New Amsterdam

The rattle of the lock alerted Garrett and the others in advance, but though she was forewarned of their return, the grimness on Jack's and Doctor Tesla's faces was distressing. Tesla locked the door behind himself again while Jack came across the rubber-matt covered wooden floor. "It appears that Kostov is a Russian agent," he said. "I found one-time code pads and the like. We can only presume that he's been sending details of Doctor Tesla's work to Moscow, and using la bête here to instill panic in the citizens of Paris and destroy their morale. Unfortunately—"

"We found no means of summoning the beast," Doctor Tesla said. He walked around the console, rather than reaching past Sebastien, and straightened the pencil on the desk. When he looked up, he saw Garrett watching, and shrugged a little. "I fear it is my work that is being used to call up monsters."

He turned and surveyed the warehouse, the wires and knobs, transformers and capacitors and coils. Ceramic and copper and glass and steel. "We cannot leave the city in the dark."

Wordlessly, Jack reached into his pocket and handed the Doctor a revolver. "Silver bullets," he said. "Whatever manifests is material enough to eat people, and they worked on the beast of Gevaudan."

Doctor Tesla weighed it in his hand. "I am not sanguine about the discharge of firearms here." He gestured about the lab with his free hand, and offered the gun awkwardly back to Jack. "But perhaps I have another solution. When the electrical field is concentrated—as it must be, if we are to lure the beast where we wish it—presuming in advance of experiment that your circumstantial evidence is correct, and it is the interaction of the electrical standing wave with moonlight that permits the monster to materialize in the first place—in any case, when the electrical field is concentrated, it is quite inimical to life."

"The death ray," Sebastien said.

"Some melodramatically so call it," he said. "It unsettles me to consider that the Russian empire may have that technology as well."

And so do the French, thought Garrett. No wonder they were so unconcerned regarding the possible cost of war with England. She rubbed her hands against a chill that had more to do with her divided loyalties than the cavernous and ill-heated space in which she stood. Images of ships adrift at sea, the crews scattered like dropped sticks upon the deck, filled her mind's eye. "What is its range?"

Doctor Tesla winked and turned away. "I intend eventually to build a transmitter that will cover the entire Earth with broadcast electricity," he said. "But that of course will not be concentrated enough to cause death. Very well then"—he straightened dramatically, thrusting his coat aside so he could plunge his hands into his trouser pockets—"if we are agreed? Let us relocate the pigeons, so we may have at your beast while there is still moonlight to work with."

". . .pigeons?"

Doctor Tesla was already in motion, surging toward a spiral stair that led to the catwalks among the ceiling lattice. "Yes," he said. "My cote is over the laboratory. If we are to concentrate the electrical field, I can't permit any risk to the birds."

"Why don't we set the field in the yard?" Jack asked, as they clambered up the metal treads.

"I've not yet uncovered how to distance it from the transmitter," Tesla said. "We'll set the device on a timer, as we cannot re-enter the structure while it is active."

They rattled along the catwalk, Garrett quite uncomfortable with the way it shook under the strides of five hurrying people, and followed Doctor Tesla as he burst through a door onto a flat area of the moonlit roof. Indeed, as promised, there was a small cote, within it some fifteen birds. The theurgist handled the sleepy animals with great care, tucking them into wicker baskets, and rescuing the eggs which two roosted on.

"Winter eggs," he said, wrapping them carefully in a linen handkerchief, each clutch knotted into a separate corner. "I don't believe they'll hatch, but who am I to make such decisions?"

He stowed them tenderly in his pocket while Garrett, a basket of pigeons in her hands, stood on the rooftop and shivered, and thought of the casual manner in which he had discussed blanketing the whole earth with his murderous electrical machine. Mrs. Smith, at her elbow with another basket, caught Garrett's gaze and widened her eyes.

Yes, precisely.

Pigeons rescued, roof door locked and checked and checked again, down they went. Sebastien, carrying his pigeon basket one-handed, rescued Kostov with the other, and the four of them exited hastily to the yard while Doctor Tesla made his arrangements with timers and levers within. "Is this safe?" Jack asked, as the door shut behind them.

Garrett handed Mrs. Smith her pigeon basket. "Eminently not," she said, and made sure both her wand and the revolver loaded with silver bullets that Jack had given her were within reach. When she reached into her pocket for the gun, her glove snagged on something sharp-edged, and she drew that out too.

It was the glassine envelope containing the chipped tooth of the beast. "Oh," she said. "It's a pity I can't cast a circle to keep material monsters out."

Just then the door to the laboratory opened, and Doctor Tesla emerged, burdened with the last of the pigeon baskets. "Stand back, please," he said. He locked and fussed, and then unlocked and fussed the kitchen door of the house itself. Garrett made sure she had her carpetbag within reach, and she saw the others making their small preparations for war.

When each basket of birds—and the still-immobilized Kostov—was placed inside, in the relative warmth of the hall, he returned and drew a hasty chalk line on the cobbles. "You will stay south of that, if you are wise."

"What if it doesn't die?" Sebastien asked. "How will we know if it's summoned at all?"

"Watch the lamp." The post in the yard was north of the curved chalk line.

Garrett felt a moment of spontaneous pity for Doctor Tesla's neighbors, and concentrated her attention where he directed. Tesla himself was focused on a silver pocket watch. "Now," he said, and before the word had died on the cold night air, the lamp flared savagely, brighter than Garrett had imagined an electrical filament could burn.

It could not burn so for long, apparently. The filament burst with a pop like a gunshot, and she supposed it was only by blind luck that the glass did not shatter. Behind the laboratory windows other lights flickered into brilliance, and a curious insectile hum, like the sawing of cicadas, made Garrett wince—but apparently those filaments were sterner stuff. Beside her, Mrs. Smith covered one ear with her palm. The derringer she held in her right hand prevented her from covering both.

Cold moonlight lay over the stones.

There was no sign of the beast.

* * *

Shoulder to shoulder, they stood and watched. Garrett let her shoulder brush Sebastien's; he wasn't warm, but he was solid, and that comforted her. She would have expected Doctor Tesla to pace, but he stood as solidly as Jack, occasionally rising on tiptoe to peer through windows too high for her to see through.

"Nothing," he said at last. "Perhaps it is too wise to come where it must perish."

The chip of tooth was back in Garrett's pocket. She handed Mrs. Smith her wand and fished the envelope out again, then shook the contents out. Juggling revolver and tooth, she tugged her gloves off with her teeth, and let Mrs. Smith take them.

Cold wind stung her hands. She felt the skin drying, but the cool rippled texture of the tooth was more important. "How do you suppose he controlled it?"

"Kostov?" Sebastien asked, without turning his head. His wariness kept them all alert, she thought, although Jack—bony and slight as he was—was stamping now to keep warm. "He must have had a means, mustn't he? He was there when it killed."

"I'll check his pockets," Jack said, when Doctor Tesla gave a doubtful glance at the house, rubbing his gloved hands together. No, Garrett thought, he would not care to rummage through another man's clothes.

"No," Garrett said. "Let me try this, first." She dropped to one knee and laid her revolver on the cobbles by her hand. From the carpetbag, she drew a silk envelope. "Doctor Tesla, do you have a bit of copper? Silver? Anything that might conduct?"

As the Doctor rummaged in his pockets, Sebastien cleared his throat. She glanced up, and saw him glance at the silver and garnet ring upon her finger. "Oh, of course," she said, and pried it loose. Fortunately, her hand as well as the ring has shrunk slightly in the cold; it slid off easily.

She dropped ring and tooth into the envelope and tied the strings. Then she re-arrayed herself in gloves and wand and pistol, closed the carpetbag, stood up, recited a few sharp words in Latin, and tossed the package underhand over the curved chalk line.

Doctor Tesla nodded in understanding, and the others were used to her by now. There was no bang, no flash of light, nothing but the peal of silver on stone.

It rang for a long time, though, and did not die away. Rather, it seemed to be picked up by the steady electrical hum, rising like a church bell somehow struck and unfading.

And as it rose, something bounded to the top of the stones along

the Seine.

In the moonlight, the beast was black as a cat, and big as a bear. It moved with powerful lightness, though, paws flexing on the stones, and Garrett could see, quite plainly, its lean body and the dense moon-frosted coat as fluffy as any mink stole. The tail was longer, thicker than a cat's, lashing sinuously. A vertical slash of white dripped down its chest; its eyes trapped and amplified the light from the laboratory, reflecting back a greenish shine. It had a longer face than a panther, and a shorter face than a wolf, and all its teeth were bared.

"It's not dying," Jack said mildly. Doctor Tesla stepped back, although Garrett was not certain if that was in response to Jack's words, or the ani-

mal's stare.

And Mrs. Smith raised her derringer and gave it both barrels.

The little gun no more than stung it. The thing turned quickly on paws like a big man's mittened fists, its curved nails scratching the stone. Garrett leveled her pistol too, drawing a meticulous bead on the eye. Six shots, and a gun like this had a laughable range. They should have had rifles.

Getting rifles would not have been easy, though, and there had been

no time.

She squeezed the trigger, and saw the bullet strike. High. There was no sense of motion, of the bullet acting upon flesh: a red furrow only appeared in the thing's head above the eye, and there was a spray of fur and blood hanging in the air about it. By that long red line, Garrett knew that the bullet had glanced off the skull.

She fired again, and Jack was firing too. Fanning the hammer, she thought, getting two bullets for every one of hers. Emptying his gun, hoping to slow and distract it while she chose her target with more care.

Brave child. Good boy.

The beast uncoiled into a spring.

It was thirty feet away, across the entire width of the yard. Garrett fired once more while it was in the air, the eye a lost cause, aiming now for the white patch so beautifully visible on its chest and belly and hoping somehow that her bullet would penetrate the muscle and the rib cage, bounce into the gut and tear something vital wide.

She tracked it as it came, one single leap carrying it the entire distance, and realized only as it landed that she had not been the target of its wrath. Jack was on the far side of Mrs. Smith; his sixth shot struck the animal's body as its paws slammed down on his shoulders and he vanished beneath its black-furred shape. He did not scream. The sound he made was the whuff of a man who's had the wind shoved from his lungs.

Mrs. Smith fell too, scrambling or knocked aside. And then someone else was screaming—shouting—Sebastien, so fast now that Garrett did not see him go past until he hurled himself onto the monster's back. His arms locked around its long throat, dragging the head back, the gnashing teeth away from Jack's upraised arms as Jack fought to block its bite at his head

and throat.

Garrett, for fear of striking him, held her fire.

And then the monster turned, writhed, its white teeth slicked with red as it turned its head over its shoulder on a longer neck than a wolf's or a lion's, rolling in Sebastien's grip and rolling with Sebastien, taking him over, taking him down, off Jack, trying to scrape the wampyr off on the cold cold ground.

And—as Doctor Tesla bounded past her, something in his hands and his arms uplifted—showing Abby Irene its belly.

She had four bullets. She put each one, methodically, in a line from the animal's groin to the center of its chest, while Doctor Tesla stood over it, silently and savagely chopping at the beast's head with the edge of a flat

coal shovel.

* * *

The monster's blood was not savory in his mouth. Sebastien shoved the body—half-headless, from Doctor Tesla's efforts—off his chest and rolled to his knees, spitting. He didn't bother to stand—no time—but crawled across the corpse and across the slick stones toward Jack, and Phoebe, who bent over him, her dress shredded all down the side, her hands covered with something that looked black in the moonlight. Ten feet, only, and before Sebastien had covered three of them Abby Irene was grabbing at his coatsleeve, trying to hold him back.

He brushed her aside like a ghost. Phoebe, seeing him coming, ducked aside.

No need to tear his wrist with his teeth for the blood; the beast had bitten and clawed him to the bone. His coat hung in tatters, his shirt shredded. He willed blood into his wounds, felt it swell his dry flesh, saw it drip from the gashes. "Jack. Jack."

Heartbeat, there must be a heartbeat. Something other than glazed eyes and the smell of piss. He had still been fighting when Sebastien hauled the animal away. "Jack, damn you, drink—" and he smeared blood on Jack's lips, on his tongue, trying not to see the crushed chest, the torn throat dripping blood rather than spurting.

Whatever was on the stones soaked through his trousers. There was a hand on his shoulder. From across Jack's body, Phoebe reached out and grabbed his wrist, and when Sebastien would have shaken her off the pulped ribs gave under his hand and he made a sound that hurt his own ears more than that damned ringing, or the evil buzz of the useless death ray.

A wind even colder than the midnight air stroked his neck, and when he turned his head, he saw the wolves. A ring three deep, surrounding him and Abby Irene, Doctor Tesla, Phoebe. . .and Jack. Their bones showed through the ghosty skin, and their eyes reflected the moon, but not the electric light. They lay atop the wall and they sat upon the stones and they paced and circled, walking through each other as often as they walked past.

At their center and front was Courtaut, his cropped tail held low, his

ears pricked.

If there had been a stone in Sebastien's hand, he would have hurled it. If he breathed, he would have held his breath. But all he could do was stare.

The wolf stared back. And then, when he expected it to leap, or fade, or something—it turned and vanished over the wall, towards the frozen river, and all its brothers and sisters followed after like a wall of fog rolling down a bank.

In half a minute they were gone, blended and torn and blown away, nothing but mist and memory.

In their wake the air felt warm.

Sebastien raised his eyes to Phoebe, her torn dress, the blood smearing her cheek and matting her hair. Long gashes bled freely along her thigh, her skirt and petticoats torn aside, but it looked as if the glancing blow had been otherwise defeated by her corset, and the blood wasn't spurting.

"You're hurt, Mrs. Smith," Sebastien said, Abby Irene's hand tightening on his shoulder, her calf and knee and thigh pressed to his side.

"So are you," she said.

Sebastien slipped his wrist from her grasp and knelt back on his toes, his hands open on his knees. "I'll heal," he said.

And wished it wasn't true.

* * *

In the hours while they waited for Renault's summons, Garrett barely slept. Sebastien was brittle and silent—though never less than courteous with her or with Phoebe. Phoebe seemed to deal with her own loss by caretaking Sebastien during the day, when he was trapped inside by the winter sun—pressing him to eat, so he would heal, hobbling on her bandaged leg more than Garrett thought was good for her, reading to him from her novel in progress, refusing to cry where anyone could see her. Once night fell, he wandered, and Garrett and Phoebe were left to their own devices.

Sebastien must have found some courtiers' club, because he returned the first night of the waning moon with his wounds healed—although he would not touch Phoebe while she was recovering, and he had not inquired of Garrett. She was already up, fragrant from her bath and sipping chocolate, when he let himself into the room. "Hello," she said.

"You didn't wait up?"

Garrett shook her head and he knelt to scritch the orange cat. "We didn't sleep much either, though, I fear. Phoebe just dropped off an hour ago. I hung the card on her door."

In the dark, in their shared bed that first night, Garrett had felt Phoebe shaking and heard her labored breaths.

And reached out and took her arm, and turned her, and wrapped both arms around her shoulders and head, to shelter Phoebe while she cried. Phoebe clutched Garrett's wrists, their forearms parallel and Phoebe's head pressed to Garrett's chin, and when Garrett sobbed out loud Mike woke and burrowed between them, licking and poking.

"It hurts," Phoebe had said.

And Garrett had said, "I know."

But that wasn't in her voice when she set her chocolate aside and went to him. There was no blame, no blame for either of them. He had his own grief, as Phoebe had hers. Garrett's was just a shadow, a grief in anticipation.

Renault's letter was on the table, open, pages scattered like kicked leaves. It had come in with the cocoa, in Mary's hand. Garrett picked it up as she passed, and offered it to Sebastien.

He could read very fast when he cared to. His eyes skimmed down the page; the paper crinkled when he turned it. "Rostov was a Russian agent," he said. "This is not a surprise."

"Read on," she said, "to the results of the interrogation."

"The English deal with Russia for an invasion of France," he read. "Night of the full moon, February. . .next month? They were planning an invasion next month? Hello. Did your Henry know this?"

His voice promised soft murder. But Garrett shook her head. "I don't believe so. I don't believe Phillip would tell him. I don't believe he would be here trying to broker peace if he knew."

"You still defend him."

"A good man can pick a bad cause," she said. "It doesn't matter. Renault will give us the treaty. Financial and military support. Richard and the rest are going to pay, Sebastien. There's going to be a war."

"There already is," Sebastien said, and dropped the letter aside. "Jack's war. The war he wanted. And in fifty years, another corrupt government will rise up out of the ideals of revolution." If he was human, she imagined he would have had to spit, to clear the taste of bitterness. "Abby Irene—"

"Don't," she said. "I'm staying with you. So is Phoebe."

"You speak for her?"

"She speaks for herself. We talked while you were gone." She put a hand on his arm and pressed until she felt the unyielding flesh with her palm. He was warm, full of blood, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. "We're staying, Sebastien."

"I'm not interested in taking responsibility for a court," he said. "I can't. I can't—care for people anymore."

"You can't help caring for people," she answered. "And we're both grown women. Grown people. We make our own choices, Monsieur Gosselin."

He stared.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find Prince Henry, and tell him he'd better get out of Paris before he's arrested as a spy. You know, I think his brother might be trying to get him killed?"

The staring continued as Garrett gathered her things, slid on her gloves, found her earmuffs and coat and shawl. He was still staring when she paused, hand on the door, and winked at him. "Don't wait up," she said.

But when the door clicked shut behind her, Garrett was not alone in the hall. Mary stood staring at her, a tray balanced on one palm, her apron pressed and tied.

"I overheard," she said.

"Mary, I—" Garrett swallowed, already sweating in her layers. "I'll pay your fare home. A letter of reference. Severance. I know you wouldn't be happy dragged all over Europe. I know it's not fair to ask—"

"I want to stay in Paris," Mary said.

"Stay in Paris," Garrett repeated dumbly. "All on your own? Are

you sure?"

Mary nodded, the tray rocking slightly on her hand. And Garrett thought of the Algerian woman on the Metro, tall and decked in gold, unbeholden to anyone.

"Stay in Paris," Garrett said. And caught Mary's face between her gloved hands, while Mary stood too shocked to intervene, and kissed her on the cheek like a sister, like a friend.

"On your head be it," she said.

THE END