Life is good when you are a twenty-six year old adult, with a decent job, a nice little home of yours and a small circle of trusted friends that gladly drag your drunken ass back home unharmed after a wild and clouded in oblivion Saturday night. Furthermore there are some pretty tempting bonuses of being alive in the 21st century such as complete independence, a freedom of speech and a decent amount of protectiveness that all make my life as perfect as I can hope it to be, being a woman in a foreign country. I'll save you the retched story of how I came to be an editor in a London magazine, a writer of novellas and a free-lanced journalist without actually being born and bred in England, or any other English-speaking county for that matter. I'll just throw it in here that apart from approximately 20 years devoted to studying English, graduating an English university and managing to acquire a British citizenship, and that one was as hard as all hell, I'm also a decent French linguist, a vehement swordswoman and a highlighted talkative representative of the no-longer harassed or suppressed softer sex. Apart from all that boosting, which I shared only in my desire for you to get to know me better and grasp the abnormality of my situation, I'll put it out there that I'm a good Christian, despite not being religious but baptised, and believe in no way to have crossed a line with Him in any manner. Or if I did, it was unintentionally.
So, like I was saying, life is good in the 21st century for a woman of my status that learned long ago not to have her knickers in a twist, or to let men harass her. Then how did I get rocket-launched 400 years backwards, in 17th century France, is beyond me. It's like one second I was walking down the streets of London, minding my own business and fussing about whether or not to drag it upon myself to ask a man out on the upcoming corporate party, as the lucky bastard will initially prove to be a pain in my ass, when out of nowhere, as if a switch was snapped, everything went black. Next thing I know, I wake up in a square in the middle of the night, with severe headache and the desire to throw up the cheap Taiwan food I had not so many hours ago.
The first thing that crossed my mind that faithful night was that I had probably had a little bit more to drink at my friend's house and now am either hallucinating in the middle of a crowed street, with droll rolling down my face, or am simply dreaming after passing out. Both scenarios seemed equally horrifying, but not as much as the bitter reality that somehow, without my notice or agreement, I got kicked in the ass so hard I travelled back to 17th century France… or what I believed to be a 17th century French city. Which, conveniently, upon the shedding of some light the following morning appeared to be the capital. And dare I say Paris has never been this utterly shocking and repulsive as it appeared in my eyes back at day one.
I'll save you, in favour of yours and mine sanity, all the details as to how I came to accept my situation and find my way around, as that part is not only blurry in my mind, but also creeps me out beyond any reconciliation. The knight that came to my rescue is Madame Constance Bonacieux. She is the wife of a carpenter, who obviously values money more than her as he is rarely in her company. She took me in and pushed aside all prejudice and superstitions in favour of hearing me out. It was relatively hard for her mind to grasp the concept of time-travel, or a severe case of hallucination after alcoholic poisoning, but it was plainly obvious that I was far beyond local and too coherent-speaking to be demented. At first she was unyielding in her belief that I must have smacked my head somewhere pretty hard and my mind's making all those crazy stories up, but after day three, and various questions I asked, which for her were boarding if not strange, then bare stupid, the conclusion that I may be halfway truthful started taking root. That's when a small panic attack occurred, followed by an hour-long hysteria and some throwing of sharp objects my way, accompanied by babble about Satan's spawn and so on, but I ignored all that in favour of putting the poor woman, now wrecked by all that out-of-her-world information, to some ease.
Now, almost a month later, she's mostly okay with my origin and the uniqueness I bear with each and every breath I take as a species of women that still don't exist. To my claim that in my days women are free and equal to men, with various possibilities for personal development, she gaped, then laughter as if I had shared a good joke, then gaped again. After that many questions and clarifications followed, and with each and every word I said, she looked at me with bigger, shinier eyes, until eventually she blurred that she'd give anything to live in my world. I agreed on that one. 1630 France is no place for a woman to live in – men are pigs, barbarians, jerks beyond repair and lack all the romantic, middle-aged traits like chivalry that all the books brag about. In Paris now, under King Louis' XІІІ rule, men believe themselves superior, smarter and generally more worthy of breath. Bollocks, from start to finish, but if a female wants to defend herself against all those claims, she'll most probably end in jail or worse, killed. The first week of my integration with this new, drastically different and completely biased world, Constance took extra care in teaching me all I needed to know about being a woman of this time. No pants, but only dresses and corsets that serve as instruments for torture. No snarky remarks or back talking unless you want to get beaten; depraving from that – no fighting with men or challenging them, as fists don't work well against the sharpness of their swords or the cool steel of their pistols. No challenging glares, no standing forward, no talking, no meddling in places I have no work into. No drinking in public places if alone as that leaves bad impression. Pretty much the two-hour talk was a bag filled with no-no's and a few remarks I had to keep in mind as well as useful facts. Musketeers are the good guys and if in need, seek help there. Red guards? Dicks, avoid at all manner. May kick in the shins if a good runner, but not in that dress you won't! Queen Anne is a lovely soul, God praise her. The Cardinal is a vile, two-faced retched snake, will be best if I never see or have the misfortune to grace with my presence. The men? They're always right, even when they're not, and unless you're willing to fight for your right of mind, you'll do better to keep your mouth shut. In that line of thoughts went the entire conversation. By the end of it, I was doubtful of how to react – cry or laugh. Or both. It was so ridiculous that it was bordering insanity, yet its truthfulness was, and still is, scaring the daylight out of me.
Anyhow, I had one month to cope up and successfully mix with the locals, while in the meantime banging my head against the wall for ways of going back to my dear, normal, equality infused home, where I could kick a man's ass when he deserved it and not be burned at the stake for witchcraft. Thankfully, the signs of my otherness are few if I keep my mouth shut, my hands fisted in my skirt and my eyes lowered. My French is fluent enough so not to raise any suspicion of my origin, and my manners, thankfully, are in a decent state despite being a tomboy for the better part of my young years. Now I help Constance with the chores in the house and look after the lodgers' rooms, thus earning my stay and food. Apart from that, in the time I don't dedicate to mindless walking around the streets of Paris, who are not half as bad in the daylight as long as someone doesn't throw a bucket of shit on your head, I help in what can only find its 21st century equivalent as florists. The shop is little, tiny even, yet is brimmed with flowers, oils, herbs and whatever grows from the ground, thus making the scent in it hardly bearable for the women of 17th century, who know nothing, and never will, of the gas-infused, juncture-struck traffic balloon in all the big cities that makes the air almost unbreathable, toxic even. For them the muddy and overwhelming odour of earth and sweet flowers is enough to make them faint. So, as a woman with practice in the field of extreme breathing conditions and in need of money as those I had in my bag when I arrived are of no use here, I took up the job, halfway expecting to spend the hours there lounging in a chair, reading a book filled with old French I barely understand. How deluded I was that first day, as work was in excess and people narrowly missed bumping into one another. What were all these Parisians doing with so much greenery? And the constant traffic of beggars and pickpocket made me stand on guard. By the time I returned to the house, I was ready to collapse and wake up when 21st century came round.
But, as a great man once said, with practise comes perfection, so in this one month since I'm here, I have become an almost impeccable Parisian mademoiselle. I say almost, because my tongue is as unruly as it has always been, my fighting spirit and sense of honour and self-respect are still intact and I take no bullshit from anyone – if a man gropes me, I smack him with something heavy and leave. On more than one occasion said 'gentleman' wanted to hit me in return, but a second set of punches came round, after which he was knocked out cold and the rest were left gaping like fishes thrown out of the water. Towards my endeavours with the male residence of the city and my uncanny ability to get in trouble ,Constance was more than worried, even trying to be instructive, yet how can you re-discipline a 26-yearl old woman, who grew up believing she has the right to walk this earth as the next man? To put it mildly, by now she's given up.
/***/
It's an somewhere in the middle of the night as the sun's still far away from showing its dazzling round face from behind the horizon, when steps from downstairs jerk me awake. Being the light-sleeper I am, even the most harmless noise can snap me out of my daze in any hour of the night, ready to fight or scream, whichever comes in handy. Now, as the thud of more than one pair of feet, distinctively male by their loudness and lack of graciousness, fill the eerily silent house, I throw the covers away and stand up. Growing up with three brothers that made it their lives' mission to scare the daylight out of me on any possible occasion, since the delicate age of 10 I learned to sneak soundlessly and inflict if not mortal, than definitely painful damage to whoever ended on the receiving end of my wrath. With only my nightshirt on and a pair of boxers I came here with, for a whole minute I stand still, straining my ears to hear something, anything, moving downstairs. True to my initial instinct, there are steps and muffled voice coming from right below me, meaning that there're night visitors roaming the living room. The trek to my desk from where I pull my sword, a present I made to myself after collecting enough money, and out of the room is soundless, not a single board creaking under my weight, there's no shuffling of clothes, and my even breath doesn't betray the rapid heartbeat in my chest. On the top of the stairs I stop, once again straining my ears. The voices are louder now, more pronounced and definitely male, and are indeed coming from the living area. Looking over my shoulder at the pitch black corridor, for a second I wonder whether I should wake up Constance and that husband of hers, or deal with this on my own. 'If they're thieves, I'll manage – what fighting abilities can a man forced to burglar houses possibly have? Not as good as mine, that's for sure'. Having spent four years in intensive training in the arts of fencing and sword throwing, the first being my father's wish and the latter my own whim, my personal opinion regarding my fighting abilities with a pointed weapon is quite high and with reason.
The utter darkness that's still engulfing the house is sharply broken by a glimmer coming from where the intruders are. Descending down the stairs like a cat, with grace and fluent motions that almost rejects the laws of Murphy, by which a board should have creaked quite pronouncedly by now, I reach the platform and hide in the shadows near the wall. It takes a simple peek over around the corner to see what's going on in the room and estimate my opponents. Yet the possibility of getting spotted is higher in chance due to the bad angling.
"This is not only reckless, but also suicidal!" a male voice that sounds somewhat gallant, almost alluring, hisses lowly to whatever his partner said.
"Aramis is right – if we get caught, we're as good as dead." another male voice, this time remarkably younger and juvenile responds, making the invaders two.
"It's a good plan, as long as Madame doesn't rethink her choice…" a third male voice, gruff and somehow reminding me of the roar of a bear adds in, his hush sounding comical in its inability to stay silent.
Silence befalls the room, making my muscles tense with anticipation as the adrenalin in my blood pumps faster and my heart, despite my best attempts, ramps against my chest so loudly that I fear the intruders may hear it. The lack of any movement, speech or an indicator of any sorts further irritates me, as the unknowingness of what they're doing pulls at my nerves with almost painful resolve. By now my eyes have gotten accustomed to the dim light that cuts at the darkness and the feeling of the cold floor under my bare feet, yet standing still, not twitching, is what drains me of my patience.
"I think it all comes down to you, Madame. It's your life that'll be in direct danger." a forth male voice breaks the intense silence and somehow peeks my interest – it sounds gruff, yet calm and serene, not lacking the strictness all the other three had as well.
Growing up with a military father, I know when a man is disciplined and when he's being a douche. Whoever these men are, and whatever they want, one thing is for sure – they are no mere burglars; not with such confident voices that even do not comply to the bare minimum of volume of speech. 'And they're saying each other's names. Either they're a bunch of amateurs, or something entirely different is brooding here.' with a frown on my face, the grip around the hilt of the sword tightens as I prepare to barge in there and kick some male ass. Yet before having the chance to put together a decent plan for action, steps come my way in a fast pace, and my heart literally jumps in my throat. 'Now or never.' the cool resolve to protect Constance and the long years of self-imposed toughening of nerves save me from cowering away this very instant at the sound of thudding male steps. Instead, as soon as the intruder comes in reach, I jump from behind the wall and with a fluid movement press the edge of my sword against his chest. In this light and with the fast unfolding of events I can only make out his strange clothes, unfitting for a poor man, and his dark skin. He exclaims at my sudden appearance, yet obviously halfway having expected an attack as he raises his sword and blocks mine. He's respectably higher than me, and heavily muscled by what I can make out, but I have the advantage of a different angle point and agility. Three strikes later, one almost decapitating him, a female voice shrieks quietly with horror.
"Val!?" Constance's voice breaks my concentration, as for once I didn't expect her to be here, and that moment's notice is what gives my opponent the upper hand.
With a single motion he disarms me and points his own sword at my chest, not with the intention of hurting, but to ward me off.
"Well, that was quite unexpected." the same gallant voice from before now holds tingles of amusement.
"Pothos lower you sword! Heavens, Val! What are you doing here?"
Constance rushes to my side and gingerly checks me for any injuries while I eye nastily the big oaf of a man before me. He doesn't seem offended that I attacked, or even angry, but like his accomplice amused and intrigued.
"I heard noises and came to check. Thought there were burglars in your house." the cool steel in my voice gives away my still present conviction that they are the bad guys.
A roar of laughter is the reply to my words, and the big man retracts his sword, obviously no longer deeming me harmful.
"No, no. Oh, good Lord! They are no burglars! They're Musketeers!"
Her exclamation, filled with silent worry makes me scoff and look at her as if she's kidding. The serious look painted on her face tells me otherwise. Only now do my eyes shift from her petit form, hidden in her night robe, to the men in the room. The one before me, the bear-voiced oaf, appears smug and self-assured, like a man who knows his worth; nothing like a convict or a poor fellow who fell the wrong way. The next closest is the youngest in the group and appears familiar yet I cannot put my finger from where. Next comes a handsome male specimen, tall and lean, with a charming smile on his lips and finely trimmed moustaches. His eyes catch the flicker of the candle nearby and acquire a mischievous tint. Last is the one who still has his sword halfway drown. He bears the serious look of a man who still sees me as a potential threat and won't hesitate to take me out if the occasion calls for it. With his front cast in shadows, I can merely make out his strong jaw, straight nose, broad forehead covered under unruly dark hair and the piercing look in his eyes. Everything in him reminds me of the description of a royalty or at least, a man from the nobility. Yet all four of them are clad in matching outfits – leather and more leather; and are heavily armed – pistols, swords, daggers. The frown from before, temporarily replaced by wonder at my friend's claim that they're from the King's guard, now reappears, this times even grimmer, matching the one of the last man.
"This is Monsieur Porthos you just fought." the man makes a respective bow, his eyes holding a good-humour laughter and a feeling of approachability.
"Next is D'Artagnan who you've already seen." the young resident of the house, who I spotted once or twice walking down the staircase but completely neglected, gives me a tense, almost scornful smile.
"Monsieur Aramis." the more beautiful than handsome man makes a gallant bow before looking at me with unhidden mirth.
"And Monsieur Athos." the silent one with the air of authority around him, whose strict voice I heard seconds before coming out of my hideout, barely graces me with a sideway glance, let alone a nod.
"And this is Mademoiselle Valary Bellanger. She's a friend of mine." not minding her introducing me in front of these men, after a nod of acknowledgement, a greeting left from my old world, I immediately return to my distrustful self.
"If they truly are Musketeers, then what the hell are they doing in your house in the middle of the night!?" it's an art that needs praise, keeping my voice levelled and emotionless when I want to shriek like a banshee.
"They are in need of help." the guilty tune in Constance's voice makes me look at her yet again and notice the plea in her eyes.
I'm no fool; the times are such that if her husband happens to walk in at this very moment, the scene will turn gruesome and vile. Monsieur Bonacieux may lack the sparks of violence in him that will aid him in molesting his wife, but his cutting tongue will find no rest, thus making my violent nature kick in. Understanding what a mess will come out of all this, I sigh and shake my head. 'Stranger things have happened to me.' I notice with irony and cross my hands under my chest.
"I hope the explanation is good, 'cus I'm not moving an inch until I know what are three men and a boy doing in your house, in the middle of the night, with you amongst them!" knowing that there's no place for arguing and that I'm dead serious, obligingly she nods.
"It's not what it looks like." are the first words that leave the young man's mouth. "And I'm no boy!" are the second.
"I was with the impression of talking with Madame Bonacieux and not with you, so refrain from any further indulges until asked otherwise."
Using my superiority, not only in age, because if you draw the line I'm over a few centuries older than him, but also my upbringing that has made me jealously protective over women, is more of a reflex than repulsion. Constance has a mouth of her own, she can tell me everything, thank you very much!
"I like her." the sassy one with the nice moustache whispers to his comrades that once again sit around the table, this time their eyes on us.
Barely spearing Aramis a glance I pick up my discarded weapon and lean it against the wall, in near reach.
"They need my help with a mission. And before you blow your top, hear me out!" the last part is said in a single breath as my eyebrows shoot straight into my hairline.
Sweet innocent Constance? An assistant in Musketeer business?
"I knew you had it in you to be brave, but I admit I didn't see that one coming." despite my best attempts, a small smile finds its way on my face as I shake my head.
'I have really lost the touch to be surprised. Next thing I know, I'll no longer fear death.' Having gotten used to my foreign way of speaking, she takes no notice of the strange wording, unlike the men, who look at each other in confusion.
"Oh, you! Don't mock! They need me!" her drawl, so meek and appealing, now sounds like a small child is whining to its parents, making her look even more adorable.
"Enlighten me." by now, a full blown smirk is plastered on my face, as excitement from the very thought of Constance being a Batman in disguise makes me mentally whoop for her.
"It's Musketeer business." the gruff, even husky voice of the gloomy-looking Athos sounds, making me look at him from over Constance's shoulder, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
"Well, very uncharacteristic place to discuss Musketeer business, Monsieur." I immediately snap back as his cold and almost banishing voice stirs something in me.
A small glare contest follows as neither of us breaks contact, or lowers the iciness in their eyes.
"Wow. This is new." the Porthos whispers to his friends, obviously intrigued by my insolence and straightforwardness.
"She's definitely a worthy match at this point." Aramis adds, amusement lingering in his words.
"Oh, enough you two!" once again the peace-bringer is little vehement Constance, the woman who punches harder than one expects from such petit body, "We may need her help!"
At that Athos scoffs and rolls his eyes, as if what she said is complete nuisance.
"Hold your horses there Constance!" turning my piercing, extraordinary eyes at her, she twitches nervously.
I suffer from a clinical case named heterochromia, basically meaning that I have decolouration of one eye, thus one is deep bark-brown while the other is forest green. This abnormality made people in my old world feel unease whenever I looked at them sharply. Imagine what happens here, where witchcraft is still fashionable. 'I must not tempt faith. There's still time for someone to claim I charmed his cows and made them die.' a small diabolical snicker reverberates in the back of my mind at the absurdity of such a statement. Yet at this time of age, medicine is still rather primitive and such diagnoses as lack or excess of melanin are rather foreign and easily mistaken for Devil's sign.
"Now, indulge me as to what exactly you have been up to all night?" leaning against the wall and lifting one foot of the ground in an attempt to chase away the chilliness, I prepare for something either highly absurd or suicidal to leave her lips.
"A pregnant woman has been kidnapped and locked away. We need to save her or they'll kill her at sunrise." the words are barely distinguishable, such is the zest with which she says them.
Looking at the men questioningly, expecting verification of what my friend said, all four of them nod, their faces now once again grim.
The jolliness from the prospect of having a laugh with the whole situation melts away in an instant. A woman with a child in mortal danger, and no one is willing to help apart for a handful of men and a woman? A deeply-rooted despise and hate towards society surfaces, making my insides curl with fury at the injustice and cruelty called upon the heads on a mother and her unborn child. Yet this rage stays simmering underneath the surface, while on the outside I only frown.
"Why is your help needed?"
"It's heavily guarded – if they catch us even nearing they may kill her." Porthos adds, his voice now coming out more as an animal's growl than human speech, reminding me once again of an infuriated bear.
"A woman can enter easily, though." D'Artagnan adds, his face a mask of seriousness and concentration, yet with hues of worry and distress.
It's obvious there's more to it, which conveniently they keep to themselves. Looking around the room, I find no one volunteering to share the worst part in tonight's mission.
"What's the best part you're holding back?" in mock interest, I once again look at Athos, as he seems the only one who doesn't care how I may react.
"The building is a brothel." he throws the bomb with an air of nonchalance and ease, as only a man who has no idea what's the feeling of selling your body to others feels.
A second of silence prolongs as I quickly make a mental picture of the situation – a place heavily guarded and filled with scarcely clad women, drunk men, and other not so drunk ones yet heavily armed, thus dangerous and impossible for an easy entrance. A woman, hot-tempered indeed, but defenceless none the less, enters and what? Throws the villains through the window?
"So you are telling me you will go, unarmed and unable to fight, in a place unreachable by the only men that can help you and risk your life?"
"Yes." her stiff nod and the resolve burning in her eyes make me scoff, yet a tingle of pride surges though me; an independent woman in the flesh, from the 17th century!
"Uh, no way!" I retort and look at her as if she's insane. "If I close my eyes at the prospect of being amongst men that most probably will take you for a walking sex slave and in the best case try to grope you, what will you do when they figure out why you have infiltrated such a place!?" it's hard to keep my voice at bay when Constance, the woman that sheltered me, heard the truth about me and tried to understand, is now so recklessly throwing herself in danger's way.
"Do you have a better idea?" obviously irritated, the youngling looks at me with narrowed eyes.
"Actually, yes, I do. She won't go, because they'll kill her or worse. No offence Constance, but your uppercut can hardly take out a man twice your height."
"You are proposing?" Porthos inquires.
"Stick to the initial plan, of course. That's as good as it can get."
"We still need a woman to enter." pointing out as if I'm an idiot, the sassy Aramis looks at me almost apologetically after I glare his way.
"Thankfully, there's another woman around, who can kick men's asses as she goes. And by sheer luck she enjoys it." I retort and smirk at their faces, pictures raging from shock to amazement to disbelief.
"You can fight?" Porthos looks ready to laugh.
"You have no idea." the dark, almost wolfish smirk, enhanced by the shadows the candle throws over my face, makes the billow die out in his throat.
/***/
The streets are deserted, apart from a few stray cats, whose eyes gleam in the dim light of the full moon as they follow our movements before darting back into the thickness of the shadows. The gravel, apart from generally being a pain to my feet, is now also hard to make out, so more than once I have to lift my long heavy skirt up in order not to trip and kiss the dirty ground. Courteously looking to the side whenever I decided to do so, the four men and Constance lead the way and make no retort at my various curses, muttered in a foreign for them language, whenever I slip or trip.
"Are you sure you can do this?" still worried about whether it's a good idea to send a morally burdened woman, whose desire to beat the men in the bordello with their detached limbs is stronger than her sense of self-preservation, my dear friend now comes to walk by my side.
"I can handle a bunch of alcohol-infused men, Constance, don't worry. I get in, ask around, find the woman and then give the signal." summarising the plan is not the best way to calm her down, yet how can I convince someone like her, a female brought up to believe women are fragile, despite not being such herself mind you, that my own father has taught me how to fight and defend myself.
"No need for uncalled bravery or provocation." Athos intervenes, obviously catching the vehemence in my voice.
Looking over his shoulder, so to make his point clear, under the brim of his hat I catch his sky-blue eyes almost bearing sparks of concern. Yet as fast as they appear, they're gone and the coldness and distancing return, drawing a harsh line between the man who actually cares for the brave hothead that strolls head first into danger, and the Musketeer who sees said female representative as a potential weak link that he'll have to answer for. 'A pity he keeps everyone a few steps away. Under all that authoritative coolness and the dangerous demeanour, he's most probably a nice guy with a gentle heart that a bitch once hurt.' having seen such cases more than I care to remember, the signs of inner turmoil and hurt, a wound that still bleeds and a scarred soul, are almost plain obvious.
Another chain of curses follows as I hit my foot in a slightly risen stone, the searing pain snapping me out of my thoughts.
"If this keeps on going, we'll never make it in time." Aramis remarks patiently, as he halts and waits for me to stop the vulgar chain of curses, compose myself and once again continue the small trek.
"I'll be quick. Go in, find the woman, give the signal and go out." stating through gritted teeth, as my skirt is once again draping behind me and the corset squeezes the oxygen out of my lungs, irritating me further. "That is, if I don't faint due to lack of air." muttering to myself, I skip to notice yet another rise in the gravel, thus tripping.
A mutual groan follows from all four, while Constance inquires of my well-being.
"Are we close?"
"Behind the corner." Aramis is about to add something more, but closes his mouth immediately at the sight of me grasping the long crimson skirt and lifting it all the way above my knees.
The mantle I tossed over my shoulders so to hide the fact that my girls are about to pour out from the tightly fitted corset, gets pushed open, leaving pretty much everything for the naked eye to see. Discarding the fact that now all four men are openly staring at me, I march forward, hands fisted in the heavy material and keeping it out of my way. Being a fast-pacer, with small yet quick steps I melt away the distance between where they still stand and stare and the brothel.
The house is a massive two-storey building that makes an L shape, with its longer bottom wing spreading out towards the back where a garden of some sorts must lay. The flow of men in various clothing, from fancy to pretty simple, is unstoppable and quite chatty. Gentlemen from the high society get off their carriages with the air of aristocracy surrounding them, yet the gleam of a primal predator in their eyes easily cracks their masks. Only three of four women, also not from this part of town, emerge from within a fancy ride, throw a glance around, then enter. I'm dumbstruck for approximately a minute before rage suffocates my cry. 'Inside will be even worse.' I realise and ball my hands, now free of the skirt, into fists to stop them from shaking.
"You know you must not give away your cover, right? As horrendous as it is to enter such a place, and believe me I'd have gladly taken up your place if possible, you must stay focused and find Madame Arlene." Aramis' soft voice, calming yet holding the tingle of urgency in it, snaps me out of my stupor.
"I'm aware," looking over my shoulder at the men that have now circled me in a protecting manner, I feel a surge of worry that undermines my confidence. "But what if we can't get out?"
"We'll get in." Porthos states, his eyes fixated on the house and a dark shadow casts over his features.
Nodding and breathing in deeply, I call forward my accumulated with years confidence of a free and independent woman, that seeks justice and feels no fear or remorse. Drawing the line between two polar sets of worldview, I fall into character.
The cloak is passed to Constance who gives me a worried look, her deep brown eyes now twinkling with apprehension. She knows as well as all of us that if I get caught faking to be a harlot, the men in there won't feel remorse in using me as such, just to teach me a lesson. A weary smile stretches my lips before I nod and stride forward with the steps of a woman that had too much to drink. 'I wish I actually did though. Those two cups won't keep my nerves intact the whole night.'
As it appears, entering is way easier than getting out, as at the very entrance there's a woman dressed scarcely yet tastefully, with too much makeup on her face and a strange hairdo. She smells decently clean, which is shocking as the only bath here is the public one and a harlot can hardly take the liberty of using it. Yet the one who looks me up and down, her chip nose scrunched in thought as she most probably doubts my motifs, is quite clean and good-looking, meaning that unless I'm mistaken and the whores here are better kept than I believed, than this is the Madam. She stares at me for some time, walks around and studies my body before nodding her approval. Apparently one-night girls are not a matter to be cautious of. Once inside, I realise I liked the house a lot better from the opposite end of the street. While the exterior still carries that old-time atmosphere, the inside looks like a unicorn has vomited pink glitter all around, or at least the 17th century edition.
The walls are covered in already moulded wallpapers in colours that once were probably pretty, but now look like a scene plucked straight out from a horror film .The furniture, mostly consisting of armchairs and sofas, is scattered in haphazard manner and is mostly occupied by men with drinks in their hands and wolfish smirks on their fat faces. It's a challenge not to turn heel and flee, yet the thought of a pregnant woman being held captive here somewhere stops such thoughts of reappearing. My stride is still uneven, highlighted drunk, and the look on my face says many controversial things, yet men appear attracted by my foreign looks. Thankfully the light is dimmed to such an extend that my eyes don't look that different and besides, my breasts, now reaching my neck, win all the glory and looks. Looking around, I spot the guards Aramis warned me about – men dressed like well-paid outlaws, with grim and bearded faces. A distinguishing mark is another trait he pointed out, so as I pass by one of them, I bump 'accidently' in him. Catching me by instinct rather than chivalry, I use the opportunity and pull at the collar of his shirt – a black tattoo in the form of an eye looks back at me for a second before I pull away with a drunken giggle and move on.
Ten minutes later and a few unfortunate collisions with men who desired to push themselves where they were not wanted, I end up in the lap of one of the bad guys. He looks as old as me, yet his dark, sun-kissed face and the thick beard do little to chase away the evil sparks in his eyes. In a moment of despair, as I didn't see or hear anything of a pregnant woman being around, I decided to risk it all and just go to the source. This guy appears the most appealing choice so I throw myself at him, all slutty and 'horny' and kiss his neck. The sour taste left on my lips almost makes me gag, but I push down the bile and give him a lustful smile. In no time he's dragging me on the second floor where the private rooms are, his large hand wrapped around my wrist as if I'm about to flee. Truth be told, as I ascend the stairs, the knot in my stomach makes me doubt the adequateness of this plan. Thankfully any second-guessing is cut short as he pushes me in a room, presses me against the wall and clashes his lips against mine. The foul smell of alcohol, unwashed body and something decomposing snaps me out of my stupor. My leg gently moves between his thighs, as if teasing him, but as soon as I can reach down and pull a small dagger from under my skirt, my knee collides with his groin. In a flash my hand covers his mouth and I spin us, the knife firmly pressed against his neck as he glares at me.
"Be quite and I may spear you." the lack of any emotion in my voice seems to sober him up and he's about to make a move when the sharp end of the dagger digs deeper into his throat. "I don't fancy repeating myself."
Pulling hastily at his collar and making sure he's the right guy, I ignore the loud beating of my heart in favour of keeping my voice stern and even.
"I know you and your friends kidnapped a pregnant woman. I want you to tell me where she is."
For a second he stays silent, his black coal eyes looking like holes in his head, as something dark and foul bends his face, turning it into a mask of rage and spite. 'This man is a lunatic through and though. Cut the chit-chat and get to business.'
Pressing the dagger even harder against his throat, I hiss lowly, threateningly while I hold his gaze.
"Where. Is. The. Woman?" yet silence befalls us once again.
Feeling like I'm wasting the little time me have left, resolving to violence appears as the only probably solution.
"One last time before I start chopping you like a chunk of cheese. Where is she?" the animosity in the icy underlining of my otherwise calm and even sweet voice finally evokes a response – a sparkle of fear rushes past his features and too late does he manage to conceal it.
"Speak, or I'll return you to your friends in bulk."
"You'll never get to her. She'll be killed, and you along with her." the malice in his slurry voice disgust me beyond belief.
"Lead the way and let's see who shall face his death tonight."
Once on his feet, with his weapons thrown away and mine hidden skilfully between our bodies, not even for once do I lower my guard as he leads the way.
"You'll tell your friends we'll have some fun in the back and that they mind their own business. Make sure they don't trail us. If you slip I'll gut you like a fish before they draw their pistols. Am I clear?" emphasising my point by digging the dagger deeper into his lower back, I smile bitterly.
He simply nods, eyes filled with hatred.
The room we enter in spacious, obviously a used-to-be VIP suite of some sorts, but now is pretty much destroyed and bears that vulgar dishevelled look the whole whorehouse has. On the once expensive furniture now sit seven men, armed to the teeth and drinking from a bottle with a questionable content. After the small theatre goes as planned, with even some groping from my prisoner's side, for which he'll pay later, we move onward. Once in the next room I push him against an armchair, the dagger to his throat once again.
"Where is she?" I insist, my patience growing thin.
Yet the male just smirks, showing a set of unhealthy teeth, and mocks me with his eyes. In an instance the rage that's been accumulating ever since I entered, surfaces and the dagger drives though his right hand.
"If you make a sound, I'll slice your throat open and won't even bath an eyelash. Now, answer me. Where is she?"
Obviously fighting his wails of pain, and probably rage, the male gives me a look that promises vengeance before nodding towards a door in the opposite end.
"You'll never make it out of here alive. They'll rape and kill you." the sick snicker makes something in me revolt, yet my unyielding self-discipline once again keeps my consciousness and fear at bay.
Giving him a tight smile, I let go of the dagger and with a swift movement hit him. My hand throbs, as I put more strength then necessary in a smack that was badly calculated, but it's worth it. Dark complacency and a victorious smile take away the pain for a second before I remember that the Musketeers are still waiting for my signal. Quickly pulling the dagger out of that man's hand, I near the room with hasty yet still soundless steps. For a second I hark around the door, anticipating any incoming danger, and after hearing nothing worth worry, I risk and push the door ajar. Right ahead there's a man, with his back facing me thankfully, drinking from a bottle and eyeing the woman that's sitting in the furthest end of the room.
Seconds is all I have to react, as she notices me and too late complies that with her widened eyes she gives away my presence. The man's about to stand up and turn but I quickly raise the poker I grabbed from the previous room and bring it down onto his head. He falls without a sound, apart from the thud.
"Who… who are you?" the teary voice of the woman, no older than me, is laced with both hope and worry.
"You are Madame Arlene I suppose?" looking at her visibly rounded tummy a smile appears on my face as I pull the tablecloth from the tumbled over coffee table.
Unable to speak as shock and fear still rule over her body, she nods, now looking anxious and tired.
"I'm here to get you out." looking out of the window and praising my lucky star for that this room looks directly at the Musketeers' hiding place, I push open the wooden frame.
"What are you doing?" sounding horrified at the prospect of me falling out, or jumping, the woman springs up and tries to grasp me.
"I'm signalising my friends. They'll come and get us out." while speaking I wave the white cloth, mentally counting as each wave means an enemy they need to pass through.
At the twentieth swipe I stop and retract my hand. Arlene, with her messy copper hair and huge, dewy green eyes looks like a woman who just woke up from a nightmare. In her state of heavy pregnancy the distress she was made to endure will not go without a backlash at her or the baby, but at that very moment I don't want to think of it. Smiling encouragingly at her and squeezing her hand, I try to keep my voice calm and reassuring, as what's about to happen will definitely further stress her.
"A fire will break out any minute now, so be ready to move if needed. You need to remain calm and breathe." I add in quickly as the horrified look on her face drains the last remains of colour.
"A fire?" she raps and wobbles on her feet.
Putting her back down in the armchair, I offer her some water.
"Worry not, Madame. I have it all planned out."
While saying that I push the cupboard towards the door, successfully blocking it. To that action she exclaims with fright.
"You are locking us in a burning house! Are you insane!?"
"I'm keeping the men that kidnaped you away from you until my friends come. And about the insane part, yes, I believe I'm a little insane at this point."
For a safety precaution, or mostly out of habit, I turn the key in the hole and lock the doors. Seconds later, as if on cue, screams reach us from the first floor and the thudding of many steps deafens out the various cries for help. The word fire has just been yelled by someone when the doors in the first room burst open, male voices shouting and cursing.
"Stay calm and breathe." still level-headed by exterior, I remind myself that later, if I make it out of here alive, I'll have enough time to hyperventilate.
Fetching the fallen man's sword and his pistol I tumble over a table and take cover behind it as the doors begin to shake, angry male voices and curses reaching us over the cacophony of the people running downstairs.
"Can you shoot?" I ask as I open the window so to allow oxygen to enter and in the meantime steal a glance at the lawn down.
"Y-yes… I believe so ,yes." Arlene stutters as the vulgar words coming from the other side of the door soon get muffled by kicks and shooting.
"Good. Because I can't. Here you go. Aim for those who attack and try not to shoot me." some humour in situations like this is never appreciated, yet the woman in front of me shares a ghost of a smile before grabbing the pistol and loading it.
A whole minute passes and the wooden doors begin to give in under the vile harassment of the men on the other side. The smoke from the fire as well as the heat are present and the panic that I try to suppress can be seen written on my companion's face.
"Don't worry. They'll come. And while they do, make sure not to get stressed out too much." it's futile to try and ease her nerves, as the dooming air around us it too thick to fight with.
Suddenly there's a loud crashing sound and the doors, alongside the cupboard, come crashing down. Men enter and in that instance Arlene, whose maternal instinct finally kicks in, begins to shoot. It takes time for her to reload, so I lung forward at the first man that dears move and my sword passes through his middle with ease. The sickening feeling of the steel cutting at flesh like its paper is suppressed instantaneously by the roar of another man who jumps at me. A bullet in the neck sends him flat on his back.
Another bear-like vigilante comes yet I successfully stop his attempt to decapitate me and instead slice his throat open. My moves are mechanical, yet precise, as in my mind it's all a matter of life and death. Feeling like a really volatile movie is being played before me, like I'm just made to watch rather than participate, makes my mind smudge the lines between morally expectable and not. Bullets whistle all around, men shout and curse, there's the clash of steel against steel and the sickening gurgle of blood pouring out around me, making something in me revolt wildly as human beings are losing their life here, by my hand. Yet my current opponent quickly drags me back to the present as he manages to successfully land a blow and send me flat on my back, crashing into a tumbled over stool. My grunt is low and painful as waves of needling pain run up and down my spine. The man before me, an oaf of a creature with a stupid, blood-thirsty look on his face, sneers and quickly grabs me by the throat, choking the remaining air straight out of my already sore lungs. It's pointless to fight such a mass of muscles and opacity, and honestly I have no more power to do so. Yet something in me keeps on kicking and tossing, a very deeply-rooted spark has my body twitching and convulsively trying to break free. As my nails tear at my soon-to-be killer's face, I know that what keeps me going is the desire to live, to not die in a place and time that're not my own, in a whorehouse, any less by the hands of a mercenary. Yet it's all in vain – my powers are severely weakened by all the events that unfolded tonight and even if they weren't, what chance do I have against a man such as this. As black dots begin to cloud my vision, smoke scrapes at my throat and my lungs convulse for air, I know I'm dying not by my body's natural urge to stupidly keep on resisting the clutches of death, but because the pressure suddenly disappears.
Everything is spinning and covered in a thick cloud of suffocating smoke. There are hazy figures moving around in fast, chopped movements, like a filmstrip has been chopped by a small child with scissors. My head is heavy and pulsates, there's something sticky covering it and all the noise suddenly turns into a mere echo, a dull distant background. As the colours and figures blur together, the feeling that someone's moving me makes my heavy lids flutter.
A pair of dazzling blue irises looks at me with a mixture of worry, relief and some proudness before a mask quickly shelters them away and the cool resolve of a familiar face returns. Athos' lips move, he's telling me something, but the words never reach me. A veil of blackness is thrown over me and the world disappears.
It feels like seconds later when I come round, yet the night sky, sprinkled with stars, and the moon's full body prove me wrong. There's an obstacle in my line of sight, still blurry but getting clearer, and it takes me a second to realise it's a hat. At that point, as if something got unleashed and a barrier between myself and the world crumbled, one after another emotions and senses wash over me like tidal waves, making me wince.
I realise I'm being carried as my body wobbles intact with steps; my throat is sore and aching apart from being dry and groggy from all the smoke; my back feels worryingly numb until sudden sharp whips of pain tear at the skin, making we wince.
"Aramis!" a male voice, stern yet worried at the same time, calls.
"She's coming round, that's good." Aramis' soft murmur reaches me through the thick mist of oblivion.
In a haze of pain, yet alive, I once again blink my eyes open. With the lead heaviness in my limbs any movement is absurd, so I don't protest to Athos carrying me.
"What happened?" my voice is a low whisper, husky and strained.
"You got hit badly." Athos replies after a minute of hesitation. "Madame Arlene is safe and the brothel is still in flames." the lack of any emotion in his words startles me, as such events as tonight's must have left some imprint even on a man like him.
"And the bad guys?"
A smirk appears on Athos' face, making him acquire a whole new exterior – the guarded Musketeer, the leader and protector steps aside to make place for the kind soul, a man with a sense of humour and duty, unbound by other's opinions. 'He's handsome in this light…' my sluggish brain cannot finish the thought and it floats away into oblivion.
"The bad guys are dealt with, thanks to you." there's a tingle of admiration is his voice and despite my fatigue, I don't miss the occasion to tease him.
"Is that a praise I hear?"
The smirk twitches, threating to turn into a full-blown smile.
"What if it was?"
"You don't strike me as a man who'll just throw praise left and right."
"Well, in the few hours you've came to know me, Mademoiselle, you have built quite an accurate impression of me." he's teasing me on purpose, probably to keep me conscious.
"I'm just really perceptive, that's all." the words die out like a soft murmur against his shoulder, as sleep tugs at me.
Shuffling myself closer to him by instinct, seeking his body's warmth and protection, I unconsciously burry my face in the crook of his neck and inhale his scent – earthy, of leather and soil, yet with the hint of something minty. The sigh of relief hums in my chest as my eyelids drift close and a sense of tranquillity washes over me.
The stars above glimmer like the flick of a candle, then they smudge and spin, until eventually only deep and consistent darkness is all that's left. As quick as my senses sprung to alertness, they die out, blown like the flame of a candle.