by Baird Wells
It was done.
Jerking back on the rifle, she freed the blade with a wet scrape and tossed the firearm aside. For a long time, she stared. Stared at the woman whose hands were stained with blood; Philipe, Elena Breunig, nearly Ty, and perhaps men and women like her parents. They had died by her acts, her hateful whispers and deceit, all fed to her lover Fouche.
In the hours since Philipe’s death, she’d imagined this moment countless times, but never how she would feel after. All she felt now was tired.
She stared down at Thalia’s pallid corpse.
She could cut the woman's head off. She could. Take it back to Paris, parade it in front of Fouche's window as he’d had done to her mother. Olivia held up her shaking hands and studied them, caked with old, rusty blood mixed with new, crimson blood.
Fouche had poisoned her, tainted her, and she swallowed back a surge of bile at what she was willing, eager to do. Perhaps it was well past time for her and espionage to part ways.
Anyway, there was a worse fate for Madame, and for her lover Fouche, too. The same one they had arranged for Philipe, for her and Ty: to be forgotten.
Grabbing the rifle one last time, Olivia went back inside the barn to the far corner of the undercroft. Making certain the bayonet was secure, she stuck the tip into the soil and began digging a hole.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Stupid pony.
The creature was as useless as its former rider. Running in blind panic from the shouts and gunfire, it had raced on stumpy little legs into a stretch of small dunes behind the barn, sandy humps capped with tufts of high, scrubby grass. The damned thing was beached now, stomach resting atop a mound, front and back legs working impotently while it emitted forlorn neighs.
It took a great deal of effort to circle the animal and get ahead of it. Olivia lost traction on the dry, loose dirt and fell more than once. Grass clung at the coarse weave of her skirts, made worse by damp fabric. Renewed energy from her fight with Thalia had worn off, and she was cold, hungry, and afraid to be alone with herself.
She approached as calmly as she could manage on the poor footing, stretching an arm to show she was harmless, but the animal grew more agitated, tossing its head and huffing. She was a stranger in the pony's eyes, coated in the stench of death.
After a lot of drawing back while she waited for fits of terror to pass, she got one hand on its muzzle and gave a gentle stroke. Then behind an ear, whispering, soothing. Each touch bought her a little more compliance, but it was plain that the creature would never be completely calm. He was lost without his master, terrified by the wide open space and frightening sounds so different from his pampered estate life.
Realizing that she wouldn’t be taking the pony anywhere, she instead began to unhook his tack. That was all she needed anyway; unless Thalia had fed the letters to the pony, he was of little value. From reins and bridle to saddle bags and saddle, she stripped him down bit by bit.
The creature looked at her with its huge, sad eyes, and Olivia sighed. She didn’t have the heart to leave it here to die. She was so tired; this was going to be rough.
Putting a shoulder into his, Olivia strained, grunting against a tearing sensation in her ribs. She bared her teeth with the effort until her lip tore again. Rearing, screaming, the animal finally twisted sideways and fell into a low spot beside the mound. Legs flailed hopelessly a moment, a panicked movement, but it had the benefit of freeing them from the tangled brown grass. Finally, his small hooves found purchase, and he was up. He wheeled away from her and bounced on stout little legs as fast as he could manage.
Panting, Olivia watched him for a time as he trotted across the clearing, then fell to her bottom in the scrub. She had to get back to Ty, but there was no chance in hell she was carrying back one more damned thing than necessary. First, she checked the obvious places: saddle bags, leather wallet, a folded shawl. Discovering three envelopes, Olivia unfolded and skimmed them. Two were personal and a third encoded, but not of immediate application. Stuffing them into her bodice, she turned to examine the saddle. There was nothing obvious that she could spot. No unusual seams or pockets, no hidden compartments.
Staring at the collection of items on the ground, she tried hard to trace Thalia's movements. They had all ridden out in close proximity. It seemed unlikely that Thalia had taken the documents somewhere farther away and doubled back. She could have hidden them inside the building. Olivia groaned. It was an overcast mid-afternoon, and the farm house was dark enough inside already. She would lose the light well before she had checked every possible nook and cranny.
Resigning herself, she was just about to stand when something caught her attention, poking up from the bronze grass roots a few feet away. It was long and black and a little shiny in the low light. With a lot of consideration for throbbing parts, she climbed to her feet to get a closer look.
It was a riding crop. It must have been lost during the pony's struggle. She picked it up by its oiled black leather tip. She shook it, watching its fringe dance at the tip, waiting for something to gel in her mind. The crop looked new. It was handsome, made of expensive small-grain leather with a shaft seated in an octagonal black lacquered handle detailed with gold leaf at the edges. She rotated it, glancing at each of the handle's eight sides, until she came to one that was different. A bust of Napoleon in relief, carved into the wood.
Smiling, Olivia turned the whole thing upside down. The end cap bore the emperor's personal seal. Grasping the cane, she used a handful of her skirt to wrap the handle for better grip, and pulled. The end cap shot free with the pop of a cork. Relief flooded through her, and she exhaled and brought the handle back into view. A rough coil of folded papers filled the hollow space, folded into an impossibly tiny configuration. Replacing the cover, she took the crop and the discarded shawl, starting back toward the trail where she had left the horse.
Skirting the edge of the clearing, she contemplated the third soldier. If Thalia were to be believed, he was still out there, somewhere. She had not seen him at the camp, and he hadn't returned with the other two from the farm or come running when the rifle was fired. Logic said that likely meant he was too far away to hear the report, but she would move with caution until she and Ty were well away.
The horse, unlike Thalia's pony, was happy to see her, snorting and nosing in her direction when she came into view. He clip-clopped obediently behind her all the way back to the camp, seeming a little dejected when he was lashed up once more without being ridden.
She secured him beside a wide oak, not having a clue how she would move Ty onto the animal's back. A moment later, she discovered that it didn't matter. Ty was not where she had left him. She dropped to her knees in the root-bound hollow, pressing flat against the rough trunk, and listened.
Silence.
She glanced left around the tree, then right. There was no sign of anyone, and nothing was obviously disturbed. Resting one hand on the creased bark, she was just about to stand up for a better look when something rustled the bushes to her left, just inside the copse. She waited. The sound came again, less distinct. It could be a man, or perhaps an animal. Wrapping a hand around the razor's bone handle inside her pocket, she gave thanks that she’d taken the time to claim it earlier.
One halting step at a time, she crept toward the tree line, crouched low. Nearly on top of the overgrowth, Olivia could see that it concealed a low, steep sided embankment, only a foot or two high. She peered over the edge and into the shadows between the trees and nearly laughed. It might be only a few feet, but it was enough that somehow Ty had rolled himself over it and into the weeds below. Served him right.
Moving down to him, she grabbed his ankles and began to pull, working him parallel to the slope. Arms already trembling, she had to admit that there was little hope of managing him to the horse and onto its back. Wading back up the lip, she surveyed the camp's pilfered supplies, trying to think of something, anything, with a mind that was becoming foggier by the moment. She
spotted a canvas tarp draped over some crates, nearly out of sight behind two low tents. She grabbed the edge, expecting it to slip free without resistance. Instead the rough canvas tore at raw fingertips and snapped from her grip, weighed down by something out of her view.
Swearing more from frustration than pain, she leaned over the pile to get a look at what was in her way. The third soldier. From her perspective he was little more than the top of a head and outstretched legs, slumped forward with his back still resting against the crates. A prone hand, palm up, rested next to Ty's unstopped flask. She didn't need to check to know that the man was dead. Ty's flask was always full, and never with plain liquor. Judging by what she’d seen Ty drink earlier, if the soldier had finished the flask, he’d imbibed a lethal dose of Ty’s concoction.
Closing her eyes a moment, she sent thanks to God for the favor, a boon after days of frustration and failure. After the struggle with Thalia, her trembling limbs could never have fought the man hand-to-hand. Grasping a fistful of greasy brown hair, she toppled the corpse. He fell sideways, landing with a stiff thud that hinted he’d been there awhile.
Olivia spread the tarp over the edge, and began to wrangle Ty's limp body up onto the canvas. While she worked, she gave thanks that no one was present to witness the ridiculous spectacle. They were nearly equal in height, but not in weight, despite Ty's lean frame. Reaching down to grab the edge of the tarp, she lifted, straining to get him even halfway onto flat ground. Finally, with more frustration than strength, she heaved him, uttering a strangled cry. Dropping to her knees, she sat gasping, eyeing the distance to the horse with some defeat. The hardest part was yet to come.
She brought the animal alongside the tarp, glancing between the pair, at a loss. Kneeling behind Ty, she worked her hands behind his shoulders, prayed for help, and sat him up.
Ty snorted, listed to the side, and made a weak attempt at sitting upright. It failed, and he slouched forward, a groaning, grunting rag doll.
He wasn't coming around quickly, but at least he wasn’t comatose. Redoubling her efforts, resolving not to lose this opportunity, she went at him with renewed effort. Moving in front of him, she grasped Ty's hands, digging in heels for leverage. “Come on. Up with you.”
“Mmm.” It took a lot of shimmying from side to side, getting to his knees and falling back, but at last Ty gained his feet.
She draped him against the horse, bracing with one hand until his foot was marginally wedged inside the stirrup. Then, with a lot of grasping at buttocks and thighs and heaving with a burning shoulder, she worked him over the horse's back. Something managed between his lips, thick slow words that might have been cursing her. Then he went limp again and was silent.
Scouring the camp, she filled two deep saddle bags with lead ball, shirts and trousers, a tin of oatmeal, an oiled cloth of salted pork and some hardtack. She grabbed a few canteens of water and a wool blanket that she strapped to the back of the saddle.
Scraping up the last of her almost depleted energy, Olivia pushed off of the stirrup and swung herself onto the horse's back. She didn't care that her skirt rode at her thighs, as she was seated astride the beast. If anyone crossing her path had a word to say about it, she welcomed them to see what would happen. For a minute she leaned forward in the saddle, resting her head on the horse's neck, inhaling his pungent grassy smell and gathering her wits. She could fall asleep right then and there, but not yet. Soon. They had to get away.
Finally, with a quick tap of her heels, she spurred him forward into the trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
He wasn't dead, but Ty wasn’t sure being alive was preferable. His head was swollen, throbbing, and full of too much blood. Something pressed his stomach, making it difficult to get enough air into aching lungs. His hands and feet were cold, pricked with the needles of poor blood flow. Bouncing and jostling churned his stomach. He tried to sit up, but his body felt bent, wrong. A hand brushed the hair at the back of his head.
“Hold still. I'll help you.” Olivia. At the sound of her voice, he relaxed. Slender arms circled his waist.
“Can you catch yourself?” Her voice was dull and threadbare.
“Mmhmm.” He tensed, readying his legs as she pulled back. His feet hit the ground and he crumpled without the slightest break to his fall.
“I'm sorry. I thought that was a 'yes'.” There was laughter in Olivia's voice, and it warmed him. He couldn't imagine her making jokes if they were still in trouble.
Opening dry, crusted eyes, he looked to her kneeling above him. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, and he wondered if he was truly awake. Her face was a mask of blood, dirt and leaf litter. Her tangled hair was matted, stained brown with much of the same composition as her face. Most of her bottom lip was black and crusted where it had been split open. Groaning, he raised a weak arm and touched her cheek. “Are you all right?”
Her eyes were narrow slits of worry. “Improving. You?”
“Sound enough, no thanks to my own stupidity.” He sat up, immediately wishing he hadn't. A hammering at the back of his eyes forced them shut.
“Water?”
“Please.” He wasn't certain it was the wisest idea, but it was a place to start. Something brushed his fingers, wood. He clutched the canteen, working up his courage.
She was off a few paces, rustling around in a bag attached to the horse he’d fallen off of. “There's some hardtack here. Will that help?”
“Why not?” Cracking his eyes, he managed a sip of water. His stomach growled, protested, but tolerated the liquid. He tried another mouthful with better results.
Olivia settled beside him on the damp forest floor, pressing the crumbling chunk of hard bread into his palm.
Daring to open his eyes a little farther, he tried to get his bearings, wincing at the dim light from a silvery sky above. “Where are we? Shouldn't we be a bit more... urgent, just now?”
She shifted, starting more than once to speak but not seeming to find the right words. Drawing up her knees, she rested arms atop them, staring straight ahead and answering simply. “No.”
The hardtack snapped between his teeth, jarring all the way to his temples and lancing pain through his skull. He worked it slowly a moment, chewing gingerly. “Guards?”
“Dead.” The word was flat, all the emotion pressed out.
“d'Oettlinger?”
“Dead.”
The word how was on his lips when he caught a glimpse of her hands, caked brown, ringed with layers of blood between the fingers. A guilty flush washed through him, bringing almost unbearable shame. He was her partner, and they were supposed to watch out for each other. That she’d had to go through the last few hours alone was unthinkable.
He’d failed her, while she had saved him.
He thought better of the question and finished his food. “Where to?”
“I spotted a small house from the hillock we just passed. A gamekeeper's cabin, were I to guess. We can shelter there for the night without drawing untoward attention.”
“Sounds wise.” Thunder split the sky somewhere on the horizon. Much as he hated to, Ty decided it was time to move. It was a painful effort, getting up without looking to Olivia for help. Glancing over the horse, he was impressed at the equipment it carried. “Is this your doing?”
“It is.” She didn’t look up, didn’t warm to the question.
“Bravo. We may not die, after all.” He managed back into the saddle and held out a hand, not certain he could be of much use. Thankfully, she mounted with ease, falling soundly in front of him against the saddle. They were both filthy and wet. They smelled. They were bloody, wounded, and ill, and yet the heat between them nullified all of it. Grateful to be alive, grateful for Olivia, he inhaled and focused on their course.
They rode in silence except for Olivia's occasional directions. She was leaned back into his chest, but something about her posture and the silence hinted that she was agitated. “What is it?” he prodded, annoyed when she sat
silent.
She tensed. “Is there something you wish to tell me?”
The same flush of shame from earlier settled in his chest. “Meaning what?” He knew exactly what and was in no hurry to address it.
“Meaning, what is the matter with you? What was that ridiculous scene in the camp?”
“Scene? That was a decoy, Olivia. You have observed them before.”
“You got yourself drugged,” she accused.
“So I did. My plan flipped ‘round a bit, as have several of ours recently.” He painted emphasis onto ‘ours’.
“I believed you dead!” She was trying to turn, to glare, but couldn't get her head far enough around. It would have been funny, in different circumstances.
“For that, I apologize, but it was not exactly as though we had a private moment to concoct a plan.”
“Such as the entire time we were in the wagon?” Her voice rose well above the sound of their horse and the rustling brush. “Spit on your plan!”
Irritation erupted without warning, probably owing more to his pounding head than any annoyance with Olivia. “Forgive me! I thought you would run when I shouted the secret word: run.”
She snorted, wriggling forward and putting space between them. “What made you believe for even a moment that I would run off and leave you behind?”
“Foolishly, I believed you would follow orders.” It was the absolute wrong thing to say; he appreciated that after the words were out.
“Follow –” He heard her mouth snap shut on the rest of her tirade. Olivia straightened in the saddle, a telltale heave to her shoulders.
He had never seen her truly cry. The realization made him nervous. He tried to lean around and get a look at her face. “Olivia?”
“Sod off.”
That ended the conversation entirely, his head throbbing more than ever in the silence that followed. He would apologize. He owed it to her, but she wouldn’t accept it right now.