The Syndicate (Timewaves Book 1) (13 page)

THE NEXT MORNING
, I woke to the smell of coffee and cigarettes. Which could only mean one thing: Ines was already in the townhouse. Lucky me.

Sure enough, she was sitting on the brocade sofa in the living room when I descended the flight of stairs from the second floor. One hand held the offending tobacco, while the other cradled the smallest cup of coffee I’d ever seen.

“Good morning, dear,” she chirped. “Did I wake you? I hope not. It looks as though you could use another hour or two of beauty rest.”

“I’m good,” I told her, choosing to ignore the dig. “Not everyone wakes up looking like they stepped out of a fashion magazine.”

She did, too. In crimson silk pajamas with gold beading around the wrist and ankle cuffs, Ines was picture perfect. Her short, blunt bob was sleek and elegant and her makeup was immaculate. I hadn’t bothered to look in a mirror.

“Did you actually walk outside in your pajamas?”

“Of course, love. It’s perfectly acceptable,” she replied, tapping the ash from her cigarette.

“Where’s Gaige?” I asked, noting the lack of additional snarky comments about my bedhead and rumpled sleep clothes.

“He went for croissants. Now come sit with me.” Ines patted the sofa beside her.

The previous night’s champagne had gone to my head, and I was slightly hungover. The smoke filling the townhouse did not help matters.

“I know medical research hasn’t made the discovery yet, but I am here to tell you that smoking causes cancer,” I told Ines, choosing to sit in the chair farthest from where she was indulging in her bad habit.

Ines’s tinkling laughter sent my headache spiking. It was too early for this.

“Oh, I know, dear. I also know that the scientists and medical professionals on Cyrus’s island have the ability to cure all types of cancer. Besides,” she inhaled deeply, “we all have to die from something.”

“Yeah, but I’d rather die quickly, in my own time,” I grumbled.

The front door opened, signaling Gaige’s return. I sighed gratefully, glad to no longer be alone with Ines. Something about her bothered me. She was nice enough, I supposed. It was just…I didn’t know exactly. She just wasn’t my type, I decided.

“Hey, Stassi, you’re awake,” Gaige called.

“Yep.” I yawned. “Appears so. Please tell me that bag holds deliciousness, I’m starving.”

“As I knew you would be.”

My partner joined us in the living room and placed the grease-stained bag on the coffee table in front of me. I dug in immediately, only remembering my manners once I’d taken the first bite of buttery, chocolaty heaven.

Mouth full, I held out the bakery bag to Ines.

“Want one?”

Her nose wrinkled. “Non, merci.”

Gaige snatched the bag from my hand.

“It’s cool, Ines. You don’t need to sugarcoat it—Stassi is a bottomless pit. The girl eats more than I do.” Smirking at me, he withdrew a newspaper from under his arm and tossed it on the coffee table. “Here, I got this, too. Thought we could read up on current events, so we don’t sound like ignorant tourists.”

The thick black font filling the width of the front page immediately caught my eye.

Night Gentleman Strikes Again
.

“Oh look, Ines. It’s your favorite topic,” I said pointedly.

“Utter rubbish,” Ines declared, waving at the newspaper as if it had insulted her.

“You don’t think this might have been important to tell us?” I asked her, anger rising up. “If it’s significant enough to be on the front of the paper, it might be something we need to know about.”

“Oh don’t be angry, love. I didn’t want to spoil the party with talk of it,” Ines replied easily, as if it were a perfectly good excuse.

With a disgusted sigh, I pulled the paper towards me and began reading the article. Without context, I quickly found myself confused.

“So who’s this guy?” I asked her, pointing to the large picture in the center of the page.

It was a cartoon man in a black mask, top hat, and coattails. The caption underneath asked: A Real-Life Fantômas?

“Who is Fantômas?” I repeated when Ines didn’t answer, readying myself to wade through her excuses and diversions.

“No one. No one real anyhow,” she replied, refusing to elaborate.

I glared at her until she twitched uncomfortably in her seat.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Ines removed the cigarette butt from the holder and replaced it with a fresh one. She took three successive drags, barely exhaling one before inhaling the next. “Fantômas is a character from a novel, a villain who spreads terror through the streets of Paris using a series of nasty pranks.”

“What kind of pranks?” Gaige asked.

“Just silly things. The works of an overactive imagination.”

“Such as?” I persisted.

“I don’t read that nonsense,” Ines replied. “But I heard that the Night Gentleman used a prank straight from Fantômas last night.”

“Acid in place of perfume doesn’t sound silly.” I pointed to the article as I set down the rest of my croissant. Suddenly, I was no longer hungry.

“He is fictional, dear,” Ines stated. Pausing, she sipped her coffee. “Now, on to more pleasant topics. You two should get out and about today, be seen shopping or eating at a café.”

“Not so fast,” I said incredulously, waving at the paper. “We need to know more about Fantômas and the Night Gentleman.”

“There is nothing more to tell,” Ines insisted.

“Ines,” I warned.

She huffed indelicately. Two long streams of smoke plumed from her nostrils as though she was a dragon.

“Fine, but you’re just going to spoil the day,” Ines declared. “Last night was not the first time. The Night Gentleman is rumored to be imitating Fantômas’s crimes from the novels. So far, he has claimed five victims using poisoned flowers, two with bottles of acid perfume, and one by loosing a manhole cover. The poor dear fell to her death in the catacombs. Last week’s attack was particularly sensational because there was a large audience. Supposedly, the depraved little man replaced a snake dancer’s harmless python, and it strangled her in the middle of a performance.”

“You’re joking,” Gaige said, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“I mostly certainly am not,” Ines professed haughtily.

Gaige turned to me. “You know those old comic books Tiger collects? The ones from the 2200s, with batboy and his sidekick? The main villain in those is sort of like this.”

“Batman,” I corrected, without thinking.

Confusion quickly quashed my embarrassment over knowing that fact. Why wasn’t this in our dossiers? Why hadn’t Historian Eisenhower mentioned the murders? A super villain, or rather serial killer, was sort of an important part of history. Particularly when he was operating at the time and place of our mission.

“You need to tell us everything you know,” I demanded with a no-nonsense look at Ines. Something wasn’t adding up. “How do they know the same guy is responsible for all of these incidents?”

“Because the self-indulgent man takes credit for each of his acts,” Ines replied plainly.

“Like Jack the Ripper?” Gaige asked.

“Jack-the-whom?”

“He murdered prostitutes, then wrote to Scotland Yard and the newspapers about his crimes to take credit for them,” I explained.

Ines simply stared.

“Never mind, you would have just been born when he was active. The point is, does Fantômas send notes to the press? Or the authorities?” I demanded.

Sick of having to pry each little speck of information from Ines, I was becoming increasingly frustrated with this conversation. Surprises were not good things on runs. Surprises got runners killed. A serial killer murdering victims like some graphic novel anarchist could get me killed.

Ines shook her head. “No, nothing quite so brazen. Thus far, he has left a poisoned red rose at each scene, with a note signed
The Night Gentleman
.”

A poisoned rose and a message? That sounded pretty damned brazen to me.

When I looked over at my partner, the frown lines on Gaige’s face matched the anxiety I felt inside. We should have learned about this guy. The historians had a duty to warn us about potential dangers. A freaking serial killer definitely fell into that category.

“How long has this been going on?” Gaige asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. There was no trace of his usual good humor, not even a hint of a smirk in sight. This was the guy I trusted my life with.

“A month? Maybe longer? I am not certain, I’ve only overheard bits and bobs about the subject,” Ines replied. “I don’t read the newspapers, they are such a killjoy.”

Her blasé attitude was transparent. The way she lit one cigarette after another was a clear indication that she was frightened. Our guide’s reluctance to discuss Fantômas or the Night Gentleman or whoever he was also spoke volumes.

Eager to learn everything there was to know about our new, unforeseen threat, I started in again. “What have you—”

The look Gaige shot me made the words stick in my throat. I slouched back in my chair, unsure how to interpret his silent signal. My partner turned to Ines, all traces of unease wiped clean.

“Enough of that. What did you have in mind for today? You said something about getting out and being seen? I’m game, but Stassi will need some time to make herself presentable before she faces the world. Like, a
lot
of time. You know what I mean?” Gaige winked conspiratorially at Ines.

Visibly relieved by the topic change, Ines began babbling about Closerie des Lilas, a favorite café of both Hemingway and Rosenthal in Montparnasse. She went on to mention some gardens and a market she thought we should visit, both of which were places Rosenthal enjoyed and would give us something to talk about with him.

I tuned out the alchemist and turned my attention to the article about the Night Gentleman. The mission suddenly seemed decidedly less important than it had when I woke. There was a serial killer prowling the streets, not only creating landmines that we had to avoid, but also posing a potential threat to our safety. I didn’t want to be a drama queen, but I wasn’t prepared for anything of this caliber.

The newspaper’s account was light on detail and heavy on conjecture. The journalist brushed over the facts, focusing instead on drawing comparisons between the Night Gentleman, the comic book villain Fantômas, and also a convicted murderer who’d been executed several years back. The parallels between the three were disconcerting.

The article’s author didn’t spare a word in his account of how the French police were handling the crimes. He claimed the lead investigator, an Inspector Thoreau
,
was both inept and willfully ignorant to the facts before him.

The journalist went on to liken the killings to those of Jack the Ripper, positing that, like Jack, it was unlikely the Night Gentleman would be apprehended, even though all the clues he left behind were obvious signs that he wanted to be caught. At the end of the article, the journalist went so far as to invite the Night Gentleman to send his notes directly to the newspaper, so that he may play his game with a worthy foe.

“Sound like a plan, Stass?” Gaige asked.

I glanced up from the paper in my lap. “Hmmm?”

“Get ready, hit up the Luxembourg Gardens, then have a late lunch at Closerie des Lilas?” he recapped the conversation I’d been tuning out.

“Yep, that works for me. Ines, will you be joining us?” I asked, hoping she’d decline the invitation. I wanted some alone time with Gaige to discuss the Night Gentleman, since he evidently didn’t want to have the conversation in front of her.

“I am afraid I have another commitment this morning, but I will join you all for lunch,” she replied.

“Pity.” The word just popped out, and I cringed at my rudeness. Fortunately, Ines spoke almost entirely in rude, offhanded comments without seeming to offend, so she was oblivious to my snarky tone.

“I know, dear,” she said, reaching over to pat my hand. “Lucky for us, we still have much time to spend together.”