Chapter 33 Ransom

Chapter 33 Ransom

Ransom bolted from the Saints' Quarter with his self-control hanging by a single fraying thread. Heat flooded his veins and pounded in his chest, telling him to turn around, to go back and take Seraphine Marchant in that damn pew. To slide his fingers through her hair, crush his lips against hers and finish what they started in the shadows of that church. In the waters of Saint Celiana's fountain. On the day she had driven that blade into his gut and taunted him with those bronze-flecked cerulean eyes.

No , he could not go back. He could not afford to free-fall into lust. It would only damn them both. The full might of the Daggers was coming down on Seraphine Marchant, and if he wasn't careful, the hammer would fall on him too.

Curiosity had made Ransom come to the cathedral, but it was desire that made him weak for her. It was desire that made him say yes. Yes , he would help her. Yes , he would plunder the crypt of Lucille Versini, and wrest that journal from her cold, dead hands. Yes , he would help Sera mine the secrets of Lightfire. Yes , he would help her destroy all those monsters, in the hope that she might destroy the monster that lived inside him too.

And if Dufort caught wind of it…

A violent shudder went through Ransom.

No. Dufort was away for another day and night. Lark had gone with him, leaving Ransom in charge of Hugo's Passage. There was something divine about the timing, as though Saint Oriel herself had plucked the strands of fate to allow him this one chance to help Seraphine.

To help himself, too.

The clangour of church bells soon faded into the distance. A light rain began to fall, the chill in the wind heralding winter. Overhead, a blanket of clouds smothered the moon, a gauzy mist smearing the light from the streetlamps until he felt like he had stumbled into a painting.

Before he knew it, Ransom had reached Old Haven. He was so lost in thought he hadn't noticed the graveyards crowding in on him as he walked long into the night. The world fell quiet, save for the distant howls reminding him of the monsters that now prowled taverns and homes, ripping innocents from their beds. Indiscriminate, sloppy kills. Terror sown by chaos.

And yet, a murder was a murder.

A killer was a killer.

Was he really so different from Sylvie's monsters? Did he deserve to be saved?

The question tormented him. He held his hands up to the streetlamp, studying the shadow-marks along his fingers. He was choosing to help Seraphine save this city, and that made him a man. Not a monster. Didn't it?

Up ahead, the statue of Lucille Versini gazed blankly towards the Aurore Tower. The sculpture once made for the cathedral now stood alone on a deserted street in Old Haven, guarding the entrance to Hugo's Passage instead. Even in death, Lucille could not outrun her brother.

Ransom unstopped a vial. A quick press of his lips against the glass rim gave him just enough Shade to pull the statue down. The entrance to Hugo's Passage groaned open and he ducked underneath the archway of skulls, making his way into the dimness. His feet led him down the north passage, then east. He ducked his head, nodding at Daggers as they stalked past him, preparing for their night's work.

At last, he reached the door to Dufort's bedchamber. He glanced around, then stripped a shadow from the wall and used it to work the lock free. It swallowed the last of his Shade, yielding with a soft click . Dufort might have taken better precautions if he ever thought a Dagger would be foolish enough to steal from him, or if he had anything in his room worth stealing, but the Shade here was stored in the vault at the end of the south passage, along with the rest of Dufort's riches.

A four-poster bed occupied one half of the chamber, while a set of leather armchairs and a grand bookshelf stood along the other, bracketing a fireplace full of ash. Ransom didn't linger. He grabbed the crypt keys from a hook on the wall and pocketed them, before slipping back out into the tunnel.

Shadows flickered on the wall and for a moment he stilled, but it was only his own fear playing tricks on him. Dufort was halfway across Valterre, summoned by the king himself. Ransom hurried on, down one passage and then another, until he came to a spiral of stone steps that wound deeper into the earth. The smell of damp clung to his skin as he descended into the bowels of the catacombs. Down, down, down he went, until the shadows thickened, fighting the oil lamps that hung widely spaced on the walls down here.

There were only two crypts in Hugo's Passage, one for Hugo himself, and the other for Lucille. Ransom went straight to the second, using the skeleton key in the ancient lock. The door yielded with a keening groan but he froze on the threshold, sure he heard the shuffle of footsteps. He spun around, his heartbeat thrumming in his throat.

‘Who's there?' he called out.

His voice just echoed back at him. His mind must be more addled than he thought, the guilt of what he was doing weighing heavy on him. By coming here, he wasn't just helping Seraphine. He was betraying Dufort, stealing from the Daggers who had taken him in.

But he thought then of the monsters and the screams that filled Fantome night after night, and pushed on. Not just for Seraphine, but for the city. For his home.

He stepped inside the crypt. The darkness was cold and grasping. He lit the closest oil lamp, relieved as it sparked to life. The shadows fell away as the door closed behind him. The room was small and musty, hewn with exquisite stonework and hung with tapestries of a faraway mountain village.

In the middle of the crypt sat a small stone coffin with a golden plaque fixed to the lid.

HERE LIES LUCILLE VERSINI,

BELOVED SISTER AND CHERISHED DAUGHTER,

SAINT AND SCHOLAR

Ransom trailed his hand along the coffin, raising a spiral of dust.

Someone sneezed.

Ransom spun around, sparking another oil lamp to life. The darkness rippled and he lunged, catching the end of a cloak before it disappeared. He yanked and it fluttered to the ground, revealing the horrified figure of Seraphine Marchant.

Ransom closed the foot of space between them, and she flattened herself against the wall. Fear sparked in her blue eyes, making that bronze fleck shine.

‘What the fuck are you doing?' he hissed through his teeth.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He could feel her leg trembling between his, her chest fluttering as she searched for her voice. ‘Helping you?' she managed.

His face tightened. ‘Are you trying to get us both killed?'

She shook her head. ‘I was… I just… I was… curious.'

‘You and your damn death wish.' He pushed off the wall, needing to put some space between them before his anger warped into lust. He folded his arms, still glaring at her. ‘A Cloak has never set foot inside these catacombs.'

‘That you know of,' she said, with an awkward chuckle. Slowly, she peeled herself off the wall. ‘But now that we're both here, we might as well work together. That lid looks heavy as hell.'

Ransom banked his anger, if only to keep himself from throttling her. The sooner it was done, the better. ‘Fine. Let's just get this over with.'

She rounded the coffin, working her fingers under the lid. ‘You pull, I'll push.'

As he worked to dislodge the ancient grave of Lucille Versini in order to commit a grievous robbery against his own Order, with the mark he was supposed to have murdered several weeks ago, Ransom dimly realized that he had completely lost his mind. The coffin lid was made of granite, and so heavy it was like moving the earth itself. Eventually, the lid yielded, but no more than six inches. A cloud of dust shot out, and Seraphine sneezed again.

‘ Shh! ' he snapped, eyes darting around.

She pinched her nose, eyes streaming. ‘Sorry. I've never been in a crypt before!'

‘And you think I have?'

‘You practically live in one,' she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘Don't think I didn't notice all those freaky skulls on the way down here.'

‘I suggest you keep your mouth shut if you don't want to become one of them.'

‘Next time I have to sneeze, I'll just implode instead, shall I?'

‘I wish you would.'

‘No. You don't.'

And that was the problem.

They glared at each other over the length of the coffin.

Saints , she was infuriating.

Ransom raked his hair away from his face. ‘Let's just… take a breath.'

‘Fine by me.'

She tipped her head back. Her gaze fell on the tapestry over his shoulder, and he watched that tell-tale curiosity flare in her eyes. ‘That must be Halbracht.'

‘So I gather,' he said, still looking at her.

‘Have you ever been?'

‘To Halbracht? Of course not.'

‘Is that such an odd question?' she said, letting her gaze fall to his. ‘Your beloved leader Hugo grew up there.'

‘I don't give a shit where Hugo Versini grew up.'

She quirked an eyebrow, a smirk dancing along her lips. Irritating. Beautiful. He truly was in hell. ‘Careful what you say in these tombs, Dagger.'

‘Careful what you ask, spitfire.'

‘The time for being careful is long past.' Her eyes fell on the golden plaque. Her shoulders sagged and for a moment, there was such sadness in her gaze, he couldn't stand to look at her.

So he said the first thing he could think of. ‘Halbracht is a notoriously secretive place. You can't just stroll up to the Pinetops and knock on the gates.' She looked up, distracted. ‘It's heavily guarded.'

‘Why?'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe they're hiding something.'

‘Everyone's hiding something,' she murmured.

Those three words raised the hairs on the back of his neck. ‘What does that mean?'

‘It means I want my journal. Let's just get this done,' she said, pushing against the coffin lid. This time, they didn't stop straining against the granite, both of them sweating and panting as the skeleton of Lucille Versini appeared between them inch by inch. She was little more than a collection of old bones, a small skull surrounded by white silk. Her bejewelled necklace remained, and Hugo had buried her in a tiara that still glittered under the lamplight.

But her greatest treasure was that journal. Now yellowed and crisp, it lay on her chest. Even in death, she was clutching it like a teddy bear.

Ransom looked up, wondering why Seraphine hadn't yet snatched it, but she was standing with her back against the wall now, and there were silent tears streaming down her cheeks. He went rigid, trying to work out what he had missed in the last thirty seconds of their excavation. ‘Are you hurt?' he said, looking her up and down. ‘If it was too heavy, you should have—'

‘It's not that.' She shook her head, trying to swallow the crack in her voice. ‘It's just… she's real.' She scrubbed her cheeks, looking everywhere but at him. She was embarrassed, he realized. ‘She's a skeleton.'

‘Were you expecting her to sit up and shake your hand?' he said, striving for lightness, but it only worsened the discomfort on her face. ‘Lucille has been dead for hundreds of years. Wherever her soul is, it's in a better place than this.'

‘She was always a story to me. An untouchable… A legend.' Her voice was small, frightened. ‘I just wasn't expecting this… feeling .'

He cocked his head, searching her face for the foolish bravado that had propelled her into the heart of Hugo's Passage to begin with, but there was no sign of it. It belatedly occurred to him that while Seraphine Marchant might have grown up in the house of a smuggler and had handled her fair share of Shade, she was not used to dead bodies.

Perhaps a part of her looked down at Lucille and saw herself. Someone young and clever and beautiful, with the world at her feet. Lightfire at her fingertips. Both of them hunted by the Head of the Order of Daggers. One dead, and one still just clinging to life. He saw that fear – knew it as intimately as his own. And he wanted to take it from her. To shoulder it, until she could breathe again.

‘It wasn't right, what Hugo did to her. He was a terrible man.'

She looked up at him, eyes wide. ‘Do you really believe that?'

He nodded without even thinking about it. ‘I've always believed that.'

She frowned. ‘That doesn't make sense. You don't make any sense.'

Ransom smiled, ruefully. ‘Do you want the journal or not?'

‘Yes.' But she hesitated.

‘ This is the part you can't do?' he said, leaning across the coffin. ‘Do you want me to—?'

‘No.' She rolled her shoulders. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, Dagger.' He watched her prise the journal free, her skin taking on a definite greenish hue as she tried desperately not to touch the skeleton.

‘Stop smirking at me,' she said, without looking up.

‘I'm admiring your technique.'

She bit back her smile. When the journal came free, she leaped backwards, clutching it to her chest, just as Lucille had done.

‘I did it,' she said, as if she couldn't quite believe it. She yanked up her sweater, tucking the journal into the waistband of her trousers, and Ransom stilled at the sight of her bare midriff. A familiar heat roared in his blood.

You lust-addled Neanderthal. You're standing in a fucking tomb.

‘We should move the lid back into place,' she said, shoving it towards him. But the angle was off and now the lid had been loosened, it wobbled as she pushed.

‘Careful!' He lunged to steady it, but skidded on her discarded cloak. He careened into the coffin, and the entire lid tilted. They tried to force it back into alignment but the stone was too heavy. It listed to the side, sliding to the ground with an earth-trembling thud.

The entire passageway shook, the lamps on the wall flickering as dust streamed down from the ceiling. Somewhere overhead, a chorus of shouts rang out. It was followed by the thrum of footsteps.

Seraphine swiped her cloak off the floor. ‘Now what?'

He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her towards the door. ‘Now, we run!'