This Monstrous Thing(71)

It was Clémence, standing under the clock tower with her face illuminated by a blazing torch in her hand. She was surrounded by other clockworks, all holding firm as they stared down the police. In the light from her torch, I could make out barrels and crates packed in tight rows along the walls.

Oliver’s men had packed the clock tower full of explosives.

The police weren’t getting any closer, but they kept their rifles up.

“Lower your weapons and back away!” Clémence bellowed at them.

“Just shoot her!” one of the policemen shouted.

“Shoot her and the whole tower goes up!” one of the clockworks behind Clémence hollered back.

“No!” Jiroux screamed. “We can’t risk it. Do as she says! Lower your weapons and do as she says.” The rifle barrels began to drop. Jiroux set his own rifle on the ground and took a step forward, arms raised. Clémence kept her torch high but came out from under the tower to meet him.

“I speak for the rebellion,” she called. She had to shout, and even then I almost couldn’t hear her. “We are led by Oliver Finch, the resurrected man. Your clock is running backward, and when it completes one full rotation, if our demand has not been met, our explosives will detonate and the heart of your city will be destroyed.”

“What demand is that?” Jiroux called back.

Clémence held his gaze. She didn’t look frightened. She didn’t look brave either. Just determined, like a girl with something to do. “We want Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein, turned over to us for our justice.”

Mary’s fingers clenched around mine.

“We will not give an innocent life to appease you,” Jiroux called back to Clémence. “You will be stopped before you have the chance to act.”

“We are capable of great damage, Inspector,” she replied. “So take whatever risks you want, but know that you will not get through. Any person who comes near the tower will be shot. We’ll only give passage to Mary Shelley.”

Jiroux held her eyes for a moment, then turned to the line of blue coats behind him. “Empty the square!” he bellowed. “We need everyone out!”

Most of the crowd didn’t need to be told, but the officers turned and began shoving the stragglers back toward the streets as fast as they could. I whirled on Mary and grabbed her by the shoulder. “You have to give yourself up,” I said. “Then we can get inside the tower and talk to Oliver.”

She shook her head. “Alasdair, I can’t.”

“We can make him hear reason. We can end this, please, Mary!”

“Keep moving!” an officer shouted just behind me. “The square is being evacuated.”

I didn’t move, but Mary was tugging on me. “Alasdair, we have to go.”

“We can’t go, we have to get to Oliver!”

“Keep moving, sir!” The butt of a rifle knocked into my back and I stumbled.

Mary grabbed me before I fell. “Come on,” she said. She was leaving me behind and there was nothing I could do but follow, because suddenly she was the only chance of stopping this. As the crowds and the police pushed us out of the square, I looked up at the clock tower, hoping for one more glance at Oliver, but he was already gone.




The streets were packed almost too tight to move. Everyone was pushing and shouting and coughing as the smoke from the bombs seeped through the streets, tripping over each other as they tried to get away from the square. Omnibuses were stopped dead, clogging the roads as people streamed around them, and I saw a carriage overturned, luggage spilled into the mud and wheels spinning slowly like some invisible hand was pushing them forward.

Mary kept a tight hold on my arm, pulling me through the mob and away from the clock tower. “We can go to the villa,” she called to me over her shoulder. “It’s outside the city, we’ll be safe.”

“Mary, we can’t leave.” I stopped, and rather than let go, she stopped as well and turned to face me.

“The police will take care of it.”

“No, Mary, we have to do something. We need to get to Oliver; you’re the only one who they’ll let through.”

“We? Alasdair, he wants to—” A man smashed into her so hard she staggered into me, and I grabbed her before she fell. For a moment, she was still, forehead against my shoulder and her nails digging into my arm. Then she turned and dragged me sideways through the crowd. “Where are we going?” I called, but she didn’t answer, just pulled me after her off the street and up the steps of Saint Pierre Cathedral.

Inside, the cathedral was deserted. The sound of our footsteps carried all the way to the top of the dome before returning to us in whispers. “What are you doing?” I hissed at Mary as she led the way into a chapel off the aisle. A saint’s statue glared down at us from a raised dais in the center of the room, praying hands intertwined with the chain of a dangling pocket watch. Saint Pierre. Patron saint of clock makers.

Mary sat on the pew in front of Saint Pierre and closed her eyes. I didn’t know what she was doing or what to say, so I just sat down beside her. My whole body felt like a loaded spring, tight and about to snap. I kept waiting to hear an explosion from the square, even though Clémence had promised an hour. I didn’t have a clue how loud it would be, or if we’d feel it from here. Maybe the whole street would go up with it, I thought. Maybe we’d die and never feel the blast.