Page 26 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

For three long days on the road, Ransom barely made eye contact with Seraphine. After their argument in the carriage, which had come hot on the heels of her little inferno at the marketplace, she had made a point of avoiding him.

Whenever they stopped to stretch their legs, she stomped off on her own, feigning interest in a nearby oak tree or lingering at a street stall filled with forgettable trinkets.

When they ventured further afield for refreshments, stopping in a local tavern, Seraphine always sat at a different table with Versini, keeping her back to Ransom and three of the king’s soldiers between them.

Once, to test the waters, Ransom asked to borrow her salt-shaker, and she had roundly fired it at his head.

Caruso had nearly pissed himself laughing.

Nadia had fired it back, clipping Versini in the ear.

Seraphine had met Nadia glare for glare across the all but deserted tavern, before offering Ransom her middle finger.

So she was holding a grudge.

At least now he could be sure she wasn’t their graverobber. Which begged the question… who the hell had taken Lark’s body? And to what aim?

Beneath it, another question stirred: what kind of saint was Seraphine Marchant, and where did her loyalty truly lie? He wasn’t fool enough to think they were on the same side just because they were on the same journey.

On the nights when they stopped to rest at inns, Seraphine shared a room with Versini on an entirely different floor to the Daggers.

It sent Ransom half mad with jealousy, thinking of them sharing a bed, imagining her peeling off her chemise after a long day of travel, cosying up to that arrogant Versini prick.

He spent those nights ignoring the furious tugging in his chest by staying up far too late and necking whatever Caruso slammed down on the table in front of him.

Nothing helped, but the screaming hangover made for a nice distraction the following day.

As the hours wore on, and they entered the north-west province of Valterre, Nadia’s worsening mood began to rival his own.

With every mile closer to the Appoline, she grew antsy, restless.

It didn’t take a scholar to figure out what was eating away at her.

And it had nothing to do with their troublesome prince.

Nadia wasn’t satisfied with Ransom’s recounting of his argument with Seraphine – or her staunch outright denial about Lark’s grave. She wanted to have it out with Seraphine herself. If not for the grave robbery, then for Lark’s death.

Resentment simmered.

Sooner or later, it would come to a boil.

On the fourth day, they reached the Appoline University.

Ransom could tell by the generous tree-lined driveway that now cloistered them from the rest of the countryside, the oaken leaves whispering as they watched them go by.

Up ahead, he spied towering black gates, the verdant university grounds spilling out beyond.

Over the high stone walls, ivy-wreathed turrets jutted up like stakes.

His heart gave a painful thud. In another life his destiny might have led him here.

To a haven of learning to study the great artists of old.

To paint his own landscapes, first under the tutelage of the masters, and later, across the far-flung lands of the continent, where he would answer to no one but his paintbrush.

It was the dream his mother had fostered in him long ago, the life they whispered about at bedtime, when the oil lamp flickered low, and her burnished eyes made him feel like anything was possible.

You will be one of the great artists, my darling boy .

You will paint a world far lovelier than this one .

Ten years on and the only thing Ransom had managed to paint was his own body, the dark marks on his skin burrowing deeply and painfully.

What would his mother and his sister think of him now?

If the king truly did manage to track them down, how could Ransom ever face them?

How could he explain the monster he had become?

Late at night, when his thoughts turned from Seraphine, they always settled on his family, on the scouring need to find them again, and the fear that they might not love the man he had become in their absence.

Who could stand him, when he could barely stand himself?

Who could love him, when he hated himself?

Seraphine had said it well enough. All this wilful wrecking of his eternal soul would leave him hollow in the end, with nothing but the residue of Shade in his bones and the nightmares in his head.

Already it was so much worse than before, the pathway back to himself so dark and twisting he was losing sight of it.

As ancient trees towered over them, blotting out the sinking sun, Ransom clenched his hands into fists.

The hideous skull ring glinted up at him.

He imagined it laughing in the deep baritone of Gaspard Dufort.

Long before he became a Dagger, Ransom’s father had trampled his dreams beyond recognition. Dufort had simply finished the job.

You have made yourself the canvas, Ransom .

And marred it all with shadow .

‘Uh-oh. He’s brooding again.’ Caruso’s voice cut through his reverie.

Nadia nudged Ransom with the toe of her boot. ‘What’s wrong?’

Everything .

‘Hangover,’ he said, raking his hair back. ‘That’s the last time I play saint or sinner with Caruso.’

At last, the carriage trundled to a stop, pulling into a narrow side bank under a gnarled hawthorn tree. Just ahead, the black gates glimmered.

Seraphine and Versini had already disembarked. The soldiers got out to stretch, joining the coachmen in the long grass to smoke cigarillos. They would not be accompanying Ransom and the others inside the Appoline. Since this was not an official royal visit.

Smoothing the lapels of his long black coat, Ransom stalked towards the Flames. They were waiting by the gates.

For the first time in three days, Seraphine deigned to speak to him. ‘Well, Dagger, what’s the grand plan?’

‘So now you want my advice? Two days ago, you flung a salt shaker at my head.’

‘Not my fault you have poor reflexes,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘And anyway, salt is bad for your health.’

‘Something you have in common with it.’

‘Enough flirting,’ said Caruso in a bored voice. ‘Go behind that giant tree and screw this out of your system so we can get on with it.’

Seraphine’s cheeks turned a furious shade of pink.

Ransom rewarded Caruso with a blistering glare.

Versini huffed an impatient sigh. ‘Visitor entry to the Appoline is by personal invitation of the provost. I’m assuming we don’t have one of those?’

‘Well reasoned,’ said Ransom drolly.

‘Why doesn’t fire-fingers over here melt the gates like she melted Ribauld’s ear?’ said Nadia. ‘Better yet, why don’t you melt the gatekeepers too. You do love to make a scene.’

Seraphine was doing a remarkably good job of holding her tongue. Which made Ransom… nervous. Or perhaps she hadn’t heard Nadia, since her gaze was trained on the turrets behind them, her lips parted in quiet wonder.

‘Enough bickering,’ he said wearily. ‘Just leave the talking to me.’

The most prestigious university in all of Valterre, the Appoline, had been built in honour of Saint Oriel herself, gifted by one of the many kings who had loved her during her lifetime over a thousand years ago.

Once a place that was open to every eager scholar, now the university was a playground for the wealthy, guarded by literal and metaphorical gatekeepers, who walked the perimeter of the high stone walls, manning the black gates all day and night.

It struck Ransom as a bit much. But then, he did live inside a skull-lined catacomb, guarded by the ancient statue of a dead saint. Each to their own.

Dressed in hooded brown robes tied with a thin golden sash, and carrying longswords donated by the descendants of Cadel, Saint of Warriors, a pair of gatekeepers watched them through the iron bars as they approached.

In what he was dimly aware was an unnecessary move, Ransom removed a vial of Shade from his pocket and took a sip. The black dust danced along his tongue, burning all the way down. His eyes heated, flickering to silver. When the keepers stumbled back from the gates, he knew he had their attention.

And more importantly, their fear.

‘I don’t know why I expected this to go civilly,’ muttered Versini.

Ransom strode forward, pulling shadows from the stones and sending them skittering through the bars.

The keeper on the right began to tremble.

The other raised her sword, and cried out, ‘Who goes there?’

Ransom gave his customary savage smile. ‘Surely, introductions are not warranted? You are not so far from Fantome that you haven’t heard of me.’

Shadows wreathed the metal bars like dark fists, making them rattle.

The keepers swallowed thickly. Their hoods were deep and gaping, shielding their faces.

The one with the raised sword spoke again, her voice quaking, ‘W-what b-business do the Daggers have at the Appoline? This is a place of learning. And peace .’

‘I fancy a tour,’ said Ransom, with a casual flick of his wrist. A move meant to show off his ring. Not just a Dagger. But the Dagger. ‘Open these gates before I wrench them apart.’

They hesitated.

‘Maybe you should try saying “please”,’ said Seraphine.

Too late for niceties. The Shade had its claws in him now. Pretending not to hear her, Ransom cocked his head. ‘Unless you’d like your ribs wrenched apart too?’ With a curl of his fingers, he cracked the nearest shadow like a whip.

The keepers yelped, leaping away from it.

‘ Now ,’ he growled.

The gates groaned open.

He stalked inside. ‘Fetch the provost,’ he demanded. ‘Have him meet us in the inner courtyard.’