by Kat Dunn
She’d secluded herself in a nook, waiting for Comtois’s telltale black among the brighter colours of the Convention members, but he came out alone. She was assessing the ebb and flow of the crowd, judging where she could draw the most attention, when the point of a knife against her ribs stilled her instantly.
She looked back. Dorval.
‘What do you want?’ she spat, trying to ignore the insistent press of the knife on her skin.
Dorval’s smirk grew wider, and he looked over her shoulder. She turned to follow his gaze. The first tumbrils were arriving at the guillotine.
‘If you’re trying to annoy me, you can do that any time. I’m a bit busy right now.’ She tried to wriggle away but he followed her with the blade. With his free hand he felt along her side to find the knife in her sash, tossing it away.
‘I want you to watch.’
‘Watch what?’
Dorval turned her, keeping the knife nestled under her ribs. ‘Oh, just your hopes as they fade away.’
The first prisoners were being led out. Camille felt a flutter of panic. Was Al among them? Was James waiting for her distraction? No – no blond heads in this batch.
‘Why?’ she snarled. ‘This has nothing to do with Olympe. Or you.’
‘Ah. You would think.’
He smiled wider as the knife bit into the fat of her side. With the blade under her skin, Dorval pushed her further down the alley.
‘Come on, girlie. I want a talk with you.’
9
The Madeleine Church
Each step was marked by threat of pain. Camille stumbled, held upright by Dorval’s arm around her, knife grazing the cut he’d opened in her side. She could feel a trickle of hot blood dripping down her hip. Nobody paid them any attention as they left the alley and cut down the Rue St Honoré towards the ruins of the half-built Madeleine Church. To passers-by, she must look like a drunk, being supported home by a friend.
Dorval took her down the side of the foundations to the quiet back corner where she’d met him and the duc a few days previously. He kicked her feet so she was teetering on the edge of the pit, then gave her shoulder a shove so she fell backwards. Her back slammed into the hard earth; the air was forced from her lungs.
He jumped into the pit, landing next to her in a billow of frock coat and dust.
‘Time’s up. Where have you stashed the girl? Must I go back to dear Mademoiselle Ada and tell her you abandoned her? Ah, well, I will look forward to … how shall I put this … getting to know her better.’ He leered.
She saw his foot rise, and remembered how he’d pinned her to the floor like a bug. At the last moment, she rolled sideways, and he lost his balance as his foot came down on thin air.
‘You little bitch,’ he swore. ‘Come here.’
But Camille was up on her knees, crawling into the maze of foundation pillars. Her pulse was hammering in her ears, sounding impossibly loud. The thought kept racing round her mind: he was going to hurt Ada.
She hid behind a broad pillar. She could hear Dorval crunching over the rubble, sniffing her out like a wolf cornering its prey.
Silently, she dodged between the pillars. Ahead she could see the pediment of the church front and the street. There were people there, the sound of hooves and cartwheels. If only she could get that far.
Then, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, Dorval appeared in front of her. She turned to run, but his arms were around her, squeezing the air out of her and making her ribs scream in pain. On instinct, she lifted her legs, throwing his centre of gravity suddenly and wildly off-balance, and the two of them went crashing to the ground. Camille scrabbled away bruised and breathless, but Dorval’s hands closed around her waist. She kicked back, making a satisfying crunch as her heel met his nose, but he doggedly kept his grip, dragging himself slowly up her body. Why had she given away her pistol? It was too stupid.
Blindly, she grasped around and felt her fingers close over a rock. His face reached hers, all hot breath and bloodshot eyes.
‘Fight as much as you want, girlie. Your betters will always win. It’s the way of the world—’ His jaw went slack. Eyes unfocused. A thin, viscous trail of blood seeped down his temple.
Camille drew back her hand, and the rock she had slammed into his head with a sickening crunch.
‘Wha—’ he slurred.
She brought the rock down again.
He grunted, and slumped, his body pinning her to the ground. Motionless.
Trembling, she dropped the rock and drew in desperate gulps of air. She wriggled out from under him. There wasn’t any time to let herself recover. Al needed her. Ada needed her. She had to keep moving.
Then as she drew herself up onto her hands and knees, a clammy hand closed over her wrist.
Dorval lurched up.
No, no – she scrabbled for the rock again. But then his grip released at the same moment as she felt the hum of electricity. She twisted, pulling painfully on her wound, and saw Olympe, bare hand outstretched. She’d electrocuted him.
James stood behind her, pistol drawn.
‘Not that I’m not grateful,’ she said, ‘but what are you doing here? I told you to stay with Guil. To be safe.’
Olympe had the good grace to look guilty. ‘I know. But I chose not to. And good thing I did – looks like you’re the one who needed help staying safe.’
Camille snorted. She was going to regret ever telling Olympe she should make her own choices. She let them prop her against the wall of the pit. James explained how Olympe had found him as he set off after Al’s tumbril – but had spotted Dorval frog-marching Camille away and realised something was terribly wrong.
‘And thank god we did spot you.’
‘I can handle myself. What about Al?’
‘There’s time, he was in one of the last tumbrils to leave.’
James hunkered down next to her, and gingerly lifted the edge of her shirt to see the knife wound along her ribs. He sucked in a breath.
‘Oh, lord, Cam, this isn’t good.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ she said, wincing.
Then she looked up at him and blinked.
Her pistol was in James’s hand, the muzzle pointing at her head.
James smiled at her regretfully, his blond hair tumbling into his eyes.
‘Oh, Cam. You do always trust the wrong people.’
10
The Crypt at the Saints-Innocents Safe House
Ada had lost no time picking the locks and escaping her father’s house, then walked out, head down and hurrying like any other servant. As soon as she was far enough away to avoid drawing attention, she ran, pelting alleys, until she reached the crypt. She was unwrapping oilcloth from her crossbow, when the door opened, wood scraping against stone.
She flattened against the wall. There was no other way out. Had someone followed her?
She watched a pair of soldier’s boots descend the stairs, and then a tall figure came into view, wearing a military bicorn hat above his brown skin and dark curls.
‘Guil!’ Ada leaped up.
A smile crinkled the corner of his eyes and he folded her in a brief hug.
‘What are you doing here?’ She looked down at his side. ‘Should you be out of bed?’
‘Perhaps not. Camille left me in charge of Olympe, but she bolted as soon as my back was turned – and anyway, I do not feel comfortable letting my battalion take on a fight alone.’
‘You didn’t need to take it so literally.’
She gestured to the uniform.
‘Ah. Only half-clean thing left.’
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
Guil gave a sheepish grin and scratched the back of his neck. ‘I didn’t, if I’m honest. I came for the same reason it looks like you did – weapons. We moved to the Cordeliers safe house but it’s bare bones there. How did you escape?’
‘They thought I was a stupid naive girl.’
Guil smiled. ‘Ah. Unfortunate.’
‘Do you have any sense of what the Royalists are planning?’ he asked.
‘No. But I think it’s happening now. Dorval was summoned. He seemed in a hurry.’
Guil rifled through a crate and pulled out several short blades, a mask and a bag of money. Ada added a large sun hat, pinned it in place, and counted out the bolts for the crossbow.
‘They conned my father,’ she said, swinging a crossbow over her shoulder. ‘That’s how they got me. I’m a fool, and now Camille is trying to pull off a job on her own.’
Guil hooked the blades in his belt. ‘You are not a fool. He is your father. Our parents always have more control over us than we care to admit. But Camille is not alone, she has James with her – and I would guess also Olympe.’
A note of jealousy sounded within her at James’s name, but she shook it away. It didn’t matter who saved Camille, her or James, as long as someone did.
She tugged down the brim of her hat. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
Guil squeezed her shoulder.
‘Do not blame yourself. It’s not worth the time.’
Guil was right. No use thinking about that now. She shouldered the crossbow. What mattered now was action.
11
The Foundations of the Madeleine
The barrel of the gun kissed coolly against her temple.
‘You’d think after everything that’s happened, you’d be a bit more cautious about your decisions,’ said James, one hand holding the gun to her head, the other holding tightly onto Olympe.
‘What are you doing?’
Camille felt lost. She could see everything happening, but she couldn’t put together the pieces of the puzzle. This was James, who’d taught her cards and kissed her under the willow trees, who was soft about animals and read more than anyone she knew. This made no sense.
‘What I have to,’ he replied.
A dark, thunderous pall clouded Olympe’s skin and the hum of electricity in the air made the ends of Camille’s hair rise. She made a sudden lunge for his neck, free hand wrapped in sparks – but he yanked her off-balance.
‘Don’t think you can use your party trick,’ he snapped. ‘Try to shock me and my finger will squeeze the trigger, whether I want to or not. You know that.’
Olympe clearly did, and stopped, though she was shaking with anger.
James turned back to Camille. ‘Come on, Cam, surely this isn’t a total surprise. Did you really buy my story about sneaking into enemy territory to check up on you? This isn’t a novel, people don’t do things like that. You’re playing at things you don’t understand.’
For a few moments, his blows landed true, and Camille felt herself shrivel under the accusations. How many traps had she walked into by now?
‘Honestly, you made this easy for me. It’s almost embarrassing. I didn’t have the first clue how to find Olympe – but lo and behold there she was in your front room. I so nearly had her away while you were at dinner with Uncle Georges, only you did have to come back at the wrong moment. I thought the Royalists and Revolutionaries might cause me trouble – but now you’ve sorted that too.’ He rose from his haunches, gun still levelled on her as he started to lead Olympe away. ‘England thanks you for your assistance.’
They backed into the foundations and she was on her own. Cold earth under her knees, a cold breeze sticking her blood-stained clothes to her side.
She’d thought she’d lost everyone before, but now it was really true. James had betrayed her, taken Olympe. Al was meeting the guillotine that very moment.
She had to get up. She had to do something – anything.
She could give up. Or she could fight.
She could earn back their faith in her.
The crunch of a boot on the gravel caught her attention.
She looked up, squinting into the sun.
The Duc de l’Aubespine stepped into her path.
He took in the blood and Dorval’s sprawled body. ‘Mademoiselle Laroche.’
He carried no weapon. Why would he? She was just a girl. One he had outwitted at every turn.
‘Citoyen. You’re too late. Olympe is gone.’
He sneered. ‘You truly think you can hide her from us—’
‘You misunderstand me. I mean she has been taken – by someone else.’ Camille sagged. ‘It’s over.’
The change on the duc’s face was infinitesimal, but Camille could track the wave of anger in the twitch of his lips and flaring of his nostrils.
‘Who took her?’
‘The English.’
‘The— You stupid girl. You’ve ruined us all. If the English have her… ‘
Camille shrugged. ‘Not my problem now. Our deal is over. Give me back Adalaide before I give you a real problem.’
He gave a hollow laugh, peering down at her incredulously. ‘You threaten me?’
‘Oh, absolutely.’
‘You’re finished, Camille Laroche. Your battalion is in ruins. Can’t you tell when it’s time to give up? You’re as good as dead.’
Out of nowhere, a crossbow bolt whistled through the air, passing so close to the duc that it sliced off his lapel before thunking into a pillar.
He looked at the ragged edge of fabric in confusion.
Camille smiled, the light of recognition in her eyes.
She wasn’t alone.
‘Don’t you know who we are?’ she said. ‘We’re the Battalion of the Dead. Death couldn’t stop us, what makes you think you can?’
12
Above the Madeleine
Ada fitted another bolt to the crossbow and lifted it to her shoulder, sighting along its lines to bring the duc’s face into view. He had turned in the direction the bolt had come from, squinting against the sun behind her. Guil came crashing out from behind him to tackle the duc to the ground.
With two opponents, the duc gave in quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. Ada could see he was saying something – begging for his life, maybe – and Camille lurched forwards, snarling in fury. But Guil caught an arm around her and pulled her back, letting go of the duc. He took his chance and scrambled off into the ruins. Camille started after him but Guil said something, and Camille stilled, twisting in Ada’s direction. A swell of love caught in Ada’s chest.
It took Camille a moment to focus and realise Ada was in front of her. Something seemed to rip through her like lightning. The wild anger in her eyes faded, her shoulders slumped and her legs sagged. Ada flung herself down, crossbow slung over her shoulder, and closed the distance between them to gather Camille in her arms. They clung to each other, Ada pressing kisses to Camille’s bloody cheeks and Camille’s fingers digging into her sides. Her Camille, gaunt and ferocious and familiar.
‘I’m sorry – I’m sorry – I was too late – I got you hurt—’ Ada tripped over her words.
But Camille silenced her with another deep kiss. She was still crying, holding Ada’s face in her hands.
‘Shut up. Don’t ever apologise. You have never, ever hurt me.’
Tears cut tracks through the blood on Camille’s face.
Ada realised she was crying too. She couldn’t find the right words so she kissed her again, desperately, hoping it conveyed some spark of the heavy, painful love that filled her chest.
‘How did you find me?’ asked Camille.
‘It was Ada’s suggestion,’ said Guil. ‘She remembered the rendezvous where you met the duc before.’
Camille smiled and squeezed Ada’s hand.
Guil looked at the blood all over Camille.
‘You need medical attention. We will find you a doctor—’
‘It’s not all my blood.’
‘Cam—’
Ada stopped Guil by tearing a strip fro
m her chemise. ‘Here, use this.’
‘Where are James and Olympe?’ asked Guil.
‘He took her.’
‘What – but how?’
‘No, not the duc. James.’
‘Back to the safe house?’
Camille shook her head, and Ada felt her fingers grip, trying to form fists where she was still holding on to Ada.
‘No. He took her. From us.’
Ada blinked in shock. ‘I don’t understand.’
Camille gave a bitter laugh. ‘He said England thanked me for my assistance. He’s their spy. You read in the duc’s journals that the English had been trying to do their own experiments. They must want Olympe for the same reason everyone wants her.’
‘That bastard,’ said Ada.
‘Poor girl,’ murmured Guil.
‘I’m not done with him yet,’ said Camille darkly.
‘Al first, though,’ said Ada.
‘Aren’t we too late?’
‘No – I saw his tumbril, he’ll be among the last up.’
A new light shone in Camille’s eyes.
‘Then we’d better get moving.’
Guil stopped Camille as they were about to leave. He held out an old pistol, the metal and wood battered and scorched.
‘I know it is no substitute for your father’s gun,’ he said. ‘But take this. It was mine in the army. I hope you make better use of it.’
Camille hesitated, a mix of emotions on her face, then closed her hand around the pistol and tucked it into her belt with a quiet thanks.
They left the church and wove through the backstreets towards the Place de la Révolution as the hour bells chimed. Time had nearly run out, but now they were in their element. They’d earned their name snatching people from the jaws of the guillotine. This time, Al’s life was on the line. They’d never failed to save someone yet, they wouldn’t start now.
The tumbrils were lined up along the river, waiting to unload their prisoners. Al was in the last wagon, stuffed in with a gaggle of other men. Ada tried to ignore the thunk of the guillotine falling at regular intervals, and the bay of the crowd as each head rolled. They perched at the edge of the Jardin des Tuileries opposite the ornate buildings of the National Assembly, blending with people flowing back and forth over the Pont de la Révolution. Al was there, right before the guillotine, and yet it still seemed such an impossibility.