Chapter 29 Ransom
Ransom stormed off to the forest. The scent of lichen thickened as he crossed the treeline, and eventually he came upon a clearing where he could break whatever the hell he wanted. The trees loomed over him, looking gnarled and mournful.
He leaned against a stretch of bark and remembered to breathe.
Just … fucking breathe.
Shadows leaked from fists, blanketing the dirt. It was getting worse, the pull of his magic. His anxiety wasn’t helping, the fear of losing her was like a vice around his heart. He had reason to worry, even if Seraphine had set aside her better judgement.
Versini was a soul-eater. A thief of power. A saint-killer.
Fate had unmasked his true nature. Now it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to it. Ransom knew the temptation well enough already. Every day, the tide of his own darkness lapped ever higher.
More shadows spilled, wreathing the trees. Ransom paced. Blackness swirled, gathering in a tornado. Leaves skittered and took flight before withering to nothing.
More, demanded the old voice. You can do more.
More than snakes.
More than hounds.
Tipping his head back, he let his magic unspool. The dark streamed from him like smoke, the whole of the sky disappearing beyond its seething canopy.
And still that voice cried, More!
Alone in the black woods, he became an artist again, and conjured something new. Death filled the clearing, the moss on the trees turning to ash as his shadows clumped like wet clay. He crafted the body first, half an oak tall and ten times as wide, its barrel chest heaving with phantom breath.
The legs were next, each one thick as a tree stump.
Then arms, long and lithe, with claws so sharp they curved at the ends.
He tunnelled deeper still, diving into the pool of his magic.
With more power, he conjured scales of charcoal and midnight, and a ridged tail that wound all the way around the clearing.
The head then, and it was both mighty and terrifying, with orb-like eyes of silver mist. Last, he made the wings, each one wide enough to smother the sun.
With his back pressed to a tree at the edge of the clearing, Ransom had to tilt his chin to behold the entirety of his creation, this menacing portent of doom, this fearsome bringer of death.
It was beautiful, a thing of rage and teeth and power, made to strike fear into the hearts of his enemies. To soar and swoop and kill without remorse.
A creature that would make even the Strix of Urnica tremble.
A dragon spun from his darkest nightmare.
With a flick of his finger, the dragon took flight. It stirred the wind, or perhaps the wind stirred in fear, rushing from the clearing in a bracing gust. It rippled over Ransom, tossing his hair about his face.
A laugh erupted out of him, mad and wild and full of triumph, as he watched his dragon soar, its black wings crisp against the pillowy clouds.
More, urged the voice.
He should set it loose, see how far it would fly … A dragon with death on its wings, sweeping fast and low over the Verne, sowing terror and mayhem and—
Stop.
He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, stilling the rapids of his magic. Far above, the dragon faltered, its wings fraying as his shadows peeled away.
More, growled the old voice. You can do so much more.
‘Not yet.’ The sound of his own refusal grounded him. ‘No.’
Nausea roiled. He was at odds with himself.
Let it fly.
Let it kill.
He stumbled, coming down hard on his knees. Bunching his fists in the dirt, he tore his dragon out of the sky. It fell in ribbons, the trees shuddering at each caress. Leaves crumbled to nothing, bark peeling off in long curling strips.
It was almost impossible spooling back all that raw power. Like pulling up an anchor chain with his bare hands. His power keened as he muffled it, and an ache bloomed at the base of his skull.
Leaves crunched to his left, and a figure darted between the trees.
Ransom dragged himself to his feet. ‘Who’s there?’
The figure crouched behind a narrow trunk.
He stalked towards it. ‘Speak or die.’
‘It’s only me, Mr Hale!’ cried a familiar voice. Hands raised, and trembling from head to foot, Fabian leaped out from behind the tree, looking every bit the frightened rabbit. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just watching.’
‘You were spying.’
He shrugged, as if to say, So?
This fucking kid.
Fabian said, ‘The squirrels are dead.’
‘What?’
‘See? There.’ He pointed to a dead squirrel several feet away. And then another, beside Ransom’s left boot. ‘Did you mean to do that?’
Did it matter?
‘No,’ he said, frowning at the dead creature. ‘I was just…’
‘Making a dragon.’ The boy’s teeth winked. ‘The Strix are going to shit themselves.’
‘You shouldn’t be out here, Fabian.’
‘I wanted to see if you were all right.’ He was so unbearably earnest. ‘I heard what happened in the cloakroom.’
‘I don’t need your concern.’
‘You look all right to me,’ Fabian agreed. He seemed satisfied by his own assessment. Tipping the satchel off his back, he started rummaging around inside. ‘Do you want a sandwich?’
Ransom stared at him. ‘What?’
‘Well, you just made a dragon as big as a house. You must be starving.’ He removed a sandwich wrapped in a cloth napkin. ‘It’s roast beef. Still warm.’
For hell’s sake …
Ransom’s stomach rumbled.
Fabian grinned.
He stuck his hand out. ‘I’ll try a bite.’
Fabian plopped down on a nearby rock. ‘I’ll sit with you.’
‘There’s really no need.’
‘Mama always said it’s bad manners to let someone eat alone.’
Leaning against the tree, Ransom unwrapped the sandwich and nearly fainted at how good it smelled. Saints, he was starving. ‘Was it just the two of you at home?’
‘Only when Papa was out drinking,’ said Fabian. ‘Which was a lot. I liked it better that way.’
They had that in common: a drunkard of a father with cruel fists, and a family home no kinder than a prison.
Only, while Ransom’s mother had eventually fled his father, Fabian’s mother had died in their home.
Fabian had got away by the skin of his teeth, and, after coming to Ransom for sanctuary in the catacombs, had been sent here instead, to House Armand.
Not long after, Ransom had tracked Fabian’s father down at his local tavern and choked the life out of him.
For better or worse, he had the boy’s loyalty.
Ransom made quick work of the sandwich, Fabian watching all the while with a satisfied smile on his face. ‘Everyone thinks you’re going mad, you know.’
‘Maybe I am.’
The boy hummed. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re right.’
‘About what?’
‘Theo.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘My mother used to lie all the time. About the marks on her face, mostly. Or the sounds I used to hear at night. She said it was possums in the wall. But I know what crying sounds like. I knew even back then.’
Ransom balled up the napkin, listening intently.
‘When Mama lied, she used to chew on the edge of her thumbnail. Like this.’ Fabian showed him.
‘Theo does it all the time. And he drinks too. After midnight when everyone’s asleep, he sneaks into the pantry and takes the brandy from the top shelf.
Then he walks back and forth for hours. It’s like he’s afraid of something. ’
‘You shameless snoop.’ Ransom couldn’t help the note of affection in his voice. ‘I suppose you’re going to say he’s afraid of me.’
With a slow shake of his head, Fabian said, ‘I think he’s afraid of himself. I reckon there’s only so long you can be a soul-eater without eating any souls.’ He looked up, the innocence in his large brown eyes replaced by something sharper. Shrewder. ‘What happens when his magic starts to starve?’
The hairs on the back of Ransom’s neck rose. ‘Keep a close eye on him, Fabian. If you see anything suspicious, I want you to come to me at once.’
Fabian leaped to his feet like a dutiful soldier. ‘You can count on me.’
‘Good man.’ Ransom clapped him on the shoulder, leaving his hand there as they returned, together, to House Armand.