He continued in this way, wading through the dark emptiness, only the love he felt for his ward guiding him. What if he was going the wrong direction? That was quite likely. What if he became stuck down here—down in this labyrinth of death and decay—alone in the darkness? That was even more likely.
As he snaked through the endless corridor, blind and alone, the pastor’s emotionless drawl echoed his mind. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
The pain returned to his arm with brutal force. Aleksender cried out and clasped onto the drenched material of his dress shirt. His legs failed him in the same breath—sending his body slamming against a cluster of skulls. He collapsed like a sack of bones and was forced into a fetal position. Indeed—the length of his form spanned wider than the hallway by a good foot. Lying in the darkness, engulfed by death and multitudes of pain, Aleksender felt himself begin to surrender. Yes, his mind throbbed against his skull. The walls seemed to shrink, closing in on his mind, body and spirit.
I should just do nothing. Do nothing and die here. It will be a matter of days—at most, a week—before the wound infects itself. It will redden and swell. Pus and other sour smelling fluids will mingle with my blood. I will vomit my guts out. Defecate myself a half dozen times, maybe more … and eventually either starve to death or be swept with infection. Perhaps, I can bash my head in—these skulls certainly feel sharp enough—and surrender much, much sooner.
Aleksender’s eyes slipped shut as a veil descended, sweeping him to a different time and place. In his mind’s eye, he was seated before a blazing hearth and she was sprawled before him, chin in hands, her youthful features perfectly relaxed, perfectly content. Damn it to hell. Aleksender would never find his way out of this maze.
His voice echoed the haunted cavern of his mind, distant and foreign to his ears:
Ah, but you are wrong, ma chérie. You see, this is built as a labyrinth. It’s only an illusion designed to appear as a maze.
He’d come so far—he and his little Sofia had come so far. No—a few dark halls would not be his downfall. Aleksender had lived a lifetime of darkness. An underground labyrinth would not best him.
•
Nearly an hour had passed before Aleksender could make out the faint hum of voices. He snaked through the walls with squinted eyes, barely able to decipher his surroundings. Hints of grinning skulls and mildew-covered stones came into vision. In this section of the catacombs, torches and sconce lanterns hung from the walls and cast faint streams of light. The illuminations tossed thick shadows along the skulls and stone flooring, enhancing the deathly aura. Every so often the pathway would veer off in one direction and continue in another.
Aleksender froze in his tracks as a pungent scent flooded his nostrils. The scent reeked distinctively of death and decay.
God’s teeth, what was that smell?
A terrible vision of Sofia’s beautiful, limp form flashed behind his eyes. Aleksender splayed a wrist over his nose, bit back a curse, and followed a slight curve in the path.
The dangling sconces harmoniously throbbed, threatening to wink out. Aleksender blindly clung onto the damp wall for guidance and steadied his body. Condensation covered the skulls in a slimy film, making them feel remarkably like brains. The floor turned and slanted as he descended deeper into Paris’s underground—deeper, deeper still.
The pitter-patter of a rat fled past his boots with the audacity of a drum roll. His battered limbs tangled in one of the low hanging spider webs.
After what seemed an eternity, Aleksender encountered the makeshift prison cell. Three decapitated corpses were sprawled across the floor, their limp bodies nearly overlapping. Swarms of maggots clogged the stumps of their necks as hundreds of hungry mouths consumed the rotten flesh. All of it became too much. Far too much. The war, the carcasses, his throbbing bullet wound, the underground labyrinth, his father’s uncalled death. Richard’s words, Father would have never denied them such a thing … you could be named next. Sofia’s kidnapping.
Aleksender’s stomach tightened, clenched, and sunk, broken out in a chain of dry heaves. Relief came in a fell swoop as lukewarm liquid bubbled from his gut—mostly brandy, he assumed—and splattered onto the stones below. Gasping for breath, he swiped away the vomit and conjured an image of Sofia inside his mind.
Aleksender regained a semblance of composure and knelt beside the corpses.
A note poked out of one of the coat pockets, its parchment faintly dribbled with blood. Aleksender collected it, eyes running over the familiar writing: That which doesn’t burn must pass through fire to be made clean.
Two men materialized from the shadows without warning. Aleksender was violently seized, arms folded behind his back and fastened together at the wrists. A foot of rope rendered him entirely defenseless. He cringed in an explosion of pain as the satchel was ripped from his shoulder. Agonized curses flew from his lips. A hand grasped at the seething wound with the force of an iron manacle. Aleksender felt the air gush from his lungs. He bellowed a low groan and nearly collapsed to the ground. Keeping him upright took the conjoined effort of both men.
“Ah. Been shot, have we?”
Aleksender jerked, easing the torturous pressure of their holds. Sweat rained from his brows and blurred his vision. Fighting for consciousness, his words emerged in erratic and twisted gasps. “Where is he? Where the hell is Christophe Cleef?”
“Ah, you mustn’t fret, Monsieur le Comte,” the first man said.
“Indeed. They’ve been waitin’ for you a couple days now,” offered the other. “Both Christophe and the girl. But I’d reckon you already know that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Aleksender arrived at the Commune’s base to find his comrade leaning against the farthest wall. Reeking of despair, death and filth, Christophe Cleef appeared as just another dark secret … just another lost and broken dream. Two tarnished silver chains twinkled within the bottomless expanse, each one reflecting the sconce lanterns’ wavering lights. An assortment of weapons was propped in a corner—daggers, muskets, chassepot rifles and the like. The Commune’s crimson flag proudly hung above the artillery.
Christophe was consumed by deep thought and entirely unaware of Aleksender’s presence. In fact, he appeared to be unaware of everything outside of his own inner torment. A paralyzing chill settled deep inside Aleksender’s bones.
Where had his friend gone to? This—this was not his noble comrade. This was not the great Christophe Cleef. Only a poor imitation.
This man was far more dead than alive, teetering on the brink on sanity. And he stood as a mere shell of the solider that he’d once been. The navy material of his coat was covered in filth and a full size too large. It draped from his limbs in harsh and irregular folds. In spite of all the torment he’d undergone at Christophe’s hands, a distinct sadness shadowed Aleksender’s heart.
“Alek!”
Sofia’s cry dispelled any remaining compassion he’d clung to for his friend. Alarmed by the noise, Christophe twisted his face back. He pocketed the dog tags and took a clumsy step toward his hostage.
“Ah, Sofia … mon amour …” Christophe slurred through a grin, hovering above her body. Mon Dieu. He could barely hold himself upright. “Why, it seems your hero has come to save the day.”
Sofia was fastened to the wall, resembling some mystical virgin sacrifice, each limb completely immobilized. Aleksender’s chest stirred as he surveyed the raw scabs that decorated her flesh. He briefly thought of Eros and Psyche. Beautiful Psyche, lost within the vast Underworld, waiting for her dearly beloved’s return.
Aleksender jerked forward and struggled to break free of his captors’ holds. With each movement, the rope dug a little deeper, the pain burned a little more. Ragged pants inflated his lungs as his flesh was bloodied an
d severed. Wounds and fresh blisters circled the rope, tinting it red.
“I’m here, Christophe,” he grated between clenched teeth. “I played in your little farce. Now let her go.”
Christophe barked a sharp laugh and lulled forward till he stood a foot away from Aleksender. A putrid stench radiated from his body and polluted the air. Aleksender wrestled with the desire to take several steps backward. Instead, he straightened out his posture and returned Christophe’s leveled glare.
“That how you greet your ol’ friend, eh?” Christophe drawled as he meddled with Aleksender’s shirt lapels. His breaths were stale, rancid and heavy. Grime covered his teeth, staining them an unforgiving yellow. “Not so much as a ‘how do you do?’”
A loud thud resounded as one of the Communards threw Aleksender’s satchel to the ground.
“What’s this?” Christophe questioned.
“His things, monsieur.”
Christophe nodded, knelt, and probed through the belongings. Glazed eyes drew to the pistol. His fingertips gently grazed the carved handle, tracing the calligraphic words de Lefèvre.
“This is between you and me,” Aleksender grated between clenched jaws. “Release Sofia.”
“Ah, very well.” Christophe climbed onto his feet and rotated in Sofia’s direction. He fished a tarnished skeleton from the confines of his trousers and spun it between two fingertips like a baton. A dark smile formed on his lips. “That’s fine by me. She’s an awfully good girl.”
Click. Click. Click.
Sofia exhaled as the chains came undone. She gracelessly teetered onto her feet, weak at the ankles and plagued with pain. Christophe grasped onto Sofia’s shoulder and steadied her body. “Careful, there, ma chérie …”
“Get your hands off her.” Aleksender growled as he struggled against his restraints. “I said now.”
Christophe spread his palms wide and held them over his head in an elaborate show of surrender. Sofia straggled forward till she was inches from Aleksender. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. Christophe grumbled and scratched the back of his head, suddenly rather uncomfortable and at loss for words.
Sofia wearily glanced at Christophe as she undid Aleksender’s bindings. Making no attempt to stop her, he swallowed and stared at Aleksender’s bloodied wrists and hands, his hanging, wounded shoulder. Poorly hiding his discomfort, he shrugged and gave an off look. “Might as well make this a fair fight, eh now?”
Any peace was short lived. The thunder of thousands of boots and hollered commands resounded overhead. The military of Versailles was coming.
Christophe muttered a curse and scrubbed a hand over his features. Turning on his heels, he addressed his followers. “Both of you—return to the ranks. I reckon you’ll be of more use up there. We’re out of time. They’re breachin’ the house.” His scar twisted, manipulated by his smirk. “A broken veteran and wee paragon shouldn’t be much trouble. Now go—go finish what we started.”
Moving with a sudden haste, Sofia tossed the rope aside and collapsed within Aleksender’s arms. He stroked her hair with trembling hands. Sister Catherine’s crucifix gleamed against his dress shirt, shining like a beacon. “Sofia, you are all right. Dieu, thank you.”
“We must hurry,” she deftly murmured into his chest.
Aleksender cringed as he was encircled by her arms. Sofia gasped, struck by the realization. Her face whitened to a ghostly hue. She eased backward and studied the hazy depths of his eyes. “No! Alek—your arm … You are shot!”
He cupped her cheeks, lips lifting into that dashing and crooked grin. “Ah. It’s but a scratch.”
“A scratch!”
Blood stained her hands.
“Come—we must find you help right away. Upstairs—there is—”
Christophe’s booming voice cut through the air like a knife. Cruel laughter followed after. “Upstairs? There is no more upstairs, stupid chit. And you really think I’ve had him come all this way only to waltz on out of here?”
“His arm has been shot! Surely, you—”
Aleksender arched his brows, threw Sofia a commanding look, and rotated toward Christophe. He edged through the shadows, moving with the grace of a panther.
“Tell me—what do you want?” The timber of his voice was low, husky, and seething with venom. “What the hell do you want from me, Christophe? Want to see me die? Is that it?” Silence filled Paris’s underground. Aleksender throbbed from head to toe and perceived varying shades of red. “Or was this just your elaborate way of making me suffer? You despise me. You always have despised me.” He glanced at Sofia from the corner of his eye. “You are angry because you have no one to love. No one to love you.”
At that moment, two members of the Commune flew inside the base. Horror was etched in their youthful faces, blood artfully splattered across torn shirts. Refusing to meet Christophe’s eyes, they collectively swallowed and exchanged glances. “Monsieur Cleef.”
Christophe shot a narrowed stare and examined each of their faces. “What? And be quick about it.”
One of the boys stepped forward and slid the cap from his head. A swarm of greasy, red locks shone beneath the lanterns. “You wanted us to tell you right away if anythin’ should happen to Elliott.”
Christophe froze in his tracks. “What? What about Elliot?” Nothing. “Answer me!”
“He fell, monsieur,” answered the other man. “At the barricade.”
Overcome with a wave of nausea, Christophe swallowed and swayed on his feet. “Where is he?” His voice was a whisper and barely audible. He lunged forward, latching onto the redhead’s lapels, eyes blazing. The Communard struggled against his hold. Christophe’s fists turned to steel, preventing any chance for escape. “No. Don’t you turn from me, fool! Now where is his body, damn it? Speak up!”
“He’ll be placed out on the street, monsieur, to lie with the others. So that a family member might claim him.”
Christophe threw his shoulders back in a wild roar. He groped at the mangy tendrils of his hair and slid backward till he was swallowed up by the shadows. “So that a family member might claim him, you say? How ingenious! I applaud the both of you!” Christophe balled his hand into a fist and pounded at the side of his face. Tears finally came to his eyes, hard and strong.
Aleksender seized the chance for escape. Careful on their feet, he and Sofia eased away from Christophe. “He had no family! He had nothing! Nothing!”
Blinded by the darkness, Sofia tripped and gave herself away with a hushed oomph.
Christophe instantly twisted to the sound. The fire of hell blazed from his eyes. “No. You are not running away. Hear me? Not this time. Not now. You’ll pay for this.”
Aleksender stopped dead in his tracks.
“Where were you all this time, eh?” Christophe yelled to him. “With her, I suppose? Now tell me—how does it feel knowing you could have put an end to this death?”
Aleksender rotated on his boots and stepped cleanly in front of Sofia. Trembling with emotion, Christophe withdrew a flintlock pistol from his trousers’ pocket and leveled it to his friend’s chest. “His blood—it is on your hands! You hear me, Alek?”
Sofia surrendered to a soft cry as Christophe cocked the pistol. The Communards stepped backward, stunned into silence by the sudden turn of events. Young and impressionable, they were in a state of shock from the horrors and reality of a civil war. And each boy was clearly torn at the seams, aware that the great Christophe Cleef was well beyond their reach. But no help was to be found. Only more agony and suffering lay above—and every corner of the opera house had transformed into a death trap. The morbid sounds of screams, gunfire and thundering boots stood as unshakable proof.
“Listen to me,” Aleksender said in a slow, calm voice. He eased back several feet, palms outstretched, eyes never leaving Christophe’s scathing expression. “This isn’t who you are. You have gone mad. You have gone mad and you’re not thinking any longer.”
“No. That’s where your
wrong, mon ami. For the first time, I’m thinking clear. Real clear. And I think I’d rather enjoy blowin’ you to hell. How ‘bout it, ol’ friend?”
Aleksender eased back several more steps. “It’s over.” He turned and guided Sofia away from Christophe at a spry pace.
“Running away again, I see? You’re a damned coward, Alek! And that’s all you’ve ever amounted to. I wonder what your father would think of your desertion? You do him proud.”
“This place is about to be swarmed from roof to cellar. We don’t leave now, and we’re all dead.” He grasped onto Sofia’s arm, enunciating each word. “All of us.”
Infused with the slightest touch of pity, Sofia glanced over her shoulder and stared into Christophe’s eyes.
Yes—this is how it felt to fall from grace …
Bang!
She uttered a choked cry and reeled around Aleksender’s body—collapsing on top of him as metal tore through layers upon layers of flesh, blood, and muscle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Aleksender and Sofia instantly lost balance from the brutal force of the impact. The sensation of ripping flesh slammed through both their bodies. Sofia’s fingers curled around the lapels of his shirt as she bit back a sharp scream. In the same breath, Aleksender bellowed a groan and plummeted onto the cold stones—taking Sofia’s body down with him. The extent of their shared agony was blinding. Blood seeped onto the stones in a slow, lazy circle.
Time seemed to stand still as Sofia lay on top of Aleksender’s motionless form.
Varying degrees of pain shot through her veins and numbed the length of her body. She couldn’t stir a limb. Couldn’t think. Could barely draw breath. The pain was excruciating—unlike anything she’d ever felt before. It splintered through her bones and crashed down with all the pressure of an avalanche.
“Oh, Alek, I can hardly breathe.” No response. Tiny, trembling fists grasped onto the material of Aleksender’s shirt. She instantly recoiled—discovering that his shirt was as sullied as her shoulder. With an uttered cry, she summoned her remaining strength and fumbled off Aleksender’s form. She spread her fingers wide and held them up to the light.
The Frost of Springtime Page 28