Page 64 of The Rebel and the Rose (The City of Fantome #2)

Smoke seared Ransom’s eyes and licked his skin as he crawled to Seraphine. Frantically calling her name, he dragged the bodies away, then cupped her face between his hands.

‘Come on, spitfire. Wake up,’ he said against her lips. ‘Wake up and fight.’

She groaned, slowly coming to.

‘Hey,’ he said, lifting her arms around his neck. ‘Stay with me. We’re getting out of here.’

Nodding dazedly, she held onto him, and he hoisted her up from the floor. She stood on shaking legs, and he curled his arm around her waist to keep her upright. Both struggling for air, they made for the entryway, only to meet a wall of flames. The back half of the ballroom had caved in entirely.

It was only a matter of time before the rest of the ceiling came down. If they didn’t suffocate before that. The flames lashed out, forcing them back towards the only place that wasn’t burning. Choking badly now, they had no choice but to make for the balcony.

Ducking between the bodies hanging there, Ransom swung her out onto the balcony, putting her as far from the hungry flames and raining rubble as he could. They staggered towards the stone balustrade, tipping their heads back to gasp at the clean sea air.

The sea wind rushed over them, chasing the smoke away. Ransom inhaled, filling his lungs. Far below, the last of the king’s guests spilled like rats from the palace, wailing as they scattered into the night.

Seraphine sagged against him. ‘You came back,’ she rasped. ‘I knew you’d come back.’

‘I never meant to leave you,’ he said, sliding his hands through her hair, falling into the moonlit light of her eyes. They were trapped in a nightmare, but this moment – these precious seconds – felt like a dream. ‘Forgive me, Sera.’

‘Forgiven.’ Her eyes streamed. He wiped the tears with the pads of his fingers. Her smile wobbled. ‘For an assassin, you are really good at saving my life.’

Only yours .

‘I’m afraid now we both need saving.’

She turned around, her back flush against his chest as she took in that searing wall of flames. And those four hanging bodies now burning to a crisp. They snapped and fell one by one.

‘We have to jump.’

‘We will die,’ said Ransom, with unerring certainty.

Her frown said she knew it too. She raked her hair back, tying it into a knot at the base of her neck. It occurred to him that if he jumped first, it would better her chances of survival.

‘I have an extremely reckless idea,’ she said.

Darting over to the palace wall and braving the encroaching heat, she ripped down the last surviving King’s Day banner.

It stretched to at least sixteen feet. Not enough to bridge the descent, but it would get them close.

They went to work, securing one end of their makeshift ladder to the balustrade.

‘This is either the best idea you’ve ever had, or the worst,’ he said, sending up a silent prayer to Saint Oriel.

Let it hold. Let it work .

Seraphine tossed the banner over the side, and watched it unfurl towards the gardens. ‘If it’s the worst, at least I’ll be too dead to care.’

Ransom had wanted to go first to cushion her fall. But the banner wasn’t strong enough to guarantee two descents and the odds of survival were better for the first climber.

‘After you,’ said Seraphine, standing back.

He summoned a smirk. ‘What’s the matter, spitfire. Are you afraid of heights?’

Wrinkling her nose, she hissed, ‘ Never .’ She swung her leg over the railing. Ransom held her arms, lowering her down. She wound her feet around the banner, grabbing the material with both hands.

‘Go steady,’ he said, as she slid from his grasp.

Heart pounding furiously, he was more terrified of that drop than the heat surging at his back. The flames were licking his ankles now. He kept the discomfort from his face, holding her gaze as she slowly lowered herself down.

‘Good, spitfire. Just like that.’

The wind picked up, tossing her about.

Voice trembling, she looked up at him. ‘How much longer?’

‘Not long now. Keep your eyes on me.’

His legs were burning.

‘Ransom?’ The banner twisted back on itself, and for a heartbeat, she lost her balance. The rope at the top was fraying.

‘Keep going, Seraphine. You’re almost there.’

She squeezed her eyes shut, sliding hand over hand, tugging at the weakening rope. He tightened his fists around it, holding it taut. Breath ballooned in his chest, the flames now lashing his back. Menacing amber flickers crowded his periphery, but his eyes were on her.

‘Just a few more feet.’

She opened her eyes. ‘Ransom, the fire .’

‘Never mind about the fire.’

Too late. She let herself go, falling the rest of the way. Darkness enveloped her, the distant thud heralding her fall.

‘Fuck.’

‘Still alive,’ she croaked, before his heart stopped entirely. ‘Hurry.’

Ransom swung himself over the balcony, throwing himself at the mercy of the fraying banner. He didn’t dare look up again, his palms burning as he slid fast and hard towards the ground.

He was halfway down when the rope gave way with a fateful snap . He pitched backwards, the fire glimmering above him as he plummeted down, down, down—

‘ Oomph !’

The landing was softer than he was expecting, owing to the crushed rose bush underneath him. The pain in his shoulder told him it was dislocated. Seraphine, who had landed in the flowerbed to his left, was cradling her ankle.

‘How bad is it?’

‘A bit mangled,’ she huffed. ‘I think I can walk.’

Shouts sounded in the distance, the clatter of bootsteps heralding nearby soldiers.

‘Running would be better,’ he said, urgently. After grabbing a sword from a dead mercenary and hooking it to his waist, he helped her up, tucking his good arm around her waist.

They made for the gates, staggering down the steep hill to where the Verne flowed towards the midnight sea.

Ransom spied twin glints of silver hair up ahead.

The Versinis, Val and Anouk were a quarter of a mile away, heading west along the riverbank.

Most of the others had fled east, scattering across the rocky shoreline. No sign of Nadia or Caruso, or Lark.

They turned west too, following the river. Darkness enfolded them, the sea wind dragging clouds across the stars. Up ahead, the younger Versini had spotted them. He stalled downriver, waving his arms back and forth.

Ransom quickened his steps. ‘Almost there.’

Seraphine grunted. ‘So tired.’

They stumbled on.

Behind them, the Summer Palace was ablaze, a mighty torch against the darkening sky.

Its reflection turned the river water amber, the flames dancing in the far-off sea.

Gone was the king and his favoured seat of power.

Who would replace him in the cold light of morning?

Would Andreas heal and live to terrorize Valterre?

To chase Seraphine, his coveted rose, to the ends of the continent?

Doubt gnawed at Ransom. A part of him wanted to turn around and see his mission through. To look for the friends he had left behind.

‘Old friend…’ As though summoned by the thought, Lark’s voice echoed through the night. ‘Where are you running to?’

Ransom halted. Tucking Seraphine into his side, he scoured the darkness, finding Lark just up the hill.

He was standing by the entrance to the royal graveyard, that sacred wedge of land that flanked the Summer Palace and looked out over the South Sea.

Even in death, the revered kings and queens of Valterre still had the best view.

In the darkness, Lark’s golden eyes were like torches, illuminating the Daggers at his side.

Lisette was there, along with half the Order, the thirty or so power-hungry assassins who had chosen to side with the untried People’s Saint.

Ransom expected it of Lisette, but the sight of Nadia standing at Lark’s right-hand side struck him like a blow.

Caruso, too, had chosen his side, though he hovered apart from the others, unusually quiet.

‘Why aren’t you running?’ Ransom called back. ‘You’re alive. You’re free .’

‘Why should I run?’ Lark parried. ‘I’m a saint now, thanks to your little firecracker. This is where I belong.’

‘In a graveyard?’

‘In a palace.’ Lark laughed. ‘Haven’t you been listening? The Age of Kings is at an end. The kingdom is ours for the taking.’ He gestured to the Daggers that crowded him. ‘It’s time to crawl out of the man-made dark and seize our place on the throne of Valterre.’

‘There is only room for one person on that bloodstained throne,’ said Ransom. ‘And he has no interest in sharing it.’

‘We’ll see,’ was all Lark said.

Ransom shook his head. ‘So this is where your loyalty ends.’

‘You’re one to talk about loyalty.’ With a derisive snort, he pointed at Seraphine. ‘ She fucking murdered me! ’

‘She made you a saint!’

‘Which you figured out all of one hour ago,’ scoffed Lark. ‘How long were you screwing her before that? Enjoying the taste of your best friend’s murderer?’

Ransom bared his teeth. ‘Tell yourselves whatever you need to, but tonight, you’ve sold your souls to Prince Andreas. And trust me when I tell you, he will mangle them – and you – as he sees fit.’

Nadia was the only one who flinched. But still, she refused to step away from Lark, to sacrifice that decade of loyalty they had built down in the catacombs. The love they’d fostered in secret. A part of Ransom understood. The other part hated her for it. For making him feel like a traitor.

Lark clucked his tongue. ‘And you sold your soul to the Saint-maker. If you think Andreas is more of a danger to Valterre than her , then you’re a shittier Dagger than I thought.’

‘I’m done being a Dagger.’

Angered by Lark’s taunt, Seraphine found a modicum of strength, and with it, called out, ‘Stay here and worship your tyrant. Bow to the man who intends to control the free thoughts of Valterre. If you think I’m worse than Andreas, I promise you I will be.

Move against me or my friends and I swear to Saint Oriel, I will do everything in my power to unmake you, Lark Delano. I will put you back in the ground.’

‘Fighting words.’ Lark sauntered forward, his steps lazy and unthreatening, but there was a predator behind those eyes, the glimmer of some new, deadly ambition that set Ransom’s teeth on edge. ‘Call it now, Ransom. You’re either with us or against us.’

Tightening his hold on Seraphine, Ransom backed away from his friends, his family, the people who once meant everything to him.

‘Don’t make us chase you.’ Frustration rippled in Lark’s voice.

‘Make your own choices. And I’ll make mine.’

‘We need the girl, Ransom.’

Seraphine raised her middle finger.

Ransom palmed the hilt of his sword. ‘Over my dead body.’

Lark gave a small smile. The hairs on the back of Ransom’s neck rose. He knew that smirk. It was the same one he offered a mark right before a kill.

There came a bracing sweep of wind. It didn’t roll in from the sea or skim the river. It came from the graveyard. The earth there trembled, a low moan gathering in the breeze. Raising his sword, Ransom backed away, making a shield of his body.

‘Run,’ he urged Seraphine. ‘Get to the others up the riverbank.’

She gripped him tighter. ‘Not running. Not without you.’

The night air filled with the sound of shattered stone and churning earth.

Something primal stirred the air, a wrongness snatching at them from the yawning shadows.

Nadia glanced over her shoulder. Whatever she glimpsed in the graveyard made her curl her arms around herself and shuffle closer to Caruso.

Jaw straining, Lark raised up his hands.

Seraphine stiffened, muttering, ‘ Saints above .’

Ransom smelled the skeletons before he saw them, the putrid rot of mulch and bone and maggots bleeding through the air.

A cloud passed in front of the moon. When the light returned, all the dead kings and queens of Valterre were standing in the graveyard.

An army of rotting bones still wearing their beautiful golden crowns.

Some were dragging rusted swords behind them.

‘ Lark .’ Ransom said the name like a curse, moving quicker now. Putting as much space between them and the dead as possible. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Is it not clear?’ Lark stepped aside, ushering his makeshift army through the gates of the graveyard. ‘I am necromancing.’

Composures wavering now, many of the Daggers turned away. Caruso braced himself against the low wall. Nadia doubled over, vomiting on the grass.

‘ All saints ,’ whispered Seraphine. ‘We’re screwed.’

Still ragged with pain and exhaustion, they turned and bolted for their lives.

The dead chased them.