Page 9 of The Dagger and the Flame
He barked a laugh. ‘Hell’s teeth.She’s a Cloak?’
‘No.’ Ransom frowned. ‘Not yet, anyway.’
‘Then she’s clever,’ said Lark thoughtfully. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘I don’t need luck,’ said Ransom, half-convincing himself. ‘I like a challenge.’
They walked on, the crisp autumn leaves crunching under their boots. The rain sputtered out, leaving behind a lingering mist. It scattered the light from the Aurore, bathing the streets in a golden haze.
‘Why did Dufort burn the house?’ Ransom wondered aloud. ‘Wasn’t it enough to just kill Sylvie Marchant?’
Lark glanced sidelong at him. The silver glint in his eyes was fading, revealing the green beneath. He looked tired, now. Tense. ‘How should I know?’
Ransom ignored the bite in his friend’s voice. ‘And why didn’t he just stay there and wait for the girl?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘Because he’d probably set me on fire, too.’
A good Dagger did not indulge in curiosity. It was a waste of time and conscience. Worse – it encouraged hesitation. And in the art of assassination, a split second of hesitation could be the difference between life and death.
And yet, as they wandered the deserted streets of Fantome, where the rats fled at the sight of them, Ransom’s mind whirred. When was the last time Gaspard Dufort had even got his hands dirty? And why would the highest-ranking Dagger in Fantome leave a fire in his wake? There was nothing quick and clean about an inferno.
Sylvie Marchant must have been important. So, what did that make her daughter?
Well, shit.Despite his better judgement, Ransom was curious.
At last, they reached Old Haven, home to the oldest neighbourhoods and most weather-worn graveyards of Fantome. Plumes of smoke curled up through the grates in the cobblestones, each one a whisper of the fireplaces that burned far beneath them, and the life that thrummed there.
They came at last to the town statue of Lucille Versini, Saint of Scholars. Carved from white marble, the young woman clutched a book to her chest as she looked north towards the Aurore.
An angel, guarding the gates to hell.
Ransom used the dregs of his Shade to pull his shadow from the cobblestones. He cast it around Saint Lucille’s neck and tugged. The statue groaned as it leaned back until its unseeing eyes looked up at the stars. Beneath its pedestal was revealed the entrance to the catacombs of Fantome. Home of the Order of Daggers.
Ransom released the noose and followed Lark down the steps. Above them, the statue of Saint Lucille keened as it returned to its feet, sealing them in. They paused at the bottom of the stairwell, where an archway of skulls marked the entrance to Hugo’s Passage. Above it, the immortal words of the elder Versini brother had been carved into stone:
Those who refuse to wield the dagger are doomed to die by its blade.
Ransom pressed two fingers to his chest, making a sign of respect as he ducked underneath the archway and walked into the darkness.
Home, at last.
Chapter 4Seraphine
‘Ugh. What is that rancid smell?’
‘Stale smoke. She smells just like Madame Fontaine.’
‘Looks like she’s got a mutt, too.’
‘Aw!Look at his cute little face, Val! Do you think he’s friendly?’
‘I don’t know, but he reeks worse than she does.’
‘You can’t be rude to the new girl.’
‘Hey, sometimes the truth hurts. And it’s not like she can hear me.’
