Page 44 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

As Ransom watched Seraphine drift towards the prince like a moth to a bonfire, every muscle in his body went taut. His hands itched for the vial in his left pocket, but he stayed the impulse, reminding himself of the promise he had made to her.

I will give the prince a chance .

Why had he made that stupid promise again?

Because Andreas might end up being her salvation .

He might even end up being yours .

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .

Fine .

The way Andreas approached her, like he was beholding a new jewel for his treasure chest, made Ransom feel…

well, feral . Sweeping a hand through his hair, he took a steadying breath and walked on through the crowds, reminding himself not to do anything rash.

He tracked her all the way to the far corner of the dance hall, where she turned, offering a quick nod over her shoulder.

A signal to stand down.

Relax, you hot-headed fool , he told himself.

Seraphine’s no shrinking violet .

She can hold her own .

He glanced around for the others, who had obviously got the same message.

Nadia was necking shots at the bar, while Caruso swiped a pair of whiskeys from a passing tray.

Val was standing at the edge of the dance floor, her face upturned towards the stage, where a slew of dancers were hollering and kicking their feet in the air.

Their mark forgotten – or shoved aside for now – the others were getting into the spirit of Marvale, which seemed to be unfettered hedonism.

The Rose Garden was a glamorous canvas of sex and drink and dancing, and the kind of bawdy laughter that spilled out onto the streets.

Hardly the lair of an evil prince. Ransom could at least admit that.

The rumours were proving true. Andreas was clearly beloved, and his pleasure hall was a world unto itself, where the troubles of the kingdom seemed a thousand miles away. Or perhaps, a keen glimpse into what the kingdom could one day become, if the People’s Saint had his way.

Why, then, was Ransom having trouble relaxing?

Because she looks like a rose in bloom .

And he’s leering at her like he wants to pluck her .

Ransom had never considered himself a jealous sort until the day Seraphine Marchant barrelled into his life. Now he was all those things and more – jealous, protective, consumed by her, and something about this place was making it all the worse.

‘I need a drink,’ he muttered, looking for a passing waiter. When none appeared he ducked towards the nearest table and yanked a full glass of dark liquor straight out of a man’s hand, the old drunkard too plastered to notice.

Ransom downed it in one, relishing the burn. It took the edge off, for about three minutes. Not quite as effective as Shade. Again, that itch in his fingers.

Keeping to old habits, he settled himself in a shadowy corner at the edge of the dance floor, where he leaned against a wooden pillar.

Val was dancing nearby, Caruso smiling as he watched her.

Nadia was still at the bar, probably ruminating on her run-in at the graveyard.

Trying to drink the memory away. Ransom would have gone to her if he wasn’t glued to the prince and whatever he was saying that made Seraphine’s eyes gleam like that.

‘If you’re trying not to draw attention to yourself, you are failing miserably.’ Versini’s voice made him jerk his head to the side. ‘Any drunken fool in here could nail a game of spot-the-jealous-ill-adjusted Dagger.’

Versini and that shit-eating grin.

At least it was diverting.

‘What do you want?’ said Ransom, wearily.

‘Just making sure you’re not about to go back on your deal and lunge at the prince. Whatever they’re talking about seems to be going well.’

‘I’ll reserve my judgement.’

‘How unlike you.’

‘Careful,’ growled Ransom. ‘I still want to maim something tonight.’

That earned him an eye-roll.

‘Calm down, guard dog. I’m not your enemy.’

Ransom summoned a flat smile and said again, ‘I’ll reserve my judgement.’

Scoffing now, Versini turned his gaze on the prince, silently observing his conversation with Seraphine. ‘She likes him.’

Now he really was just trying to piss him off. ‘She doesn’t know him.’

The Shadowsmith tossed him a sideways smirk.

‘That’s the whole point of this evening.

We get to know him. See what he can teach her about her magic.

’ When Ransom didn’t respond, he went on.

‘Is that really such a horrifying concept to you? The idea that Seraphine is a saint? That she’s meant for something more than the life she was born into? ’

‘Why would that horrify me?’

‘Because it’s better than any future you could give her.’

That needled something between his ribs. ‘You really do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?’

‘I’m just saying… let him help her. Let him teach her.’

‘He can teach her all he likes,’ Ransom allowed. ‘As long as he doesn’t use her. Whatever Andreas is planning for Valterre, I won’t let Seraphine become his weapon.’

‘Not even if it’s what she wants?’

Prickling now, Ransom turned on him. ‘I don’t know what she wants. And neither do you.’

Versini only shrugged. ‘Isn’t it worth it, to see what she can really do when she finally unlocks her magic?’

It was a reasonable question, but Ransom was not in a reasonable mood. ‘So long as it doesn’t harm her.’

‘It’s already harming her,’ said Versini, and that was another truth that rankled him. ‘But of course you’d prefer to keep her weak. Unable to truly defend herself. That way, she’ll always need you.’

That vial of Shade in his pocket was becoming harder to resist. He reminded himself that they were not here to brawl but to watch.

To wait and see what kind of man – what kind of saint – Andreas proved himself to be.

And Seraphine had yet to raise the alarm.

Rather, she was enraptured by him. There was a woman sitting with her now, fair-haired like the prince.

‘Versini, you must know by now that I would never hurt her.’

The Shadowsmith leaned back against the pillar, his arms folded across his chest. ‘That doesn’t make you trustworthy. It just means you want to screw her.’

‘You do realize you’re in stabbing distance?’

He flashed his teeth. ‘Try it, Tunnel Rat.’

This arrogant prick.

And he just kept prodding.

‘You know, if you really cared about Sera, you’d find it in yourself to stop constantly threatening me, Ransom.’

‘I’m wary of you for good reason,’ he shot back. ‘You’re a Versini.’

Tensing, he bit out, ‘So what?’

Was he really so obtuse? ‘So you’re a direct descendent of Hugo Versini, the most notorious figure in the history of Valterre.

Your ancestors changed the face of this kingdom for ever, and for the worse.

They bastardized Fantome, sucked all the light out of it.

They plunged the City of the saints into darkness, all because of their own insatiable ambition.

The need to be better, richer, grander than everyone else. ’

‘I know the history,’ he said curtly.

‘ Your history.’ Ransom made a point of clarifying it.

‘What’s to say you don’t have that same streak inside you?

The slow-creeping urge to be greater than your Order?

Your friends? Your kingdom? What’s to say that’s not the real reason you want to save the prince, so you can watch how he trains Seraphine, and then find a way to use it to your advantage? ’

Versini’s nostrils flared. ‘You’re reaching, Dagger.’

Now it was Ransom’s turn to smirk. ‘Then why are you getting so worked up?’

‘ You are the assassin here,’ Versini hissed.

‘You murder for coin and then kiss the king’s ring.

You would sooner laugh at the will of the saints and raise a knife to the throat of one of their own than actually consider what might, in fact, be best for the kingdom, or indeed the woman you claim to give a shit about.

’ He huffed a mirthless laugh. ‘You’re the Head of Hugo Versini’s depraved little Order and you have the gall to judge me , you morally corrupt prick. ’

Turning his back to the prince, Ransom rounded on the Shadowsmith, training all his ire on him.

‘I became a Dagger because I had no other choice. At ten years old with no food and no coin, it was the catacombs or the bottom of the Verne for me. You had a family, a thriving village in Halbracht. You chose to become a Cloak. To spend every day with that black dust between your fingers, because it made you feel powerful, and important. Then someone even more powerful came along. Someone in possession of a kind of magic so alluring you just couldn’t resist. You followed it like a trail of breadcrumbs. ’

‘I followed her .’ Versini raised an accusing finger, bringing it dangerously close to Ransom’s chest. One more inch and that vial was coming out.

‘While you stayed behind to murder your way through the city. Over and over again. Killing rebels who have the nerve to picture a better life, a safer, brighter kingdom than the one you try to ruin every day of your miserable life.’

Ransom spoke through his teeth. ‘Every choice I make is about survival. Her survival. Her freedom. That includes when I kill someone. And when I let them breathe a little longer.’ He gestured behind him, towards the prince.

‘ You are a slave to your own ambition, Versini. The question is, just how far will it take you?’

Slipping out from under him, Versini jutted his chin. ‘You don’t know me, Dagger.’

‘I don’t have to know you.’ Ransom’s smile was cold. ‘As long as there’s power in play, a Versini can never truly be trusted.’

With a derisive snort, the Shadowsmith took a measured step back. ‘Keep stewing, Tunnel Rat. When she leaves the prince tonight, you’ll still be wearing her dead father’s ring, and I’ll be the one she confides in.’

He sauntered off without a second glance.

When Ransom turned around, Andreas and Seraphine were on their feet. Stepping way too close, the prince leaned in to murmur something in her ear. His eyes flicked to Ransom, his smirk slow and taunting, as he trailed a possessive finger down her cheek.

This fucker .

Ransom was already moving. Crossing the dance hall like a bullet, a vial in one hand and a knife in the other.

Looks like there would be murder tonight after all.