Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2)

by Baird Wells

  Jerking on the grate, she lost her balance, feet slipping. She tumbled back into the frigid, muddy water below more than once, but finally the makeshift door slid aside. First, she poked up just enough of her head to survey the area. During the struggle earlier, it had been mostly dark and she hadn’t had time to get a good look. They were in a bare clearing, and judging by the dry soil and exposed roots, the soldiers had made it their home some time ago. Pilfered British army crates sat everywhere, heaps of gear lying atop nearly every one. Ammo bags and bayonets lay under rifle slings that hung off trees at the edge of the clearing, coiling toward the ground like snakes. Smoke drifted from a small campfire. It was mid-morning, judging by a sun still low on the horizon, checked by mist rising up through the trees.

  Ty's boot soles were visible across the fire from her, but she could see no more. Nothing moved. There wasn’t a sound besides some songbirds in the copse around her. She dared to come out farther, neck and then shoulders. At last, she climbed free of the hole. She sat, crouched, motionless and watching. She wanted to run to Ty, but the third soldier was here somewhere. He could rush her the second she was in the open.

  Long moments passed, but there were just the incidental noises of the forest.

  She palmed the heavy iron padlock, gripping it at the ready, eyes darting for any movement. One tottering step at a time, she moved closer to Ty, her feet half asleep from sitting and numb from the cold water. She was exhausted and weighed down by a damp hem, adding to her frustration. Reaching Ty, she leaned over him, bracing for signs that her captors had been right. Heart in her throat, Olivia spit onto the back of her hand, holding it over his mouth and nose. She felt nothing, but her hands were so numb from the cold that she wasn’t surprised. Not giving up, she picked up a limp hand and squeezed his index finger. It blanched, then went pink again.

  Idiots. He was not dead, just sedated.

  And for now, on his own. She needed the documents, and she needed a horse, and there was no dragging Ty along behind. Annoyance began to replace relief. She should leave him right there, as punishment for whatever scheme he’d tried to pull without telling her. Softening at the sight of the cuts and bruises on his face, she relented. Huffing and puffing, cursing him in two languages, she managed to drag him out of the clearing and into a cradle of roots on the backside of giant oak.

  She had to move lightly and quickly. Casting about, she selected a shot bag and a sturdy Baker rifle the soldiers had conveniently propped against a tree. There were no knives, but in a wooden bowl beside the fire, she discovered a straight razor. It would do in a pinch.

  With a last glance around to gain her bearings, she loped out into the wood in search of her prey.

  * * *

  Certain she’d found the soldiers' path to and from camp, Olivia lay prone in leaf litter alongside the trail, not daring to move. It was taking longer than she'd expected, and she desperately needed warmth and food. She was just starting to doubt her hiding place when she finally heard a whinny; then voices reached her ears. She tucked the hand with the razor just a bit farther under her side, touched the rifle butt with her toe to be sure of its placement where it rested behind her, and held her breath. Everything was ready; now they simply had to play along.

  “What...look!”

  “I knew it! I told you she would try to run the moment we left. Chevois' let her get loose.”

  “We locked her in, you great ass!”

  “Still, I warned you.”

  “Didn't get far. Do you think she's dead, too?”

  “Look at all that blood on her skirt. It's a fair guess. A fox, maybe?”

  A small cut to the arm combined with damp fabric always looked like a lot of blood. Olivia smiled against the dirt; did the trick every time.

  One set of boots struck the ground, holding still a moment. Come on. Closer, closer. He crept forward one cautious step at a time and prodded her between the shoulders with a bayonet point. He was insistent; it was hard to stay still as it pierced her skin. A moment later, his musket clattered to the ground. She caught the creak of leather, boots creasing as he crouched beside her.

  Olivia flicked the razor open, separating blade from handle.

  He rolled her over.

  He had a moment to feel surprise as she bolted up; she read it on his face, hugging him for all she was worth, but it didn’t last long. The blade's bite was true, gritty through flesh and tendon. She was bathed in a hot dampness that washed over her knuckles. He was limp before her arm finished its arc.

  His companion flailed in the saddle, eyes wide, spittle flying from his lips. He made short, sharp screams, a kind of high-pitched 'ahhh' that was almost amusingly feminine. He could have shot her before she’d reached her rifle, if he’d had any spine. Would he gather his wits and defend himself better than he had his friend?

  He strangled the reins, horse rearing, circling, hooves at last gaining purchase and propelling them back the way they'd come.

  No, he would not.

  That was all right; she had come prepared. Olivia snatched the Baker from beside the elm, then wiped each hand down her skirt in turn, cleaning the blood from slick hands.

  Shouldering the rifle, she led the rider's progress, counting back from five. On two, she took a breath. On one she held it.

  The rifle's crack pierced her eardrums and its butt kicked her shoulder like an eager racehorse. Sulfur filled her nose. Powder smoke, bitter and salty, burned her split lip. The soldier tumbled, halfway between the copse and the farm, and didn't get up. His mount charged off without direction.

  That would damn well get her attention.

  Olivia tiptoed toward the first man's horse, spooked and pacing at the gunshot. He was a fair warhorse, refusing to bolt and was easily tamed. She lashed him to a broken stump a few paces into the trees and set out for the farm.

  * * *

  Ty felt the sensation before he was even aware of his surroundings: He was going to vomit.

  Luckily, there was nothing in his stomach. He realized absently that this had likely kept him from dying while incapacitated. Instead, he wretched fruitlessly until his chest ached, then flipped from front to back, panting. His hands were frigid and he couldn't feel his feet. His face felt like he’d gone ten rounds with Webb while his arms were tied behind his back.

  He could hear Kate's voice, but it came from inside his head. He seized on it, remembering details, trying to get his head to stop spinning. The voice wrote words behind his eyes as it spoke. A letter. Kate's neat loops twining into sentences. Warning that the fresh herbs were more potent than the dried. That had been important. Don't take too much. Well, he’d cocked that up. Thank God he’d built up somewhat of a tolerance for the sedative. What the guard had made him swallow would have killed him, otherwise.

  As it was, he had the worst hangover of his entire life.

  There was a noise from off in the woods, possibly a gunshot. The sound pierced his fogged mind, the awareness that the sound was dangerous. He had to move, escape. The soldiers; he had to find Olivia. He opened his eyes. Nothing focused, and there was a fire near him. Too bright. He shut them again, feeling much better.

  It was harder than before, rolling over. His head swam and for a moment he wasn't sure which direction he was facing. He forgot and remembered more than once that he needed to hide, to reach Olivia. He pressed his fingers into the dirt, gripping something hard just above his head. He arched, pulling forward, but no two muscles seemed capable of working together. He made some progress; knees scraping the dirt reassured him of the fact, but as quickly as he had started, he was spent.

  After a moment of struggling, his brain whispered seductively that it would be so much easier just to stop moving, to go back to sleep. After another moment of trying and failing to recall why he shouldn't, he rested his cheek against the dirt and gave in.

  A distant voice in the back of his mind screamed for attention, cried out that this was wrong, but it was silenced by dark oblivion.
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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Olivia didn't doubt that Thalia had heard the shot. And she would be keen enough to note that it was a single shot.

  She would try to resist, but as with all her indulgences, Thalia would give in. She would have to see her enemies' corpses for herself. Olivia moved slowly, concealed by tall grass, watching the barn she’d discovered by retracing the soldier’s path.

  Olivia estimated that she was no more than fifty yards east of the brown brick farmhouse when Thalia came trotting into view on her ridiculous little pony, clopping along in a southerly direction towards the soldiers' camp.

  It occurred that she still carried the rifle. She could finish d'Oettlinger now, with ease. Palming the rifle and readying to load, she glanced down and cursed, discovering that the shot bag was gone. The first soldier must have grabbed it as he fell to the ground after. That was all right. Low hanging fruit never tasted quite as sweet, and she enjoyed the thought of settling things with Thalia face to face. Philipe’s face, his eyes on hers, flashed through her mind, as painful now as it had been in the moment. The rage in her, numbed by the last few hours as she’d worried about survival, was kindled anew as she watched the baroness clop along. A chilling sense of pleasure filled her at the missing shot bag.

  Somehow, though, she had to goad Thalia into a concealed, controllable space. No wide woods. No chance to run or call for help. She couldn’t risk attention from other camps in the surrounding woods, a possibility of more soldiers awaiting Napoleon’s return. She had to get Thalia into the barn.

  Taking a deep breath, Olivia bided her time. Flexing tense fingers, she studied the barn's exterior, trying to imagine an interior she had never seen. There would be an undercroft, and a ladder down from the loft. Stairs to a main floor which may or may not be intact. She would need to get above her target. Draw her off, and double back. Thalia was too cunning for a face-to-face confrontation, and Olivia couldn’t risk her having a gun.

  At about thirty yards now, she stopped. She had to balance things perfectly, placing herself close enough that Thalia's killer instinct would draw her in behind, and not so far that the woman had time to hesitate or consider the consequences.

  When her gut said the moment was right, Olivia jammed two fingers between her lips, piercing the air with a shrill whistle. She waited just long enough to see Thalia wheel her mount and not a second longer. Hefting weighty skirts, she grasped the rifle and ran. Her pace was measured; she couldn't arrive too winded, or too early. Or too late. A rattle through the dirt and into her feet said that was very nearly the case. Thalia's comically tiny animal was faster than she’d given it credit for. It would have to be close for her to feel its strides.

  Olivia darted in through a main door hung sadly from rotting leather thongs. Holes in the thatch high above cast beams of light, sparkling with starlight bits of dust. The pale rays offered just enough illumination for her to get her bearings.

  Stairs went up to her left. She mounted them without hesitation, making notes as she went. A stone foundation hugged the wall on three sides, supporting what was left of an old floor above an undercroft. A weathered ladder with half its rungs broken dangled from beams on the far side of the building. With her back against the wall, she skirted at a furious pace along the narrow stone catwalk, mortar crumbling away under her toes as she moved. At any minute, she expected the support to give way and drop her to the dirt below.

  When she reached the landing above the ladder, she felt around for a loose piece of floor timber. A splintered length gave way, scraping the tender flesh exposed by missing fingernails. Olivia ignored the blood coating her fingertips, working to balance the scrap between a rung on the ladder and the edge of the hatch. With any luck, when the door banged shut behind Thalia and its breeze filled the room, the board would fall. Even if it was just momentary, any distraction would help her. Once she had it tilted just right, she began a shuffle back to the other side, waiting.

  It wasn’t long before Thalia bolted through the man door and froze. Head cocking cat-like, she listened. The door slammed behind, just as Olivia had hoped, dislodging her decoy from above the ladder. Thalia darted into a shadow created by the remaining floor above her.

  Olivia, nearly back at the stairs now, could no longer see Thalia. She could hear her, though. “I've been to the clearing, Olivia. Major Burrell is dead.”

  Olivia felt a detached kind of disappointment at the obvious lie. Thalia was capable of more cleverness, and pouting silently, Olivia thought she deserved it. Perhaps she should be insulted. Trying to slow her breathing, to quiet a heartbeat thundering in her ears, she strained to hear footsteps but caught nothing.

  She sat in the darkness, waiting, her body trembling with the visceral desire to wrap her hands around Thalia’s neck, to squeeze until the light dimmed from her eyes. A taste for vengeance filled her mouth as real as any hunger for food, burned her lungs like a need for air. Hearing Thalia’s lilting voice had just increased her bloodlust. Not even Fouche engendered such a primal, predatory urge, to sink her teeth into her quarry’s throat, to shake until it hung limp in her grip. Olivia worried about herself, through a detached haze, and did not envy Thalia being on the receiving end.

  “Pity he and I were not lovers for very long.” Thalia’s voice grew fainter, echoing up from closer to the ladder at the opposite end of the room. “I don’t believe my breasts have ever received so much delicious attention.”

  Olivia was in no danger of losing her temper, but it took effort not to double up laughing and give herself away.

  When her provocation didn’t elicit a response, Thalia changed tactics. “I have three guards in the wood. You only managed one, my dear. The others will be looking for you.”

  Olivia smiled, real joy bending her mouth. As she’d hoped, Thalia was going strictly by the gunshots, and she was in for a surprise.

  “How long, do you think, until the other two reach us?” The words faded in and out; she was searching, scouting for her adversary. She was good at this, Olivia admitted, moving slowly and patiently.

  Something struck the ladder across the barn from her; a foot, or fist. The rickety lumber toppled, smacking the hatch then the dirt floor, throwing up clouds of dust. Now was her chance. Thalia would never be farther away.

  Olivia rushed the steps, eating them up two and three at a time in a furious sprint for the door.

  At the bottom of the last flight, something hooked between her legs. A shoe. She registered the answer as it pulled back, catching her ankle. She thrust the rifle’s butt forward, transforming herself into a sort of tripod, saving herself from impaling on a broken wagon frame. She sprawled belly down on the damp floor, momentarily winded.

  Thalia had doubled back, she realized, using the noise of the ladder to cover her movements. The fingers of two hands stabbed into the hair at Olivia's nape, twisting, dragging her head back. Her scalp burned, knees stinging with scrapes, throbbing from embedded gravel.

  Was that all? She’d survived worse today.

  Thalia's panting sounded in her ear, close, bent over her. Writhing to get both hands on the stock, Olivia drove the rifle’s butt backward with all the effort she could manage prone. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

  It sunk into Thalia's midsection with an 'oofff!' Hands going slack, Thalia staggered. Olivia gained her feet, scooping a handful of the soil and pelting Thalia’s face.

  Her scream was feral, fists scrubbing wildly. “My eyes, you bitch!”

  In her flight through the door, Olivia broke the last of its will, tearing the weathered collection of slats from their hinges. Blinded and furious, the clatter fooled Thalia into thinking her quarry had kept running.

  Olivia did not keep running. Passing through the door, she spun without waiting and thrust. The impact jarred her arms, stumbled and nearly knocked her backward. With an animal cry, she ground her heels and shoved forward. Thalia’s enraged cries snapped abruptly off, the bayonet glancing from her breastbone a
nd lodging in the base of her neck with a wet smack.

  They hung there, both alive and dead while time ceased flowing, bodies frozen into a grotesque statue. Then Thalia opened her mouth. Olivia waited for words, then wondered why as a bubbling moan escaped the baroness’s lips. A rivulet of blood and spit followed, cascading down her chin. Thrusting a foot into Thalia’s clenched gut, Olivia jerked the rifle free and Thalia crumpled.

  Olivia stood panting, throbbing, heart pumping blood and rage. She held her breath for it to ebb, but it didn’t. She stared down at Thalia, on her back and twitching, atop the old door, crimson bubbles frothing from her lips and the tear beneath in her throat.

  “Help…” Thalia rasped out, fingers raking at nothing in particular. “Help… me.”

  Olivia took a deep breath and closed her eyes, but it didn’t make her feel better. Her red fog didn’t pass. She sighed, and crouched, shoving a hand inside Thalia's bodice, her pockets, and even flipped up her skirts to check the garters. Nothing. No papers.

  They were probably on that damn pony, which now was nowhere in sight.

  Thalia’s limp arm flailed faster, in time with the blue ring spreading around her mouth. Lips worked but no sound propelled the word: Help.

  “Would you like help?” She nodded, mimicking Thalia's weak movements, seeing the same flicker in her eyes as she had in Philipe’s before they went dim.

  Philipe. Olivia boiled over again. “I'll help you.” Raising the rifle with both hands she plunged, driving the bayonet between snapping ribs and deep into Thalia's chest.

  For Philipe. “Where are the papers!”

  Another thrust, for Ty. “Tell me!”

  For herself.

  Shoving again until the bayonet wouldn't budge, she leaned against the stock, panting. “Where are the goddamn papers?”

  Thalia was limp, the last air in her lungs escaping as a long, unhurried 'huhhhh.’ Olivia exhaled in time with the sound, feeling some of her rage drain away.