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 was 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.
“Of all the boys in the Five Villages,” she said, “my fool associates had to pick up your pet. But even so—what is he to you, really? Little more than a trained monkey. And yet here you are, about to die for him. It is not like you, Nicolas. You are usually far more pragmatic.”