Chapter 3
Antonio watched the salon of Madame de Volonté from the shadows of a doorway across the street. Almost everyone had left. The oil lamp marking the nondescript entrance began to sputter as a man and two women emerged, chatting and laughing. They stepped up into the last carriage, and it creaked away down the cobblestones. The glow in the windows of the house dimmed as candles were extinguished. Antonio saw the pale light from a last, single lamp move from window to window as it was carried through the rooms.
He waited. The woman, Solange, would eventually make contact with someone. As he had left the small veranda, he heard snatches of her conversation with the man who had interrupted them. The young man wanted to call him out for propositioning her. All he heard of the rest of the conversation was that the two thieves were going to someone named Le Chacal and bring him coin and the moonstones. He suspected Le Chacal was the presence behind Solange’s thievery and had told her of the moonstones. Antonio wanted to meet this person.
His thoughts turned to the seductive woman who’d confronted him this evening. Madame de Volonté. He surmised it was not her true name, but rather one that she had chosen, or one that had been chosen for her. It meant “willingness” or “will.” Two words that could have different connotations. How willing was she to play the procurer for wealthy gentlemen looking for alternatives to their dull wives? What secret did she hide that willed her to the dangerous occupation of highwayman? A twinge of pity bit him at the idea that she was forced to live such a life.
Her first name seemed to be much more in keeping with who she was. Solange. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. A beautiful woman who was deadly, who was a descendant of Halima and who had touched the Sphere of Astarte; who wielded knife and pistol like a man, yet exuded the bewitchery of a Circe. A woman who robbed with eyes of ice one night, and then seduced with glances of fire the next. He was well aware of the danger she presented. As soon as he caught his first glimpse of her as she strolled toward him this evening, he knew he would take the risk. He wanted her.
Badly.
He wanted her beneath him, above him, and in any other position he could possibly devise.
Brainless.
Madness.
The words of his twin, Alessandro, came back to him. One of these days, Tonio, you’ll find yourself with a blade in your back and floating face down in a canal. In Venice, taking Alessandro’s identity when his twin became Shadow, Antonio lived life on the edge, recklessly pursuing where he had no right to go, inviting danger along as if it were an old friend. He had done that out of frustration and desperation, hoping to lure any tidbit of information about the missing Sphere of Astarte into the open.
Unlike Venice, Paris had no canals, but it did have a river and plenty of dark alleys. Antonio was not about to end up as unidentified flotsam or refuse. In this city, he could be himself and pursue information in his own way. But he could not allow himself to become involved with a woman who might be connected with an enemy. Until he discovered whom she might be working for, he would keep his distance. And then…
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing himself back to sanity, willing away his desperate need, a need that echoed his cravings during the Hunger. Never before had anything from that insanity spilled over into his life as flesh and bone. Until now.
Across the street, the door opened, and a man stepped through. He was the one who had been so protective of Madame de Volonté. The man’s physical resemblance to her indicated he was a relative, most likely a brother. When Antonio had brushed against him on his way out, he felt the man’s energy, marking him as a descendant of Halima, just like Solange. He was young, just entering adulthood, but already he showed signs of strength in the width of his shoulders. Antonio suspected he might have been the other highwayman, the one who kept watch and aimed his pistol at Piero. Watching him move away down the street with masculine grace, Antonio knew the fellow would be dangerous in a fight, someone he would have to watch carefully.
He wondered where the young man was going, and he was tempted to follow, but his real quarry was Madame de Volonté. Solange. If she did not emerge soon to run to her master, he would steal inside. Then they would have a long private chat about thievery and deception and hidden power.
He did not have to wait long. The door opened once again, and she emerged, this time dressed as a highwayman. Just as she shut the door behind her, the lamp beside the entrance sputtered to its death. Keeping well back, he followed her.
She led him across the river and deeper into the city on the left bank. Occasionally, she would glance back over her shoulder, as if sensing he was behind her, but Antonio knew how to keep to the shadows. Wondering where she was leading him, he was prepared for a long trek that might take him into the slums or to the outskirts of the city. They passed through a small section of taverns, cafes, and cabarets where poets could recite their scribblings, all of the establishments dark and shuttered because of the late hour. Then the buildings turned residential, nearly rural with houses scattered here and there. She disappeared behind one of them. He followed, and beyond an open field in the scant moonlight, he saw one of the gatehouses in the crumbling remains of the city wall. She took a quick glance over her shoulder, then slipped inside.
Antonio raced across the field and stepped into the black interior of the structure. The flare of a torch from a stone archway lit a long flight of stone steps going down and indicated that she was below him and moving away rapidly. He followed.
With the torchlight as a guide, he kept well back from her. At the bottom of the stairs, another stone archway marked the beginning of a dirt tunnel sloping down, leading farther beneath the city. It was high enough for a man to stand and wide enough for a wagon to pass. Intrigued, puzzled, Antonio trailed her and wondered what this place was. Musky dampness rose up in a draft from below. He smelled dirt, rotting vegetation, and the coldness of death. His first thought was that it had been created by the sorceress, Nulkana, but he sensed no magic.
After several minutes, the tunnel opened into a small chamber. At the opposite side, Solange’s torchlight moved away down another tunnel. Antonio stepped into the dim space and traced his fingers along the odd-looking walls covered in smooth rounds and long lengths, punctuated with holes and hollows. Not rock, nor any familiar building material.
Bones, he realized, and reeled back in horror. In the faint light of Solange’s disappearing torch, he saw the walls had been covered with them, laid out in intricate patterns, the skulls used as delineation, borders, and focal points. He was in the Catacombs of Paris, that maze of tunnels and chambers that ran for miles beneath the city, where bones from disinterred bodies from the overflowing cemeteries had been placed. He had heard rumors of it but never suspected the stories were true.
He wasted no time on exploration. His quarry was moving quickly away and taking the light with her. Twenty quick steps took him across the chamber to the second tunnel’s entrance.
As he followed her, he felt a faint thrumming through his muscles, a sensation that was familiar. Excitement rippled through him. Somewhere hidden within the Catacombs was a piece of the Sphere of Astarte. He had felt the same sensation when he had been close to the piece which his twin, Alessandro, had received from his new wife, Sabrina. He knew now that another piece of the Sphere was close. He would just have to find it in this maze. That would mean his family would have two-thirds of the Sphere.
Solange led him down several more tunnels, some lined with piles of bones, others with plain dirt walls, then the torchlight halted. Cautiously, he crept forward and peered around the edge of the tunnel. A chamber larger than the other opened before him with several tunnels leading out from it. It was empty. Solange had disappeared. She had placed the torch in a wall bracket to fool him into thinking she had stopped.
Wily beauty.
A wry smile touched his lips.
He walked the chamber’s perimeter and examined the bone-covered walls as he tried to guess which tunnel Solange had taken. The workmen who’d placed the bones here had been skilled, plying their material with a grim sense of humor. He saw a skull and crossbones created with real bones, skulls set in the shape of a heart, leg bones placed to resemble water, more skulls in the shape of a cross. He stopped in the middle of the chamber and listened. No sound of footsteps reached his ears. No light came from any of the tunnels. All he heard was a distant, faint drip of water. He had lost her. An irritated sigh escaped him. He had been tricked so easily.
Staring at the tunnel which led him there, he realized he was lost. Finding his way through the maze back to the surface would be nearly impossible. A kick of fear sped up his heart. He had not planned on ending his life in the Catacombs of Paris. Despite his dire situation, he appreciated the irony. At least he was already in a cemetery of sorts.
Suddenly, the sharp, chill edge of a knife pressed against his throat. He froze. From behind him, Solange said, “Your manners are lacking, mon seigneur, for entering a place where you have not been invited.”
He silently congratulated her and berated himself for his stupidity. “I was unaware this was private property,” he said.
Without taking away the blade, she moved around to stand in front of him. “Why are you following me?” Her voice vibrated with anger.
He raised a brow in mild curiosity. “Why are you so worried I might be following you? Are you doing something illegal?” He let his gaze take in the chamber beyond her shoulder. “There are no coaches down here to rob. Or perhaps you are contemplating something illicit.” His glance traveled down to her toes and then up again. “Not illicit,” he concluded. “Not dressed like a highwayman.”
Her mouth tightened. “How I dress is not your concern.”
“But it is my concern, for I find removing the clothes of a man holds different challenges than those of a woman,” he said, as if he were merely trying to convince her of some menial point.
The knife pressed harder. “Did you follow me here to seduce me?”
His lips curved teasingly.
“No,” she concluded. “Not to seduce.”
He showed his teeth in his smile. “How can you be sure?”
Uncertainty flashed through her eyes. The pressure of the knife eased. Taking advantage, he swept away her arm holding the knife, slipped his other arm around her waist, swung her around and pressed her into the wall. Brittle bones cracked behind her. He pinned her knife hand above her head. Beneath his palm, he could feel her power, inherited from Halima, pulsing through her wrist. He wondered if she knew how strong it was. Throwing away caution in favor of discovery, he decided to provoke her.
“I do not take kindly to anyone who holds a knife at my throat, and you have done it twice,” he said.
She glared at him, her eyes like two hard jewels. “I do not take kindly to anyone who follows me and intrudes on my affairs,” she snapped.
“Since you robbed me, I would say that your affairs have become my affairs.” Ducking his head, he placed a light kiss on her jaw. “Perhaps what we need to do,” he murmured, “is become involved in the same affair.”
She jerked her head away. “I would rather die.”
“Like the virgin in your rhyme?” he taunted.
“I am no virgin.” She tried to squirm away.
“That eases my concern,” he said with false sigh of relief. “Deflowering a virgin takes so much concentration.”
She hissed and squirmed more.
He pressed her body tighter against the wall. The feel of her trapped along his length brought to mind a number of delicious images. The perfume she had worn earlier, an enticing mixture of roses and cinnamon, teased his nose. Reminding himself he was not here to seduce, only to learn her secrets, he could not help baiting her.
“Ah, madame,” he murmured, “if you move like that, I can give you la petite mort right now.”
Solange immediately stilled. His words both chilled and enticed. La petite mort. The little death. The ultimate sexual release. She had a feeling that this man could give her that with little trouble, and he would do it expertly, exquisitely, gloriously. His body pressed against her, from shoulder to thigh. It was taut with muscle and controlled strength. At her hip, his arousal subtly nudged her, but he did not act on that need. Even as he captured her and held her prisoner, he was gentle, careful not to hurt her. So in opposition to Vernoux, who would hurt her to prove his dominance, who would beat her if he learned she had been with another man, who would take her violently to mark her as his. The notion of giving herself to this Italian duke who held her with such constraint tempted with the force of the devil’s allure. But she could not allow herself to be seduced into any attachment to him, for one way or another, she planned to use him to free herself from Vernoux.
Beyond Auriano’s shoulder, she saw torchlight coming from one of the tunnels. Le Chacal’s men who patrolled the Catacombs. Her rescuers. Their arrival forced her to dispel any daydreams of la petite mort with the man pressed against her. “If you do not let me go, mon seigneur, your death will not be une petite,” she said.
He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Death is always a release, whether large or small, si? Don’t you wish for release, dolce mia?”
Staring at him, she wondered how much he knew or guessed about her. What release did he refer to? The sensuous, sexual one he taunted her with, or the psychological, physical one that bound her to Vernoux? Before she could decide, his head went up as he heard the men. Then he smiled down at her, a soft, sardonic smile.
“Release sometimes comes sooner than we expect, si?” Stepping back, he let her go.
When Antonio heard the approaching footsteps, he considered running, but the tunnels were dark and confusing. He was already lost, and eluding the men who came would no doubt only drive him deeper into the maze. Besides, he had expected to meet Madame de Volonté’s master. What better way than to be captured and brought before the man as prisoner? Later, he could easily escape, for in a few hours, he would turn to Shadow.
Behind him, he heard the men enter the chamber and then halt. Solange pushed away from the wall and stepped to the side, showing herself, the cool, detached highwayman. Before she turned her attention to his captors, she sent one last glance his way.
“Let us see how you can escape this difficulty, mon seigneur,” she murmured, those beautiful eyes challenging, mocking.
Antonio smiled. “Ah, bella mia, you have no idea what I can do.”
Her lovely mouth tightened, and she turned away. “Le Marteau, Roux,” she greeted the thugs with a nod. “We have a guest.” With a gesture, she ordered the men to take him prisoner.
The two of them made an odd pair. One was shorter than Antonio but bulkier, with a bald pate and a full beard that was braided in several places. Sporting an iron hoop through each earlobe, he wore a leather jerkin with no shirt, revealing his thick arms. The other man was taller than his companion, thin, almost gaunt. His hair hung in greasy spirals to his shoulders, and one eye was cloudy. He sported a large, red birthmark that ran up the side of his neck and splashed across his cheek. Antonio assumed he was Roux—Red—and the other was Le Marteau—the Hammer. They each appeared capable of murder. Neither man was particularly gentle when they took hold of Antonio’s arms.
“Gentlemen,” he said on a sigh, “I’m very willing to go with you. You don’t need to ruin my coat.”
In surprise, the men looked to Solange, who narrowed her eyes at Antonio. “It’s all right,” she told them. “Don’t let him escape.” Turning on her heel, she took the torch from its bracket and led the way into one of the tunnels.
The two outlaws released Antonio, and one of them gave him a hard shove. With an arrogant glare at them both, Antonio brushed at his sleeves, then followed Solange. The thugs trailed close behind.
Even as he took notice of the way they passed, he found his gaze returning to the woman walking before him. The contrast between the male clothing she wore and the very feminine sway of her hips riveted him. Having seen her dressed as a woman only a few short hours earlier, he wished the man’s coat did not hide quite so much.
The tunnel ran straight for about fifty paces, then curved abruptly to the left. Solange hopped across a rivulet, then tossed back over her shoulder, “Walk only where I walk.” She kept close to the right side of the tunnel.
Antonio glanced at the floor and saw a herringbone pattern of stones down the middle. Scuffing his shoe, he sent tiny pebbles across the path. Some of them fell through cracks between the stones and echoed as they landed far below—a trap for anyone who did not know his way. After another few paces, the tunnel narrowed to the width of one man, and a gate, about shoulder high, blocked their way. Solange picked up a small square stone and pushed it into a matching hole in the wall, then she opened the gate. A mechanism above her head clicked into place. Antonio glanced up, and six feet above the gate, the sharpened edge of a guillotine blade gleamed with deadly menace.
Solange grinned at him. “A souvenir of the Terror and a way to discourage unwanted visitors if they make it past the Grave,” she said, as she stepped through the open gate.
Antonio assumed the Grave was the trap in the floor under those patterned stones. Passing beneath the blade, he worked not to duck his head and hunch his shoulders. They walked for several more minutes, then the tunnel curved to the right. Ahead was an arch made of skulls. Light and voices reached him.
He followed Solange through the arch and entered a very large chamber. The walls were plain, gray stone, but the ceiling was decorated with bones and skulls, a mockery of the glorious ceilings found in the churches of Venice, Rome, and Florence. Men lounged about its perimeter and across the floor, covered in a motley assortment of tiles, no doubt pilfered from various looted mansions in the city. A few women moved among the group with pitchers. Other women curled about some of the men. Seated at the far end of the chamber on a large, carved, throne-like stone chair was a man who watched them approach with the attention of a vulture. As they came closer, he dumped the woman who sprawled across his lap onto the floor. He was not quite middle-aged, wiry, with shoulder-length hair the color of dirty straw. Clean-shaven, he had a scar that ran through his eyebrow, across his eye, and down his cheek. He was missing his right hand.
Solange stopped a few feet away. Placing a hand on her hip, she assumed a pose of arrogant unconcern.
“Solange Delacroix,” the seated man drawled.
Antonio took note of her name. So, Madame de Volonté was an alias. Interesting.
She nodded a greeting. “Jean-Jacques.”
The man leaned his chin on his tattered silk-and-lace-covered stump and graced her with a cool smile. “You know that you are the only one I allow to call me that.”
“And you are the only one I come to visit in this hell,” she replied.
“Then I am honored,” he said, the chilliness in his eyes brightening to amusement. “What have you brought me, ma petit vache?”
My little bitch. Antonio stiffened at the man’s name for Solange. Before he could protest, he was shoved roughly to his knees.
“Kneel before Le Chacal, le Roi des Voleurs,” the bald man behind him ordered.
Antonio gazed at the Jackal, the King of the Thieves. So this was Solange’s master, the man for whom she stole. He surmised the man seated before him held some threat over her. Otherwise, why would she bother to risk her life as a highwayman when she appeared to have a safe, easy existence running her salon? Le Chacal must be a powerful leader, for the men around him all had a look of deadly intent, each of them capable of violence, each of them capable of taking the man’s leadership. Antonio realized he would have to be very careful if he wished to leave this chamber alive.
Le Chacal’s rapacious gaze swept over him, then focused on Solange. “Well?”
Ignoring Antonio, Solange said, “My brother has brought our tribute.”
She swept her hand to the side. The man who had protected her at her salon, who had left her house before her, stepped forward. Antonio’s guess at their familial relation had been correct. The man tossed Antonio’s pouch of coins—not his ring, not the moonstones—and Le Chacal caught it neatly.
The King of the Thieves weighed the pouch in his single hand. “Heavy. A good night’s work. Some rich bastard is a few coins poorer, eh, Gide?”
Gide jerked his chin in Antonio’s direction. “Him.”
Antonio felt the tension rise. The two men behind him shuffled closer. Le Chacal’s dark eyes focused on him with a predatory glare. Although Solange had not moved, Antonio knew by the tiny pull at the corner of her mouth she was unhappy with her brother. He decided at that moment if he had to fight his way out, he would take her with him, and then the two of them would have that delayed chat.
“Why did you bring him here?” Le Chacal’s question was posed in the gentlest of tones, suggesting that the one who answered should be wary.
Solange shrugged. “He followed me.”
“So.” Le Chacal raised a brow, stretching his scar and turning his face ghoul-like. He glared at Antonio. “Why were you following ma petite vache?”
“I was curious about the reason why a beautiful woman should disguise herself as a boy,” Antonio said, “and rob an innocent man.” He turned to gaze speculatively at Solange. “But perhaps the disguise only makes one more aware of the charms beneath.” Playing the besotted suitor was the only excuse he could think of that Le Chacal might accept for his presence.
The man made a sound of disgust. “You are a fool if you think she would allow you access to those charms.” His eyes hardened and cut to Solange. “Have I not taught you to be more careful when you come here? You have brought a stranger. You know what must be done.”
With a jerk, Solange dropped her hand from her hip and straightened. “He had the moonstone.”
Le Chacal’s head snapped up as he looked from Solange to Antonio and then back to her. “Where is it?”
“It is someplace safe.” Her words were flat, implacable.
A slow smile spread across the criminal’s face, twisting his scar. “Ah, bon.” His satisfied comment revealed that he was the person who had told Solange about the moonstone. Or… perhaps it was the other way around.
Antonio met the outlaw’s eyes and saw the next words there before the man uttered them.
“Kill him.”
The bald, bulky man grabbed Antonio’s hair and yanked his head back. The tall man with the cloudy eye pulled a knife. It hovered above Antonio’s exposed throat. He had already felt cold metal against his skin once this night. He did not appreciate a repeat. If his blood were to be spilled, it would mingle with that of others. He shifted his arm, preparing to release the stiletto hidden up his sleeve.
“Wait.” Solange took a step forward.
Le Chacal turned his annoyed gaze on her. The knife at Antonio’s throat stilled.
She dug in her pocket, held up the silken cord with one of the moonstones, and tossed it to Le Chacal. Out of the corner of his eye, Antonio saw dismay cross her brother’s face. So, they had been planning to use the moonstone for some other purpose than bargaining for his life. And even more interesting, they only gave up one stone.
Plucking the stone out of the air, Le Chacal examined it, turning it over several times. He bent forward and casually leaned an arm across his knee. “What can you tell me about this?” he asked Antonio in a deadly quiet tone.
Antonio wondered what the man knew about the purpose of the stone. If he drew him out, trying to gain information, he would be revealing his own knowledge. He decided to keep Le Chacal as ignorant as possible.
“Nothing,” he said. “I bought it from a peddler.” He could feel Solange’s gaze on him and hoped she would remain silent.
Sitting back in his chair, Le Chacal stared thoughtfully at Antonio for a moment. Then dismissively, he repeated, “Kill him.”
“Stop!” Solange held up her hand. “He’s an Italian duke. If you kill him, you’ll have many more problems with the Directory than you have now. They’ll have their troops double their efforts to catch you.”
With a shrug, Le Chacal said, “The Directory does not concern me, nor does one Italian duke more or less. If he knows nothing about the stone, then he is of no use.”
“He’s lying. He knows how the moonstone works.” Beneath her bald statement lay an unmistakable note of desperation.
Le Chacal’s speculative gaze landed on her. “Ma petite vache, I think you have some soft feelings for this man.”
“That is ridiculous.” She sniffed in disdain.
“Of course it is,” Le Chacal murmured sardonically. “I am sure the Marquis de Vernoux would be interested in hearing your denials.”
Antonio blinked at the name. He had stepped into a nest of vipers. His brother had met Vernoux when Alessandro had saved Sabrina from the Legion of Baal, and the outlaw’s comment hinted that the Marquis de Vernoux was Solange’s protector.
Le Chacal heaved a sigh. “Very well, you may have your plaything for now. We will see how much he knows of the moonstone.” With a wave of his stump, he said, “Put him in the Chamber of Ghosts.”
Antonio wondered why Solange had bargained for his life, but the thought was very short-lived. The knife was pulled away from his throat. He saw it flipped in the air. Blinding pain exploded as the hilt smashed into his skull. The last thing he saw before blackness claimed him was the furious look on the face of Solange’s brother.