Page 139 of The Light Within

Julien screamed, a raw, guttural scream that tore through the very fabric of the catacombs, and Cinn’s heart. A scream so tangible it would be absorbed into the substance of the walls for eternity.

Panic surged through Cinn, propelling him into a frantic, fumbling run. Each scream that followed was more tortured than the last, slicingthrough his nerves and filling him with a visceral dread. He had never heard Julien scream before, and the sound was a piercing, agonising assault on his soul. Cinn let slip his own scream of frustration, hating himself for not being quick enough to prevent whatever was happening.

The light grew brighter as Cinn barreled forward, the darkness retreating. The tunnel opened into a large chamber, flickering light casting shadows over the stone walls. His breath caught as he took in the scene.

Lucien Montaigne stood tall, his shadow stretching across the walls like a sinister, twisted devil. Beside him loomed some sort of colossal machine.Themachine. Julien had found it!

Julien.

Cinn’s gaze locked on him immediately. Julien was on the ground, hands bound behind his back, struggling violently as two burly men dragged him across the rough stone floor. His clothes were torn, hair a tangled, filthy mess, and his face smeared with dark dust. Yet his expression was pure fury, twisted in defiance, every muscle straining as he fought with all he had to pull away from Jonathan Steele. Jonathan Steele, who was pressing an impossibly large needle into the base of Julien’s scalp.

“Stop!”

The scene unfolding in front of him became a tableau as everyone froze. Pure, unadulterated shock rippled through the chamber, filling the air with a heavy, palpable tension.

Cinn’s gaze collided with Julien’s. He searched his expression, expecting to see relief there, or joy. Instead, he saw only devastation. Julien’s face was a mask of utter despair: his eyes were wide, glazed over with a sheen of unshed tears, and the usually vibrant spark in them was replaced by a hollow, pained look. His mouth was set in a grim line, trembling slightly as if trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

At the end of a very long moment, Julien shouted, “Run!”

Everything happened at once. Lucien barked orders in French, sending Cinn instinctively stumbling away from the two men who’d dropped Julien to step towards him.

A powerful burst of wind slammed into his left side, sending him hurtling through the air. His head smacked against the solid rock, a sickening thud echoing through the chamber as the impact sent a jarring shockwave of pain through his skull.

Every bone in his body felt shattered, every muscle pulled.

Julien screamed again. With all he had left, Cinn tried to sit up to show him he was alright, but it was no use. He didn’t have the capacity. Stars swam in his blurry vision. Flat on his back, he faced the chamber’s ceiling. He attempted to make sense of the outraged voices, shouting French at each other. The tense back-and-forth between them implied an argument. Were they debating what to do with him? Julien’s voice cut through them. Oh, God—was hebegging?

With immense effort, Cinn managed to roll onto his side, though pain pounded through his skull.

Julien was on his knees, hands still bound behind him—not just with any handcuffs, but those motepower-restricting ones now familiar to Cinn, since he’d seen that memory of Isabelle almost being forced into them.

Julien’s eyes were wild, his words frantic. “Je t’en prie, ne lui fais-pas de mal! Je ferais tout ce que tu veux, je te jure, mais laisse-le partir!”

The sight of Julien’s desperate plea to the father he despised for Cinn’s life was a gut-wrenching display of sacrifice, the emotional cost too high for Cinn to fully comprehend.

“Julien,” Cinn croaked out. He twitched his arm out towards him.

A familiar shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Béatrice rematerialised, her shadowy form prowling closer. She slunk towards Cinn’s shadow. For a moment, she simply perched there, then, her wavering fur extended, and she melted into a formless puddle.

Cinn felt her formidable power before he even understood what was happening—she’d melded with his shadow, just as she had on Westminster Bridge. An incredible surge of strength flowed through him, the throbbing in his head receding.

On shaky legs, Cinn climbed to his feet.

The five others stared at him. No, not athim, but at his shadow behind him. He didn’t need to see it—he couldfeelit. An overwhelming, pulsating force, ready to be wielded. As he raised his palms, the darkness around him responded, shifting and coiling, a weapon at his command. He was no longer a defenceless victim; he was a force of shadow and strength, and he wasinfuriatedwith apoplectic rage.

Jonathan’s hand still gripped the collection of needles attached to the machine. His face turned stricken as he realised he’d gained Cinn’s attention. Releasing the appendages, they clattered to the ground at Jonathan’s feet as he raised his hands in surrender.

Cinn didn’t hesitate. He did not show mercy.

With a surge of will, he commanded his shadow to stretch out and wrap around Jonathan’s arm, the one that he was going to use to hurt Julien, moments ago. The darkness twisted and tightened with brutal force, squeezing until the bone splintered beneath the pressure. A sickening crack echoed through the chamber as his arm was crushed. Blood poured out, a dark, viscous fluid that pooled on the ground, surrounding the needles. The man screamed, a piercing, agonised sound that was abruptly cut off as the shadow’s grip tightened further, leaving him writhing in what looked like excruciating pain.

Lucien barked orders at his two men, who were staring at Cinn with twin expressions of wide-eyed horror. Without communicating, they simultaneously turned, and angled their escape towards the nearest tunnel.

Cinn sent his shadow surging forward, wrapping around the men with a forceful grip. In an instant, he’d slammed them violently againstthe tunnel wall, the impact resonating with an echoing thud. The shadow released their hold, and the men crumpled to the ground, unconscious, their bodies sprawled in a tangled heap of defeated limbs.

Nearby them, Jonathan had passed out from blood loss, or pain. Or he could be dead. Either worked.

Three down, one to go.

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