“He won’t kill me. I promise.”

39

The Black Cat’s Father

The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone echoes down the street as I clamber out of the cellar into the garden. The army is arriving, just as planned. Soon they’ll have surrounded the building, searching for the revolutionaries. I look up at the façade. The Tiger’s rooms are on the top floor. I can’t go in through the cellars as we had planned because Montparnasse will be busy getting the women out that way. Although I’ll be exposed, I’ve no choice but to climb. I wrap strips of cloth around my hands, tightening my claw picks in place, and I shinny up the building as fast as I can go.

I pass a window, an empty room, and pause only momentarily to listen; I hear raised voices from inside the house. The Fleshers must have rounded up the students; St. Juste’s voice carries. He’s trying to convince them to join the glorious revolution. I smile grimly and keep moving.

I’m almost at the top when a voice calls out, clear as a bell.

“Hello!”

I just have time to look up to find a greasy powdered head staring down at me through an open window.

Thénardier.

He cheerfully aims his pistol at me with his good hand and fires.

I throw all my weight onto one arm and let my body swing just as the bullet whistles past my ear.

Thénardier’s head disappears and I curse, scrambling down to the lower-level window. I swing myself, sending my legs out and back again, and smash my way through the glass. It shatters around me as I crash into the room.

I lie on the rough wooden floor. My skin is ripped and bleeding; there’s glass under my fingertips. But at least the room is empty. The Tiger’s men are dealing with the revolutionaries and the soldiers downstairs. Through my scarf I can smell the sweet smoke of the poppy. That’s good; it’ll make them all slower and less inclined to beat anyone to death. We can only hope. I push myself up and wince; I’ve twisted my ankle.

Ysengrim be damned.

There’s a heavy tread of boots on wood.

My dagger is in my hand as I pull myself to the door, trying not to put weight on my ankle.

Is this how it will end? A Cat felled by a sprained ankle in the Tiger’s Guild? What kind of fool was I to think I could take him on in his own lair?

The door creaks open. My throat constricts and I prepare myself to attack. If someone is going to kill me, I’d like to get a few blows in first. I’d like to go down fighting.

It takes me a full second to recognize the man looming in the doorway, and when I do, relief floods through me.

“Le Maire!” I sway, and in three steps he has me on my feet, throwing my arm over his shoulder before I can protest.