Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella]

by The Spy Wore Blue

  There was no one there. The theater was empty. Blue would have turned and accused Helena of seeing things had he not noted the way the material of one of the drops swished slightly. He fastened the fall of his trousers, narrowing his eyes. Someone had been there. The painted drop had not moved on its own. Blue pulled his pistol from his coat and stashed his knife back in his boot.

  “What are you doing?”

  He turned with a sigh. “I told you to run.”

  She was righting her bodice and her skirts and had not moved an inch from where he’d pushed her. Blue looked down at the pistol, withdrew his powder, and began to prime the weapon. “I’m going after him.”

  “But he’s gone. He’s disappeared.”

  Blue shook his head. “He’s here. He was here the entire time.”

  “But we searched the theater,” Helena protested, tossing her hair over one shoulder.

  “Not well enough. There must be another place. Somewhere we haven’t thought of.”

  She shook her head. “I showed you every inch of this building. I’ve been working here for the past two years. I’m here almost every night. I know this place. We looked everywhere.”

  Blue nodded and paced away from her. She was telling the truth. It unnerved him that Reaper had caught them in such an intimate act, and he could tell from the awkwardness of her movements, she was upset as well. If she was holding some place back, she would have never seduced him. She might have been an actress in public, but she did not relish an audience for her private moments.

  And why was he doubting Helena anyway?

  Blue scrubbed his eyes. His occupation was such that after a time everyone seemed like they had secrets and ulterior motives. At one time he would not have thought twice about lumping Helena in with that group. Now she’d changed. She had been nothing but honest with him. She had given up drinking. She seemed to be living a simple life. Or she had been until he’d showed up.

  Blue paced back, staring down at the floorboards. They were worn from use but not shabby. The wear had softened the boards, made them smooth. He took another step, then another, thinking of all those who’d played upon this stage. And as he peered down, he saw slots where the scene flats stood when not in use. During a performance, the stagehands changed scenes by unrolling a new backdrop and moving flats stored in the slots on stage.

  Blue blinked, then knelt, running his hand over the grooves, which were not in use as the scenes were being painted.

  “What are you doing?” Helena asked.

  “O for a Muse of fire,” Blue murmured, then crossed to Helena and took her by the arms.

  “Where are we going?” she hissed as he dragged her backstage.

  “Shh!” When they were behind a large drop, he whispered. “What is under this stage?”

  She shook her head. “The machinery that moves the flats—chariots, pulleys, winches. That sort of thing.”

  “Where’s the access?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Think, Helena.” Blue shook her slightly. He needed her now. Needed her to use her quick thinking. “Where would it be?”

  “I…” She paused. “I would have to ask one of the carpenters to be certain, but if I had to guess—”

  “Show me.” He grabbed her wrist in one hand and a candelabra in the other, then pushed her forward. She faltered for what felt like an eternity, and then she pulled him off stage and into the darkness beyond. In the wings of the theater, large borders towered over them, like sleeping leviathans. But Blue knew the real danger was beneath them. Helena faltered again, then stared at the floor.

  “It was here somewhere…”

  Blue knelt down, shining the candelabra on the dark wood. He yanked the door in the floor open and shined the light into the dark space below the stage. A scurrying sound greeted him.

  Dusty steps descended into the small space, and Blue had to take a fortifying breath.

  “Will you be alright?”

  Blue held up a hand. If he did not talk of his fear, he would not have to think about it. “Let’s go.” He descended into the gloom, shining the candelabra on the machinery that operated the chariot-and-pull system used to change the scenery flats during a performance. Helena crouched beside him.

  “No one is here,” she whispered.

  Blue moved deeper into the space, studying it closely. Wax dripped from the candles as he studied the floor. Nothing. Nothing. No—a seam. “There.” He bent over the seam and traced it with his hands. It was a square cut into the floor and well concealed. “Now to open it…” He tried to pull one side up, but it would not budge. “Your fingers are smaller than mine. See if you can get a grasp on it,” he said.

  Helena tried, but the opening in the floor was a thin sliver.

  Blue sat back on his haunches. Reaper had to have some way to disappear quickly. Blue peered about and spotted a crowbar leaning against a chariot. For all intents and purposes, it looked like something the carpenters might use. But Blue grasped it, wedged the end into the crack, and the trap door eased open. The hinges were underneath, which further concealed the door. He held the candelabra up and peered into the darkness. Smooth white walls greeted him and something else—the white of bone.

  “Those look like catacombs,” Helena whispered. “I didn’t know there were catacombs under the theater.”

  “They’re probably sealed on the outside. Or perhaps there is a long forgotten entrance. Leave it to Reaper to discover it. He is the best.”

  She glanced at him sharply. “But you’re better.”

  Blue grinned. “Of course.” But he was not quite as confident as he had been earlier. Especially now that he saw the catacombs. They were spacious enough that he could stand—more spacious than the room he occupied now—but his pulse sped a fraction and he felt the sheen of perspiration on his forehead. He would be going farther underground. Farther from open air and open space. He swallowed. “Let’s go.”

  Helena shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ll wait on stage.”

  “You’ll make a convenient target that way. We don’t know if this is the only entrance and exit. Come with me and stay close. This time we’re going to get him.”

  Without further protest, she took the candelabra while he lowered himself into the hatchway. His mind and his body protested. Panic flitted on the edges of his mind. He wanted to scream, to run, to shriek like a child. He clenched his fists and fought the fear. Think of something else. Think of Helena.

  He did not want her down here with him, but he could not leave her above. He could not risk Reaper catching her alone. He could not risk Reaper catching her at all, but at least if she was with him, he could protect her.

  Blue found that quite suddenly, protecting her was more important than anything. Than even this mission. He took a deep breath and tried not to think about the walls closing in on him. He could do this. He would not allow this irrational fear to get the better of him.

  Helena passed the candelabra to him, then took his hand and hopped down. She put her hands on her upper arms, rubbing them, and shivering. “I don’t like this.”

  “Carry the candelabra. Hold it high so I can see.” He started down the long dark corridor. It was dry and cold, and from somewhere a slight breeze blew, ruffling his hair and making the light flicker. He liked the breeze. It was less stifling that way. Blue did not like the ambiance. He could see their shadows, eerily disfigured, on the wall just in front of them. In the wall, archways had been hollowed out, and bones were stacked haphazardly in those archways. His shadow loomed over those bones, touched them. He could have done without that image.

  They moved silently until Blue spotted something up ahead. He raised a hand, signaling to her, and she stopped while he moved forward. He prodded the object with his foot. “The mask and cape,” he whispered. “He’s been down here.” There was another object as well
. It looked like a medallion of some sort, perhaps a coin. “Shine the light higher,” he said as he bent to get a closer look. Darkness crept over him as the light fell lower and lower. Blue scowled as panic at the cramped quarters threatened to erupt. “Helena. Hold it higher.”

  “She is otherwise occupied at the moment.”

  Blue spun around, knowing only one person could possess that deep voice.

  “Good evening, Agent Blue.” Reaper nodded to him. He was tall, taller than Blue had expected, and his brown hair flowed over his shoulders as luxuriously as any woman’s. He was pale and wraithlike, the white skin of his hands stark against his midnight black coat. One of those pale hands rested at Helena’s throat. The long, thin fingers stroked her racing pulse. Blue could see it beat even from this distance. She was terrified, but she stood tall and strong. This was exactly why he’d fallen in love with her. She was so strong, so brave. He couldn’t help but admire that in a woman—in a person.

  Blue met her gaze directly, signaling her to remain strong. Show no fear. He thrives on that. She nodded all but imperceptibly, and he felt a punch of terror he had to work to tamp down. She trusted him to save her. She was looking at him with certainty, and Blue hoped to God this would not be the time he let someone down.

  But the terror of losing Helena had ratcheted up another fear as well. Was it simply his imagination or had the walls moved inward? Reaper was a tall man. He was taking up too much space, breathing in all of the air. “Good evening, Reaper,” Blue said, forcing himself to breathe.

  “I’ve been waiting to meet you. I’ve heard, oh, so much about you.” His voice was so deep, so sonorous. And those long fingers continued to stroke Helena’s throat. She swallowed, and Blue felt a surge of anger. How dare Reaper touch her? How dare he presume to touch anything of Blue’s?

  The anger was good. Anger trumped fear any day. “I’ve wanted to meet you as well,” Blue said. “Perhaps under different circumstances.” He gestured to the gloomy catacombs, to the bones beside them.

  “Oh, I think tonight is a good night to die. You have had your fun.” His eyes flicked to Helena. “Now it’s time to pay the reaper.”

  And before Blue could move, Reaper flicked his cape aside and flashed his scythe, bringing it to Helena’s throat. As though everything was happening underwater, Blue watched as the sharp tip of the weapon pierced her skin. A small dot of blood welled up, and Blue opened his mouth to shout.

  “Argh!” Reaper doubled over, and Helena struggled against the arm that still held her. Blue realized immediately that Helena had struck out, and he wasted no time. Blue rammed his head into Reaper’s chest, pushing the man back until he slammed into the wall behind him, jouncing several bones loose from their final resting place. Helena slipped free and tumbled away. Reaper’s eyes followed her. He was hunched over, his manner one Blue knew well. Helena had managed to hit the assassin in the balls. Blue grinned. That was his girl.

  “Get out of here,” he ordered, and to his shock, she did as he asked, running into the dark cavern from whence they’d come.

  “I’ll get you for that, little soprano,” Reaper called, still breathless from his injury.

  Blue looked at Reaper and wedged his arm under the man’s throat. “You won’t touch her.”

  Reaper’s light blue eyes settled on Blue, the pale gaze unnerving. “No, you won’t touch her. Ever again.” Reaper pushed back, his strength more than Blue had expected. Blue went flying back across the tunnel, landing unceremoniously on his backside. But he managed to avoid hitting his head, though his back slammed into the wall and bones dropped down on his shoulders. Blue shook them off with a grimace and stood as Reaper charged him. Now this was the sort of thing Blue liked. He quickly sidestepped, nimble as ever on his feet. Reaper caught himself before he could plunge into the wall. He turned just enough that his momentum knocked him into Blue. The two men rolled to the ground, tumbling over until they were sprawled amid the disturbed bones.

  “You’re dead,” Reaper said, fastening his hand about Blue’s neck. The long, thin fingers were surprisingly strong. Blue gasped for breath almost immediately. He reached for the assassin, but the man weaved out of reach, his punishing grip choking off Blue’s air.

  He tried not to think about the lack of oxygen. He ignored his body’s signals to panic and closed his eyes. For a moment, he stepped outside himself and assessed the situation as a trained operative. In his mind, he saw himself sprawled on the floor, Reaper’s hands wrapped about him. Reaper was hunched over him, long hair tickling Blue’s cheeks. If this had been an exercise, Melbourne would have failed Blue for allowing himself to fall into so vulnerable a position.

  But Blue had escaped failing situations before.

  Think.

  And in his mind, he saw the bones of the dead, felt them press into his back and shoulders. He released his ineffective grip on Reaper’s hands about his throat and reached back. A wave of dizziness washed over him and dots of green and red exploded in front of his eyes. He’d always bloody known he was going to die in some small, tight space.

  He touched a thin bone and though panic threatened to take over, Blue released the bone and groped again. Purple exploded behind his eyes and his body all but gasped for air. Blue’s hand touched a thick, heavy bone. A thigh bone perhaps, or part of a long dead man’s upper arm. He willed his fingers to close over the smooth surface and lift the bone from the floor. His body kicked of its own accord now, making him flop like a fish newly pulled from the sea. He lifted the bone higher and brought it down with all he possessed on Reaper’s head.

  With an oof, Reaper fell back, his grip loosing just enough for Blue to gulp in a breath.

  But it wasn’t enough. The bone fell away, and Reaper’s fingers closed on Blue again. This time the dots and stars were indigo. Blue knew this was it. He could all but see Melbourne’s stricken expression when he learned Foncé and the Maîtriser group had claimed yet another agent.

  The Barbican’s best agent, even if Blue did say so himself.

  His life eked out of him, a situation Blue had imagined many times. When his time came, he always thought his failed missions would flash before his eyes. He would think of all the traitors who had eluded him, all the double agents he had not spotted, all the friends he’d held as their lifeblood flowed through his fingers.

  But he thought of none of those things.

  Only Helena’s face rose in his vision. Her generous lips, curved with that secret smile of hers, the way the sun glinted off the coppery strands of her hair, the softness of her skin under his hand, the sweet, clear innocence of her voice as she sang “Non mi dir” from Don Giovanni. Too late, he realized he did not care one whit for the Barbican group. It was Helena he would regret losing.

  “Buona sera,” Reaper hissed as blackness, like the smothering of a heavy blanket, descended.

  “Not so fast.”

  ***

  Helena brought the heavy hilt of the sword down on the crown of Reaper’s head. The reverberation from the impact ricocheted up her arm, jarring her all the way to her shoulder, but the man released Blue and fell to the side. He tried to rise once, and Helena tipped the sword tip against his throat. She knew the weapon was little more than a prop and the end blunted, but it was a realistic prop, and Reaper could not see the blunted end.

  “Stay down, or I’ll run you through.”

  His glazed eyes rolled back, and his head lolled to one side. Helena’s gaze flew nervously to Blue. His hands were at his throat and he was doubled over, coughing. Oh, God, please don’t let him pass out too. I need someone to help me.

  And then Blue looked up at her, his vivid eyes pained but clear. “I thought… I told… you to run.” His voice was a rasp and he wheezed in each breath.

  “You know me. I have to be in the center of any drama.”

  He laughed, the sound full of life. Something inside her
eased. Blue was going to live. He was going to make it.

  “I do know you,” he growled, struggling to his knees. “And that… is not who… you are at all.”

  Helena did not know what she had thought would happen next. Certainly she had not imagined Blue would send out a missive calling half the agents for the Crown to him. But less than two hours after she’d slammed the prop sword into the back of Reaper’s head, the assassin was trussed up and escorted out of the theater by a man Helena thought looked more than a little scary. It was clear Blue did not know most of these men personally, but they were obviously men he trusted. His critical eyes observed them keenly, but more often than not, she found his gaze on her.

  Finally, the last of the agents stood before them. He spoke to Blue rapidly in a language she thought might have been Portuguese. Blue nodded and answered him in the same language. The man withdrew, glancing over his shoulder as he opened the theater door. The brief glimpse of the outside world showed her that dawn was upon them, crisp and cold and white.

  Blue took her hand, and she looked at him. She could see it in his face, and she knew, before he even opened his lips, what he would say. She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say it.”

  “Helena—”

  “No!” She sprang away from him, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. “Do not say it, Ernest Bloomington. I don’t want to hear your lies and platitudes.”

  “I’ve never lied to you.”

  She glared at him.

  “I will admit to the occasional platitude. Disappointing, I know. I shall endeavor to be more original.”

  She laughed in spite of the tears. She laughed, even though she knew he was leaving, even though this was the end.

  Again.

  He pulled her into his arms, and she resisted but only for an instant. And then she drank him in, the hardness of his body, the warmth of his embrace, the smell of home that always managed to cling to him, no matter where in the world they might be.