To his right, the tunnel only extended a few feet before coming to an abrupt end, like an unfinished thought. To his left, it disappeared in a distant haze of paraffin smoke. Lenoir judged that it ran roughly parallel to the tunnel from which he had come, probably leading back to the large room with its many arched passageways. He took off at a run, feeling more confident now that he could see his surroundings.
He had guessed correctly: the tunnel ended at the room where Lenoir had first come upon the kidnappers. It was empty now, save for the corpse of the man Vincent had slain. Lenoir paused. He could continue to search these corridors aimlessly, but it would take time, and it would be dangerous. Besides, he doubted that whoever had Zach would stay here, not with Vincent prowling around in the dark. It would make more sense to flee the cathedral altogether. So decided, he made his way back down the corridor lined with skulls. The dead watched him pass, their secrets unspoken, at least to him.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs leading to the vestry, he hesitated, wondering if he should grab a torch. The cathedral was a great cavern of black, with too many places to hide. He had no wish to blunder blindly about. Yet the torch would mark his position like a beacon; he would be an easy target, especially for a pistol or bow.
He heard a faint noise, something he would have missed entirely had he still been moving. It sounded like the scuffle of a shoe, and it was coming from somewhere above.
Lenoir took the stairs as quickly as he dared. The light faded as he ascended, until it was all but gone. He stopped at the top of the stairs, listening. A rustle sounded from above, so subtle that he almost thought he had imagined it.
The tower.
Lenoir crouched at the bottom of the spiral stairs. He breathed deeply, trying to keep his panting quiet, and the drafts of air brought a familiar scent to his nose. It tickled his memory; for a moment he could not place it.
Lilac? No—jasmine.
Then he remembered: Zera always smelled faintly of jasmine. Cocking the hammer of his pistol, he started up the stairs.
Suddenly, the walls reverberated with a sound that made Lenoir’s heart lurch. It poured down the narrow stairwell like a deluge of cold water, drenching him in horror. The screams were wild and inarticulate, the terror of a mind driven past reason. Lenoir knew that voice, knew it as laughter and questions and tall tales. It was thin and high-pitched, the voice of a child.
Lenoir took the stairs two at a time.
T
he screams continued, horribly amplified by the tight stairwell, ringing in Lenoir’s ears until he thought he would go mad. He scrabbled his way up the stairs, using both hands now, clawing at the stone walls with fingers that were raw and bleeding. It was the only way to keep his balance, for the steps were shallow and steep, the stone worn smooth with time. He was grateful for the dark, for it spared him from vertigo. One misstep would send him tumbling down, and he would almost certainly break his neck.
The screaming stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Lenoir would not have thought anything could be worse than that sound, but the silence was more ominous still. He tried to quicken his pace, but his legs burned, and his breath came in wheezing gulps. Still the stairs coiled relentlessly above him, reaching into folds of blackness. He had never paid much attention to the tower from the outside, but he recalled that it was visible for several miles around. He had no idea how far he had climbed, or how many stairs remained.
It does not matter
.
You must continue.
From above, Lenoir heard what he thought sounded like glass breaking. He ignored it and pressed on, hoping it was a sign that Zach was still struggling. Gradually, the smell of paraffin filled his nose, growing stronger as he ascended. He slowed warily. A moment later, his step sounded with a wet
splat
. Orange light flared suddenly from above. Lenoir leapt back just as the stairs burst into flames, a carpet of fire rushing down the steps with a roar. His boot took light. It burned hungrily, but he managed to tamp the flames down enough to kick it off.
He swore viciously, shielding his eyes from the stinging black smoke. He had managed to avoid being roasted, but it would be a long time before the paraffin burned itself out. The flames were not high, but they were hot, and he dared not risk getting any of the paraffin on himself, especially now that he only had one boot. This was not going to be easy.
He fished the spent flintlock out of his coat pocket and holstered it along with its mate. Pressing himself flat against the outer wall, he craned his neck, trying to see as far up as he could. It did not look as though the fire covered too many steps. He would have to risk it. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he flung his coat down over the flames. He managed to stretch it over three steps, but it was not enough; the fire continued to burn above him. There was nothing for it; Lenoir gritted his teeth and ran through the flames.
It took only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. The sole of Lenoir’s left foot burned instantly in the hot oil, and he could not suppress a scream as he brought his weight down on it. He crossed over the last of the paraffin-soaked steps and peeled off his flaming sock, lifting a thick layer of skin along with it. He bit his lip to prevent another scream and permitted himself a few seconds perched on the stairs, his head swimming with the pain. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt, pausing to steel himself before wrapping his foot in the fabric. He would not be able to put his full weight on it, but he was at least ambulatory.
You can slow me down, Zera, but you cannot stop me. I am coming for the boy.
Perhaps it was the pain, but he felt lighter somehow, as though something more than skin had burned away. He had walked through fire and emerged—not purged, not purified, but
whole
, and his blood sang with the triumph of it. Gingerly, he got to his feet. By the light of the flames, he could see that the stairwell ended not far above. He pushed himself up the remaining stairs.
Night swept through the crack of the open door. Lenoir smelled rain. He paused at the threshold, pistol readied. He could hear nothing.
“It’s over, Zera,” he called. She knew he was there, anyway.
“You’re right, Nicolas,” her voice drifted through the dark. “And yet you continue to pursue me, when you must realize that it will get you killed. What do you care for this boy, anyway?”
“I don’t really know,” Lenoir answered, peering through the crack in the door. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, but there was not enough light to see by. Zera’s voice seemed to come from straight ahead, possibly from behind the bell cote, but he could not be sure. He needed to keep her talking.
“Of all the boys in the Five Villages,” she said, “my fool associates had to pick up your pet. But even so—what is he to you, really? Little more than a trained monkey. And yet here you are, about to die for him. It is not like you, Nicolas. You are usually far more pragmatic.”
“Zach,” Lenoir called, “are you all right?”
“He can’t hear you,” Zera returned coolly. “He is well past the reach of this world.”
Zach’s screams seemed to echo anew in Lenoir’s brain. He shoved his way through the door. It was a reckless move, and he paid the price. Someone tackled him to the floor, driving the air from his lungs and pinning him beneath an enormous weight. Lenoir’s gun went off as it hit the floor. His attacker grabbed his wrist and twisted, wrenching the flintlock free and knocking it aside. Lenoir found himself staring up into the bloodshot gaze of the largest Adal he had ever seen. The man’s hands closed around his throat.
“Hurry, Los,” Zera called. “It’s almost daybreak.”
Lenoir was amazed at how cold the woman was. Earlier, in the salon, she had at least seemed regretful that they had been pitted against each other. Now, within sight of her goal, she cared no more for him than if he were a perfect stranger.
How little we can truly know another person,
he thought. Even someone like him, who made it his business to read people, had been completely taken in.
Focus, you fool!
His mind had already begun to wander as he was deprived of air; he struggled to stay alert. He pictured the boy: that was his anchor. He fumbled for the gun holstered at his waist. It was empty, but he doubted he would be able to get a shot off anyway. He had something else in mind.
Los did not realize what Lenoir was doing until it was too late. The Adal released Lenoir’s throat to grab at his hand, allowing him to gulp down a precious lungful of air before slamming the butt of his pistol into the side of Los’s head. The Adal reeled, and Lenoir rolled out from under him, coughing and gasping. He gazed frantically about for the other pistol. Los was reaching for it too. Lenoir grabbed the other man by the cuff of his trousers, and they struggled. The Adal was stronger by far, but Lenoir still had his empty flintlock. He managed to get another good blow in to the side of Los’s face before twisting away, his fingers grazing the hilt of his other gun.
He was just about to grab it when Zera kicked the pistol out of his reach. Lenoir snarled in frustration and grabbed her ankle instead, bringing her down. Los landed a solid punch against Lenoir’s temple, and his vision flared. Another like that and he would be out cold. In desperation, he brought his knee up under the Adal’s groin and found his mark.
Throwing Los off him, Lenoir scrambled on all fours to reach his loaded pistol. He got there just in time, spinning and firing just as Los leapt at him. The ball caught the Adal in the neck; Los was dead before he fell, collapsing on top of Lenoir in an inert heap. Lenoir lay still for a moment, catching his breath. As the dead man’s blood spread across his chest, so too did the realization of what he had done. Los was the witchdoctor. Whatever he had done to Zach, he was in no position to undo it now. For all Lenoir knew, Los was the only man in the world who knew whether Zach’s condition could be reversed.
But Lenoir could not dwell on that now, for there was a more pressing matter to attend to. He rolled the dead man off him and stood awkwardly, his injured foot making him unsteady. He did not see Zera right away; she must be somewhere on the opposite side of the bell cote.
He rounded the wooden frame and stopped dead, the barrel of his pistol lowering a fraction. “You would not dare,” he whispered in horror.
Zera’s eyes sparkled madly. “Wouldn’t I?”
Zach lay unconscious on the parapet, his hair ruffling serenely in the wind. He was inches from the edge. Zera had the collar of his shirt twisted in her fist; the barest move of her arm would shove him over the side. The fall was two hundred feet at least.
Lenoir leveled his pistol. “Let him go.”
“I don’t think you really want me to do that,” she returned smoothly, her voice a dark mockery of the cajoling tone she used at the salon.
“You know what I mean. Get away from him, or I will shoot.”
Zera only smiled. “You seem to be forgetting, my dear Nicolas, that you are empty.”
He
had
forgotten, or he might have been able to bluff his way through. But the dismay showed on his face, and her smile only widened.
“Don’t worry, Nicolas. I have a solution.” She paused to let that sink in. Behind her, dawn slashed the belly of the sky, a bloody red pooling on the floor of the horizon. It was a dawn Lenoir had not really expected to see, yet he felt no joy in looking upon it. Indeed, he resented its intrusion, for it stripped him of his only ally. Vincent could not come to him now. He was on his own.
“What is your solution?” he growled.
“You want the boy returned to you unharmed, yes? I am willing to do that, provided that you allow me safe passage out of Kennian. You will turn around and go back down those stairs. You will leave the cathedral and take the west road back to the center of town. I will watch your progress from here. When I judge you are far enough away, I will leave the boy here in the tower and disappear. You will never see me again. Is that simple enough?”
Lenoir considered. His gut burned in protest at the idea of letting Zera go. She should be made to pay for what she had done. Yet his mind told him it was the only way. He had no doubt Zera would make good on her threat. He could see it in her eyes, that look of an animal cornered, of a creature that will do anything to survive.
“If I let you go, how do I know you will not simply kill the boy anyway?”
“Why would I do that? I’m not a monster, Nicolas, in spite of what you may think. I am prepared to make sacrifices for what I want, but I take no pleasure it. I have nothing against the boy.”
“And what of his condition? How can I be sure he will recover?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. I’m no witchdoctor. You’ll have to figure that out on your own, whether you let me go or not.”
Lenoir hesitated a few moments longer, but deep down, he knew he had already made his choice. She was right and they both knew it. Besides, Vincent would track her down eventually. Like him, Zera was marked for death.
“Very well,” he said, “I agree to your terms. I will leave you here with the boy and head in the direction of the station. You can watch me for as many blocks as it pleases you. I will return in three-quarters of an hour, by which time I expect you to be gone, and the boy to be alone in the tower, unharmed.”
“That is acceptable,” Zera said.
“No,” said another voice, “it is not.”
Zera hissed in anger and surprise as Vincent stepped around the bell cote. Startled, Lenoir looked immediately to the horizon. Dawn had already cast a thin blanket of light over the city. The only shadow remaining at the top of the tower was formed by the lee of the bell cote. Vincent’s left side was exposed. Looking back at him, Lenoir saw that his flesh had begun to turn an angry red; tiny tendrils of smoke rose from the surface of his skin. If the spirit felt any pain, however, he gave no sign. He stared at Zera, his absinthe eyes seeming to pin her in place like a stunned rabbit. “She cannot go free,” he said.
Fear clutched Lenoir’s heart in a cold fist as he realized what Vincent intended. “We must do as she asks,” he said, unconsciously raising his hand in a warding gesture. “The boy is in danger.”
“The boy is not my concern. This woman has sinned against the dead. She must be punished.”
“Her punishment can wait!” Lenoir’s voice was shrill with desperation.
“I have only moments left.” Emphasizing his words, the skin on his left hand opened and began to burn away. “By the time night returns, she will be gone.”
“She cannot escape you!”
Vincent turned his gleaming gaze on Lenoir. “You did.”
Lenoir could hear Zera’s terrified breathing from where he stood, a near-hysterical sound that rose in pitch with every successive breath. Any second now, she would bolt. Vincent would stop her. But by then it would be too late. She would push Zach before she ran, hoping the move would buy her a few seconds’ distraction. Lenoir saw it all as clearly as if he were watching a play he had seen before.
“Please,” he said, his voice scarcely audible even to his own ears. “Just let me save the boy.”
For the barest of seconds, the stained glass of Vincent’s eyes cracked. Lenoir saw the humanity behind, a frail and tortured thing that peered out like a prisoner longing to be free. “My will is not my own,” the spirit whispered, and the voice seemed to come from somewhere behind those eyes, instead of the cold, hollow depths of his chest.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the crack in Vincent’s gaze was gone, the smooth, imperturbable surface restored. He turned away, stepping fully into the sunlight.
His flesh withered and peeled back in coils of smoke. Raw muscle appeared, only to blacken and char, revealing the white bone beneath. Lenoir’s stomach heaved, but he could not bring himself to look away. Like Zera, he was pinned to the spot.
Zera swooned as though she might faint, but she retained enough presence of mind to jerk her arm, threatening Zach. Lenoir thought he saw Vincent’s step lurch, his stride momentarily broken, but he continued forward. Lenoir was helpless to stop him, and too far away to prevent Zera from doing what he knew she would. Still, he moved, his limbs feeling heavy and foreign as the world itself seemed to slow.
With a hateful shriek, Zera pushed Zach from the parapet. It happened so fast that all Lenoir saw was a flutter of clothing disappearing over the edge. He threw himself at Zera, roaring in fury as he drove her to the floor. He did not care if he was in Vincent’s way. He did not care if the spirit killed them both. He drove his fist into Zera’s face, again and again.