Death, when it finally came, was a mercy: a release from the hunger, the exhaustion, and the never-ending cold. It fit with Booker's life to date that it turned out to be not merciful at all, but simply a cruel pretence.
A rattling breath jolted him back to awareness. The rope burned around his throat. He jerked, fighting for breath as his own weight tightened the noose again.
He died two more slow, painful deaths before his brain recovered fast enough to save himself. The single mercy turned out to be the fact his hands had been tied in front of him rather than behind – and that the rope he dangled from wasn't especially long.
He managed to sling his arms over the branch he'd been hanged from and hauled himself up. The rope slackened. He loosened the noose enough to push it clumsily over his head, followed by the rope around his wrists, and it was then that he had the luxury to wonder what in the name of the saints had happened.
He had died. He glanced either side to his companions in death. The other bodies twisted slowly at the ends of their ropes, hair speckled with snow, noses whitened with frost, eyes staring glassily ahead. Yes, he had certainly died. So how was he now alive?
His feet tingled with cold and his stomach chose that moment to remind him how long it was since he'd last eaten. All philosophical questions were pushed aside in favour of survival. A crow landed on the body to his left, the creature perching on a frozen shoulder to peck at the soft eyeballs. Booker lunged and grabbed it before it realised the danger. He dropped to the ground, twisting an ankle, but kept hold of his prize, snapping the bird's neck.
A fire to cook the animal over would have been welcome, but he was so hungry he barely even paused to tug a handful of feathers off the bird's breast before sinking his teeth into its warm flesh.
When all that remained of his meal was bones, he stripped the two other corpses of their clothes to add to his own, checked their pockets (already emptied by the captains) and set off. Home. He'd had enough of the hell that was Russia. He just wanted to be home.
His retreat, just as the army's march had been, was hard-going. He estimated Russia killed him a dozen more times before he reached more temperate climes. Death by the cold was a particularly exquisite torture. Not the dying, but coming back to life with parts of him still frozen. He lost several fingers that way, until their growing back ceased to either disgust or amaze him. His lonely trek back to France gave him plenty of time to think, but he still had no idea what had happened to him, nor why.
His only company were his dreams, strange visions of three warriors and one ... he didn't know how to describe the final one, except that all four of them seemed to be as he was now: unable to die. The warriors fought and died and recovered, while the last woman only died over and over, encased in a coffin like an iron maiden. He wrenched himself from sleep every time she appeared, sweat bathing him in a horrible parody of the water she was lost beneath.
He much preferred his occasional dreams of Marie and the boys, a blessing to counteract the curse of the woman sealed in iron. Those dreams of his family were a beacon, guiding him home. Booker was aware that he thought of them far more now than he had done when he'd been with them every day. But wasn't that the nature of death – to make you realise what was truly important? He was unusual in that he had the chance to act on his change of mind. He might not have been the best husband, the best father, but now was his chance to make amends.
It took him six months to work his way back across Europe with that glowing vision of home to keep him going. Only to discover when he arrived that he didn't have a home any longer.
"Madame Lelivres?" The neighbour looked at him suspiciously. He'd pulled his hat low and with the beard he'd grown he didn't think he was easy to recognise. He was a dead man, after all. He would need to discuss with Marie how to handle his miraculous return to life. The last thing he wanted was for the army to take him away from them for a second time.
She sniffed, arms folded beneath a formidable bosom. "She's Madame Courbet now. She lives by the river." Another sniff and she gave him the address.
Booker barely noted it, his blood pounding in his ears. Marie, his Marie, married to another man? It couldn't be true. She'd thought him dead, he reminded himself. A mother alone, she'd probably been desperate. He couldn't blame her for what she'd done. But it was a mess that would be hard to untangle.
It didn't occur to him that Marie might not want to untangle it.
She regarded him in horror, a ghost on her doorstep. "They told me you were dead." Marie sounded as though she'd rejoiced more than grieved when the news came. "A deserter. They executed you." She glanced around, as though afraid the neighbours would see him there. She leaned forward, spitting the words. "A filthy coward. You're not welcome here."
"I'm your husband. I lo—" his tongue stuck on the tender words. Her furious face dared him to complete the phrase. He should have said it before, many times. Now, it was too little and far too late.
"Charles Courbet is my husband now."
He swallowed. "I want to see my sons." It was his right. His own flesh would welcome him back, even if Marie had taken against him.
Her face changed, distorted by true grief. He wanted to slap a hand across her mouth to prevent the words. "Claude..." She shook her head while something awful turned in his stomach, a claw twisting deep in his heart. "The ague ... the winter you left."
He staggered back. "No." Anger was better than grief. "You should have told me!"
Marie took refuge in fury, too. "And what would you have done? You were no use to the boy when you were here. What use would you have been a thousand miles away?"
"I should have died." He mumbled the words. Was that what had happened? Had he somehow stolen his son's life force? No. That was impossible. As impossible as the wish that he could surrender his own to bring him back.
"I wish you had." The slam of the door jolted him another step back. Tears clouded his vision and he wiped them impatiently away. Claude was gone. It was unfathomable.
He returned, day after day. Avoiding Marie and ... the other man. He lingered within sight of their door until he saw Sebastien and Jean-Pierre. The sight of them, two years older than he remembered, was another kick to his bruised heart.
Once they went inside, he knew he should leave, but he couldn't make his feet carry him away. They were his family. They were all he had.
And then his patience was rewarded. Sebastien, his eldest, slipped out of the door. Fourteen; he was a young man now. "Monsieur!" He strutted down the steps and Booker's heart clenched with pride. Then he registered what the boy had said. Monsieur?
"Sebastien." He stepped fully into view, a smile blooming. His arms opened. "Come, give your papa a hug."
The boy regarded him as though he were the rat-catcher. "You are scaring my mother. Leave this place."
His arms fell limply to his side. "Don't you know who I am?"
His son's face, so like his own, twisted in contempt. "You're no one."
The pain of his namesake's rejection was worse – far worse – than dying. All this time coming home, and home held nothing for him.
He found lodgings, a small room with a chair and a fireplace. The bed was a mattress on the floor and the whole stank of rat droppings but he didn't care; he wasn't planning a long stay. Booker spent an hour sharpening his knife, talking himself in and out of the action he had resolved on. After that he could delay no longer. He sat beside the fire and set the knife against his wrist.
His palm sweated and he feared he wouldn't have the grip to cut deeply enough. He wiped his hand on his shirt and picked up the knife again. His fingers shook. He wanted to die. He didn't want to die.
He wanted to be dead, skipping the painful part. He craved an end to his misery. What he most feared was that it wouldn't work. He didn't want the pain, not if it didn't bring the oblivion he wanted; needed. He wiped his hand again, grabbed the knife and slashed before he could think better of it.
The cut was shallow. A feeble attempt. It healed even as he watched. Tears burned at his eyes. Marie was right to castigate him as useless. He couldn't even do this small thing.
He turned the knife so the tip pressed between his ribs. He would cut out his heart. That was the troubling organ. If he only had no heart, he could face an eternity with only those dreams for company. Both hands tightened on the handle. One quick, hard shove and it would all be over.
He couldn't do it. His hands loosened and the knife tumbled to the floor. Sobs shook him. It would never be over. Not for him. Booker slumped his head into his hands and wept while the fire turned to ashes beside him.
He was trying to get drunk. It was an enterprise that had become harder than he was used to since ... whatever it was that had happened, happened. The blessed relief when the alcohol hit his throat, the warmth in his stomach. That was the same. But the oblivion... That really needed work. He didn't mind the time it took; he had plenty of that. But the money ... there was never enough of that the way there never had been in his life.
"Show me your money, Lelivres." Pierre's meaty arms were braced on the bar, his mouth a hard line, eyes daring him to abuse his generosity further. The spirits Booker needed were far out of reach on the shelves behind the bar.
He knew it was futile, but he reached into his pockets, jingling his scant coins together as though the three centimes that wouldn't cover what he'd already drunk might have found some friends. He huffed in bitter amusement. Some chance of that.
"I'll show you mine." A low, soft voice spoke beside him, accompanied by the wonderful sound of thick francs being slammed on the wooden bar. Several of them. "A bottle. And two glasses."
He turned, hardly daring to believe a complete stranger would take pit— If any part of him was drunk, it sobered instantly. It wasn't a complete stranger. She was dressed in men's clothes, but it was the woman from his dreams. The one he'd glimpsed on horseback, and wielding a fearsome-looking axe. He glanced behind her. That was fortunately absent in reality.
"Who are you?" What was left of his brain protested. People didn't come to life from dreams. He touched his throat. But they didn't come to life after being hanged, either.
"Andromache."
He blinked. He'd lost track of the name halfway through her speaking it.
Her lips quirked. "Call me Andy."
They retired to a table in the corner, away from the bar. At least, Andy picked the table. Booker simply followed where the brandy led.
Andy dropped into a seat, poured two glasses of brandy and downed one. Booker snatched up the other.
"You have questions," she stated, tipping more brandy into both glasses.
So many he barely knew where to start. "Why are you in my dreams?" It wasn't the most important question, but he'd start with the small ones and work his way up.
"We dream of each other when there's a new one." She waved her glass to indicate that he was the new one. "We keep dreaming until we meet."
"And then what?"
"Whatever we choose."
That told him nothing of use. He leaned forward, glancing around to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. "And we can't die?"
"We will die, eventually." A ripple of a shrug passed over her shoulders. "Just hasn't happened yet." She pinned him with a dark gaze. "You've got centuries ahead of you."
He swallowed; that was more a curse than a blessing. The next shot burned his throat.
"Join us," Andy offered.
"And do what?"
"We're soldiers."
He shook his head. "I'm not a soldier."
"We began as soldiers," she clarified. "We're freelance now."
"I have no interest in returning to that life." Just the thought of the army and all it had stolen from him made something angry claw at his insides. He used the brandy to drown it, downing another glass and helping himself to the bottle.
She leaned back, folding her arms and dredging him with a gaze that told him absolutely nothing of what was going on in her head. "So, what will you do?"
He tried to sound unconcerned. "I have work."
"Counterfeiting and forgery. You know what happens if you're caught. The life of a criminal is a dangerous one, Sebastien."
He met her eye. "Not for me." It was a small consolation, knowing they couldn't hang him.
"Especially for you," she returned. "The anatomists would be fascinated by a body that won't stay dead."
He clutched his glass to hide the shiver that passed through him, closing his eyes against the images that rose, unbidden, of things he'd never seen in reality and hoped he never would. He spoke more to distract himself than because he was curious. "So, you're what? A very small battalion?"
"I guess ... we're a family. And you're part of it now."
"I already have a family."
"Seems to me that family turned their backs on you." Her eyes glittered in the lamplight. "There's no way back, Sebastien, only forward."
Anger burned. Who was this woman to look into his heart and pluck out the thoughts that haunted him? "Non! I want none of this madness."
The look she turned on him was ageless. "None of us wanted it. We got it regardless." Her tone softened. "All that's left is the fight. Best to choose battles you have a chance of winning."
He'd spent his whole life picking the wrong battles, it seemed to him.
She pulled a battered pack of playing cards from a pocket, set it on the table between them. "Maybe we should let the cards decide? If I win, you come with me. If you win, I'll leave you alone." Her lips quirked. "With whatever remains of the brandy."
"Very well." He hid his smile. If you waited long enough, fate would finally relent and cut you a break. He tugged a box of matches from his pocket and tipped them out for chips while the woman shuffled the battered cards.
He wasn't drunk. He only lost when he was drunk. Sober, he could nudge the cards in a direction that favoured him. He didn't have many talents, but this was one.
And it deserted him tonight.
She won the first couple of hands, but that wasn't surprising. He wasn't trying to win immediately. Too much success looked suspicious. But she never failed. Everything he tried, she was a step ahead. He knew the bar like his own hand but he still glanced behind him to ensure there wasn't a window the darkness had turned into a mirror. Nothing. She had the devil's own luck.
"Looks like I win." She scooped his final stake into her pile of tiny sticks.
Fury twisted through him. He wasn't sure whether he was more angry at the woman, or at fate, both conspiring against him. He threw his outmatched hand down. "You must have cheated!"
She looked at him in amusement. "Because you did?"
"I – I – " He spluttered.
Her eyes danced. "I have so much more experience than you, Sebastien. This isn't a battle you can win."
His shoulders drooped in defeat. "Very well." He sighed, long and heavy, then looked up to meet her gaze. "Give me an hour to pack. I would say goodbye to my sons. If they'll see me. I'll meet you back here."
Andy nodded agreement, lifting her glass to drain the liquor.
Booker walked steadily until he'd left the bar and was out of her sight. Then he ran.
They caught up with him a year later, in Rouen. Not the woman this time, but the two men from his dreams. If he evaded them a second time, would they send the woman in the iron maiden next? He shivered at the memories, her screams as life was ripped from her over and over. He didn't think he wanted to know what had happened with her.
He'd walked into his workshop, braced for a busy day of petty forgery, his mind on nothing in particular.
"Sebastien Lelivres."
He'd turned, alarmed, and the pair unfolded themselves from the bench set against the wall and stood between him and the door.
They had the advantage of him. He'd dreamed the pair of them, but he wouldn't know their names until they told him. All he knew so far was what he'd glimpsed – their expertise with swords and bows, pistols and rifles. A quick glance didn't show any weapons. Weapons would do him no lasting harm, he understood that by now, but surviving a knife to the heart didn't mean he wanted to welcome the pain of it.
"You made a promise to Andy." The slimmer man spoke and gave the first clue. From his accent, he was Italian.
"And you broke it." The curly-haired man continued the thought, and Booker remembered the other thing he'd dreamt: the two men kissing. He didn't care about the kisses themselves: how anyone conducted their life was no business of his, and forging marriage certificates for men who needed to paint a gloss of respectability over their unconventional lives was a lucrative sideline for him.
What bothered him about those dreams was the way they made him wonder whether he would ever find another to kiss him like that. Without first paying her.
"That was a mistake." The Italian told him.
"One you're here to correct?" If they insisted he go with them, would he? It was hardly worth fighting any more, but there was a principle at stake. He might be fate's puppet, but he wasn't their puppet, them or the woman.
"We'd like to help you, if you'll permit it." The darker, curly-haired man, whose origins he couldn't be sure of – Algeria, perhaps, or Tunisia; somewhere on the far side of the Mediterranean – spoke with something like sympathy in his tone, which settled the matter.
"I don't need your help."
"You need someone's," he replied.
"We're offering. And we're here," the Italian finished.
The pair of them waited expectantly, as though he was supposed to thank them for haunting his dreams and now arriving on his doorstep with an offer he'd laugh at if he could afford mirth.
"I don't need a pair of tapettes to tell me how to live my life."
The slim Italian raised his brows. His French had been heavily accented; perhaps he didn't recognise the slang, or the slur behind it. Or perhaps Booker just hoped that was the case. There were two of them and only one of him, after all. The other looked amused, if anything. He folded his arms across a broad chest and replied in flawless French.
"If you want to insult me, you will have to try harder than that." He took a breath and Booker was transported back to the school room. "You wish to suggest I am a coward? Untrue, and thus not an insult. And you are implying that I am a lover of men?" His head tilted. "That is true, but also not an insult."
The Italian cleared his throat and held up a single finger. Booker had – unfortunately – been in enough courtrooms to recognise when someone wished to make a point of order. "Not 'a lover of men'," he amended. "The lover of a man."
The curly-haired one grinned, teeth suddenly white in his beard. "I stand corrected, my heart." Their gazes met and held, sharing an expression of such tenderness that the heart Booker couldn't seem to numb ached once more for everything he'd lost.
"I'm sorry to disappoint Andy, but the answer's still no."
A moment of stillness followed. Booker wondered if the weapons the pair certainly had concealed about their persons would make an appearance now.
Then the curly-haired one shrugged. "Very well."
He turned to the door. The Italian blinked as though that had taken even him by surprise. He took a step, then turned to Booker. "He could compel you, you know."
The other man glanced back. "You wouldn't allow it."
He raised a slender shoulder. "I might."
Both pairs of eyes considered him, as though deciding whether he would prove worth the effort. "It's his choice." The curly-haired one turned to the door and the other followed. In a moment they'd be gone. Booker should be glad, but the only thing he could think was that then he'd be alone. Again.
"Wait." Both men turned. "What's the job?"