“Wait.” She held up a hand, the blade still on her lap. It was a somewhat unsettling image, innocent Hazel with the fierce dagger. “You’re telling me the hallow creates a connection with a human, and I’m not sure what you mean with this word, anyway, with a human but not with a knight?”
“No. The hallow doesn’t ignite for a knight. It chooses a bearer because it needs a proper, whole human soul, in this case you.” He opened his hands, wishing he could explain better something that even he didn’t fully understand. “As I said, I don’t know how the hallows work, and the canopy vase is the first hallow I’ve seen, but the hallow carries a piece of a knight’s soul, so it can’t activate for a knight.”
“So there are other bearers out there, one for each hallow?”
“Yes.” But I found you.
Silence dropped like a theatre’s curtain. She angled her head. “Tyon, this isn’t just a story, is it? Are you telling me you’re one of those knights? An almost eight-hundred-year-old man?”
Cold sweat soaked the collar of his shirt. “I was born in Avignon in November 1068, from Jacques Sancerre and Claire Deveraux. I was eight and twenty when the sin-breathers attacked our temple in Nicaea and slaughtered us. Five years ago after Aleximanus’s betrayal and the battle with the sin-breathers, I woke up on an island in the Mediterranean Sea without any knowledge of where my brothers were.”
A fine eyebrow arched. “I see.”
Damn. She didn’t believe him.
“I guess that after eight hundred years, your French accent can’t be detected anymore?” That brow spiked farther up.
Was she making fun of him? “The French I used to speak back then is very different from modern French.” And why were they talking about languages?
“Where’s the traitor, Aleximanus, now?”
Ah, she wasn’t going to like this. He coughed in his closed fist. “The man you know as Alexander Harcourt is the main sin-breather. His real name is Aleximanus son of Baldwin of Vermandois.”
She flinched. “Mr Harcourt is another eight-hundred-year-old crusader?” Her tone was flat, but her gaze shone with disbelief.
“Aleximanus betrayed us five years ago in Athens while we were tracking the Hierophant.” He pressed a hand on his side where Aleximanus’s blade had sunk in his flesh. “We surrounded the Hierophant’s lair, a fortress perched on a cliff in Athens. But it was a trap. The Hierophant knew we were coming. Sin-breathers ambushed us. We were outnumbered, and then Aleximanus broke the pact, fighting with the enemy. Our powers diminished, the new sin-eaters killed, and the other four knights and I were cursed.” He peeped at her to gauge her reaction. Judging by her lips squeezed together and the stiffness in her back, she was having trouble digesting all the information.
“And what did you mean when you said the hallow was contaminated?”
“It was touched by evil. I wager a sin-breather killed Rachel, and by placing her hand in the vase, he or she polluted it. I can’t use it unless I identify the killer and use an item that belongs to them.”
“Goodness.” She rubbed her forehead, shoulders slumping.
A little flutter of hope licked Tyon’s chest. “Do you believe me?”
The blade sparkled through her fingers. “I believe you believe this story to be true.”
It was a punch in the stomach. “But you don’t think it’s true.”
“What I think doesn’t matter.” She waved a hand. “What matters is that there are people who think this story is real and kill for the hallow.”
Not the complete trust he wanted, but it was a start. “Are you going to help me?”
Hazel rose and handed him the dagger. “I don’t know. I need time to think about this.”
He took the dagger, the hilt warm from her touch. “I don’t have much time. The beacon will stop working in a few days.”
Her gaze shifted towards the ceiling. He could follow the pattern of her thoughts. She must believe everything he’d said was nonsense.
“You were right. I’m tired.” She sank onto the bed. “I’ll give you an answer in the morning.”
Raking a hand through his hair, he stood up. “I’ll bring you some clothes.” He paused on the threshold, a hand on the doorframe. “Whatever you choose, you can stay here as long as you wish, and I’ll protect you with my life.”
She gave a nod. “That I believe.”
~ * ~
THE SCENT OF the lavender soap Hazel had used after the bath lingered on her skin and wet hair. She padded to the bed, enveloped in one of Tyon’s shirts and a dressing gown large enough for two people of her size. The plush fabric felt soft and warm on her skin. It wasn’t silk or satin, but something thicker yet supple, just like Tyon.
She tied the sash, rolled up the sleeves, and lay on the bed. Hot tears threatened to spill, but she bit them down. She had no job, her house had been ransacked by someone who considered her a whore, and Tyon had thrown her into a crazy world of curses, immortal knights, and sin-eaters. It was enough to make a woman think about leaving London and never coming back.
A clock chimed somewhere in the house. The solemn ding-dong grated along her skin. The noise of horses’ hooves hitting the cobbles resounded from the street then footsteps thudded in the corridor.
She propped up on her elbows, heart jumping to her throat. If Tyon tried anything, if he entered her room, she’d bite, scratch, and punch him until her last ounce of energy left her body. But the footfalls drew away from her bedroom, and the bitter sting of guilt pinched her chest. Tyon wouldn’t hurt her. He might be a deluded man who believed in sorcery and immortality, but he was a good-hearted, deluded man.
The front door opened and closed with a soft thud.
She rushed to the window. Clad in a dark cloak, Tyon strode along the dimly lit street. Soft rain turned the black cobbles into an inky river. The light of the gas lamps cast his elongated shadow over the walls. He paused and turned, head tilted up towards her direction. She bolted away from the window and pressed her back against the wall, not wanting to be caught spying on him.
When his footsteps faded, she sagged, her pulse spiking. She was alone in this strange house that belonged to a stranger who hadn’t harmed her so far. Curiosity slithered up her back like a spider.
Twisting her long hair into a braid, she tiptoed out of the room and towards Tyon’s bedroom, not sure about what she was doing or what she wished to discover. She paused in front of his door, a hand on the knob. Cold seeped through her bare feet touching the floor, but the flush of anticipation and excitement warmed her. A new pang of guilt wormed its way through her at the thought of snooping around in his room like a thief. But dammit, she needed to know more about him. Anything. What if he was under medication? What if he was really deranged like her father?
With trembling fingers, she turned the knob.
The flame of a single gas lamp flickered on the nightstand, shading light on the tidy bed, polished floor, and gleaming desk. If he’d left the gas lamp on, he probably was planning to be back soon.
Books took up a wall, almost crawling over each other for lack of space. In the wardrobe, the jackets, suits, and shirts were grouped by colour shade. Not that there were many clothes, barely enough for a clean change.
A smile tugged at her lips. How silly of her. What did she expect? Boiling cauldrons and brooms? Here she was, prowling around Tyon’s house when he’d been nothing but kind to her. Perhaps he was as mad as hatters with all his ideas about curses and pieces of souls wandering the earth, but he’d never hurt her.
Hazel chewed her fingernail and was about to return to her room when the flame flickered and lit something underneath the wardrobe. A metallic glint flashed from the dark depth of the narrow space between the floor and the closet’s bottom, and she trotted towards it, lifting the hem of her dressing gown. Crouching, she seized a long, buckskin bundle and pulled it out. The leather shell badly wrapped a sword, showing a few inches of the shiny blade. She shoved the cover aside and let out
a gasp.
It wasn’t just a sword, but a medieval sword. The Sancerre’s symbol—a phoenix with its wings spread—was carved in the golden pommel, and the crossguard that protected the swordsman’s hand had Latin words engraved in it. She’d need to examine it properly, but judging by the way the brass had been worked, and the narrow width of the filler, the sword could be hundreds of years old.
The sword’s age didn’t prove anything though. Anyone could have a medieval sword at home.
Yet the blade didn’t show any mark of time, no rust, no blotches, and the edge seemed sharp. If it was centuries old, then Tyon had taken extremely good care of it. She picked up the gas lamp and brought it closer to the hilt to read the inscription.
“Ex tenebris, ad lucem. Ex umbrae, ad solem,” she muttered.
From the darkness to the light. From the shadows to the sun.
It had to be the Sancerre family’s motto or a—
“Have you found what you were seeking?” a soft male voice asked behind her.
She shot to her feet and spun, her chest heaving. The sword slipped from her grip and clunked on the floor. The gas lamp dropped from her hand, and she tried to snatch it before it smashed against the floor and set the house on fire. Except that she gripped only air. The gas lamp remained suspended a few inches above the floor, the flame shining sideways. As if pulled by invisible strings, the lamp floated back to the safety of the nightstand.
Not possible. The blood flowed down from her head. What had she said about sorcery? It had to be a trick. It wasn’t possible. She had not just seen the gas lamp floating across the room.
“Hazel,” the man whispered again.
Goosebumps rampaged her skin. Thanks to the flying lamp, she’d almost forgotten about the man. The voice didn’t belong to Tyon. Inch by inch, she pivoted towards the voice’s source.
It was a dream. A very vivid, very convincing dream. A man covered in a crimson cowl stood next to the window. The hood shed a shadow over his face, hiding his features. The long, wide sleeves covered his hands. How had he entered the room without her hearing him?
She clutched her hands over her frantic heart. “W-who are you?”
His bare toes peeked from underneath his robe as he walked towards her in a flawless gait. His footfalls didn’t make any sound, and his silhouette didn’t cast any shadow. The word ‘sorcery’ shouted in her head and caused it to throb.
Hazel shrank away until her back hit the wall. If she screamed, she doubted anyone would help her.
“I have many names.” A deep note filled his voice as if it was made by many echoes. “But the knights call me Monk.”
A drop of sweat trickled down her chin. He couldn’t be that Monk. This man was mad. Bedlam must’ve been missing one of its patients.
“It can’t be,” she stammered. “T-the gas lamp. It floated.”
“I couldn’t let it fall and start a fire, could I?”
“Of course not.” She scrubbed her forehead. What the hell was she doing? Reasoning with an apparition, dream, whatever it was? She shouldn’t talk to him.
“My energy isn’t what it used to be. My form is barely solid. Only the knights’ love for me gives me some strength, so I can’t stay long.”
“By all means then, don’t let me keep you.”
“I know who you are.” He glided closer, head tilted to the side.
She winced when he took her hand and held it between his. His smooth skin was warmer than hers, almost feverish, but her beating heart slowed, her body stopped shivering, and a sense of calm suffused her.
“You’re one of the bearers.” He turned her hand palm up.
“I, I don’t want to be a bearer. This story has gone far enough for me.” She bit her bottom lip, wondering why she was encouraging this madness. He might become angry and harm her with his bloody sorcery. She wanted to yank her hand from his grip, but her body had turned heavy, and her limbs didn’t obey her.
“Unfortunately, you’ve already made your choice. Only, you haven’t realised it yet.” With a fingertip, he traced a symbol on her palm. It was a light touch that left behind a glowing blue trail on her skin. He drew the phoenix’s head on her hand. The phoenix’s beak tipped upwards and its feathers were on end. The light from the sketch trembled when he finished. Gently, he closed her fingers over the gleaming symbol and held her hand gently as if handling something precious. “A secret only the moonlight can reveal.”
“What?” Her palm burned, not in a painful way, but every inch of skin he’d touched simmered with energy.
“You’re still in danger of being turned. I can’t protect you against the entire evil army of the Hierophant, but the protection will work against one sin-breather. I’m not strong enough to provide a full shield from evil.” He squeezed her hand. “May my gift help you when all the paths are closed.”
“I don’t understand.”
He put a finger on her forehead. “Tyon needs you.”
“But—”
Darkness descended on her, and she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore.
Chapter 10
TYON LEANED AGAINST the wall of Harrisons’s office after he finished telling him what happened to Hazel’s apartment. Anger still rippled through him when he recounted how the intruder had ripped her furniture and scribbled on the wall.
Harrisons slouched back in his chair behind the desk, the tips of his fingers touching on the tabletop. “I’ll have an officer ask questions to Miss Hazel’s neighbours. Perhaps one of them saw something, and the perpetrator must’ve entered from the main door of the building. There’s a chance someone let them in. Care to explain why this is so important to you?”
He shrugged. “Miss Ravenwood is under my protection.”
The detective nodded and didn’t ask any further question—one of the reasons Tyon liked the man.
“What can you tell me about Rachel?” Tyon asked.
“No news. We’re collecting information as you probably know.” Harrisons balanced his chair on two legs and regarded him from underneath hooded eyes. “I’m aware that you have a net of spies, even in this department.”
Tyon hid his grin behind a hand, pretending to scrub his stubble.
“I’ll send one of the lads to you as soon as we discover something worthy of your attention.”
Tyon gave a nod. “Thank you.”
The good detective shook his head. “No need to thank me, mate. I don’t understand half of the things that happen when you’re around, and honestly, I don’t want to know, but you saved my boy. That’s all I need to know.”
A warm flutter filled Tyon’s chest. Harrisons was likely the closest thing to a friend he had, and he hadn’t expected anything when he’d saved that lad from drowning in the Thames.
“I need your help with an interrogation.” Harrisons stood up, massaging his eyes. “Odd case. Your thing. You’ll love it.”
“I’m all ears.” Tyon chuckled.
“We arrested this chap this morning. He was trying to kidnap a young woman in a secluded street, but she managed to escape with a few injuries though. We’ve wrung him for answers for hours, but the dead would tell more tales.” He shuffled the tall stacks of documents competing for space on the desk. “Can you do one of your little tricks and convince him to talk before his lawyer manages to free him? I want to know why he abducted the woman.”
“Where is he?” Tyon pushed off the wall.
“I’ll take him to the interrogation room.”
The interrogation room’s blaring lights glared at Tyon when he stepped inside. The grey walls spoke of cups of tea being splashed around and some good beatings judging by the dry blood caking a few spots. A rough wooden table carrying more scars than his back took up half of the space, and a few mismatched chairs completed the furniture.
Harrisons dragged inside a man in a fine tailored suit. The tousled black hair and sweat stains on the shirt betrayed his otherwise upper class looks. He shot a glower at Tyon when Harrisons
shoved him into a chair.
“This is Mr Davis,” the detective said, clapping Davis’s shoulder. “Owns a department store on Queen Street. All yours.”
“Why don’t you let me go?” Davis snarled as he put his manacled hands on the table.
“Answer the questions, and you’ll be out in a jiffy.” Harrisons hooked his thumbs to the side pockets of his waistcoat.
Tyon focused on Davis’s head. Smoky dark wisps burst towards the ceiling and lashed out at him like snakes. Their gnarled tips clawed his arms and curled around his wrists. Not that they could harm him, but not often did sins became so aggressive. He wouldn’t be able to clean Davis’s soul completely. Three knights would be required for that.
He opened his mouth and inhaled deeply, ignoring the stench of rotting flesh coming from the evil aura.
“Are you going to say something?” Davis tapped his fingers on the table, and the manacles clunked. “Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?”
“Not yet,” he replied as Davis’s sins singed his tongue and the back of his throat. They crawled across the room, writhing and fighting against his power, as if they didn’t want to be eaten. Davis obviously didn’t care about his rotting soul and liked being evil too much to let it go. Some men were stupid like that.
Ex tenebris, ad lucem. Ex umbrae, ad solem.
While a few white tendrils shoved their way through his aura, Davis’s mouth relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders diminished. The menacing light glinting in his eyes dulled. Not enough to save the man’ soul, but enough to urge him to tell the truth.
Tyon swallowed the bitter bile gurgling up his throat and released the sins into the ground, clenching his jaw when energy shuddered through his body. “You abducted a young woman this morning.”
“I did.” A muscle in Davis’s jaw ticked.
Harrisons shifted his position and cast a glance at Tyon, maybe surprised by Davis’s answer.
The Pact of the White Blade Knights Page 10
