Stones throe, p.19
Stone's Throe, page 19
"I do not sing any more, angel."
A different pain crossed his face, a pain somehow more real than the agony of death drawing him close. "Because of me. That is...my worst crime. Do not give up song because of me, Amélie. Do not let me take that joy from you."
My own low chuckle broke free. "Paul-Gabriel, mon ange, if you truly believe that to be your worst crime..." I could go no further; a litany of his crimes and their magnitude would do nothing, and I lacked the rage to try to hurt him now.
"Kiera?"
"Dead."
He nodded, but closed his eyes, as if I had, after all, pained him greatly and he could not bear to look on the world with that knowledge of it. "Another crime," he admitted after a moment. "There are many."
"Do you repent, Gabriel? Shall I call a priest now, at the end?" He was no more religious than I, but the question curved his lips, which somehow seemed worthwhile; somehow I did not wish to see him die in sorrow. And because of that, all unintending, I began the whisper of a song, a thing from the summer we had shared together. I remembered the words with dreadful clarity, as I could remember each hour of that time, and so, it seemed, did he, for he smiled again, and in a few shuddering breaths, went still in my arms.
The words I half whispered, half sang, broke as his weight pulled me toward the gleaming floor. I bowed over him, still trying to sing, and only lifted my eyes when the laboratory lights began to pulse and the air to swirl. Vents opened, drawing the air in, and in moments the looping tubes and coiled metals began to burble, as though extracting something from the air. I stared upward, dry eyed and heaving rough breaths between each phase, before a wild and terrible understanding swept me.
Snatches of Josephine's final aria came to me and I gave them full voice to see if my belief was true: a note, then two, sung aloud. My voice was rough and unpleasant; I had not lied to le Monstre. He was the last audience I had ever sung for, and to lift my voice now was not a farewell, but a momentary madness. Cleopatra had sung for the loss of Egypt; I sang for the loss of innocence, and if my song was broken, there was no one here to hear me. No one save les monstres, whose own madness was born of their creator's, and who were as enthralled by song as he had ever been.
Liquid began to form within the tubes: silver drops, trembling as they coalesced. A sob caught my throat, tearing the aria apart, but as my voice failed, another one joined it.
For several seconds I could not sing even if I had wanted to, instead staring confounded as Josephine Baker stepped through the laboratory door and gathered the threads of my shaking song to lift them upward with the grace and power that was hers alone. She smiled at my expression, and as if carnage and death did not lie all around me, crossed the laboratory with her gaze locked to mine and her voice never faltering. When she reached me, she took my hands in hers and nodded once, an offer of encouragement, as she brought the aria to higher reaches.
I did not know how the next note escaped me; it was not through thought or deliberate effort, and it sounded more of a frog's croak than a song. But it was a sound, and it required breath, and between those two things it made the next one easier, and the one after that easier still. I could remember the melody, if not all the words, to the final aria; with Josephine's guidance I did not need the words. As if she lent me the strength to say a proper adieu, my singing improved. I remembered the lessons Maman had taught me—the way to breathe, the carriage of a trained vocalist. I was still rough, but my voice was a not-unpleasant counterpoint to Josephine's as, hands held tightly, gazes locked, together we reached for the crescendo, found it, and collapsed into a trembling and exhausted embrace in its aftermath.
Only then could I look upward, there to see what I had suspected: that the tubes were filled with silver liquid that bubbled and streamed within them. Josephine glanced upward as well, then turned a curious look tenderized by concern upon me. "I was right," I whispered. "He improved his emotion extractor until it could draw emotion from the very air. I will have to check the opera house catwalks; I am certain they must be littered with contraptions like the one above."
"What did we sing into it?"
I replied, "Farewell, I suppose," before I remembered the pschent upon my head and touched it wearily. "Or perhaps commanding presence. That, after all, is what this is supposed to convey, and no one doubts you bear it within yourself, Madame Baker."
The unlikelihood of her arrival here finally came back to me and I frowned, my confusion renewed. Josephine's gaze brightened, anticipating my question, and said, "You shouldn't have told them to wait on a person of authority, Amelia. Not when, as you've just said, I have a commanding presence myself."
"You—but—you—you didn't, Josephine!"
"Oh, but I did. I had to abandon them at the second boulder," she said with a wild, pleased smile. "They went back for explosives, but I slithered through and came for you. I'm afraid my influence will have waned by the time they reach us, though. We'd best flee."
My eyes were dry, but my voice was strained: "Josephine, are you telling me that—"
Neck and neck, shoulder to shoulder, men in shirts of brown and black burst through the laboratory doors and fell upon us all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I cried, "Fight! Les monstres, fight for your very lives!" even as Josephine, outraged, demanded, "Where did the Italians come from? It was only the Germans, Amelia, it was—!"
From the fascist faction's midst swaggered Signor Panterello, whose small stature allowed him to slip through the struggling soldiers with relative ease. "You did not imagine I would let you go after so thwarting my plans, did you?"
"The motorcycle, Josephine, where is it—?"
"Khan—!"
All was well, then; freed from the fear that Mussolini had acquired the beautiful bike, I could turn my disgust and loathing upon the thieving Signor Panterello, at whom I purposefully strode. "I imagined never to see you again, Panterello, but it seems you are even less clever than your larcenous ways suggested. If you were wise you would have taken the money and run—"
"When I have a platoon of soldiers at my back? I'm not afraid of you, Stone—"
"You should be."
It had been no time at all since le Monstre had fallen, since I had killed Kiera in a strange and terrible justice for his death. In that tiny space of time, I had known agony and ecstasy, but neither had offered the sweet simple release of action. Panterello did not speak again, for I had forgotten I wore the crown, and my word was law; he had not been afraid, but now he was, knees locked and eyes popping as I stormed toward him. It was not a fair fight, nor did I care; in a moment I was upon him with one fist seizing his shirt as the other struck his jaw in a mighty, silencing blow. He fell without protest and I turned to the nearest doppelgänger, thrusting Panterello's limp form toward him. "Carry him out of here," I ordered. "Bring him to the police; tell them he is the instigator of the street races and that he is a gift from Amelia Stone. Then go and live your life, mon—" I seized upon the word, reluctant to name a freed man monster, and instead substituted, "monsieur. Be a good man; that is all I ask of you. Now go!"
L'homme, for I would not now allow myself to think of him as a monster, gazed at me with astonished, beautifully green eyes, then snatched Panterello from my hands and ran, not toward the door through which fascists poured, but another egress I had not previously noticed. Josephine, who had wisely remained behind when I strode into the fight, watched him go, then turned to me with wide eyes. I pointed imperiously, but it appeared the crown did not work with silent commands; the corner of her mouth turned up and she deliberately located a still-upright laboratory bench and sat upon it, waiting on and challenging me.
There were a dozen doppelgängers and at least four times that number of soldiers; I weighed the balance and found the lives of les monstres worth less than that of Josephine Baker's, and with some, but not debilitating, regret, began my retreat. Gunfire was not yet in play—there were too many soldiers still forcing their way through the narrow door to have begun shooting—and I chose not to introduce it, merely forcing my way back through the growing crowd until I broke out of its back and pursued Josephine.
She had left the bench and stood in front of one of the unbroken cabinets, its door open as she took great handsful of the vials and stuffed them into unlikely locations: her bosom, her waistband, even her garters. When I came to her side she smiled brilliantly at me. "These are the potions he was using, aren't they? I thought they might come in handy."
I could not argue, and seized as many of the vials as I could, filling my pockets and my waistband until they overflowed. Then, with a glance back at the erupting battle behind us, I caught her hand. "I would like to propose something to you, my queen."
Josephine's sultry smile slipped over her lips and she purred, "Oh? I await your proposal with bated breath," causing me to regret the prosaic nature of my suggestion: "I propose we run, Josephine."
"Oh." Her smile turned to a laughing pout. "Yes, that might be a good idea."
Hand in hand we fled the laboratory after l'homme I had set free; behind us, gunfire echoed, and I knew we had not bought ourselves as much time as I might have hoped. When the shots behind us stopped, so did I, though I urged Josephine onward. "Go, mon amie. Let me deal with these ruffians."
Josephine instantly released my hand and took a dozen running steps before whipping back toward me, fire flashing in her eyes. "You used that crown on me!"
I clapped a hand to my head, surprised to find the pschent still there, and said with genuine remorse, "Forgive me. I did not mean to."
"Then take it off!"
"And carry it how?"
Unable to find a satisfactory answer, she changed the subject: "How many shots have you got?"
"Eleven," I replied reluctantly. I could see already where her argument would lead, and I had very little ground upon which to stand against it.
"And how many vials?"
"Je ne sais pas, Josephine. Perhaps two dozen?"
"And how many Nazis are there?"
"Nazis? Two dozen." I gave a pedantic sniff and felt I had earned the dour look Josephine bestowed upon me. "Blackshirts and brownshirts both, I don't know. Forty, or as many as fifty."
"And so with eleven bullets and two dozen vials you intend to defeat fifty men singlehandedly? I don't think so, Amelia, and we're wasting time standing here when we could be running. Let's go!"
Able to argue—able to win, no doubt, as I still wore the crown—but also reluctant to lose her in the catacombs, I succumbed to Josephine's demands. "You can always order them to run the other way if they catch us," she said breathlessly as we loped down a well-trodden path together. The idea had merit, though as the first bullets zinged behind us I wondered how I was meant to command metal to stop its flight through the air.
I did not have to, of course. I shouted, "Cease fire!" in a carrying voice and in three languages; immediately the bullets stopped, and, with a flash of childish delight and hope, I called, "Stop chasing us!"
We ran without pursuit for almost a minute; then footsteps began to pound behind us again. "Stop following us!"
Once more they stopped. By the fourth iteration of such commands, laughter, bordering on the hysterical after a day of too-high emotion, was breaking from my chest. "What else can they be doing?" Josephine asked. "Chasing, following, pursuing, hunting...stop running!" she suggested, and I echoed that order back in a powerful shout.
The footsteps faded again, but in no time the echoes began in a quick-time march. Exasperated, I stopped trying to vary my commands and instead rifled through my pockets, examining the vials of emotions as we ran. "Hatred, Fear, Despair—"
"That one will be of use." Josephine seized it from my hand and flung it behind us; it crashed upon the stones and splashed free, causing me to be grateful for the general lack of breeze in the tunnels.
"Good Nature—" She seized that one as well, while I fumbled through the remaining vials, trying to separate the dangerous from the helpful. "Lethargy, Peacefulness—" We left behind us a trail of elixirs wafting in the air, and the sounds of pursuit grew less and less alarming. "I have no more to dissuade them," I finally said. "We'll have to fight those who remain."
"You can fight. I'll throw my own elixirs." Josephine dipped her fingers into her bodice, retrieving a rose-pink bottle. "This one has no label."
"Best not to risk it. There can't be that many of them left." I took her vial and tucked it into my pocket with the other dangerous items as I turned to face the last few of our enemies who had fought their way through the clouds of emotion elixirs.
The men who came toward us had all masked themselves by covering their faces with a jacket or a sleeve. When they saw us making our stand, they cast away those masks in favor of seizing their weapons. I pressed Josephine against the wall and, trying to provide some cover, began to fire my own pistol.
My aim was true; most of my bullets met their mark, and several of the fascist dogs fell to the catacomb floors to join the dead who already lay along these halls. The rest scattered, pressing themselves to the walls, and Josephine seized her chance, leaping out to throw her brightly-colored elixirs. Her aim was true as well; one vial broke against a black-shirted shoulder and the Italian's eyes rolled up as Calm overtook him to such a degree that he could no longer stand. The man nearest him mellowed as well, then sank in shoulder-shaking sobs as Resignation landed on the floor before him and did its work.
"With these I could be the greatest actress in the world," Josephine whispered to me; despite the predicament, I once more could not help but laugh. Her ambitions barred none, and I loved her for it, a thought which brought heat to my cheeks. She hugged the wall again as one of the fascists began to fire wildly at us, clearly hoping for luck rather than trying to aim. I fired back and missed, and then my pistols were empty. I turned to Josephine, guns dangling from my fingertips in a display of uselessness before I tucked them back into my holsters. She sorted swiftly through her remaining vials, muttering dismissals of most, and finally selected one of pulsating red. She held it up, winked at me, then screamed, "Mon dieu! Amelia, she is dead!" with such conviction that I clutched my own heart, wondering if I had been struck and simply had not yet noticed.
Without hesitation, two men raced down the hall toward us: two and no more; we had conquered the rest. Josephine, still screaming, turned toward them as if they were her salvation. I saw sly cruelty sluice across the face of one before Josephine threw her final useful vial with both speed and accuracy. It broke to pieces on the catacomb floor before them, and the two men stumbled, then turned and seized one another in a passionate embrace.
Josephine's screams turned to surprised laughter, trilling through the catacombs. "That was Romance. If I'd known it worked that well, I might have kept it! Quick, before it wears off!"
Hand in hand, laughing at the nearness of our escape, we ran through the catacombs and out into the bright Parisian afternoon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Some number of the orchestra still sported bruises; I could, even from my box seat, count the ones that I had laid upon them. Their instruments seemed particularly out of tune to my wincing ear, though the damage to them had of course been repaired, or the instruments replaced, by now. Only the first violin still held what was certainly his original instrument, and, as if he knew both that I was there and that I had taken some special care to ensure the instrument's survival, his gaze sought mine across the distance, and he smiled.
His eyes were blue; I looked away regardless.
Inevitably, perhaps, I looked to the box across from mine. It was more than empty: it was blackened, crepe laid over the seats, the doors sealed. They called it la boîte du fantôme now, the phantom's box, and until superstition passed or greed prevailed, I imagined that it would remain unused. Still, I could not help but search its depths as if I half believed a dead man might somehow be hidden in its shadows.
"You're early, Amelia." My friend Khan's deep voice filled the whole of my own box, and I turned my profile to him with a smile.
"Oui. I wanted to watch everyone come in. You are looking very well, mon ami." And he was: his fur gleamed and the nails of his enormous hands, always well manicured, had an especially careful sheen. He wore a kilt as always, but tonight's was made of heavy raw silk dyed a forest green, and sported a thick silken belt so deftly twisted and pinned in place with a huge gold brooch that the entire ensemble could only be called formal wear. I stood to embrace him and kiss his cheeks, awed as always by the careful return of affection from a being whose unattended strength could crush my bones without thought.
"Merci, although I fear I am somewhat lacking in comparison to yourself, dear lady. Amelia, you are very nearly...Josephine, tonight."
The corner of my lip curled and I turned in rueful amusement to display my gown, which was the color of, and littered with, rubies. "She dressed me, I'm afraid. She has been, for the evenings. What do you think?"
"That she understands that neither of you are shadows of the other," Khan said with unexpected acumen. "Tonight you are made in her image, though I've seen you together in the city during the days this past week, and she's often chosen to dress as though she's been made in yours."
"Oui." I sat again, gathering the splendid and ridiculous skirt in my fingers, then smoothing the shimmering fabric between them, though my gaze was for the yet-empty stage. "Rather more glamorous, but oui. The jodhpurs...suit her."
"Amelia," Khan said dryly as he sat beside me in a chair that creaked and protested at his great weight, "I am an ape, and disinclined to find human women, no matter how remarkable, to be enticing. However, I believe I would not be sentient if I could not see, and say, that any article of clothing that encases Madame Baker's backside so splendidly is barely done justice by the phrase suits her."
