Page 11 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

Ransom jolted awake at the brush of a hand on his neck. He struck out, hitting someone in the dark. They cursed, stumbling backwards.

Springing upright, he reached for the oil lamp on the wall. The sudden flare of light illuminated his friend’s withering grimace.

‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he demanded.

‘Waking you!’ Nadia made a point of rubbing her shoulder. ‘Next time, I’ll just throw something at you. Save myself the bruise.’

‘Sorry.’ He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping the unruly black strands from his eyes. ‘I thought you were strangling me.’

‘I was prodding you. You couldn’t hear me. You were thrashing and groaning. I thought you’d been poisoned.’

Ransom rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to remember what he had been dreaming about. There was nothing but the usual shadows pooling in the corners of his mind and the slow curling dread that often chased him from sleep.

‘I hope that wasn’t some kind of sexy dream,’ she added as an afterthought. ‘Ugh. Now I feel gross.’

He gave her a bland smile. ‘Maybe next time you’ll think twice about waltzing in here unannounced.’

‘Maybe you’ll start locking your door, like any sane Head of the Order of Daggers would.’

Ransom snorted. Was there such a thing as a sane Head Dagger?

He hadn’t even moved bedchambers since he’d taken on Dufort’s role, preferring to stay in the small damp room he had been assigned at ten years old.

He had no interest in the grand trappings of Dufort’s former chamber in the east passage, or the ghost of the man that lingered there.

Lisette, ever the opportunist, had jumped at the chance to take it, and Ransom had let her, if only to assure her wavering loyalty.

The fewer vipers in the nest, the better.

‘What time is it?’ he said, taking a slug of water from the glass on his bedside table. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he noticed Nadia’s drawn face and the dark circles under her eyes. There was a tightness to her mouth, her shoulders too.

‘Dawn,’ she said.

Ransom frowned. Rare was the Dagger acquainted with dawn. They carried out their work in the dead of the night for a reason, and as a consequence, slept long past the rising sun. Which made this whole interruption even more disconcerting.

‘Why are you in my bedchamber at dawn?’

‘Because your little bitch is back in Fantome.’ All traces of amusement drained from her voice. ‘And when I find her, I’m going to wring her scrawny neck and hang her from the Bridge of Tears.’

Ransom was on his feet so fast, his head spun.

Last night had been a long one. Three back-to-back angry, spitting marks, all runaway prisoners decked out with every weapon they could find, including a damn soup ladle.

No Lightfire, at least. Still, consuming three vials of Shade had nearly sent Ransom slipping into the Verne on his way home.

The after-cloud of it sat heavy in his head now, making it throb.

Which is why he must have heard Nadia incorrectly.

‘Say that again.’

She ignored the request. ‘Get dressed and follow me.’

Ransom grabbed the sweater hanging over the back of his chair and pulled it over his head. He shrugged on his trousers, his fingers flying over his bootlaces as he tied them in a rush. There wasn’t time to splash water on his face, but it hardly mattered. He was wide awake.

When he left his bedchamber, Nadia was halfway down the passage, marching with a fury he hadn’t seen in some time.

He jogged after her. ‘Hell’s teeth, Nadia, slow down! What’s happened?’

She stalked on, her words flying over her shoulder. ‘Words won’t do this justice. I want to show you what she’s done. I want to see your face when you realize you should have killed that manipulative little murderer in the Saints’ Quarter four months ago.’

Ransom’s fingers twitched as he walked. A part of him yearned for a vial of Shade to dull the edges of his anxiety.

Just a taste. A mere press against the lips .

A dangerous impulse Dufort had readily given into, time and again.

Breathing slowly through his nose, he shoved the instinct down. Whatever had spooked Nadia, they would handle it together. He would handle it. Just as soon as she started making sense.

Outside, dawn light bled across the sky in streaks of amber and pink.

Old Haven was fast asleep, the statue of Lucille Versini staring blank-eyed towards Primrose Square, where a low-hanging cloud filled the space where the Aurore Tower had once stood.

The only sound was the soft whistle of the morning breeze, and a robin chirping in the nearby trees.

Nadia was waiting for him at the top of the stone steps, tapping her foot impatiently.

‘What?’ he said, growing impatient himself.

She simply turned sharply and headed straight for the graveyard.

Guilt tugged at Ransom as he stepped through the gate after her.

He hadn’t been here in months. He spent so much time around death, he hated to sit in the aftermath of it.

He despised the eerie stillness. The rotting flowers.

The stench of the mossy headstones. The reminder that his best friend, Lark, was dead because of him. That he was stuck here without him.

Nadia came here every evening before she went to work.

She had spent her birthday sitting at the foot of Lark’s grave, reading his favourite book.

Lisette had told Ransom that, with a sneer of her usual judgement, and coward that he was, he had never asked Nadia where she’d been that day.

He simply left a cream bun and a card in her bedchamber, and that was that.

She made for Lark’s grave now, winding her way towards the south-east corner of the ancient graveyard. Steeling himself, Ransom followed her, averting his eyes as he passed under the statue of Calvin, Saint of Death.

By the time they finally came to Lark’s row, Nadia was silent. Fresh tears striped her cheeks as she wordlessly pointed towards the graveside. Ransom understood then why she couldn’t speak, because when he followed her gaze, words left him too.

Lark’s grave was open.

A pit yawned in Ransom’s stomach as he stumbled forward, trying to make sense of it.

Six feet down, the walnut coffin Nadia had carefully chosen was wide open. The crimson velvet lining was covered in dirt and the upper panel had split in two, as though someone had jammed their foot through it. Over and over again.

Lark’s body was gone.

Ransom swayed on his feet, anger and confusion careening over him. ‘ When? ’ he managed.

Beside him, Nadia was as stiff as a statue. ‘Some time in the night.’ She stepped back, the empty grave so unsettling she had to steady herself against the bench Ransom had had erected by the grave. For her. ‘Caruso and I were here at sundown yesterday.’

Ransom looked up at that. ‘ Caruso? ’

‘He walks here sometimes. I think it’s because dead people don’t require anything of him. Like interesting conversation. Or the barest shred of empathy.’

Well, at least she had retained her dark sense of humour.

‘Lark’s grave was fine last night,’ she went on.

‘I left peonies.’ She gestured to the shredded bouquet, its delicate pink petals now strewn across the grass like confetti.

‘He used to buy them in the Rascalle every Sunday to take home to his mother…’ She trailed off, her fists scrunching like she was trying to force the tears back inside herself.

‘I couldn’t sleep so I got up early. When I came here, he was gone. ’

A graverobber in Old Haven.

Ransom scoured the surrounding grass, looking for footprints.

‘There’s nothing,’ she said, from where she watched him. ‘I searched the whole graveyard, even the trees beyond. Whoever took him was in and out like the wind. Quick, careful. Silent.’ A meaningful pause. ‘Like a Cloak.’

He shook his head. ‘Nadia… Seraphine wouldn’t do something like this.’

‘She’s the one who killed him in the first place, Ransom. She’s been disrupting our trade for months. Luring our smugglers away. Trickling Lightfire through the city like a leaky tap. Practically daring you to come after her.’ She threw up her hands in frustration. ‘Open your eyes.’

Ransom scrubbed his jaw, trying to untangle his thoughts from his feelings. Everything Nadia was saying was true but what business did Seraphine Marchant have with Lark Delano’s dead body?

‘She’s five foot nothing, Nadia. Even if she wanted to do something depraved like this, she wouldn’t be able to.’

‘She has her own Order now,’ she reminded him. ‘The Flames barter in Lightfire and seek the destruction of Shade. Of us .’

Ransom’s sigh whistled through his nose.

He knew all this, had trodden this conversation so many times he was sick of it.

‘But she hasn’t destroyed us, Nadia. The city is in chaos.

We’ve never been busier.’ He had the shadow-marks to prove it.

‘Hang the turncoats, who want to work with Marchant. Where one smuggler turns away from us, another will come running.’ He turned back to the grave.

‘This… she wouldn’t do this . I know her. ’

‘Do you?’ said Nadia, bitterly.

No , said a quiet voice inside him.

The falling of the Aurore had changed everything.

He did not know this Seraphine at all.

He did not know what she was capable of.

So, why, then was he still protecting her?

Because you are a fool, Bastian .

‘Marchant has people under her who can do her bidding now.’ Nadia glanced pointedly at the open coffin. ‘If she wanted to pull Lark from his grave to mess with us, she sure as hell has the means. The motive. The muscle.’ Her nostrils flared, and she drew a breath. ‘And she’s here . In the city.’

Ransom turned from the empty grave. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘The river traders saw her in the north quarter yesterday evening.’ She tilted her chin, watching him just as closely as he was watching her. ‘I’d asked them to keep an eye out.’

No. It was a mistake. Seraphine was not reckless enough to set foot in this city after he’d warned her to stay away. After everything she did with those monsters…

Such arrogance.

Such recklessness .

‘She wouldn’t…’ he began, but then he thought of that golden rose at Othilde’s house. Not just a taunt but an invitation.

Was this the game? Was this her move?

Graverobbing right under his nose?

He swallowed a curse. Had she lost all sense of herself entirely? He turned back to the empty grave, if only to save himself from Nadia’s penetrating glare. His heart galloped, confusion spilling into anger. She wouldn’t… would she ?

‘She wasn’t alone,’ Nadia said. ‘The Shadowsmith was with her. And the other two. The redhead and the one with the nose ring.’

Ransom ground his jaw, staring so hard at the headstone, his eyes blurred.

Here lies Lark Delano

Forever beloved

Was she trying to draw him out?

How far would the spitfire go to get his attention?

To desecrate a grave right under his nose…

No, it was absurd.

Wasn’t it?

Was it?

Nadia was still talking but Ransom’s mind was reeling.

The Daggers had enemies. Hundreds, perhaps more. But none of those enemies would have known what this grave meant to Ransom. To Nadia. To Seraphine.

Only her.

Sitting down, he let his legs slide into the open grave.

Bracing himself, he leaned over the hole, trying to find a clue to what had happened here.

The wind stirred, blowing petals across the grass.

And something strange yet familiar tickled the inside of his nose.

There: a tang of lemon blossoms on the wind. The barest taste of magic. Of her .

Fuck .

Her scent lingered; the same one that had clung to him the last time he’d seen her.

When she’d kissed his palm and shattered the Shade inside him, that strange golden light flickering behind her eyes.

He told himself he’d imagined it, that it was an impossibility.

But for weeks after, he swore he could still smell her on his skin.

He’d wanted to stamp the scent there for ever.

Yes, something had changed the night the Aurore came down…

Perhaps Nadia was right.

Maybe Seraphine was screwing with them. As callous and cruel as any enemy.

He flopped backwards, splaying his arms as he stared up at the sky. ‘Well, shit.’

Nadia’s face appeared above him. ‘Finally coming to your senses?’

He turned his head, inhaling a lungful of dirt to chase the scent of her away.

‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ She stomped away.

He called after her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To get a vial of Shade. So I can find her. And kill her.’

She turned to glare at him, daring him to stop her.

Ransom opened his mouth. Closed it. He couldn’t let this slide. He shouldn’t want to let this slide.

He was Head of the Order of Daggers, and this wasn’t just business.

It was personal.

He got to his feet. ‘I’ll go with you.’

They walked back in strained silence, both lost in thoughts of anger and revenge.

When they reached Hugo’s Passage, a pair of dayguards were waiting by the statue of Lucille Versini.

Dressed in official uniform, with their longswords glinting at their hips and the royal insignia of Valterre emblazoned on their chests – a rose crossed with two swords – they had the good sense, at least, to dip their chins in deference as Ransom stalked to meet them.

It was rare for a soldier of the Crown to interact with a Dagger in broad daylight. The king preferred to conduct his affairs – and assassinations – in private. Usually after dark, or, on occasion, in one of his grand castles.

These were desperate times indeed.

‘Morning,’ said Ransom, flatly. ‘What’s this about?’

The soldiers dispensed with false pleasantries, the one on the left struggling to meet his gaze when he reached into his breast pocket and produced a letter bearing the king’s seal.

Ransom swiped it from him and tore it open, his mouth twisting as he read.

‘What is it?’ said Nadia, peering round his left shoulder.

Ransom’s frown deepened. ‘We’ve been summoned to the Summer Palace.’