Finding Gabriel (3 page)

Breathless, Ariah eased forward till she stood no more than a meter away. She swallowed, sank to the crutch of her knees, and tentatively swept back the man’s sodden forelock. Fingertips trembling in time with her heart, she cupped his chin and lifted his face from the icy water.

A dull scream roared inside her throat. Despite the cold, both palms grew heavy with perspiration, plastering cotton to flesh.
Mon Dieu.
Nearly half of his face was missing.

A crude hole gaped where his left cheek should have been, and the flesh was twisted into nothing more than a bloody pulp. Shredded skin sagged from his face in gruesome strands. The wound stretched centimeters below his eye to the corner of his left lip. Vivid bruises spanned the hole’s perimeter like vaults into hell. Several teeth had been blown away, leaving his gums swollen and gushing. And his cheekbone was cleanly shattered. It protruded, stabbing through the torn flesh at sharp, irregular angles. Bile welled in Ariah’s gut and rose into her throat. The sight was unbearably painful – even to look upon.

God above, what had happened to this poor soul? Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. A thousand scenarios flashed through her mind, each one more gruesome than the last.

Was he possibly still alive? Holding her breath, she pressed two fingertips along the side of his neck. In a weak response, his pulse thrummed at an uneven and dangerously slow rhythm. Ariah crossed herself in a clumsy movement and rewarded her necklace with a grateful squeeze.

Yes, he was alive, at present, but without her help, he’d be dead within minutes.

Ariah knew she ought to turn away. For the sake of her little girl, propriety, and maintaining the delicate balance that had become her life, she ought to regard this night as nothing more than a bad dream … a distant memory of the deep subconscious. Morning’s light would illuminate her wisdom and burn away the tragedy she’d witnessed.

Involving herself in this mess would be pure madness.

But compassion muddled all hope for logic, and Ariah found herself wrenching the man’s body from the river’s blackened depths.

And such a thing was no easy feat. The man was built like a warrior – composed of pure muscle and brawn. A resounding coldness swept through her body as she tossed her ratty shawl aside. Then she stripped away her kid gloves and tucked them within her dress pocket. A sudden breeze whispered through the trees’ branches. Shivering, she massaged her bare arms and urged heat into her bones.

Ariah removed the soldier’s satchel and slung it across her body. The strap hugged her curves in a lethal grasp and chafed at her neck. Water oozed through her dress in a slow, agonizing burn, causing her insides to grow numb and heavy.

Turn away now,
her mind urged once more.

Non,
her heart insisted with its characteristic stubbornness,
fate has already been sealed.
For better or for worse, there was no turning back.

Shoving away her discomfort, she eased her arms beneath the man’s muscled limbs and took hold. Water bit into her flesh like a thousand jagged teeth. It was so cold – so unbearably cold.

So cold that it burned.

Cold enough to kill.

Chastened by that thought, focusing solely on the task at hand, Ariah inhaled a deep breath and summoned her courage.

Ariah adjusted her burden with a great grunt of effort.
Mon Dieu,
but the man was heavier than bricks. Perspiration seeped from her hairline and streamed down her cheeks like tears. Each step burned more than the one before it – and the ground below her feet seemed to be paved with hot coals rather than chilled cobblestones.

With barely any breath left, she and Miriam abandoned the frigid night air and dragged the man across the threshold. Head lolled forward, he was unconscious and steadily nearing death.

The sound of groaning wood shook the silence as Ariah nudged the door open with her hip. Knees close to buckling, she and Miriam both swayed on their feet and fought to retain balance. Ariah exhaled a rigid breath and grasped the archway to better support her body. She scrubbed her face with the shawl, dabbing away those stubborn beads of sweat.

“On my word, he must weigh over ninety h-h-hundred kilograms,” Miriam huffed beneath a strained breath. Her eyes were full of apprehension and unmasked fear as she examined the man’s battered features.

Mon Dieu.

“Yes,” Ariah agreed, struggling beneath the soldier’s crushing weight. “He is a rather large man, is he not? But no more speaking. We mustn’t wake Emmaline. I don’t wish to frighten her.”

And frighten her it would. Ariah had never seen a more terrible or gruesome sight. Blood streamed down the curve of the man’s neck and cascaded from the gun wound. Splashes of red stained the greatcoat’s collar. His left cheek had been torn asunder, exposing raw tissue, tendons, and shattered bone. Between the stormy weather and near-fatal injury, it was a true miracle he still lived. His condition was worsening with each moment. And if they didn’t act diligently, he’d soon be dead.

“Next to the fire,” Ariah whispered to her sister.

Miriam nodded. Together, they straggled inside and scaled the barren surroundings. Half-completed paintings were propped against the farthest wall in a single-file line. On the opposite side stood a scarred wooden table and rocking chair. It was stationed in front of the hearth, a crochet pillow resting in its lap. And an easel stood beside it, boasting a blank canvas and what little inspiration Ariah so recently felt.

The screech of nails on wood rang out as Oliver emerged from the back chambers.

What if Emmaline awakened?

With renewed urgency, Ariah angled her face toward the blazing hearth and guided Miriam toward it. The man’s drenched boots scraped against the floorboards and left bruised puddles in their wake. A massive arm wrapped around each of their necks – and the length of his limbs spanned wider than their shoulders.

Ariah and Miriam knelt, unhooked his arms with a collective groan, and eased the man into a reclined position. His head rolled onto its side, aligning the left half of his face with the floorboards. Blood pooled underneath his torn features, where it expanded into an unholy red sea.

Ariah hustled to the hearth, removed the satchel from her shoulder, and placed it beside the flames. Then she grabbed a spare linen from the table and wrapped it around the man’s gushing wound. After the bleeding was more or less pressurized, Ariah paced over to Oliver and ushered him into Emmaline’s bedchamber. She breathed a sigh of relief as she eyed her daughter’s sleeping form. Shutting the door behind her, she quickly returned to the drawing room and crouched beside the soldier.

Remnants of firelight brightened the uniform’s dark hue and illuminated the numerous medals. They rattled, clinking in time with each shift of his mighty form. Indeed, his muscular body was a flesh-and-blood testament to his years on the battlefield.

“Would you mind keeping an eye on Emmaline? I’m afraid Oliver might rouse her,” Ariah whispered to her sister, knowing well Miriam would appreciate a moment to gather her nerves.

“Of c-course,” Miriam said, rising to her feet. “I’ll fetch a basin, alcohol, some linens, and the like w-w-while I’m at it.” Her stutter had grown so severe, the words were barely coherent. With a swish of her skirts, she vanished into Emmaline’s bedchamber.

Ariah sighed, leaned forward, and untied the man’s shoelaces. She slid each boot and sock from his feet and set them with his satchel beside the fire. Clutching her body, she returned to his side and lowered onto her knees. In spite of the blazing hearth, a profound shudder raked through her limbs.

In Miriam’s absence the walls shrank indefinitely. A cloud formed within the pit of Ariah’s chest and eclipsed her heart. She unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders, rolled it into a makeshift pillow, and arranged the material beneath the man’s wrecked features. Streaks of crimson leaked through the linen; they stained both her shawl and palms, painting them an unforgiving red.

The right side of his face was valiant and rugged, softened only by dark, sweeping lashes. How very beautiful he’d once been.

A thousand questions crossed her mind. Did he have someone to love? Was a wife patiently awaiting his return? Did he have children who’d grieve at the loss of a father?

In a delicate motion, she swept her fingers across his brow and pushed away the damp forelock. Firelight danced across the multitude of thick waves. Streaks of ice shone within the black, igniting his hair with enchanting highlights. The frost stubbornly clung to the strands and fought to brave out the nearby hearth. How wondrously peaceful he looked in his sedated state. Almost childlike. His face appeared astonishingly innocent, whatever horrors he’d endured hidden behind a mask of sleep.

Ariah narrowed her gaze upon the dangling
Légion d’Honneur
badge. The medal brilliantly shined and glittered. Contrasting against the dark uniform, Ariah thought it resembled a star in an eternal night sky. Strangely transfixed, she reached forward and caressed the insignia with her fingertip. A film of grime and dirt obscured the emblem, tarnishing its sovereign beauty. With an aching heart, she traced all five points of the white enameled
croix
… the faded silk ribbon … the golden insignia with Marianne’s stern, engraved profile – the trusted face of liberty and reason …

Suddenly it was very important this stranger survived the night. Ariah Larochelle would not let him die. Not with his blood on her hands. Not as he lay within reach, sprawled across her drawing room’s floorboards. For better or for worse, their fates were united.

And in the back of her mind, she heard that terrible, guttural sound once more:
the whisper of a dying man’s breath.
Indeed, she’d already turned her cheek years ago. This time, things would be different.

This man would live.

“She’s still fast asleep, the poor d-dear. Looks just like an a-angel.”

Jarred by her sister’s voice, Ariah wrenched her hand away from the man. Palm splayed against her racing heart, she jerked her face in Miriam’s direction.

“Oh, g-goodness. Didn’t mean to give you such a wretched f-fright.”

“I shall survive. I didn’t see you come back in.”

Ariah returned her stare to the man’s face and removed the linen. In spite of herself, she winced at the sight. Spilling down his neck, blood flowed from the black crater in long, indolent streams. The shawl was stained a deep red and soaked through below his skull. The wide expanse of his chest rose and fell in a dangerously slow rhythm. Had the gunman aimed centimeters higher, the man would have been left without an eye and ear. Even now, he was likely blinded from the trauma.

“May God show him mercy,” Ariah said, her voice slightly above a whisper. Then she latched onto her silver cross and murmured a silent prayer.

Miriam knelt beside her and set down the basin. Ariah scooted near to Miriam, reached inside, and helped assemble the items: linens, bandages, iodine, and alcohol. Ariah gently cradled the soldier’s head and lifted his face from the shawl. Saliva oozed through the gun hole, mingling with the blood. Around the puncture, the flesh was limp and stringy, almost appearing melted. Red oozed from his gums and seeped down the broad curve of his chin, painting his skin with vivid swashes of color. Shaken by the sight, she and Miriam remained in stunned silence for several moments.

Ariah steeled her nerves and collected a large piece of linen. She folded it once, twice, three times, pried open his mouth with her fingertips, and placed it between his teeth.

“Are you sure you o-o-ought to do that?” Miriam asked in clear disbelief.

Offering no reply, she pushed his jaws shut, applying a gentle pressure to his gums to pressurize the bleeding. After a couple moments of silence, she eased her hold and turned to Miriam. Her sister’s complexion was chalk white, those sea-green eyes wide and wary.

“Well, I’m sure he shall bleed to death should I
not
do so.”

Miriam nodded and seemed to grow thoughtful. “I – I’ve just n-never seen such a th-thing,” she interjected, as if needing to explain herself. In spite of her good heart, Miriam’s upbringing had skewed her worldview, instilling ignorance and primitive superstitions.

“Neither have I, though I reckon he’ll be thirsty and prone to infection. We shall need plenty of fresh water,” Ariah said, unwinding a second linen sheet. Still unable to speak, Miriam met her gaze and mutely nodded. “Give me a moment,” Ariah sighed. “I’ll draw some water from the well.”

•

Beyond the walls, Ariah draped the shawl over her head, hastened her steps, and headed straight for her destination. The water well was a good distance away and shared by a handful of families in the district. Her insides quivered as she recalled stories of skeletons being discovered inside those stone walls. According to rumor, men and women had been thrown into the well where they met a slow, agonizing death, their echoed cries ignored.
Mon Dieu.
Ariah brushed away the macabre thoughts and resumed her forward march.

Shivering, she secured the basin in one hand and felt for her dagger. She was ashamed of her fears. For many years, Ariah had prided herself on being strong and independent. She’d been orphaned at an early age, and in spite of the hardships, had adapted quite well to such a lifestyle. Being orphaned had required her to mature from girl to woman seemingly overnight.

The corner of her eye registered movement. Ariah’s pulse raced and her heart skipped a beat. A shadowy figure darted from sight, while the thud of footfall clattered against the cobblestones. Her skin prickled, tightened, crawled. She raised her skirts a few centimeters and secured her palm over the dagger’s wooden hilt.

Continuing on, she exhaled a withheld breath as the ancient well finally came into sight. A moment later, a dull thud fractured the silence as she thrust the wooden basin onto the muddy ground. Below her feet, a thin layer of frost clung to the dirt, twigs, and gravel. She grunted, reached for the pulley, and gave a firm tug.

Why must the world be filled with such cruelties and injustices?

The rope bit into her gloves as she gave another insistent pull. The sloshing of well water mixed with the distant roar of thunder. Seduced by her effort, a small bucket emerged from the water’s oily depths. Creaking in objection, it rose into sight at a maddeningly slow pace.

Images of the soldier who lay not fifty meters away raced through her mind. He was a soldier very much like her dear Jacques … a soldier who’d sacrificed himself in the emperor’s name … a solider who’d dedicated years of his life to his beloved country …

A soldier who’d quite possibly be dead come morning.

The pulley creaked in objection and unwound a good meter or two, sufficiently dropping the bucket from her grasp. Manipulated by the force of the fall, the rope whizzed like some crazed serpent and nearly burned through the barrier of her kid gloves. Ariah muttered an uncharacteristic oath, arched her shoulder, and rubbed droplets of sweat from her brow.

The well’s circular walls were marred by a tangle of moss and chipped stonework. Much like the rest of Paris, the well had grown weary and weathered with time. Ariah felt no empathy for its black fate. She simply tightened her grip on the rope and returned the well’s hostility through narrowed eyes. The blasted thing seemed to possess a mind of its own – and it was openly challenging her in a morbid tango.

“You shan’t win this day,” she vowed.

Ariah blew a wayward curl from her forehead, leaned forward, and continued the epic match of tug-of-war. Every few moments, she glanced into the shadows and surveyed the dank surroundings. She could hardly see fifteen meters in front of her. Fog tumbled across the cobblestones, appearing as ghostly apparitions. Overhead, the suspended oil lamps flickered with willful defiance and fought to brave out the harsh weather.

With each twist of Ariah’s body, the hidden dagger ground against her thigh in a reassuring touch. As always, memories of that long-ago night bombarded her thoughts. It was a night that had occurred nearly seven years before … a night that had spirited away a part of her soul … a night that would never dawn …

Exhausted and spent, she summoned her remaining strength and gave a firm pull. The bucket finally reached its destination, swaying and dangling in midair. A triumphant sigh fled her lips as she secured the rope in place. Freeing her nemesis, she breathlessly murmured, “Surrendered, I see.”

Then she gripped the dagger, clutched the basin to her chest, and returned home at a fierce sprint.

•

Ariah was relieved to discover that the soldier’s greatcoat and white trousers were nearly dry from the hearth. He appeared to have lapsed into a semi-conscious state. His breathing was mercifully regular now, and he no longer shivered from the cold. Exhaling a weary sigh, she set down the basin and gazed at the man’s wrecked features.

Who was he? Where did he come from? What sort of life had he lived until this moment? And what had sentenced him to such a terrible fate?

Ariah tightened her coiffure and crouched beside her sister. Then she tugged at her kid gloves and unsheathed both hands. Free from barriers, she rested her palm against the soldier’s forehead and brushed away the heavy forelock.

A glint of light caught her attention. She collected his right hand from the floorboards and examined the signet ring.
GL
was engraved on the gold face in artistic calligraphy. Ariah traced the lettering with her index finger before lowering his hand to the floor. She felt her sister’s eyes fixed on her, studying her every movement, every breath.