Chapter 6 Terror
TERROR
Morning drifted lazily over the sleepy city of Lutesse like mist pouring off the Sequana.
I had spent the better part of the night trying to get comfortable in an unfamiliar place, so when the indigo sky finally crept toward bruised purple and then rusty orange, I felt relieved.
I pulled on one of Seff’s shirts—more structured than the men’s shirts I usually wore—and some pants that were much too big and had to be cinched with a belt and rolled several times to fit me.
But I made it work; the outfit wasn’t much different from what I would usually wear on my days off anyway.
We ventured into the chilly morning air to find sustenance—Seff had nothing in his apartment, and even though it was large and well furnished, it felt empty somehow. I felt a pang somewhere in my gut—was Seff capable of taking care of himself? Would he expect me to do that for him?
We hadn’t spoken much since the night before; I wasn’t sure what he was feeling. It had certainly seemed like he had enjoyed himself, but he had a grim expression this morning. I decided to give him time.
I needed some time myself. I had built things up with Seff so much.
I had wanted everything to be perfect. And as I tried to formulate my thoughts, I found myself making excuses to explain how things had actually gone.
We had been drinking. It was our first time together.
It would take time to learn about each other and figure out what worked.
I suppose I had just thought that sex with someone I cared about would be different.
Like the connection between us would make it better.
But in truth, I felt let down. I tried not to let it show on my face.
We found a little cafe down the street from Seff’s. It was narrow and bustling, warm and smelling of coffee and butter and vanilla—my favourite kind of place.
We sat with our coffees and pastries and Seff grabbed a newspaper.
My first sip of coffee was more satisfying than the entire experience with Seff had been.
My head pounded from the absinthe and champagne; there was a knot in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with alcohol.
Did Seff regret what had happened? That would have been a devastating blow to my ego.
He was so taciturn—I could not get a read on him.
He’d barely spoken two words since waking.
I wanted to go home. But I stayed, not wanting to upset Seff or make him uncomfortable.
As I was busy downing blessed caffeine as quickly as I could, Seff let out a menacing snarl. He was reading something in the paper that made him furious. Lines creased his pale forehead and his lip curled up as he read.
“Did something happen? What are you reading?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.
“See for yourself,” Seff replied, his voice gruff from disuse. I took the Lutesse Herald from him and read the headline.
Splashed across the top of the front page, in menacing black letters, were the words:
TERROR ATTACK IN LUTESSE.
“What happened?” I gasped as I read the headline. Nothing like this had occurred in Lutesse since the war. This was a time of peace. An attack in our city? The coffee sitting in my empty stomach curdled. Seff shook his head and inhaled deeply through his nose. I read on.
Someone had set off a bomb in a Scion church yesterday.
Not the main cathedral, but a smaller church, up the river.
The priest had been the only one inside.
He had not survived. The Lutesse City Police, gendarmes, had only one suspect—a man who they believed had orchestrated similar attacks in other cities throughout the years.
Ciaran Fahy. He was already wanted for terrorism in Cliatha and now terrorism and attempted murder in Lutesse.
The black and white picture beside the article was grainy but unmistakable: the dark hair, the depthless eyes and the swirling scars on the side of his face.
It was the man from the rooftop last night.
My hand shook so hard my coffee spilled all over the bistro table.
“Shit, Seraphina, are you okay?” Seff grabbed my cup before the entire thing spilled over; dark brown liquid swirled and pooled across the table.
“I met him last night,” I whispered. Seeing the man’s face in the paper had been so shocking that I blurted it out. I wished I could take it back immediately.
“What are you talking about?” Seff snapped, grabbing the paper back from me. He pointed to this picture. “This man? You met this man last night? Where? How?”
“On the rooftop of Montmartre. I went up there after I left the table. I just needed some time. I thought it was deserted but… he was there. Those scars… I would recognize him anywhere. It was him.”
“My God. Seraphina, do you have any idea how stupid that was? What did he do? Did he touch you?” Seff’s pale skin was turning beet red and splotchy, his brows knit together with rage.
“No. No, he was… fine… a little annoying, but he was a perfect gentleman. Once I saw I wasn’t alone up there, I came back down and that was that.
” I was omitting a lot from this story that I never meant to tell.
I didn’t have it in me to tell Seff about the singing—about the locked door.
And I definitely was not going to mention how that stranger had told me to ditch Seff.
“You’re serious? This all happened last night?
And you didn’t even think you should tell me about it?
You were alone with another man and you just lied about it?
” He raised his voice, yelling at me in the middle of the cafe.
People around us stared, pausing their own conversations to listen in.
“What if someone saw you? What would they think?”
“Calm down,” I whispered under my breath, eyes lowered to the table. “Nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened. Nothing happened. How am I supposed to believe you that nothing happened? You lied about the whole thing already!” He was making a scene. I put my hand on his arm to try to diffuse the tension. This was not the Seff I knew. Not the one I thought I knew anyway.
“I didn’t want to worry you after everything that happened with your father. And then we got distracted, so I hadn’t had the chance to tell you yet. I’m telling you now,” I pleaded. I had no shame. I would have done anything to get him to stop making a scene.
Seff paused. His shoulders dropped. The vein in his forehead that had been popping out a moment ago went back down. I kept my hand on his forearm, a firm but gentle reminder of what was real. His breathing slowed. “Seraphina, he is a very dangerous man, Ciaran Fahy. He and my father have history.”
“What do you mean? What kind of history?” I asked, curiosity piqued. It explained a lot about the man—Ciaran’s—reaction to the viscount and Seff. Still. I tried to imagine him as some kind of villain. If I was being honest, the viscount had a much stronger villainous air than Ciaran had.
“He is a scourge on our continent. Our city. One of the last of those who fought for the Old Ways,” Seff explained.
“The Old Ways are unholy—unnatural—witchcraft, given to them by the Demon Queen of Hell herself. The Church of Scion was the last bastion of good in Ereba. When they proclaimed that the Old Ways were heresy, they eradicated the witches and sorcerers: magic wielders who communed with the Demon Queen,” Seff explained.
I knew this history, vaguely. It was taught in school; magic had once been rampant across the land.
But it made things unequal: it gave those who had it an unfair advantage over the rest of us.
With it they could rule over us, enslave us, control us.
So it had to be outlawed. Eradicated was a polite word for what had happened.
Mass witch burnings had taken place across the continent.
“Ciaran Fahy and his followers believe that they must take out the Church so that the Old Ways can rule the lands again. They are trying to bring magic back to the city: they want to kill righteous, pious churchgoing citizens and enslave us with their witchcraft. They want a full-on massacre, and they believe that they are justified in doing so,” Seff continued.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it: the man I had met on the rooftop had been mischievous, for sure, annoying, but he didn’t seem evil.
Was he really working in the kitchens of Montmartre just hours after he had set off a bomb that killed a man in cold blood?
I couldn’t imagine it. I had felt such a strange pull toward him. Could my instincts really be that off?
“That’s… horrible,” I responded, the events of last night tumbling over and over in my mind.
“Lutesse is his latest battleground. He thinks that he will find it to be sympathetic to his cause because the city remains so liberal.” Seff sneered at that last word.
“Everything here is about art and poetry. There are no real Scion values. Artists are being led down the same evil path of the Demon Queen. Before long Ciaran Fahy will have everyone convinced that we were wrong. He is looking to continue to fight the war that was already won. They are fighting a lost cause. But they will do dangerous things in their attempt.”
A part of me bristled at this. Was I not an artist?
There was no demonic presence entering my mind.
I couldn’t care less about some holy battle taking place in realms that I wasn’t even sure I believed in.
But if it was making Ciaran and his people become a violent presence in our city, then I supposed it was not good.
Strongly held ideals like his lead to deadly consequences.
The war had proven that much. On either side.
“Seraphina, promise me that you will stay away from him. No matter what. He might be targeting you because of your relationship with me. He might be trying to get back at my father. No matter what he says or does, promise me that you will stay away. He is our enemy.”
So I promised to stay away from Ciaran Fahy, and I agreed that he was dangerous and an enemy. But I couldn’t help be just a little bit bothered that when it came down to it, Seff had been more concerned about what people would think than he was about my safety and well-being.
I was admittedly still shaken by the revelation of who exactly I’d met on the rooftop. And Seff’s outburst in the cafe had done little to calm my nerves. I hadn’t even finished my coffee, but I was as jittery and jumpy as I would have been if I had drank three on an empty stomach.
Seff seemed to have a plan in mind as we left the cafe, stepping into the morning chill.
“Where are we going?” I struggled to keep up with his long stride through the cobbled streets.
I was not yet so familiar with this north side of the Sequana.
I spent most of my time on the south side of the river, and I had no idea where Seff was headed.
“It’s Sunday,” he said. Not an answer.
“Yes. And?” I said, clopping along beside him.
“Mass.” He smiled down at me.
I stopped mid-stride. After everything that had occurred, the thought of spending the morning in church didn’t exactly hold a lot of appeal.
I had assumed that Seff would want to go back to his place or possibly just spend some time together, since I had very few days that were free from rehearsal.
“Oh,” was the only response I could muster, disappointment flooding through me.
“My parents will be there. I figure you can make things right with my father this way,” Seff continued, his long strides leading us in the direction of the massive cathedral.
Oh. Ohh. There were a lot of things I wanted to say to that statement.
For instance, perhaps Seff’s father should be trying to make things right with me, since he had spent the better part of the previous evening insulting me, my parentage, my life choices, right down to my body.
But instead I stuffed that response down.
Things were already more complicated than they needed to be.
I didn’t need to turn this into an argument too.
So I smiled sweetly and looked up at this man I was sure I adored, and I told him that I would love to go to Mass with him.
I closed the door on the part of my mind screaming that this was wrong.