehanne tried to meet her eyes or cup her face. “Mother Mary, please be kind.” Blood gushed from the woman’s open neck and stained Jehanne, bled through to her skin. The world, once drenched in a lazy sea wash, dried with gun smoke and rust.
Though Clair couldn’t speak words anymore, she mouthed them. Jehanne could only catch a little. Sorry, m’sorry.
Oh, darling. What do you have to be sorry for? Jehanne stroked her hair. Whatever it is, I forgive you. God forgives you. Somehow, those words weren’t enough. Her mind moved again, splintering its barriers. Father’s slap, her head, the blood—
Hay, Catherine, sewing needles, war, smoke, Christ—
Jehanne screamed, and
she remembered everything.
20
Marcy
Marcy’s head throbbed, and scurrying came close to her ear. For a long stretch of time, she was only conscious of pain and skittering. The black of her vision became as gray as a January morning.
With her eyes open, she couldn’t see anything but scythes of light, the crackling of her mind focusing and falling aslant. Marcy rolled onto her back and saw what she believed to be the hole her attackers threw her down. It was steep, smooth, impossible to grab onto, ten feet, maybe. Or fifteen. Or twenty, no, maybe seventeen. If only she had something to stand on. If she looked, she may be able to climb up and back to—where, exactly? Did she really fall from there? Did they carry her down? And who would “they” be? Only shadows clouded her memory.
She teetered up, supporting herself with both aching elbows, and, once she stood, she felt a crusty residue on the back of her neck.
A cough bubbled up, and Marcy winced. When she trailed her fingers up to the crown of her head, they came away sticky. Her mouth was dry. The—dear God, whoever overcame her as she spoke to Maman, they had put her with the demons, or whatever was down here.
They: M. Rais, his servants, surely not Jehanne. Surely. Jehanne was good, and there had to be another explanation for Marcy’s circumstances besides a risen evil man and demons. M. Rais was the man from history, the Monster of Machecoul, but she couldn’t prove Jehanne’s father was him, though a part of her wanted to. Because a monster, a demon, a wolf-man, was easier to reconcile with than a mortal man of flesh and blood and gentle longings who felt sorry for raping, maiming, and killing children for hours, yet he couldn’t stop. She needed to think of him as a monster from an older time.
But her mind was fog, and she was stuck in a pit. Priorities. Marcy closed her eyes, willed away the headache dampening her thoughts. Yes, priorities. She released a slight groan before clamping her mouth shut. No more noises. Maybe the demons didn’t exist at all, but regardless each possible breath and step hardened in her bones as she forced herself into a crouch.
She slowly progressed, but hid in the pockets of darkness at the slightest huff or drip. As she went forward, she encountered lanterns, these archaic-looking, thorny, squat beasts of caged, flickering light. That was good because they made her remember herself and her family. Papa would say to her, “Turn the lights off, poupée. We aren’t in Versailles.” But those had been electric lights, not candles, not lights so frail they’d die from anything as gentle as a breeze.
Her heart seized, though. Anything she could see would see her too. Shivering, Marcy fumbled for ground, a ringing in her ears. The world swam, and she cloaked herself in a sea of slithering black. In the darkness, she swore there was movement, yet nothing came. Then, she heard something, coughing and moaning, deep and ragged. She couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or if the sounds came from one source.
Monstrous gold twined around her ankles like hair, so she shuffled further into the shadows. The blanketing darkness might not even protect her from the light. Hell was surprisingly well-lit, indeed, and demons could probably see her even in the darkest corners.
A procession of slow thuds like footsteps. Marcy stared at the blue-yellow earth until her eyes ached. Something, something breathed on her neck, she swore it did, but nothing was behind her when she looked.
A shout came from somewhere in the dark hollows, then another. Marcy’s breath hitched. It sounded like a man, and the hairs on her nape rose. The shout was ragged, like whoever it was—was it a demon? Marcy didn’t want to go on, couldn’t move her head without it hurting.
Wailing. Guttural sobs carried through the taut emptiness. As she inched forward, Marcy encountered nothing but lanterns. She wished she could blend into the blacker nooks, turn invisible like a nineteenth-century science fiction hero. Her legs rattled to the point she struggled to stand, to walk, and her gums stung as she clenched her teeth. Moving was like wading through an icy river with no paddle or ferryman in sight. The tunnels she came across were like the Paris ossuaries she read about. Shouldn’t think about that, though. Needed to think of a warmer feeling, like the sand between her toes on a spring day. Spring, or did they go to the sea in the summer? Either way, the beach air greened Papa’s eyes, and she wanted that green back.
As Marcy’s mind gained more ground, her attention focused again on the lanterns. It grew harder to make herself inconspicuous, if she could even hide, as she navigated the labyrinth, tunnel upon tunnel, expecting horns to impale her once she turned a corner. Lantern light rose like yellow sulfur. Yellow sulfur, sulfur over summer’s corpse. No, no talk of corpses. How did anybody place them here? M. Rais must have had a ladder, the bastard. Or rope. Must not be that shy with supposed demons.
Marcy pressed her hands against her mouth.
Another echoing shout. Lumbering footsteps thudded through the curved rock. Labored breathing in the tunnel. Marcy crawled and crouched where the most darkness pooled, but in reality, she was likely visible enough for anything that would find her, for whatever lurked nearby. No matter how she twisted or made herself smaller, she couldn’t escape the lights; the pocks in the earth were too shallow.
She inched closer to the stone wall. Could they smell her? Someone or something had known she was menstruating, must’ve smelled it. If so, truth be told, she had little hope of surviving, but she couldn’t stagnate in that mire of thought. No matter how much it seemed her head would burst. She needed to believe God wouldn’t let her die like this.
Whatever slinked about halted, feet scuffling on the ground. Marcy cupped both hands over her nose and mouth. Nothing floated in her mind, nothing with a weight to it, nothing so strong it encompassed everything. Her nails dug into her cheeks. A rhythm rushed in her head. No epiphanies, no final wishes, no pleasant family memories. All that she had were the noises on the other side of the craggy yellow where lantern light played against the black and brown, the moment timed by the rapid drum battering her lungs. Soggy aches in her ribs, limbs, an acute point in her head pounding with blood.
Her own heartbeat and the void flooded her mind, distracted her from noticing if the presence, or presences, had moved on. Even when nothing disturbed Marcy for over a minute, when nothing alerted her of a close person or thing, she refused to budge. Yet, if she didn’t keep going, something would eventually find her. Bitterness filled the hollow of her heart, as did the need to blame someone for her predicament. People, people who thought they could do whatever they wished in the dim, unsupervised corridors of their decaying castles. Rites, sacrifices, Rais’ yellowed words. Stolen blood exchanged for freedom.
A putrid taste flooded Marcy’s mouth. Heat pulsed all the way to her fingertips, and she closed her sore eyes. Couldn’t look. If she didn’t look, it helped. Couldn’t search, couldn’t find. A fleeting note of despair caused her to question if she should even continue.
Why hadn’t anyone saved her yet? God, she wanted Jehanne.
Realizing she needed to be strong, Marcy tried to slow her breathing. She needed to be like the poised movie women in the newspaper ads, the ones across the ocean, like Helen or Pearl. Or Grace, Grace Darmond appealed to her with her dark, soulful eyes and curly hair.
Marcy didn’t release her grip on herself until her breathing slowed, and she registered the pain in her left hand. She’d bitten her palm. She’d never find her way back if she went farther. She possessed no golden yarn, so she froze and remained close to the ground, close to a bulge, a boulder in the pit’s almost perfect design. Stunned and unsure how to proceed, she waited to face a red-mouthed minotaur. A hulking, molten-skinned thing, that was what must be close to her, and she needed to run, run like the Devil nipping at a sinner’s heels.
She didn’t. Marcy stayed in the shadows, so whatever was there with her wouldn’t see her. Breathing, breathing in her ears, might’ve been her own. Her mind emptied, leaked out the back of her skull, and the first onset of hopelessness arrived, the first little tendrils. The blue s
hadows blurred with the lantern’s glow. Her head throbbed. No matter how much she curled into herself, no matter how much she refused to look, the dark stared. The entire clan of shadows inspected her. Crevices, whispers.
Though Marcy, given her age and sheltered life, had never been in perilous caverns, she knew it was unwise to venture toward the loud darkness. She bore all of herself into the dark wall of earth. If she picked a corner to hide in like when she was little, she would live. It was a game; she could only lose if she gave in to looking at the void.
If she died now, her life would mean nothing. But she had people who loved her, she’d had them all along, yet there was that rift, and she’d done nothing to help her home, much less the world, become better in ways that mattered. She couldn’t face darkness alone, yet she did so right then, even when her heart thumped so hard and fast that it came close to giving out like an overheated motor.
The air stilled, tightened with loneliness, then a noise resounded, echoed to the point that Marcy couldn’t tell where it originated.
A panicked voice called, “Help! Help! Anyone, someone, please!”
Marcy’s blood froze; the moment stuck like a fly in sap. Her eyes snapped open. The voice was familiar, but it was a demon trick, a trap, a delusion. It had to be. The Devil trying to fool her.
“Help, please, someone.” The coarse voice pierced her pounding heart, as exact as a doctor’s scalpel. She didn’t call back, even when a name wadded up in her throat. The voice was small, but it sounded like it was by her ear. How long had it called to the darkness before giving up and deciding to start again later? Or worse, had something answered it before slinking back to the tunnels?
A rank, half-earthy odor she couldn’t explain overwhelmed her nose. She imagined the ground vomiting, but it was worse, yet nothing like a pastry left out too long, nothing like the rot she knew. As foolish as it sounded, that was the most experience she had with decay, with death, except for one morning not so long ago. The morning with the singing and smell of fresh bread that she couldn’t think of.
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