Read Chapter 30: The Rescue

The auction house hummed with the low murmur of wealth and pretense. Camille stood near a marble column, her eyes fixed on the grand double doors where Édouard was meant to appear any moment. His name had been whispered through the crowd all evening—the reclusive painter, the living legend, finally offering his work to the public. Vasseur's men would be here. That was the point.

She pressed her earpiece. "Paul. Status."

"East corridor clear. Service entrance is unlocked, just like the schematic said. I've got the decoy key ready." A pause. "Your grandmother's ledger mentioned a service lift behind the boiler room. It goes straight down."

Camille moved before the sentence finished, weaving through the tuxedoed patrons toward the back hallways. The auctioneer's voice rang out behind her, announcing Lot Seven—a small Corot, nothing special. She counted the seconds. Twelve. Fifteen. The diversion would peak when Édouard walked through those doors, and every pair of eyes in the building would follow him.

She reached the service entrance, slipped through, and found Paul waiting in the dim light of a concrete stairwell. He held up a brass key, gleaming with the patina of careful forgery.

"Last chance to change your mind," he said.

Camille snatched the key. "Open the door."

The stairwell descended into the old foundations of the Pavillon de l'Horloge, layers of dust and neglect coating each step. Paul's flashlight carved a narrow cone through the darkness. At the bottom, a steel door bore the faded insignia of the Clock Pavilion's original architect—the same emblem she'd seen in Édouard's flat, the same one her grandmother had sketched in the margins of her journals.

Paul knelt, examining a panel beside the door. "The mechanism's older than the building itself. My father's notes mentioned a pressure plate, but—" He ran his fingers along the seam. "There. That's it."

He pressed a recessed button. The door groaned, sliding sideways into the wall, revealing a corridor lined with copper pipes that dripped with condensation. The air smelled like old iron and something sweeter, almost floral, like pigment ground from dried petals.

Camille stepped through first.

The chamber at the end of the corridor was not what she expected. No vaulted ceilings, no ancient stone. It was a laboratory—sterile, modern, lit by harsh fluorescent tubes. Tables lined the walls, cluttered with glass vials, brushes, and half-finished canvases. And in the center, chained to a steel chair, sat Laurent.

His wrists were bound with iron cuffs, his shirt torn at the shoulder. A thin line of dried blood traced his jaw. But when he saw her, his eyes sharpened with something between relief and terror.

"Camille. You shouldn't be here."

"Shut up." She crossed the room in four strides, dropping to her knees beside him. "Where's Vasseur?"

"Upstairs. He's watching Édouard's entrance from a private box." Laurent's voice was hoarse. "He thinks I'm his insurance. He doesn't know you're smart enough to come."

Paul hovered at the door, the decoy key glinting in his palm. "We don't have much time. The lock on those cuffs—"

"It's not the cuffs that matter." Laurent shook his head. "He's taken blood. Three vials, from my arm, right before you arrived. He's going to mix it with the pigment. Create a new batch. His own immortality, his own power, not borrowed from the old alchemist but earned through sacrifice."

Camille's stomach turned. "Your blood."

"He thinks it carries the residue of the original bargain. That using it will make the curse his to command." Laurent's jaw tightened. "If he completes the mixture, he won't need to open the vault. He'll have what he wants right here."

Paul stepped closer, holding up the decoy key. "Then we jam the vault before he gets back. Trap him down there when he tries to use it. He'll never reach this lab again."

"That's the plan." Camille reached for Laurent's chains. "But we have to move now."

"Wait." Laurent's voice cut through the hum of the fluorescent lights. "If you free me, and he returns before you've sealed the vault—he'll know the decoy is a trick the moment it fails. And if he knows you've been here, he'll burn everything. The vault, the key, me." He held her gaze. "The only reason he kept me alive is because he needs my blood fresh and my cooperation to retrieve the pigment's essence. If he thinks I've turned—"

"Then we make sure he doesn't get back before we're done." Camille looked at Paul. "How long until the auction ends?"

Paul checked his watch. "Édouard's lot is scheduled for the final hour. If he stalls, if he draws it out—maybe another fifty minutes."

"Fifty minutes to find the vault, turn the key, and trap Vasseur inside." Camille nodded. "Do it."

Paul crossed to the far wall, where a hidden panel slid open under his fingers, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The vault. Camille pulled at Laurent's chains, but they held fast.

"I need the key to the cuffs," she said.

Laurent shook his head. "Vasseur has it. He keeps it on his belt." A bitter smile crossed his face. "He's not careless."

Camille's mind raced. She looked at Paul, then at the staircase, then back at Laurent's blood-stained arm. The vials. Three of them, sitting on the nearest table.

"How long does he need the blood fresh?" she asked.

Laurent blinked. "What?"

"Vasseur. He took the vials. But if he plans to use them tonight, after the auction—how long before they're unusable?"

"I don't—" Laurent paused. "Hours. Maybe. The pigment accepts impurities, but it rejects decay. If the blood sits too long, it will clot, and the mixture will fail."

Camille grabbed the vials, the cold glass slick in her palm. "Paul. How does the decoy key work?"

"It's a copy. But the pins are filed wrong—instead of aligning, they'll jam the tumbler. When Vasseur inserts his real key, it won't turn. He'll be locked out."

"He'll be locked *in*, if we trigger it first and he tries to enter."

Paul's eyes widened. "You want to set the trap now."

"It's the only way." She held up the vials. "We empty these, we leave him nothing to work with. Then we go down there, jam the vault with the decoy, and when he tries to open it—when he realizes his key is useless—the door seals behind him."

"Camille." Laurent's voice was raw. "You'd be cutting off the only path I have to break the curse. If the vault is sealed, if Vasseur is trapped—"

"There might be another way." She met his eyes. "But there's only one way to make sure he never uses you again."

Silence stretched between them. Paul looked between the two, the decoy key still in his hand.

Then Laurent nodded slowly. "Do it."

Camille emptied the vials into a drain in the floor, the dark liquid spiraling away. Paul descended the staircase first, his flashlight cutting through the gloom. Camille followed, Laurent's chains scraping behind her as he dragged the weight of the steel chair—she hadn't freed him. Not yet. If Vasseur returned early, he'd see Laurent still bound, still his prisoner, and he'd walk into the trap.

The vault door waited below, ancient iron etched with swirls and symbols she recognized from Édouard's paintings. Paul pressed the decoy key against the lock.

"Once I turn this," he whispered, "there's no undoing it. The jam is permanent until the mechanism is replaced."

Camille looked up at the ceiling, toward the auction hall where Édouard was stalling for time. A single gunshot echoed from somewhere above—muffled, distant, but unmistakable.

Her heart stopped.

"Paul," she said. "Turn the key. Now."

His hand moved. The mechanism groaned, and the vault door swung open—not wide, but a crack, just enough to reveal a chamber filled with paintbrushes, canisters, and a single ornate box on a pedestal.

And footsteps echoed down the staircase behind them.

Vasseur's voice came cold and calm: "I thought you might try something. But I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to come down here yourself."