Stones throe, p.11
Stone's Throe, page 11
My words were nearly incomprehensible; I shouted through leather and my elbow alike, muffling my voice so thoroughly I ought not have bothered. With a heartfelt apology, I turned to the man beside me and whipped his cummerbund away, wrapping it over my own face to make a more reliable filter. Even as I did so, more of le Monstre's devilish contraptions flew into the air, releasing I knew not what, but could guess as the audience began to tear itself apart: Distillations of Panic, Rage, Disgust, and Hatred. Gentle women who had never thrown a fist in anger in their lives unleashed fury on one another; men who had bottled up the horrors of the Great War found sudden release in bashing into one another until some few of them fell to the floor sobbing.
"Amelia Stone!" cried a great and terrible voice; a voice I had once known to rise and fall in pleasure, to murmur laughter and love. Sick and saddened and enraged all at once, I saw le Monstre on his feet, a dreadful contempt and satisfaction on his stricken features as he thrust a gloved finger at me. "Amelia Stone is your enemy!"
As if experiencing a great release, the whole of the audience surged toward me, eager to rend what had been defined as evil. Those in my box clawed at me, fingers catching in the sturdy leather of my coat and reassuring me finally that I had chosen well with tonight's attire. It was with apologies that I struck each of my box-mates down, singular blows to the jaws that caused their eyes to swim in their heads before they fell back into the comfortable large chairs of the box seats.
Only the Prefect did not attack, though when I faced him again I finally saw what I should have noticed all along: the redness of his face, the bloodshot lines of his eyes, the heaving breast. He was not his own man, but rather le Monstre's, poisoned already by some Distilled Emotion. Obedience, perhaps; I had tasted that one myself, and knew the futility of fighting against it. I clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed. "No hard feelings, mon ami; we have a common enemy, and I would beg that you listen to my orders, not his. Think for yourself, Prefect: that's all I ask of you." I did not know if such tactics would work, but Langeron's eyes cleared and I sagged with gratitude. "Cover your face, Prefect, for our enemy poisons the very air."
As I had done, he made free with another man's cummerbund whilst I returned my attention to the snarling crowds. The first of them were nearly upon me, agile and determined creatures climbing the very walls to have their chance at me. Loathe to do them harm, I scrambled backward, searching for a means of escape. Unfortunately, I was in the same box I had been seated in the night before, and its curtain ropes had not yet been replaced. My options were dire: retreat, which left Josephine to fend for herself, or throw myself into the fray and render as many of the opera patrons unconscious as swiftly and gently as I could.
Retreat was truly no option at all. Cursing le Monstre, cursing myself for allowing myself to be swayed by him even for a moment, I sprang forward, intent on fighting my way through to him.
Even as I leapt, so too did another: across the theatre, Kiera, in her delicate green gown, did as I had done the night before, and struck free a rope from her box seat curtains. In the same moment, she snaked a hand into le Monstre's fine coat and withdrew a vial, which she dashed to the floor as she swung wildly across the theatre's stalls. To the patrons, she shrieked, "Fire! Run for your lives!"
A tremendous number of them did, pushing and shoving, climbing over seats, all with terror written on their features as they rushed for the doors. I wondered what emotion she had released. Fear, perhaps, or Belief? Whatever she had chosen was effective. More effective than her attempt at escaping le Monstre. She lost her grip on the rope and tumbled to the ground with a cry of desperation: "Amelia! Amelia, save me!"
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I could no more deny that call than I might deny the pull of gravity itself. I did not think, only acted. I sprang over the climbing bodies of Parisian noblesse, sliding down the slippery silk of evening gowns and, I feared, exposing more of a lady or two than they might have wished, as my weight pulled at fabrics not intended for use as climbing materials. I landed in a sea of bodies, all of them reaching upward to rend me. Their waving hands provided a kind of rolling platform which I squirmed along until wiser minds prevailed and lowered both their hands and myself. Although still reluctant to damage ordinary, if bewitched, citizens, I also could not move forward without decisive action. I persevered until an enterprising soul struck at my makeshift mask; then, unwilling to risk inhaling the terrible Distillations that affected them, I permitted myself to unleash the skills I had obtained in fighting over the past decades.
A cleverly aimed blow could knock a large man to the ground and take several of his compatriots with him: that was my method of dealing with the horde. Entangled they fell and all too often—for them if not for me—entangled they remained, their normal tendencies at war with the compulsions of le Monstre's potions. I did not know how long the philters might remain effective, but had to trust that it would be too long for me if I was not hasty.
Fortunately, Kiera was handy with her fists as well, and far more profligate with them than I chose to be. She appeared to be a whirlwind of green silk, devastating all who came near her. In moments, we stood back to back in battle, struggling to work our way out of the elixir-enraged crowd and, I slowly realized, entirely failing. "There are too many! We'll never make it out this way!"
"I can't go back to him!" A sob broke in the young woman's throat, though she swallowed it back again with as much courage as anyone might show. I sent a quick look toward the box seats. Le Monstre stood alone there, watching the chaos below him. Watching Kiera and myself, his protégée and his tormenter, fighting together. I saw the fury it caused him written in the thin line of his lips and in the fierce grip he held on his silver-headed cane. I saw too what else he watched, and how it brought him pleasure even in the midst of his rage: the audience's tide, swelling back toward us. We were doomed if we could not retreat, but there was nowhere to fall back to, nowhere—
Nowhere save a literal fall! I spun and seized Kiera's arm, dragging her with me even as we struggled against our opponents. "The orchestra pit! Enough fighting, let us—" I ducked as I spoke, and a broad-shouldered man punched the man behind me in the jaw. A roar of outrage rose up, Kiera and myself forgotten as fresh enemies were presented. We crawled through a tangle of legs, applying judicious elbows and once, memorably, a ferocious bite when a woman's heel landed sharply on Kiera's hand, pinning her in place. Kiera looked not at all apologetic as the woman above us howled, and we scurried onward, myself with less difficulty than Kiera, whose evening gown was not meant for crawling in.
My plan seemed shrewd enough until the very moment I boosted Kiera over the orchestra pit wall and swung down myself to face no fewer than thirty black-tuxedoed men with an awe-inspiring assortment of weapons, ranging from tubas to a violin of such lustre I knew at once it was aged beyond price. The fool swinging it at me lacked the sense to be grateful when I seized not it, but his arm, and wrested the violin away to hide it safely beneath the conductor's stand. This, bien sûr, brought me within range of the conductor's baton, which was a deadly enough thrusting tool without his sudden drop into a flawless fencing stance, the baton held as an épée might be. I briefly regretted having hidden the violin, but fell back on practicalities: the violinist had a bow as well. I leapt back as the conductor struck, offered a sincere apology to the first violin as I introduced my elbow to his temple at high velocity, and snatched his bow as he collapsed.
The bow had a few inches' reach on the baton; the conductor, a few inches reach on me. We were perfectly matched for distance, but mindless rage drove him whilst I remained in full command of my faculties. A slash; a parry; a thrust; a quick series to the four and the six, and then I stepped inside his guard, and with as much heartfelt apology as I had offered the violinist, I cracked the conductor across the jaw and stood above him as he fell.
The full component of the orchestral unit fell upon me then, and I knew despair, for thirty men was more than I could best when I started at the bottom of the pile. And yet I could not surrender; it was not in my nature, though as I kicked and struck at the weight of bodies, it seemed that there would be no shame in yielding if I must. My punches became weaker; the power of my thews, uninspiring. The press of bodies above me became overwhelming, and I wished only to succumb that I might rest a while. I had fought long enough and hard enough; it was all I had done with my life already, and we Centurions would live a hundred years or more. I writhed at the bottom of the orchestra pit, coiling my hands over my head and praying the world would slip away.
A blood-curdling scream rent the air, so tremendous that it lifted hairs on my nape even through the muffling burden of so many men. It rolled on and on, waves of sound that came from above with such vigor as to sway me from my stupor. I dared not imagine what tortures awakened a cry of that nature, but no creature on earth could be deserving of such terrible injustice. I unwound, not to fight but to catch a lapel and roll in what small space was afforded us: in a moment, the bassoon player was beneath me and I above him, the position compromising should anyone see it in our dark dance. A knee caught my cheekbone, sparking stars and pain in equal parts, and in a fit of pique I seized the knee and began to crawl up the body it was attached to. Above me, the screams continued, urging me to move more swiftly, a task easily accomplished as I approached the top of the dog pile and fewer bodies pinned me down.
A man flew off the top of the pile as if he had grown wings, and in doing so, exposed my eyes to the brilliance of stage lights and a sight like nothing I had ever imagined: Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile, standing barefoot atop a roiling pile of tuxedoed men and screaming, screaming, screaming, whilst a green-gowned young lady seized a flautist and threw him away, too.
Josephine's screams stopped the moment I appeared. She bent, offering me a hand, and with great strength hauled me from the squirming hill of men. It all but dissolved beneath us, not quickly, but surely. In seconds we three stood back to back: la grande dame, l'ingénue, and myself, la combattante. I drew in a deep, preparatory breath, and in that moment realized my mask had been torn away and that a miasma hung around me: foul air, tasting of Despair. Le Monstre's aim must have been flawless, to break a vial of the stuff near me as I fell beneath the oncoming orchestra. But now I knew the sensation of crumbling courage was not my own, and I could rally against it.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a man lift his hand to strike at Josephine, and flung myself between them. She was brave and her voice had brought me back from despair, but I did not believe her to be skilled in the ungentle arts of fisticuffs, and trembled at the thought of injury coming to her for her boldness in helping me.
But it was not my speed or determination that saved her. Rather, a cultured shout carried over the whole of the theatre with as much conviction as Josephine's singing; a shout from a voice I knew all too well.
"STOP!" cried le Monstre, and every soul in the theatre obeyed his command.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In that moment of stillness, new elixirs rained from the air. My first breath was of Relaxation; the next, of Calm. Knowing their potency, I retained my own fighting awareness, but the war-like atmosphere faded in seconds, rendering much of the Parisian upper class shaky and confused. In the audience, men and women began helping one another to their feet. Mumbled apologies filled the room, and the excitement of realizing that they had all participated in mad conflict was muted by the civilizing emotions drifting through the opera house.
I alone looked to le Monstre, but his gaze was for Josephine; I understood then, and almost sighed at the constancy of the man. He would not risk that voice, not while she had the crown; not when he had no one to replace her with. She had thrown herself into battle on my behalf, and so the battle had ended.
Well, I was not one to miss the opportunity. Turning, I shouted, "Prefect Langeron! Lui là-bas! Voilà l'homme que vous cherchez!" and pointed ferociously toward le Monstre.
En vérité, I half expected him to whisk his cloak up and disappear in a flash of smoke; when he did not, a soft laugh escaped me. I, too, had been taken in by le Fantôme de l'Opéra charade, just as Josephine had. But non; he only stood and watched as police swarmed his box and put him under arrest. I assured myself of Josephine and Kiera's safety—both were well, if wide-eyed with excitement—and excused myself to speak with Langeron, who, glowering, marched le Monstre down from his box seat via the stage and then through the theatre, making certain that he might be seen by all as a reprobate and a scoundrel. Men and women alike drew back as le Monstre passed them by, now feeling free to exhibit the revulsion and fear they had quelled in our meeting during the interlude.
Langeron bristled with defensiveness when I caught them just outside the theatre doors, as if afraid that I would name him a fool for having been a patsy in le Monstre's schemes. But I spoke with a degree of truthfulness when I clasped his hand: "We have all been victims of this creature's nefarious plans, Prefect. Be wary of him even yet; he has controlled us before with elixirs of emotion, and will seize the chance again. For my own part, I will try not to draw your attention again."
"That would be..." Langeron searched for his phrasing long enough that I had plentiful time in which to supply my own guesses at what he might prefer to say. "…ideal," he finally concluded, more kindly than I might have anticipated. Then, with greater ferocity, he added, "Stay away from Madame Baker, Mademoiselle Stone. I will not have the jewel of Paris harmed on my watch."
Le Monstre locked eyes with me, and for an instant I thought humor danced in their green depths. "That, sir, is one thing I believe we can all agree upon. Amélie, I look forward to seeing you again."
"At your trial," I snapped, though even as the words flew free I knew them for wishful thinking. Bien sûr, he smiled, that tight and uncomfortable stretch of skin that was my legacy to him, the smile of a burning man, and a worry churned my belly as Langeron escorted him away. I could not help myself, and followed them through the doors of the opera house, watching as the chief gave le Monstre certain admissions for the ungainliness of his gait, even catching him when my fallen angel lost his footing and slipped.
The coldness of certainty swept me too late; as I rushed forward, a vial crashed at my feet, cool vapors rising to Stun me. My limbs became thick and useless, my heart a heavy dirge in my chest. I could not move, could hardly feel; it was much the same sensation as I had experienced in the horrifying moment of discovering that Paul-Gabriel and le Monstre were one and the same. Agony beat inside my breast, and though I saw, as if from a remove, that le Monstre waved another vial under the chief's nose and moments later shook his hand and walked free, I could do nothing to stop it, not even voice so much as a protest.
I knew not how long I remained there, but when at last the trance passed I stood alone on the wide curving stairs, the opera house quiet and dark behind me, and the streets empty of anything but starlight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I sat on the opera house steps, allowing myself a moment of weariness. Again and again le Monstre thwarted me; again and again I left him free to harm others. There could be no more of this. Somehow I must find and stop him, even if the cost should be the highest there was. It had not occurred to me to go into the flames with him, seventeen years earlier; now I wondered if there was any other way to hold him in a trap.
But I could not allow myself to wallow. Rather, I must plan. I must be as conniving as he, and use what resources I had to hand. Khan was in Paris and others might be found in London or Berlin, for if I could not conquer le Monstre on my own, there was no shame in calling on my Centurion companions for help.
With a sigh, I stood again, dusting the seat of my jodhpurs as I did. To my surprise, someone spoke behind me: a sultry warm voice I knew well, but had not expected to hear in the darkness. "Amelia?"
"Josephine." I turned, unable to contain my smile, though in many ways there seemed little enough to smile about. "I thought you were gone."
"We waited for you." Clad all in black, she stepped free of the shadows beneath the opera house angels, and from my stance a few steps below her, I could almost fancy that their wings sprang from her own spine, unearthly creature that she was. I imagined that, could I only hold still enough, could I only wait for the right moment, she might spring upward into the sky, vast wings carrying her aloft, and that in a moment of grace she might extend her hands to me and I might fly with her, unburdened by the duties of the earthbound.
Instead, slowly, her few words caught up to me, and I said, "We?" dumbly as Kiera Knapp came from the shadows as well. Though I took care not to let it show too obviously, I felt my shoulders slump, and knew a thin, sour humor that I had imagined Josephine might be mine alone for some little window of time.
Kiera, though, did not simply step from the shadows: she flung herself from them and into my arms with such strength that I stumbled backward upon catching her. Like a child seeking reassurance, she buried her face in my neck and sobbed. Startled, I held her, then gently set her on her feet. "Easy, child. You are free of him now."
"How could you bear it?" The words burst from her like sobs, tears flowing over her cheeks. "How could you bear to face him again? How could you stand to offer me help, when I fought you with tooth and nail? How—"
"How," I interrupted, oddly charmed by her histrionics but mastered by curiosity, "did you survive that fall?"
The girl dashed tears from sad wet eyes to no avail; they rose and spilled over again as she sniffled. "A parachute beneath my overcoat, of course."
"Bien sûr." Had I worn one, the whole of the previous night's activities—had it only been the night before? Too much had happened in so little time, though that was usually the way of things—had I worn a parachute, the whole of the plane fight might have been less alarming. No wonder she had seemed so fearless as we fought.
