Conrad stepped back, wanting to get out of their way, but he could not take his eyes off the stranger on the bed.
There was something about her that was so familiar, though he could have sworn he had never seen her before in his life.
“Sister Snow,” breathed the patient, as the first medipatch buzzed across her burned face. “My name is Sister Snow. I need you to help me…”
She wasn’t looking at any of the star nuns, as she said those words. She was looking directly at Conrad.
56
Two Kinds of Winter
“Fascinating,” said Athos, looking around at the bleak grey landscape that was the wind-lashed island of Finisterra. “I did not realise there was actually a more depressing corner of this planet than the province of La Fere. But here we are. And look, there’s snow.”
Dana knew it wasn’t the snow that had him looking so wary and tense, but she wasn’t going to say so out loud. Athos had been quiet and remarkably sober for most of their journey, which was not as comforting as it should have been.
“This is a mopping up job,” said Porthos. “What are you so afraid of?”
Athos gave her a chilly expression. “Everything,” he said.
Dana was caught up with thoughts of Conrad. Aramis had given Dana the coordinates that came directly from Chevreuse. It was up to them to rescue Conrad, and take him home, and they knew exactly where he was.
But first, there was official business to be dealt with, here at the tower on Finisterra.
Special Agent Rosnay Cho, still in charge of this mission, took point with two Sabres (Ducasse and L’Etoile) and the four Musketeers at her back. They entered the grey slab of a tower with all the gravity of a royal delegation.
Bianca de Winter, the Countess of Clarick, was waiting there for them, her expression as grim as the weather outside. “You know what I’m going to say,” she announced without ceremony.
“I expect you’re going to tell us that the slippery bastard escaped,” said Ro. “There’s no need to mince words, your Grace. I worked with Milord for years. I doubt you can surprise me.”
Bee gave her a chilly look. “I have done my duty to the letter, Special Agent Cho. My brother-in-law is still upstairs in the tower.”
Ro raised her eyebrows. “He never left?”
“He never left.”
“Felton carried out the assassination alone, then,” Athos muttered to Ro.
“So it seems,” she replied. “Milord waiting around for us to take him into custody seems awfully polite, doesn’t it?”
“Well,” said Athos in the driest of voices. “He is a gentleman.”
Dana hung back with Porthos and Aramis, watching Rosnay Cho and Bee de Winter, who stared each other down like each was waiting for the other to flip a table and start the bar brawl.
Ro smiled, finally, pretending there was no possibility of animosity between them. “I’d like to question Milord de Winter, before we make plans to escort him off planet. Captains-lieutenant Athos and D’Artagnan will accompany me, while the rest of my people question your security team, and survey the perimeter.”
The Sabres nodded, while Porthos and Aramis managed salutes that weren’t entirely sarcastic.
“Of course,” said Bee, with a polite motion of her hand. “This way, Agent. Captains.”
Dana fell into step behind Athos.
Bee led them up a spiralling staircase to the highest room in the tower. She swiped a card and entered several codes before the door slid open.
And there he was. Milord. His presence hit Dana like a punch to the solar plexus. He stood in a pool of rare winter sunlight, like a cat sunning himself. His hair had reverted to its bright silver hue, long around his shoulders. His shoes had disappeared somewhere. He wriggled his bare toes against the slate floor, apparently feeling no cold.
Dana risked a look at Athos, who displayed no reaction to the presence of his former husband.
“Hello, sweetness,” said Milord, his eyes on Ro. She stared him down with a steady, implacable expression. “Miss me?”
“Milord,” said Ro.
“So stiff and formal,” he teased. “I know that the Cardinal has washed her hands of me, but you too? What does a man have to do around here to inspire a little loyalty?”
Bee and Athos made almost identical scoffing sounds at that, and then glanced, slightly embarrassed, at each other.
Dana noticed a nearby table, and an untouched tray of food. “Has he been eating?”
“Not for a few days,” said Bee. “Says he doesn’t need to. Alien biology and all that.”
“Or I’m too traumatised,” Milord suggested. “I feel a little traumatised.”
There was something wrong in this room. Dana felt a light buzzing in her ears, as if danger approached. Something important had been missed.
“That’s not him,” she blurted out.
“What?” Ro and Athos said at the same time.
“It looks like him, but it’s not Milord de Winter.”
“Are you high?” Bee demanded.
Milord gazed at Dana with a twisted smile on his pretty face. “Give the girl a gold star,” he purred. “Or some sort of cake related treat. I know how you Musketeers like your sweets.”
“Explain yourself, D’Artagnan,” said Rosnay Cho in a harsh voice. “If you’re going to claim mistaken identity…”
“No,” said Dana. “I’m sure he’s responsible for every crime of which he is accused, and more.” She did not take her eyes off Milord. “He’s not blinking. He hasn’t eaten his rations. We’ve been in here for nearly ten minutes and he hasn’t tried to murder any of us.”
“It is a terrible temptation,” Milord agreed. “And yet I restrain myself.”
“He’s not human,” Athos grated out. “D’Artagnan, you can’t assume he will behave in a way that makes sense to us.”
Dana picked up a plastic-wrapped fork from the rations tray, and threw it at the prisoner. The utensil went right through his chest and hit the window on the other side.
“Oh, shit,” said the Countess of Clarick.
“It’s a holo-projection,” Athos snapped. “But from where?”
Dana went down on her knees to examine the floor at Milord’s feet. “There’s something here,” she said. “A pocket knife, with a data stud embedded in it. I think that’s where the projection is coming from.”
Ro’s comm chimed. “Boss?” said Porthos over the line, managing to say it with only a hint of irony. “We’ve got a problem.”
“I bet it’s not worse than the one we’ve got here,” Ro snarled.
“We’ve lost eyes on Aramis,” said Porthos, sounding worried. “Comms have gone dark.”
Aramis was not the most considerate girlfriend, but she was aware of her own shortcomings. She tried to ensure that her partners had fun, that no one’s heart got broken (except perhaps her own, but she was robust and could take it), and that she left no one’s marriage in a worse state than when she began her seduction.
Even with the best of intentions, sometimes one slipped through the cracks.
Her affair with Jan Felton was the worst mess she had ever been involved with. It ended ugly, and Aramis had not covered herself in glory during the fallout. While Felton was publicly disgraced, divorced and left Paris Satellite under a cloud of scandal, Aramis ignored the drama, acting instead on the long-running flirtation she and Chevreuse had toyed with for years.
The guilt had set in later, much later, after Felton’s friends made sure to let Aramis know how badly she had fucked up.
Still, she hadn’t realised it was quite this bad. Not trapped in a freezing cellar with an arc-ray opinted at her head bad.
Then again, if half of the babble coming out of Felton’s mouth matched her state of mind, Aramis wasn’t the only one who had screwed with her head. A certain ‘Winter’ had a lot to do with it.
“Jan,” she said now through lips that felt cracked and sore in the chill air. “Did you kill t
he Duchess of Buckingham?”
Felton snapped out of her reverie, her hand tightening with greater confidence on the arc-ray. “I’m a Planetary Marshal,” she spat. “The law is everything to me. He would never ask me to –”
“Because,” Aramis went on steadily, “either Milord – or Winter, whatever he’s calling himself – either he made you kill her, or he stole your identity to do it. You are wanted for murder right now. He did that to you. Not me.”
Felton’s face twisted into a snarl. “I’m only on this godforsaken rock because of you,” she snapped, digging the point of the arc-ray into Aramis’ temple. “I lost everything because of you. My wife. My career.”
“Not your sense of justice,” Aramis whispered. “Not the rule of law. I didn’t take those things from you, Jan, I couldn’t. He’s inside your head, making you act against everything that’s important to you. He has hung you out to dry.”
Felton’s eyes gleamed. “Every contract is on the side of law,” she said, the words coming out stiff and robotic. “Adultery within the bounds of a marriage contract is against the law. You’re the one who made me a criminal. Milord will set me free.”
Aramis closed her eyes as the arc-ray twitched in Felton’s hand. “You don’t want to kill me, Jan,” she whispered.
“You’d be surprised,” Felton said hollowly.
They both heard the footsteps. Felton hissed, her hand coming around Aramis’ throat even as the arc-ray jittered against her scalp. “Who’s there?”
“Hello, Jan,” said another voice.
Aramis breathed out, her pulse steadying as she recognised Athos. He might be a pure hot mess, but he was the best backup a woman could ever ask for. Second only to Porthos, who was there too, a step or two behind Athos. They projected calm, as if they had interrupted a tea party instead of attempted murder.
“Get out of here,” Felton snarled. “I know what you’re like, the three of you. Inseparables. You laugh and joke and pick fights like the world is your goddamned playground.”
“Sounds about right,” said Athos. He was at the foot of the staircase now. The shallow pool of light from the cellar’s solar lantern cast shadows across his face. “There are some things we take seriously. Loyalty.” He looked at Aramis, taking in her position, then his focus snapped right back to Felton.
“I don’t think you know a damned thing about loyalty,” said Felton.
“I know a lot about the man who climbed inside your head,” said Athos, resting one hand on the banister, still a safe distance from Aramis and her captor. Porthos stopped behind him. “I’ve been haunted by him for more than five years, Jan, since I cut off his head and had the body cremated. This is a ghost story, not a love saga. You need to let the ghost go.”
“You’re crazier than usual, Athos,” Jan said fiercely.
Athos smiled with all his teeth. “That’s when I’m at my best.”
A tiny noise behind them alerted Aramis. She shoved at Felton, pushing the arc-ray aside. A body leaped out of the shadows, knocking Felton to the ground. Aramis had secured the weapon before she realised it was Dana D’Artagnan. There were four of them, now. Extra backup.
“Where did you come from, baby doll?”
“Fuel chute at the back of the cellar,” Dana said, climbing off Felton and helping her up. “I was the only one small enough to fit.”
“Excuse me,” said Porthos, moving Athos aside. She came forward punched Jan Felton solidly in the jaw. The other woman went down like a collapsed sack of grain. “Aramis, is now a good time to admit that I’ve never liked any of your girlfriends?”
Aramis spluttered out a laugh, pocketing Felton’s arc-ray. “I love you too, Pol.”
Athos pressed a Sobriety patch to Jan Felton’s neck. “If this doesn’t have an effect, we’ll have to assume there’s some kind of implant.”
“Do you think he did the Winter thing to her?” Dana asked.
“No idea,” said Athos. “Lucky us, we get to interrogate the prisoner.”
Oh, thought Aramis. That’s not ominous at all.
Whatever generations of de Winters and their staff had poured into that fuel chute over the years, Dana could smell it all over her skin. No time for sonic showers, not now. She took the stairs two at a time, racing up to the tower room.
To Dana’s surprise as she entered the room, Winter and Ro were in polite conversation with each other.
“Am I interrupting something?” she demanded.
Ro was as unflappable as ever. “I’m not learning anything that the tech gals won’t be able to drag out of the chip directly.” She tapped a control on the knife that was the source of the projection, and the smirking figure of Milord vanished in a haze of pixels.
“Shame we can’t do that with the real one,” Dana said without thinking.
“Don’t think you’re the first to have that thought,” Ro shot back. “Did you find Aramis?”
“Athos and Porthos are questioning Felton now. She never made it off the island.”
Ro frowned. “It was Milord, then, who assassinated Buck. He used Felton’s face.”
“Looks like it,” Dana agreed. “I guess he can change gender as well as everything else.”
Ro picked up the small device from the floor, tossing it from hand to hand. “The bad news doesn’t stop there, buttercup. While you were playing in the cellar, I got a ping from the investigators at Villiers House. They’ve picked up a trace of a comm message between Marie Chevreuse and Conrad Su from the day of the murder – a copy was bounced back to the house server thanks to the upgraded security net.”
Dana went very still. “What does that mean?”
“The kind of privacy settings that Minister Chevreuse uses on her messages means we never should have found that message. Turns out the Villiers House server was hacked and fed information out, hours after the assassin had disappeared.” Ro raised her eyebrows. “Does the Church of All Convent of Carmelline, in the peaks of the Drift Mountains, mean anything to you?”
Dana felt something break inside her. “That’s the safe house Chevreuse provided for Conrad Su.” The only people who should have that information were Chevreuse, Prince Alek, Conrad, Aramis and Dana. And the nuns.
Ro nodded grimly. “Makes sense. So, with what we know about Milord, assuming he saw the message from Chevreuse, where do you think he’s heading next?”
Conrad, damn it all. I thought you were safe. “The convent,” Dana said. “I think that’s exactly where we’ll find him.”
57
A Drop of Water
Bodies were strange. Human bodies stranger than most; though it was so long since Milord had allowed himself to be truly Sun-kissed, to burn bright in his natural state.
To be a female was a new journey. Taking Felton’s shape meant more than copying her face, the shape of her rib-cage, her brisk and military manner. It meant shaping breasts and cunt to be hidden beneath layers of uniform; it meant a different way of walking, a different tilt of the hips and length of spine.
Being Felton and being female were equally strange states after spending nearly a decade as some version of a beautiful young man.
Once it was done: once Georgiana Villiers the Duchess of Buckingham lay dead on her own floor, once “Marshal Felton” had bugged the communication lines and taken out several members of the security team and found a safe house at a good distance from the scene of the crime in order to monitor and consider her next move…
Once all that was done, Milord had to choose a new face and body. A person that no one would recognise.
He had failed to kill Conrad Su at the house, but the message he intercepted less than an hour after the assassination of Buck provided the location where he was heading. The Convent of Carmelline. The next body he made for himself would also have to be female.
Only when he had finished the shaping and smoothing of the new identity did Milord realise how much he had borrowed from Dana D’Artagnan – he had become a tall, softer version
of her with similar skin tone and facial features. Not close enough to raise suspicion, but perhaps Su would feel a connection to the mysterious stranger.
Milord prodded at the new body, noting where he needed muscle tone or soft tissue, refining the design. When it was done, he illustrated the arms with a tangled pattern similar to those he had seen scrawled across the tail fins of sabre-class darts.
These humans. A few crosses and star fields carved into an object – or a person – and they deemed it sacred.
Tattooed and perfect, wrapped in the robes of a space nun, Milord set out to locate the secret stash of credit studs he had set aside for emergencies when he had been Vaniel de Winter. No need to steal a skimmer when he could purchase one without suspicion.
Revenge was a weakness. He knew that. And yet, he wanted this particular revenge so badly, he could taste it in his new mouth. The job was not complete until Conrad Su was as dead as the Duchess of Buckingham. What else did he have to live for, but to thwart his enemies?
Conrad Su would never see Sister Snow coming.
“This is going to take forever,” Dana D’Artagnan raged. “We have to get there now. Can’t we take one of the darts?”
“Spaceships are not exactly the thing for mountaineering,” drawled Bee de Winter. “If you’re willing to risk causing an avalanche in the region, be my guest, but I suggest you listen to local advice.”
“Skimmer’s the only way to cover the area safely,” said Athos, rugged up and ready to go. He had found another three layers of woollen clothing somewhere in the tower. “I’ve called ahead to Brabazon, the nearest city to the Drift Mountains, and ordered two skimmers to be picked up there. We can dock the darts at Portside and travel on from there.”
“Hang on,” said Aramis, frowning. “There’s a good distance between Portside and Brabazon. Is there a bullet train between them?”
Bee laughed suddenly, and then sobered. “Oh, you’re serious. The bullet train doesn’t go that far north. No one does, by choice.”
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