Chapter 49 Ransom

Chapter 49 Ransom

Ransom climbed on to the rooftops to watch Seraphine go. He couldn't help it. Couldn't help counting every step she took away from him, as if they were his own heartbeats running out.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control to push her away, to kiss only her palm and not the gentle curve of her cheek, the graceful column of her neck, that soft, smart mouth. For a moment, he had thought about sweeping her into his arms and damning it all. Damning them both.

He could not risk it. He could not risk her.

So, he had let her go, surrendering his first and final chance of freedom. He couldn't bring himself to regret it, knowing where the alternative would lead them. An Order run by a vengeful Nadia, or worse, a cold-blooded, calculating Lisette. The king's ear turned to her every whim, and Seraphine Marchant still running. Always running.

When she passed beyond his sight, under the towering stone arch that marked the exit from the city, out into the untamed reaches beyond, Ransom knew she was gone for good. No longer his spitfire, but a ghost like Mama and Anouk.

As the sun rose above the rooftops, crowning the city in syrupy golden light, he turned for the Hollows. The shadows came with him, and when they lagged, he downed another vial of Shade, welcoming the shiver that scoured away his grief. For Lark. For Seraphine. For the dream they had shared. The one he had sheared in half.

House Armand was silent as a tomb, save for the old woman sitting in the garden. Fontaine was perched on a windowsill, idly smoking a pipe, as though she was expecting him. When he came, dragging the darkness with him, and stood looking at her through the gate, she didn't even blink.

‘You don't usually make such a spectacle of your arrival,' she remarked, by way of greeting. ‘No paper darts today?'

‘Dufort is dead.'

No inkling of surprise graced her wrinkled face. ‘By whose hand?'

‘Sylvie Marchant's.'

It was the truest answer. The monsters were her creation after all.

Fontaine gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘So, the lion has been slain at last. And here comes his cub, seeking comfort.' She blew a ring of smoke at him. ‘The girl is long gone.'

Ransom's voice was as cold as the Shade in his bones. ‘The girl is no longer welcome in my city.'

‘So, you have finally surrendered your fascination with her.' A slow-curling smirk shifted the crevices in her face. ‘I suppose fire is only mesmerizing until it burns you.'

He ignored the taunt, despite the unnerving awareness of those pale, milky eyes. ‘I have a message for Cordelia Mercure.'

Fontaine glared at him through another ring of smoke. ‘Then speak it, Bastian.'

He frowned. How the hell did she know his name? What else did she know about him?

‘The monsters of Fantome are dead. The truce between our Orders is over. Tell your Cloaks to stay out of my way. If I catch one sniffing around Old Haven or sticking their nose in Dagger business, I'll kill them on sight.'

Her gaze flitted to the ring on his left hand. ‘So, you have bartered your soul for the promise of power.'

His anger flared. Shade licked at his ribcage, dulling its heat. ‘It wasn't worth much to begin with.'

A dry wheeze of laughter. ‘And what of your bleeding heart?'

He didn't answer. His heart was lost to him, one piece of it buried with Lark in Old Haven, the other three scattered far beyond Fantome.

He turned from the gate.

‘You know, she never was a true Cloak,' Fontaine called after him. ‘Seraphine Marchant is something else entirely.'

He hated how her name went through him like sunlight. Too slowly, Shade licked it away. ‘Whatever she was, it doesn't matter any more.'

‘On the contrary, Bastian. I think it matters now, more than ever.' He shook off her words and walked on, even as they floated after him. ‘The strands of destiny are not yet done with you.'

When he glanced over his shoulder, the old crone was gone, his shadows cresting as though to wash her warning away.

But it lingered, long after that.