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 headstrong 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.