“The nave is empty,” Vincent said, “and I do not smell anyone nearby. They are all in the crypts.”
Lenoir shuddered. Perhaps the location was not so inappropriate after all. Over the course of centuries, an unknown number of Kennians had been entombed in the network of catacombs beneath the cathedral. It made a grim kind of sense that Los would surround himself with the dead while attempting to call forth one of their own.
“The entrance is at the base of the tower,” Vincent said, “through the vestry.” Seeing Lenoir’s surprise, he added, “I have been here before, more than once.”
“Lead on, then.”
It proved difficult to follow, for it was almost pitch-black inside. Lenoir sensed, rather than saw, the vastness of the room around him, seeming to stretch in all directions. He caught only glimpses of Vincent, for the spirit’s hair and clothing were as black as their surroundings; only the occasional flash of his eyes marked his location. Lenoir kept to the center of the aisle, or so he judged, his fingers groping the shadows for potential obstacles. The last thing he needed was to shatter his knees against the invisible pews.
“This way,” Vincent called softly, and Lenoir turned awkwardly to his right. The door to the vestry was unlocked, and he moved through it to a room that was, impossibly, even darker. “The stairway is here.” Vincent spoke in a whisper now. “Above us is the tower. Below is the way to the crypts.”
Following the sound of Vincent’s voice, Lenoir found a door that stood ajar. He nudged it aside. A faint glow from somewhere below sketched the outline of stone steps leading down. Lenoir could just make out another set of stairs leading up from his right, curling in a tight spiral to ascend the tower.
He headed down, moving as silently as he could. He could sense Vincent behind him. Cold, damp air seeped from the bowels of the cathedral, clinging to his skin like a wet rag. It carried a faintly metallic smell, and beneath that, the scent of paraffin.
The stairs curved gently as they descended, eventually disgorging him into a well-lit room of rough and ancient-looking construction. A thick stone wall with several archways divided the room into two naves, each of them containing a barrel-vaulted sanctuary. There had once been some kind of adornment in the sanctuaries—frescoes of Durian, Lenoir guessed, or perhaps the Generals of the Host—but the paint had long since worn away, leaving only scraps of color. The lower half of the wall was built from huge slabs of unremarkable gray stone, but the archways had been lined with fine red brick. Cassiterian, Lenoir judged, salvaged from whatever temple had once stood on these foundations. He knew little of architecture, but the crypt clearly dated from the early classic period. Still, it is younger than Vincent, he thought, and he could not suppress a giddy laugh.
At the far end of the room, a set of steps descended into a long hallway. “Where does that go?” Lenoir whispered.
“It leads to the dead,” said Vincent, “and also to the living.”
The tunnel reeked of paraffin from the torches that lined the walls at irregular intervals. The smoke stung Lenoir’s eyes as he scanned the area for places to hide. There were none; if one of the kidnappers should appear, he would spot the intruders immediately. There was not even enough shadow for Vincent to move instantly from one place to the next. Like Lenoir, he would have to walk.
Lenoir blinked. He spun suddenly, looking at Vincent; the spirit returned his gaze impassively. So much for that question, Lenoir thought. Vincent was unharmed by the torches. Sunlight alone, it seemed, was his enemy.
A pair of recessed archways appeared in the walls about fifty paces ahead, and as Lenoir approached, he saw that they were packed with skulls. Row upon row of them had been stacked together in neat lines, completely filling the recess. Glancing farther down the hall, Lenoir noticed several more such archways lining the corridor. He was reminded of the catacombs beneath his beloved Serles, where the skulls and leg bones of millions of Arrènais formed the brick and mortar of a vast necropolis beneath the bustling streets. He wondered, as he had so often in Serles, who these people were, how they had come to be here. Was it a privilege, or a punishment? And where were the rest of their remains?
Vincent paused at the first archway, his gaze drifting over the skulls, lingering on one or two as though they were especially significant. He whispered something in a language Lenoir did not recognize. Could the spirit identify these bones as individuals? Did he know their names, and the lives they had led? “I saw him,” Vincent had said earlier. Now Lenoir understood. Vincent had seen Zach and the kidnappers pass down this hallway. He had watched them through the eyes of these very skulls. Feeling a sudden chill, Lenoir gathered his coat more tightly around him and pressed on.
The hallway seemed to go on forever. Torchlight seethed and flared along the walls, contrasting eerily with the perfect stillness of the dead. The skulls watched Lenoir’s progress from their archways, empty eye sockets seeming to follow as he passed. He could feel Vincent’s presence just behind him. The sensation of being watched pressed in on him from either side. The corridor felt cramped and impossibly crowded. Lenoir began to sweat, in spite of the cold.
A pair of torches ahead signaled the end of the hallway. They flanked a single closed door. Lenoir glanced over his shoulder at Vincent. “What will we find on the other side of that door?”
“It is another room like the one we entered from, only much larger.”
“Are there any more skulls inside?” Lenoir was slowly becoming more accustomed to using Vincent’s supernatural gifts to their advantage.
But the spirit shook his head. “Once, but no longer. I cannot see into that room.”
Lenoir approached the door cautiously, bending his head against it to listen. The torches rustled and snapped overhead, but he heard nothing else. “Is there anything beyond this room?” he whispered.
“Yes, but I know little of those halls. These catacombs have known many uses.”
Lenoir thought. “Can you travel to the other side of this door?”
Again, Vincent shook his head. “It is not dark enough for me to travel that way.”
“Well, then,” Lenoir sighed, “ready your weapon, Vincent.” He drew one of his pistols, cocked it, and grabbed the cold iron handle of the door. Closing his eyes and uttering a silent prayer, he swung the door open.
Vincent swept past, as swift and silent as the shadow of a hawk. Cursing, Lenoir dove in after him, gun raised, his eyes raking his surroundings. He had only a fraction of a second to take it in: the huddle of bodies in the far corner, heads turning, eyes wide with shock. The air seemed to go out of the room in a single, collectively drawn breath. Then everyone started shouting.
Vincent’s whip had already found someone’s throat. The man was yanked forward with the force of it, his scream strangled off by the grip of the scourge. The others scattered. Lenoir hesitated, frozen with indecision as he tried to spot Zach amid the chaos. The kidnappers were flowing out of the room like cockroaches fleeing the light, darting beneath archways to disappear into the tunnels beyond. Lenoir could not see the boy. But he did glimpse a familiar face, a pair of beautiful, fierce eyes glaring hatefully at him from the depths of a hood. Zera. He pointed his gun at her, but she only sneered and fled the room. Without thinking, Lenoir went after her.
The torchlight from the room behind barely managed to penetrate the tunnel, and soon Lenoir was moving through darkness. He blinked furiously in a vain effort to hasten the adjustment of his eyes, straining to hear the sound of Zera’s retreating footsteps. She had been on the opposite side of the room, and had a few seconds’ head start. If she knew her way around these tunnels, she would have even more of an advantage. Lenoir tried not to think about it as he charged blindly ahead.
What are you doing here, Zera? And yet somehow, Lenoir was not surprised, even though it made little objective sense. Some part of him even admired her for it, however grudgingly. How headstr
ong you are, and how foolish. You should have left this city behind. But you just had to be here, didn’t you, to witness your triumph firsthand? Lenoir had seen it in her eyes as they faced off in the salon, a burning defiance that would not be cowed, no matter the danger. You are not afraid of me. Even now, you think you will win. You will not let it go. And so neither will I.
A wall reared up unexpectedly in the dark, so close that Lenoir nearly crashed into it. The tunnel had come to a dead end. He must have run past a branching corridor somewhere. Cursing, he retraced his steps at a trot. He had not gone far when he felt a breath of cold air on his cheek, and he reached out, his fingers grasping the corner of an archway. A faint dripping sound drifted through the darkness. Lenoir passed under the arch and kept moving.
After a few minutes, the outline of the tunnel began to glow faintly. Lenoir came to a room that joined two corridors. Torchlight from the far corridor revealed several rows of what appeared to be wine casks. There were at least two dozen of them, their arched backs clustered together like a herd of beasts grazing silently in the shadows.
He started across the room. Suddenly, he glimpsed movement to his left, and he whipped around just in time to see someone leveling a crossbow at him. Lenoir ducked as the bolt whizzed overhead, shattering against the stone wall at the far end of the room. He could hear his attacker reloading, and he crouched, but it was too dark to see between the barrels. Keeping low, Lenoir moved back one row, away from the lit corridor. He wanted to keep as much of the room between himself and the light as possible, giving him the visual advantage. Any move his attacker made would be backlit, whereas Lenoir would be lost in shadow.
He gulped in air, trying to bring his labored breathing under control. It sounded horribly loud to his ears; he was sure it would give away his position. It serves you right, he thought bitterly. He had let himself get too out of shape, and now even a short burst of running was enough to tax his lungs. He tried to listen past his own breathing, straining for any sign of his attacker. If the man got the drop on Lenoir, it would be over. Crossbows were deadly accurate at short range, and unlike flintlocks, they gave no warning of an imminent shot.
Lenoir had seen enough of his attacker to be sure it was not Zera. Every second he wasted in this room let her slip farther from his grasp. He could not afford to crouch here, waiting for the other man to make the next move. Reaching into his pocket, Lenoir drew out his watch. It was an expensive piece, one of the last mementos he had of Serles. He ran his thumb over it regretfully, feeling the familiar texture of the engraved back. Then, readying his pistol, he threw it.
The watch landed near the door with a forlorn clatter. A shadow moved to Lenoir’s left. He fired. The shadow staggered and flailed, knocking over one of the casks. Under cover of the noise, Lenoir charged. The man was lying prone, grasping for his fallen crossbow, when Lenoir appeared from behind a cask and unloaded the second barrel of his pistol. The man jerked and went still. Lenoir dropped the spent flintlock into his coat pocket and drew his other gun. Two shots left, and no time to reload. He would need to spend them wisely. Sparing a sad glance at the innards of his shattered watch, Lenoir passed through the door at the far end of the room and into the lit tunnel beyond.
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.
CHAPTER 25
The 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 wa
s 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.
Darkwalker Page 25
