by Kat Dunn
Before she could reply, a boot slammed into her chest and she was flung onto the boards. Dorval loomed above her, grinding the sole of his boot into her sternum. The pressure was immense, strangling any last breath she had. She heard something crunch and prayed it wasn’t her ribs.
‘I don’t think you’re taking me seriously, Citoyenne Laroche. You can stand up for this quaint notion of what’s right and kill the few people you have left. Or you can choose to keep them safe.’
Safe for how long? she thought, trying to catch her breath. They knew about Olympe, knew what she could do. How long would the battalion be allowed to live with that knowledge? And what had he said? They had no idea what terror was coming.
This wouldn’t end with handing Olympe over.
Whatever this was, it was only just starting.
He stepped back, straightening his waistcoat.
‘So what will you choose?’
16
The Locked Doors of the Théâtre Patriotique
A desperate mix of panic and despair and guilt paralysed Ada at the top of the stairs.
‘Can you pick the lock?’ asked Al.
‘I – I don’t know. I need space to work.’
She could see children in the crowd, some held aloft by their parents. They were the only ones who could draw breath to cry. The smoke would silence them too, soon enough.
They had to do something. They had to try.
‘I’m going back,’ she said. ‘I’ll find the keys. If we can pass the key down to someone…’
‘Ada – no – it’s suicide.’
‘I have to. I can’t let them all die.’
‘And setting yourself on fire is going to help how?’
‘What’s your plan, then?’ she retorted, breaking off into a cough that racked her body.
Al cast around, coughing from the smoke pouring in from the auditorium and rubbing grit from his eyes. Ada could feel the heat beneath her feet. The flames were coming.
‘Smash a window,’ he said. ‘Drop down to the street. Better a broken leg than a roasting.’
She looked at him, eyes wide with dismay.
‘What about the people?’
‘If they’re smart, they’ll follow us.’
‘Until the stairs give way and they’re trapped. I know you’re not that callous, Al.’
‘What exactly is it you want me to do? Burn alongside them as a matter of principle? If I wanted a stupid and pointless death, I could have stayed with my family.’
Ada lost her train of thought. ‘Wait, what do you mean about your family? Aren’t they in Switzerland?’
‘I mean that I’m not bloody interested in dying today! And I don’t know why you are.’
He strode to the window and smashed it with his elbow. Ada couldn’t resist moving closer to the flow of fresh air. People had begun to gather outside – the smoke must be showing – and a tall, blond figure was making its way to the front. Ada frowned.
‘Is that—?’
‘James!’ yelled Al. ‘British guy!’
On the street below, James glanced round, confused – then looked up.
‘Aloysius! Adalaide!’ He waved.
‘What are you doing here?’ called Al, half-hanging out of the window.
‘For god’s sake, there’s no time for that.’ Ada pulled him out of the way. ‘We’re trapped, the doors are locked,’ she yelled down to James.
‘Hold on! I’ve found someone. We’re going to take the door off its hinges.’
Ada had never felt more relieved and more useless. Take the door off its hinges. Of course. It was petty to feel resentful. James was going to save all those people. The ones she’d failed to get out.
A tense minute or two stretched into hours in her mind, as she watched James and a few helpers take tools to the hinges to dismantle the door. A bigger crowd of spectators was gathering. She couldn’t bear to look into the lobby again.
First one side of the double doors gave way, then the other, bursting into the street like a cork from a bottle. People previously pinned to the doors flopped onto the cobbles, and there was a desperate rush to stop them from being trampled. Ada could see people fainting, some not moving at all, their lips blue and faces bruised. She yanked herself back inside, watching them pour outside away from the cloying smoke.
Al had already slunk down a few steps, and Ada followed him. The lobby was empty, but for the bodies strewn there. James was inside, sleeve over his mouth, coughing, pulling people out with the help of others. Despite the burning in her lungs, Ada stopped to help him. To her surprise, Al did too. Once all the bodies, moving and still, had been pulled into the street, Ada finally let herself collapse and give in to the cough that threatened to tear her apart. A hand touched her back, then someone was pressing water into her hands. She gulped it gratefully, shaking as shock began to set in. Al had slumped beside her, head in his hands.
James appeared and shook her shoulder.
‘Ada? Are you okay? Where’s Cam?’
She blinked up at him, rubbing ash from her eyes.
‘Cam? She wasn’t with us – she was backstage.’
‘Oh my god – I can’t leave her in there.’
Ada stared after him as he disappeared into the smoke, rooted to the spot by too many thoughts at once. It should be her rescuing Camille, not James. She was the one Camille loved, the one she trusted, not him. But she would never have thought to. That’s how it worked with Camille, with the battalion. You took responsibility for yourself, and you trusted the rest of the battalion to do the same. They all knew the plan. They knew what they were supposed to do. If they started making changes, it was dangerous. No one knew what James was doing now, where he was, where he was going. No one could help him. It was a risk, a huge one. An unnecessary one. Camille wouldn’t have come after her.
She won’t choose you.
Her father’s words stayed with her, as she watched flames dance out of the windows of the theatre. She thought she’d done what Camille wanted. But maybe she’d got it wrong.
Maybe James was getting it right.
17
Backstage at the Théâtre Patriotique
Dorval loomed above Camille, wreathed in smoke. She pulled herself upright, feeling the jangling pain in her ribs and the burning in her throat.
‘I choose,’ she gasped, ‘to tell you no.’
A frustrated sneer crossed Dorval’s face.
‘Stupid girl.’ He stepped towards her – then lurched sideways as someone crashed into him. Camille blinked, taking in tousled blond hair and broad shoulders.
‘James?’
As he grappled with Dorval, a cloak closed around her, and she looked up, startled to see Guil on her side of the wall of fire. She understood how he’d done it, when he wrapped the cloak around himself as well, and bowled them both rapidly through the flames into the passage beyond.
‘Camille.’ Guil’s hands were on her cheeks, giving her a light slap. ‘Can you walk?’
She nodded. He pointed down the passage. ‘I sent Olympe that way. Follow her. You have to get out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice broke, and she let him take the weight of her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry I made you do this. I don’t think you’re wrong for still believing in your principles.’
The hand on her cheek caressed her hot skin for a moment. ‘Enough of that. You sound far too much as if you’re saying goodbye. No one dies today, didn’t you hear yourself?’ He lifted her so she was standing and almost steady on her own two feet. ‘Now go.’
Wrapping the cloak around himself once more, Camille watched in terror as Guil flung himself back through the flames and into the fight. Fresh air and freedom were so close. But Guil – and James – were still in the heart of the fire. She could see them, weaving back and forth as they traded blows with Dorval, dodging the wild swipes of his knife. She couldn’t help them, she knew she was beyond that. But she couldn’t bring herself to walk away when they were in there.
Guil made another play for Dorval’s knife. But Dorval was fast, and clever. He used his low centre of gravity to anchor himself, grabbing Guil’s foot when it made contact – sending him tumbling. Dorval stabbed the knife at James, who stumbled back, towards the flames. In a move after her own heart, Guil surged up and slammed his knee between Dorval’s legs, sending him crumpling to the floor.
But as he went down, he caught Guil. His blade glittered gold in the firelight, before it sank into Guil’s kidneys. He twisted the knife, then pulled it out to stab the artery at the top of the thigh.
Camille felt her throat close, horror overwhelming her. A groan rolled around the back of the stage, and it took Camille a moment to realise it hadn’t come from any of them. Sparks cascaded over them in a beautiful, sick imitation of rain. The gantry broke free from its burning supports and crashed down onto Guil, James and Dorval in a huge, unbroken wall of burning wood and metal.
She screamed, throat raw. Move, she told her legs, run. Help. Do something.
A hand caught her elbow.
‘Camille. Get up – we have to get out of here.’
It was Olympe, hooking her cool grey hand under her arm, and pulling her back into the passage with surprising strength.
‘No – wait,’ she cried weakly. ‘James and Guil – we can’t leave them.’
But Olympe ignored her and dragged her on.
‘You’ve saved my life enough times now. I have to return the favour.’
They staggered into the back alley. As Olympe kicked the door open, a huge tongue of flame tore up the corridor to lick over their heads. They tumbled into the street, shrieking in pain as the fire caught their clothes and hair.
Instantly, hands were on them, patting out the flames and pulling them further from the building.
‘Cam? Cam, can you hear me?’
She opened her eyes, feeling Ada’s familiar fingers stroking her face and fell apart in Ada’s arms. Hot tears burned her raw skin, and she shuddered against Ada’s chest.
‘Guil’s still in there. And James. They came for me but I couldn’t – I tried—’ She broke off. ‘I couldn’t save them. I failed.’
PART FOUR
Quickening
1
The Crypt at the Saints-Innocents Safe House
18 Prairial Year II, two days until the deadline
‘Keep the leg elevated! Don’t stop the pressure!’
They crashed into the crypt under the Saints-Innocents charnel house, hauling Guil’s limp body between the three of them. James had his hands under Guil’s arms and Al had his legs, while Ada desperately tried to keep her hands clamped over the wound that was gushing blood. Olympe followed, helping Camille, who was still struggling to breathe.
Clearing the top of a stone casket, they laid Guil down. James had emerged from the rubble of the theatre carrying Guil, and they had fled for the safehouse.
‘Get something for a tourniquet,’ James ordered.
Al dug around in the supplies stashed in the crypt and brought back a length of cloth and a piece of old bone. There were plenty of bones to choose from, scattered around the floor of the crypt. It was cramped and dark, lit only by window slits near the ceiling that cast a dim light on the moss-covered flags and empty alcoves in the walls where once femurs and ribs and skulls had been piled. They had bundles of supplies stashed between the broken flagstones, Ada’s crossbow wrapped in oilcloth, old clothes and masks for disguises, and a few medical odds and ends from patching each other up.
James fed the fabric around the top of Guil’s thigh, using the bone to twist the cloth tighter and tighter until Ada felt the flow of blood stem. But they couldn’t fit a tourniquet around the injury to his side. She stuffed the wound with rags, pressing both hands down in a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
‘Don’t let go.’ James pushed a hand through his hair, leaving a red smear across his forehead.
‘We need a doctor,’ said Ada.
‘No,’ said Camille. ‘No one can know where we are. It’s not safe.’
‘And letting Guil bleed to death is?’
Camille stared her down.
Ada felt his blood, hot and slippery on her fingers. ‘There’s been enough death already today—’
‘It’s not safe—’
‘I’m a doctor,’ cut in James. ‘I mean, I’m training to be one. Let me help.’
Camille nodded.
James’s eyes were too wide, too wild, as he cast around the room. ‘I need a needle and thread. Something to sew up the wound.’
Al and James went digging and Ada found herself alone with Guil, looking at the mess that used to be his thigh and side.
Camille had sunk to the floor wheezing, eyes closed. Olympe was pacing the crypt, the dirt and ash on her cheeks stained with tears.
‘Found something.’ James reappeared with a slender needle and spool of white cotton thread. His hands shook as he threaded the needle. ‘It’s supposed to be a curved needle but it’ll have to do.’
Al held up a flickering candle stub to light him as he worked.
‘Show me.’
Carefully Ada lifted her hands, feeling the torn flesh move unnaturally. James cursed under his breath.
A muscle twitched in James’s jaw as he made the first stitch.
As Al held the light steady, Ada pressed the two lips of the cut together so James could stitch a neat line, first along Guil’s thigh, then more sloppily snagging together the edges of the tear in his side. For a moment she felt as if she was lighter than air, floating in the hot air balloon again up, up, up out of the coppery smell of blood and panic.
A blue spark caught her eye.
‘It’s my fault.’ Olympe had stopped pacing and was staring at Guil transfixed. The make-up had faded around her temples and eyes where she kept rubbing them. ‘I did this.’
A dart of blue lightning snaked down her hand.
‘Just stay calm.’ Ada couldn’t look up from the wound for long or risk holding it crooked. ‘This isn’t your fault.’
‘It is. All of it is. They wouldn’t be coming after you if they weren’t coming after me. You were only trying to help me and I did this to you.’
‘No—’
‘I hurt people. The bodies … all those bodies in the street.’
Ada saw another spark crackle between Olympe’s fingers.
‘Al – take her upstairs. And for god’s sake don’t let anyone see you.’
He nodded, leaving the candle balanced on the lid of the stone casket, and led her, weeping, up to the abandoned church.
In the fetid silence, Ada and James worked quickly. Blood covered everything. It congealed under her fingernails and gathered in the wrinkles of her knuckles.
At last James knotted the thread and dropped the needle. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
‘There. The rest is out of our hands.’
Ada carefully sponged the blood from Guil’s side. The stitches had soaked through dark red against his ashen skin, cutting a puckered line across muscle.
They had the information they’d been hunting for.
She wasn’t sure it was worth the price they’d paid.
2
The Charnel House at the Saints-Innocents Safe House
‘Well, congratulations, everyone, on a job well done.’ Al took a cup of coffee, giving Camille a meaningful look.
They’d moved Guil into the drier, warmer charnel house above, after checking it was secure. It was less dank than the crypt but just as morbid. A crumbling fresco of the Danse Macabre wound its way round the walls showing Death leading beggars and kings alike to their end. The Saints-Innocents cemetery had been stripped of its dead ten years before when the overflowing graveyards of Paris had been emptied into the old mines; now a herb and vegetable market took its place. It did a good job of hiding their presence: a cacophony of sellers hawking, horseshoes on flagstones and street performers singing drowned any noise they might make ins
ide the forgotten building. The smell of the herbs hanging in dried bundles and heaped fresh on the ground outside was overwhelming, mint and thyme and rosemary and basil and sage twisting together in a sickly mess. But at least it would mask the smell of blood.
Camille had been too tired to argue with James when he’d insisted on going out to find coffee, a packet of roasted chestnuts and a round, fat Sans Culottes cake, from a nearby café. Her paltry breakfast that morning felt a long, long time ago, and she’d fallen on the food, demolishing it in minutes. Then she’d settled with her coffee, hoping it would revive her. The smell of burned coffee meant home to Camille as much as the scatter of her things around a room or a door she could lock behind her. It would greet her halfway along the Rue de Vaugirard and summon her like a congregation to the church bell. The Au Petit Suisse roasted its own beans and took assiduous care to roast dark enough to mask the poor taste of the cheap Robusta beans. The scent would permeate the whole building for hours, curling up through the stairwells until all their clothes had a semi-permanent acrid whiff. At first Camille found the bitter, black coffee undrinkable. Then as the months passed, like the tuft of horsehair that jabbed her shoulder through the mattress, or the crust of mould around the skirting boards, the bitter taste became a comfort, a symbol of the home she’d forced the world to make space for.
They sat round a gritty pot of burned coffee, so far from their cosy evenings together above the Au Petit Suisse, pretending not to look at Guil’s unconscious body. Camille had taken a handful of chestnuts and was peeling them languidly. A shatter of shells fell off her lap when Al spoke.
‘A job well done?’ she replied. ‘We killed people. It was a disaster—’
‘Do you really care about that?’ Al had sniffed out the remains of a bottle and tipped it into his coffee.
‘Of course I care. I’m not a monster.’
Olympe, arms wrapped around her legs and her forehead pressed against her knees, was next to her. Camille hesitantly rested a hand on Olympe’s shoulder, stroking the exposed skin of her neck in some poor attempt at comfort.