Chapter 13 Ransom

Chapter 13 Ransom

When Ransom woke up, he thought he was ten years old again. He was in the alley beside Balthazar's tavern, sitting on an empty rum barrel. His lip was split, his left eye so swollen he couldn't see out of it. Fear curled like a fist in his stomach. Before him stood Gaspard Dufort, the man who had plucked him from the banks of the Verne like a discarded coin that very morning.

‘Well, boy. Are you ready to take back your power?' It wasn't a question, but Ransom nodded anyway. He wanted Dufort to know he was serious, that he was brave. Even as his hands trembled.

Dufort removed a glass vial from his pocket. Ransom's throat went dry as he stared at the fine black powder, glimpsing raw magic for the very first time. All his life, he had heard stories about Shade, the inky dust that sustained the underworld of Fantome. Like most people, he harboured a morbid fascination with the Cloaks and Daggers, the thieves and assassins who made midnight in the city their playground. But he didn't fear them. He already lived with a monster, a man who needed no such black powder to move through their cottage like a shadow, instilling fear with the mere creak of his footstep.

Dufort held the vial out. ‘Don't swallow more than half,' he said, looking Ransom up and down. ‘You're barely bigger than that barrel. We don't want you overdoing it.'

Ransom snatched the vial quickly so that the Dagger wouldn't see his fingers trembling and tipped half of its contents down his throat, wincing at his split lip, which had been hastily sewn back together with twine.

The taste of ash on his tongue was a welcome distraction. The Shade was cold. It went through him like a shiver until it felt like his bones were coated in frost. He curled his arms around his stomach, weathering the chill.

Gaspard's laugh rippled through the dark alley. ‘Embrace it,' he said, clapping Ransom on the back and nearly knocking him off the barrel. ‘It will make you a man.'

Ransom felt more like a corpse than a man, his heart so cold now he wasn't sure it was even beating. He clenched his fists, waiting for the sensation to subside. He wasn't sure if it really did, or if his body simply acclimatized to the Shade, but after a while, a strange heat erupted behind his eyes and the alley lit up, as though someone had scorched the darkness away. The swelling over his eye abated, and he felt taller somehow, stronger. When he looked down, he glimpsed shadows darting across his hands.

His fingers twitched.

Gaspard laughed again. ‘Careful with those. You'll find that Shade has a will of its own.'

Ransom was seized by the sudden urge to stalk straight into Balthazar's, flinging chairs and tables out of the way, and lay hands on his bleary-eyed, liquored-up violent brute of a father.

Dufort grinned like he could read his thoughts. ‘Hold those reins, boy.' He removed a gold pocket-watch from his coat and glanced at the face. ‘Ten more minutes.'

Almost closing time. Papa never left Balthazar's before he had to.

The minutes crawled by, every second longer than the one before, until at last, the tavern lanterns went out. Stragglers stumbled into the deserted street, and there, among them, was Papa. A towering beast at six foot six, red-cheeked and slow-footed, and reeking of brandy. He stumbled off in the direction of home. Ransom stepped out of the alley and followed him.

Shade quickened his footsteps, but Dufort pulled him back. ‘Being a Dagger is as much about waiting as it is about killing,' he cautioned. ‘Patience, Ransom. Wait for the opportune moment, and when it arrives, don't hesitate. Even for a second.'

Ransom nodded, trying to push down the Shade inside him. To walk when he wanted to run. To breathe when he wanted to roar.

They walked on, following his father through the sleepy village of Everell, where soon the only sound was the distant trill of a nightingale and the rustle of the wind in the trees. They came to a familiar stone cottage.

Ransom watched his father grapple with the gate, then curse as he kicked it open. The wood splintered as it fell away from the wall, and Ransom grimaced at the casual destructiveness he had come to know all too well. His father stumbled up the garden path.

Ransom paused at the broken gate. Now that the moment was upon him, he had the urge to turn around and flee, just as Mama and Anouk had. Was the Shade wearing off too soon, or was his conscience stronger than its magic?

Dufort came to his side. ‘What did I tell you about hesitation?'

Ransom swallowed. ‘What if this is a mistake?'

Dufort's eyes flashed, and in them, Ransom glimpsed a true Dagger: ruthless, impatient. Dangerous. ‘The mistake here would be wasting that vial of Shade I gave you.' He spoke through his teeth. ‘Is that what you're trying to tell me, boy? That I wasted my Shade?'

‘No,' said Ransom quickly. A new fear was rising. His father was a known quantity – a brash man with heavy fists and a cruel tongue. But Gaspard Dufort was another beast entirely. ‘What if I get caught?'

Gaspard barked a laugh. ‘When was the last time you read about a Dagger in the penny papers?'

Ransom frowned. Never , was the answer. Daggers didn't get caught.

Dufort nudged him through the gate. Ransom stumbled, trampling his mother's tulips. His heart ached as he remembered the day they had knelt in the garden to plant them, how Mama had laughed when he got dirt on his nose and then, seeing his cheeks flame in embarrassment, grabbed some to draw a moustache on herself. Afterwards, Anouk had accidentally tracked mud through the house and Mama had run for the mop in a panic, shooing them both upstairs when their father came stomping up the garden path.

Ransom pictured her face yesterday morning, how the bruise on her cheekbone had looked like a thundercloud. He remembered the hope gleaming in her eyes when they made it to the gates of Everell, then the fear guttering inside them as Papa's voice cut through the air behind them.

One more step, Gisele, and it will be the last you'll ever take.

Ransom had taken one look at his mother and his sister, teetering on the precipice of freedom, and decided to fight. It was all over in the blink of an eye. He should have died then, but he didn't. Maybe the saints had taken pity on him. Perhaps Saint Oriel herself had reached through the veil of the afterlife to keep his heart beating, to offer him a destiny that reached beyond his father's rage.

Ransom never got to see Mama and Anouk run, so he liked to imagine they'd flown, high above Everell, soaring away from the life that had nearly buried them all. From the man who would still bury them if he could. And that was the sorry truth of it all. While Papa lived, they would never truly be safe. They would never come home to Everell. They would never come back to Ransom.

His anger flared, propelling him towards the house. Shadows followed him inside. His father was sitting on the stairs in a puddle of lamplight, trying to unlace his boots. When the door slammed, he looked up, their eyes meeting in the dimness.

Ransom hesitated.

His father didn't. ‘ You, ' he hissed, lumbering to his feet.

He swung blindly. Missed. Shade made it easy to dodge the blow. Another swing. Ransom leaped out of the way and Papa hit the wall, cracking the plaster. He howled in pain.

‘Fool,' said Ransom, surprised by the callousness of his own voice. The Shade was speaking for him.

His father spun, but Ransom caught his fist, stopping the strike in mid-air. The shadows lunged, crossing the barrier between their bodies. Time slowed as they burrowed into his father. His eyes widened until Ransom could see all the red thorns inside them. Then they turned black. Ransom watched death crawl across his father's face with a curious sense of detachment, as if he was not in his body but floating somewhere above it, letting the Shade act in his stead.

His father had a heart after all. It only took ten beats to kill him.

And then it was over.

When Papa slumped to the floor, Ransom was still in a daze. He looked down at his father's lifeless face. His eyes had rolled back in his head, their whites now inky black. His lips were black, too, twisted in the throes of a final curse. Those cruel fists lay slack at his sides. The monster had been felled. But Ransom felt no relief.

As he stood in the narrow hallway, the Shade left his body like a terrible wind howling out of his bones. The night grew dark around him. Nausea roiled in his gut, and he pitched forward. The stitches in his lip split and blood trickled out, mixing with his vomit. He sank to the floor, choking on his sobs.

He might have stayed like that all night, curled in a ball beside Papa's lifeless body, if Dufort hadn't slipped through the door and scooped him up, carrying him away from the ashes of his childhood.

‘It's all right, boy,' he soothed. ‘It's done now.'

When they reached the street, Dufort set him down again. This time, when he vomited, the man rubbed his back. ‘Here comes the gloom. It will pass.'

Ransom groaned. ‘When?'

‘When the last lick of Shade leaves your body.'

Dufort released him and walked on, humming softly to himself. ‘That could only have gone two ways,' he said, over his shoulder. ‘You were either going to kill your father, or that vial of Shade was going to kill you. Truth be told, I've never used it on a kid before.' When Ransom didn't answer – only retched again – Dufort turned on the heel of his boot. He was grinning so wide, Ransom counted three more gold fillings. ‘Thanks to you, tonight has opened up a whole new world of possibilities.'

Ransom wiped his mouth. ‘What does that mean?'

‘It means you passed the test.' Dufort winked, and in that twinkle of silver, Ransom saw an entire future unfurl. A fate he had not bargained for. A destiny woven by a devil, not a saint. ‘Welcome to the Order of Daggers, son.'

Son. The word was a life raft in a stormy sea. Ransom hurried after Dufort.

By the time they reached Old Haven, he was so tired, he could have curled up under the statue of Saint Lucille and slept for a week. In the flickering lamplight, he looked at his hands, tracing the slim black whorl that had appeared on his right knuckle. It ached.

‘Your first shadow-mark,' said Dufort, guiding him past the statue. ‘Take pride in it. There will be more to come.'

But the sight of that mark only filled Ransom with dread, his heart pounding as they descended into the bowels of Fantome, where ancient skulls peered after him.

Down, down, down, into the dark.

Ransom woke to find a familiar pair of green eyes staring down at him.

‘ Hell's teeth, ' said Lark in a strained voice. ‘What happened to you?'

Ransom's hand flew to his chest, searching for his heartbeat. It thrummed dully beneath his fingers. He blinked, willing the world into focus, and remembered where he was. When he was. He was lying half-dead on the banks of the Verne.

‘There was a monster,' he said, with a rasp.

‘We lost it,' came Nadia's voice from the other side of him. ‘We were tracking another one, eastward, when we got word of this one. That makes three separate sightings tonight.' She grimaced as she examined the blood on his clothes. ‘Where did all this come from?'

Ransom flinched as she lifted up his sweater, revealing the deep wound in his side. And then he remembered the rest. ‘ Seraphine, ' he hissed.

‘What?' said Nadia. ‘Who—?'

‘It's the farmgirl,' said Lark, leaning over to examine the wound.

Ransom's breath shallowed as he tried to sit up. His head spun and the world blurred. He was losing consciousness again, his friends' voices fading as the darkness swept back in.