The stairwell was like a heat funnel, and I had no idea if I’d even be able to make it to the top. I had no idea if the top of the stairwell was even intact. But I had no choice.
Ripping my sleeve from my shirt, I tied it around my mouth, knowing the smoke was only going to get worse as I went up.
Barreling up the stairs, I moved at a pace which my injured knee protested after the first fifty steps, burned after the next fifty, and then screamed in blinding pain as I went higher. All the while, the heat felt like a wall I was moving through—as thick and solid as if it were steel.
I couldn’t stop—I couldn’t hold on to anything. The walls, the railing, everything would burn the flesh right from my bones. The minutes felt like hours, punctuated with the almost precise crashes and thuds of destruction. But I had no time to wonder if it was just the rolling waves of heat that made me feel like the floor was tilting and shifting underneath me, or if the stairwell was coming closer and closer to collapsing with each moment.
I’d lost count of the steps by the time I reached the flames that sealed off the path in front of me.
I halted and scanned the wall of fire. It looked as though the flames had broken through from the sides, rather than made their way down from the top of the stairs.
I didn’t know for certain.
But then I heard it.
In the lull between crash and splinter, between sirens and shouts,
I heard the chimes of her jewelry.
“Esme!” I roared her name as I bent my arm in front of my face and barreled through the red-orange burning barricade.
I don’t know how many steps I took through the fire though I felt the flames catch on to my clothes. The heat on my face was much worse though—my scars reacting violently to the real possibility of being burned again.
I would bear a thousand more burns and a more disfigured face to save her.
I would risk it all to give her hope.
Just like those who’d suffered and slaved to build Notre Dame.
Just like my father had done for the Valois.
Just like my mother had done for me.
Because that was what love was.
Love was knowing the sacrifice and doing it anyway.
I broke through the fire and saw the door to the attic a few steps ahead. Gasping, my vision blurred, and my strength fueled purely by adrenaline, I cried out to her once more.
“Esme!” And then reached for the knob, unable to register at this point the hot metal as it melted through my hand, and barreled my shoulder through the door as there was another loud crash and boom behind me, the noise—or whatever had caused it—almost propelling me with inhuman force forward.
Layers of skin peeled from my hand as I let go of the knob and went crashing into the room, landing on my knees, my injured hand clutched to my chest as the other reached for the less-scalding floor to stop my fall. I dragged in ragged breaths, noticing how the air was marginally less dense inside.
Please, God, let her be alive, I prayed as my eyes remained squeezed shut for just a half a second longer.
Never in my life had I been more afraid.
Not the night Méchant killed my mother. Not all the nights working for the Valois.
And not even the moment when Méchant gave me the choice—kill him or save Esme.
Never had I been so afraid I’d lost something than this moment when I opened my eyes to find out if I was too late.
If I’d lost her.
Esme
Though I was pretty certain I wasn’t going to suffocate to death thanks to my attempt at opening the window, there was still a likely chance that the flames themselves or the collapse they caused would still do the trick.
After my second fall, I woke to the steady stream of smoke being sucked from the room out of the small window, the transfer providing enough fresh air to allow me to draw labored breaths.
Pushing myself up, I moved over to the window and tried to peer out. I wasn’t able to see much of the cathedral itself, only the firemen and emergency vehicles several stories below.
I turned back to the room.
Bare.
Even with the lighter that Hubert had left in my grasp still laying on the floor, I doubted sending up a smoke signal was really going to stand out when the whole damn building was on fire.
Think, Esme.
Standing on my toes, I tried to take as many deep inhales as I could. Even though the outside air was also stained with smoke, it wasn’t nearly as bad as what was trapped in the room.
Looking down once more, I saw a group of firemen staring and pointing up in my direction. Even though I felt the thump of hope in my chest, I knew they weren’t pointing at me. There was no way they could see me.
But what if I could get their attention?
I didn’t even bother to consider yelling. With the deafening sounds from where I stood, combined with the sirens and the water blasts from below, I knew they’d never hear me.
I dropped down from my toes, my anklets jingling on the descent.
What if…
Bending down, I reached for my scarf once more, immensely grateful for my unusual and unique fashion choice as I gripped the fabric in my hands.
What if I used my jewelry to try and catch their attention? To try and create enough of a glare from either the fire or their spotlights to catch their eyes?
It was a long shot.
It was the kind of long shot similar to the winner of the Kentucky Derby being disqualified… it was the kind of long shot that would never work.
Until it did.
Bending down, I began to unclasp, unhook, and unlink every necklace, bracelet, earring, and chain attached to my body. I bit into my lip as I pulled the bracelets over the raw, torn flesh on the back of my hand, provoking a few spots to bleeding once more.
Poking the earring through the fabric first, I studded the scarf with gold and brightly colored jewels. Next, I tied one end of one of my necklaces to the end of the scarf and began to daisy-chain the rest of them together, wrapping them around the scarf and then using them to attach my bracelets and anklets.
A few minutes later, I held up the fabric, weighted with my jewelry and shook it, watching the faint light hit the various pieces as it jingled.
“Esme!”
My head whipped to the door, eyes wide and ears begging to believe what they’d just heard.
Quinton?
It couldn’t be, I told myself. Even if he had survived Méchant’s ambush, he wouldn’t know where to find me. And he wouldn’t be stupid enough to run into a burning cathedral to try and save me.
Except that I knew he would.
So, I relied on logic that told me the chances he’d survived an assassination attempt and had figured out where I was were slim to none.
Turning back to the window, I glanced down to make sure the men were still standing there. With that confirmation., I reached up once more and carefully fed my scarf through the window to let it drape down and blow slightly against the wall on the other side.
I began to move my arm, causing the fabric to wave and hit against the outside of the building when I heard it again.
“Esme!”
I hadn’t imagined it. I hadn’t imagined him.
Just as I began to turn, my back was hit with a blast of heat, the force of it plastering me against the wall in front of me, ripping the breath from my lungs. The loud roar was followed by a crash inside the room.
At first, I thought I’d run out of time. That the attic was finally succumbing to the flames.
Until I turned and saw, in the middle of the floor, covered in so much ash and dust he appeared to be carved from smoky stone, him. Ma Gargouille. One hand planted for support on the floor, the other clutched to his chest with his head bent, he was a life-size sculpture.
A living gargoyle.
“Quinton,” his name rushed from my lips as his gaze tipped up to mine.
Pulling my scarf with me, I rushed toward him, fall
ing on my knees as he reached up and pulled my face to his, covering my lips with his own.
“Esme,” he said against my mouth.
And through the ash, I tasted him. Quinton. Alive. Breathing.
“You came for me,” I murmured thickly.
“I promised you I would.”
His mouth claimed mine more insistently this time as his fingers dug into my hair.
“I thought I was too late.” I heard the pain in his voice, his heart still bleeding from the possibility that had ripped it open.
I shook my head, tears slipping from my eyes. “I’m here. I’m okay,” I assured him.
There was another loud crash and both of our attentions turned toward a horror that we couldn’t see. “We have to get out of here,” Quinton said roughly.
He rose, and I could see his mind was more determined than his body as it ignored all signals of weakness and injury.
I saw the way his stance was uneven. I caught the flurried beat of his heart against the smoke-streaked skin of his neck. I saw the fine sheen of sweat that allowed the dirt and ash to cling easily where it touched. And I saw how the scarred portion of his face appeared much redder, as though the proximity to the fire had lit a flame underneath it.
He offered me a hand up—the same hand that had been resting on the floor—and once I was upright, I realized why. A small cry escaped as I caught sight of his hand, the inside able to leave a perfect handprint of black and blood the way it was ripped open.
And yet, he took in the room without word or sound as though it was just a flesh wound.
I dragged my eyes up from his hand, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying something at what I saw.
“Q! Your shoulder!” I exclaimed, cupping a hand over my mouth.
I thought he clutched his hand to his stomach because of its burns. He didn’t. It was pinned at an angle because there was something wrong with his shoulder.
He grunted and glared at me. “There’s nothing I can do about it now.”
I shook my head. Growing up in the foster system, I’d seen plenty of fights, plenty of injuries, and if it was dislocated, I could pop it back into place. Although, it didn’t quite look like any dislocation I’d seen before.
“If it’s dislocated, I can pop it back in for you,” I insisted and stepped toward him.
He raised his good hand and grunted, “No. Esme. It’s not… I mean, it’s dislocated but not out the front.” My eyes widened. “Posterior dislocations aren’t common and are… harder… to reset.”
“How did you?”
His head dipped to the side. “When I jammed it through the door.”
I gulped and blinked away tears.
“I’ll be alright,” he tried to reassure me with a tight smile, but it was those smiles, the ones put up to stop someone you cared about from worrying that hurt the worst. “We have to go back down the stairwell. It’s the only access to this attic.”
I looked to the door, seeing the bright red-orange glow of fire beyond, and nodded.
When I went to step toward it, he reached out and grabbed my upper arm, hauling me back against his chest.
“I’m going to get us out of here, Gypsy,” he swore to me and, in spite of being literally surrounded by a burning building, there was no doubt in my mind.
There was no doubting him.
“I know,” I murmured.
“You do?”
I nodded and rose on my tiptoes, stopping my lips an inch from his to say, “You’re my guardian gargoyle, Q.” I pressed my mouth to his, firmly and with every ounce of love I thought I’d never get to share with him again. “I know you’ll keep me safe.”
He lingered on my lips for another moment before setting me free with a grunt and heading for the door.
“Stay behind me,” he instructed, and this time, I was going to listen.
He tested the first few stairs, before motioning me to follow him. With each step I could feel how the wood weakened underneath us.
Around the first curve, I saw where the fire had ravaged through the stairwell, the flames sucked dry when Quinton had burst through the door to the attic, the vacuum putting out the fire. Or this part of it. All that was left was the black-scorched portion of the winding tunnel.
“Wait.”
I held my breath as he tested each step. The sounds of the fire and the structure toppling around us faded into a vague, distant reality outside of the immediate obstacle—and the immediate danger.
There were seven steps completely blackened, and he’d never gone more than three ahead of me before having me catch up. But this time, that wasn’t an option. In their weakened state, he wouldn’t risk asking them to bear both our weights and I watched as he begrudgingly descended all seven onto one that was surprisingly spared from burns before turning to me, motioning me to come forward.
One.
Two.
I held my breath with each one, unable to linger too long to refuel my courage before moving onto the next, afraid to let my weight linger too long.
Three.
Fou—
I screamed as the step gave out underneath me and I began to fall.
“Esme!” Quinton lunged toward me, his eyes split wide with fear.
My arms reached out, trying to grasp anything as I fell—but the only thing to hold on to was him. And his dislocated arm.
My body was mostly through the hole in the fourth and fifth stairs, my legs dangling beneath me and my hands clinging to him.
“You’re okay.” His voice was tight and strained. So strained. “I’ve got you.”
“Quinton…” Silent sobs wracked my body as tears streamed down my face—not because I’d almost died, but because of the torture he was enduring to save me.
With his good hand locked on the scorched railing, he’d caught me with his blistered, peeled hand attached to a dislocated shoulder.
“Grab higher,” he bit out through pain-clenched teeth.
I shook my head even as I complied. Reaching higher meant more force on the shoulder that was out of joint. But if I didn’t, the blood from his hand would cause my grip to slip.
It didn’t matter how I squeezed my eyes shut as he pulled me up to safety, I’d already seen the excruciating pain his body was in to bear my weight and lift it.
I was killing him.
To save me, he was killing himself.
I choked as he pulled along the railing, not having enough movement in his dislocated arm to actually lift me with it, rather he could only use it like a rope, giving me something to hold on to as he used his other working limbs to raise me to safety.
As soon as my hands reached the edge of the opening in the stairs, I latched on with one hand, desperate to do anything I could to take some of the strain off of him.
Finally, I felt my hips crest through the opening and I pulled myself the rest of the way through, Quinton sagging back against the wall in relief and—
Oh, God.
“Q,” I cried as his eyes fluttered opened and shut.
I wiped my mouth as though it would wipe the sobs that threatened away as I watched the pain in his body finally overtake the determination in his mind.
“Quinton, you’re going to be okay,” I blubbered, reaching for his good arm. “Don’t give up on me yet, Gargoyle.”
Tears burned my cheeks as I wrapped his arm around my neck, his head falling onto my shoulder as he mumbled incoherently.
I felt him pushing. I felt him fighting. Because that was who he was—he was the man who’d give up everything until he saw me safe.
Only now it was my turn to see him safe.
Groaning, I rose us both up with a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
With careful determination and a semi-conscious Quinton, we descended the rest of the stairs.
I sobbed as we entered the body of a cathedral I hardly recognized anymore. The night sky lit with flames was visible through the open roof, the nave littered with a lumberyard of timbered
ashes—the eight-hundred-year-old roof cremated in the blaze.
But in the center of it all, at the far end of the cathedral, still stood the cross, and in that moment, I believed we were meant to make it. We were meant to be saved. We were meant to rise again.
Because we were meant to do good.
“Back.”
I turned my head to him, not understanding.
His arm lifted from my neck to point at the back corner before dropping down against me.
The back door.
“Got it.”
The walk around to the secret door took some time, Quinton’s steps faltering more and more as he became weaker and weaker. Each time he sagged into me, I thought we might both go down. But still, my strength persisted. My strength to save him.
The colossal structure continued to cave around us, the cracking and snapping sounded like a ribcage being broken open, the flames reaching inside for the very heart of Paris.
“Almost there,” I whimpered when he swayed into me.
“Esme…”
I looked at him through watery eyes, his face drawn, no longer feeling the pain but simply the strength draining from his broken body. There was another loud crack above us and his eyes drifted up.
“Q—”
“Esme!”
With a force I would’ve thought impossible for the state of his body, he grabbed my waist and launched me forward. Tripping and stumbling, I landed on my knees several feet in front of him, looking over my shoulder just in time to watch more of the burning roof crash onto the floor, barricading him behind it.
“Q!” I screamed, clamoring to my feet but there was nowhere to go—no way I could get back to him.
“Go!” he yelled at me, rising up behind the flames.
“No!” My head shook violently. “I won’t leave you.”
“Esme, please,” he pleaded, weakening more with every passing second. “I would do anything to protect you. Please don’t make me watch as I lose you, too.” He shuddered. “Go!”
A strangled sob wrenched from my chest. My guardian gargoyle looked like a hunchback for the first time. His back and shoulders contorted because of the dislocation. The unscarred side of his face red and puffy from the heat and smoke. But still he stood. A forgotten hero.
The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1) Page 39
