The Black Coats(6)

Thea lifted her head, staring at him with barely concealed rage. “What is wrong with you?” she spat. He didn’t answer. She slowly climbed to her feet. “Let me through the door. Please!”

The boy, who seemed more and more like a phantom with each passing moment, stood quietly. Get through the door. So it’s going to be this way. Okay. Thea sprinted toward him and slammed her shoulders against his stomach, hoping to push him back through the door with her. Instead, using her own momentum, he picked her up and spun around, roughly throwing her down on the mahogany floor. Thea looked up as he stepped back once again. He wasn’t advancing on her, not willingly hurting her—he was just protecting the entrance. And she had to get through that damned door.

Thea was exhausted. Her limbs trembled as she stood, hatred raging through her at his strength, his calm demeanor, the way her attacks seemed to have no effect on him at all. It wasn’t fair that she couldn’t even push him back, that all her strength wasn’t enough. In the end, she wasn’t strong enough to beat him. Just as Natalie hadn’t been strong enough.

Thea opened her eyes, rage swimming in front of them. Natalie. She let the sound of her cousin’s name ring through her head like the beat of a persistent drum, one that pushed out of her wounded heart. One more time, Thea told herself. I have in myself one more try. She closed her eyes. You’re not strong, but you are fast, she told herself. Now go!

Thea sprinted toward the boy. He put his hands out in front of him in a defensive crouch, but at the last moment, she faked to the right. He lunged to match her movement, but he wasn’t expecting her to then throw herself violently left, back toward his body. They collided in a violent tangle. Using her momentum, she flung herself toward the ornate doorknob, shaped like a beehive. Her fingers closed around it just as his arms wrapped around her waist. The door pushed open, and Thea let go of the knob and fell to the floor in front of it. She flinched and waited to be dragged backward, but nothing came. The arms around her waist loosened. Thea rolled over, the door open in front of her head. The boy in white linen got up, dusted off his pants, and stalked out the door she had come in from.

Thea slowly, painfully, climbed to her feet. Her back ached, her mouth was still numb and salty, and her breaths were so sharp they cut into her ribs. Still, she limped through the door, hoping that whatever was on the other side was worth leaving a part of herself behind.





Three


Upon stepping inside, Thea found herself in a circular room with a gold-domed ceiling. Strung across the circular walls were thick pieces of black ribbon. Attached to each ribbon, hundreds of black-and-white pictures were held by a single clothespin. Thea walked forward, her eyes tracing over the faces before her: women from their early teens well into later age. She limped forward another step, wiping her bloody mouth on the back of her hand.

In the center of the room stood an easel next to a single brown leather wingback chair. A black-and-white photograph was clipped to the top of the easel, and even before she reached it, Thea knew that face: She recognized the long black hair that had always made her jealous, the curls that bordered on the edge of messy. The freckles dashed across her brown skin, the radiant grin. Thea reached out and touched the picture of Natalie’s face, her personality perfectly captured in this moment. “I miss you,” she mouthed. She reached out and unclipped the picture, pressing it against her heart. Whatever this was, whoever had brought her here—this picture belonged to Thea, not to them.

From somewhere in the room came a voice. “We can give you what you want.”

Thea spun around, annoyance flitting across her face. They were playing with her grief, and she was done with it. “What is this? Enough with the games!”

The voice trilled with laughter. “This is not a game, Thea. This was an initiation.” At the distinctive click of high heels, Thea turned slowly. A stunning woman in her early thirties stood before her. Her hair was dark brown laced with shades of auburn and pulled back from her face in a tight bun. Her face was hard, with steeled brown eyes and jutting cheekbones, her lips painted a scandalous red. She wore a black dress under a tailored black coat. She stepped closer to Thea, who instinctively took a step backward and clutched Natalie’s photograph to her breast.

“Hello, Thea. I’m Nixon.” She paused, letting her fingers trace Thea’s shoulder. “I know you’re curious why you’re here. Your cousin Natalie Fisher was murdered, is that correct?”

Thea nodded, unable to speak, as the word murdered ripped her apart.

“And there wasn’t enough evidence to arrest her murderer, is that also correct?”

“Yes.” It was too much, thinking about the thing that she never allowed to cross her mind.

“What if I told you that there was a way to get justice for Natalie? A way to make him pay for his unspeakable crime?”

Thea raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about the police?”

“I’m talking about justice. Sometimes the two aren’t the same,” Nixon answered.

Thea met her gaze. “I’m listening.”

“You are currently standing in the atrium inside Mademoiselle Corday, a very old Victorian house that happens to be owned by a quiet organization. Do you know anything about Mademoiselle Corday?”

Thea shook her head.

“Not in your history classes? Nothing?” The woman let out an irritated sigh. “Roosevelt High School, churning out tomorrow’s leaders today. Anyway, history knows her as Charlotte Corday. She murdered Jean-Paul Marat, who was part of a bloody arm of the French Revolution. She stabbed him to death in his bathroom, and in 1793 she was executed by guillotine. It earned her the nickname l’ange de l’assassinat, which means the Angel of Assassination.”