The Frost of Springtime (32 page)

With a sharp nod, he called out to another guard and directed
Aleksender beyond Opera Garnier’s forsaken walls.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

“By
and by thou shalt come unto a river of hell, whereas Charon is ferryman, who
will first have his fare paid him, before he will carry the souls over the
river in his boat, whereby you may see that avarice reigned amongst the dead,
neither Charon nor Pluto will do anything for nought: for if it be a poor man
that would pass over and lacketh money, he shall be compelled to die in his
journey before they will show him any relief …”

—The
Marriage of Eros and Psyche

Aleksender
maneuvered through the maze of flesh and weapons, unsure of where precisely he
was to go. The pain in his arm had settled into a dull and throbbing ache. No
one cast him so much as a second glance, completely absorbed and dedicated to
their tasks. Off to the side, men, women, and children labored before melting
pots as lead was casted into bullets.

Aleksender ventured deeper into the opera house, moving past the
excitement and activity, tracking through endless corridors. The surrounding commotion
gradually faded into an eerie and detached silence. Searching for answers, he
continued his quest.

Aleksender quickly discovered that Opera Garnier was the Goliath of
Salle Le Peletier. It contained over six thousand doors, secret passageways, and
more gold than the king himself. Many of the rooms were bare, unfurnished and
unlit.

Then—

A shadow moved across one of the walls in quick and decided motions.
Aleksender followed after it, tracing the steady footfall. He quickened his steps—shadowing
the shadow. He rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of whomever or whatever he
was pursuing; the shadow now appeared as a mere silhouette. A ball of light
bounced off the dark walls and carpeting.

As he suspected, the silhouette was clutching a lantern and a chassepot
rifle. Aleksender strained his eyes. The felt brim of the silhouette’s hat was
barely visible, but he could see enough to identify the man as a member of the
National Guard. Indeed, the guardsman was moving with purpose, never breaking
stride. He’d obviously walked this path many times before now—the path of the
Communard’s road.

A low creak resounded and a door swung open. The man entered one of
Opera Garnier’s rooms—a library or parlor, Aleksender took notice—and
approached the towering bookshelf. Just as Aleksender was certain he would
collide straight into the fortress of books, the thing came to life. The
rosewood shelf moaned, groaned, and gave a sharp pivot—sweeping the silhouette
out of sight. Aleksender stormed across the room. He fumbled and pressed at the
shelf, willing it to life.

Magic.
In a single flash
of movement he was swept to the other side.

Darkness blanketed everything. The lantern was yards away now and
growing further—a winking star amongst a false horizon—slowly bobbing out of
eyesight …

Without the lantern, everything fell pitch black within moments.
Aleksender’s erratic breathing swelled the small space to its limit. A sense of
claustrophobia took hold, wrapping his throat like a fist.

Aleksender had seen enough to know that he was standing in a hallway
approximately three feet wide and infinitely long, which curved this way and
that, twisting like a serpent … a hallway that was lined with human remains.
Millions of them.

Aleksender blindly outstretched his good arm and groped onto his
surroundings. His index finger curled into an eye socket. The heel of his palm
wafted across a humorless grin. The pad of his thumb skirted up and over a
slight protuberance—a nose, by Aleksender’s estimate.

He continued in this way, wading through the dark emptiness, only the
love he felt for his ward guiding him. What if he was going the wrong
direction? That was quite likely. What if he became stuck down here—down in
this labyrinth of death and decay—alone in the darkness? That was even more
likely.

As he snaked through the endless corridor, blind and alone, the
pastor’s emotionless drawl echoed his mind.
Yea, though I
walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou
art with me. Thy rod and thy staff comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall
follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.

The pain returned to his arm with brutal force. Aleksender cried out
and clasped onto the drenched material of his dress shirt. His legs failed him
in the same breath—sending his body slamming against a cluster of skulls. He
collapsed like a sack of bones and was forced into a fetal position. Indeed—the
length of his form spanned wider than the hallway by a good foot. Lying in the
darkness, engulfed by death and multitudes of pain, Aleksender felt himself
begin to surrender. Yes, his mind throbbed against his skull. The walls seemed
to shrink, closing in on his mind, body and spirit.

I should just do nothing. Do nothing and die here. It will be a matter
of days—at most, a week—before the wound infects itself. It will redden and
swell. Pus and other sour smelling fluids will mingle with my blood. I will
vomit my guts out. Defecate myself a half dozen times, maybe more … and
eventually either starve to death or be swept with infection. Perhaps, I can
bash my head in—these skulls certainly feel sharp enough—and surrender much,
much sooner.

Aleksender’s eyes slipped shut as a veil descended, sweeping him to a
different time and place. In his mind’s eye, he was seated before a blazing
hearth and she was sprawled before him, chin in hands, her youthful features
perfectly relaxed, perfectly content. Damn it to hell. Aleksender would never
find his way out of this maze.

His voice echoed the haunted cavern of his mind, distant and foreign to
his ears:

Ah, but you are wrong, ma chérie. You see, this is built as a
labyrinth. It’s only an illusion designed to appear as a maze.

He’d come so far—he and his little Sofia had come so far. No—a few dark
halls would not be his downfall. Aleksender had lived a lifetime of darkness.
An underground labyrinth would not best him.

•

Nearly an hour had passed before Aleksender could make out the faint hum
of voices. He snaked through the walls with squinted eyes, barely able to
decipher his surroundings. Hints of grinning skulls and mildew-covered stones
came into vision. In this section of the catacombs, torches and sconce lanterns
hung from the walls and cast faint streams of light. The illuminations tossed
thick shadows along the skulls and stone flooring, enhancing the deathly aura.
Every so often the pathway would veer off in one direction and continue in
another.

Aleksender froze in his tracks as a pungent scent flooded his nostrils.
The scent reeked distinctively of death and decay.

God’s teeth, what was that smell?

A terrible vision of Sofia’s beautiful, limp form flashed behind his
eyes. Aleksender splayed a wrist over his nose, bit back a curse, and followed
a slight curve in the path.

The dangling sconces harmoniously throbbed, threatening to wink out.
Aleksender blindly clung onto the damp wall for guidance and steadied his body.
Condensation covered the skulls in a slimy film, making them feel remarkably
like brains. The floor turned and slanted as he descended deeper into Paris’s
underground—deeper, deeper still.

The pitter-patter of a rat fled past his boots with the audacity of a
drum roll. His battered limbs tangled in one of the low hanging spider webs.

After what seemed an eternity, Aleksender encountered the makeshift
prison cell. Three decapitated corpses were sprawled across the floor, their
limp bodies nearly overlapping. Swarms of maggots clogged the stumps of their
necks as hundreds of hungry mouths consumed the rotten flesh. All of it became
too much.
Far too much.
The war, the carcasses, his
throbbing bullet wound, the underground labyrinth, his father’s uncalled death.
Richard’s words,
Father would have never denied them such a thing … you
could be named next.
Sofia’s kidnapping.

Aleksender’s stomach tightened, clenched, and sunk, broken out in a
chain of dry heaves. Relief came in a fell swoop as lukewarm liquid bubbled
from his gut—mostly brandy, he assumed—and splattered onto the stones below.
Gasping for breath, he swiped away the vomit and conjured an image of Sofia
inside his mind.

Aleksender regained a semblance of composure and knelt beside the
corpses.

A note poked out of one of the coat pockets, its parchment faintly dribbled
with blood. Aleksender collected it, eyes running over the familiar writing:
That which
doesn’t burn must pass through fire to be made clean.

Two men materialized from the shadows without warning. Aleksender was
violently
seized,
arms folded behind his back and
fastened together at the wrists. A foot of rope rendered him entirely
defenseless. He cringed in an explosion of pain as the satchel was ripped from
his shoulder. Agonized curses flew from his lips. A hand grasped at the
seething wound with the force of an iron manacle. Aleksender felt the air gush
from his lungs. He bellowed a low groan and nearly collapsed to the ground.
Keeping him upright took the conjoined effort of both men.

“Ah. Been shot, have we?”

Aleksender jerked, easing the torturous pressure of their holds. Sweat
rained from his brows and blurred his vision. Fighting for consciousness, his
words emerged in erratic and twisted gasps. “Where is he? Where the hell is
Christophe Cleef?”

“Ah, you mustn’t fret, Monsieur le Comte,” the first man said.

“Indeed. They’ve been waitin’ for you a couple days now,” offered the other.
“Both Christophe and the girl.
But I’d reckon you
already know that.”

CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO

Aleksender arrived
at the Commune’s base to find his comrade leaning against the farthest wall.
Reeking of despair, death and filth, Christophe Cleef appeared as just another
dark secret … just another lost and broken dream. Two tarnished silver chains
twinkled within the bottomless expanse, each one reflecting the sconce
lanterns’ wavering lights. An assortment of weapons was propped in a
corner—daggers, muskets, chassepot rifles and the like. The Commune’s crimson
flag proudly hung above the artillery.

Christophe was consumed by deep thought and entirely unaware of
Aleksender’s presence. In fact, he appeared to be unaware of everything outside
of his own inner torment. A paralyzing chill settled deep inside Aleksender’s
bones.

Where had his friend gone to? This—this was not his noble comrade. This
was not the great Christophe Cleef.
Only a poor imitation.

This man was far more dead than alive, teetering on the brink on
sanity. And he stood as a mere shell of the solider that he’d once been. The
navy material of his coat was covered in filth and a full size too large. It
draped from his limbs in harsh and irregular folds. In spite of all the torment
he’d undergone at Christophe’s hands, a distinct sadness shadowed Aleksender’s
heart.

“Alek!”

Sofia’s cry dispelled any remaining compassion he’d clung to for his
friend. Alarmed by the noise, Christophe twisted his face back. He pocketed the
dog tags and took a clumsy step toward his hostage.

“Ah, Sofia …
mon
amour …” Christophe slurred
through a grin, hovering above her body.
Mon Dieu.
He
could barely hold himself upright. “Why, it seems your hero has come to save
the day.”

Sofia was fastened to the wall, resembling some mystical virgin
sacrifice, each limb completely immobilized. Aleksender’s chest stirred as he
surveyed the raw scabs that decorated her flesh. He briefly thought of Eros and
Psyche. Beautiful Psyche, lost within the vast Underworld, waiting for her
dearly beloved’s return.

Aleksender jerked forward and struggled to break free of his captors’
holds. With each movement, the rope dug a little deeper, the pain burned a
little more. Ragged pants inflated his lungs as his flesh was bloodied and
severed. Wounds and fresh blisters circled the rope, tinting it red.

“I’m here, Christophe,” he grated between clenched teeth. “I played in
your little farce. Now let her go.”

Christophe barked a sharp laugh and lulled forward till he stood a foot
away from Aleksender. A putrid stench radiated from his body and polluted the
air. Aleksender wrestled with the desire to take several steps backward.
Instead, he straightened out his posture and returned Christophe’s leveled
glare.

“That how you greet your ol’ friend, eh?” Christophe drawled as he
meddled with Aleksender’s shirt lapels. His breaths were stale, rancid and
heavy. Grime covered his teeth, staining them an unforgiving yellow. “Not so
much as a ‘how do you do?’”

A loud thud resounded as one of the Communards threw Aleksender’s
satchel to the ground.

“What’s this?” Christophe questioned.

“His things, monsieur.”

Christophe nodded, knelt, and probed through the belongings. Glazed
eyes drew to the pistol. His fingertips gently grazed the carved handle,
tracing the calligraphic words
de Lefèvre.

“This is between you and me,” Aleksender grated between clenched jaws.
“Release Sofia.”

“Ah, very well.”
Christophe climbed
onto his feet and rotated in Sofia’s direction. He fished a tarnished skeleton
from the confines of his trousers and spun it between two fingertips like a
baton. A dark smile formed on his lips. “That’s fine by me. She’s an awfully
good girl.”

Click. Click. Click.

Sofia exhaled as the chains came undone. She gracelessly teetered onto
her feet, weak at the ankles and plagued with pain. Christophe grasped onto
Sofia’s shoulder and steadied her body. “Careful, there, ma chérie …”

“Get your hands off her.” Aleksender growled as he struggled against
his restraints. “I said now.”

Christophe spread his palms wide and held them over his head in an
elaborate show of surrender. Sofia straggled forward till she was inches from
Aleksender. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. Christophe grumbled and
scratched the back of his head, suddenly rather uncomfortable and at loss for
words.

Sofia wearily glanced at Christophe as she undid Aleksender’s bindings.
Making no attempt to stop her, he swallowed and stared at Aleksender’s bloodied
wrists and hands, his hanging, wounded shoulder. Poorly hiding his discomfort,
he shrugged and gave an off look. “Might as well make this a fair fight, eh
now?”

Any peace was short lived. The thunder of thousands of boots and
hollered commands resounded overhead. The military of Versailles was coming.

Christophe muttered a curse and scrubbed a hand over his features.
Turning on his heels, he addressed his followers. “Both of you—return to the
ranks. I reckon you’ll be of more use up there. We’re out of time. They’re
breachin’ the house.” His scar twisted, manipulated by his smirk. “A broken
veteran and wee paragon shouldn’t be much trouble. Now go—go finish what we
started.”

Moving with a sudden haste, Sofia tossed the rope aside and collapsed
within Aleksender’s arms. He stroked her hair with trembling hands. Sister
Catherine’s crucifix gleamed against his dress shirt, shining like a beacon.
“Sofia, you are all right.
Dieu, thank you.”

“We must hurry,” she deftly murmured into his chest.

Aleksender cringed as he was encircled by her arms. Sofia gasped,
struck by the realization. Her face whitened to a ghostly hue. She eased
backward and studied the hazy depths of his eyes. “No! Alek—your arm … You are
shot!”

He cupped her cheeks, lips lifting into that dashing and crooked grin.
“Ah. It’s but a scratch.”

“A scratch!”

Blood stained her hands.

“Come—we must find you help right away. Upstairs—there is—”

Christophe’s booming voice cut through the air like a knife. Cruel
laughter followed after. “Upstairs? There is no more upstairs, stupid chit. And
you really think I’ve had him come all this way only to waltz on out of here?”

“His arm has been shot! Surely, you—”

Aleksender arched his brows, threw Sofia a commanding look, and rotated
toward Christophe. He edged through the shadows, moving with the grace of a
panther.

“Tell me—what do you want?” The timber of his voice was low, husky, and
seething with venom. “What the hell do you want from me, Christophe? Want to
see me die? Is that it?” Silence filled Paris’s underground. Aleksender
throbbed from head to toe and perceived varying shades of red. “Or was this
just your elaborate way of making me suffer? You despise me. You always have despised
me.” He glanced at Sofia from the corner of his eye. “You are angry because you
have no one to love.
No one to love you.”

At that moment, two members of the Commune flew inside the base. Horror
was etched in their youthful faces, blood artfully splattered across torn
shirts. Refusing to meet Christophe’s eyes, they collectively swallowed and
exchanged glances. “Monsieur Cleef.”

Christophe shot a narrowed stare and examined each of their faces.
“What? And be quick about it.”

One of the boys stepped forward and slid the cap from his head. A swarm
of greasy, red locks shone beneath the lanterns. “You wanted us to tell you
right away if anythin’ should happen to Elliott.”

Christophe froze in his tracks. “What? What about Elliot?”
Nothing.
“Answer me!”

“He fell, monsieur,” answered the other man.
“At the
barricade.”

Overcome with a wave of nausea, Christophe swallowed and swayed on his
feet. “Where is he?” His voice was a whisper and barely audible. He lunged
forward, latching onto the redhead’s lapels, eyes blazing. The Communard
struggled against his hold. Christophe’s fists turned to steel, preventing any
chance for escape. “No. Don’t you turn from me, fool! Now where is his body,
damn it? Speak up!”

“He’ll be placed out on the street, monsieur, to lie with the others.
So that a family member might claim him.”

Christophe threw his shoulders back in a wild roar. He groped at the
mangy tendrils of his hair and slid backward till he was swallowed up by the
shadows. “So that a family member might claim him, you say? How ingenious! I
applaud the both of you!” Christophe balled his hand into a fist and pounded at
the side of his face. Tears finally came to his eyes, hard and strong.

Aleksender seized the chance for escape. Careful on their feet, he and
Sofia eased away from Christophe. “He had no family! He had nothing!
Nothing!”

Blinded by the darkness, Sofia tripped and gave herself away with a
hushed
oomph
.

Christophe instantly twisted to the sound. The fire of hell blazed from
his eyes. “No. You are not running away. Hear me? Not this time. Not now.
You’ll pay for this.”

Aleksender stopped dead in his tracks.

“Where were you all this time, eh?” Christophe yelled to him. “With
her, I suppose? Now tell me—how does it feel knowing you could have put an end
to this death?”

Aleksender rotated on his boots and stepped cleanly in front of Sofia.
Trembling with emotion, Christophe withdrew a flintlock pistol from his
trousers’ pocket and leveled it to his friend’s chest. “His blood—it is on your
hands! You hear me, Alek?”

Sofia surrendered to a soft cry as Christophe cocked the pistol. The
Communards stepped backward, stunned into silence by the sudden turn of events.
Young and impressionable, they were in a state of shock from the horrors and reality
of a civil war. And each boy was clearly torn at the seams, aware that the
great Christophe Cleef was well beyond their reach. But no help was to be
found. Only more agony and suffering lay above—and every corner of the opera
house had transformed into a death trap. The morbid sounds of screams, gunfire
and thundering boots stood as unshakable proof.

“Listen to me,” Aleksender said in a slow, calm voice. He eased back
several feet, palms outstretched, eyes never leaving Christophe’s scathing
expression. “This isn’t who you are. You have gone mad. You have gone mad and
you’re not thinking any longer.”

“No. That’s where your wrong,
mon
ami. For the
first time, I’m thinking clear.
Real clear.
And I
think I’d rather enjoy blowin’ you to hell.
How ‘bout it, ol’
friend?”

Aleksender eased back several more steps. “It’s over.” He turned and
guided Sofia away from Christophe at a spry pace.

“Running away again, I see? You’re a damned coward, Alek! And that’s
all you’ve ever amounted to. I wonder what your father would think of your
desertion?
You do him proud.”

“This place is about to be swarmed from roof to cellar. We don’t leave
now, and we’re all dead.” He grasped onto Sofia’s arm, enunciating each word.
“All of us.”

Infused with the slightest touch of pity, Sofia glanced over her
shoulder and stared into Christophe’s eyes.

Yes—this is how it felt to fall from grace …

Bang!

She uttered a choked cry and reeled around Aleksender’s body—collapsing
on top of him as metal tore through layers upon layers of flesh, blood, and
muscle.