Page 125 of The Dagger and the Flame
‘He took Dufort’s ring,’ she said in a faraway voice. ‘I suppose Nadia went after him when I told her…’ She blinked herself from her stupor and glowered at Ransom. ‘This is all your fault. You should have killed that meddlesome farm bitch when you had the chance.’
But Ransom was already running. Down the north passage and out into the storm. The roar of thunder paled against the roaring in his chest. He looked to the Aurore as he ran, praying he wasn’t too late to stop Lark doing whatever he was about to do.
By the time he made it to the end of Old Haven, most of the lights on the Aurore had gone out. Shadows flitted acrossthe stone, and a flash of lightning illuminated four figures climbing up the tower. And there among them, was a rippling golden cloak.
He was not too late.
Ransom was at the Verne when the whole Aurore went up in flames, sparking like a mighty torch. For a moment, the rain stopped entirely, the thunder ceasing its tirade as though the entire sky was watching in wonder.
Ransom’s heart swelled as Seraphine’s grand plan came to life, the glow of Lightfire crowning the ancient monument in a shimmering halo. Such magnificence. Such unbridled incandescence. It almost made him forget Lark and Nadia.
Then the thunder roared back to life. Ransom pushed on, towards the Aurore. Lightning danced around the tower. When it struck the stone, he had to shield his eyes from the glare. He slowed, blinking the spots from his vision. When the ground shook, he mistook it for thunder.
Then the tower crumbled right before his eyes.
Flames rained down like fireworks, huge chunks of stone following in a pounding hail.
Fast, so fast his feet barely touched the cobbles, Ransom ran, his chest heaving as he finally reached Primrose Square. He saw the bodies first, knew they were the monsters Seraphine had brought here, knew her plan had come off before the tower fell. It was not the plan he was worried about.
It was the girl. It was Lark and Nadia and the memory of that fork of lightning cleaving the tower in two. He shouted Seraphine’s name, sending it up to the clouds. There came no answer. He called for Lark and Nadia, stalking towardsall that rock and rubble, the shattered remains of the greatest monument in Valterre.
The clouds parted, scattering the last of their rain, as if they had seen enough. The moon poured its light onto the square, and after what felt like an eternity, Ransom spotted Nadia kneeling between two broken pillars.
His chest tightened at the sound of her sobs. They were deep and guttural, as if wrenched from her soul. Her head was bowed, and as he drew nearer, climbing over broken stone and ruined earth, he saw the reason for her tears and nearly fell to his knees too.
She was cradling Lark’s body in her arms.
Ransom stumbled, all thoughts eddying away. Lark’s face was paler than he’d ever seen it, the rosy hue of his cheeks lost to a strange, pearly sheen. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing. They were no longer green, but gold. Like two gleaming coins.
Grief slammed into Ransom, making his legs buckle. Lark was gone. They had fought bitterly in the Cavern, their last words to each other some of the cruellest they had ever spat. Ransom hadn’t meant them, but he couldn’t take them back now. There would be no more jokes. No more laughter. No more singing, no more midnight adventures, no more rooftop conversations about love and loss and all that dwelled in between. There would be no more trips home to the farm, no more butter cake and brandy, no more chickens, no more… Lark.
No more Lark.
The loss spiralled through Ransom like a tornado. He braced himself against a fallen boulder, trying to find his breath.
‘Ransom.’ Nadia’s voice broke on his name. He crawled to her, bringing his hand to Lark’s cheek in vain hope. It was ice cold.
‘What happened?’ he managed.
‘She murdered him,’ said Nadia, in a cold, quiet voice. ‘Right before she brought the whole tower down.’
No. That wasn’t right. ‘It was the lightning.’
‘Shewas the lightning.’
He frowned.
‘Look,’ she hissed. And he followed her gaze, to the place where Lark’s shirt had been scoured from his body. There, in the centre of his chest, was a small golden handprint, perfectly outlined by the shadow-marks around it. Scar tissue etched in gold. A type of burn Ransom had never seen before. It was like the sheer force of it had plunged right through Lark’s body and stopped his heart.
Ransom couldn’t tear his eyes away from that handprint. He knew those small, slender fingers, the palm he had kissed that night by Saint Celiana’s fountain.
Fuck.
How had she done it?
And where the hell was she now?
‘Ransom.’ Nadia’s voice again, pulling him back. He looked up at her, and nearly wept at the broken expression on her face. Her brown eyes were glassy and tear tracks smeared the dust on her cheeks. ‘This is all her fault.’
