Page 155 of The Mask Falling

“I understand. As does Léandre.” He reached up to an alcove and removed a bottle. “An eighteenth-century vintage. Saved from the ruins of the last wine estate razed in the Médoc. Would you care to taste it with me?”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I don’t care for wine.” I needed a clear head for this.

“Very well.”

He retrieved a goblet. As he stretched, I noticed a wound had been sutured under his left pectoral.

“The candles in my appartements privés are kept alight through pyromancy. Noonday—one of my perdues—recently mastered a new talent. Once, she could only glimpse the future in the flames. Now she can command spirits to carry them.” He lowered himself back into the pool. “I have witnessed the rise of this phenomenon in Paris. Voyants unlocking their abilities. Our power grows with every sunrise.”

“I saw the same in London.”

Le Vieux Orphelin poured some of his priceless wine.

“Underqueen,” he said, “my only experience of the Rephaim is as their prisoner. I wonder if you will tell me your story, share what you know of them. I should like to know their aims.”

“Where shall I begin?”

“The beginning,” Le Vieux Orphelin said, “though of course, that is never where one thinks it is.”

For the next half an hour, I told him most of what had happened to me over the past year. My imprisonment. The rebellion. Senshield. The Ranthen. I also told him the truth about the Emim. By the time I was finished, my fingertips had creased. I had omitted my work for Domino—I still meant to protect the network—but most of my life was laid bare.

Le Vieux Orphelin ruminated for a long while.

“So,” he concluded, “the curtain is drawn back at last. Scion is no republic, but a puppet empire for a monster.” He topped up his goblet. “Here in Paris, we honor cartomancy as a high art. One card has appeared in most readings. L’Impératrice. Always inverted.”

The Empress. A woman in a crown of stars. Upright, it was a hopeful card, of abundance and growth. Inverted, it spoke of a suffocating presence. Something that moved against nature.

“We are ruled by gods,” Le Vieux Orphelin mused. “Now, it seems, we must go to war with them.”

“We are already at war,” I said. “Portugal has fallen. Spain will follow. Nashira Sargas wants our world, and I mean to stop her claiming it.”

“I believe you. I sent eyes to your citadel when I heard a scrimmage would be held,” he said. “When they told me about you—a former mollisher who wanted to turn a rabble of thieves into an army—I sensed the winds of change had blown on London.” He cradled his goblet in one hand. “I share your vision of a world without Scion. We have both borne witness to the Rephaim.”

“And you understand the need to work with the Ranthen,” I said. “I know it might be hard to stomach, after the colony.”

“Au contraire. My experience there convinced me that help from their side is necessary. Such is Rephaite power, and our fragility.”

“Would you consider a temporary alliance with anyone from Scion?” I asked. “If they shared our desire to stop Nashira.”

“Of whom do you speak?”

“Benoît Ménard.”

His mask tilted up. “Ménard,” he said softly.

“Yes. I happen to know that he despises the Rephaim,” I said. “He thinks of them as just as unnatural as us. He planned to eventually use Sheol II to imprison them, as well as anormales.” He was silent. “You two have a history. You met about twelve years ago, in Lyon, during a period where his public record is suspiciously vague. I presume you wouldn’t be amenable to the idea of cozying up to him, but I have to ask.”

Le Vieux Orphelin fell into a deep silence. So deep I thought he must have washed his tongue down with the wine.

“Ménard is a vicious and fanatical individual,” he said at last. “His hatred of our kind runs very deep. I think he would burn us at the stake if he did not want the smell of melting flesh on his streets.”

“And yet,” I said, “he is willing to work with anormales, under certain circumstances.”

“How do you know this, Underqueen?” he asked quietly. “When did you cross paths with the Butcher of Strasbourg?”

“I infiltrated his mansion to find Sheol II. When he caught me red-handed, I thought he would kill me,” I said. “Instead, he offered me an alliance, of sorts, until the Rephaim have fallen.”

“You are fortunate to have survived that experience. What was your opinion of his offer?”

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