The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(67)
Squeezing past the downspout at the end of the alley, he paused before entering the back door. The book hadn’t been the only thing he’d stolen from the old man’s shop. He pulled the revolver out of his waistband to inspect the chamber for bullets. There were only three, so he lined the cylinder up so it’d be ready to fire. Just in case. His gang had already proved they were willing to kill him. It was only fair he returned the favor.
There’d be a man in the hallway. Henri could take the chance he wouldn’t know him. Unlikely, though, given how many times he’d frequented Hell’s Mouth in his life. Or he could force his way in by knocking the man out. Maybe with the butt of the pistol. But then what? Drag the man’s limp body outside? Or down the hallway to an empty room? Forget it.
Thinking about his options, he glanced up to where a window sash was slightly raised in a darkened room. He could pull an Yvie and climb up the downspout, but he’d already wasted enough time. He had the book; they had Yvie. It was time to strike the deal, so he swung the door open and marched in as if he had every right to be there on business.
“Boss man here?” he asked, strolling up to the street thief standing guard. Upstairs the music from a four-piece band played a timely tune about a bird in a gilded cage.
The boy eyed him with a frown. “Thought they said you were on the outs.”
“Not likely. What would Rings do without his best thief, eh? Besides, I light-fingered a little something for him he’s really going to like.” Henri patted his pocket so that the shape of the book showed through the fabric.
“Password?”
Merde. Given Rings’s lack of imagination, he took a gamble it hadn’t changed yet. “Jean-Baptiste le sauvage?”
The guard gave him the once-over again, staring at the shape of the book under his jacket. “Yeah, all right. They’re all in there pissed on gin and toasting to skeletons,” the boy said, pointing to the back room in the cabaret’s maze. “Supposed to be your skeleton.”
Henri laughed it off in front of the guard, then approached the crypt room with a face of stone. He hated going in there with its tables made to look like coffins, bones propped up in wooden boxes, and the gas lights on the walls that dimmed and flared to imitate the presence of ghosts. But this time too because, true to its name, it was a dead end with no back exit.
Henri stood in the darkened foyer and glimpsed through the curtain to the cavern-like room inside. There’d be a show on the stage later, an optical illusion to make the skeletons in the caskets appear to dance. The spectacle would bring in a crowd, always did, but for now the room was abandoned except for the cussing and laughing and constant sound of empty glasses being refilled by Rings and his crew. A special privilege of the in-house ring of thieves to have the place to themselves before the real crowds showed up.
Henri checked the revolver one more time. He cocked the hammer, took a breath, and, for good measure, gave the amethyst crystal the witch had given him a squeeze. Then he pushed back the curtain and entered the room.
“Bonjour, mon frères voleurs,” he said and pointed the gun straight at Rings. “It’s time we had a little chat.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The path taken was not the way out. Or at least not yet. The tunnel had come to an abrupt end, with the final insult being a locked metal gate. On the other side of the bars appeared to be the basement storage area of a shop or warehouse. There was a single street-level window letting in light and a shelf filled with small decorative perfume bottles. Yvette could hear a woman speaking at the top of a stairwell about bergamot and musk oil needing to be mixed in the proper proportions for the scent to chemically adhere to the skin.
A perfumery?
“Not bad, Monsieur Whiskers.” Yvette leaned closer to get a whiff. “Is this how you knew your way? By following the heavenly scent?”
The cat slipped through the bars and trotted to the bottom of the stairs. Green eyes stared back at Yvette, expectant.
“Right,” she said, taking a step back to size up the opening she’d need to fit through. Confident she knew what to do, she willed herself to transform as she had before. The fizziness bubbled, stirring inside her. Her body became feather light. She approached the bars, expecting to slip through as easily as the cat. Instead, her body was thrown back, repelled as if she and the gate were magnets with the same polarity.
Yvette settled into solid physical form again and stared at the bars. Some force of magic was preventing her from passing through. Miffed, she pressed her hand against the lock to use her burglar’s charm instead. There wasn’t a lock in the city she couldn’t open. And yet, as soon as her skin came in contact with the metal, her arm weakened and fell at her side. Her palm burned with the same heat as when that lowlife had put the iron band around her arms.
“I can’t get through,” she pleaded to the cat.
But there was nothing he could do. What little magic Monsieur Whiskers possessed she’d long suspected had more to do with luck and fortune than saving young women from their own stupidity.
She could call out. The woman upstairs might hear her and come down. But how would she explain being trapped outside the woman’s cellar? And what if, thinking her a thief, she called les flics? She’d go from one set of bars back to another. No thank you.
Life tingled its way back into her arm, but she kept her distance from the metal all the same. Back in the shadow where her skin glowed softly, radiating in sync with the beat of her heart, she thought over her choices. If she couldn’t go forward, could she go back the way she’d come? She stared down the gaping mouth of the tunnel. Could she even find the way again? This was how people got lost in the Maze of the Dead and ended up leaving their bones for the next generation to find. So, the only other option was to yell for help and hope for the best.