Time for Eternity (37 page)

Françoise pulled herself up, thinking hard.
No, you said it yourself. Frankie, you only exist if I am made vampire. If I die in
a single lifetime, there is no you. So it’s still possible that Henri makes me vampire.

Silence.

I’ll take that as an affirmative. Which means he’s not dead yet.
Françoise inhaled and felt a power over her own destiny fill her lungs.
We could still save him.

No, no, no, no, no. We are
not
going back there. You can’t risk being made vampire.

What’s so bad about it? He doesn’t kill people to get blood. You didn’t either, once you understood how to do it. And
you didn’t do anything with your powers because you were frightened and you hated yourself. But Henri helped people
with his powers.

A drop in the bucket.

Better than no drop at all. Look around you. What would the world be like if these hundred people had died?

Probably better off,
Frankie grumbled.

Françoise stared pointedly at Emile, his thumb in his mouth, being cradled by Christophe Navarre.

Okay, okay. The world isn’t ever better off beheading children.

Exactly. Or as you would say … Bingo.

You’re going back to try to save him, aren’t you?
Frankie seemed disgusted but resigned.

But that was a problem, wasn’t it? Françoise swallowed.
But how to get off the boat? I don’t swim.

A silence ensued. Françoise could feel Frankie holding something back. At last Françoise heard Frankie ’s muttered,
I do. I
swim.

Françoise let certainty wash through her. That was her answer. Gaston and Jennings would try to stop her. But when night fell, she could slip over the side. She still had coins from the roulades she had used to bribe the guards in the pockets tied inside her skirts. She’d hire a carriage. She might not be in time. But how could she not try?

Like you’re going to break into the Conciergerie. She’s drugged him. He was wounded. You’ll never get him out.

I’ll think about that later.

You’ll get made vampire and I’ll have come back here for nothing. Talk about bitter.

If he isn’t guillotined, maybe things turn out differently. Maybe you have lifetimes of love with him. Maybe you’re
happy.

Frankie snorted.
You heard Marianne Vercheroux. He doesn’t love women. Especially not twenty-one-year-old almost
virgins.

Françoise swallowed. Henri didn’t love her. It didn’t matter.
You must make a stand somewhere,
she thought to Frankie. And that was it, wasn’t it? You must try to get what you wanted. And Françoise wanted Henri alive. No matter the cost. No matter if he loved her.

She loved him and that was all she had for certain. How far she had come from her girlish infatuation with the wicked duc. If she had ever guessed that the wicked duc was actually vampire, she would have run screaming from Paris. If she had guessed that he was a good man, she would have been equally shocked. But there it was. He was both a monster and a good man, and “wicked duc” didn’t come close to compassing the depth, the complexity of him. It was that complexity she had fallen in love with. She hadn’t even known what love was when she had mooned over her delightfully forbidden next-door neighbor. Now her love would go unrequited, and maybe she’d be vampire. Would she end up bitter and jaded like Frankie?

No, she wouldn’t. This was her choice. That made all the difference.

Looks like you’ll be stuck with me,
Françoise thought.

They call that multiple personalities, and it means you’re insane.

What’s more insane than time travel?

They could kill you, you know.

And worse. Madame Croûte had tortured Henri. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself, as much as to Frankie.
I’ll hate
myself if I don’t take this chance. And you of any know what that does to one.

At least I’m a good swimmer?

Françoise smiled. Frankie had just given in. She could feel Frankie’s conflict, her doubt. But there were always doubts. One just had to absorb the doubt and … and do what had to be done anyway.

The carriage changed horses at Poissy for the last time. It was near dawn by the time she reached Paris, just twenty-four hours since she’d seen Henri fall under the swords at the quay. Croûte could not have sent him to the guillotine the same day. She’d want to toy with him. Françoise held to that. Her clothes were almost dry from her swim in the Seine, but her money was gone. That meant she had only one thing to barter for her entry to the Conciergerie. It was that thought that gave her the idea for how to get Henri out.

Lunatic plan.

“How appropriate for us.”

Don’t count me in on this one, baby doll. You’ll get made vampire somehow, and then …

“Then you don’t cease to exist. That’s good, isn’t it?” Silence.
Maybe. Maybe not.

Françoise leaned out the window and asked the driver to let her out by the Quai de l’Horloge at the far end of the Pont Neuf just next to the Conciergerie.

She made her way straight to the gatehouse. No one would expect visitors at this ungodly hour. She was wearing one of Fanchon’s creations—a befrogged day dress in blue and black that she knew made her eyes even bluer. It might be the worse for wear, but no one could mistake its line, the drape of the fabric, the costly braid, or the expensive brooch that looked like a military medal. It would do. A huge iron grate had been lowered in the stone archway in front of the gatehouse. She leaned up against it.

“Alors,”
she called. “Is there a man inside?”

A sleepy head poked out of the guardhouse. Thank the Lord, it was the guard whom she had first bribed. He looked around for the source of the call.
“Ici,”
she called. “I am here.”

He frowned in recognition. “You again?”

“But yes. With the same purpose.”

The young man shook his head. “Not this time, sweetling. Croûte’s got your … whatever he is … locked up tight, at least until she sends him down to get his hair cut.”

Françoise gasped. “He is going to the guillotine? Today?”

“Can’t say I’m sorry about that. So no more visits. Regardless of the price.”

Don’t believe him. They all want what you’re going to offer. He’ll take you up on it, even if he doesn’t intend to deliver
his part of the bargain.

Françoise grabbed for what courage she could. “I’m afraid I don’t have any money.”

Bat your eyelashes, honey. They love that.

Françoise hated herself. She blinked several times. “Is there nothing I can trade for a visit?”

The young man stared at her. Then he cleared his throat and wandered over to the iron grating. “It does get lonely guarding the scum of the earth for the people of France. I … I could use a little company.”

“Surely a hero such as yourself does not lack for company.” Françoise laughed.

He leaned against the iron strapping from the other side. His voice was husky. “Well, as you say. But with a demanding job like this, a little comfort is always welcome.”

They’re all alike, aren’t they?

No. They’re not. Just some. Be grateful for that.
“Well, I could give you … company.”

The young guard grinned slowly. He fished out the keys that hung on a ring on his wide leather belt and opened a side door.

Françoise smiled at him. The sun was rising. The courtyard of the prison beyond was still in shadow, but it would be filled with sunlight soon. She had to get Henri out before full light. The guard pulled her into his arms. His breath smelled of cheap wine, the kind made with alcohol and red dye, not grapes.

“Oh, monsieur,” she protested, turning her head away. “The light—there will be no privacy here.” She turned and took him by the hand, pulling him through the door and along the stone corridor. The open cells were quiet at this early hour. She glanced over the guard’s shoulder. Someone must be awake. She saw a shadow shift inside the cell and another. She reached up and put her hands around the guard’s neck. He took her invitation and bent to kiss her hungrily. His wet mouth covered hers. She let his tongue pry open her lips and search her mouth. One hand cupped her bottom through her skirts. She pressed her breasts against him and swabbed his tongue with hers.

Gack.
Frankie gagged.

Françoise kissed him as though she were kissing Henri. Which she was, in a way. She let her weight fall against him. He stepped back. Not far enough. She pulled her fichu from her neckline. The dress hardly covered her nipples now.

“Merde,
but you want it from me, don’t you, little bird?”

She nodded even as she pulled him down to kiss him yet again.

“Right here?” he asked, gasping.

“Right now,” she murmured into his mouth.

He fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. She rubbed the hard rod beneath the flap even as she kissed him frantically. His erection sprang free.

Are you going to do this?

If I must.
She lifted her skirts above her hips. “Brace yourself. You mustn’t drop me.”

He grinned and stepped back, dragging her with him. Still not far enough. There was nothing for it. All depended on the next moment. She pushed the guard with all her strength. He stumbled back against the bars.

An arm snaked out of the cell and wrapped around the guard’s throat. His head jerked back against the bars. His eyes widened in shock. A hand gripped the wrist of the arm across his throat. He opened his mouth to yell for help and Françoise pushed a fistful of her fichu into it. He grabbed her shoulder, his fingers digging into her flesh. Other hands now reached through the bars, pulling at his arms, pinning his legs to the bars. He struggled, but he didn’t let her go. His face turned red, then pale, then red again. Revulsion shuddered inside her. Inside the cell there was no sound.

The guard’s grip on her shoulder relaxed as he slumped, held upright only by the disembodied arms from inside the cell. The one brawny arm across his throat was pulled even tighter by the hand at its wrist.

“Don’t kill him,” she whispered, rubbing her shoulder. “We have what we want.”

The hands withdrew and the guard slumped to the ground. Françoise knelt quickly and fumbled at his belt for the key ring. The clink of keys seemed to echo against the stone. She looked quickly up and down the corridor. Other hands had appeared on the bars of other cells, waiting. But no guards.

Can’t you be quieter?

She froze as she heard voices. They weren’t in the corridor though. Maybe the courtyard. She put her finger to her lips so the prisoners could see it and tiptoed around the unconscious body of the guard to the archway that now cast light into the corridor about twenty feet away. Peering around the edge of the wall, she saw a phalanx of guards moving off toward the main gate. They were carrying something inside the square, but she couldn ’t see what it was. The tramp of boots faded. She heard the main portcullis being raised. There wasn’t much time.

It took several tries before she found the right key.

The huge lock snicked loudly and cracked open. It was the work of a moment to take it from the metal clasp.

She opened the door.

The shadows inside moved forward. A man with brawny arms inside his soiled shirt stepped out into the corridor.

“I need a diversion,” she said.

The man grinned.
“Pas de problème.”

Françoise put the key ring in his outstretched hand. Then she watched as he went down the line of cells, opening doors. He tossed the keys to others and gestured three or four men into a huddle. Cells opened down the line. Françoise grabbed the hand of a middle-aged woman who looked like she had her wits about her.

“Collect the young and the weak and keep them quiet.” The woman met her gaze. They both knew that people would be killed today. The woman nodded and gestured to two others.

At the end of the long corridor, a torch showed a figure taking the keys downstairs to a lower level. One of the leaders grabbed the sword from the unconscious guard and half a dozen prisoners went down to the guardhouse.

Françoise waited. The place had to be in chaos before she could make her move.

It didn’t take long. A guard somewhere raised a shout. Others came running. The six prisoners came back from the guardhouse with swords and even a pistol or two they tossed to the able-bodied. The corridor had filled with gaunt men, dirty men, but men who knew that their lives and maybe the lives of loved ones depended on this one desperate chance. They surged out into the courtyard, armed or not.

Shouts, screams of pain. As soldiers fell, their weapons changed hands. Prisoners dropped and bled. Guards appeared from everywhere, but the prisoners must have found other keys on other rings, because prisoners began to surge out from every archway.

Françoise shoved through the tide like a fish struggling upstream. She knew her way to Henri ’s cell. Down the stairwell, and down another, as though she were descending into hell.

Better hope he’s in good enough shape to walk out. You’ll never be able to carry him.

“Be quiet.”

But when she got to the cell, panting, the door was open and the shackles were empty.

Had he escaped with the others? Was he in some other cell? She looked around wildly. But no other cells were near. She stumbled back up the corridor and started to climb stairs.

When she got to the place where the prison break had started, the cells were all empty. The melee still echoed in the courtyard.

The young guard was groaning as he tried to sit.

She knelt beside him. “Where is he?”

He looked dazed and rubbed his throat where a livid bruise was beginning to form.