The Frost of Springtime (18 page)

“I must go.”

He replaced the hat, dug a hand inside his cloak and laid a fistful of
francs upon the pillow. Without a backward glance, he vanished into Bête
Noire’s shadows.

•

Lost in silent contemplation, Aleksender stood before the hearth as he
absorbed its heat. He bowed his head and wrapped his hand around the
meticulously carved mantel.

Tonight, the truth had emerged. He could no longer lie to himself. He’d
been forever changed.

Sofia had touched something deep inside his heart, which he’d believed
was longtime dead and buried. Her beauty, her kindness, their unified and
kindred spirit … had awoken a dormant tenderness within his soul.

And now he was falling deeply in love with his ward—hard and fast. Such
a thing was inevitable. He’d always felt more alive and worthy in her presence.
The emptiness didn’t seem to matter as much with Sofia by his side. Or,
perhaps, the dark void had merely been filled with light and laughter.

Unblinking, he stared into the flames as the firewood perversely
crumbled, split and blackened.

Now, only one question remained. Could Aleksender protect Sofia from
himself?

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

March
26, 1871

Once upon a time,
Paris had been a renowned mecca of art and culture. Now, the alleyways
whispered tragic secrets. Suffering souls of all ages infested each corner. Barricades
obstructed many of the streets, reinforced by restless members of the National
Guard and Commune. Mountains of wrecked debris and broken carriages stood as
Paris’s sole defense, pitifully warding off attacks from the army of
Versailles. Without a sou to their name, many homeless Parisians were forced to
consume sewer rats or worse, lest they go hungry.

For Christophe, starvation wasn’t an imminent concern. He’d managed to
secure a handful of odd jobs, most of which were given to him out of pity, and
had taken residence at some dumpy inn. Mining coal was a taxing affair. Most
evenings he lost himself within a drunken stupor, tumbled a whore or two, and
rolled onto the god-awful plank that was his mattress.

But tonight was no ordinary evening.

Christophe wandered the length of the Rue de la Paix, hands tucked
inside his ratty pockets.
A cannon
glared out from its
barricade as he rounded the corner. Christophe cocked a brow and peered
straight down the throat of its muzzle. A fierce shiver coursed through his
veins. The thing was black and bottomless.
A mouth into hell.
A small cluster of National Guardsmen stood nearby, rifles and cigars in hand.
Taking notice of Christophe, they exchanged mumbled words and tipped their
navy-blue caps in greeting.

One of the men propped the rifle over his shoulder and stepped forward.
“You’re headed in the right direction, monsieur.” Christophe responded with a
curt nod.

With growing uneasiness, he continued down the pathway at a quickened
stride. Everything was hollow and silent. A plague of death had steadily
devoured the sleepless town and tragedy had taken its course. Thick shadows
crept over the cobblestone walkways, manifesting in the form of demons. Relief
flooded Christophe’s body as he finally reached his destination.

Newspaper leaflets danced all around him, harmoniously tossed about by
the wind. Whirling and twirling, they skirted in front of Café Roux, carried by
the spring air. Muffled talking could be heard within the walls. And a placard
was tacked upon its door:

Vive la Commune! Come one, come all!

For a democratic and social republic!

Commune meetings and election tonight.

Christophe was disturbed greatly by the sight. All life had been sucked
out of the beloved cafe, and in its ashes stood a morbid crypt. The atmosphere
was grave, thick with sorrow, and gloomier than a funeral parlor. Every person
appeared to be in attendance. From wall to wall, men, women and children were
solemnly strewn about.

Hundreds of bodies filled the moderate space.
Members
of the National Guard, the barber and the baker, the village gossip and
renowned rake.
Even their damned children were present.

For many, it was the birth of a revolution. For the others, it was a
premature death sentence. For Christophe, it was nothing. Everything had been
turned down since his return. Being kept as a prisoner of war and losing
everything tended to have that effect.

A cluster of gruff-looking men was huddled about the bar, none of them
drinking and all of them focused on the speaker who was seated before them.
Christophe drew his eyes to the rough faced boy leading the discussion.

He was seventeen years going on forty. A cigar was clenched between his
teeth, bobbing up and down as he passionately lectured. Christophe had once
known this boy—this Elliot Francois.

His mother had been scandalously murdered, he gravelly recalled, and
within the same year, his father had drunk himself into an early grave. Elliot
had always idolized him—Lord only knew why.

It was quite tragic. Within the course of two years, all of Elliot’s
youth and boyish charm had been spirited away. Far more than a little rattled,
Christophe shook away his thoughts and wandered to the bar. Stinging alarm
flushed through his body. Every voice hushed to a whisper. Every pair of eyes
was attentively fixed on him.

“Messieurs,” Christophe greeted, “as always, a pleasure.”

“Sweet Mother Mary!
If
it isn’t the great Christophe Cleef.”
Grinning ear to ear, Elliot hopped
down from his stool and slapped Christophe’s back in an elaborate show of
masculine affection. “Fine thing to have you returned to us in once piece.”

“Ah, afraid that’s a bit debatable.”

Elliot smiled wide and signaled to one of the prettier barmaids. “Be a
dear and help Monsieur Cleef to his brandy.” Wearing a decadent smile, the
barmaid smoothed out her apron and did as commanded. She slid the glass down
the counter once it was full and brimming. It was a true brush with death. In
ridiculously seasoned style, Christophe caught the drink mere seconds before it
flew from the bar. Amused with the veteran’s suaveness, her lips curved into a
smile. “Nicely done,” she praised, a hint of seduction tinting the words.

Christophe’s eyes twinkled as his lips lifted into a beguiling grin.
“My lady.”
He raised the glass in a mock toast.

Elliot seated himself next to Christophe, straightened out both
suspenders, and cleared his throat. “You are quite an important man here in
Paris, Christophe. We can expect great things of you, yes?”

“Ah, Elliot, Elliot, Elliott.
I am no nobler
than the common wretch.” Winking at the barmaid, Christophe finished with a sly
afterthought, “Save your praise to
swoon
a maiden and
lift some skirts.”

Cafe Roux resurrected. Several men wolf whistled at the rather lewd
remark. Somewhere far off in the crowd, a mother gasped in horror and cupped
both hands over her child’s virgin ears. Elliot merely chuckled. “You always
were the charmer, eh?” All business, his tone flattened and rid itself of all
humor. “No nobler than the common wretch? Now that is debatable. I daresay
you’re far nobler than any of those self-righteous puppet masters.”

Christophe swallowed an impressive mouthful of brandy. “You speak of
the monarchs?”

Elliot nodded and erupted into passionate speech. Christophe traced the
rim of his glass in repetitive circles. He’d heard renditions of these words,
time and time again. Revolutionaries were an admirable breed of people, though
rather infamous for repeating the same errors and miscalculations.

This time, things could be different. With the de Lefèvres’ charity and
aid, the gap between the bourgeoisie and nobility could be annihilated once and
for all. But everything had changed since Comte Philippe de Lefèvre’s death.
Like himself, Aleksender had returned from the war as a troubled and embittered
man. And he would not bend so easily, nor be eager to inspire change.

Elliot’s voice rose with a regal authority. He walked the length of
Cafe Roux, speaking with pride and unbridled passion—sounding very much like a
preacher in the midst of a sermon. “We speak of those rich in name and poor in
soul. We speak of the religious heads, barons and
comtes
.
The nobility and the traders have had their day. Now, the hour has come for the
working man to rule.”

Choruses of hoots and hollers chimed out as a chant filled the room.
“
Vive la Commune!
Vive la
Commune!
Vive la Commune!
”

“Versailles is finished. Prime Minister Thiers is dead!” Elliott
shouted over the roar of excitement.
“Enough—enough of this
wretched, rotten life.
Enough, I say! We don’t earn enough to eat or
feed our children! This is no way to live. We must fight, or we starve!
Vive
la Commune!
”

Christophe studied the eager and beaming faces. They were uniformly
fixed on Elliot and savoring every word—eyes swollen with renewed hope. And,
when improperly yielded, Christophe knew that hope could become a dangerous
force.

Grown men were placing their faith in the hands of a mere boy. Such
desperation unsettled him to no end. Paris needed a true leader, not a child.
She needed the guidance of her noble
comte
. Not Elliot
Francois.

Elliott regained his seat as a rush of excited chatter flooded Cafe
Roux. “Ain’t that right?”

Christophe was not listening. Instead, he found himself absorbed in a
strain of nostalgia. Speaking more to
himself
, he
muttered, “Alek was my comrade and a fine, fine soldier.
A
good man who might have been great.”
Weighed down with a sudden sadness,
his head dipped forward. “He was my friend.” He sighed, took a generous sip of
brandy, and wiped his mouth dry on his sleeve’s crisp cufflink. Through an airy
chuckle, he went on to say, “Indeed.
Quite the fool, that
Alek.
Took a bullet for me, you know.”

Elliot remained in silence, his brows inquisitively drawn together.

“Aleksender de Lefèvre,” Christophe drawled. “Comte de Paris.”

The boy’s face lit up in epiphany. He grinned at the circle of men,
eyes alive with emotion. “Well, well! First-name basis, are we? Why, you may
have more pull than we’d ever imagined possible.”

Christophe tensed and adjusted his posture, suddenly very uneasy. “How
do you mean?”

“You’ve seen and lived the bloodshed. You are the best of us.”

Christophe snorted and downed a last swallow of brandy.
“Christ, boy!
Would you cut the teasing and get to it?” He
glanced around, seeking answers.
Nothing.
The
surrounding faces were blank slates. Christophe met Elliot’s unreadable gaze,
as empty and clueless as before. “Tell me—why have I been called here?”

An ominous silence consumed the cafe and everybody in it.

“We want to elect you as leader of the Commune.”

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

The open field was
empty and as silent as a grave. Sparse, tall leafs rustled as they were
frantically parted by two men.

Christophe and Aleksender raced through the vast and untamed
wilderness, panting, clutching onto their precious chassepot rifles for dear
life. Thick clouds of smoke poisoned the air, mingling with heaps of dust and
the bitter musk of sweat.

Had they escaped death? Or were they still being pursued?

After several critical moments they stopped to catch their breaths.
Their navy coats were a stark contrast against the brittle morning light. But
there was nothing frail about either soldier.

Exhausted and drained, they propped their bodies against one of the few
trees. The stench of death weighed heavily in the air. Both faces were bruised
a vivid purple, a thick haze of dirt obscuring their features. They looked like
they’d been to hell and back. Within the lingering silence, they recalled the
horrific turn of events of only moments ago.

Had they really witnessed the dismembering of half a dozen comrades?
Had they truly defied death?

“Damn them! Damn ‘em all!
Our entire platoon—blown to
hell!”
Christophe glanced above his head, abandoned his lingering
adoration for Christ, and scolded heaven with humorless irony. “Now’d be a
mighty fine time to shed your mercy!”

Aleksender’s gaze roamed over the field. Paranoia surged through his
bones. They were being hunted. There was no doubt of that.

Christophe muttered a slew of profanity and dug a hand into his filthy pocket.
Eyes falling
shut,
he clutched his rosary beads and
clung to the faintest ray of hope.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou
among women, and blessed is Jesus, the fruit of thy womb.” The vain prayer
passed over Aleksender’s conscience. His attention was lost to a greater,
all-consuming despair. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us at the hour of
our death.”

Silence hung in the air like a bad omen. Christophe’s eyes flashed open
as he muttered, “Amen.”

Aleksender shifted closer to his comrade, sensing imminent danger.

It happened in a flash. Aleksender thrust himself in front of
Christophe—
bang!
—and threw his head
back in a roar. A fountain of blood seethed from his shoulder. He instantly
lost his breath and collapsed on top of the intended target. Christophe propped
up Aleksender’s body, stunned silent—oblivious to the snapping twigs and
approaching steps.

“Alek?
Alek! Can you hear
me?” Christophe rotated with a curse and scanned the dark void. A piercing wail
split the air in half, jolting his eyes back to Aleksender. A curved dagger had
been plunged into his upper back, blade buried to the hilt. A chilling
scream
resonated as the metal was swiftly withdrawn,
slipping through layers upon layers of flesh, blood, and muscle. Christophe
stared forward in mute horror—virtually paralyzed—unable to stir a limb. A
demonic chuckle echoed the hollowness. It served as a morbid accompaniment to
the sounds of guttural ripping and shallow breaths. Aleksender’s back was
impaled once, twice, three times, before Christophe regained his composure.

Aleksender hissed through clenched teeth as the dagger was freed from
the bloody pulp of his back. Struck by sudden realization, the Prussian soldier
fled in a vain attempt to preserve his own hide.

Christophe swore an oath and carefully laid Aleksender into a reclined
position. Bile seared his stomach and rose inside his throat. Degraded to
nothing more than a heap of sweat and blood, his dear friend was thrashing and
crying out, clutching onto his mangled body.

Detachment flushed through Christophe, empowering him with a fierce
blood-lust. The rosary slipped from between his fingers and spiraled to the
ground. Blood encircled the beads in a morbid ring, drowning the trinket in an
unholy sea of red. Christophe looked away from his rosary and secured the
dagger in a tight and merciless grip.

All sense of Catholic goodness was forgotten. His breaths were erratic,
eyes narrowed in distaste, head pounding like a war drum. The symbol of the
Prussian army—a light gray iron cross—was engraved in the sullied hilt. It
seared the callused flesh of his palm, igniting an inferno deep inside his
soul.

Christophe paced forward, stare harder than nails as he pursued the
cowardly shadow. Their steps harmoniously quickened, each man appearing as no
more than a graceful, phantasmal silhouette.

Christophe reached the Prussian soldier in a few swift strides. The
nemesis spun around in a fluid movement and aimed his rifle. A dull shot rang
out and pierced the night. At lightning speed, Christophe latched onto the
barrel and urged it downward. A bloodcurdling
scream
resounded as the Prussian soldier blew off his own foot. Pitiful and on the
brink of tears, he limped away—the poor excuse of his foot dragging unceremoniously
behind.

Further enraged and oddly amused, a sardonic chuckle inflated
Christophe lungs. “Ah, determined wretch, aren’t you?” Christophe said,
speaking in a German tongue. He emitted a satisfied grunt and plunged the
dagger deep into the Prussian’s neck. Flesh gobbled up the blade with fervor,
swallowing it to the hilt. The grotesque ambiance of anguished cries and
sputtering veins came as a welcoming sound. Alas, it was music to Christophe’s
ears.

Rid of all pride, the Prussian soldier toppled to his knees and clasped
his sullied hands together. They trembled in time with his falling tears.
“Mercy—please!
I—I heard ya! I heard your prayers! I know
you are a man of God! I implore your forgiveness—”

“Such pleas would have worked wonders mere moments ago,” Christophe
drawled in lazy German, lips lifting into a smile. “Unfortunately, for you,
your villainy has made me godless.” Christophe sank down to the crutch of his
knees.

Throbbing with pain, Aleksender observed his comrade from the grass.
Christophe’s normally animated features were constricted and void—each line
tightened into an unfeeling mask of apathy.

“I fear my heart has turned to stone,” Christophe mumbled. “And feeling
nothing is … strangely liberating. In a way, you are a godsend.”

“Please, good monsieur,” the Prussian blubbered. “I’ve a child at home.
A lil’ boy! He is but a wee babe.”

Christophe stroked the curve of his chin, absorbed in apparent
contemplation. The Prussian exhaled and whispered a silent prayer of gratitude
at the gesture. He’d been saved.

All hope fled as quickly as it had come.

Dislodging the dagger with a deep sigh, Christophe clucked his tongue
and dryly murmured, “Tsk, tsk, tsk. You disappoint me.
Pitiful.
Just look at yourself—beggin’ on your hands and knees, weeping like some jilted
lad. In Christ’s name, will you not die with a shred of decency? You shame your
family.” For all the calmness in his tone, he might have been discussing the
weather rather than questioning the very legitimacy of God. And, a moment later,
he did precisely that.
“My, my.
I do believe a chill
has descended.”

Christophe tilted his head back and stared at the bruised sky. A shaft
of light broke through the fortress of clouds. “Looks like rain.” Thunder
growled in the distance, confirming his assumption. Christophe slapped his knee
with a hooting chuckle, his voice wry. “Were I superstitious, I’d take that as
an ill omen.”

Leafs crackled and twigs snapped as the Prussian attempted to crawl
away. Christophe rose to his feet, dusted off his uniform, and straightened the
brim of his askew cap.

When he spoke, his voice was flat and cold, free of all humanity.
“An eye for an eye, indeed.”

The Prussian panted and increased his pace, slithering through the
grass like a wounded snake. Christophe kept up stride with an embarrassing
ease. He leaned forward and lowered the dagger in a harsh movement. Suspended
in time, the blade gleamed like a beacon, brilliant and almighty, bright
against the surrounding black. Vomit and blasphemous curses oozed from the
Prussian’s lips as his flesh was impaled … again and again and again.

•

A chorus of chilling screams jolted Elizabeth awake. She flew from the
bed and stared down in a mixture of horror and bewilderment.

The devil had been unleashed.

Trembling and murmuring a volume of incoherent nonsense, Aleksender
thrashed between the bed sheets, looking every bit possessed. A thick film of
sweat beaded from his forehead and trickled down his golden skin. His raven
hair was damp, heavy with perspiration, and plastered to throbbing temples. The
rivulets glistened like tears beneath the frail moonlight.

“Lord, have mercy!” Elizabeth crossed herself in a clumsy motion. She
tentatively curled a hand around Aleksender’s rigid shoulder and gave a gentle,
reassuring shake. “Aleksender, do wake up,” she carefully whispered. “It is a
dream, dearest—just a dream.”

Aleksender leapt to his feet with a war cry. Both hands fastened about
Elizabeth’s pale swan-neck. His grasp was lethal. Snug as the hangman’s noose.
He panted between heavy intakes of air and fumed like a caged bull. Elizabeth
cried out in utter horror and fought to break free. Guided by some primitive
instinct, Aleksender’s hold simply constricted and cut off her desperate pleas.

His grasp was intended to kill.

“Please,” she managed to choke out. “Please no.”

Aleksender’s eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned.
Quivering, he freed Elizabeth in a harsh motion.

No bombs. No gunfire. No dying men. No tortures.

But it had been so real.
So painfully real.

Elizabeth breathlessly collapsed to her knees. She clutched onto her
throat and massaged her half-crushed vocal chords. Her entire body shook with
strangled coughs.

The powerful expanse of Aleksender’s back rose and sank, manipulated by
his strained breaths. Sweat pooled inside the grotesque trenches that
disfigured his flesh. Every muscle twitched. Every scar stung like a brand.

He was on fire and burning. He was in hell.

“Elizabeth! I—”

“No! Do not come any closer! Please—just … keep b-back! Stay away from
me!”

The nightmares were evolving. They were becoming more and more
lucid—steadily crossing the threshold of reality and dreams—no longer refrained
to the realm of sleep.

They were turning deadly. Aleksender could no longer hide inside of
himself. Sofia had been right; it was only a matter of time before his agony
swallowed him whole. And, aboard this haunted ship, he was drowning and taking
everyone down with him.

He would never heal.

Elizabeth skittered away, attempting to escape Aleksender’s madness.

“God.
I harmed you.” It
was not a question.

“No,” she whispered, gracelessly staggering to her feet. “I … I am
quite fine.” But her eyes had already contradicted the words. “Please—I beg
you, just keep away from me.”