Chapter 10 Seraphine
Seraphine was sitting in Madame Mercure’s office, poring over a list of potential saints, when the door burst open. Ransom marched inside, like a soldier on a mission. Beneath a sweep of unkempt black hair, his eyes burned gold. A flock of menacing ravens circled their turret. His magic at work.
At the sudden intrusion, Madame Mercure shot up from her chair by the fireplace. ‘Were there no doors in the catacombs where you grew up?’ she fumed. ‘For hell’s sake, learn to knock.’
‘It’s urgent.’
When he spotted Sera in the chair opposite her, his gaze softened.
She turned the list on the coffee table face down. ‘What’s going on?’
It was only then that she noticed Theo three feet behind him. And beside him, a man Sera had never seen before. An Appoline scholar. His face was drawn.
Madame Mercure inhaled sharply. ‘So Provost Ambrose is dead.’
The scholar gave a grave nod. ‘They hanged him from the broken clock tower.’
‘And you’ve come to warn the Cloaks.’
The scholar jerked his head towards Sera, a spark of recognition in his eyes. He must have seen her when she visited the Appoline to look for Prince Andreas. ‘I’ve come to see the Saint-maker.’
Sera flicked her gaze to Ransom. He was staring at the piece of paper, like he could will himself to see through it: this secret list of names, makings that would take even more from her than before.
That seemed to be the way of things now – lingering headaches and gnawing anxiety, coughing fits she couldn’t seem to shake and, worst of all, the complete blackness of her slumber.
Gone were the dreams of her past life with Mama, the ancient voice of Saint Oriel, even the nightmares that used to wake her in the night.
Now, when she closed her eyes, there was nothing but an ever-reaching emptiness.
But she couldn’t stop at Val. A Saint of Truth was no small thing but it would not be enough to win the war.
Mercure screamed. ‘SERAPHINE!’
It all happened in a split second: the scholar stumbling, Theo lunging to steady him.
The scholar swinging a fist, knocking Theo to the ground. A flash of something sharp and shiny from inside his blue robe.
By the time Mercure screamed, the scholar was already leaping for Sera.
Ransom dived, tackling him by the waist. They careened into the fireplace. No time for magic. Brute force would have to do. He pinned him to the floor, one hand wrapped around his throat, the other reaching for the poker. He jammed it into the scholar’s jugular, bringing his face up close.
‘Big mistake, Jules.’
The scholar cried out, ‘I h-h-h-ave t-t-to.’
Ransom jammed the poker deeper, drawing a bead of blood.
Sera moved behind him, peering at the quivering man. The scholar’s eyes were glazed and there was a stiffness to him that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
She knew that look – he was not a man but a puppet. His strings were being pulled.
Andreas…
She laid a steadying hand on Ransom’s shoulder. ‘He’s been compelled.’
Ransom didn’t move.
Outside, his shadows swarmed, ravens seeping like smoke through the windows.
Madame Mercure edged towards the scholar. ‘What exactly have you been compelled to do, boy?’
When he didn’t respond, Theo said, ‘Kill the Saint-maker. Clearly.’
Without turning his head, Ransom half growled, ‘It wasn’t so clear when you walked him up the stairwell five minutes ago.’
‘I searched him like you told me to.’ Theo rubbed the bruise blooming on his jaw. ‘How was I supposed to know he’d make a weapon of his damn fountain pen?’
‘I would have known,’ snapped Ransom. ‘Seraphine once stabbed me with a letter opener. It fucking hurt.’
The scholar was shaking violently.
Sera almost felt sorry for him.
‘Speak,’ she pressed.
He gasped out, ‘I have a message for the Order of Flames.’
‘Which is?’
But with Ransom’s shadows crawling along the walls, the scholar was rapidly descending into a panic attack.
Ransom shook him. ‘The message. If you value your life, say it.’
Again, that glazed look came over him, and when he spoke again, his voice was clear and calm, as though it was not the young scholar but Andreas himself.
‘To the surviving members of the Order of Flames, listen well. Soon, Fantome will fall under my command and the kingdom as you know it will be mine. Kneel and swear fealty to me as your ruler, or meet a swift and bloody end. The choice is yours. It will be given only once.’
‘I’m guessing that little bit of theatre was for after I bled out,’ said Sera, dryly.
The fountain pen trembled in the scholar’s fist, its sharpened tip still stained with ink.
Slowly retracting the poker, Ransom said, ‘Give me one of those vials, Versini.’
Theo rummaged in his satchel, producing a vial of gold liquid and tossing it to Ransom. ‘This should counteract the prince’s compulsion.’
Brandishing the poker like a longsword, Ransom climbed off the squirming scholar. He set the vial down on the coffee table and said, ‘Drink.’
The scholar scrabbled to his feet. He picked up the vial. It shook so badly, he nearly dropped it.
‘Steady,’ said Theo. ‘That’ll get your mind right.’
‘I failed my task.’ He looked to Sera, an apology pooling in his eyes. ‘You are our last hope, Saint-maker.’
He let the vial drop and plunged the fountain pen into his neck.
Blood erupted, Sera’s screams drowning out the horrible gurgling as he fell to his knees. And then onto his chest, impaling himself.
He twitched, once, twice, then went utterly still.
As the pool of his blood lapped the toes of Cordelia Mercure’s fine leather boots, she wrinkled her nose and said to no one in particular, ‘What a sorry mess.’
A couple of hours later, once the scholar’s body had been removed from Mercure’s office, and the housekeepers were scrubbing his blood off her floor, the heads of the Orders convened in the vault.
It was teatime at House Armand, and although the table had been set with platters of sandwiches and bowls of fresh fruit, no one reached for a thing.
Even Anouk, so ordinarily unshakable, had lost her appetite.
Val, their newly minted Saint of Truth, hadn’t said a word since she’d sat down. She looked like she’d rather be a hundred miles from here.
Paola had come and was nursing a large glass of water.
Caught between the horror of that afternoon and the lingering effects of a gruesome hangover, she looked like a ghost of herself.
Tobias accompanied her, the younger Versini scooting his chair right up to the table before anyone had the good sense to kick him out. Theo was late.
While Sera was shaken by the attempt on her life, Ransom was thoroughly rattled. He sat next to her, a hand on her leg, as though he was afraid she might float away.
Madame Mercure swept inside at three minutes past the hour, wearing the strain of the day on her face. The kohl under her eyes was smudged and without their usual slick of colour her lips were unusually pale.
‘I’ve just received word from a scribe at the Appoline.
’ she began without preamble. ‘The scholar spoke true. The university has fallen. Provost Ambrose is dead. It seems Prince Andreas intends to throw a victory ball there in three nights’ time.
To mark his official claiming of the west, and to confirm his alliance with Urnica.
He will host a delegation from his cousin’s kingdom at the event in advance of his final march on Fantome. ’
‘A ball?’ Sera was overcome by a fresh wave of revulsion.
‘Surely he wouldn’t,’ said Anouk in shock.
‘Of course he would,’ said Val, sourly. ‘Remember Marvale?’
A sobering reminder. The prince had turned the famous red mills of the north into his own personal dance hall, where every trussed-up reveller was compelled by his magic to dance until their feet bled or they collapsed from sheer exhaustion.
Mercure was not yet done. ‘It appears it will be a masquerade ball.’
Albert bit off a curse. ‘Another charade.’
‘What predictable gall,’ muttered Fontaine.
‘Good,’ said Ransom.
They all turned to look at him.
‘How is any of this good?’ Tobias despaired. ‘Andreas is coming to Fantome and we don’t have anywhere near enough Lightfire to protect everyone.’
‘We’re not going to wait for him to come to us,’ said Sera, her eyes on Ransom.
With a cold, cold smile, Ransom said, ‘We’re going to kill him at the ball.’
This was their chance. They had a time. A place. The right diversion.
The silence was contemplative.
It was broken by the arrival of Theo who burst inside the vault carrying a parcel.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, unwrapping it. ‘I was putting the finishing touches to this.’
He removed a golden dagger from the paper and placed it on the table. It made for a fine centrepiece, commanding the gazes of everyone at the table.
‘Steelfire,’ said Theo.
Sera’s magic prickled in recognition. Across the table, Ransom, Anouk and Val all sat a little straighter, and she wondered if they were experiencing the same sensation.
Magic calling to magic.
And therein a threat.
‘Saintkiller,’ said Theo, naming it. ‘A blade that will kill Andreas.’
Leaning forward to claim the dagger, Ransom offered Theo a rare smile. ‘How many of these can you make in the next three days?’
‘Three days?’ Theo frowned, looking to the other saints. ‘What have I missed?’
Anouk smirked. ‘Shine your shoes, Versini. We’re going to a ball.’
As the mood turned, and hope took wing inside the vault at House Armand, Sera wondered if it was Oriel who had divined this clever timing.
This perfect opportunity.
We will not squander it, she vowed.
They could not afford to.
That night, after dinner, Sera returned to her bedroom to write the most important letter of her life. Sitting cross-legged on her bed while Pip chewed happily on the end of her sock, she scribbled furiously.
‘What is that?’ Ransom’s voice wafted from the doorway. Absent of the shadows that too often clung to him, his eyes were a warm autumnal hue.
‘I’m writing a response to the late provost’s article.’ His last act of defiance. His dying call to the kingdom. ‘I’m addressing the people of Valterre.’