The Rose and the Ghost, page 20
She nods. “Thank you,” she says and Raoul makes a furious sound.
“He is manipulating you,” he calls, yanking his sword up into an en-garde position. “Do you have a weapon, monster? Or shall I cut you down where you stand?”
With a laugh, the ghost tosses his red cloak over one shoulder. “If you think you can, Vicomte,” he mocks.
For God’s sake. “Stop them, will you?”
Steel looks at me as though I asked him to step onto burning coals. “Stop them?”
“If we’re going after von Tier, we don’t have time for this nonsense.” We’ve already wasted too much on the ghost’s drama.
As I think it, Raoul lunges. His blade stabs through empty air. Another laugh echoes against the marble ceiling and the ghost reappears behind the man.
“Not quite,” he taunts. The Comte makes a move as if to intercept and the ghost tuts. “I wouldn’t, Comte. My promise does not extend to you.”
“Demons do not keep promises,” Raoul says, whipping around.
“An interesting gambit, monsieur,” the ghost says, “given that I promised not to harm you. Or would you like me to?”
Half of me wants to put a bullet in one of them just to make them shut up. “Steel, please.”
He makes an exasperated noise but moves to grasp the back of Raoul’s coat, gripping the hilt of the sword in his other hand. “Enough,” he says, roughly. “Or do you think this is going to endear you to your lover?”
Raoul blanches and twists to look over his shoulder. “Christine—”
But the stairs where she’d been standing are empty. Christine is gone.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Raoul rushes up the stairs, shouting her name. I hurry after him, cursing the woman. The twin statues that flank the stairs to the upper circle loom over empty space. The guests are gone. There’s no sign of Christine.
The ghost is right on my heels, visible now. “Where is she?” he demands, spinning in a circle, his scarlet cloak streaming behind him like a trail of blood. “What have you done with her?”
“I did nothing!” Raoul snaps. “You were the one threatening her! You terrified her!”
The ghost growls. “You have a poor affection for her if you think that.”
Raoul slashes at him and, instead of disappearing, the ghost seizes the bare metal and tears it from his hold. The sword goes clattering across the floor. The demon advances on Raoul, his figure flickering in and out of view. The Vicomte brings up his fists, as valiant as he is naïve.
“This has nothing to do with Raoul,” the Comte protests, though he avoids getting between the two of them.
“Where is she?” the ghost demands, ignoring him. “Where is Christine?”
Dumont appears in the doorway to the lobby and René bumps into him as he stops short. “What is going on? We could hear you outside!”
The ghost goes as still as a hunting cat, focused on Raoul. “I should have killed you when I had the chance, Vicomte.”
I grab his arm. “Enough!”
Before I know it, his hands are around my throat. “Do not touch me,” he breathes, his eyes burning in the holes of his mask.
“Hazel!”
My thoughts click into place like puzzle pieces, revealing half a dozen different paths. Call for help: I’m dead, or the ghost is, if Steel is quick enough. Try to escape: I get hurt and Steel hesitates, meaning I’ll probably end up dead. Fight back: I’m definitely dead, and then the ghost will be, and who knows how that ends for Steel.
So, I look him in the eye and make my voice very, very cold. “This will not help you find her.” My pulse beats strong and fast against his fingers. I wonder if he can feel it through his gloves. “Release me. We have a better chance of finding her together, than alone.”
His gaze flickers over my face, searching for something, some crack in my composure. “I have your word that you’ll find her.”
“You have it,” I promise.
He snorts and his hands come away from my throat. It aches, but I suppress the urge to touch it. Steel’s at my side in an instant, examining me, his mouth tight.
“I’m fine,” I murmur. “Did you see mademoiselle Daaé in the foyer?” I ask Dumont.
“I did not notice her, no.”
“The prima donna?” asks René. “She was with the Marquis.”
We stare at him.
“The Marquis?” Raoul repeats. “Are you certain?”
“Where?” the ghost asks, as quick as a blade in the night. “Where did you see her?”
René turns to indicate an area of the foyer and the ghost rushes past him. “We sent all the guests home,” adds the Sentinel demon. “I did not see where they went, if she left with him.”
“She knows he’s a suspect, why would she—” I stop. She’d asked if proving his guilt would clear the ghost’s name, and I’d foolishly said yes. She went to him because he’s a suspect. I look at the Comte. “She told me the Marquis asked Sorelli to perform at his hotel. Do you know where it is?”
The man glances at his brother, then at the ghost as he flits around the foyer. “Republic plaza,” he answers. “It is still in the process of being remodelled.”
The plaza lies to the north west of the cemetery, where we’d found Sorelli’s body. But it’s too far for people not to have noticed someone dragging a struggling young woman, or a corpse.
“We’ll start there. Comte, you have a relationship with the Marquis, correct?”
The ghost chooses that moment to burst back into our conversation. His cloak and hat are gone, no doubt hurled across the foyer somewhere. “She is not here,” he says, his voice pitched high and thin. “We must find her.”
Taking heart from my composure, De Chagny ignores him, focusing on my question. “The Marquis is looking for investors, but I have already declined. He won’t see me.”
I narrow my eyes at him. The conversation I’d overheard hadn’t given me that impression.
“Please, Philippe,” Raoul begs, his face beseeching. “Please, I love her.”
That earns a snarl from the ghost, but de Chagny sighs. “Very well,” he says, heavily. “I can request an audience. Perhaps, tomorrow—”
“Now,” I interrupt, before the ghost can do more than shriek in outrage. “We go now. Can we rely on the Sûreté’s help, Dumont?”
He lets out a self-derogatory laugh. “Not at my request and not against a marquis. I might as well tell them that I want to arrest Sadi Carnot. We’re on our own.”
“All right,” I say. “Then we’d better hurry.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The hotel sprawls alongside the plaza, its fresh cream facade garnished with black railings at each window. Empty planters line the pavement outside, the same grey stone as the road. Our carriage stops by the bronze statue of a woman holding aloft what could be either a torch or a sprig of leaves; it’s too dark to tell. When neither man moves to get out, I hold in a sigh.
We’d been too many to take a single cab, so we’d split into two parties. The first, in the carriage behind us, comprises Dumont, René and the de Chagnys. The second, unlucky group consists of me, Steel and the ghost. The latter has his arms folded and stares at us through the holes of his skull-like mask. The embers of his eyes catch the light from the gas lamps on the street; twin specks glittering in the dark.
I’m too tired to bother with niceties. “Get out,” I command. I don’t need to look at Steel to feel his surprise and I wonder if that’s a sign of the lingering ritual spell. I reinforce my order by opening the door and jumping out, wincing as I land in a puddle and icy water drenches my stockings.
The second carriage has stopped just behind us and Raoul is already outside. Only the cab that trots past him without a care keeps him from barrelling across the square towards the hotel. By the time I’ve paid the driver, Steel and the ghost have disembarked and are glaring at each other.
Irritation makes my skin itch, but I can’t blame it on either of them. If I hadn’t wasted so much time on the ghost’s trail, on this ridiculous operatic drama, we might have found von Tier before now. We might have already solved the case.
The bronze woman makes a decent gathering point—other groups linger under her gaze and one man slumps against her plinth, steaming with the scent of alcohol.
“Is that the place?” Raoul glowers at the building as though he could burn it down with the fire of his glare.
“Don’t be foolish,” I tell him. He blinks, darting a look at me, but the words seem to derail his train of thought. “If we’re going in, we need a plan,” I add.
“If, mademoiselle?” the ghost asks, silkily dangerous, but Steel relaxes, as though he’s stepped onto familiar terrain.
“You know the Marquis, Comte,” he says. “You can handle the introductions.”
“We’ll come with you,” I add—unnecessarily, perhaps, for Steel isn’t much better than Raoul for how he scowls at the building.
“I’m not staying here,” interjects Raoul. His face twists in anger and grief. My heart aches for him, even though I scold it for the deficiency. “You can’t make me.”
“Stay close, then,” I reply, hoping I don’t regret it.
“And do you have an order for me, mademoiselle?” The ghost’s voice dares me to give him one.
I refrain from touching my throat. “How long can you stay out of sight?”
He bristles. “As long as necessary.”
“Good. Then don’t wander off.”
Dumont examines the hotel, his gaze lingering on the two guards in blue and gold livery that flank the hotel’s tall metal gates. “They may be prepared for a Sûreté agent,” he says and adds, with a wry smile, “I am fairly distinctive.”
“Try to find a back entrance,” I suggest. “We might have better luck with the servants, anyway. I can’t imagine they’ll have Revenants cooking meals or cleaning suites, but there might be others.”
“Such as copper class demons,” he muses. “I see.”
I realise no one has voiced their disagreement, or challenged me, but there’s no time to wonder why. Brushing my hands together, more of a nervous gesture than to shed the nonexistent dust from my hands, I nod and say, “After you, Comte.”
The man’s mouth quivers, but he glances once at Raoul and then marches towards the hotel. Dumont touches his forehead at me. He and René lope away. The ghost shimmers out of view and the rest of us follow de Chagny across the square. Instead of slinking past the guards as though he has something to hide, the Comte pauses in front of them.
“Is the Marquis inside?” he asks, cool and confident. “I have an answer for his proposal. The name is de Chagny.”
They glance at each other—human, by their eyes and the way they move—and reply, “Yes, monsieur. The Marquis is at dinner.”
The Comte sweeps past them before they can finish speaking, his chin cocked arrogantly high, his shoulders slanted as though no weight has ever touched them. We move into a large square courtyard and he murmurs, almost to himself, “I may not be able to trade on coin, anymore, but I still have my name. Our name,” he adds, with a bite, and Raoul looks away.
The entrance lies on the far side of the courtyard, adding another few minutes to our approach, as if we’re petitioning a king. No more guards bar the way, however, and we slip through the black double doors without being challenged.
Inside, the hotel is a picture of grand elegance. Crimson fabric, gold stucco and plush carpeting, all reminiscent of a kind of imperial irreverence that grants the hotel a grand air. Guests wear smart dressclothes and silk gowns. An open set of doors lead to a room from which comes the clink of glasses and loud conversation. Even the Halloween party we attended in London hadn’t matched this level of luxury.
De Chagny pauses, looking floored. “I…”
“The concierge,” I suggest, eyeing the desk that lies across the lobby, manned by a handsome young man with polished gold buttons marching down his uniform.
As the Comte nods and makes his way over, I take a moment to examine the guests. There are less than I’d thought initially, the lush brocaded curtains and gleaming wooden tables filling more space than the people that flit between them. And the women outnumber the men by at least three to one.
I turn to Steel, hoping to ask him about their humanity, but his gaze roams over the lobby and his fingers tap against his thighs. “Is there anything we should know about Revenants?” I ask, instead.
“Don’t let them touch you,” he responds immediately, as if he’d already been thinking it. “Their fire dies soon after it leaves their skin, so the further away you are, the safer you’ll be.”
I should have asked Dumont for a second revolver. “Anything else?”
“They’re bad trackers; they won’t smell us coming.”
He’d said as much at the opera house. “Well, I suppose that’s something.”
“Mademoiselle Lyr?” The voice startles me and I spin around. The young woman who’d acted as Bellemeure’s companion stands in front of me. Her voice is smooth and throaty, with a light accent. “Are you here to see madame Bellemeure?”
“No,” I reply, shaking my confusion away. “We’re here to see Marquis von Tier. Do you know where he is?”
She pauses. Her gaze moves across each of us, then to the Comte at reception. “He and madame Bellemeure are engaged to dine together. Perhaps you would care to join them.” It’s not phrased as a question, but she bows and opens her hand to indicate a side room. “I will engage the Comte,” she adds, as I glance over to him.
“Thank you.” I incline my head and follow her directions, checking to make sure Steel and Raoul are with me. I don’t dare to ask if the ghost is close—if there are Revenant demons nearby, they might hear me.
The room we enter is a modest parlour, set up for an informal meal. The rest of the room is decorated with the same care as the lobby: golden bookcases grow out of the walls and chairs sit tucked into the corners, cushioned in red velvet. Bellemeure lounges in one by an open window, her ever-present cigarette dangling from one hand.
Something flashes over her face as Steel enters and her eyelids drop down quickly, veiling the emotion. “It is a delight to see you again, mademoiselle, messieurs. Mei, will you bring us something to drink?”
Mei, who had just entered alongside the Comte, bows and retreats.
“Forgive me the habit.” Bellemeure taps ash into a small dish on the windowsill. A wintry breeze blows the smoke back inside and I repress a shiver. “It is becoming quite trendy, you see, and I am not one to fall behind the latest fashions.” This is said with a smirk that I think is aimed at self-deprecating. I eye her gown, at least ten years out of style. But then my sense of fashion is, at best, minimal.
“Not at all,” I return. “Mademoiselle Chang told us that you were dining with the Marquis.”
“Where is he?” Raoul cuts in, quivering.
“The Marquis? I believe he should be here in a moment.” The woman smiles at Raoul, not unkindly. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m certain I can help with whatever it is that brought you here. What does bring you here, if I may enquire?”
Raoul opens his mouth, clearly about to tell her everything, and I interject, “The Comte is interested in discussing a potential investment. Although it does not seem as though the Marquis requires it. The hotel is beautifully decorated.”
Her eyes go vacant. “Von Tier can always use money.”
“Why?” I ask—too bold—but she smiles again.
Mei sweeps into the room holding a tray of glasses. She offers one to the Comte first, who takes it with a stiff nod, sweat beading at his brow, then to Raoul, who downs half the glass in a single gulp, red staining the corner of his mouth.
“Ah,” says Bellemeure, delicately. “Perhaps I should have called for something stronger. But French wine is the best in the world. Or, so I am told.”
Steel and I take a glass each when offered, and Bellemeure has the last, taking a small sip. Her long nails are painted a dark colour that looks almost black against the ruby red wine. Steel and the Comte, who seemed to have been waiting for her to drink, mirror her. I cup the glass with my other hand, swirling the crimson liquid. I don’t want anything to cloud my mind.
“How do you know the Marquis, madame?” I ask.
She stabs her cigarette out on the dish, crushing the paper into a twisted stump. “He helped me with a task, some months ago. Although it seems our collaboration will be short-lived.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“Because Mei is going to kill him.”
The words ring in my ears. “I beg your pardon?”
Bellemeure smiles. “Von Tier is a member of House Asmodeus. Well, he was. It is his greatest desire to create a new Revenant House, here in Paris.”
I stare at her.
“What?” Steel grits out.
On my other side, the Comte stumbles, clutching at a bookcase to keep him from falling. Raoul slumps in his chair. His glass rolls onto the floor, spilling wine onto the carpet. No, no, no.
“That is what you came for, is it not?” Bellemeure says. Mei circles around to her side, watching us, and Bellemeure hands the woman her glass, still full. “You and the Leviathan.”
The air seems to freeze in my lungs. “You knew?”
“Of course I did, my dear,” she says, as if pitying me. “They may call themselves diamond, but my kind have been around for far longer.”
A cool wind swims through the room, clearing the last lingering scent of smoke. Steel makes a tight, distressed noise. The glass falls from his hand, thunks onto the floor.
“What are you?” he whispers.
“Your ignorance is far from impressive,” she replies, her thin brows two perfect arches.
He staggers and I lunge to hold him, but his weight drags me to my knees. The Comte slides to the floor, boneless. Raoul’s head is already tipped back, his eyes closed.
