la bête hanging heavy upon him. His hands were still and calm, pressed against his thighs. The peace of the predator descended upon him.
He smiled, and the man blanched a little. But held fast, and began to swing shut the door. And just as Sebastien was making up his mind to grab it, Abby Irene stepped forward, fumbling with gloved hands in her reticule, and placed one dainty dove-gray boot between the panel and the jamb.
She never felt the impact, although the servant swung with intent. Sebastien, reaching over her head, caught the edge of the closing panel before it touched the leather.
The door thudded into his palm with a sound as if it had struck wood, and he didn't bother flexing his elbow to absorb the force. It rebounded, out of the servant's hand, and Abby Irene stepped forward into the hall, flashing the warrant card she was no longer entitled to carry and sweeping the servant before her. "I am here as a representative of the government of Prime Minister Armand Renault," she said, as Sebastien and Jack stepped into the doorway behind her, Phoebe hard upon their heels. "Doctor Tesla is at home to me. What is your name?"
The servant stammered, and frankly broke and ran, leaving them standing about the hall.
"So hard to get good help," Jack muttered, and shut the door behind himself, careful that the latch caught.
"You lied," Sebastien said to Abby Irene, one hand on her warm elbow.
"I'll pay the note in Hell," she answered, and went forward like a man o'war, her skirts trailing.
Sebastien let her sweep him up, and followed through the entry and into the hall. It was all bright, the walls glowing with sconces—and extraordinarily clean, each object dusted and polished and arranged precisely, even on the disused hallway furniture.
They were met at the bottom of the stair by a gaunt man of quite
shocking tallness. Sebastien actually thought his head might strike the ceiling at the bottom of the stair, but he stooped slightly as passed the newel post and came through unharmed. He was elegantly dressed, his hands clad in gray kid, his thick hair severely parted and swept back. A silk handkerchief peeked from his coat pocket.
He drew himself up, his dark mustache quivering with outrage, and spluttered something in a language that might have been Serbian, because it certainly wasn't Russian, Polish, or Czech. Sebastien answered in French: "I am sorry, sir, I did not understand."
Abby Irene looked at Sebastien. Sebastien shrugged. "There are languages I don't speak, you know."
The theurgist rubbed his gloved hands together, once, twice, and a third time, and visibly composed himself. "I said, sir, what is the meaning of this. . .invasion?"
"You did not receive my note?" Sebastien asked, and then interrupted himself before Doctor Tesla could answer. "No, I see you did not. Your servant, sir, did he pass you on the stair?"
"What? No. Sir, I demand you explain your—"
"Phoebe," Sebastien said, "please handle the exposition. Don't let him turn on any lights! Jack, with me!"
The hall extended to the rear of the narrow house, and Sebastien all but flew along it, his overcoat flaring. His footsteps made almost no sound on the runner, though Jack's thudded sternly at his heels.
The servant was nowhere in evidence, but Sebastien had his scent, and a cold draft gave him all the information he needed. He sidestepped into the kitchen, broke stride at the unlatched back door only long enough to pull it open, and plunged through, making sure he stayed ahead of Jack.
The night air slapped him, followed a split second later by a sharp blow to the chest. Sebastien turned to face his assailant, felt resistance and bone grating on steel.
There was no pain, not from an injury as slight as a knife in the
chest. He struck out, slammed his palm into the servant's shoulder, and knocked the man away. The knife stayed lodged; there was a faint tug when Sebastien drew in breath to scent the breeze, and the hiss of air escaping. "Bother," he said, and jumped down the single stone step to clear the doorway for Jack.
The servant scrambled backwards, never quite getting his feet under him. Behind, Sebastien heard not just one set of footsteps but four, and knew the others—and the theurgist—had arrived. A moment later, he saw what the servant was scrambling towards, through the increasing dusk.
A lamp post, at the corner of the cobbled yard, beside the hip-height wall that overlooked the gray and