The Rose and the Ghost, page 19
“I think you remember everything.” Eve finds herself conscious of her own accent, grown in slums by the river. She puts careful emphasis on her Ts. “You’re just choosing not to tell us.”
Cassius flexes his hand on the woman’s throat. His own claws are smaller than the Blood Drinker’s, not as powerful or as sharp, but so close to her jugular they still pose a threat. “We should at least take the head,” he says, dispassionate and expressionless. “Monaghan will want the teeth.”
Eve watches for a flex in the woman’s expression. She can’t tell if Cassius is playing up his aggression for the sake of the impromptu interrogation, or if he actually means it. A sinking feeling tells her it’s the latter.
“Tell you what,” the woman says, her eyes falling to half-mast, gleaming beneath her white lashes. “Let me go, an’ I’ll tell you wha’ I know.”
Khurana would have mentioned it if she’d come here, so the only her that this demon could be speaking of is Hazel. Finding out why she was here might give Eve some insight into why she fled.
But it would mean disobeying her orders. On her first case as an agent, too.
Her dagger’s hilt is slippery in her palm. “Very well.” She jerks her head at Cassius, signalling him away.
For a moment he doesn’t move and Eve’s blood heats at the thought of a fight. Then he releases the woman and steps back. The tight-eyed glare he throws at her promises they’ll have words later.
The Blood Drinker tucks one foot behind the other, apparently unaffected by the bruises blossoming across her throat. “She said ’er name was Locke, but it was ’er demon that interested me.”
“Oh?”
“You don’ often see royalty in London. And I ain’t talking ’bout she who wears the Crown. Though you don’ see ’er round ’ere, neither.”
“He’s Leviathan’s spawn,” interrupts Cassius, “not Lucifer’s.”
It’s Eve’s turn to glare. “What do you know about it?”
He looks away.
“If I ’ad to guess,” the Drinker continues, “I’d say the Leviathan was ’is dam. It’s the sire you wanna look at. Cause no Leviathan ’as eyes like that.”
Eve doesn’t care about Steel or his past. “What about Hazel? Why did she come here?”
The woman’s ever-present smile curls at the corner, as if Eve has said something amusing. “She was lookin’ for a Wraith demon. Didn’t find it, in the end. Or found it too late, maybe.”
Lavender. Eve deflates. This must have been during those early days when they still thought there was a chance that Turner’s demon would return. She’s given up her first case for nothing.
“You have two days,” she says, stepping backwards to the door. “If you’re still in London by then, the deal expires.”
The woman glowers at her, but Eve slips through the door into the street. In the daylight, the danger of the moment feels diminished. She has to sidestep the children, who’ve collapsed, puppy-like, into a pile.
“What was that?” she demands, when Cassius appears at her side. “Is that the kind of thing you did for Rayne? Slaughter demons without verifying their intent?”
“Of course,” he replies, breezily. “How else could I have made him the best?”
She curls her lip. “Next time, don’t act without my authorisation. And what was that about Steel?” she adds, in a tone that should make it clear that the words are not a question.
He starts to look shifty. “Diamond class demons don’t take orders well. He would’ve torn down the Agency, if given the chance. We’re better off without him.”
She ignores the ‘we’ part of the response. “Tell me what you know,” she orders.
“It’s not my responsibility to correct your ignorance. Besides,” he says, as she prepares to argue, “he’s not here anymore. What does it matter?”
Eve’s annoyed to find that she doesn’t have a suitable retort. “Come on,” is all she says, in the end. “We should get back.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“What the hell is going on?” Steel mutters out of the corner of his mouth, looking rather like a cat that’s been presented with the suggestion of a bath.
“I have no idea.” I jolt out of the way of a couple dressed in feathered masks and early seventeenth century clothing, too elaborate and vivid to be real. More masked people fill the lobby and perch on the wide staircase that leads up to the boxes. We’d come in hopes of speaking to Christine again, with the intention of questioning the ballet dancers about Sorelli’s last known movements, but we’ve stumbled into some kind of celebration.
“Isn’t the opera supposed to have finished for tonight?”
Music does come from somewhere, but it sounds as though the players are half-drunk and heading for full at some speed.
“There’s Dumont,” I say, spying the man looking harassed at the centre of a group of young women. “He must have had the same idea.” I ease past a rambunctious gentleman in a raven’s mask and slide between three young women attempting to waltz with each other at the same time.
René sees me and calls, “There you are,” reaching past the group and pulling me to Dumont’s side. He laughs at the women as he does it. “Our pardon, mademoiselles, but we are engaged tonight. Perhaps we can visit you later,” he adds, with a wink.
The women pout but flit away, sharing a bout of merry laughter. Dumont’s mouth stays open for a moment, then clicks shut. The demon chuckles.
“M-mademoiselle Locke,” the agent stutters, ignoring his partner. He nods to Steel, who returns the gesture. “I was not confident that you would return, after what happened last night. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you, agent. We were hoping to speak to mademoiselle Daaé and the other dancers about Sorelli.”
He exhales. “We completed an initial interview upon discovery of her body. Nothing conclusive, I am afraid, although we had hoped to follow up with them. Daaé, in particular. She and Sorelli were close. But…” He trails off, gesturing feebly at the chaos whirling around us.
“Is this the best time for a party?” asks Steel, waving away a servant with a tray of drinks.
“The managers are trying to drum up more interest in their opera,” René answers. “All the costumes are from this evening’s rendition, and it seems like all of Paris’ elite have been invited.”
I glance at a couple tucked into a shadowed corner. “It’s easier to act on your impulses when no one can see your face.”
“I do not like it,” Dumont says, frowning. “The ghost is still at large, as dangerous as he ever was, and there’s no way to know who’s here and who’s not with all these masks and costumes. I will find the managers.”
“And here I was hoping for a dance,” interjects René, with a lopsided smile that he directs at Dumont first, then the nearest revellers.
“We are working.” Dumont’s dark skin doesn’t show it, but I suspect he’s blushing.
“We’ll look for Christine,” I suggest. “Let’s meet you at the statue, later.” I indicate a stone woman holding aloft a cluster of candles.
Dumont and René head up the stairs towards the circle, and Steel and I head down, into the wide round chamber that leads backstage. We find a quieter group here, older guests and actors who’ve chosen conversation over carousal.
I stop beside one of the smooth red marble columns. None of the people here have Christine’s long dark hair, nor are they wearing wigs that could hide it. “Perhaps she’s still backstage.”
“Isn’t that the Comte?” asks Steel, nudging me.
The Comte de Chagny stands at the edge of the round chamber, his pointed shoes just touching the circular mural paved into the floor, as if he’d been caught before he could enter. Two women stand with him, both masked, one with greying brown hair and the other sleek black. A man in his mid-thirties stands beside them, without a mask. He regards the Comte with a charming smile.
I take another look at the two women. The elder holds a familiar black cigarillo. “That’s madame Bellemeure. The lady with her must be Chang Mei.” I walk the perimeter of the mural, until I’m in hearing distance, tucked out of sight behind a pillar.
Steel follows, leaning on the red marble beside me. “Suspect?” he whispers.
The Comte had debts. Perhaps Sorelli was caught up in them. “Suspect,” I confirm.
“I have to admit,” says the stranger, “I was surprised to hear that you had become a patron of the Opera.” The military tunic he wears is sky blue, adorned with golden epaulettes. He would be an inch or two shorter than me, if we stood aligned, and his brown hair is as neatly combed as his thin moustache. The man from the soirée, I realise, the hotel owner.
“Not me,” the Comte replies. “It is my brother who has become a patron, monsieur.”
“Ah, of course. It is your brother then, who is a devotee of the arts.”
“I would say that my brother is more of an admirer of this opera’s prima donna.” The Comte’s bitterness can’t be hidden.
The woman taps her cigarette onto a little holder that she carries in her other hand. “Perhaps the Marquis von Tier could introduce some more worthy heiresses,” she suggests. It is Bellemeure.
“Indeed,” the Marquis says, taking the cue with grace. “My hotel is about to host a very pretty, very wealthy young lady from Spain. You were interested in investing—perhaps you and your brother might come and visit.”
The Comte looks uncomfortable. “Yes, well. I have not yet fully considered the benefits of your proposition.”
“Let’s say I cater to a particularly…elite group. The entertainment I offer is unparalleled—at least in Paris. In Austria, we do things differently, but I aim to bring the best that my house has to offer and leave the worst behind.”
“Your hotel has been running for less than a year,” the Comte replies. “Perhaps, when a little more time has passed—”
“By then, it will be too late. I need an answer soon, Comte.”
“And you will have it. For now, I must find my brother.” De Chagny gives them a curt bow and marches across the chamber and through the doors that lead backstage. If Raoul is back there, Christine must be, too.
“Entertainment?” Bellemeure asks, in a voice so icy that it stops me from pushing off the column and following him. “I thought we had an agreement.”
Von Tier eyes her, still with that charming smile. “Come now, Fraulein—No, it’s madame, isn’t it?—I must give them some reason to follow me.”
“Not by drawing this kind of attention.”
“My people are built for violence,” he says, “not for pretty words and dresses, like yours. Besides, our deal is complete, is it not? Or is there something else that you want from me?”
They stare at each other for a moment, the Marquis wearing his smile, Bellemeure impenetrable behind her glittering mask.
“Good evening, Marquis,” the woman says, the dismissal evident in her voice.
The man bows, clicking his heels together. “Madame. Mademoiselle.” He turns and walks away, cutting across the mural’s centre, not that far from where I stand. Bellemeure tilts her head, as if she’s listening to something. Then she turns and looks straight at me.
I pull back behind the column, wondering if she saw me, if I can weave a story that might explain our presence. Von Tier marches past, going straight to the stairs. This close I see that his eyes are black and over-large, as if he’d dilated the irises with drops.
Steel grips my arm so tightly I jump.
“What?” I whisper. “What is it?”
“That man is a Revenant,” he says, hoarsely.
“Von Tier? Are you sure?”
“I couldn’t smell him—that woman’s cigarette—but I’d recognise that scent anywhere.”
I grip his elbow. For all the fierceness of his expression, he looks like he might slide to the floor at any moment. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, his jaw clicking, “that we’ve found our murderer.”
“Wait, hold on.” I have to pull him back to keep him at the pillar. Bellemeure and Chang Mei have both disappeared. “We don’t know that, yet. We only know that he’s a demon.”
“You saw the burns on that woman’s body,” he returns, hotly. “Revenants are masters of fire. He’s the one we’re looking for.”
“Even so, we can’t start a fight here,” I whisper. “We need more information. He’s a Marquis, he won’t be unprotected.” I doubt he’ll be alone, either. “Can he smell you?”
“No,” Steel rasps. “Revenants can’t scent well. They only smell the smoke of their own flames—” The guttural agony in his voice throttles the word. Grief and rage not my own surge through me, smashing through walls that weren’t prepared for them. We’d been ready to face his mother’s killer, not this connection to his father’s.
On the other side of the chamber, the doors leading backstage fling open and Christine hurries through. She wears white and silver again, her mask a dainty, feathered thing. Behind her come Raoul and the Comte, arguing in low voices.
“Christine,” I call, hoping to distract Steel a moment longer, give myself time to plan.
The woman pauses at my voice and makes her way over to us. The two brothers halt as Raoul tries to follow her and the Comte grabs his arm, hissing something at him.
“Good evening, mademoiselle.” Christine’s smile carves lines into her cheeks where it’s drawn so tight.
“Is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” she says. “How can I help you, mademoiselle?”
“Do you know anything about the Marquis von Tier?” Steel interjects.
“The Marquis?”
The Comte approaches us, frowning. “What do you want to know about von Tier?” he asks. Raoul takes the opportunity to go to Christine’s side, tucking himself into her shadow.
“We have reason to believe that he might have something to do with Sorelli’s death,” I reply.
“Don’t be foolish,” the Comte replies. “He is a Marquis.” The words aren’t heated, just the knee jerk reaction of an aristocrat when his peers are threatened.
“Did he ever meet Sorelli?” I ask Christine.
She rubs a finger under her mask, smoothing a couple of wayward feathers. “Once or twice, yes. He wasn’t a paramour, but everyone knew he was looking for people to work at his hotel. He refused the other dancers, though,” she adds. “He only asked Sorelli.”
Because she was a demon? I glance at Steel, who’s gone tense under my hand.
“And he never came back,” Christine says. She glances up the stairs towards the rest of the party. Von Tier is no longer in sight, absorbed by the other guests. “Do you really think he had something to do with her murder?”
“Yes,” answers Steel, promptly.
“Perhaps,” I amend. “It’s too early to know for sure. He is, at least, a suspect.”
“And if you did prove that he did it,” she muses, “then it would remove suspicion from the ghost.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway. “Yes.”
“Von Tier’s a demon,” Steel says, making me glare at him, because for God’s sake. “Just like the ghost.”
“What is all this talk of demons?” the Comte demands. “Who are you people?”
I open my mouth to reply and the noise from the party drops. The sudden silence has all of us turning towards the stairs and I let go of Steel, bracing for whatever new attack might come.
It’s not an attack. A figure draped in a scarlet cloak and wearing a mask shaped like a skull advances to the top of the stairs. Costumed figures part before him and the opera house fills with whispers. The man’s posture is rigid, his arms straight and his hands balled. He keeps a wide space between him and the other guests, and each step looks as though it pains him. His gaze never leaves Christine.
The ghost. I think the words are in my head, but then I realise that people are murmuring them, the realisation spreading as the figure walks towards us. The ghost is here.
He descends the short flight of stairs that lead into the round chamber. It echoes with his footsteps, with the soft drag of his cloak on the marble. He reaches the bottom and pauses, his eyes little more than dim sparks at the centre of the mask’s sockets. The entire building seems to hold its breath, waiting for him to speak.
But it’s Raoul who breaks the silence.
“Demon!” He starts forward, reaching for a dainty costume sword at his hip. It makes a very real noise as it slides from its sheath. “I won’t let you terrorise Christine any longer!”
The Comte grabs his arm. “Don’t make a scene, Raoul!”
“Let go of me, Philippe!”
I bound up the stairs and find Dumont and René shouldering their way through the onlookers. “Time to end the party,” I tell them.
Dumont spins and starts to shepherd everyone away from the stairs. “Sûreté business!” he calls, startling them. “Everyone outside, please! Now, madames! Messieurs!”
Raoul has wrenched free of his brother’s hold, but Christine has his attention. “Is it true?” she asks the ghost, who merely looks at her. “You’re a—a devil?”
“He’s no one,” the Comte says, trying to work his way between the ghost and Raoul. “He’s just some deranged lunatic playing us for fools. Arrest him!”
“Is it?” Christine asks again, the words strained and high-pitched with desperation, and the ghost’s chest deflates as he sighs.
“Devil is a word created by man,” he says. “Another might call me angel just as easily. You did, after all.”
“And you let me.” She steps back, towards the stairs. “You let me believe what I wanted to believe.”
“I made you great.” The teeth of his mask march to the edge of his jaw in a monstrous grin. “Is that not what angels do? Grant prayers?”
“Did you kill my friend?” she asks, her voice low and level, the tendons in her wrists straining.
The ghost regards her for a long moment and even Raoul goes still. “No,” he says, finally. “I would never hurt one you cared for.” Repressed emotion rings in his voice, making the words tremble as though he and Christine are putting on their own opera.
