The Malediction: Hidden Huntress Part 8

On silent feet, we followed her through the clutter-filled shop into a small living s.p.a.ce in the rear. There was another exit, but just as the witch had suspected, there was motion outside that door as well. Pushing aside a threadbare rug, her slender fingers caught hold of a notch in the wood, which she tugged on to reveal a trapdoor. "Down," she whispered, pointing at the cellar below. "Stay silent. It's me they're here for."

The trapdoor closed above us.

At first, I could do nothing more than stare at the bits of light filtering through the gaps in the floorboards, my attention all for the sharp thuds of the woman the witch striding toward the front door. What did they want from her? More to the point, what would they do to her? My heart was loud in my ears, and I wished there was a way to still it so that I could better hear the voices of the guards drifting through the thin floor. "Accusations... witchcraft... warning... the flames." My stomach twisted, and even though my palms were clammy, I took hold of Chris's hand.

Boots thumped across the shop, each one sending a spike of ice down my spine. What if they searched the place? What if they found us down here? I glanced around the dark cellar s.p.a.ce, and my heart sank. The shelves were lined with oddities that made those upstairs look tame, the table held a silver basin and a ball of crystal, but most d.a.m.ning of all, I was certain, was the stack of books on the table. It wouldn't matter what explanations we gave if they caught us; our complicity was ensured.

The guard stopped right over the trapdoor, the thin rug concealing whatever small glimpses we might have had of him. "No one back here," he announced loudly. "Let's go. It smells like dog p.i.s.s."

There was a commotion at the front of the shop, and I heard La Voisin shriek, her heels drumming against the floor as they dragged her. She was keeping us safe, and I didn't even know her real name. My heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest, and I all but swore I could smell smoke, hear the crackle of flames. That's what they'd do they'd burn her at a stake. All because of a hunt the trolls started, and that I hadn't managed to finish. I had to help her.

"Be bold, Cecile," I whispered to myself, trying to ignore the shake in my hands. "Be brave."

"What?" There was alarm in Chris's voice.

I held a finger up to my lips. Pushing by him, I went up the first few rungs of the ladder and cautiously lifted the trapdoor an inch. The only sight I could see was the woman's dog cowering under a chair. La Voisin was still shouting away out front, drowning out any noise I might make. And with any luck, the guard who had been out back would have gone round to a.s.sist. Lifting the trapdoor the rest of the way, I climbed out, holding it open for Chris. "This way," I mouthed, pointing at the back door.

Luck was with us when I peeked out, as the tiny yard was devoid of life. We swiftly exited, and Chris grabbed hold of my wrist, dragging me toward the stone fence dividing the yard from the adjoining properties. "No," I whispered, tugging free. "You can go, if you want. But I'm helping her."

He swore quietly under his breath, but didn't try to stop me as I squeezed through the narrow s.p.a.ce between the witch's shop and the boardinghouse next to it. The night was black as pitch; Pigalle was not graced with gas lamps to light its streets as the rest of Trianon was. I prayed it would be enough to hide me as I emerged from between the buildings. There were shockingly few onlookers on the street no one was willing to fall afoul of the law but I could see faces looking out from windows and entranceways.

Three uniformed guards were struggling with La Voisin, who was screaming like a banshee that she was falsely accused while clinging to the doorframe with one hand. Two of the young men struggling with her were strangers to me. One of them was not.

"Frederic de Troyes," I snarled, "I daresay, if our father saw you allowing a woman to be treated this way, he'd disown you and never look back."

My brother twisted around to stare at me, his eyes wide with shock. "Cecile? Stones and sky, why are you here?"

"For tea." I shot black glares at the two other men, and while they didn't let go of the woman, they ceased their attempts to drag her off the door.

"Tea?" Fred's voice was strangled. "In Pigalle? After dark?"

"A special tea," I clarified. "That only she makes. And I'm here after dark because it was the only time Chris could bring me."

Fred's eyes flicked over my shoulder and latched onto Chris. "You better have a good explanation for this, Girard."

I rolled my eyes and walked closer. "Oh, stop that and let the poor woman go. Mother will thrash me if I don't bring back the tea to soothe her throat, and half a dozen of the dancers begged me to retrieve some ointment for their poor heels."

"Go home, Cecile." My brother's cheeks were flushed red with anger. "Pigalle is no place for a girl like you. This woman has been accused of witchcraft and..."

"G.o.d in heaven," I swore, cutting him off. "If she could fix all the ailments troubling the girls at the opera house with witchcraft, she'd be the richest woman in Trianon for it. But clearly not." I gestured at the ramshackle buildings. "Let her go, Fred. This is nonsensical."

"Who's she?" one of the guards asked.

"My sister."

A lascivious grin split the other man's face. "Oh, the opera girl."

I didn't like the way he said it. Neither, apparently, did my brother. s.n.a.t.c.hing a fistful of the guard's uniform, Fred dragged him forward until they were face to face. "Watch your mouth when you're talking about my sister, you hear?" Then he shoved him away, and looked back at me.

He knew I was lying. He knew I wasn't here for tea. But he wasn't a fool, and there was no way he'd blunder forward without first discovering why I'd chosen to defend this woman. Trust me, I silently pleaded. Trust me this one time.

A scowl imprinted on his face, he jabbed a finger at La Voisin. "Last warning, woman. I hear another whisper that you're dabbling in things you shouldn't be, and your feet will be dangling above the fire. Understand?"

"Yes." She gave me a long look before hurrying back into the shop.

"Meet me back at the barracks," Fred ordered the other two men. Both drifted toward their horses, their brows furrowed and eyes full of questions. But they obeyed, and for the moment, nothing else mattered.

Fred stood stock-still, head lowered and eyes fixed on the muddy street. The muscles in his jaw were clenched tight, his hands balled up into fists. When the sound of hooves faded into the distance, he lifted his head. "You better have a good explanation for this."

It was an effort to look him in the eye. "I need her help."

He barked out a laugh. "Her help? Need a love potion? Your fortune read?" Taking hold of my shoulders, he shook me hard enough that my teeth rattled together. "Curses, Cecile, what's wrong with you?"

"Let her go, Fred."

"p.i.s.s off, Girard." Fred shoved Chris hard, and my heart skipped at the thought that he might do worse. But it was me he was angry at. "Not only did you make a fool of me in front of my men, you forced me to ignore orders. Orders that came from the very top. Do you have any idea how much trouble I might end up in if I can't talk my way out of this? Do you even care?"

I bit my lip, my throat burning. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought it was absolutely necessary."

"Absolutely necessary?" His shoulders shook with silent hysterical laughter. "Absolutely necessary in this fantastical world you've created for yourself?"

"It isn't a fantasy. You know that."

"Wrong!" he shouted, flecks of spit hitting me in the face. "I know what you've told me. But there isn't any proof!"

"She isn't lying," Chris said, the tension in his shoulders mirroring my own as he eyed those still watching us. "I've been there myself."

"Shut up!" Fred was shaking now, his eyes wild with anger. "You were gone for months. Months with no word from you, and everyone thought you were in a shallow grave somewhere. And then you return half-dead and spouting this impossible tale for your family and countless lies for everyone else. I don't even know who you are anymore."

"Fred..." I needed to fix this, to make him understand that everything I'd told him was true. That what I'd done tonight was necessary. But only soundless air came out, because I didn't know what to say. My chest burned with the hurt of his disbelief. He was my older brother, my defender my lifelong threat against anyone who gave me trouble. The only person I'd thought capable of rescuing me in those dark early days of my captivity in Trollus. And he was turning on me.

He held up a hand. "I don't want to hear any more of your delusions." His finger twisted out, jabbing at the shop next to us. "This. This is real. And far more dangerous than you seem to realize."

I opened my mouth to tell him I knew exactly how dangerous it all was, but he cut me off. "Do you even know who La Voisin is?" He leaned close. "She was a lady's maid to Marie du Chastelier, the Regent's wife. She should have found herself burning for what she did, but instead she was exiled from court. But that doesn't mean they've forgotten. And it certainly doesn't mean they aren't watching. The very fact I'm here tells you as much."

Ever and always the stakes grew higher, enemies cropping up at every turn while my allies fell away. My veins felt as though they ran with ice and that I would never again know warmth. His words terrified me, but I'd made my choice on the beach when I'd made my promise to the troll king. "I have to do this."

His shoulders abruptly slumped, the tension flying from his jaw, leaving it sagging. Defeated. It made me wish for his anger to return. "I could lose my position for this. I could go to prison for this." His voice lowered, making me strain to hear. "But worst of all, what you've done might well bring the Regent's gaze down upon you, and if they discover what you are, you'll die for it." He took one step back and away from me, and then another. "This is the last and only time I help you with your delusions, Cecile. I don't want to see you anymore."

"Fred, don't say that." I tried to go after him, but Chris pulled me back. "Let him go. He doesn't mean that he only needs time to cool off."

I wasn't convinced, but I let Chris hold me still. Because I didn't know what words existed in the world that would make things right. It ate at my heart to watch my brother ride away. He was one of the people I loved most. One of the people I should be trying to protect. Yet I'd done the exact opposite, endangering his career and maybe even his freedom, all while destroying the trust he had in me.

My tongue was sour with guilt, but underneath it, creeping its way up through my innards, was something worse. Tristan had warned me that releasing the trolls would be the downfall of humanity, forcing me to see the faces of my friends and family as those who would suffer first. And what was this, if not a precursor of what would happen should I succeed in my hunt? It was an omen, as dark and ugly as I had seen, and yet there was no turning back.

Because over and over in my ear, I heard a voice. Louder now, like the call of a hound who has caught the scent of his quarry.

Find her.

Eleven.

Tristan

Trollus seemed overly bright as Marc and I walked toward the entrance to the mines. I moved without really seeing, the details of the comings and goings of my city sliding by in a blur. As we rounded the corner and the wide steps leading down to the mines materialized ahead of us, my legs seemed to forget their purpose, and I tripped, stumbling to a halt.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Marc said under his breath.

No. "Yes." My voice sounded far away. "This conversation needs to be had."

Marc hesitated, shooting me an uneasy look. "It can be had elsewhere."

"I'm not so sure that's the case." My intense distaste for the mines was an extremely well kept secret, in that only Marc, the twins, and Anais knew anything about it. And the only reason they knew was because when I was ten, Anais had dared us all to sneak down. Pride had been enough to get me down there, but it ran out before I could get back out again. Then claustrophobia had taken over, and I couldn't have gotten out faster. It had taken all four of them to control me long enough to ride the lift out, and I could tell Marc wasn't looking forward to repeating that experience. Neither was I.

"I'm not a child to be governed by my illogical fears," I muttered more to myself than to him, forcing my feet to start moving toward the deceptively quiet entrance.

The mines were even louder than I remembered. The shifts had changed two hours ago, so the corridors were almost empty, but I could hear the dull throb of explosions from deep in the earth and the crack of rock as it was crushed to remove the ore. The heat was intense, the air thick with the magic needed to melt the gold down so it could be poured into various molds.

I mechanically followed Marc toward the lift shaft, the dust in the air sticking to my tongue and filling my lungs. There were two guild members sitting on stools near the shaft, their heads bent over a deck of cards. Both jumped up as we entered the room, eyes widening when they recognized me.

"We've business in the mines," Marc said to them.

The two exchanged unhappy glances, and part of me hoped they'd deny us access. A big part. If I couldn't go down there, then Tips would have to meet me somewhere else. It would be better that way. I wasn't at my sharpest, and if there was ever a conversation where I needed focus, this was it. Why was it so cursed hot in here?

"As you like, my Lord Comte," one of the men said, and the platform rotated over the shaft, my stomach contents bobbling as it shifted under our weight.

"Ring the bell when you're ready to come back up, my lord."

The platform dropped out from underneath us.

I flung my arms out to keep my balance, my teeth clamping together to prevent a dignity-compromising yelp from filling the air.

"b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Marc swore, glaring up as we hurtled down the shaft, the gleaming girders lighting our pa.s.sage. But it wasn't the speed of our descent that bothered me, it was the amount of rock piling up above our heads.

The lift stopped, and I stumbled off.

"You're late." Vincent sat on a crate a few feet away, his arms crossed. "Are you sure it was wise you coming down here, Tristan? I know this is not your favorite place."

"It seems a long time since wisdom guided my actions," I said, squaring my shoulders. "Let's get going."

"Good." Vincent's voice sounded unfamiliar and sour. "You took forever getting here, and I've a quota to meet." Not waiting for a response, he started down one of the narrow tunnels leading under the mountain. Marc and I exchanged weighted looks before starting after him, his lone shape hunched over beneath the low ceiling.

This was Vincent and Victoria's punishment for having helped me, spending day after day, night after night, in the mines. It was hard, dirty, and dangerous work, but it hit me then that the work wasn't the punishment. My father had separated them.

The twins' mother had died in childbirth, and their father had pa.s.sed only days later from the shock of it. Victoria and Vincent had been raised by half-blood servants with only each other for family. They had always been inseparable, never going more than a few waking hours apart. Now, they'd be lucky to see each other for a quarter-hour each day. It was the worst thing he could have done to them. The twins were broken, Anais was dead, and Marc...

"How did he punish you for helping me?" I asked quietly.

Marc took a long time to respond. "I was fined."

There was something about his tone that told me there was more to it than a fine, but Marc was not one you pressed.

Vincent stopped abruptly and I nearly collided with him. Turning round, he fixed me with a stare. "They came to his house and took all of Penelope's things away. All her art. All his portraits of her. Everything."

My father knew everyone's weaknesses. And Penelope was Marc's. No one knew that better than me.

We'd all known her life would be a short one. I'd been furious when he'd bonded to her, no part of me understanding why he'd tied himself to someone who lived at death's door. I'd thought it was a selfish act on both their parts, and while I'd said nothing to Marc, Penelope hadn't been so fortunate. It had been the last conversation we'd had.

She hadn't died swiftly, but rather after days of ceaseless bleeding that had diminished her, drained her, until not even her fey nature could delay the inevitable any longer, and her light had gone out. I'd lurked in the corner, and even now, I could hear the loud thud of my heart in my ears, beating with dreadful antic.i.p.ation as I'd planned how to keep my cousin alive after she died.

I'd kept him bound for what seemed an eternity, each day hoping that he'd come to his senses, but it never happened. So I forced him to promise that he'd live. When Marc had told Cecile about that promise, he'd made it sound as though I'd done some grand thing. In reality, it was one of the worst decisions of my life. That he'd trusted me long ago with his true name was the only reason I'd been able to salvage the situation, because using it gave me not only the power to control what he did, it allowed me to control what he thought. What he felt. What he remembered...

"I..." I started to say, but Vincent was already hurrying down the tunnel. Marc had his head lowered, face hidden by his hood.

"I'll get it all back," I blurted out. My father had stolen everything Marc had left of the girl he loved, and my cousin hadn't said a word. Hadn't complained once. And I hadn't asked.

"It doesn't matter, Tristan," he said. "They're just things. They aren't her."

"It does matter," I argued. "It's because of me that he took them, so I'll get them back."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." I was angry now. "It is in no way fine that I never asked what he did to you. I didn't even think..." I ground my teeth together. "I've been selfish. Lately. Always, maybe. That needs to change."

"Then change," he said, walking faster to catch up with Vincent. "But don't concern yourself about Penelope's things. There are other matters more pressing."

The conversation was over. Marc did not like to talk about Penelope. Even when she'd been alive, he'd been close-lipped about her, as though what was between them was private and precious, not to be shared. The only person I'd ever seen him willingly discuss her with had been Cecile. She had a way of getting people to talk that I didn't. She was empathetic. I was... judgmental.

Breaking into a trot, I hurried to catch up with my friends.