The Left Hand of Justice (22 page)

Sophie’s lips drew tight. She looked away. “He knows where we are. He’ll be here tonight, which is why—”

“And he has most of her followers behind him, I assume.” Sophie nodded, looking down. “Sophie…why?”

She looked up, eyes suddenly blazing with fanatic indignation. “We’re at war, Elise. An all-out war on demons and the people harboring them. Vautrin and Hermine worked together for a while, but then he got impatient. Said Hermine’d had her chance and failed. Now is the time for force, he said. When he and his followers began to question her openly, she disappeared with the few who were still loyal. Elise, what could I do?” She blinked at Corbeau helplessly, eyes wide, looking as innocent as a porcelain doll in the candlelight.

“You didn’t have to tell him where she was, when she would be there, and that she was building the Left Hand of Justice.”

“I was angry. After all I’d done for her, she wanted to go back to Maria.”

“Out of love, or because she wanted the weapon?”

“Does it matter?”

Corbeau closed her eyes and exhaled. “But now you’ve changed your mind.”

Tears sprang to Sophie’s eyes. “I never wanted to hurt Hermine. I thought if Vautrin took over the Divine Spark, she and I could go away quietly and just…be at peace. But Vautrin isn’t content to let her just leave. He used her disappearance as a pretext to seize power, and now that she’s gone, he wants her gone permanently. He’s coming, Elise. Tonight. Help us, please.”

Corbeau stared. Hard. Sophie’s candle sputtered, drowning in its wax. Corbeau felt much the same way. She shook her head.

“Why did you send me to Vautrin?”

“He’s a bad, bad man. He killed Lambert. I knew you would figure it out and punish him.”

“You have too much faith in me, Soph.”

Sophie put a hand on Corbeau’s arm and looked into her eyes. Corbeau sighed. “Can you help us get away? Protect us from Vautrin?”

“Vautrin, whom you led here, right here, at this very moment? Vautrin, who would have loved to see me dead even before all this started—that Vautrin?”

“Hermine brought Maria here to have her build the Left Hand. She doesn’t want to use it. She just wants to protect herself. Vautrin has recruited a number of police officers, and he has the ear of the King. If he gets rid of Hermine once and for all, the way will be clear for him to declare war on all those harboring demons. No one will be safe.”

“And what about you, Soph? Will you stand by the woman you claim to love, or will you take your place beside the victor, whoever it might be? And if I choose the wrong side, can I expect a knife in my back, too?”

Sophie looked at her miserably, her expression a combination of guilt and helplessness.

“When the time comes, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

It wasn’t the response Corbeau would have hoped for, but it was the one she should have expected. Resisting the impulse to roll her eyes, she gestured toward the hallway in front of her.

“Right. In that case, take me to her.”

“How much longer?” Hermine snarled. The pistol trembled in her fingers as she paced the length of the small room. It wasn’t the gun that Maria feared, though. Between Hermine’s lack of experience with the weapon and her current state of derangement, Maria doubted Hermine could hit the side of a house. The real threat, Maria thought, turning a wary eye upward, was the array of tools, glass, and hardware circling above both of their heads in a jerky orbit of spiritual agitation. “Well?”

Every time you ask me that, it adds an hour to the process,
Maria thought, wishing she had the courage to say it out loud. The debris-cloud shuddered with a metallic clatter, and Maria flinched. All things considered, Hermine was displaying unprecedented restraint, despite her red-ringed eyes and the veins showing blue beneath the pale skin of her face and hands. Her white-blond hair was falling out of the sloppy braid that ran down her thin back. Spiritual energy radiated off her in short, jagged bursts. But Maria knew from experience—bitter experience—that Hermine’s frailty was an illusion. As Hermine pinned her with a wild gaze, Maria averted her eyes, focusing again on her work.

What a mistake it had been, telling Hermine about the Left Hand of Justice! She should have seen Hermine’s eyes were glowing with avarice, not love. She should have known the device, and not the feelings Hermine had protested—the feelings she still protested—would become her single-minded focus. When Maria had left those months ago, Hermine had sworn the device would be hers. True to her word, she’d bodily dragged Maria back to the lab she’d built for her, to finish it. But Maria was running out of time. Hermine might not know anything about machinery, but she wasn’t stupid. Maria could only go on fiddling with wire and screwdrivers for so long before Hermine would realize that Maria had no intention of finishing the weapon.

It was a small comfort that the facilities Hermine had provided were adequate. Somehow Hermine had managed to reproduce the machine lab that Maria had watched her destroy, right down to the jars of washers and screws lined up along the edge of the table. There was an impressive array of tools, as well as metal plates, pins, springs, and cylinders that Maria herself would have ordered for the project. A second table sat at right angles to the first, piled high with canvas, sewing needles, and different thicknesses of cord. Hermine had stood over her while she constructed the canvas sleeve, and there it sat, like the beginnings of a straitjacket, with two rudimentary projectile weapons mounted on the knuckles.

Yes, Maria had been far too trusting at the beginning of their relationship, and she was paying for it now. But at least she could say that even when her feelings had blinded her to Hermine’s true intentions, she had possessed the circumspection to withhold the secret of the Left Hand. Without the conductive fabric—that special feather-light weave of metals Maria had sold half of her possessions to commission—the Left Hand of Justice would never be more than an artful combination of metal and cloth.

The basement room had grown stuffy and close. The musty smell of the damp dirt floor tickled the back of her throat. Although Maria knew the air was adequate for herself, Hermine, and little Joseph, who was quietly doing something in the corner involving scraps of metal and wire, Maria felt panic rising in her chest. It was the same kind of crushing, airless, trapped-animal sensation she used to feel when one of Hermine’s moods would overtake her. When Hermine would corner her and objects would start flying, Maria had been almost willing to believe in demons.

“Madame, couldn’t we keep the door open, just a crack?” Joseph asked, as if sensing Maria’s tension. “The doctor—”

“The doctor will finish her work whether the door is open or not,” Hermine snapped. She began to pace faster, muttering to herself under her breath. The objects overhead moved faster as well, some of the heavier ones breaking out of their orbit and crashing against the walls.

“Of course I’ll finish, Hermine,” Maria said. The placating tone of her own voice set her teeth on edge, but she knew better than to agitate the woman further. She eyed a heavy wrench sitting on the table next to the canvas sleeve. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep?”

Hermine swung her gun back toward Maria. “Quickly, if you know what’s good for you. They’ll be here any minute. And keep that brat quiet.”

“His name is Joseph, and I’m amazed you can hear anything over the clatter you’re making.”

A jar of screws suddenly broke away from the floating procession of objects and careened into the wall above Maria’s head. Maria instinctively cowered as broken glass and bits of metal rained down. Eyes closed, breath shaking, she waited until it stopped, then straightened and brushed the debris from her hair and dress. She should have known better than to talk back. Hermine had taught her that lesson when Maria had thought they were in love. She slowly opened her eyes and adjusted the barrel of the little gun that would sit above the third finger of the Left Hand. She relaxed a bit when Hermine began to pace again. When the other woman turned, Maria stole another glance at the wrench on the sewing table, imagining its cool weight in her hand.

In another instance of almost supernatural perspicacity, Joseph dropped one of the small pieces of hardware he’d been playing with. Hermine looked over, and Maria pocketed the wrench. Joseph threw her a devilish wink, and Maria nodded her thanks. She’d been lucky that she’d been working when Hermine had come for her. She’d fitted her work dress with several hidden pockets—just like the thick apron that covered them.

Hermine stopped and leaned against the wall, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Through her fear, Maria felt a pang of sympathy. She’d seen Hermine in any number of bad states, but never like this. “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” Maria said gently. “I could teach you how to control it.”

“I don’t want to control it. I want it gone.”

“I could show you how to turn it into something useful.”

“A demon can never be useful.”

Maria looked up from the finished projectile weapon now firmly attached to its metal plate. Once she secured it to the canvas sleeve, she would be out of excuses. Hermine would demand a demonstration. She set the piece aside. “It’s not a demon, Hermine.”

Hermine looked up, eyes flashing. The overhead objects rattled against each other and against the walls. Maria’s heart raced, then calmed again as, instead of attacking, Hermine slumped against the wall, her gun hand falling limply to her side. “It’s too late for that now. Vautrin has betrayed us. He’ll be coming for us tonight, I can feel it. And when he comes, that thing has to be ready. Haven’t you figured out what the problem is, at least?”

Maria felt the comforting weight of the wrench in her side pocket. She glanced at Joseph, wondering whether she could drag him to his feet and out the door before Hermine could pull the trigger. “Chief Inspector Vautrin has the entire police department behind him.” Well, perhaps not the entire department, Maria thought. If only she’d played it differently with Inspector Corbeau. If only she’d trusted her initial impression of the inspector’s honesty and good intent. She thought of the silver medallion she’d tucked into the folds of her shift. Double protection, indeed. She could have used Inspector Corbeau’s protection right then. “Instead of waiting for him to come for you, why don’t you leave before he gets here?”

It was the wrong thing to say. The thought was impertinent, the suggestion absurd. Maria knew it the second the words left her mouth. The procession of objects above their heads stopped in their orbits, shook, and flung themselves at the wall. As glass and metal rained down all around them, Hermine fixed Maria with a hateful glare and raised the gun.

*

Corbeau and Sophie stepped off the stairs onto the dirt floor of the basement, greeted with a crash of glass and metal that shook the air. Corbeau put out her arm to keep Sophie back, but Sophie pushed past, instinctively running to a door on the far side of the corridor.

“Hermine!” Sophie pounded on the door with her fist. She shook the doorknob and then ran at the door shoulder-first.

“Stop!” Corbeau grabbed her as she backed up for another run. She held Sophie by the arms, marveling at the fire in the other woman’s eyes and the determination thrumming in her small bones. “You’ll dislocate your arm. “

“But—”

“And then you’ll be no help to Hermine Boucher or anyone else.”
Your beloved Hermine
, Corbeau wanted to say,
who kidnapped a woman and a child and is holding them prisoner
. If she was unsure where Sophie’s loyalties lay, her desperation to batter down the door clarified things a bit. She placed Sophie against the wall where she could keep an eye on her. “Is that where she’s keeping them?” Sophie nodded. “Right. Then stand back. Don’t even think about moving until I say so.”

Taking a breath, Corbeau raised her knee to her chest and brought her foot down hard on the wood to the left of the doorknob. The wood splintered, and the voices inside came to an abrupt stop. Corbeau lifted her leg and kicked again. The door flew inward and bounced off the wall, where it swung weakly from the mangled hinges. Corbeau stepped back and peered around the doorjamb.

Time and experience had taught her not to rush into an unknown situation, but when she saw Kalderash cowering by the table in a pool of broken glass, a powerful surge of protectiveness threatened to sweep her into the room, caution be damned. This brilliant, compassionate woman had risked her life—who knew how many times?—to continue her healing work. She’d been persecuted by the police and falsely accused of a crime that never happened. Corbeau herself had been ready to arrest her earlier that day. Now that Corbeau knew the truth, she’d be damned if she’d let any further evil befall Maria Kalderash. She might not have been able to save the people that her chemical concoctions had hurt in the past, but here, now, she could at least ensure this. “Sûreté. Is anyone injured?”

“No,” Dr. Kalderash said in a tone Corbeau had heard before, from other women afraid an honest answer would result in worse injury once the police had left. Corbeau balled her hands into fists as she watched the inventor slowly straighten, brushing broken glass from her skirt with shaking hands. Kalderash adjusted her hair and cleared her throat. “No one is injured, Inspector.”

Corbeau stepped cautiously into the room, Sophie slipping silently in behind her. From behind her came a voice that sent a chill up her spine.

“Very pretty.”

Corbeau whirled. “Madame Boucher?”

Sophie swung the door shut. The bent hinges kept it from closing completely, but the meaning of the gesture was clear. A sharp-edged smile broke across Madame Boucher’s pale face, sending a shiver of recognition up Corbeau’s spine. Hers was a tormented soul. The torment derived not only from the unwanted spiritual energies Corbeau could feel crackling in the air, but also from the inexpertly compounded chemical remedies to which she had subjected herself.