by Jenn Stark
“Sara,” Nigel bit out.
I swiveled and looked back through the glass into Chantal’s room. The room had been transformed into an operating suite—or at least the walls had been curtained off with large white screens. Bright lights overhead were now glaring down with white-hot intensity, illuminating the still young woman on the bed. Surrounded by worried-looking nurses, she lay absolutely motionless, but the monitors attached to her were beeping and whirring frantically—the one tracking her heart rate most of all.
Suddenly, a wave of anguished screaming nearly leveled me. “Ouch!”
I clapped both hands over my ears as the first wave of sound tapered off, but when I straightened, Nigel was staring at me.
“What was that?”
“You didn’t hear—dammit!” Another scream ricocheted through my brain, and only then did I realize that it wasn’t out loud, only in my mind.
“Aidez-moi! Aidez—!”
I glared from the girl to Nigel. “Aidez—that’s help, right?” I demanded.
“Yes, of course.”
I winced as another stream of terrified French poured through my brain.
“What about—” I blurted the foreign words phonetically as quickly as I could, and watched the color drain out of Nigel’s face.
“Get it out of me,” he translated in his clipped British accent. He looked hard at the window. “She’s begging you to remove the child.”
Another shout—this one from the doctors—erupted as the monitors surrounding Chantal squealed in a fresh burst of beeps and blips, and a new, more strident alarm keened through the air. Now the girl started to thrash as well, her arms and legs jerking wildly as the nurses closed in around her. Father Jerome emerged again as another woman entered the hallway. She was tall, masked, and looked all business. A surgeon, I knew instantly.
“Father Jerome.” Something in my voice halted him, and he slanted me a hard glance.
“Sara, now is not the time.”
“You have to get the baby out.” My voice was calm, preternaturally so, and even the surgeon striding by me slowed to slant me a hard stare. “Chantal is dying. Her body can’t sustain the growth. The baby will die too if you can’t—if you can’t—”
“Docteur!”
The eerie sound of a squalling heart rate monitor blanketed the room and the agony that exploded in my mind was white-hot with urgency.
“Sara, no!”
But Father Jerome couldn’t stop me—none of them could. I tore into Chantal’s room and lunged for the young woman, the young woman whose eyes were open now, open and frantic, reaching for me—straining—desperately trying to speak, to connect—
I grabbed her shoulder, my hand on her skin, and held her gaze solidly. In my mind, a confusion of geometric shapes exploded outward, connecting with bursts of crackling, whirling electricity. All I focused on was the girl’s eyes, however, her beautiful eyes, as she poured into me her thoughts, her fears, her panic of this being growing inside her, consuming her, transforming her against her will and…
***
“Sara.”
The voice was quiet. Unreasonably quiet.
In fact, everything was quiet.
I blinked my eyes open and looked around, sitting up quickly. I was no longer in Chantal’s room, no longer surrounded by hissing, clattering machines.
Instead, I was on a bed. Fully clothed. And Nigel was watching me from a thickly cushioned chair he’d dragged across the room to, apparently, hover over me.
“Chantal?” I asked immediately.
“In recovery. The baby was successfully removed and is now in a neonatal incubator Father Jerome had brought to the château when he first learned of the babies. Eventually, he surmised, there would be a need for such a machine.”
Something in Nigel’s voice chilled me, though, and I struggled farther up against the pillows. “What happened to me?”
“You wouldn’t leave the operating theater, not even to scrub. The mental connection you had with the girl was too strong. They eventually gave Chantal general anesthesia.” He shrugged. “When she went under, so did you.”
I lifted my brows. “And you brought me here?”
“Seemed a better choice than the kitchen.”
“Right. And how long was I out?”
“Four hours. It’s midnight now. I’d recommend you returning to sleep, if you can.”
“Oh, I definitely can.” I yawned as Nigel stood. “And, uh, thanks. I guess. For the lift.”
He gave me a slight bow. “I’ll be stationed outside.”
I squinted at him. “I don’t need a babysitter, Nigel. There are guards all over this château.”
“I’m your Ace,” he said, unperturbed. “Where you go, I go.”
“Uh-huh.” I pointedly eyed the enormous bed, then glanced back at him. “There are so many comments I want to make right now, my head’s about to fall off.”
His smile was more of a smirk, but he must have known me better than I realized. He didn’t take the bait. “Good night, Madame Wilde,” he said, nodding with perfect British civility. “I trust you’ll sleep well.”
“You’ll be the first to know if I don’t.” I had no doubt he’d stand outside my doorway the whole night, if only to be obstinate. I watched him leave, then took stock of the room around me.
I’d spent my share of time in five-star hotels, particularly over the past few years. I’d also spent my share of time curled up in the lee of a dumpster. This room definitely erred on the happier side of that equation. I stood for just long enough to remove my clothes, eyeing the fireplace with its ready-made gas flames already burbling happily in the grate. Nice touch.
There was also a snifter of bourbon on the bed stand. Nicer touch. “You’re good people, Nigel,” I muttered.
I’d no sooner climbed back into bed, however, than thoughts of a nightcap scattered and sleep walloped me. I fell so fast into a coma, the pillow should have given me whiplash, but instead, I dropped into a deep, suffocating sleep, resurfacing only after what seemed like hours. And still I drifted, unable to snap fully awake, but close enough to consciousness to understand I was sleeping—and more importantly, dreaming.
At least…I sure as hell hoped it was a dream.
Chapter Six
I stood in knee-deep water, surrounded by a mass of misery that extended as far as the eye could see. The water—more brine, really, fetid and coated with a thin slime—was crammed cheek to jowl with people, thousands of them—moaning and hungry, keening with despair. All of them reaching up and out, straining toward the far horizon.
It was a beach, I realized. A beach that appeared to be guarded by a line of people—only a few of them, though. Too few to realistically hold back this teeming mass of miserable humanity. Beyond the barricade, the entire coast was lit up with white-golden light, a beacon of welcoming warmth.
Without understanding why I was the only one moving, I strode through the dank water toward that same horizon, stepping over, around, and between far too many people.
Men, women, and even children clogged the still waters, their hair and clothing soaked, their bodies slick and shivering despite the relative heat. They didn’t speak or cry out, they simply moaned. Moaned and reached for something they clearly had no hope of ever grasping, as if their feet were rooted in place beneath the water, stuck to the ocean floor. I couldn’t see far enough down to understand what held them rooted so firmly in place, but I knew in the way that dreaming brought that their restriction was pervasive and absolute. They would not be reaching the shoreline. Only I could.
As I neared the water’s edge, the thicket of people thinned, and I found myself splashing more quickly, eager to get out, to break free. I looked up, the gloom of the water finally lessening enough to reveal the faces of the human barricade…and I stopped short.
It was the Arcana Council.
I recognized them all, immediately. Death with her white-blonde punk haircut and sleeve of tattoos. Simon,
the Fool, in his skullcap and tee shirt. Kreios, the Devil, arms folded over his impressive chest, filling out an impeccably cut suit. The High Priestess Eshe was next, her beautiful face heavily lined with cosmetics as she stared impassively out over the throng of human misery, seemingly unmoved by the mortal horde trapped in the rank waters behind me. Viktor, the Emperor, was at her side, his thin blond hair perfectly brushed, his waspish face more pinched and superior looking than normal. There was the Willem, the Hermit, who I couldn’t truly see despite staring hard—and I wanted to see him, I realized in the dream, though I didn’t understand why. I truly, desperately wanted to see him...and couldn’t. At last I looked to his right, and there was Michael, the Hierophant, whose brilliance seemed to intensify as I focused on him, until I raised my arm with a cry and blocked my eyes. Behind me, several rows of people howled in shared agony.
That noise caught the attention of the last of the Arcana Council, and I felt the gaze of the Magician reach toward me with its usual sensual caress. Armaeus Bertrand was as gorgeous in this dream as he was in real life—tall, bronzed, and impossibly well dressed—but I couldn’t see his features, exactly, couldn’t see anything with the neon Hierophant blazing away at me. In fact, with my eyes narrowed to mere slits, I could barely make out Armaeus stepping aside with a munificent wave, gesturing me past the wall of Council members. With that gesture, the Hierophant’s bright light seemed to moderate, and I could finally see the promised land up on the shores of this protected beach. Instantly I knew that riches beyond my wildest imagination awaited me there—freedom, hope, love, abundance. All I had to do was take the step.
And out of all these people—these thousands of yearning, striving humans…only I could take that step.
I should have felt elated. Proud, eager to rid myself of the reeking, soaking masses who pressed up against me, practically vibrating with wretchedness. But instead, I felt…wrong.
Above me, a sudden burst of lightning crackled across the sky, and I turned, watching the snaking trail of electricity illuminate all the faces of the throng behind me. These people should reach the light too, I realized suddenly. They could. They were every bit as worthy as I was, every bit as valuable. They should come up on this beach and pass right by the Council and reach out and take—
A crack of thunder followed hard upon the streak of lightning. “Pendu!” someone screamed.
I jerked awake, no longer standing in the waters, but alone—alone and safe and warm and protected in my own room, my own dry room, buried under covers, the fire silently dancing in the grate.
Another peal of thunder rolled through, shaking the venerable old château, and my fingers tweaked the covers. What was it that person had shouted? And had there been all those people? And an ocean?
“Storm…” I muttered, my lids drooping as quickly as they’d shot open. “Only a storm.”
But the crackling of lightning, the growling roar of thunder, chased me all the way back into the labyrinth of my dreams.
Chapter Seven
The next morning dawned wet and warm, the last of the rain moving out, leaving behind a glistening wonderland of dew-streaked forest, redolent with the smell of leaves and wet earth. Nigel was already sitting on the back patio when I emerged, and his gaze took me in with typical British censure.
“You didn’t sleep,” he observed, and I peered at the tea setup at his knees.
“Coffee,” I muttered. Before I even got the word fully out, a white-smocked household staff member bustled through the château’s gracious French doors, bearing a tray that held a carafe and wide mug. Apparently, they didn’t believe in demitasse cups this deep in the country. I heartily approved.
I’d barely wrapped my hand around the mug when Nigel’s cultured voice sounded again. “You need to sleep, Sara.”
I eyed him. “I thought you weren’t in my room.”
“I don’t have to be to identify a haggard woman sitting three feet in front of me. You look worse than you did when you got off the plane, and you didn’t look especially healthy then. Why aren’t you resting?”
I stared at him. “I’ve done nothing but sleep,” I said, shaking my head. “Ever since…” I caught myself, taking a draft of coffee to cover the hesitation. “Ever since the fight at Soo’s mansion.”
“Your mansion,” he corrected.
“Whatever,” I snapped. “I’ve been sleeping. I slept last night. My head no sooner hits the pillow, and it’s lights out.” I set the mug down on the coffee table in front of me and knuckled my eye sockets. “I don’t know why I’m so tired.”
“Hmm…” Nigel apparently decided it wasn’t enough of an issue to pursue, because he lifted his phone toward me. “I’ve received confirmation of the shipment of computers,” he said. “They should be here within a few hours.”
“Good.” I blew out a breath and sucked in more coffee, appreciating its sting as the hot liquid took the last dregs of my unsettling dream from me. I frowned. Unsettling dream? I shook my head, refocusing as Nigel kept speaking.
“Father Jerome spoke with me about the concerns you had over the influx of children, particularly those that are finding their way to his door.” His gaze moved from my face to the space behind me, his expression turning to one of legitimate warmth.
“Father Jerome,” he said again, this time clearly as an address. “Thank you for joining us.”
“Sara! Good morning.” The good father came around the edge of the seating area, halting with a noticeable jerk. “Oh dear,” he said, his manner changing instantly. “You haven’t slept.”
“I slept fine,” I growled, picking up my mug again. As he continued regarding me with patent concern, I flapped my hand at him. “Anything new to report?”
“Chantal is resting…comfortably,” he said, though the last word betrayed his worry. “She’ll be closely watched. The infant remains in the incubator, but—we don’t really know how to accurately gauge his vitals.”
“His?” I asked, and he nodded, his smile faint.
“A baby boy,” he murmured. “So very small but…we hope he will survive. We have already summoned specialists.” He looked up then, his eyes brightening. “Also, a bit of good news. Max checked in. He’s staying with his family outside Paris. He said you knew the house?”
I lifted my brows, a few more cobwebs clearing away. “His grandmother and—cousin, I think? All of them have the Bertrand family name. I didn’t think they were close, though.”
“It would appear you’re correct. But Max is enduring their company to help facilitate the release of additional monies from Monsieur Bertrand.” Father Jerome beamed at me as another shock of awareness propelled me closer to wakefulness. “It’s an unusually large sum this time.”
“Armaeus?” I frowned. “Why?”
The priest blinked at me. “Why is he donating money for the care of Connected children? I assume—”
“Right, he’s a great guy, I got it.” I put down the mug. “But why now? What tipped him off?” Another thought occurred to me. “Did he call here?”
The priest was openly staring at me. “Sara, I don’t understand.”
Nigel filled in the missing piece. “Where did you tell Max to send the money, Father Jerome?” he asked quietly. “And did you mention how it would be used?”
“I…” The priest hesitated, then stammered, “I told him where I was, if that’s what you mean. That we were at Saint-Étienne, in a château of Mercault’s. That we—that the money would be useful. I didn’t explain why. As to where to send the money, I gave him account information, nothing more. And there are several shell accounts we use, all of which he’s had access to before.”
“Did you give him the address of the château?”
Father Jerome’s mouth tugged down at the corners. “Max is a friend, Sara,” he said reproachfully. “Why should that matter?”
I sighed and pulled myself back from the brink of paranoia. In my mind’s eye, a strange image flashed, a line of Council
members against a bright light. I’d seen it before, I thought. And there…there was water? Water. I was sure of it.
“Sara?” Father Jerome prompted.
“I—it’s nothing,” I said. “I like the idea of this house and what you’re doing here remaining an unknown quantity, at least until we understand what’s going on with those babies. Even Max knowing…it could put him in danger. The fewer people who know about how specifically you’re using this place, I think, the better.”
The priest seemed to accept that, and his smile turned more affectionate. “Max would tell you that he could take care of himself,” he said, and I did all I could to match his wry expression.
“Well, I simply like it better if he’s got fewer things to worry about, I guess,” I said. I could feel Nigel’s eyes on me, knew the Brit wasn’t buying my redirection, but I couldn’t manage him right now. Lying to Father Jerome was hard enough. “But until he comes here—if he comes here—maybe don’t mention the babies or the pregnant girl. Max is related by family to Armaeus, and a chance question might be hard for him not to answer, even if he doesn’t intend to share your secrets.”
Nigel interjected. “You really believe the Magician doesn’t know anything that he specifically wants to know?”
It was a fair question, but I shook my head. “Armaeus isn’t some sort of prescient god. He gets his answers if he knows the questions to ask. But there’s no reason for this château to be on his radar screen other than the fact that we’re here. No reason for him to think there’s a new subcategory of Connected. I just think…for as long as we can…we might as well keep it that way.”
The priest and Nigel nodded, willing to go along with my request even if they didn’t agree with the need for it. The conversation moved into a more detailed discussion of the care of the infants, the arrival of yet another family to the Marseille safe house, and speculation on how many more refugees were to come. The hours slipped by with enough coffee to wire me into the next millennia, and still there was more to discuss, an entire kingdom of children needing a plan that went beyond protection and all the way to reintegration…only what kind of world were we sending them back into, really? Once these extraordinary young souls left Father Jerome’s holdings, how much could we do to keep them safe?