Claude had heard Basir explain before, but he’d never considered the larger implications of his condition. When you boiled it down, his magic and soul had transferred into an appropriate recipient for it, granting him continuous access to his power and complete sentience. Not unlike exocores, except Basir had chosen this form, and his magic wasn’t forcefully sapped out of him. Livia had questioned if the people trapped in exocores remained conscious, and as he listened to Basir detail the limits of his body to a very inquisitive Adèle, Claude concluded they must be. Basir certainly felt and heard what happened around his restaurant. Claude’s stomach tightened. What must it be like, to stay stuck in his basement, knowing someone was trying to help but deprived of news? He ought to update them, talk to them. Livia had always greeted them when she went downstairs, but he had never really understood. Watching Basir speak of his transformation, a full human being made of crystal, drove it all home. Every single exocore in his basement contained a person. Livia had instinctively seen them for what they were, and he wouldn’t fail to do so again. First, however, he needed to know if there were any here he should come back for. He waited for a lull in the others’ conversation to shift the topic.
“Can I ask you a business question? You haven’t changed to new power sources either?”
“You mean exocores?” Basir pursed his lips. “I have not, and I never intend to.”
Disgust had flitted through his expression, as if the very thought sickened him. Had Basir felt it, too? If they’d unsettled Claude, then several witches must have been uneasy around exocores. He ought to ask Zita if any rumours had spread in the community. In fact, he really should go back to talk with Zita and explain what he could. He had completely forgotten her, too.
“Why not?” Claude asked. “Not cost efficient?”
Basir stared at him, measuring his words. Claude recognized that expression: he didn’t know what was safe to voice. “You could say I’m old-fashioned like that. Besides, if local news is to be believed, a bright and young thief would come along and snatch them away from me.”
Adèle stiffened, her gaze hardening at the praises uttered by Basir. Claude struggled not to smile. It helped to hear his trusted friend subtly agree with his latest enterprise. More would if they knew the reasons behind it. Perhaps even Adèle, provided she managed to step back… and that her sister wasn’t a part of this. The very idea nauseated him, and he’d had to set down her profile when he had first run into the speculation about Emmanuelle and exocores. But this was something else he could probe during the evening: how much did Adèle know, and was her sister involved at all? He hoped not.
“But enough of me,” Basir declared, drawing Claude out of his thoughts. “I’m sure you came to be together, not to listen to me. The menu’s changed a lot, Claude, but I still have my tagine.”
He’d blushed at the slight inflexion on “together” and all it implied, but opted not to correct Basir. “Let’s go with that, and drinks.”
Adèle ordered an apricot beer to accompany the meal, and Basir walked away. His feet fused and unfused with the ground at every step, their colour sometimes shifting with the floor. Adèle’s gaze trailed him until he reached the back wall and strode straight through it. They could see his form on the other side, blurred by the glass between but still moving. Claude paid more attention to Adèle’s reactions than Basir’s steps, afraid to perceive hints of disgust in it, but he found only bewildered joy. An invisible knot untwisted in his stomach.
Adèle returned her focus to him. “I’m glad I let you pick our spot. I haven’t been in Val-de-mer long enough to know interesting places.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life but always visit the same handful of venues, honestly. Basir’s deserves more love. Besides, it helps spark conversation.” Especially regarding certain sensitive subjects, but even in general it gave people a first topic to discuss, from which they could flow into others. Claude smirked at Adèle and added, “Perhaps I was worried you’d have nothing worthwhile to say.”
She laughed, her smile widening as she pushed his leg with her feet, under the table. “You wouldn’t. You’re too nice for that.”
“I have a mean streak, but I mostly use it on… Livia.”
Why did he not think his words through before he started his sentences? Claude’s voice had broken before the end, fear and grief overtaking his control and forcing an awkward pause. Adèle frowned at his reaction, peering carefully at him.
“Your poor sister hardly seemed deserving of your mean streak. How is she, by the way?”
“I’m not sure.” He knew better than to lie outright. Adèle would see through it instantly and only question further. “She left earlier than expected to deal with personal problems and I worry about her.” Almost not a lie, and the closest Claude could get to the truth. “But sometimes you need to trust your siblings can take care of themselves, right?”
“Watching from the sidelines is always the hardest.” Adèle leaned back into her chair and sighed. “Don’t stay far away too long if you can help it. I regret not being with Em more often after her husband died.”
“Em? Is that your sister living here?”
Guilt surged as Claude pushed the topic away from Livia and closer to Adèle’s sister. It didn’t feel right, this fishing for information, but what choice did he have? He hoped he’d have a chance to explain one day. Whatever mess he created searching for Livia, he could deal with it once she was safe.
“She is,” Adèle said. “Emmanuelle Duclos, the star of the family!” She laughed, casting an arm out as if introducing a celebrity. “She’s the mind behind the coal burner powering your bakery, and a pioneer in energy tech.”
Claude’s heart hammered in his chest. How was he supposed to stay casual? This was what he’d come to hear. “So she worked on the exocores, too?”
“Nah. She doesn’t even know how they managed it. Says the entire scientific community is kept in the dark.”
“No pun intended?” Claude asked, burying his relief under a snort of amusement.
She could be lying, but he didn’t believe that—didn’t want to. Light-headed from hope, he clung to the small bit of humour to keep himself grounded into the conversation. Adèle frowned, and it became obvious she hadn’t meant to use such an appropriate expression. Claude’s laughter redoubled until she caught on.
“Oh! No, actually.” She grinned, and Claude’s insides melted away. “I guess I’m witty even when I don’t try.”
Basir arrived with their respective plates and drinks, and for a while they both forgot about conversation and ate heartily. Claude’s recent diet had consisted mostly of leftover pastries and quick tomato sandwiches, and the solid food in his stomach felt wonderful. Adèle wasn’t halfway through her plate by the time he’d finished his. Between her constant smile and his delicious meal, a pleasant buzz covered his mind. Part of him wanted to talk about everything except exocores. He forced himself to continue the conversation where they’d left it anyway, hoping to learn more about Adèle’s sister.
“So if she’s not behind the cores, what does she think of them?”
Adèle’s eyebrows shot up. She finished her bite slowly, mulling her words over. “You know that feeling when someone teases you with a secret, but won’t say what it is? That’s her relationship with exocores. She’d love to discover how they work and what’s renewable about them.”
So would Claude. Witches were not a source of infinite energy, unless they planned on force-breeding people. The very thought sent a shudder up his spine. Would they, if they needed to? At this point, he didn’t put it past them. And they had Livia… He tried not to let his frustration, fear, and disgust affect him. All these questions got him was more guilt. If Emmanuelle Duclos was directly involved, Adèle had no idea. Neither could lead him to Livia, either, and right now he cared about nothing else.
“Wouldn’t we all?” Claude asked.
“Maybe Claire does.”
Claude tense
d. Adèle had dodged that topic earlier, but perhaps her now-empty mug diminished her reluctance to breach the subject. Did he want to hear what she had to say? It might hurt more than it’d help. Yet the opportunity to get an honest opinion was not one he could pass up.
“Your thief? So you think the article is right about her?” Reading it had left Claude breathless and exposed. He hadn’t expected to wake up with his likeness on the front page, and that day he doubly thanked his binder and the looseness of his clothes. He both loved how the rendering captured his fatness in action, climbing and escaping, and he feared others would recognize his body shape. The article itself had felt like Nsia Kouna had been trailing him the whole time, taking notes, exposing his strategy and casting suspicions on Montrant. Claude hoped people would read and believe it, and it had been an immense relief not to be presented in a negative light. He’d wondered if he ought to track them down and make an ally out of them.
“Parts of it, perhaps. We always verify, but some patterns are too strong to be a coincidence. You learn to investigate. Élise thinks it’s a waste of time, but…” Adèle shrugged, and determination widened her smile. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
Claude hoped they wouldn’t. They couldn’t have gathered that much information on him. He’d been careful to pick his targets almost randomly, changing quartiers and streets on a regular basis. But Nsia Kouna had pulled back his jewelry-stealing cover, and rich people would be warier and protect their cores. At least he knew his next steps: Emmanuelle herself, then Nsia Kouna. Judging by their article, Nsia Kouna had had no more luck than Claire and Livia digging out precise names to track down, or they didn’t have enough evidence to publish. Emmanuelle, however, could very well be at the heart of this mystery. He prayed to the nine saints Adèle’s sister had nothing to do with it, and that either her or Nsia Kouna would help him crack Montrant Industries’ secrets.
He had a harder time staying focused through the rest of their non-date, his mind drifting back to the exocores and the newspaper while Adèle chatted about her old job. Only when she mentioned the bakery she used to frequent did he successfully set his worries aside. Claude leaned forward as she described the selection of baguettes they had sold, and which types she missed. He took mental notes, promising himself he could experiment along those lines. He’d never specialized in baguettes because of his competitor down the road, La Bague Étoilée, which offered a wide array of them. They didn’t have counter space and coffee, however, and customers dropped by to leave almost as quickly. Claude had favoured a rest area and pastries, allowing him to fill a different purpose in the neighbourhood. Adèle eventually admitted she did grab baguettes at the other place every now and then. He laughed before absolving her of her guilt, and the smile she answered with melted his insides. He was glad he had accepted this night out, and not only for everything new he’d learned. Talking about dough and business allowed him to relax, and he had needed to recharge.
He might not get another chance.
-11-
LA NATURE DES EXOCORES
Claire landed on the balcony with a soft squish from soaked boots and the splash of water. The day’s downpour had slowed without quite stopping, making her rooftop trek across Val-de-mer more dangerous than usual. At least she’d arrived. Emmanuelle Duclos lived a single street away from the manors Claire had investigated, searching for Clémence—close enough for her initial suspicions to resurface. Adèle’s smile had melted them, but Claire knew better than to let that be her final guide. She’d been attracted to assholes in the past. Her desire was a terrible judge of goodness.
She hurried inside, glad to escape the water pounding on her head. The patter of rain on windows followed her as she entered a guest room. Her cape dripped on the beige rug. Claire wrung it—she preferred to leave a pool here rather than a trail all over the house, where anyone could spot it. Her damp clothes clung to her thick thighs and belly, and she wondered if anything was more disagreeable than drenched fabric hugging her skin like that. She tugged at it with a sigh, then put that thought out of her mind. Comfort would have to wait.
Claire stalled at the guest room’s door for a moment, listening for sounds and moving into the corridor only once she knew it would be safe. Clouds obscured the dim moonlight, so she progressed extra slowly, one hand trailing on the wall. Where to, though? With exocores, she began her search with basements and cupboards under large staircases, where people often installed the metal casing supporting them. Tonight, however, she needed to find the master bedroom. Claire hoped a methodical sweep of the manor would suffice, and, since she’d landed in a bedroom on the second floor, she started there. It might have others.
Claire did her best to stay silent, but the squish of her boots and slosh of her clothes echoed in the corridor. It didn’t matter how much she crouched or walked on the balls of her feet or held the cape, rain had made her noisy. She often paused, listening for sounds—any hints that an alert had been raised. None. Emmanuelle’s manor seemed unstaffed and unguarded. Empty, even. Good.
Claire opened doors as she went, her lips pursing at the amount of wealth casually displayed. Nothing distasteful exactly, but between the huge house, numerous paintings, and nice rugs, she couldn’t help wonder how much money Emmanuelle Duclos had made from her coal burner. Unless part of it came from exocore payments, too. Claire suppressed the thought—she had no proof yet, and she hoped never to find it. Her hands clammy from stress and rain, she moved past the door… only to be assaulted by a fast and dark shape. Claire quelled down a surprised scream as a tortoise cat dashed for her cape and snatched at it, claws out. She shooed it away, her heart hammering a million times a second as the cat changed direction and ran off, proud of its hit-and-run. Claire stayed put, certain she would die from the sudden panic, torn between laughing and crying. She should have expected pets: Adèle had mentioned her sister’s love of cats before. When the shaking in her hands returned to normal, Claire set off again.
She eventually reached an area where the rooms no longer seemed unused. Instead of being tidy under a film of dust, they contained small clutters on tables and the furniture was slightly ajar. Someone lived in these. And… was that light around the corner? Claire squinted, her heart pounding. She’d found her target.
As she crept closer to the door, Claire reviewed her plan—if it could be called that. She wished she’d prepared for this conversation better. Either Emmanuelle Duclos was involved in the exocore mess, or she could become a great ally. An insider in witch-related power technology might point her in the right direction, get Claire moving forward again. Because right now? Time was ticking for Livia, and Claire’s only other lead was a journalist who was liable to ask for interviews and scoops in exchange for help.
She curled her fingers around the cool doorknob, stopping for one last deep breath, to steady herself. Drip. Every drop of water on the lacquered wood unnerved her, sinking deep into her bones, cold and accusing. Drip. Drip. They reverberated in Claire, marking the seconds slipping by as she paused, the seconds lost for Livia. Drip drip drip. Your sister is dying, they said, you’re running out of time, stop wasting it.
Claire shoved the door open, nervous energy slamming it against the wall on the other side. She jumped at the sound, surprised by her own strength, then snapped her attention back to Emmanuelle. Adèle’s sister sat rigid in her bed, clad in nothing but a loose nightgown. A sharp gasp escaped the woman at the intrusion and she clenched the thick tome on her lap. The resemblance with Adèle was unmistakable: long nose, dark hair, and strikingly beautiful.
Like the rest of the manor’s decoration, Emmanuelle had picked her bed and sheets with tasteful opulence. Intricate motifs covered the heavy duvet and were echoed in the top of her four-poster bed. The thick pillows made Claire wish for a nap, and she fought the cumulated exhaustion of the last days. Emmanuelle stared at Claire, plump cheeks flushed in the dim glow of her nightlight, her frown eerily similar to Adèle’s. The silence stretched, words fl
itting away from Claire, refusing to form a coherent sentence. She really should have prepared for this.
“Yes?” Emmanuelle’s flat tone surprised Claire. No fear in there. “Are you waiting for me to call the police? I know one, at least, who’d love to get her hands on you.”
And not, sadly, in the way Claire would have enjoyed. She cleared her throat. “N-no! I have questions.” Eloquent. She closed the door behind her, buying herself time to sort her thoughts. “I’m sorry for intruding. Well, not really, but I would be under different circumstances.”
“You should be. You’re interrupting an incredibly important read on the thermodynamics of magic and how they defy our current understanding of physics. I might forgive you, but only provided you bring significant contributions to a new framework and revolutionize our obsolete models.”
Emmanuelle slung one word after the other without the slightest hint of mirth. Straight-faced, mildly offended, utterly confusing to Claire. Was she joking? She had to be!
“A tall order,” Claire said with an awkward chuckle. “You can’t expect me to help with…” She gestured at the air.
“I don’t, no.” A smile softened her expression. “I wasn’t serious. Except for the part about the important read. You did interrupt that.”
“Whew!” Claire grinned. “What a relief. I did come to talk science, though.”
“Really?” Emmanuelle set her bookmark down, closed the tome, and pushed it aside. “You could have knocked and asked, then.”
“With my likeness on the city’s biggest newspaper? Doubtful.” Claire readjusted her mask. She preferred to enter uninvited than to have police after her before she could even ask questions. At least Emmanuelle Duclos never had a chance to call for help. Still, it was best to get straight to the point. “Tell me about exocores.”
Emmanuelle’s eyebrows shot up. “So it is true. The Exocore Thief. That’s what you want.”
Claire had yet to decide if she loved or hated the title. They didn’t understand; she wouldn’t care about the cores if not for the souls imprisoned within. But, if her fame could bring attention to the evil at hand, all the better. She might use that against those behind Montrant Industries and the witches’ disappearance once she knew precisely who to blame.
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