The Frost of Springtime (33 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE

Aleksender and
Sofia instantly lost balance from the brutal force of the impact. The sensation
of ripping flesh slammed through both their bodies. Sofia’s fingers curled
around the lapels of his shirt as she bit back a sharp scream. In the same
breath, Aleksender bellowed a groan and plummeted onto the cold stones—taking
Sofia’s body down with him. The extent of their shared agony was blinding.
Blood seeped onto the stones in a slow, lazy circle.

Time seemed to stand still as Sofia lay on top of Aleksender’s
motionless form.

Varying degrees of pain shot through her veins and numbed the length of
her body. She couldn’t stir a limb.
Couldn’t think.
Could barely draw breath.
The pain was excruciating—unlike
anything she’d ever felt before. It splintered through her bones and crashed
down with all the pressure of an avalanche.

“Oh, Alek, I can hardly breathe.” No response. Tiny, trembling fists
grasped onto the material of Aleksender’s shirt. She instantly recoiled—discovering
that his shirt was as sullied as her shoulder. With an uttered cry, she
summoned her remaining strength and fumbled off Aleksender’s form. She spread
her fingers wide and held them up to the light.

A scream roared inside of her throat. Blood—Aleksender’s blood—seeped
down her wrist at a leisurely pace and dripped onto the ground below.

Sofia’s heart clenched against her ribcage as the realization sunk in.
Positioned on her hands and knees, she crawled over to Aleksender and met the
glassy depths of his eyes.

“God, no.
Please, no. Alek,
my Alek,” she sobbed, curling against the heat of his chest. “I love you. I
love you so much …”

Aleksender ran his fingertips over Sofia’s wound with an exasperated
groan. “My little fool, why would you do such a thing?”

Sofia grasped onto Aleksender’s dress shirt and tugged him closer.
Their foreheads came together as tears coated the sallow curves of her cheeks.
“Because we are one.
And nothing could ever change that.
Always and forevermore.”

•

Christophe withdrew his Prussian dagger and unsheathed it from its leather
cocoon. Indecisively he scanned the discarded flintlock pistol, the assortment
of firearms,
a
chassepot rifle? No, not a rifle—a
rifle was much too clean, too quick, and far too merciful.

He emerged from the shadows and inched closer, barely able to sustain
the weight of his body. Everything was spinning—physically spinning like a toy
top. With each movement, gallons of brandy rolled inside his gut. And he could
feel it. He was drowning, barely hanging onto this haunted precipice.

The two Communards exchanged hushed words and eased away from
Christophe. So be it. He didn’t need their help or anyone else’s.

The bittersweet taste of vengeance was tangible—it was on his tongue,
in his heart, embedded deep in his very marrow. One person and one alone
was
responsible for his suffering. And yes, he would pay in
blood. How sweet it would feel plunging the blade deep into his chest.

Feelings of scorn and resentment were amplified as he observed Aleksender
and Sofia’s interaction. Alas, it was better than an opera, far grander than
any love ballad. And damn them both. Aleksender and Sofia remained ignorant of
his looming presence—completely lost in each other, within the potency of the
moment.

Aleksender groaned and lifted his hand, guiding it across the curve of
Sofia’s cheek. She cupped it within the heel of her palm and held him soundly
against her.

“Sofia … you are hurt. You need to get out of here.”

Heat from a nearby torch danced across Christophe’s features and drew
sweat from his brow. No. This torment wasn’t nearly enough—not by half. He
burned to unleash the full extent of his hatred and wrath. Damn it to hell—he
bore so much hatred. Christophe quivered with emotion as he steadied the dagger
against his palm.
The blade’s toothy snarl edged into his
flesh, slicing his skin with ease.
The sting was a welcomed sensation,
as was the sweltering liquid that
welled
his palm.

Your pain reminds and warns you that you are very much alive.

A cloud of despair shadowed what remained of his heart. This was it.
This was the end. In the back of his mind, he saw the Vendôme Column crashing
down, heard the people’s unified cry: “
Vive la Commune!
Vive la République! Vive la Résistance!
Death to the
Empire.”
Napoleon’s lifeless stare bore deeply into his own,
all-seeing and perceptive.

Yes, Aleksender was right—it was over. And Christophe yearned to hurt
the person who’d caused him so much pain, so much misery and loss.

Snapping from his thoughts, Christophe focused his glare on the two
lovers. Sofia shook her head as tears streaked her cheeks. They streamed from
the brilliant blue of her eyes in a fierce storm. “I shall be perfectly fine.”
Her lips curved into a weak smile. The sullied material of her nightdress
strained in time with her labored intakes of air. “See?” She gasped, adjusting
her bleeding shoulder. “It’s but a scratch.”

Sofia and Aleksender’s forehead came together in a gentle and tentative
touch. Struggling to breathe, she peppered kisses over every inch of his face,
not daring to leave an inch of him unloved.

No one to love you.
No one to love you.
No one to love you.

The words swirled inside Christophe’s mind until he grew dizzy. And
those mocking refrains continued to echo until he could perceive nothing else.

“Alek, just don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave
me.
Promise me. Promise you’ll fight through this.”

“Sofia, I’m sorry.
So sorry.”
Holding her
cheek within his palm, he drew invisible circles along her flesh, worshiping
everything that was his beloved Sofia. “I fought for you, for us. For nine
years I fought. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s
all my
fault.”

Each word was a dagger in Christophe. He muttered a curse and continued
his pursuit.

Sofia froze. He stood mere inches away, a looming eclipse of torn
emotion.

She glanced over her shoulder and leveled her stare upon his battered
features. With an intake of breath, she eyed the rusted dagger cradled in his
hand. The cross engraved upon its tarnished handle was anything but holy.

Blood-lust pumped through Christophe’s veins as a cruel smile stretched
his mouth. He felt his scar twist and tighten, wreathing in agony. Alas—that
cross seared his flesh, branding his soul.

“Please,” Sofia pleaded in a fleeting voice. “Please, Christophe. I beg
you. Enough blood has been shed. Enough.”

He mutely shook his head and narrowed his eyes upon the dangling
crucifix. It hung against Aleksender’s chest, encircled by his comrade’s life’s
blood.

The all-consuming question rose to Christophe’s lips before he could
stop it. “What have I become?”

The dagger was thrust into the air. Torches and sconces reflected off
the blade in a blinding flash of light.

Christophe squeezed both eyes shut. Giddy anticipation, a strange sense
of peace and finality, ignited his soul. In a clean swoop, he plunged the blade
straight into his own chest. An unstoppable cry fell from his lips as it tore
through cloth and flesh with ease. Then satisfaction inseparably mixed with pain.
Yes—the vengeance was every bit as sweet as he’d fantasized it’d be. Muscle,
bone and flesh devoured the metal to its hilt. Behind his eyes, a thousand
gawking death-heads shared a laugh and jeered at his suffering.

With a great grunt of effort, Christophe twisted the dagger, urging it
a little deeper. He angled it snugly between his ribs …felt as an organ was
impaled. It ruptured at the assault, painting his insides a brilliant red. Then
he withdrew the sullied blade and stabbed himself once more—branding the exact
spot where Aleksender had taken his bullet all those months ago.

Sofia turned away with a cry and buried her face in the folds of
Aleksender’s shirt.

A resonating pang sounded out as the weapon fell from Christophe’s numb
fingers and tumbled onto the stones. A second later, he weakened at the knees
and collapsed face first, joining the dagger on the ground. The bridge of his
nose shattered on impact and issued a choked scream from his throat.

Side by side, Aleksender and Sofia watched the scene in pained silence.

The Communards crossed the base, rushing to Christophe’s aid in a
collective panic.
“Monsieur!
Mon
Dieu.
Monsieur Cleef!”

Christophe’s chest rose and sank with labored, uneven breaths. He clasped
onto a seething wound and rolled onto his side, barely retaining consciousness.
Vats of blood
welled
both nostrils.

And he could feel it below him—a dark puddle was vastly blossoming.
With a muttered curse, he shoved away the hands of his men as they wrestled to
inspect his injuries.

“You’re bleeding out, monsieur,” observed the redhead as he struggled
to appear calm and remotely collected.

“Ah, is that what happens when you jam a blade in your gut, eh?”
Christophe scoffed, his voice dripping with that predictable sarcasm. “I
wouldn’t … wouldn’t
have ever guessed.”

The Communards ignored his remark and continued their investigation.
“Please, monsieur! Let us help you. We really must—”

“No, damn you! Let me alone! Devil
take
me.”
They exchanged a desperate glance as their hands uniformly froze midair. “Now
listen and listen close.” Christophe’s voice choked off into silence.

He groped at his chest, breathing drawing more and
more
shallow
. A ribbon of blood leaked from his jawline and curled around his
thickly bearded chin. His head lolled onto its side as he stared over at Sofia
and Aleksender’s embracing forms.

“I have a last order … for the two of you fools.” He turned away from
Aleksender and Sofia, unable to stomach the sight of their affection.

Loneliness and a fierce self-hatred swelled Christophe’s gut.

“Get them help.
Now.”
Trembling hands clasped
onto the Communard’s collar and tugged him near. Wiry, red strands fell across
his brow in a flurry. Christophe’s dusty breaths seared the youth’s sodden
cheeks. “Don’t let them die. Hear me?”

“Yes. Yes, I hear you.”

“Good.” Christophe’s hand fell back down to the stones, leaving a
bloody print in its wake. He stared at the image, strangely transfixed. He
prayed—merciful God, he prayed—that religion was nothing more than an elaborate
hoax. Salvation wasn’t in the stars for a man such as himself. He’d burn in
hell till kingdom come.

Shouts, cries, and pacing bodies intensified overhead.
“Hurry.
Sneak … sneak out through the Rue de Scribe exit …
Versailles …won’t find you … those miserable dogs.” Staying true to his nature,
Christophe finished with an irritated grumble and absently waved off both boys.
“Now get the hell out of here and let me die with a damn shred of dignity.”

One of the Communards began to rise to his feet—only to be steadied by
Christophe’s hand once more. “Wait.
One more … one more
thing.
Here …” With a deep groan, he lifted his neck and withdrew the
dog tags.
CHRISTOPHE CLEEF
and
ALEKSENDER DE
LEFÈVRE
gleamed beneath the lanterns, each one equally vivid.
Wincing, he tucked them in the boy’s palm. “Want …
want
my comrade to have ‘em.”

“Yes, m-monsieur.”

The stained emblems vanished as the Communard curled his hand into a
fist. He smoothed down the torn material of his coat and staggered to his feet.
After a moment, he signaled his fellow comrade to follow suit. And, without
exchanging so much as another nod, they tended to le Comte de Paris and his
ward.

Christophe’s death-rattle split the silence like a knife. His skin grew
impossibly pale. His eyes lost their remaining sparkles. The gurgling
intensified, loudened, overpowered. Blood crawled across the stones at a steady
pace. Eclipsed by sounds of death, his final words were muted. Overwhelmed with
a deep and undeniable ache, Aleksender met his comrade’s vacant eyes.
“Christophe,” he whispered, “mon ami … You are not alone.”