Chapter 24 Seraphine

Chapter 24 Seraphine

The Dagger was back. Standing in the darkness outside House Armand, his quicksilver eyes glowing like stardust. Sera glared at him through the gap in her curtains, hating the gnaw of her own curiosity.

Ransom had hesitated to kill her twice now. He had even gone out of his way to save Pippin. And still , he stalked her. Was he really that desperate to speak to her? Or did he know something vital about the magic in her necklace that she didn't? She reached for her pen.

What exactly do you want?

The paper dart soared into the night, and returned a minute later.

Come outside and I'll tell you.

No way. She was not walking into that spider's web without a damn good reason.

I would rather eat a bowl of my own hair.

The note came back again.

Charming. Did you enjoy your trip to the plains?

Dread prickled in Sera's cheeks as she imagined him following her all the way to the plains and lurking there in her garden, watching her cry. Watching her yell at Lorenzo. Oh, no. Her hand trembled as she wrote:

Did you kill Lorenzo?

The minutes stretched out, slow and agonizing. When the dart came soaring back to her, she snatched it from the air, feeling the cool brush of his shadows against her skin.

I spared your lover boy. But not before he pissed himself.

She laid her head against the window sash, letting relief wash over her. Lorenzo was alive. Never mind his cowardice, she didn't wish him dead. She grabbed her pen.

Thank you.

She regretted it the second she sent it. The Dagger hardly deserved applause for simply not killing someone. Saints , the bar was low. His reply came again.

So, you do underst and the concept of gratitude. Though you may save it on this occasion. I don't kill for free.

She should have left it at that, but she found herself reaching once more for her pen. Prodding the dark, just to see what it would do.

In that case, moneybags, I've got a new assignment for you. Easy mark. Considerable compensation. Interested?

He took the bait.

Amuse me.

Oh, she would.

It appears I have a stalker. Obsessive, relentless, and wretchedly arrogant. Perfect, punchable teeth. I have it on good authority that he has a dodgy liver, as of recently.

She could have sworn she heard him laugh. A fleeting echo in the night. But no – she must have imagined it. Daggers didn't laugh. They were soulless, serious creatures. When the dart returned, she grabbed it far too eagerly. This time, when the shadow brushed against her hand, she didn't shiver.

You missed my liver, Seraphine. If you come outside, I'll let you trace my scar to prove it.

A violent heat erupted in her cheeks. She couldn't shake the image of him lifting his shirt to her, of her hands trailing across the muscled planes of his torso – stop that . What the hell was wrong with her? She turned from the window, afraid he might see the blush staining her cheeks. Even at a distance, he could so easily unsettle her. She snatched her pen up.

Careful, Dagger. I might burn you again.

The paper dart had barely left her hand before returning again.

Maybe I want to burn, spitfire.

Sera dragged her hands through her hair, trying to ignore the lick of heat in her ribcage, the parts of her that were burning at his words. She hated that, hated him. She snatched the pen, drove the nib so hard it cut through the paper. She ripped out a new page. Back to business. Back to the facts. He was an assassin and despite the curiosity simmering between them, she was still his mark.

What is the price on my head? I'll give you one hundred gold sovereigns to remove it.

Sera didn't have one hundred gold sovereigns. Or anywhere close. But he didn't know that. And she could get the money, if she had to. His reply came all too quickly.

I only negotiate face to face.

Liar. Murderer. Pain in her ass. She looked around her room. Snatched the vase of flowers Bibi had brought her last week. They were all but dead. She waved them in front of the window, then set them on the ledge.

Can I interest you in this charming bouquet? They're dead, like your soul.

Another laugh, echoing through the night. Impossible, surely. His reply hurtled straight through her open window, the shadow slung with such speed and precision, it knocked over the flowers. She caught the vase before it shattered.

Somehow, you're even more annoying in cursive.

Now, it was her turn to laugh. At least she was getting under his skin. A good night's work. She was about to shut the window and be done with it when she spotted the music box on her dresser. The one Bibi had pilfered for her at the Rascalle. The one he had returned to her in front of the statue of Saint Oriel. She had seen the memory of its lullaby shining in his eyes, had sensed it was important to him, though she couldn't guess why. She tore a clean page from her journal, and wrote:

What about a bribe?

She fired the dart into the dark, then stood at the window and opened the box, letting the lullaby trickle into the night. There came no reply. And yet she sensed he was still out there, listening to the lilting notes of ‘The Dancing Swan'. Lost, perhaps, in whatever memories it conjured. After a while, she closed the box, regretting her decision. There was such melancholy in their air now, and she had lost that feeling of triumph. She set the box down on her dresser and turned to shut the curtains.

The paper dart had returned to her windowsill.

Her throat went dry as she opened it up. He had not replied to her with words this time, but with a drawing. A quick, assured sketch, the strokes as soft and sure as the lullaby. But the drawing filled her with horror.

It was of her. Not as she was now, gaping at the piece of paper in her hands, but at that moment not long before, when he had offered to let her trace his scar, the words sending a violent flush of heat through her and scrambling all the thoughts in her head. Somehow he had captured that moment, feasted on it.

The expression on the drawing – on her face – was not fear. Or anger.

It was desire.

And it made Sera want to fling herself out of the window. She sank to the ground and curled into a pathetic groaning ball, waiting for the roar of her embarrassment to pass. But it got louder, crueller.

Pippin woke from his slumber and went to check on her, pawing at her shoulder until she peeked at him through her fingers. ‘I'm fine,' she whispered. ‘Just drowning in a vat of shame.'

She couldn't let the conversation end like this – with his utter, unadulterated victory. So, one more time, she reached for her pen and wrote:

Go to hell, Ransom.

The paper dart returned almost at once, and though there were only three words on it, she could almost taste the sadness laced inside them.

Already there, Seraphine.

She knew then that he was gone. That the conversation was over, the game finished, and somehow, she had won.

And yet, for hours afterwards, she found she couldn't sleep.