An Affair of Poisons(59)

Fire flares overhead. I gasp, assuming the beast breathed on the thatching. But instead of flaring upward, the fire rains down atop the monster—little balls of flame made of bundled twigs. The smoke beast screeches and lurches to the opposite side of the road, but a barrage of fire descends from that rooftop as well.

Down the block, two small figures dash from an alleyway waving their arms. The smoke beast rounds on them, but before it can lunge, someone whistles and a weighty bundle unfurls from the rooftops. It appears to be a net of some sort that drapes across the beast’s back and tangles in its lashing wings. While the creature struggles, more shadowed figures burst from the alleys and climb down gutters. Half of them run toward the beast’s head with daggers and fire pokers that they stab into its legs and underbelly, and the other half scurry around its stumbling feet like ants, reaching to secure the rope.

The smoke beast roars and swings its head, but before it can breathe its deadly fire, more figures emerge carrying pots of water, which they splash into the beast’s face. Scalding billows of steam churn into the sky, and the lethal tang of sulfur and brimstone is so overwhelming that I gag. As the creature struggles, the net tightens. The beast attempts to turn but stumbles over the rope and crashes to its knees.

I watch, stunned, as the group pins it to the ground and a boy—a gawky, pole-armed boy—raises an ax and cleaves the smoke beast’s head from its neck.

He laughs as slick blood sprays his face.

“What in Heaven’s name …” Desgrez’s voice trails off as the boy struts toward us, wiping his ax clean on his stained tunic. His straw-colored hair is matted in clumps and his eyes are feral and hungry. He couldn’t be more than fourteen, but he carries himself with an air of authority—shoulders square, brows set in his serious, crinkled forehead. He whistles and the shadowy figures that had been holding the net hustle to join him. They continue to pour from the crevasses and spindle down from the balconies like spiders. Every one of them is rail-thin with scraggly hair, and they’re armed to the teeth with daggers and pokers and clubs.

Shivers flash down my arms, and I take a stumbling step back.

A street gang. Paris is crawling with them—children who run from the orphanages, preferring to eke out an existence picking pockets in the gutter. It’s a cruel and merciless life, according to Gris, who took up with one of these gangs before Mother found him. He says the children are as hardened as any proper criminal. That they would have happily mugged Louis XIV himself had they spotted his carriage rumbling down the street.

They surround us like a pack of wolves, and I shrink closer to Josse and Desgrez—though I’m not entirely sure they’ll protect me again. Neither has so much as looked in my direction.

The boy slings the ax over his shoulder and says, “You’d be dead if it weren’t for us, and our protection doesn’t come free.” Desgrez edges toward his rapier at the side of the road, but the straw-haired boy swings his ax into the cobbles. Jagged bits of rock fly into the air, and he laughs when Desgrez jumps back. Which seems to be an invitation for the rest of the band to laugh. “I wouldn’t do that, monsieur.”

“Let us pass,” Desgrez says.

“Gladly. If you pay.” The boy cocks his head and grins, poking his tongue through a hole where one of his front teeth should be.

“We haven’t got any money.” Josse pats his filthy tunic and breeches.

“Surely you’ve got something worth taking?”

“We didn’t ask for your assistance,” Desgrez says. “You cannot hold us hostage.”

“Can’t we?” The boy swings his ax again. Josse and Desgrez narrowly dodge the bit, but I’m far enough away to notice how the boy’s voice cracks when he laughs. The way he winces when he returns the ax to his shoulder.

I look at him more closely. His eyes are sallow, his neck swollen, and his skin is slick and wan. Behind his cocky grin, his breath is shallow and rattling.

Scrofula fever.

And his bandmates are no better off, sweating and coughing, their skin riddled with scabs.

“You will let us pass,” Desgrez hollers. “Or—”

I rush forward and place a hand on Josse’s arm. He recoils with a hiss, as if burned by my touch. “What do you want?” he says without meeting my gaze.

I remove my hand and swallow hard. “T-they’re ill,” I whisper. “And I can help them.”

Josse says nothing, but the accusation in his eyes hurtles through the silence: The same way you helped my father? Why should I believe a word out of your deceitful mouth?

“If we help them, we might be able to recruit them to our cause… .”

Josse bristles, and I’m certain he’s about to inform me there is no cause, but at last he gives me a curt nod, snags the back of Desgrez’s brown robe, and hauls him away from the boy before their argument can come to blows.

Taking a deep breath, I skirt around Josse and Desgrez and approach the children as I would injured animals, holding out my hands for all to see. “When did you start coughing?”

The boy’s eyes narrow and the children behind him regard me with suspicion.

I press on. “How many days ago did the pustules appear? It’s important you remember exactly.”

Still the boy says nothing, but several of his bandmates glance down and tug their tunics.