Viridian (The Hundred-Days Series Book 2) (27 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Judging by the smell, she’d been
spot on when she’d guessed the soldiers had been using the pit as a latrine.
She sat still, her body numb except for burning wounds, keeping against one
wall and out of deeper slop toward the middle.

The guards above must have no idea
she could hear them, or perhaps they didn’t know she spoke French. Perhaps they
were just too stupid to keep anything to themselves.

“Madame wanted them brought here
and finished.”

“Why would we lock them in the pit,
if we’re just going to kill them? I think she means to do more with them
first.” This from a younger sounding man, a voice she didn’t recognize from
this morning’s fracas.

“She's going to be furious if she
finds out we haven’t already buried them.”

One of the men shifted and she
caught a thumping, a boot or rifle butt. “This one is already dead, so we're
fifty-percent in the right, either way she wants it.”

Olivia’s heart jumped into her
throat.
Please, please let them be wrong
. As angry as she was with Ty at
the moment, just the thought of him injured tore her heart. Dead? She couldn’t
entertain the thought. There was so much she needed to say, so much she needed
to fix. She prayed that he was too stubborn, and the guards too lazy, for what
they claimed to be true.

Breathing through a wave of cold
panic, she struggled to catch the rest of their exchange. “... means we can
take our time with the bitch.”

“You can goddamn have her. I'll
keep what she left of my nose. And what about the lad’s eyes? Ugh!”

“Ought to have slit her throat
right then. Before we do a thing, I'm settling the matter. Do we kill them or
keep them?” demanded the second guard.

“How's that?” challenged the first.

“I'm riding to the farm and asking
her myself.”

“And then you'll come back, no
matter what she says, and tell me you were right. Plow yourself. If you go, I'm
going too.”

“Well, let's go together,
majesty
. Chevois can mind this one, and I can be proved right that much
sooner.”

Impossible
. They could not
be leaving together. But sure enough, a moment later the soldiers' bickering
faded under the hoof beats of two horses. That only left one in the camp by her
estimation. One, she could manage.

Soldiers so green gave her hope
that perhaps Napoleon’s oncoming assault would not be a lasting one. These men
couldn’t follow a simple order to dispatch two prisoners. The baroness had left
two of the stupidest men in France to guard her. Their officer wasn't much
better, and he seemed to have little control over his men.

She wasn’t complaining; she
wouldn’t be staying that long.

Her hands and feet found purchase
in the pit's muddy slope. Grit seeped into her shoes and buried field stones
tore remaining fingernails as she climbed. Within reach of the grate, she used
one of the rocks to bang the iron bars, waiting, holding her breath to see if
anyone else came. There had been a third guard, but if he was there, he showed
no sign. She had to risk it. There was no telling how long it would take the
others to return.

Poking numb fingers through her
tangle of wet, matted hair, she at last found the small braid. It originated
just above her nape, and it was buried out of sight and not easy to feel. With
slow, measured pinches she worked the silver hairpin free of her braid's weave.

Gaining as much leverage as she
could in smooth-soled boots, Olivia raised both arms through the grate, feeling
until she bumped its hefty padlock. This would be tricky. She needed the lock
horizontal so that the pins would fall properly as she picked it. Thanks to the
half-ring it was threaded through, getting it perfectly upright wouldn’t be
possible. She threw a silent curse in what she imagined was the general
direction of Ty’s prone form. This was
his
area of expertise.

She made herself concentrate. This
would just take a little time, but she could do it. Breathing deeply and calming
her hammering heart, she got to work. First, she twisted the pin in half at its
arc. Bending one length into a hook against a bar overhead, Olivia grasped the
lock and pulled it down toward her. With the hook, she scraped, and with the
other half, she applied pressure to the mechanism, encouraging it to turn when
she had the pins set right.

It was precise work, hard enough in
the best conditions. Cold hands, poor footing, and no view of her progress made
for slow going. Bars dug into her inner arms, muscles aching. Wrists burned at
the awkward angle. She was losing her grip. She doubted the estate that Thalia
was using was far from here, and the guards could be back any moment.

Suddenly something gave, there was
a
clang
, and the pin rotated. The lock came off in her hand. She could
hardly believe it and sat stunned for a moment.

Jerking on the grate, she lost her
balance, feet slipping. She tumbled back into the frigid, muddy water below
more than once, but finally the makeshift door slid aside. First, she poked up
just enough of her head to survey the area. During the struggle earlier, it had
been mostly dark and she hadn’t had time to get a good look. They were in a
bare clearing, and judging by the dry soil and exposed roots, the soldiers had
made it their home some time ago. Pilfered British army crates sat everywhere,
heaps of gear lying atop nearly every one. Ammo bags and bayonets lay under
rifle slings that hung off trees at the edge of the clearing, coiling toward
the ground like snakes. Smoke drifted from a small campfire. It was
mid-morning, judging by a sun still low on the horizon, checked by mist rising
up through the trees.

Ty's boot soles were visible across
the fire from her, but she could see no more. Nothing moved. There wasn’t a
sound besides some songbirds in the copse around her. She dared to come out
farther, neck and then shoulders. At last, she climbed free of the hole. She
sat, crouched, motionless and watching. She wanted to run to Ty, but the third
soldier was here somewhere. He could rush her the second she was in the open.

Long moments passed, but there were
just the incidental noises of the forest.

She palmed the heavy iron padlock,
gripping it at the ready, eyes darting for any movement. One tottering step at
a time, she moved closer to Ty, her feet half asleep from sitting and numb from
the cold water. She was exhausted and weighed down by a damp hem, adding to her
frustration. Reaching Ty, she leaned over him, bracing for signs that her
captors had been right. Heart in her throat, Olivia spit onto the back of her
hand, holding it over his mouth and nose. She felt nothing, but her hands were
so numb from the cold that she wasn’t surprised. Not giving up, she picked up a
limp hand and squeezed his index finger. It blanched, then went pink again.

Idiots
. He was not dead,
just sedated.

And for now, on his own. She needed
the documents, and she needed a horse, and there was no dragging Ty along
behind. Annoyance began to replace relief. She should leave him right there, as
punishment for whatever scheme he’d tried to pull without telling her.
Softening at the sight of the cuts and bruises on his face, she relented.
Huffing and puffing, cursing him in two languages, she managed to drag him out
of the clearing and into a cradle of roots on the backside of giant oak.

She had to move lightly and
quickly. Casting about, she selected a shot bag and a sturdy Baker rifle the
soldiers had conveniently propped against a tree. There were no knives, but in
a wooden bowl beside the fire, she discovered a straight razor. It would do in
a pinch.

With a last glance around to gain
her bearings, she loped out into the wood in search of her prey.

*          *          *

Certain she’d found the soldiers'
path to and from camp, Olivia lay prone in leaf litter alongside the trail, not
daring to move. It was taking longer than she'd expected, and she desperately
needed warmth and food. She was just starting to doubt her hiding place when
she finally heard a whinny; then voices reached her ears. She tucked the hand
with the razor just a bit farther under her side, touched the rifle butt with
her toe to be sure of its placement where it rested behind her, and held her
breath. Everything was ready; now they simply had to play along.

“What...look!”

“I knew it! I told you she would
try to run the moment we left. Chevois' let her get loose.”

“We locked her in, you great ass!”

“Still, I warned you.”

“Didn't get far. Do you think she's
dead, too?”

“Look at all that blood on her
skirt. It's a fair guess. A fox, maybe?”

A small cut to the arm combined
with damp fabric always
looked
like a lot of blood. Olivia smiled
against the dirt; did the trick every time.

One set of boots struck the ground,
holding still a moment.
Come on. Closer, closer.
He crept forward one
cautious step at a time and prodded her between the shoulders with a bayonet
point. He was insistent; it was hard to stay still as it pierced her skin. A
moment later, his musket clattered to the ground. She caught the creak of
leather, boots creasing as he crouched beside her.

Olivia flicked the razor open,
separating blade from handle.

He rolled her over.

He had a moment to feel surprise as
she bolted up; she read it on his face, hugging him for all she was worth, but
it didn’t last long. The blade's bite was true, gritty through flesh and
tendon. She was bathed in a hot dampness that washed over her knuckles. He was
limp before her arm finished its arc.

His companion flailed in the
saddle, eyes wide, spittle flying from his lips. He made short, sharp screams,
a kind of high-pitched
'ahhh'
that was almost amusingly feminine. He
could have shot her before she’d reached her rifle, if he’d had any spine.
Would he gather his wits and defend himself better than he had his friend?

He strangled the reins, horse
rearing, circling, hooves at last gaining purchase and propelling them back the
way they'd come.

No, he would not.

That was all right; she had come
prepared. Olivia snatched the Baker from beside the elm, then wiped each hand
down her skirt in turn, cleaning the blood from slick hands.

Shouldering the rifle, she led the
rider's progress, counting back from five. On
two
, she took a breath. On
one
she held it.

The rifle's crack pierced her
eardrums and its butt kicked her shoulder like an eager racehorse. Sulfur
filled her nose. Powder smoke, bitter and salty, burned her split lip. The
soldier tumbled, halfway between the copse and the farm, and didn't get up. His
mount charged off without direction.

That would damn well get her
attention
.

Olivia tiptoed toward the first
man's horse, spooked and pacing at the gunshot. He was a fair warhorse,
refusing to bolt and was easily tamed. She lashed him to a broken stump a few
paces into the trees and set out for the farm.

*          *          *

Ty felt the sensation before he was
even aware of his surroundings:
He was going to vomit
.

Luckily, there was nothing in his
stomach. He realized absently that this had likely kept him from dying while
incapacitated. Instead, he wretched fruitlessly until his chest ached, then
flipped from front to back, panting. His hands were frigid and he couldn't feel
his feet. His face felt like he’d gone ten rounds with Webb while his arms were
tied behind his back.

He could hear Kate's voice, but it
came from inside his head. He seized on it, remembering details, trying to get
his head to stop spinning. The voice wrote words behind his eyes as it spoke. A
letter. Kate's neat loops twining into sentences. Warning that the fresh herbs
were more potent than the dried. That had been important. Don't take too much.
Well, he’d cocked that up. Thank God he’d built up somewhat of a tolerance for
the sedative. What the guard had made him swallow would have killed him,
otherwise.

As it was, he had the worst
hangover of his entire life.

There was a noise from off in the
woods, possibly a gunshot. The sound pierced his fogged mind, the awareness
that the sound was dangerous. He had to move, escape. The soldiers; he had to
find Olivia. He opened his eyes. Nothing focused, and there was a fire near
him. Too bright. He shut them again, feeling much better.

It was harder than before, rolling
over. His head swam and for a moment he wasn't sure which direction he was
facing. He forgot and remembered more than once that he needed to hide, to
reach Olivia. He pressed his fingers into the dirt, gripping something hard
just above his head. He arched, pulling forward, but no two muscles seemed
capable of working together. He made some progress; knees scraping the dirt
reassured him of the fact, but as quickly as he had started, he was spent.

After a moment of struggling, his
brain whispered seductively that it would be so much easier just to stop
moving, to go back to sleep. After another moment of trying and failing to
recall why he shouldn't, he rested his cheek against the dirt and gave in.

A distant voice in the back of his
mind screamed for attention, cried out that this was wrong, but it was silenced
by dark oblivion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Olivia didn't doubt that Thalia had
heard the shot. And she would be keen enough to note that it was a
single
shot.

She would try to resist, but as
with all her indulgences, Thalia would give in. She would have to see her
enemies' corpses for herself. Olivia moved slowly, concealed by tall grass,
watching the barn she’d discovered by retracing the soldier’s path.

Olivia estimated that she was no
more than fifty yards east of the brown brick farmhouse when Thalia came
trotting into view on her ridiculous little pony, clopping along in a southerly
direction towards the soldiers' camp.

It occurred that she still carried
the rifle. She could finish d'Oettlinger now, with ease. Palming the rifle and
readying to load, she glanced down and cursed, discovering that the shot bag
was gone. The first soldier must have grabbed it as he fell to the ground
after. That was all right. Low hanging fruit never tasted quite as sweet, and
she enjoyed the thought of settling things with Thalia face to face. Philipe’s
face, his eyes on hers, flashed through her mind, as painful now as it had been
in the moment. The rage in her, numbed by the last few hours as she’d worried
about survival, was kindled anew as she watched the baroness clop along. A
chilling sense of pleasure filled her at the missing shot bag.

Somehow, though, she had to goad
Thalia into a concealed, controllable space. No wide woods. No chance to run or
call for help. She couldn’t risk attention from other camps in the surrounding
woods, a possibility of more soldiers awaiting Napoleon’s return. She had to
get Thalia into the barn.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia bided
her time. Flexing tense fingers, she studied the barn's exterior, trying to
imagine an interior she had never seen. There would be an undercroft, and a
ladder down from the loft. Stairs to a main floor which may or may not be
intact. She would need to get above her target. Draw her off, and double back.
Thalia was too cunning for a face-to-face confrontation, and Olivia couldn’t
risk her having a gun.

At about thirty yards now, she
stopped. She had to balance things perfectly, placing herself close enough that
Thalia's killer instinct would draw her in behind, and not so far that the
woman had time to hesitate or consider the consequences.

When her gut said the moment was
right, Olivia jammed two fingers between her lips, piercing the air with a
shrill whistle. She waited just long enough to see Thalia wheel her mount and
not a second longer. Hefting weighty skirts, she grasped the rifle and ran. Her
pace was measured; she couldn't arrive too winded, or too early.
Or too
late.
A rattle through the dirt and into her feet said that was very nearly
the case. Thalia's comically tiny animal was faster than she’d given it credit
for. It would have to be close for her to feel its strides.

Olivia darted in through a main
door hung sadly from rotting leather thongs. Holes in the thatch high above
cast beams of light, sparkling with starlight bits of dust. The pale rays
offered just enough illumination for her to get her bearings.

Stairs went up to her left. She
mounted them without hesitation, making notes as she went. A stone foundation
hugged the wall on three sides, supporting what was left of an old floor above
an undercroft. A weathered ladder with half its rungs broken dangled from beams
on the far side of the building. With her back against the wall, she skirted at
a furious pace along the narrow stone catwalk, mortar crumbling away under her
toes as she moved. At any minute, she expected the support to give way and drop
her to the dirt below.

When she reached the landing above
the ladder, she felt around for a loose piece of floor timber. A splintered
length gave way, scraping the tender flesh exposed by missing fingernails.
Olivia ignored the blood coating her fingertips, working to balance the scrap
between a rung on the ladder and the edge of the hatch. With any luck, when the
door banged shut behind Thalia and its breeze filled the room, the board would
fall. Even if it was just momentary, any distraction would help her. Once she
had it tilted just right, she began a shuffle back to the other side, waiting.

It wasn’t long before Thalia bolted
through the man door and froze. Head cocking cat-like, she listened. The door
slammed behind, just as Olivia had hoped, dislodging her decoy from above the
ladder. Thalia darted into a shadow created by the remaining floor above her.

Olivia, nearly back at the stairs
now, could no longer see Thalia. She could hear her, though.        “I've been
to the clearing, Olivia. Major Burrell is dead.”

Olivia felt a detached kind of
disappointment at the obvious lie. Thalia was capable of more cleverness, and
pouting silently, Olivia thought she deserved it. Perhaps she should be
insulted. Trying to slow her breathing, to quiet a heartbeat thundering in her
ears, she strained to hear footsteps but caught nothing.

She sat in the darkness, waiting,
her body trembling with the visceral desire to wrap her hands around Thalia’s
neck, to squeeze until the light dimmed from her eyes. A taste for vengeance
filled her mouth as real as any hunger for food, burned her lungs like a need
for air. Hearing Thalia’s lilting voice had just increased her bloodlust. Not
even Fouche engendered such a primal, predatory urge, to sink her teeth into
her quarry’s throat, to shake until it hung limp in her grip. Olivia worried
about herself, through a detached haze, and did not envy Thalia being on the
receiving end.

“Pity he and I were not lovers for
very long.” Thalia’s voice grew fainter, echoing up from closer to the ladder
at the opposite end of the room. “I don’t believe my breasts have ever received
so much delicious attention.”

Olivia was in no danger of losing
her temper, but it took effort not to double up laughing and give herself away.

When her provocation didn’t elicit
a response, Thalia changed tactics. “I have three guards in the wood. You only
managed one, my dear. The others will be looking for you.”

Olivia smiled, real joy bending her
mouth. As she’d hoped, Thalia was going strictly by the gunshots, and she was
in for a surprise.

“How long, do you think, until the
other two reach us?” The words faded in and out; she was searching, scouting
for her adversary. She was good at this, Olivia admitted, moving slowly and
patiently.

Something struck the ladder across
the barn from her; a foot, or fist. The rickety lumber toppled, smacking the
hatch then the dirt floor, throwing up clouds of dust. Now was her chance.
Thalia would never be farther away.

Olivia rushed the steps, eating
them up two and three at a time in a furious sprint for the door.

At the bottom of the last flight,
something hooked between her legs.
A shoe
. She registered the answer as
it pulled back, catching her ankle. She thrust the rifle’s butt forward,
transforming herself into a sort of tripod, saving herself from impaling on a
broken wagon frame. She sprawled belly down on the damp floor, momentarily
winded.

Thalia had doubled back, she
realized, using the noise of the ladder to cover her movements. The fingers of
two hands stabbed into the hair at Olivia's nape, twisting, dragging her head
back. Her scalp burned, knees stinging with scrapes, throbbing from embedded
gravel.

Was that all? She’d survived worse
today.

Thalia's panting sounded in her
ear, close, bent over her. Writhing to get both hands on the stock, Olivia
drove the rifle’s butt backward with all the effort she could manage prone. It
wasn’t much, but it was enough.

It sunk into Thalia's midsection
with an
'oofff!
' Hands going slack, Thalia staggered. Olivia gained her
feet, scooping a handful of the soil and pelting Thalia’s face.

Her scream was feral, fists
scrubbing wildly. “My eyes, you bitch!”

In her flight through the door,
Olivia broke the last of its will, tearing the weathered collection of slats
from their hinges. Blinded and furious, the clatter fooled Thalia into thinking
her quarry had kept running.

Olivia did
not
keep running.
Passing through the door, she spun without waiting and thrust. The impact
jarred her arms, stumbled and nearly knocked her backward. With an animal cry,
she ground her heels and shoved forward. Thalia’s enraged cries snapped
abruptly off, the bayonet glancing from her breastbone and lodging in the base
of her neck with a wet smack.

They hung there, both alive and
dead while time ceased flowing, bodies frozen into a grotesque statue. Then
Thalia opened her mouth. Olivia waited for words, then wondered why as a
bubbling moan escaped the baroness’s lips. A rivulet of blood and spit
followed, cascading down her chin. Thrusting a foot into Thalia’s clenched gut,
Olivia jerked the rifle free and Thalia crumpled.

Olivia stood panting, throbbing,
heart pumping blood and rage. She held her breath for it to ebb, but it didn’t.
She stared down at Thalia, on her back and twitching, atop the old door,
crimson bubbles frothing from her lips and the tear beneath in her throat.

“Help…” Thalia rasped out, fingers
raking at nothing in particular. “Help… me.”

Olivia took a deep breath and
closed her eyes, but it didn’t make her feel better. Her red fog didn’t pass.
She sighed, and crouched, shoving a hand inside Thalia's bodice, her pockets,
and even flipped up her skirts to check the garters. Nothing. No papers.

They were probably on that damn
pony, which now was nowhere in sight.

Thalia’s limp arm flailed faster,
in time with the blue ring spreading around her mouth. Lips worked but no sound
propelled the word:
Help
.

“Would you like help?” She nodded,
mimicking Thalia's weak movements, seeing the same flicker in her eyes as she
had in Philipe’s before they went dim.

Philipe.
Olivia boiled over
again. “I'll help you.” Raising the rifle with both hands she plunged, driving
the bayonet between snapping ribs and deep into Thalia's chest.

For Philipe.
“Where are the
papers!”

Another thrust, for Ty. “Tell me!”

For herself.

Shoving again until the bayonet
wouldn't budge, she leaned against the stock, panting. “Where are the goddamn
papers?”

Thalia was limp, the last air in
her lungs escaping as a long, unhurried
'huhhhh.’
Olivia exhaled in time
with the sound, feeling some of her rage drain away.

It was done.

Jerking back on the rifle, she
freed the blade with a wet scrape and tossed the firearm aside. For a long
time, she stared. Stared at the woman whose hands were stained with blood;
Philipe, Elena Breunig, nearly Ty, and perhaps men and women like her parents.
They had died by her acts, her hateful whispers and deceit, all fed to her
lover Fouche.

In the hours since Philipe’s death,
she’d imagined this moment countless times, but never how she would feel after.
All she felt now was tired.

She stared down at Thalia’s pallid
corpse.

She could cut the woman's head
off
. She could. Take it back to Paris, parade it in front of Fouche's
window as he’d had done to her mother. Olivia held up her shaking hands and
studied them, caked with old, rusty blood mixed with new, crimson blood.

Fouche had poisoned her, tainted
her, and she swallowed back a surge of bile at what she was willing,
eager
to do. Perhaps it was well past time for her and espionage to part ways.

Anyway, there was a worse fate for
Madame, and for her lover Fouche, too. The same one they had arranged for
Philipe, for her and Ty: to be forgotten.

Grabbing the rifle one last time,
Olivia went back inside the barn to the far corner of the undercroft. Making
certain the bayonet was secure, she stuck the tip into the soil and began
digging a hole.