Stones throe, p.13
Stone's Throe, page 13
It was at once clear that most of them contained schematics for dreadful machines and notes on dangerous ideas. It was equally clear that most of them would be of interest to Khan but were beyond my limited knowledge of—or interest in—alchemy and science. None-the-less, I rifled through them, searching for any more personal notes that might suggest where le Monstre could now be found, or how I might later apprehend him.
Instead I fell upon pages of schematics I could comprehend: various designs for armor, some as crude as a medieval knight might wear, others so form-fitted that on paper they appeared to be like a second skin. The only thing they all had in common were spaces at the thigh, hip, and arm that were clearly meant to hold vials of le Monstre's elixirs: cutaway drawings showed the intubation the wearer would undergo.
I did not need to read the notes written in a cramped hand alongside these sketches to suspect what le Monstre intended, but their words confirmed what I imagined: he dreamed of an army of soldiers reliant on and slaves to his elixirs. They would be unable to refuse a command, unable to even think of doing so, under the compulsion of Obedience or Fear. But le Monstre wanted more; he wanted his soldiers to be unstoppable, and needed more than the elixirs to accomplish that. He envisioned armor, but armor unlike anything the world had ever seen: fitted, light, unbreakable, able to resist even a bullet wound. Thus far, though, the right formula to create his magical metal had eluded him.
Inspired by curiosity, I withdrew one of my pistols and cracked its butt against one of the metal shards I had taken from atop the papers. Rather than reverberate as I expected it to, the metal shattered into thin deadly blades. Pistol returned to its holster, I collected one of the shards and fingered it thoughtfully as I pored over the sketches. If this metal was as close as he had come, his armored soldiers were many years away from success, but the idea of them was alarming. I left the laboratory and found, in Kiera's room, a small but sturdy canvas bag. Upon returning to the laboratory, I stuffed all the papers and several pieces of the brittle metal into it the bag. Le Monstre would no doubt have copies of his notes, but if he did not, taking these would set him back even farther—and Khan would be fascinated by them.
There were no other stretches of worn floor leading straight into the walls, neither in the laboratory nor in any of the other rooms, now that I knew to check. I hesitated a little while in le Monstre's lair, but, unable to think of a way to find him now, and dearly wishing for a few hours' rest before dawn, I retreated to Josephine's apartment, where I stored the bag of notes under a pile of pillows Chiquita called her own. I myself was pleased to take, for the brief time that I could, advantage of the sleeping arrangements offered earlier by la grande dame.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The race itself was hardly the thing; despite its adventures the day before, my Indian was in good repair, and thanks to their adventures, my competitors were decimated, though I was relieved to see Stringfield astride her blue Harley again. My concern was for the Italian, Bernardo Viccini, whose hard eyes and lean body vibrated with more intensity than the day before. When Signor Panterello appeared to remind us one final time of what we raced for, Viccini leapt forward, hands clawed as though he would throttle the slight inventor as he screamed, "Where is it? Where is the motorcycle? What have you done with it?"
I seized his collar, wrenching him back, and pulled his face close to mine. "Your master will not be pleased if you destroy the maker of his coveted engines, idiot. The machine is safe and Signor Panterello must remain that way too, or I'll know who to finger for it."
The Italian youth turned a look of such furious betrayal on me that it seemed the race would indeed not be the thing at all. We were nearly at fisticuffs in the predawn light, and though I spoke Italian, his outrage was so great that I doubted anyone could discern actual coherence from his guttural sputtering. I could not help but notice, though, that beneath his leathers he wore the military black shirt favored by Mussolini, and I looked forward to the opportunity to teach him a lesson or two about the errors of supporting dictators.
I wanted nothing more than to forget all for the duration of the race, to enjoy the wind and speed and think nothing of le Monstre or stolen motorcycles or fascism. It was not, of course, to be. I could not ride without worrying for my competitors, without watching for traps, without wondering if Josephine would again, against all common sense, wait at the finish line, though I had left her sleeping in her apartment in the morning twilight hour. I thought of Kiera's pale-faced bravery and prayed I might whisk her away from Paris and le Monstre's influence before he entangled her again, as he had entangled me. She had done a great deal already, offering me what she knew of his whereabouts, and I did not want to fail her. I thought of my mother's thinness, and wondered briefly, terribly, if there might be a Distillation of Health in le Monstre's hidden lair, and whether I was craven enough to make use of an evil creature's potions for what I believed to be the benefit of another.
I had, in my musings, stopped racing: I sat idle on a bridge, heedless to the other bikers sweeping around me in a wide V, a formation made necessary by the fact that I had, unbeknownst to myself, half turned back, as if I meant to return to Josephine's apartment with all haste and beg to know if Kiera was aware of Distillations of Health or Energy.
But ahead lay another injustice, one perpetrated by a dictator and a fascist, and one in whose pursuit my friend Khan had nearly bankrupted himself; I could not in conscience abandon that task even if my heart pressed me to deal with le Monstre once and for all. Cursing softly, I set the Indian back on course. Le Monstre had waited this long. He could wait another hour for this race to be won, Panterello protected, and Khan repaid with the knowledge of Panterello's engines, worth more to him than any gold.
I had lost significant ground with my ponderings; the bulk of the pack was ahead of me now, spitting water, grime, and stone from their back tires. Pebbles pelted me, some hard enough that tomorrow I would find bruises, and more than once I failed to move forward because the muck on my goggles had to be cleaned before I dared risk a chancy passage. At times I fit myself into spaces too small for belief, jostling my fellow riders until they gave way and I slipped through; twice, I chose the wet depths of a puddle in order to pass on the inside. One by one, muddy colors were left behind, until there were clear streets and the echoes of only one or two motorcycles ahead of me—Stringfield and Viccini, unless I'd missed my count in passing them. The race would be down to we three again, and of us, only I had enough of a lead to take both third place and the prize. Thrilled by the knowledge, burning with the spirit of competition, I gunned the Indian and rushed forward in pursuit of my opponents.
I was wholly unprepared to spin around a corner some half-mile ahead and to find them blockading the narrow street together, their bikes wheel-to-wheel and their resolved faces turned toward me in anticipation. I knew instantly that they would not flinch; that I could not run at them and trust them to twitch away at the last moment. Nor was there any sort of incline, not so much as an out-of-line cobble, whence I might leverage the Indian over them. They had chosen their trap well, for my strength, while considerable, was not enough to drag the weight of an entire motorcycle into a leap without some form of assistance.
For the second time in two days, I could not stop quickly enough. I saw; I judged; I lay the Indian down, shouting pained curses as I slammed over cobblestones at great speed. The Indian spun and clanked, garnering as many bruises as I did, and for that these two miscreants would pay, even if I had held one in great admiration not two minutes earlier.
With myself no longer aboard, they did step aside to allow my battered bike the remaining space it needed to slow and stop, and then as one, Stringfield and Viccini dismounted and strode to me as I too thudded to a painful stop.
Stringfield arrived first and crouched, hands dangling between her knees. Before she spoke I twisted my aching body upward and drove a knee toward her temple. She, somehow not expecting that I might defend myself, did not defend herself, and fell with an expression of pained stupefaction. I checked her pulse as I came to my feet; it beat strongly and steadily, assuring me I had probably done no permanent damage.
That, at the moment, was more than could be said for the consequences I suffered for her actions. There was not an inch of my body that did not pound with agony; I was more badly hurt, by a considerable measure, than I had been by going into the fire yesterday, and then all I had needed to do was snatch a man from certain death. Now I was obliged to do battle with a lean-bodied military man whose fitness, at the moment, was of considerably lesser question than my own.
From what he no doubt imagined as a safe distance, he said, "Signora Stone," but whatever threats might have followed were silenced by my shoulder burying itself in his gut.
Viccini flew backward under the power of my forward drive, grunting in pained astonishment as we both hit the cobblestones, myself atop him with fists already flying. My punches lacked their usual power, muffled as my hands were in gloves, but anger and pain drove me, as did a string of invective that poured from my lips. I had thoroughly questioned Viccini's heritage and was well into a line of suggested perversions when it struck me—perhaps an unfortunate term—that the man was not fighting back. That, indeed, he held his arms crossed over his face and through them shouted pleas that, whilst I bellowed, were utterly futile. When I at last briefly ceased my shower of blows, he dropped his hands to cry, "The black shirts, Signora Stone, the black shirts!"
"Oui, I know, you fascist dog, but you will have no more of Panterello's inventions—"
"Non, Madame Stone!" he shouted in quite good French, "Les chemises noires!" and thrust a pointing finger behind me.
Though it was an old and known trick, I could not stop myself from following the line of his finger, as, behind us, dozens of motorcycles spun and wheeled at the corner, intent on thundering down the racetrack we were sprawled across. This was no surprise; I had, after all, only passed them moments ago. I was on my feet, running before any further observations made impact on my mind. My first concern was scooping Stringfield, who still lay limp and boneless in the street, to safety; she may have just tried to kill me, but I would not be personally responsible for leaving her to be run over by dozens of tires. Viccini I judged to be breathless but quite able to move aside, which he did. But the racers did not, as I expected, push through. I stood pressed to the side of the street, Bessie Stringfield's weight in my aching arms, and stared in bewilderment as three dozen racers converged on Viccini, trying, by all appearances, to run him down.
With great alacrity he threw himself on his motorcycle, making himself just slightly less vulnerable and, if not precisely more mobile, at least much faster; the pack gave chase while I gaped after them.
Bessie stirred in my arms, then groaned and, as her eyes opened, lifted a swift elbow to crack it against my cheek. Bright pain exploded there and I dropped her with a howl; she rolled to her feet with a furious gaze. "You darn fool woman! We thought you were gone, so we set up our ambush! Now you've left him alone!"
"Quoi? What?" The question seemed insufficient to my bewilderment, so I bettered it to the best of my ability: "What?"
"He tried!" Bessie spat in furious frustration. "He tried finding you, honey, yesterday after the race after you went into the fire like that. I mean, he thought you were some kinda fool at first, but then the stories about the opera started getting around and he realized you were Amelia Stone! Nobody else he coulda hoped for more, but you disappeared, and he was left with nobody to turn to but me! Well, never let it be said Bessie Stringfield turned from a fellow man in need, because I've been there, sister. I know what it's like sleeping rough because the world around you won't look at you like you're worth spit, and that boy deserved better. We all deserve better."
"Miss Stringfield, s'il vous plaît, I don't understand—"
"Well, of course you don't, haring all over the place after fantastical monsters when there's real ones right here in Paris today!"
The very sky spun, a dizziness that seemed greater than the sum of the beating I had taken. "Surely you do not speak of le Monstre, Miss Stringfield...?"
"I'm talking ‘bout the black shirts, you darn fool!"
I was unaccustomed to feeling so slow; it was as if, although we shared a mother tongue, Madame Stringfield and I were actually speaking entirely different languages. Given the number I did speak, I began to wonder if I had somehow lapsed into one she did not know. I spoke carefully, making sure the bulk of the words were English: "Oui, the blackshirts, of whom Viccini is one, trying to retrieve Panterello's wondrous engines—?"
"Panterello is the black shirt!" Bessie roared this at me with such frustration and precision that I briefly wondered if this was how Khan felt at all times: as if surrounded by those with less wit, to whom things must be explained in small words and no uncertain terms. For while Madame Stringfield was unquestionably certain in her terms, my mind was slow to comprehend, and a protest sprang from my lips.
"But no, he begged for my help in hiding both himself and the machine. He called Mussolini his enemy and he...but no. I can see it in your eyes now, that the machine is...the machine is Viccini's. But he is so—" Embarrassment flooded me and sharp mockery lit Bessie's face.
"He's so handsome, isn't he? Such a good looking boy, why would he need to be smart, too? Panterello looks like he needs brains to get by, so a'course the motorcycle's his, right? ‘Cept it isn't so, honey. You oughta see the underbelly of that bike he's riding in the race today. You wouldn't doubt me for a second, then."
En vérité, I already doubted her no longer. Too late, I turned to look where Viccini had gone; too late, Stringfield's well-deserved sarcasm bathed me. "That's right, honey. That wasn't the racing pack. They've all been picked off. That was a whole platoon of black shirts, and you just let them go after an unarmed man who got left all on his own because of you."
"Why did you cause me to crash?" I asked in dismal tones as my need for action took over. I went to the Indian, righting it and examining it for roadworthiness; it would drive, if not as smoothly as I might hope. "Why did you not take me into your confidence this morning—merde. Because I defended Panterello, and you had no other time. But I would have stood with you here—!"
"Look how long it's taken me to explain now, honey, and those sons of guns were right on your tail. Truth is, I didn't even know it was you until you were too close for us to scoot anyway, and you'd already laid that beauty down by that time. An Indian was my first bike," she added with a brief, fond smile. "Ain't no bike but a Harley for me now, but my adopted Irish mama, she got me an Indian for my sweet sixteenth. You should take better care of that baby. Riding it through fires and skidding it over cobblestones, what're you thinking, honey-chil'?"
"That needs must, and that I am near a full ten years your senior, honey-child. Where will Viccini go? Is your Harley well?"
Bessie sniffed, but went to inspect her own bike swiftly and thoroughly. "She's just fine. We said if we got split up we'd double back around to where we started."
"And can he outpace his pursuers?"
Madame Stringfield gave me a look bordering on pity. "Honey, he coulda left us all in gay Paree while he rode to the moon, if he'd wanted to. Only reason he's even playing at making this a fair race is to try an' keep the Führer off his fine Italian backside. He'll be comin' round the mountain any moment now."
I swung onto the Indian with an air of determination. "Then we shall fight for him, Madame Stringfield. Why," I added curiously, "does he not simply rebuild from scratch?"
"Panterello's story wasn't wrong," Bessie said as she mounted her Harley. "Gilera got greedy and wanted the plans. Only difference is he wanted ‘em from Viccini, not Panterello. And now Viccini's got nothing, no cash, no bike, no way to start again. He says there's a benefactor here in Paris who'll fund everything, but he's gotta get the bike to him."
Her choice of words caused my stomach to feel as though a stone had settled in it. "A benefactor?"
"Some fine rich fella who doesn't race but knows a moneymaker when he sees it, I reckon. Viccini called him a benefactor, sure, and that sounds about right to me."
I had not laid hands upon Viccini's motorcycle, only seen its fascinating metallic chassis and longed to touch it, but a certainty was rising within me. Le Monstre was in search of a compound for his armor; I feared Viccini was about to deliver it to him. "Oh, mon dieu. Non, not again. Bessie, no matter what transpires in these next few minutes, do not allow Signor Viccini to bring that motorcycle to this benefactor, for he is le Monstre, the self-same fantôme you mocked a moment ago and whom I know to be both real and dangerous. I know for a fact he trades with the likes of the Führer, so if it is Viccini's wish to keep his inventions from fascist hands, he must not deal with that devil."
"I reckon it's too late, honey. Panterello's already looking to make that deal. I hear he's already met with this benefactor."
Cold bit into my guts. For seventeen years, my mother had been a dismissed, if not forgotten, remnant of le Monstre's life—and I, in having brought Panterello to her, might well have led le Monstre back to her doorstep. I lowered my gaze, imagining I could see the whiteness of my knuckles through my leather gloves, and spoke quietly. "I will help you dispatch these black shirts, Madame Stringfield, and if I had my preferences I would then round up each and every soul involved in this trickery so it can be set to rights. I will not have time for that, though, and so all I can do is plead that you do not finish this race, but instead take yourself to see Professor Khan at la Sorbonne. He knows where the motorcycle is, and in this he will be a friend to you as no other could be. It is for him that I ride, so he might study and understand the engineering work Viccini has accomplished."
