Well, it’s been a while, eh? I have a good excuse. Since I last posted here, I’ve sold my house, moved out of the Yukon and into Alberta! I bought a house and have been busy setting it up. I never thought I would leave the Yukon but a brand-new grandchild changed my mind. Although I’ve lived in many parts of Canada–and visited everywhere else–I’d never lived in Alberta. Turns out Alberta is absolutely beautiful and Albertans are a lot like Yukoners: warm, welcoming, and funny.
I’m going to like it here.
Now that I have my computer set up, I can tell you about a book bundle I’m in. Worlds Beyond Disaster features two short stories, one novelette and four novels by seven fine, fine writers (at the risk of being immodest). The bundle includes Backli’s Ford, which is the first in my A’lle Chronicles Mysteries series. All that for $4.99. It’s available everywhere ebooks are sold, but it’s super easy to get it directly from BundleRabbit.
Corrupt governments, secret societies, mutated creatures, and post-apocalypse Earth meet strong-willed characters, unexpected hope, and gripping action.
For fans of Suzanne Collins, James Dashner, and George Orwell, a new dystopian ebook bundle is here! Filled with seven action-packed stories that pose the questions: What would you do in the face of disaster? And how far would you go to save the world?
Home Run and Troll Country are no longer free. Instead, I offer The Saffron Curse:
“…a great romp set in a Vancouver restaurant. This was good fun.” (SF Crowsnest)
Chef Eddie and his partner Amanda luck into a cheap site for the new restaurant they want to build. The old man they buy it from warns them that the site is cursed and makes them promise never to use saffron in their restaurant. But Eddie isn’t superstitious, and when a career-making critic shows up asking for his famous Badaboom monkfish dish—which contains saffron—well, what’s an ambitious chef to do?
This story was featured in Tangent Online’s 2018 Recommended Reading List.
“The story’s pace and prose bristle with the energy of a crowded kitchen.” (Tangent Online)
This one will be available for free for about a week.
Like most of you, I’m trying to be socially responsible during this Covid-19 pandemic, which means staying at home. I find myself feeling… a little useless. So, if I can’t actively help during these trying times, maybe I can entertain others who are trapp need a break.
I’ve made two short stories available for free, if you’re looking for a little escapism. Neither one has anything to do with pandemics. They’re not free on Amazon because it takes forever for Amazon to flip to free. Smashwords can provide the stories in .mobi format.
Hang in there, everyone.
HOME RUN: At ten years old—almost eleven—Cooper knows more about surviving than most adults. He and his mom have spent the past three years on the run from the monster. Every time they settle down somewhere new, the monster finds them and they have to run again. But Cooper likes their latest home in Mendenhall and he doesn’t want to leave. Even when the monster finds them again.
Catherine Schaff-Stump interviewed me recently about my A’lle Chronicles series on her Fantastic History blog. It was a fun interview with lots of insightful questions. Thanks, Catherine! Check out her web site.
I’m thrilled that Midwinter Fae (in which I have a story) is part of StoryBundle’s The Realm of Faerie bundle, curated by Jamie Ferguson. You can choose how much you want to pay for up to 13 novels, anthologies and collections! Hard to beat that deal.
Backli’s Ford, the first in my A’lle Chronicles mystery series, received a wonderful review from Amazing Stories columnist R. Graeme Cameron (who was recently inducted into the Canadian SF Hall of Fame). The review is quite thorough, touching on French/English relations in Lower Canada, not to mention the role the Catholic clergy played in the early days of the colony. The reviewer wraps it up in a lovely conclusion:
“Backli’s Ford is an excellent and satisfying crime mystery with SF elements, as well as an intriguing commentary on English/French relations in Canada historically and metaphorically. If you enjoy both historical novels and mysteries that take the time to set up in-depth characters and passionately describe settings, you will enjoy this novel. I certainly did.”
This is especially pleasing to me as Backli’s Ford holds a special place in my heart.
Read the full review here. And don’t forget to visit the amazing Amazing Stories.
SF Canada is featuring my short story, “The Verdant Gene” for free on their web site at https://bit.ly/333Fh3Z. It was originally published in Fiction River’s Moonscapes in 2014 and republished as a podcast in 2017 by StarShipSofa. I hope you enjoy it!
So pleased that my short story, “Jhyoti: Planetside,” is part of the new bundle from BundleRabbit. Eclectica is available now for pre-order everywhere e-books are sold. It features 19 short stories and collections from a variety of wonderful writers in all genres: fantasy to space adventure, pirates, mystery, horror, historical fiction, romance and coming of age. It’s curated by the wonderful Alex Butcher https://bit.ly/2IiIkxw
Here’s the table of contents:
1. “Blown” by Diana Deverell 2. “Socks and Pins and Aliens” by Thea Hutcheson 3. “Tales of Blood and Ink” by Kate MacLeod 4. “Tales of Tomorrow” by Debbie Mumford 5. “Shaken, Not Stirred: A Dawna Shepherd Short Story” by Diana Deverell 6. “City Shadows” by Chuck Heintzelman 7. “Outside the Walls” by A. L. Butcher and Diana L. Wicker 8. “Tales of an Altered Past Powered by Romance, Horror, and Steam” by Donald J. Bingle 9. “Dear Brother” by Felicia Fredlund 10. “The Cache and Other Stories” by Sherry D. Ramsey 11. “Sword Oath” by Jackie Keswick 12. “The Hooded Man” by Barbara G.Tarn 13. “S, F & H” by Harvey Stanbrough 14. “Resonant Bronze” by J.M. Ney-Grimm 15. “Hitomi’s Path” by M. L. Buchman 16. “Children” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch 17. “Jhyoti: Planetside” by Marcelle Dube 18. “Petra and the Blue Goo” by Kristine Kathryn Rusch 19. “Tears and Crimson Velvet” by A. L. Butcher
In honour of the pre-release of Epidemic: An A’lle Chronicles Mystery (Book 2), releasing on April 15, I am posting the first three chapters below. Epidemic is an alternate history set in Lower Canada in the early 1900s and featuring Constance A’lle, the first alien investigator. Barnes & Noble / iTunes | Kobo | Amazon.com | Amazon.ca
CHAPTER 1
APRIL
1912, MONTREAL, LOWER CANADA
The noise level on the
platform of Montreal’s Bonaventure Rail Station threatened Constance A’lle’s
hard-won calm. Between the steam locomotive’s deep-throated rumble, the hissing
of the escaping steam and the excited chatter of the new arrivals, she could
barely think.
She stood against the
wall of the station in the meager shade, her arms crossed over her chest, out
of the way of the passengers emerging from the train. Her summer uniform
consisted of a plain, short-sleeved gray cotton shirt and navy cotton trousers
with the gray stripe, but still her skin prickled in reaction to what was for
the humans an unusually cool April day, but the beginning of the killing heat for
her and every A’lle on Earth.
Most of the people who
passed by her wore jackets and gloves, while Constance felt the slow build-up
of heat within her. By July, she would have to carry a water bottle with her
wherever she went, not only to drink from, but to use with a kerchief to cool
her face and nape.
Until a few years ago,
the female constables had to wear skirts, stockings and heels. Very impractical
for chasing anyone or climbing on and off a bicycle, but so much cooler in the
summer…
She tried to watch all
the cars at the same time and fretted when she didn’t see her sister. Mother
had written that Gemma would arrive on today’s train from St. Vincent, although
Constance could not understand why Father and Mother had agreed to Gemma’s
insane request. They knew the danger
the A’lle faced in Montreal. How could they allow Gemma to come? Constance
would be too busy with the investigation to keep a proper eye on her sister. She
would not be able to guarantee Gemma’s safety.
She ignored the
curious looks she got, having grown up with them. She was A’lle, after all. There
were so few A’lle on this world that they stood out wherever they went, even in
a city as large as Montreal.
She recognized a few
faces from among the disembarking passengers and nodded in acknowledgment. The
women nodded coolly and the men touched their hat brims, but none stopped to
talk to her. They were from St. Vincent, where she and her family were the only
A’lle. They had all seen her at one point or another.
Surely someone would
have called the constabulary to let her know if Gemma was not coming?
A man passed by,
coughing into a handkerchief and looking a little feverish. The woman with him
held his arm, supporting him.
As the crowd thinned,
Constance’s anxiety grew. Father had believed the train to be safe, but she
knew better. Just a few short months ago, she herself had been trapped between
two cars by a ruffian who threatened her and her family if she did not follow
his instructions. He had eventually been killed in a pursuit in Backli’s Ford,
but not before her older sister Prudence almost died.
“Constance!”
Constance turned quickly
toward the voice of her sister, a smile breaking over her face.
“Gemma!” In two quick
strides, she was at her sister’s side and hugging her. Except for the twins, who
were not full grown, Gemma was the shortest of the six sisters, but still
taller than most human women.
“Good trip?” Constance
asked.
“Yes!” said Gemma,
disentangling herself from her sister. She carried a string-wrapped parcel that
she was careful to hold away from the hurrying passersby. “I did not know the
train moved so fast!”
Constance laughed at
her sister’s enthusiasm, remembering how she had felt on her first trip by
train. Yes, it had seemed to move impossibly fast—except when it moved too
slowly.
Sensing a gaze on her,
Constance looked up to find the conductor standing a few feet away. He nodded
solemnly at her, touched his cap, and turned toward the train.
Ah. Constance did not
know who had arranged for the conductor to watch over Gemma, but she suspected Chief
Investigator Desautel. Or perhaps Investigator Bérubé, who was in charge of the
constabulary in St. Vincent while Maître Desautel was temporarily assigned to
Montreal.
It did not matter who
had arranged it, but it would have been kind of them to let her know.
“Mademoiselle?”
They both turned to
see a black man in the red cap of a porter’s uniform. He carried three pieces of
luggage that Constance did not recognise.
“Oh, thank you!” said
Gemma. She looked at the black man in fascination and he smiled, clearly
amused. His skin was a brown so dark that his teeth looked startlingly white in
contrast.
Constance smiled, too.
Until she came to Montreal with Chief Investigator Desautel, she had never seen
a black person. She had known of them, of course, but there were none in St.
Vincent. It gave her a feeling of kinship with him, knowing that he would stand
out in St. Vincent as much as she and her family did.
She took her first
deep breath since arriving at the station, noting the smell of coal, roasting
beef, and tar.
“Come on,” she said,
wrapping an arm around her sister’s waist. She pulled Gemma toward the multiple
brass and glass doors that marked the entrance to the station and held one of
the doors open for the porter. He nodded his thanks and went through to a
cordoned off area in a side hallway where a few carts waited. After loading
Gemma’s suitcases onto one of them, he nodded again and they set off.
Gemma strode by
Constance’s side as if she knew exactly where she was going, her new
high-heeled boots clicking on the marble floor. She glanced up at Constance and
grinned.
“You look so
official!” laughed Gemma, taking in Constance’s uniform. She wore a heavy black
belt on which depended a small handcuff case, a baton and a flashlight. The
whole array was heavy. And hot. It was a far cry from the heavy canvas pants
and gray woollen shirt that had been her uniform in St. Vincent. Even her hair
was up in a proper bun. It always pulled but at least the hairstyle made her
look closer to her true age of twenty-two, rather than the sixteen or seventeen
that she looked like in human years. And it was cooler.
“And you look so
proper,” smiled Constance, taking Gemma’s free hand and holding it out to get a
better look at her sister’s outfit.
“Isn’t it lovely?”
whispered Gemma. “Mother bought it new!”
She had every reason to be thrilled. The pale blue serge travel skirt and matching jacket with its lovely navy braid were smart and the height of Montreal’s upcoming summer season. Not that Constance followed the trends, but it was hard to avoid noticing how well dressed these Montreal women were. Gemma’s seersucker shirt was not new but it matched so well it might as well have been. Unfortunately, the entire outfit had the effect of making Gemma’s A’lle eyes stand out even more.
Every A’lle on Earth
had the same shade of blue eyes, a cross between blueberry and cranberry.
Compared to human eyes, A’lle eyes had too much color, as if the iris were
larger than that of human eyes. It didn’t help that A’lle pupils were always
contracted to a pinprick during daytime hours. There was too much light on this
world.
Just as every A’lle
had eyes the same shade of blue, each one bore the name of the ship that had
crash landed on Earth, two hundred years earlier.
As they entered the
grand hall proper, Gemma’s steps slowed on the marble floor and Constance
looked around, seeing the place anew through her sister’s eyes. The sheer
grandeur of it was enough to catch one’s breath. The hall extended into the
distance, where a series of glass doors led to De La Gauchetière Street. There were
doors everywhere, and between them, shops of all types—newspapers, magazines,
scarves, gloves, stationery, food—not to mention at least three shoe shine
stations.
And in the center of
everything, taking pride of place, towered the great bronze clock.
A voice over a loud
speaker announced the imminent departure of the train for Quebec City and
people rushed past them, hurrying toward the platform.
Constance glanced at
the string-wrapped parcel in Gemma’s hand. “Is that what I think it is?” she
asked, full of hope.
Gemma grinned. “It is,
but not for you. It is Prudence’s gift to your chief investigator.”
Constance’s eyebrows
rose. She did not know how she felt about the interest Maître Desautel and
Prudence seemed to have in each other. There was the age difference, of course,
but that was less of a problem among the A’lle than it was among the
humans—after all, A’lle lived longer than humans. No, it was the fact that
Chief Investigator Desautel was human that bothered her. Her experience of
human men interested in A’lle women had always been… disturbing.
And yet, she did not
sense prurient interest on the part of the chief investigator. His interest in
Prudence seemed genuine, which was perhaps most disturbing of all.
The porter cleared his
throat discreetly and Constance looked around.
“Yes, of course.” She
turned back to Gemma, who was still staring at the people, the shops, the vaulted
ceiling, as if her eyes alone would never be enough to take it all in.
“I have a car waiting.” Constance nodded to
the porter. “This way, please.” She took Gemma by the hand and led the way to
the north door, out of the cavernous hall and into the spring sunshine again,
where Constable Murphy waited patiently by the curb.
They both blinked
furiously while their A’lle eyes adjusted to the light, and Gemma pulled a
handkerchief out of her bag and discreetly dabbed at her tearing eyes.
“I can take those.”
Constance nodded her
thanks to Constable Murphy and he and the porter set about loading the
suitcases into the back of the Parker.
Gemma paused in
returning her handkerchief to her bag and stared at Murphy, her mouth open in
astonishment. “What amazingly red hair,” she said.
Murphy and the porter
looked up and the young constable blushed while the porter grinned. Constance
gave her sister a nudge with her elbow.
“Into the back,” she
said firmly, opening the door for her.
Gemma hesitated a
moment, looking at the white POLICE sign painted on the door, then stepped up
and slid down the seat to make room for Constance. She placed the pie carefully
on her lap.
Murphy closed the back
and circled around to the driver’s door. His face was still red.
“Thank you,” said
Constance to the porter, slipping him a few coins. He tipped his cap to her and
hurried back into the station with the empty cart.
Constance slid in next
to Gemma and closed the door. Normally she would have ridden in front with
Murphy. “Gemma, this is Constable Liam Murphy, my colleague. Constable Murphy,
this is my sister Gemma.”
Murphy twisted in the
front seat to look at them.
“A pleasure,
mademoiselle.” He smiled.
Gemma smiled back. “I
did not mean to embarrass you.”
Murphy grinned,
showing off his dimples. “No redheads in St. Vincent?”
Gemma shook her head
and he winked at her before turning back to the front.
Constance barely had
time to whisper, “Hang on!” before they were suddenly whisked into traffic to
the sound of horns blaring behind them. Gemma clutched at the pie to keep it
from sliding off her lap.
Constance caught Gemma’s
sideways glance and smiled reassuringly. There was no point trying to explain
Murphy’s driving. One had to experience it to understand it.
“Everyone is well?”
she asked.
Gemma nodded but kept one
hand on the strap hanging from the ceiling and the other on the parcel. “Mother
has sent along some summer clothes for you.”
“And Prudence is fully
recovered?”
“She is perfectly
well,” said Gemma. She slid a sly glance at Constance. “The gift to Monsieur
Desautel is in thanks for saving her life.”
Prudence had already
thanked him several times. At this rate, the chief investigator’s little paunch
would grow back.
Feeling Gemma’s gaze
on her Constance looked around. “Amazing, isn’t it?” She gestured at the window
with one hand. “At some points of the day, it’s utter chaos and we have to
despatch a couple of constables to untangle the snarl and get the motor cars
going again.”
“We need electric
signals,” said Murphy from the front. He divided his attention between the road
and his passengers, thanks to the mirror he had welded where the roof met the
windshield. “They have them in Paris, you know.”
“The mayor says we
cannot afford them.” Constance shrugged. “Now,” she added, getting back to her
sister, “you will find Amanda a little stern, perhaps, but she is kind and she
is a good cook. She is giving up one of her bedrooms so that you can have a
private space for your studies, but I think she expects you to help with her
girls sometimes.”
Gemma nodded. “She
lost her husband, didn’t she?”
Constance was silent
for a moment, then she nodded. “Ezra. Almost nine months now.”
They both fell silent
as Murphy careened around corners at speeds that left Constance grateful her
breakfast was long gone.
* * *
An hour later, with
Gemma settled at Amanda A’lle’s home in the Alley, Constance and Murphy
returned to the main constabulary on St. Denis, pie in hand.
“You know,” said
Murphy conversationally as they climbed the concrete steps, “McReady would
never have given you the time to meet your sister.”
Constance nodded but
didn’t say anything. What Murphy wasn’t saying was that Chief Investigator
McReady would never have allowed her to work in his constabulary in the first
place.
But McReady was no
longer in charge in Montreal. He was in exile in Quebec City while the
Magistrate of the Baudry Region investigated him for dereliction of duty.
Chief Investigator
Médéric Desautel was cut from a different cloth. Since first learning of the
abductions and murders of A’lle, he had dug and dug until he uncovered Doctor Saunders’
role in the murder of Frederick A’lle in Backli’s Ford, and from there, his
role in the conspiracy to discover how the A’lle healed so quickly and lived so
much longer than humans, a conspiracy that seemed centered in Montreal.
Constance sighed
softly. She had liked the doctor. Learning that he was involved in the
abductions and dissections of the A’lle, not to mention that he had attacked
her sister Prudence… The disappointment had been visceral and now caused her to
mistrust her own judgment.
They entered the
common room, a room easily four times the size of the one in St. Vincent, with
at least a dozen wooden desks, a bank of tall filing cabinets along the long
wall, and a row of six holding cells at the back.
And that was just one
station house. There were six more on the island of Montreal. She had yet to
visit four of them. Of course, Constabulary One was the main constabulary since
the chief investigator was stationed there.
The holding cells were
full with last night’s revelers and the smell emanating from them made her nose
twitch in protest. There were only two constables typing away at their desks.
They did not look up as Constance and Murphy entered. They would probably find
two or three more constables in the kitchen, eating their lunches. The rest of
the dozen or so constables on duty would be on patrol.
“I’m starving,” said
Murphy and headed straight for the kitchen. Constance hesitated a moment, wondering
if she should bring the pie to the chief investigator right away, then decided
to join Murphy. She needed to type up her notes from the interview with Georges
and Estelle A’lle, whose daughter had disappeared almost six months ago, but
she could do so after eating. Then she would present both notes and pie to the
chief investigator.
“Investigator A’lle.”
The voice cut across the muted noises of the common room, causing all noise to
stop for a moment and making the breath catch in Constance’s throat.
One of the few
consolations she had gained from leaving her family behind in St. Vincent and
moving to Montreal was that she was also leaving behind Louis Hallepin, Chief
Investigator Desautel’s assistant in St. Vincent.
After a few weeks,
however, Maître Desautel had dismissed the incumbent assistant, who had
remained loyal to McReady, and brought in Louis from St. Vincent.
That had been all the
vindication Louis needed.
Constance and Murphy
turned as one to face the chief investigator’s assistant, whose desk was at the
far end of the room, just outside the chief’s corner office.
“Yes?” said Constance
politely.
“Maître Desautel
wishes to see you,” said Louis, raising his voice to be sure he was understood
across the expanse of the room.
A few months ago,
Constance would have automatically approached Louis rather than disturb
everyone in the common room, but she had come to learn—thanks mostly to
Murphy’s coaching—that humans played subtle games of dominance over each other.
She had been shocked to learn, for instance, that standing over a seated person
established dominance, as did standing too close to a person or forcing a
person to come to you. Louis, it seemed, was a master at these little games.
It baffled her that
humans played these games but when she asked Murphy to explain, he had
shrugged.
“Sometimes it’s
calculated to make someone tell you what you want to know,” he said. “Sometimes
it’s the natural behavior of a superior.”
Constance had paid
attention after that but while she had seen many of the constables play these
games, especially with her, she had never seen the chief investigator do so. Not
once. Perhaps he did not know how.
Or perhaps, like her,
he did not care.
She glanced at Murphy
and saw his mouth twitch suspiciously. Without a word, she started across the
common room, heading for the chief investigator’s office. She took Prudence’s
pie with her.
The first thing the chief
investigator had done when he had taken over the Montreal Constabulary was
appropriate a corner of the common room, one with windows, and build walls
around it to create a small office. Constance had said nothing, but secretly
she had approved. McReady had isolated himself on the second floor, at the far
end of the hallway—as far away from the pulse of his constabulary as he could
get.
No wonder the man had
known nothing about the abductions and murders of the A’lle in his
jurisdiction.
She brushed past Louis
and knocked on the chief investigator’s door jamb.
“Entrez,” he called.
Constance entered and
found the chief investigator writing at his desk. He glanced up and nodded her
to a chair. She sat and waited for him to finish. As an afterthought, she set
the pie on the floor by her feet, where its presence would not distract the
chief investigator.
A moment later, he set
his pen down on the wooden tray containing his ink well and pressed blotting paper
down on the sheet on his desk. Finally, he sat back and looked at her.
“Anything?”
Constance stifled a
sigh of frustration. “Non, maître.”
It seemed no matter
how many A’lle she interviewed, she only heard a variation of the same story. A
loved one had gone out or been left alone and was never seen again. Many had
recognized the doctor from photographs as being the doctor who had ministered
to their loved one or to someone close by, but no one had actually seen the
doctor abduct anyone.
Not that it mattered.
The doctor had
admitted his role in the abductions, had even admitted conducting illegal tests
on the abductees, but he swore that he had only withdrawn blood from the
captives. And he refused to disclose the names of his colleagues in the
conspiracy, for though the doctor might have contented himself with drawing
blood, others had not. The few bodies that had been recovered had had their
organs removed, no doubt for examination.
“And you?” she asked
softly.
The chief investigator
stood up and went to stand by the window, which was open, letting in a breeze
to help cool her down. He stared out the window that faced St. Denis and
crossed his arms over his chest. He had lost weight since arriving in Montreal
and the little paunch he had sported in St. Vincent was almost gone.
“No,” he said finally.
She nodded even though
he could not see her. The chief investigator had been looking for Lucie A’lle
for two months. Her sister, Odile, had come to him when they first arrived in
Montreal and he had promised he would do everything in his power to find Lucie.
Unfortunately, that was very little. He had personally interviewed every
merchant on Ste. Catherine between the tramway stop where Lucie and Odile had
parted ways on that morning and Ogilvy’s, the store where Lucie A’lle had
worked. All to no avail.
Like all the others,
she had vanished without a trace. The only slim hope that remained was the fact
that her body had not been found. Constance swallowed against a sudden sour taste.
No, Lucie A’lle was young and female. They—whoever “they” were—would try to
breed her, as they had learned when they arrested Dr. Saunders earlier in the
year.
That was what the
doctor called it. Breeding them. Constance called it raping them. Whatever else
the kidnappers thought, nothing would ever come of a union between human and
A’lle. Their blood chemistry was too different. Unless they thought they had
found a way to overcome that particular hurdle.
“We are accomplishing
nothing here,” she said bitterly. “Two months we have been here and we have
learned nothing new.”
The chief investigator
took a deep breath. “There is no other way to go about it. We must go step by
plodding step until we find something that will lead us in the right direction.”
He turned to look at her, his eyes seemingly more deep set than before. “We
keep looking, Investigator A’lle, until we turn over the right rock.”
“There have been no
new reports,” she said in an effort to ease the mood. “We have accomplished
that much, at least.”
He nodded and resumed
his seat. It was little consolation to him, just as it was little consolation
to her. He pasted a smile on his face and visibly shook off his gloom.
“Your sister is
settled?”
“Yes, maître,” said
Constance with a smile. “She starts nursing school tomorrow and is very
excited.”
He smiled in return.
“Is that her… talent?” he asked softly, so as not to be overheard by Louis’
finely attuned ears. “Is she a healer?”
Constance nodded but
added nothing else. Gemma’s talent was more closely related to finding what was
wrong with the body than to healing, though healing was part of it. Constance
did not wish to explain this to the chief investigator. No A’lle spoke of their
talent to humans if they could help it. A’lle had been burned at the stake for
admitting to their talents.
The chief investigator
knew about Constance’s talent only because she had been forced to tell him in
order to enlist his help in protecting her family last winter. He and Murphy
were the only two humans who knew about her ability to sense the truth in a
person’s heart simply by touching them.
“And your family is
well?” he asked.
Part of Constance
wanted to smile, but most of her wanted to sigh. “Yes, they are well. Prudence
sends her regards, and a gift.”
Interest sharpened his
gaze. Without a word, Constance leaned down and picked up the box by the
strings tying it closed. Without a word, she handed him the parcel. He held it
in his hand for a long moment, a smile on his face. Finally, he looked up at her.
“Please convey my
thanks,” he said. “Her pies are becoming my greatest weakness.”
Constance suspected
that his weakness resided more with the baker than the baked goods, but she
held her tongue.
Desautel set the pie
down carefully on the desk and leaned back in his chair, studying her. “I am
going to interview Doctor Saunders this afternoon,” he said slowly. “I would
like you to come with me.”
Constance stared back
at him, wondering if he was asking her what she thought he was asking her.
CHAPTER 2
The Au-Pied-du-Courant
jail was an imposing, forbidding edifice of gray stone blocks. It dominated the
three acres of land on which it stood, on De Lorimier, close by the St.
Lawrence River, and hid behind a tall stone wall. A massive wooden door barred
access to the inner courtyard. It had been years since Desautel had had a
reason to visit it.
Murphy set the brake
on the Parker and Desautel got out into the warm spring sunshine. He, Constance
and Murphy went to stand by the door. The grass at the foot of the wall had
already turned green and the fecund smell of thawing earth warred with the
stench of thawing outhouses.
To Desautel’s
surprise, Constance A’lle had chosen to sit in front with Murphy. The entire
trip, she had watched the young constable’s hands and feet while he maneuvered
the motor car around the streets of Montreal. Desautel suspected she wished to
learn how to drive, and it was a good idea. Lower Canada was becoming more and
more motorized. The day would come, he felt certain, where knowing how to drive
would be an asset for every constable.
Still, he hoped her
style would be less… exciting than the young constable’s.
He pulled on the bell
next to the door and it rang out, alerting the inhabitants that someone desired
admission. Almost at once the massive door opened soundlessly and a burly man
in the black uniform of a guard stared out at them.
“Yes?”
“Chief Investigator
Desautel. I called ahead.”
The guard nodded, but
the suspicious look did not leave his face. He stepped aside to allow them
entry. Desautel noticed the hard look he gave Constance A’lle but said nothing.
He had grown accustomed to this reaction but as long as the man did his job and
treated her with the respect due to an investigator, Desautel would say
nothing. Investigator A’lle would not melt under a hard look and if he had to
remonstrate with every person who behaved in an unfriendly manner toward her,
he would be constantly berating people.
And if he were to be
brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that until a few months
ago, he had been one of them.
The jail rose four
floors, with bars on all the windows. It was a massive building that did not
try to hide its purpose. Desautel had been here often, especially in his early
days as a lawyer, but until Doctor Saunders was incarcerated here, he hadn’t
been inside the gates in over ten years.
The heavy door closed
behind them and he heard the metal bar fall into place. The guard led them down
the gravel path, their boots crunching in the stones. The jail was perhaps
forty feet from the stone wall, and the space between wall and building was
filled with grass. Flower beds edged the inner wall and followed the walk to
the door of the building proper. Prisoners took air and exercise behind the
building.
Once inside, they went
through a number of locked doors, their steps echoing on the marble floor of the
empty hallway, until the guard left them at the superintendent’s outer office.
Superintendent Lavoie
came out of his office before his assistant could even announce them. He shook
hands with Desautel and nodded to Constance and Murphy.
“Good to see you
again, Médéric,” he said. “The doctor is waiting for you in the interview
room.”
“Merci, Charles,” said Desautel, clapping the man on the arm. He and
Charles Lavoie had grown up together on the Plateau Mont Royal, though they had
lost touch over the years. He had been very pleased to find his old friend
still in Montreal and to learn that he was now in charge at the Pied.
Charles’ hairline had
receded over the years, as had Desautel’s, but his green eyes still looked the
same—calm and patient, with a hint of laughter lurking behind them. He had five
children, Desautel suddenly remembered. And three grandchildren.
“Are all three of you
going in?” asked Charles, looking at Constance and Murphy.
“No need,” said
Desautel easily. “Murphy can observe while Investigator A’lle comes with me.”
He grew aware of Murphy’s sidelong glance but chose to ignore it.
He knew he was being
hypocritical. He also knew he was being unfair to ask this of Constance, but if
they did not learn something new soon, the investigation would falter and the
perpetrators of these appalling crimes would go unpunished.
And that he would not
allow.
“Bon.” Charles turned to lead the way. “This way.”
Half of the main floor
was devoted to the administrative offices of the Pied, while the other half
consisted of interview rooms and an infirmary. The top three floors were jail
cells.
Charles led them past
offices filled with grim-faced men who looked up sharply as they walked by
their open doors. His ring of keys jingled as he walked. Charles had remained
thin over the years, but his angles were now sharper and harder, as if he were
slowly turning into the stone from which this place was built.
A faint smell
permeated the entire building. It had been there for as long as Desautel could
remember. He always thought of it as the smell of despair.
Behind him, Constance
A’lle’s feet seemed to drag as she followed them through one locked door, then
two more until they were in a corridor lined with doors and mesh-covered
windows. A guard stood before the nearest door and there Charles stopped.
Through the wire mesh
window, Desautel could see a door at the far side of the room that led to a
staircase he remembered from previous visits. In the middle of the room, a long,
narrow table was bolted to the floor, with a chair on either side, one of which
was also bolted to the floor. Doctor Saunders sat patiently on the fixed chair,
his hands chained together and the chain threaded through an eye affixed to the
table. His feet were similarly chained to an eyebolt in the floor.
“The guard will stay
by the door,” said Charles. “There is another guard outside the other door.” He
nodded to the door on the opposite side of the interview room. “Call out if you
need anything.”
Desautel knew his friend
meant if the prisoner became troublesome, but the doctor was chained down.
Unless he had become a magician in the last two months, he was not going anywhere.
“Thank you.” Desautel
nodded at Constance and she preceded him inside the room. He glanced at Murphy
but the young man was already taking his notebook out. Good lad, that. Murphy
took his place in front of the wire mesh window and nodded to Desautel.
Charles exchanged a
few words with the guard, then left.
Doctor Saunders
watched as Desautel entered and closed the door behind him. His eyes flickered
to Constance A’lle where she stood by the far wall to one side of the mesh
window, then flickered back.
He had been slender,
but now he seemed gaunt and his eyes looked hollow and haunted. With his black
hair and blue, blue eyes, he might have been a distant relative of the A’lle
but Desautel had never seen one with a beard. Apparently the doctor was not
permitted a blade. The trial had ended two weeks ago and to Desautel’s pleasant
surprise, the doctor and his henchman—the one who had survived—were found
guilty. The doctor’s accomplice, Blaine, was hanged only last week but the
doctor was sentenced to life in prison.
“Why are you here?”
asked Doctor Saunders abruptly. “Did you come to gloat?” He glanced at
Constance again and Desautel could not guess what was behind those shadowed
eyes.
He took his time
sitting down and adjusting his chair. He placed his hands on the table and
locked his fingers together. He realized suddenly that he was not well
prepared. The doctor was a clever man and would see through any subterfuge if
Desautel was not careful. He took a deep breath and released it slowly.
“Non, docteur,” he
said, looking the man in the eye. The bearded, dishevelled man before him was a
far cry from the man he had first met in Backli’s Ford. That man had been well
trimmed and clothed, confident in his ability to fool the constabulary.
“I am here to give you
a final chance,” said Desautel. He studied the man’s eyes and decided that what
he had taken for truculence was perhaps more akin to despair. This man had
given up hope.
The doctor smiled
humorlessly. “A final chance to do what, chief investigator?” He raised a hand
as if to wave at the room but the chain stopped him short and he had to content
himself with a sweeping nod. “Are you implying that if I answer your questions,
you will set me free from this… place?”
Desautel’s eyebrow
rose. “Not at all. You will die in this place,” he said bluntly. “That is the
path you chose for yourself when you collaborated with murderers. When you
tried to kill Prudence A’lle.”
The doctor’s shoulders
slumped. “I did not try to kill her,” he said tiredly. “I knew you would find
her in time.”
Constance A’lle did
not say anything but Desautel was suddenly aware of a change in the quality of her
silence. The doctor straightened and looked at Constance as if sensing it, too.
“You may believe
that,” said Desautel, “but I do not.” Unbidden, an image of Prudence as they
had found her in the doctor’s shed, bound, bloody and with a knife in her chest
came to his mind and clipped his words. “It was only the grace of God that allowed
us to find her in time. If not for that, you would have swung from the noose,
as your accomplice did.”
The doctor shrugged
tiredly but said nothing.
“Tell us their names,”
said Constance A’lle suddenly, startling both men.
Saunders looked at her
fully for the first time. “I cannot,” he said, repeating the same refrain. “You
know this.”
“Then we will ask your
sister,” said Desautel, standing up abruptly.
Startled, the doctor
made as if to stand, too, only to be jerked back by his chains. “My sister?” He
visibly forced himself to relax. “You don’t know where she is.” He said it with
a conviction only faintly tinged with doubt.
He was in league with
the men who were kidnapping and experimenting on the A’lle. He had admitted as
much. He had, however, insisted that his role had been to withdraw blood only,
to analyze it for ways of helping his sister recover from a fall that had
paralyzed her. He knew that the A’lle body could regenerate itself quickly, and
he believed that if he could understand how,
he could then apply that knowledge to help save his sister. And others.
Desautel remained still.
He could lie, try to bluff it out, but the man would see through him right
away.
“We are very close to
finding her,” he said instead and saw the fear leave the doctor’s eyes. “And
when we do we will charge her with aiding and abetting your crimes.”
“You would not!” The
doctor turned to Constance, then apparently thinking better of it, looked at
Desautel. “I have told you, she is paralyzed and had nothing to do with my
research.”
Constance pulled away
from the wall and walked toward the doctor. “We don’t care,” she said almost cheerfully.
She smiled at him and Desautel hoped she never turned that same smile on him.
“We believe she knows the same men you do. We will find her, charge her, and
try her. Unless she tells us what we want to know. Of course, you could save
her from all this unpleasantness by telling us yourself.”
“You would put her
through that as a… a bargaining chip?
What kind of people are you?”
Rage rose in Desautel
and he looked down at his hands in an effort to regain control. This man had
wittingly lured A’lle to their deaths and he sat there questioning his humanity?
Sensing her gaze on
him, he looked up at Constance. After a moment, he nodded. She took her place
by the doctor and took his hand, holding on firmly when he sought to pull away.
The doctor jumped as if shocked then turned to face Desautel.
“Her witch’s tricks
won’t help you,” he said grimly. “You clearly don’t understand the kind of men
you’re dealing with. They will find their way into this prison and have me
killed if they suspect I am talking to you.” His voice dropped. “But first they
will kill my sister.”
“While it is admirable that you seek to save
your sister, docteur,” said Constance coldly, “allowing my people to die in
order to save her is not an option I will consider. Who are the others in your
cabal?”
The doctor shook his
head.
“I will not speak to
you.”
Constance dropped his
hand and stepped away. She looked at Desautel and he saw the resignation in her
eyes. Without a word, he stood up and left, followed by Constance.
CHAPTER 3
“No,” said Murphy firmly.
Constance crossed her
arms and stared fixedly at him. He shook his head.
“No. He’ll have my
hide.”
They stood in the deserted
courtyard behind the constabulary. The constabulary, its courtyard and the
stables spanned the width of the block. A dozen or so horses shuffled noisily
as they moved within their stalls. The odor of fresh hay almost overrode the
pungent aroma of manure. The stable boy in St. Vincent would never have allowed
manure to remain in the stable.
It had rained
overnight and this morning the cobblestones of the courtyard were still wet and
slick. Murphy wore his uniform jacket buttoned up. For Constance, this was the
coolest part of the day, though it was still too warm for comfort. She had left
her jacket at Madame Maillet’s inn.
Technically, the
Auberge Maillet was not a rooming house, but Madame Maillet had invited
Constance to stay at a favorable rent. Constance had hesitated, but Chief
Investigator Desautel had strongly encouraged her to stay. Constance finally
agreed when she decided that the offer was sincere. She liked Madame Maillet
and the older woman seemed to like her, too. To Constance’s surprise, the chief
inspector had chosen a rooming house a two-minute walk from the constabulary,
more for the sake of propriety than for convenience, she suspected. He and
Madame Maillet were old friends.
While Constance was
relieved not to share accommodations with her superior, the proximity of his
quarters to the constabulary meant that the chief investigator could arrive at
any moment. She needed to persuade Murphy soon.
“I wish to learn,” she
said, uncrossing her arms. “I want you to teach me.”
Murphy shook his head.
The early morning sun had yet to reach the shade of the courtyard and his face
seemed to glow with the ambient light.
“Not without his
say-so. Do you have any idea how much the Parker cost?” His own arms crossed over his chest, he stared at her, stubbornness
personified. A smell of petrol wafted over the courtyard, a reminder that half
the stables had been—mostly—converted into a motor court.
Constance sighed. She
did not see why she needed permission to learn to drive. It would be an asset
to the constabulary to have one more investigator able to convey themselves and
others to wherever they needed to go.
“Today is Wednesday,”
she said.
Murphy opened his
mouth to say something, then closed it. On Wednesdays, Chief Investigator
Desautel went to see Odile A’lle to report on the investigation to date on the
disappearance of her sister, Lucie. In the two months since he had first met Odile,
he had not failed to present himself to her, look her in the eye, and report
his continuing failure. Constance thought of this little ritual as a penance of
sorts.
Wednesdays were not
good days at the constabulary.
Murphy shook his head
and his arms uncrossed. “No,” he said. “It’s too risky.” Before Constance could
argue further, he continued. “Didn’t you say you wanted to pick up your
sister?”
After a moment,
Constance nodded. “Yes.” She would continue this later. She fished the watch
out of her pocket and looked at the time. “She is at Amanda’s house.”
He nodded and they
both hurried to the converted half of the stables. She pulled the double doors
open, letting in light and air while he went to the Parker, parked three in,
and started it up.
She was surprised that
Murphy was being so difficult. He knew the value of another driver for the
constabulary and was not one to hoard power. He was an intelligent young man,
quick-witted and funny, and most importantly, honorable. He had been assigned
to Chief Investigator Desautel by the former chief investigator of the Montreal
constabulary, McReady. At first, she and Desautel had suspected that Murphy was
actually assigned to spy on them and report back to McReady, but if that had
been McReady’s assumption, he had ended up disappointed. Murphy had been as
shocked as they were by the abductions and murders among the A’lle and had
worked alongside them to learn who was behind the crimes.
The Parker slowly
rolled out of the converted stable and came to a stop next to her. She climbed
in silently and spent the entire drive to the Alley, the Pointe St. Charles
neighborhood where so many Montreal A’lle lived, watching Murphy’s hands and
feet as he manipulated the car. She thought she would be able to handle the
clutch and the gas pedal, but the choke mystified her.
Amanda A’lle lived on
a small residential street between two avenues. The owners of the house,
humans, lived on the main floor and Amanda and her two girls lived on the top
floor. Constance had first met her in February, during the initial investigation,
and she had been struck by the older woman’s strength and confidence.
Word of the events in
Backli’s Ford had swept through the A’lle community so that by the time
Constance returned to Montreal to work, she found her welcome among the A’lle
much warmer than it had been originally. Amanda had taken to inviting her over
for hot chocolate and over the winter they had established a bond of
friendship, despite the disparity in their ages and circumstances. When Mother
informed Constance that Gemma would be moving to Montreal, Constance turned to Amanda
for advice, and was pleasantly surprised when Amanda offered to put Gemma up.
It took twenty minutes
to reach the Alley, and another few minutes to pull up in front of Amanda’s
house. They climbed the spiral staircase, their boots clanging on the metal
treads, so that by the time they reached the second floor, the door was already
open and Amanda stood in the doorway, waiting.
“Good morning,” said
Constance.
Amanda A’lle rarely
smiled. Despite her thick black hair, high cheekbones and sweet mouth, there
was a sternness about her.
“Good morning,” said
Amanda. “Have you time for hot chocolate?” She nodded an acknowledgement to
Murphy.
“I don’t think so,”
began Constance just as Gemma arrived to stand next to Amanda.
“Constance!” she said.
“Are we ready?”
“As soon as you are,” said
Constance cheerfully.
Gemma wore a cotton
dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a hemline that hovered between her
ankle and her calf. It was a sober gray with blue and yellow flowers and showed
off her slim figure. Her hair was pulled back in a loose chignon. She glanced
shyly at Murphy and when Constance turned to look at him, she caught him
staring at her sister.
“I’m ready,” said
Gemma. Her cheeks were pink with excitement and there was a sparkle in her eye
that Constance had never seen before. Was it Murphy’s attention that bloomed
her cheeks, or the prospect of nursing school?
Swallowing a sigh,
Constance stepped back on the small stoop, forcing Murphy to descend a step or
two. Gemma stepped out, carrying a gingham cloth bag that presumably contained
her lunch.
“Goodbye, Maggie!” she
called over her shoulder. “Goodbye, Lizzie!”
Amanda’s two daughters
came running up to the door. “See you later, Gemma!” They were nine and ten and
usually shy, but today they stood grinning up at Gemma as she kissed each one
on the forehead before waving at Amanda.
Murphy made way on the
stairs and Gemma passed him. He fell in with alacrity and this time,
Constance’s sigh was audible. When she looked around at Amanda, she found the
older woman smiling at her, a fact so unusual that Constance stared.
“Don’t worry about
her,” said Amanda. “She has a good head on her shoulders. I told her the best
route to take. She’ll be fine.”
Constance suddenly
found herself wondering how mothers—parents, really—did it.
“I’ll be back to walk
her home at the end of the day,” said Constance.
Amanda’s eyebrows
rose.
“Do you plan to do
this every day?”
Constance shook her
head. “No. Just often enough for everyone to know that her sister is an
investigator with the Montreal constabulary.”
Amanda stared at her
for a moment, then nodded.
“Constance,” called
Gemma from below.
“Coming.” Constance
gave Amanda and the girls a wave goodbye and ran down the stairs lightly. When
she reached the street level, she tucked her arm in her sister’s.
“We are walking,” she
told Murphy.
Murphy glanced at the
Parker, then back at the two of them. He looked like he wanted to object but
then his eyebrows rose slightly and he nodded. “In that case, I’ll wait for you
at the school.”
“Thank you, Constable
Murphy,” said Gemma.
She and Murphy were of
a height and Constance was struck suddenly by what a handsome couple they would
make.
“We’ll be late if we
don’t hurry,” she said abruptly, turning Gemma away from Murphy and urging her
sister into a fast stride.
After a few moments,
Gemma protested. “I don’t want to be dishevelled before I even get there!”
After that, they
settled into an easier pace, chatting about the family’s doings. Constance let
her sister chatter on while she made eye contact with every person she passed,
memorizing faces. The Sisters of Ste. Ursule school was about a mile from
Amanda’s home. They stayed on the main road, along with the horse-drawn carts
and the occasional delivery truck. While it would no doubt be easier and faster
to take the tram, Gemma’s budget would not allow it. Besides, she would have to
trek uphill for a quarter mile to reach the nearest tram line.
The Jubilee Bridge
loomed ahead, lovely and airy, rising above the poor neighborhood of Pointe St.
Charles. The school was only a few blocks from the bridge, in a converted
convent.
“I’ll be back at six
o’clock to pick you up,” said Constance as they approached the open gates of
the convent. Murphy was already there, parked next to the gates and leaning
conspicuously against the hood of the Parker.
Young women streamed
past him in ones and twos on their way inside, glancing at him in curiosity.
Some wore the striped grey dress and starched white pinafore and kerchief of
nursing sisters. A few caught sight of Constance and Gemma and stared.
Constance was already
uncomfortably warm. She headed for the Parker, where she kept a bottle of
water. She took a long swallow and turned to offer some to Gemma, finding her
sister talking with Murphy.
“Water?” she asked.
Gemma nodded and took
the bottle. She looked fresh still but Constance knew that the days ahead would
be trying ones for her sister. She would be expected to pay attention to
instructors while the stultifying heat tried to paralyze her brain. Then, at
the end of the day, when the heat still hovered over the city, she would have
to walk the mile back to Amanda’s home.
What were Mother and
Father thinking?
At least the class was
only six months long.
“I need to go in now,”
said Gemma, handing the bottle back to her. She nodded at the few young women
still trickling past. “I don’t want to be late.”
Of its own volition,
Constance’s hand reached for her sister’s and she squeezed it. “Good luck,” she
whispered. “You know how to contact me.”
Gemma smiled
reassuringly. “I have memorized the telephone exchange,” she said. “And I have
studied the map showing the location of the constabulary. I will be fine.” She
freed her hand and turned to Murphy.
“Thank you, Constable
Murphy.”
“Liam,” he said with a
smile.
“Then it’s Gemma,” she
said. Then she turned and walked toward the stone steps of the old convent,
leaving Constance and Murphy to stare after her.
“We should get back,”
said Constance, not looking at her colleague. “Maître Desautel will be looking
for you.”
* * *
Desautel slit open the
heavy vellum envelope and pulled out the cream-colored invitation. He studied
the fanciful calligraphy for a moment, frowning.
The presence of
Chief Investigator Médéric Desautel
is humbly requested
at a soirée hosted by
Judge Andrew James Ruffington III
on Thursday, April 13
7:30 p.m.
Jaillard House
Andrew Ruffington. It
was not a name with which he was familiar. And a judge. Jaillard House, that he
knew from his student days. It had belonged to Maître Antoine Desrosiers, a
fine lawyer who had retired from practicing law to teach. Desautel had spent
many evenings there with his fellow students, drinking Maître Desrosiers’ fine
wine and discussing law.
He stood up with card
in hand and walked over to the window that gave onto St. Denis. The morning sun
rose above the buildings across the way, creating so much glare that he could
barely make out the greengrocer’s meager produce displayed in raised flats on
the sidewalk. The wet cobblestones were already drying out. It was going to be
a beautiful day.
He sighed softly as he
tapped the card against the palm of his hand. He wondered if Odile A’lle
dreaded his visit as much as he dreaded visiting her.
His glance fell on the
card again. He had no idea why this man had invited him, but he had grown
accustomed to such invitations in the last two months. He had been renewing old
friendships and allowing himself to be drawn into the social life of Montreal.
Straightforward investigating was getting him nowhere on the A’lle abductions
and he was growing desperate.
That was the only
reason he had placed Constance A’lle in that position yesterday at the jail. He
had learned of her extraordinary gift during their investigation of Frederick
A’lle’s murder in Backli’s Ford. Apparently all A’lle had a gift, some extra
sense that allowed them to excel in some area. Constance A’lle’s parents
excelled at finding lost items, or people. Her sister Prudence excelled at
making a home. Her sister Gemma, apparently, excelled at healing people.
And Constance A’lle
excelled at reading the truth in people’s hearts. With one touch, she could
tell if the person spoke the truth or not. She could divine the person’s
intentions. He had seen her do it in Backli’s Ford—to him, Constable Murphy,
and finally, the doctor.
This “gift” of hers
offended him. In fact, he had been furious when he first learned of it… and
then he had given her permission to use it on the doctor.
In the last few
months, he had given it much thought and finally decided that using her ability
was a form of assault. A rape. He had accepted her explanation that among the
A’lle, there was a great taboo against using her gift, unless sanctioned by a
Council of Elders. And he had come to accept that the young woman would never
use the gift for private gain.
But that was
Constance. What if another A’lle had the same gift? Without Constance’s
principles and morals?
Life had been much
simpler before Constance A’lle was assigned to his constabulary in St. Vincent.
He stared unseeingly
at the card. Something the doctor had let slip when they first captured him had
continued to nag at Desautel. The man had said that the people behind the
abductions were powerful and rich.
Such men erected many
barriers between themselves and an inquisitive chief investigator. In a social
context, however, where drinks flowed liberally, things were often said that otherwise
would have remained hidden.
His finger traced the
calligraphy, pausing on the date. It was for tomorrow night. A last-minute
invitation, from a man he did not know. He took a deep breath. Perhaps this was
the opportunity he had been waiting for.
A knock at the door
startled him.
“Entrez,” he called.
The door opened to
reveal Constable Murphy, cap in hand.
“Ready whenever you
are, maître,” he said solemnly.
Desautel nodded and
tossed the invitation on the desk. He reached for his uniform jacket and his
cap and followed the young constable out.
As always, it took too
little time to reach the offices of Brabant and Sons, on Ste. Catherine.
Desautel got out and nodded to Constable Murphy to wait for him, though the
young constable hardly needed to be told. He straightened his jacket, pulled
down his sleeves and took a deep breath before climbing the steps to the front
door with its glass inset and gold lettering. A moment later, he stood in front
of the receptionist’s desk, his cap tucked neatly under his arm. The young man
stood up and nodded gravely.
“Good morning, chief investigator.
Miss A’lle is in the boardroom.” He nodded toward the door to his left.
“Thank you, Mr.
Ellis,” said Desautel. He went through the short swinging gate and knocked once
on the boardroom door. The reception area smelled of furniture polish.
“Come in.”
Desautel pushed open
the door. The boardroom was as familiar to him now as his own office. A long,
mahogany table polished to a mirror-like finish, with ten black leather chairs
arrayed around it. A sideboard with a selection of liquor and glasses on a
silver tray. A large window with green velvet drapes swept aside to allow the
light in.
Odile A’lle stood by
the window, her hands clasped at her waist. As always, she wore a long black
skirt, this one fitted at the waist and rising high in front, and a white
blouse with a black satin trim around the collar and cuffs. Her hair was black,
as was that of all the A’lle, and it was swept up in a neat French braid at the
back of her head. With the window at her back, he could not see her expression.
“Mademoiselle A’lle,”
he said by way of greeting.
“Chief investigator.
Have you news for me?”
They had fallen into
this same pattern, week after week. The routine should have numbed him by now,
but somehow, it only made his failure worse. He stepped forward jerkily, as if
he had little control over his limbs, and made his way to the window, so that
he could see her more clearly. He stopped when he was a few feet away.
“Non, mademoiselle,”
he said softly. “I am sorry to report that I have yet to learn anything new
about your sister’s disappearance.”
He saw the flicker of
pain in her eyes before she looked away. Human or A’lle, pain was pain. He
closed his own eyes against the sight. For a moment, Prudence A’lle’s face swam
before his mind’s eye. As always, he gained strength from the thought of
Prudence. She had sent him a pie. She had thought of him. She did not think him
a failure.
He opened his eyes to
find Odile A’lle looking at him.
“You do not need to
keep returning,” she said. “I know you are doing everything you can to find
Lucie.”
Her understanding was
worse than her disappointment. He nodded stiffly.
“I know, mademoiselle,”
he said. “Yet I feel I owe it to you.”
She sighed softly. “Then
consider your duty discharged for this week.” She turned away to look through
the window again.
Without a word, Desautel placed the cap on his head and turned to leave. Every time he left her, his one overwhelming feeling was of pity that she could not weep. That none of them could weep.
END OF EXCERPT
To pre-order Epidemic: An A’lle Chronicles Mystery (Book 2), visit:
The latest installment of the A’lle Chronicles is now available as a pre-order. Epidemic: An A’lle Chronicles Mystery follows Constance A’lle to Montreal where she and Chief Investigator Desautel try to discover who is kidnapping and murdering the A’lle. Here’s the blurb:
In the early 1700s, an A’lle generation ship crashed in the woods of Lower Canada. Survivors stumbled out of the wreckage to find French settlers working the land. While many of the colonists sheltered the injured A’lle, some reacted with fear and loathing. Two centuries later, nothing much has changed.
Two months after the events in Backli’s Ford, Constance A’lle, first A’lle investigator for Lower Canada, and Chief Investigator Desautel still haven’t identified the cabal responsible for the kidnapping and murder of so many A’lle.
While they pursue their investigation in Montreal, Constance is sidetracked by her sister Gemma’s arrival. The investigation is further hindered by rumors of an epidemic—an epidemic for which the A’lle might be responsible. As the citizens of Montreal deal with their dead and dying, anger grows against the immune A’lle.
When Gemma experiences first hand the simmering resentment against the A’lle, Constance finds herself fighting to keep her sister safe while dealing with attacks intended to kill her.
With
A’lle hostility against the humans growing, it’s only a question of time before
the two clash and the fragile relationship between humans and A’lle shatters.
About Backli’s Ford, the first A’lle Chronicles mystery: Set in 1911, Backli’s Ford follows Constance as she survives an ambush that would have killed a human, fights prejudice in the constabulary, and discovers a terrible secret that risks destroying the delicate balance that has endured for two centuries between A’lle and humans.