Chapter Nineteen
Paris, 1869—A Bargain
Winston sat in the crowded Parisian cafe and felt no pain. The little green fairy was taking care of that grandly. He slumped back in his seat, heedless of those around him, and simply stared. Faces swirled about him like a kaleidoscope gone mad. Eyes grew larger, rows of gleaming teeth flashing behind stretched lips. Too much laughter here. He needed to find another cafe. One where the somber chaps congregated as they drank their way toward death.
Death. He did not fear it. Why should he? He was already dead inside. No dreams left, no hope, no Poppy.
Ah, there it was, the pain. Like a marriage-minded mama with daughter in tow, pain pushed with insistent hands through the layers of alcohol-induced numbness and put itself front and center, demanding attention. He rubbed his tender chest. She’d ripped his heart out. And had been messy about it. Gaping wounds remained. He took another deep drink, and as the viscous anise flavor slid down his throat, he grimaced and looked down at himself, wondering how it was that there wasn’t a bloody hole in him. No. Simply a slightly soiled waistcoat and rumpled evening kit.
Was it evening? Or morning? When had he arrived?
Gas lamps burned in this murky place. Heavy velvet curtains lined the windows. One could never see the passing of time here. He hunched over his glass and wished for… what?
He thought of his dream to become a detective and realized that he no longer cared. Without Poppy, and the joy she brought into his life, any happiness he might find as an inspector would be a shadow of the real thing.
“It’s hopeless,” he muttered into his glass.
Foxed as he was, it took him a while to realize that the sounds around him had stopped. Completely, as though a thick blanket had been thrown over everything. His head heavy, Win had a bit of a time getting it to lift. When he did, he gawked. The cafe had gone still. Still as in every soul inside of it had simply frozen, as if they’d turned to marble. Now that was a trick. He looked about, blinking to clear his eyes. But the woman at the table beside his remained bent forward, her mouth stretched in a silent laugh, her bosom nearly falling out of her low, green velvet bodice. The waiter’s eyes remained glued upon those white mounds as his hand hovered an inch above the tabletop, the coffee cup in his hand steaming.
Footsteps echoed in the ringing silence, and Win wrenched his gaze toward the sound.
A man strolled toward him, his gait easy as he wove between the frozen patrons. Wearing a black walking suit and a waistcoat of scarlet satin, he appeared neither young nor old. His form was trim, his features almost indistinct. Dark hair hung unfashionably long from beneath a top hat that hid his eyes. And while Win stared, the man’s thin lips curled in a smile. The man’s chin lifted, and Win caught sight of his eyes. White. White irises that looked anything but human.
Win inhaled sharply. But the man blinked, and the eyes turned a normal hazel brown. The strange smile he wore, however, remained. The click of his boot heels stopped as he stood before Winston.
“Mr. Lane.” The man inclined his head. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Waiting? Perhaps absinthe wasn’t the way to go. Perhaps opium would be better. Winston tried to reply and found his voice did not quite work. Decidedly, he’d imbibed too much.
Not waiting for an invitation, the man pulled out the chair opposite Win and sat. A slim, pale hand extended toward Win. “You may call me Mr. Jones.”
Win stared at the hand, and then at the man. He could not make himself move to shake hands. Mr. Jones let his hand fall and smiled again as though Win’s rudeness amused him. “Your glass is empty, Mr. Lane.”
Was it? Win hadn’t noticed.
“Let me get you another.” Jones’s fingers snapped, and like that, the cafe buzzed with life once more.
A waiter appeared at their table as if he’d been there all along. Win tried to think but found himself unable as the waiter set down a fresh glass of absinthe. Jones tapped the marble tabletop with one long fingernail. “Nothing is hopeless, Lane. Drink up.” His hand dipped into his coat pocket, and he pulled free a rolled length of foolscap. “Then we can discuss terms.”
Win touched his throbbing head. “Pardon, sir… I am a bit… muddled.” He took a deep, clearing breath. “Do I know you?”
Again came that smile, curling and dark with promise. Again the eerie flash of white in his eyes. “No. But you will.”