by Kat Dunn
‘I told you getting mixed up in this was too dangerous,’ Al continued. ‘It’s time someone said it to your face: we’re taking way too many risks. Sod doing the right thing – us making it out the other end of this is about as high as we can aim for.’
‘Shut up. Shut your damn mouth. None of this was supposed to happen. You’re the one who said we should go into the theatre. You should have realised they locked the doors—’
She broke off, coughing. She hated everyone seeing her like this. She felt exposed, every weakness and flaw on display.
‘Don’t you dare lay this at my door. I told you it was a bad idea to think we could walk right into the place. You put us into the path of someone dangerous.’ Al was ashen. ‘You weren’t pulling out the bodies.’
‘If anyone’s to blame,’ said James, ‘it’s the man who locked the doors. I don’t think any of you would have let this happen if there was any way you could have stopped it.’
Camille dropped her head into her hands, pinching her temples. The dark seemed to be drawing in, shadows eating up the room. ‘No. I’m not blameless. I should have planned better.’
‘Planned for what exactly? Will you please tell me what’s going on?’
‘I told you, we’re on a job. You don’t need to know the details.’
‘Why not?’ It was Ada who spoke, a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘He’s helped us, risked his life to help us. He should know the truth. He’s your fiancé, isn’t he?’
Camille closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the tightness in her chest.
‘Fine. Don’t make me regret this.’
She ran over the details of their plan and how it had gone wrong, with the rest of the battalion chipping in.
‘Did you get the information you needed?’ James asked when she was done.
‘Yes and no.’ She returned to her cold coffee, thinking over everything that had happened, everything Dorval had said to her as he tried to smash her ribs with his boot. She didn’t know if he’d made it out alive. It seemed impossible that anyone could have survived, and yet James had dragged himself and Guil from the rubble, ghost-white with plaster dust. She could only hope Dorval hadn’t managed the same. ‘Dorval said things don’t end with Olympe. They want the king back on the throne and they think Olympe is the way they can make it happen.’
Al cracked a nut. ‘Shocking. Who would have guessed?’
‘It was more than that. Dorval talked about terror. About showing the Revolutionaries what terror really means. I think they’re planning something. And Olympe is part of their plan.’
‘I won’t do it. I won’t let them use me.’
Camille stroked Olympe’s hair, but the crackling halo shocked her and she drew back. A stormy electric blue glow had spread across Olympe like a second skin.
‘They want to make me hurt people and I won’t. I refuse. I’d rather die than let them take me again.’ A spark jumped from her wrist and caught on the edge of a news-sheet, the paper smouldering. The electric charge rippled wildly around her shaking shoulders.
‘It won’t come to that. I promised, didn’t I?’ Camille tried to reassure her.
But it was too late.
The first spark was joined by another, ricocheting up Olympe’s arms. Like a flame catching, the charge consumed her in a rush, sending her hair flying wildly about her head and catching the light of the stars in her eyes.
The battalion shrank as one, Camille scrambling to escape the storm. She could just make out the tear-stained bruises around Olympe’s eyes. She called her name, but the girl didn’t respond. The hum was crackling louder and faster, rushing over her like a river raging from its banks. Sparks caught on scraps, chairs, their bundles of supplies, filling the room with curls of smoke. A wind whipped from Olympe’s floating figure, scattering Ada’s books, flinging Camille’s hair over her eyes. She could feel the charge in her teeth, in her bones, an awful, insistent hum that filled the inside of her head until she could barely stand it. Somewhere in the mayhem, Ada had crawled over to Olympe and reached for her hand, but a flare shot painfully between them and she let go.
‘I won’t do it!’ wailed Olympe. She hung in the centre of the room, feet dangling a few centimetres off the floor, wrapped in shimmering blue. ‘I can’t – I won’t hurt more people, I won’t … I won’t…’
Camille called to Olympe but it was no good. Ada was crawling towards her again – past her, down to the crypt. Camille hesitated. Maybe Ada was right: they should all get out of there. But then Ada reappeared clutching an old silk dress, ruined beyond repair, from a previous job. Holding it in front of her, she took tentative steps towards Olympe.
Camille understood what she meant to do a moment before she did it, yelling Ada’s name. Then Ada was lunging forwards, wrapping the silk around Olympe, pulling her into a tight hug, like a mother wrapping a towel around her child fresh from the bath. Camille held her breath, sparks escaping from around the edges of the silk, but Ada had Olympe’s arms pinned, smothering the worst of the charge.
‘We won’t let anyone use you,’ she said, holding Olympe close. Her curly hair was clouding out from the charge in the air. ‘Olympe – let us help you.’
Slowly, the frenzied blue crackling dimmed. The charge died, and the wind died with it. The ringing in Camille’s head receded. She took a shaky breath, as she watched Ada bring Olympe back to the ground. Finally, Ada sat with her on the floor and used the gown to mop away the tears on her cheeks.
‘You have a choice. It’s why they made you, but it’s not who you are.’
Camille wanted to say more, but in that moment her mind was blank. It wasn’t Olympe’s fault, but they had done something awful. Innocent blood was on their hands. They weren’t helping people – they’d killed them.
The sight of those bodies would never, ever leave her.
Al extracted himself from inside a bone niche, brushing dust off himself.
From behind a toppled end table, James emerged.
‘Could someone tell me what the hell is going on?’
3
The Charnel House
Camille went cold.
She looked at James, mind racing. Could they trust him? Were they done for?
‘Don’t be scared. Olympe isn’t dangerous.’
James looked at the smouldering debris flung around the charnel house.
Camille raised her hands. ‘Okay, I know it looks bad, but trust me. She’s just a girl who’s … different.’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Oh, tell him,’ said Al. ‘Not even you can lie your way out of this, Camille.’
He had a point.
James watched her expectantly.
So for the second time that night she told James more than she wanted to. He listened carefully, nodding as Ada explained what they’d learned about Olympe’s powers so far.
‘Actually … there’s something else I found at the abbey.’ She fished in her pockets. ‘Damn, my notes are gone. When we were investigating the laboratory, I found what looked like the duc’s diary. It went back years.’ Her eyes flicked to Olympe, a look of apprehension in them. ‘Back to before Olympe was born.’
Olympe wrapped her arms around her knees and hid her face.
Ada continued, ‘The duc, he was there from the start. He … he set up an experiment on pregnant women, on their unborn children, using electricity.’
Camille frowned. ‘What are you saying?’
‘He was trying to see if the application of electricity would … change something in humans,’ explained Ada.
‘Like Galvanism,’ said James, deep in thought. ‘Except experimenting on people before birth, instead of after death.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I read it too,’ said Olympe softly. ‘I am a science project.’
‘No – that’s not true,’ said Ada.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Whatever he did only woke up a latent ability you already possessed. What you
can do with it – the way you can manipulate and control the electric current – that’s all you, Olympe. I think you have made yourself even more powerful than anyone could have imagined.’
‘What good is being powerful if I will always be hunted for it?’ A shiver of blue sparks ghosted her jaw. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to lose control. But I will never, ever let that man get hold of me again. I will die first.’
Camille held her dark gaze, willing her lungs to take normal, even breaths.
What if she didn’t find a way out of this? What if Olympe was forced to make that choice?
She looked away. ‘What about Comtois? How did he get involved?’
‘He was working for the duc,’ explained Ada. ‘That’s how he found out about Olympe. How he knew to take her.’
‘Do you think he knew what the duc had planned for Olympe?’
Ada shrugged. ‘I can’t say, but it wouldn’t be hard to guess.’
Camille fell silent for a moment. ‘We need to take you out of their hands – out of everyone’s hands but your own.’
‘All that’s going to do is make them more determined to hurt us. To eliminate us,’ said Al.
Camille shrugged. ‘We can deal with them.’
‘Really? Because I’m not so sure we can. Look what happened at the theatre.’
She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders. ‘We’re trying to do the right thing. This isn’t just a job. We’re standing up for Olympe’s right to choose her own future. What happened at the theatre is exactly why we have to keep fighting. The Royalists are planning to hurt people to get their king back – terror, that’s what Dorval said. They want Olympe for god knows what reason, but we can very safely say their intentions are not good. The same goes for Comtois and the other side. They want to hurt people. We’re not going to let them.’
‘What’s to say we don’t end up being the ones hurting people?’ asked Olympe quietly.
Camille swallowed. ‘We won’t. I swear it. I won’t let something like that happen again. I can make this right – we can make this right.’
‘Do you even have a plan?’ asked Ada.
Camille didn’t blink. Then she started to smile, a curling cat-like thing that lit her face with a dark light.
Al narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s that expression? I don’t like it.’
‘We need to get the Revolutionaries and Royalists off our case. We can only hope Dorval didn’t make it out of the theatre alive, but even then that leaves us with too many people breathing down our necks. We can’t do anything for Olympe like that.’
‘As you said. But how do we do that?’ asked Al. ‘You can’t politely request the government and royal family leave you alone for a bit.’
‘Oh, I don’t intend to be polite. They both want her, don’t they? So let’s make each think the other has her. Set up one drop, bring both of them to it and accuse the other of having snatched her already.’
Ada made a hmph noise, and looked out of the window, the dim candlelight showing the rosy warmth in her brown skin. Camille so desperately wanted to reach out and touch her hand, pull her into her arms.
James cleared his throat. ‘It’s not the worst plan I’ve heard. You said the deadline to give Olympe to the Revolutionaries was the twentieth of – Prairial, is it? Am I getting the new months right?’
Al nodded. ‘On the Festival of the Supreme Being, of all days.’
James hesitated, bracing his elbows on his knees. ‘Looks like you have your drop point figured out. Easy to lose track of who has who in a crowd like that? What was it your father always used to say, Cam? There’s no such thing as fate, no destiny. Everything is a choice.’ He gave her an encouraging smile, pleasant and trusting. ‘I think we have a choice to stand up to some pretty nasty people, and that’s always going to be the choice I make. I understand why you didn’t want to tell me the truth. But you can trust me, Cam. You know that?’
She hesitated, feeling the weight of all their eyes on her.
Did she trust him?
‘I think what you’re doing is right, and brave. Liberté, égalité, fraternité, that’s what it should be about. I’m with you. I always will be.’
He was smiling at her, all cheekbones and dimples and hair tumbling into his eyes. On his other side, Ada sat looking at her hands, picking at her cuticles.
‘Fine. We’re going ahead with the drop tomorrow. You can help.’
She couldn’t stop now. This was bigger than them.
Terror, Dorval had said. Paris had already seen enough terror for a lifetime.
4
The Charnel House
19 Prairial Year II, one day until the deadline
Camille had folded herself up to sleep in an alcove that once held a heap of rib bones – the crypt beneath was too damp for her fragile lungs. They hadn’t wanted to risk moving Guil any distance, so they’d stayed put for the night. They had one more day until the deadline, and she’d put her battalion in mortal danger already.
But it seemed like one good thing had come out of the disaster at the theatre: surely Dorval couldn’t have escaped the burning building unscathed.
Unable to sleep longer, Camille waited for her coughing to subside. She didn’t want to look at the red speckling her sleeve. She was fine. She had to be.
Only Guil shared the upstairs room with her, still silently stretched like a body awaiting burial. Camille fetched a damp cloth and pressed it against his face. A scar ran around his bare shoulder, a memento from his time in the army.
She wanted to leave the room, not look at him. She couldn’t help but stay. Pick at the scab of her culpability and feel the pain she deserved.
Footsteps sounded on the stone stairs and Camille moved backwards quickly, wiping the beginning of tears from her cheeks.
James appeared, hair ruffled from sleep. Dark circles were smudged under his eyes and his lips looked bitten.
‘Morning. I’ve come to check on the patient.’
‘Thank you. For helping Guil, but also for being so … understanding.’
He gave her a brief smile. ‘It’s a lot, Cam, I won’t lie. But it’s you. I trust you.’ He rewrapped the wound, hiding the twisted row of stitches from sight. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘How do you think? In all the jobs I’ve done, I’ve never had a body count before.’
‘I meant your chest,’ said James softly.
‘Fine. I’m fine.’
‘Did you get some sleep?’
‘Enough.’
‘Why am I sure that’s not true?’
‘Maybe I should be losing sleep! God knows how many people died in that theatre because of me. And Guil might end up one of them.’
‘You know that’s not your fault.’
‘Isn’t it? Who came up with the plan? Who brought Dorval down on our heads? Who led Olympe into the theatre? Me. I can’t pretend I didn’t because I did.’
She didn’t know when she’d started crying, but somehow she was and James was there, brushing the tears from her cheeks and she hated how she didn’t hate it at all.
‘Get some more sleep. I’ll wake you if anything happens.’
‘I can’t. I need to work out what we’re going to do and I’ve already wasted all the time we had.’
‘It’s okay to take a break, you know.’
‘Is it?’
‘Camille—’
‘Because when I take a break, it’s not just me I’m putting at risk. Back when I started the battalion, I took risks because nothing mattered. Only, it turns out I built myself a new family out of the wreckage of my old life and now it does matter. I care and, oh god, I keep saying we’re doing good, I tell myself I do the right thing, but I don’t. I can’t sleep because all I can think of is how I hate myself – people are dead – but all I care about really is Guil, which makes me a goddamn bad person who clearly does not do the right thing. Am I a bad person? James, tell me. Am I a bad person?’
Carefully, gently, he fold
ed her into his arms just as he had so many times in the past. She forced herself to stay still for a moment, unwilling to admit she wanted to be held by him. Then lost the battle and let herself lean into his warmth. His fingers carded through her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. Her breathing fell in time with his, the rhythmic rise and fall tethering her when she felt she might fall apart.
‘You’re not a bad person. I know you, Camille, and I know who you are. You’re good and kind and brave and honest and I’ve loved you all my life.’
Closing her eyes she wrapped her arms around his waist, feeling the hard planes of muscle and breathing in his familiar smell of leather and wood smoke.
‘No. I’m not.’
5
The Crypt
Ada watched Olympe sleep. She was buried under a heap of jackets, dead to the world. Al had disappeared some time during the night. She didn’t know where. For a brief, unexpected moment, she was alone.
From the pocket tied under her skirts, she pulled out the letter from her father that Bisset the bookseller had passed to her. The money that had come with it had been half-spent already. Part of her wished the letter had burned in the fire. But it hadn’t, and the game continued. To read or not to read.
She turned it over in her hand. It was a small square of paper, folded over on itself and sealed shut with a hastily applied blob of wax. The ink showed through from the inside in an illegible backwards scrawl. She eased a nail along a fold, sliding her finger under the paper and like that, the seal cracked open.
Well, then. The choice was out of her hands.
To read, it was.
My dear Adalaide,
I am sorry you were so upset by our last meeting. Please believe me when I say that all I’ve ever done is care for you. Perhaps it’s impossible to understand the choices our parents make, but whatever else you think of me, never doubt that I want the best for you.
Come back again in a few days and I’ll do what I can to leave some more money with Bisset. You know you can ask me for anything you need.