Chapter 31 Paris of the Dead
Daphne
Paris of the Dead
The train hissed into Gare du Nord in a plume of steam. Brakes screeched. The street lanterns cast long, flickering shadows over the colorful crowd. Emrys stepped off first, offering a hand. I hesitated only a moment before taking it.
The station’s iron ribs stretched overhead, swallowing the whistles of the porters and hasty goodbyes. We crossed the marble floor, past iron-wrought gates and a wall of glowing timetables.
Paris smelled of coal smoke and rain-soaked stone. The Eiffel Tower loomed in the distance, still unfinished—its frame rising like skeletal fingers toward the night sky. It was drizzling, and Nibble gave a disgruntled squeak when I opened the hatbox.
“Check the sky, Shadow,” Emrys said. “Let’s see if we tripped over any of the Eclipse’s booby traps.”
We walked the night streets of the city I’d always dreamed of seeing.
Hooves clopped against the pavement, violin music drifted from cafes, and laughter spilled from balconies overhead.
Instead of excitement, it made me uneasy.
People moved strangely. One man tipped his hat to us, but when I glanced back, he was gone.
Another passerby’s face flickered like bad glass, revealing hollows where eyes should’ve been.
“Did you see that?” I asked and tightened my grip around his arm.
“Yes. And I don’t like it one bit.” His eyes drifted to the rooftops, where winged shades flew low. Their wings didn’t beat—they glided. Too silent. Too smooth. I struggled to keep up with his stride, but I walked stiffly, my knees locked.
“They’re here,” Nibble whispered from the feet of a statue, where he tried to blend in with the wet, gray pigeons.
Emrys quickened his pace. “I know. Stay safe, my friend.”
“What’s the plan?” I glanced at the dark sky.
“The plan remains the same. The Surge will begin soon. We need to get there. When the ritual is complete, and my power is restored, they’ll regret they followed us here,” he said darkly.
“Where is this Surge?” I asked. We had been walking for a while already, and the streets were empty, washed clean by the rain. My cloak was wet and heavy, and my feet were aching. We had almost reached the base of the unfinished tower, surrounded by scaffolds.
He halted, peeking over his shoulder. “Just beneath that metal monstrosity they’re building. There’s an entrance to the catacombs below.”
The word echoed in my bones, making the hairs on my arms stand up.
The legendary Paris catacombs! Grandfather used to tell us ghost stories about this eerie place, which has been harboring the bones of millions since the Middle Ages.
Adventure seekers, artists, and scientists sought to enter the halls that stretched for dozens of miles deep beneath the city, and some never returned.
I loved my grandfather’s travel stories, but this one always gave me chills.
I chewed on my lip. “Just beneath the tower? Not the most discreet location.”
Emrys nodded. “Correct observation, Miss Daphne. Somehow, mortals sense the places where ley lines cross and magic erupts. They started building temples and placing obelisks on top of them since they left the caves.”
I shuddered.
Mortals. My kind.
Emrys was really something else. Something ancient and powerful I’d decided to trust, for now. But the hidden contempt in his words was sobering. Our goals were aligned for now, but I didn’t want to find out what it would be to have him as my enemy.
The closer we got to the tower, the heavier the air became. Not only the scent—though the smells of damp stone, roasted chestnuts, and horse manure clung thick—but the weight of something unseen pressing in from all sides.
“I can feel it, Emrys.”
“So can they.” He pointed at the large, winged shadows darting through the low-hanging clouds. “Hurry, Miss Daphne.”
The iron scaffolding around the tower was so close I could see every detail.
Workers had gone for the night. Emrys abruptly changed direction and pulled us into a dark alley I could swear had not been there a moment ago.
In the soot-covered walls, a heavy gate stood ajar. A narrow stairway led down into shadow.
Emrys halted, and his hand closed around mine. The warmth of his callused skin made my fingers curl beneath his touch.
“Miss Daphne,” he said, his face serious, “this is a point of no return. Once we go in, there’s no turning back.”
I narrowed my eyes to pierce the twilight. Was that concern on his face? My heart was thumping in my throat. “Does that mean I have a choice?” I asked. His gaze darted to the door and the darkness beyond it.
“I want you to be aware of the risks. We might get swarmed by Hollowborn. I prefer to have your… cooperation.”
Oh. So that was his concern. He was making sure I’d follow him willingly into this, and he wouldn’t have to drag me through the catacombs screaming and kicking.
“Well, just as I thought. My options are limited.” I shrugged and wiggled my hand out of his grip. “Let’s get it done.”
He stood for a moment there, then nodded and headed to the door.
The sounds of the street faded behind us.
The crumbling stairs led us deep until we reached a stone corridor.
It narrowed quickly, the ceiling so low I had to duck.
The air turned damp, cool, and heavy, with a scent that reminded me of wet chalk and wilted flowers.
Light sprang to life and cast our shadows across the walls. Emrys had found a torch.
“I don’t like this place,” I whispered.
“That makes two of us.” He sounded distracted, his gaze tracking something I couldn’t see.
I brushed my fingers along the walls as we walked.
Old quarry marks were etched into the limestone alongside more recent scrawls.
It was quiet, that kind of quiet that made your hair stand up and your heart beat too loud.
We passed a wall where skulls were stacked neatly between long bones as if arranged by some mad artist. The empty sockets seemed to watch us. I looked away.
“Did people really think this was a good place to put the dead?” I muttered, hugging my cloak closer.
“Paris ran out of space. And when you bury bodies shallow, the water rises, the bones float.” Emrys glanced back at me. “This was their solution.”
“How comforting.”
We came across reminders that others had visited this place as well. A dusty bottle of wine and two glasses, wilted rose petals scattered around, a discarded sketchbook, names scribbled with coal.
The tunnels forked and twisted in ways that made no sense.
My head spun, numbed by the monotony of the descent, and my calves ached.
We must have walked for more than an hour now.
Emrys didn’t seem to need a map. He moved with quiet purpose, turning left and descending deeper, past a bricked-off chamber and down a spiral staircase where the steps were slick with moss.
I didn’t ask how he knew the way. I feared the answer.
Something skittered in the dark behind us. I spun.
“It’s a rat,” Emrys murmured but sparks showered from his hand.
Magic.
We passed a low archway carved with symbols I didn’t recognize—ancient, older than Latin. They pulsed faintly as we crossed beneath them. My skin prickled.
The air changed.
It was subtle at first—warmer somehow but charged. I felt it in my teeth, in the marrow of my bones.
We entered a vaulted chamber, the walls domed and wet with condensation. Carved symbols glowed faintly in a circle along the floor. A stone altar rose at its center, cracked with age, the air above it shimmering like a heat haze.
“This is it,” Emrys said. “The Crossroads. We made it right on time.”
I stepped closer. The vibration in the chamber wasn’t just energy—it was a pulse. Slow. Ancient. And waiting.
Emrys dropped to one knee and placed a palm on the stone.
“This place is older than Paris, Miss Daphne. Older than Rome. The lines converge here. The dam will burst in a moment.” He looked up at me, gray eyes glowing with something almost reverent.
“I’ll harness the magic released—it’ll be enough to sever the bond between us. Regain my power.”
I cleared my throat and glanced around, unsure of what to do.
“I am ready. What should I do?” He pushed himself up and stepped toward me, so close that his breath brushed my face.
I looked at him as if I’d never seen him before—the proud line of his nose, his high cheekbones, the curl of his full lips, that not-so-human shimmer of his eyes.
“You need to stay close to me, Miss Daphne.” His fingers locked around my wrist and pulled me close, his long dark lashes shading the silvery shimmer of his gaze.
His other hand brushed my jaw, sending trembles down to my core.
“I need to feel you.” He whispered, his lips brushing my ear. My knees nearly buckled.
He took a deep breath. “It’s beginning.” He was so close that the outlines of his body pressed against mine through my clothes. My pulse quickened.
Focus, Daphne, I scolded myself and looked around, desperate for distraction.
The room filled with a distant chime. He murmured words I couldn’t understand, drawing symbols in the air that glittered and floated to the domed ceiling.
The deep thrum of magic got so intense that the floor shook, and dust showered from above.
Light wisps, glowing in colors I never knew existed, floated around us, and I sensed it.
A deep, gut-twisting force pulled something from my chest. As if something had been taken from me.
His magic. He was taking it back. Why did it hurt so badly?
Why did it leave such a terrible, cold abyss?
I took a sharp breath. The sooner this was over, the sooner I’d be on the first train to Milan.
“Do not be afraid, Miss Daphne. I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.
But I need to get back what is mine.” A crack ran along the wall as the magic surging around us was roaring like a storm.
The pull grew too strong to bear, and I panicked.
I tried to free myself, but his grip was steely. Relentless.
Suddenly, his eyes widened as if he had just discovered something. He parted his lips to say something.
Then—out of the corner of my eye—I saw a flash of movement.
I froze.
A man was standing behind Emrys.
Only… not a man. His face was slack, his eyes clouded over. He swayed like a puppet with tangled strings. Behind him, another figure emerged. And another. One woman. One child.
All wrong. Dressed like the Parisians from the streets but moving in a strange way, their joints bending at odd places. Their faces distorted, decay flashing beneath their skin, like those girls in the train powder room.
“Emrys,” I breathed. “They’re coming.”
The pull stopped so abruptly that I nearly collapsed. Emrys roared a curse.
“Stay behind me, Miss Daphne,” he commanded. “If one of us dies now, we’re both dead!” He turned his back to me and produced a sword out of thin air.
“What are they?” I asked, while my fingers closed around a large stone lying on the floor. I wasn’t going down without a fight.
“Twisted Ones. Puppets of the Renegade. Creatures from the deep dark. They wear humans like suits of skin.”
Great. And I was getting ready to fight them with stones.
Shapes twisted in the shadows. Faces flickered. More of them crowded the room.
“I cannot finish the ritual,” he growled over his shoulder, swinging.
My stone hit a police officer in the shoulder, breaking his momentum at the right time.
Back-to-back with Emrys, we had found some odd rhythm.
My rocks slowed the Twisted down, but it didn’t look good.
There were too many of them. Bodies piled on the floor before Emrys’s feet, but more were coming.
“I can’t control the Surge anymore,” Emrys groaned.
The room exploded with shrieking shadows. Runes cracked. Magic surged, roaring wild and uncontained. Emrys fell to one knee, clutching his side, blood soaking through his coat.
“Emrys!”
He raised a shaking hand. “I can’t finish the ritual. I have to contain the unleashed magic. If I let the Renegade reap it—”
A flash of light erupted—blinding, searing, followed by a ripping sound like a cloth tearing across the sky.
The catacombs vanished in a scream of brilliance, and the world split open beneath me. I was falling.