Read Chapter 27: The Last Stand

Marguerite's parting words were still a whisper in Élise's ear when the steward's boot heels echoed off the stone corridor. James moved ahead of her, shoulders squared, one hand resting on the hilt of his borrowed sword—the one they'd taken from a dead supply clerk whose name they'd already forgotten. The lie was thin: clerks from Lille, carrying manifests. The truth was thinner: their wounds, their sweat, their terror.

"Keep your head down," James murmured.

The steward stopped before a heavy oak door banded with iron. He did not knock. He turned, and his face was not the face of a servant. It was the face of a soldier who had shed his uniform but not his loyalties.

"The commander will see you now," he said, and pushed the door open.

Light flooded the chamber. Candles, a dozen of them, lined a long table covered in maps. Beyond the maps stood a man in a dark coat, his back to them. He turned slowly, and Élise felt the breath leave her lungs.

The scarred officer.

The same jagged line that split his cheekbone from temple to jaw. The same cold eyes that had watched her father die. The same coat—now unbuttoned, revealing the gold braid of a British captain beneath—that she had last seen in the blood-soaked yard of her childhood home.

He smiled, and the scar twisted like a worm.

"Mademoiselle Delacroix," he said. "I confess I did not expect you to bring the Englishman to my doorstep. It makes my work considerably easier."

James's hand tightened on the sword. "You're a British officer. Under King George's colors. You swore an oath—"

"I swore an oath to a king who traded peace for cowardice." The officer stepped around the table. "The war is over, they say. Napoleon is finished. But England's enemies are not dead—only sleeping. And I intend to wake them."

"Pierre," Élise said, and her voice cracked. "Where is my brother?"

The officer laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound, like stones rattling in a jar. "Your brother is where the king's justice cannot reach him. And you—you have brought me the last piece I needed."

He nodded past them. Élise turned. Three guards had filled the doorway, muskets raised.

"James—"

But James was already moving, drawing his sword in a single fluid arc. The first guard fired—the ball sang past Élise's ear, smashing a candle on the table—and James closed the distance before the second could raise his weapon. His blade found the man's throat, and he fell, gurgling, his musket clattering across the floor.

"Run!" James shouted.

Élise bolted for the side door. James followed, parrying a wild swing from the third guard as they burst into a narrow stairwell. The stone spiraled upward, and she climbed, her leg screaming, her shoulder burning where the bandage had soaked through. Behind them, boots thundered.

"Where does this lead?" she gasped.

"The keep," James said. "Pierre mentioned a drain on the west wall. If we can reach it—"

They burst onto a landing. A torch flickered in an iron sconce, illuminating another door—and the scarred officer standing before it, a pistol in each hand.

"You English," he said, shaking his head. "You never learn."

He fired. James shoved Élise against the wall as the ball slammed into the stone where her chest had been. James returned the shove with his own weight, lunging forward, but the officer had already dropped the spent pistol and drawn a rapier.

Steel rang against steel.

"Go!" James cried. "Find the drain!"

"James—"

"Go!"

She ran. The corridor turned, and she found herself in a narrow passage that smelled of damp and rot. The river. She could hear it now, the low growl of moving water beyond the walls. She pressed her palms against the stone, searching for seams, for the weakness Pierre had described.

Behind her, the clash of blades went silent.

No. No, no, no.

She heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The scarred officer emerged from the shadows, James's borrowed sword in his hand, dark blood smeared across his knuckles.

"Your Englishman fights well," he said. "But he is not the first to die on my blade, and he will not be the last."

"James—"

"He lives. For now." The officer tossed the sword aside. It clattered at her feet. "I have questions for you, Mademoiselle Delacroix. And I have found that a living prisoner is more useful than a dead one."

"My brother—"

"Your brother is dead." The words landed like a blow. "He died an hour ago, chained in my dungeon, refusing to speak. A stubborn man, your Pierre. Very like you."

The world tilted. Élise's hand found the wall, and she steadied herself. No. Marguerite had said—Pierre was alive. Pierre had given them the code. Pierre had—

The officer watched her, amused. "You expected to find him. Yes, the prisoner in the next cell was very informative once I had your name. He told me everything—about the banker, about the papers." He stepped closer. "But he was wrong about one thing. He said you would weep."

Élise's fingers closed around the hilt of the sword at her feet.

"You showed me how a coward greets death," she whispered. "Now let me show you how a sister greets grief."

She rose, blade in hand, and charged.

The scarred officer was faster. He sidestepped, caught her wrist, and twisted. The sword fell. Pain erupted through her arm, and she was on her knees, gasping, his hand fisted in her hair.

"Foolish," he said. "But predictable."

He dragged her down the corridor toward the stairs. She fought, clawing at his hand, her boots scraping blood on the stones. At the top of the landing, a figure moved—small, chained, staggering.

Pierre.

Not dead. Bloodied, bone-thin, his wrists raw and bleeding, but alive. He had crawled from the dungeon. He had come.

The scarred officer stared, disbelief flickering across his face. "You—"

Pierre threw himself forward, a length of broken chain whipping through the air. It caught the officer across the face, and he roared, releasing Élise. She scrambled backward as Pierre drove his shoulder into the officer's chest, sending them both crashing toward the stairwell railing.

"Run, Élise!" Pierre shouted. "The drain—west wall—go!"

She could not move. Her brother—her stubborn, reckless brother—was bleeding from a dozen wounds, fighting a man twice his strength with nothing but a chain and his own battered body.

"Go!"

She ran.

Behind her, a gunshot cracked through the corridor. Then another. She did not stop. She found the seam in the stone, the narrow gap Pierre had described, and she tore at it with her bare hands until her nails split and the stones gave way, opening onto the rushing darkness of the river below.

She turned back.

Pierre was on his knees at the end of the corridor, a crimson bloom spreading across his chest. The scarred officer stood over him, pistol still smoking. Pierre lifted his head—found her eyes—and smiled.

Then he fell forward, and was still.

Élise screamed. The sound tore through her throat, raw and primal, and she was moving before her mind could catch up, running back toward her brother's body. The officer raised the pistol, aiming at her heart—

Something blurred past her. James, bloody and staggering, tackled the officer to the ground. They rolled, grappling, and Élise dropped beside Pierre, cradling his head in her lap.

"Pierre. Pierre, stay with me."

His eyes fluttered open. He tried to laugh, and blood bubbled from his lips. "Knew... you would come."

"Don't speak. I'll—"

"Listen." His hand found hers, cold and weak. "The vault. Maison Aubert. Rue Saint-Honoré." He coughed, and his fingers tightened around hers. "The code—"

"The code is in the sword," she said. "You told me. The scarred officer's sword."

Pierre shook his head, a tiny, desperate movement. "Wrong." He pulled her close, his lips brushing her ear. "Not the sword. The medallion—around his neck. He wears it beneath his coat. The banker... the papers... they're hidden behind the portrait. Marianne. The portrait of Marianne."

His breath rattled. His grip slackened.

"Pierre—"

"Tell Marguerite," he whispered. "Tell her I loved her. Tell her I kept my word."

His eyes closed. His chest stilled.

"No. Pierre. Pierre!"

James was beside her now, the scarred officer groaning in the corridor behind him, unconscious but alive. James reached for her, and she flinched, shrugging him off, clutching Pierre's body to her chest.

"He had the medallion," she whispered. "All along. The sword was a lie. He wore it around his neck, and I—"

She could not finish. The tears came, hot and silent, falling onto her brother's still face.

James waited. He said nothing. He did not touch her. He stood guard over her grief, his body between her and the world, as the river roared below and the fortress walls held them in the dark.

Finally, Élise lowered Pierre's body to the stones. She rose, her hands stained red, her eyes dry.

"Help me carry him," she said. "We will not leave him here."

James nodded. He lifted Pierre's shoulders, and Élise took his feet. Together, they carried her brother toward the drain, toward the river, toward the road to Paris.

The scarred officer stirred on the floor behind them. One eye opened, cold and watching.

The medallion glinted at his throat.