Darkwalker (20 page)

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Your Grace,” Lenoir said. “I know you must be busy.”

“I doubt you know anything of my occupation, Inspector, but as it happens you are right. Busy enough that I have little time for empty formalities, so please come to the point.”

Lenoir shifted under Warrick’s piercing gaze. “I have some questions regarding the death of your son,” he said as neutrally as he was able. Warrick arched an eyebrow, but that was the limit of his reaction. Lenoir pressed on. “I realize that it has been a long time, but certain . . . recent events . . . have brought the case to my attention.”

Warrick regarded Lenoir silently, waiting for him to continue.

“I wish to emphasize that I am not here to open an investigation, or to reopen one, as the case may be. The events surrounding your son’s death are not my concern.”

The duke frowned. “You speak cryptically, Inspector.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace. That is not my intention, but these are complicated matters, and not easy to explain. I shall attempt to be plain. A boy has been kidnapped, and I have reason to believe that he is the intended victim of Adali magic.”

That got a reaction. Warrick snorted incredulously, and his mouth took a sardonic turn. “I am disappointed in our much-vaunted Metropolitan Police. Surely an inspector, at least, realizes that not all crimes are committed by Adali, the claims of the common man notwithstanding.”

“Your skepticism is understandable, Your Grace, but I assure you that I did not leap to this conclusion out of blind prejudice.”

“Oh?” Warrick’s dark eyebrows climbed a fraction. “You have irrefutable proof, do you?”

“Irrefutable? No
.
In more than twenty years of police work, I have rarely found evidence of that standard. Say rather that it is highly convincing.” Lenoir sat back in his chair in what he hoped was a confident posture. The familiar rhythm of the conversation was soothing his unease, allowing him to settle into his role as interrogator.

Warrick grunted. “What has this to do with my son?”

Lenoir steeled himself inwardly. “The magic they are attempting is intended to resurrect a dead child, one who died approximately ten years ago. That coincides roughly with the time of your son’s death, does it not?”

Something stirred behind Warrick’s eyes, but Lenoir could not identify it. Was it outrage? Anticipation? Shock? “One has so many questions, Inspector.” Warrick’s voice had chilled several degrees. “I am not sure what you are attempting to imply, but I am even more interested in how exactly you came to this fascinating conclusion.”

“I do not think it matters for the purposes of this discussion. Suffice it to say that my source is utterly credible. The kidnappers are attempting to use the body of a live child to host the soul of a dead one.”

Warrick rolled his eyes. “Do not waste my time with supernatural nonsense. The bottom line is that you believe the kidnappers intend to harm the child, is that correct?”

“They do indeed. The ritual requires the boy’s soul to be supplanted by that of another. If they succeed, the dead child will take over the boy’s body.”

The duke gave a hollow laugh. “Do not tell me that you actually believe in this magic?”

“Do you?”

Warrick’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Ahhh.” The sound escaped his lips in a long, drawn-out breath. “I understand now. You believe this is all done at my behest, is that it?” A cold smile crept across his face. “I really must commend you, Inspector. Few of your fellow champions of the law have had the courage to accuse me of anything over the years, and none so creatively. I wonder, however, if you should have checked in with your superiors before coming here. Your chief—Reck, isn’t it?—strikes me as a sensible man, far too sensible to have allowed you to come here on a fool’s errand.”

Normally, a warning such as this, from a man such as Warrick, would have given Lenoir pause. Indeed his entire approach to police work had been shaped by ruthless and powerful men. It was their impunity that had poisoned him, turned him into the cynical, pragmatic creature he had become. Their taint had driven him into the arms of the green-eyed man. But all that was past. He was immune now. A dead man could not be bought, could not be hurt. With nothing to gain and nothing to fear,
he
was the one with impunity.

“I am not concerned about the chief,” Lenoir replied casually, “nor am I impressed by your bluster. Quite frankly, Your Grace, I am disappointed. I had sized you up as a different sort of man from those I am accustomed to dealing with. Thinly veiled threats are the weapon of the manipulative and the affected. I would have thought you more direct.”

Warrick’s expression darkened, and he leaned across the desk. “You are an excellent judge of character, Inspector. I have no need of veiled threats, for I can be very direct indeed. Therefore, I suggest you choose your next words carefully.”

Lenoir swallowed hard, in spite of himself. But when he spoke, his voice was firm. “Tell me what you know, and I will ensure that you have nothing to fear from the Metropolitan Police.” Vincent, of course, was another matter, but that was not Lenoir’s concern. “Continue to withhold the truth, and I will find the boy anyway, and all those associated with this crime will be punished severely. I have no doubt that it will end with executions.”
No doubt whatsoever
.

Warrick laughed softly, seemingly genuinely amused. “Do you really think you can intimidate me with the law?”

Lenoir returned his gaze implacably. “No, Your Grace, I do not.” He stared into Warrick’s eyes, letting the import of his words sink in.

The duke’s smile waned, but it did not disappear altogether. He regarded Lenoir with a newly appraising look. “You are a hard man, Lenoir. You must be very good at your job.”

“I used to be.”

The duke frowned, but did not otherwise comment on the remark. “In any case, I know nothing of these matters. If a boy has been kidnapped, it was not done on my orders.”

“Then you did not hire these Adali to restore your son to you?”

“Regrettably, there are few Adali of my acquaintance,” Warrick replied dryly. “Nor do I believe in magic, Adali or otherwise. What civilized man does? I doubt this has anything to do with my son at all. It would make more sense for you to focus your efforts on the communities where such beliefs are common. Look into the deaths of local Adali children. God knows they lose a tragic number every year.”

Lenoir considered the duke carefully. If he was lying, he was doing a credible job of it. That proved nothing, of course. “I do not think one needs to believe in magic to try something desperate. When we are desperate, we will try anything.”

“It sounds as though you speak from experience, Inspector.” Warrick’s eyes bored into him.

Lenoir did not take the bait. It was time to bring this conversation to a head. “I am absolutely certain that whoever has taken the boy is attempting to resurrect your child.” It was a lie, of course, and Warrick would probably see through it, but it was still worth trying. “As I told you, my source is credible. Unless you would have the blood of someone
else’s
son on your hands, I suggest you tell me what you know.”

He knew he had gone too far the moment he said it. Fury swept into Warrick’s eyes like a possessing demon, and he sprang to his feet so suddenly that Lenoir half expected him to leap across the desk. As it was, Warrick retained just enough composure to remain frozen in place, shaking with rage. Lenoir would have stood up himself, but he shrank beneath the force of the duke’s glare.

“Get out,” Warrick said, his voice low and tremulous. Lenoir opened his mouth to reply, but Warrick cut him off, saying, “I swear before God, Inspector, if I have to tell you again, I will do so with a blade.”

The words inspired no fear. Instead Lenoir’s breast flooded with fury of his own. Not at the duke, but at himself, at his own stupidity. He had overplayed his hand, and he would get nothing further from Warrick. The miscalculation might very well cost Zach his life.

Lenoir stormed down the long drive, cursing violently. He had learned nothing, nothing at all that would help him find Zach. Whatever Warrick knew, he would never divulge it now.
A hard man
, the duke had called him, words spoken with grudging respect. Lenoir had overestimated how far that would get him.

He glanced at the sky. It was still early. He had until dark to think of something, anything, that would keep both him and Zach alive.

F
or the first time in several days, Zach knew where he was. That should have been comforting, but it wasn’t. If anything, it made him feel smaller, more forsaken, than ever before. That was because his captors had chosen the creepiest place in all of Kennian to stash him.

Zach had never much liked churches. When he was small, the nuns used to force him to attend prayers in the chapel at the orphanage, and every now and then he’d been dragged—literally—to weekend service at the larger of the two churches in the poor quarter. The nuns didn’t make him go anymore, though. They had long since grown tired of the pranks, the outbursts, the embarrassments. Zach had succeeded in making such a nuisance of himself that his immortal soul was deemed not worth the trouble, and that was fine by him. It wasn’t just that church was boring, though it was, or that its rituals were weird, though they were. Zach didn’t like the way church made him
feel
. He didn’t need to be told that it was wrong to steal, or to lie or cheat or any of the other things he did on a daily basis. God punished him for those things all the time, by making him go hungry, or letting him get beaten. The trouble was, God’s punishments forced him to commit those sins again, which in turn made God punish him more. Zach had asked the priests how he was supposed to break this cycle, and they’d told him to pray.

He wondered if he should pray now. It had never worked for him before; he still went hungry, still got beaten. But maybe God would hear him better if he prayed in a church. Churches were supposed to be Houses of God, after all, though admittedly Zach wasn’t sure about abandoned churches. He gazed up at the peeling frescoes and wondered if God was watching him through the sad eyes of the angels. If not God, maybe the angels themselves were watching, judging, already tallying the sum of his deeds so they would be ready with their verdict when he . . .

No,
he told himself firmly, pushing the thought away.
It’s just a building. And you won’t be here for long.
It wasn’t that hard to convince himself, since he was pretty sure he wasn’t meant to die like this. He’d always figured that if he got it someday, it would be at the hands of some archcriminal he’d been chasing for months. That was how big-shot inspectors went down. They didn’t get snuffed in churches for no reason at all.

His captors had brought him here last night, trussed up in a burlap sack like a kitten waiting to be drowned. He was surprised when dawn came and he could see where he was. He’d never been inside the abandoned cathedral, but every Kennian knew it. Zach had walked past it dozens of times, and had even tried unsuccessfully to break in once or twice, just to satisfy his curiosity. It was big and dark and deserted, which made sense, but it was also within the city walls, which didn’t. It seemed awfully brave of his captors to bring him back into the city when the hounds were out looking for him. Then again, maybe they knew that the walls were too thick for anyone to hear him scream. He’d certainly tested that theory.

Zach had no idea why they’d moved him, but he liked to think it was because Lenoir was getting close. Not that whisking him away would help; Lenoir would track his captors down wherever they went. Zach imagined the inspector kicking open the ancient wooden doors of the cathedral, a pistol in each hand, his figure silhouetted against the sunlight. Pigeons would erupt from the rafters in fright as Lenoir strode boldly between the rotting pews, his eyes burning with righteous fire. Zach’s kidnappers would try to flee, but Lenoir would bring them down with a puff of smoke from his flintlock. Over and over Zach pictured this scene, his imagination refining it a little each time. Maybe Lenoir would carry a saber instead of a pistol? No, the inspector was no swashbuckler—even Zach could see that. Besides, a pistol was better; it could drop a man from clear across the room, so the kidnappers wouldn’t have a chance to escape.

That was assuming there would be anyone around when Lenoir arrived. Zach hadn’t seen his captors since before dawn. For all he knew, they’d left the cathedral altogether.

His captors were planning something big for him, and soon. They probably meant to do to him what they’d done to the other boy, the one who’d screamed and screamed. Only this time, whatever had gone wrong was supposed to go right. Though no one said so, Zach knew instinctively that if it
didn’t
go right, people would die, and he would probably be one of them. He had to get out of here before that happened. Lenoir was coming for him, but that didn’t mean he had to sit around and wait, did it? If nothing else, it was probably a good idea to come up with an escape plan so he knew what to do when Lenoir started shooting.

Zach decided to map out his new location, as he’d done in the cellar and the farmhouse before it. Planting his heels and dragging his bottom, he inched his way out of the chapel and into the main body of the cathedral.

It was even spookier out here. Thin blades of light sliced between the boards covering the windows, casting the nave in ghostly relief. Wind moaned and wailed through unseen cracks, echoing eerily under the vaulted ceiling. Zach was uncomfortably aware of the space around him, of the empty gaze of stone generals peering out from the gloom, and he shivered against a chill that had little to do with the cold. He wondered if it was possible for churches to be haunted. He’d heard somewhere that the cathedral sat upon a vast web of catacombs, the walls of which were stuffed with corpses. It certainly seemed like the kind of place that would be haunted.

He dragged himself forward until he came to a sort of dais, a short set of steps that led to a pulpit fringed with a wooden rail. It was from this spot, he supposed, that the high priest once lectured everyone about their wickedness. It had long since been stripped of anything valuable or fine, yet it still seemed to radiate judgment into the shadows beyond, a virtuous island in a sea of sin. Zach paused to rest against the stairs. He was surprised how tired he was. He was used to going without much food, after all. On the other hand, he
wasn’t
used to being tied up and going without sleep for days on end.

A glint of metal caught his eye. It lay on the floor a few inches from his boot, lined up with the stairs. He shuffled closer. A metal cylinder about as big around as his fist was embedded in the floor, its top protruding about two inches from the tile. The rim was uneven, as though it had been filed down in a hurry. Something had once stood here—the Golden Sword, maybe?—that had been looted sometime in the past. Whoever took it hadn’t bothered to make a clean cut. However much time had passed, the metal still looked sharp.

Zach’s stomach did a little flip. Spinning on his bottom, he turned his back to the ring of metal, waving his fingers around until he located it. He shimmied back until he was almost sitting on top of it. Then he started to work at the ropes binding his wrists.

It didn’t take long, and when the ropes finally came free, Zach yanked his arms apart in triumph. The pain took him by surprise, so sharp and sudden that he nearly cried out. His wrists screamed in protest at their prolonged imprisonment, and his shoulders burned and tingled. Gingerly, he rotated his aching joints until they moved more smoothly. Then he started in on the bonds tying his ankles.

That was harder. He couldn’t get the leverage he needed against the metal ring, and his fingers were weak and uncertain. Eventually, though, he managed to get the knot free, and his legs came apart. Carefully, having learned from the experience of his arms, he tested his weight against his legs. Sure enough, he was wobbly, and he was grateful to have the stairs to lean against. But his legs had been less awkwardly situated than his arms, and after a few seconds, he was able to stand upright without much trouble.

“Maybe I won’t have to wait for Lenoir after all,” he whispered to himself, hearing the sound of his own voice for the first time in a very long time. How proud would the inspector be if Zach managed to get out of this all by himself?

He headed for the massive doors at the bottom of the cathedral. Shadows gathered around him as he drew farther away from the windows, and soon he couldn’t see anything at all. He had to feel along the wood until he found a metal ring, which he hauled against with all his weight. The doors did not so much as rattle. Zach patted and groped, but he couldn’t figure out where the two panels came together, much less how they were secured. He heaved against the ring again, but it was pointless. The doors stayed put.

There had to be another way out. He cast his mind back to the last time he was in a church, but it didn’t help. The church in the poor district was much smaller and laid out differently, and anyway he hadn’t exactly gone exploring. He had no idea where to look for another door. But there had to be one in a building of this size—he was sure of it. He just needed to find it.

He kept close to the walls, ducking through any archway or opening he could find. There were many, each one leading to a dead end, and it wasn’t long before Zach started to get frustrated. How many separate nooks did a single place of worship need? Zach didn’t know a chapel from a vestry, a library from a study, but this cathedral had them all, and none of them had an exit. The first fluttering of panic began to stir in his belly. He could feel the minutes hurtling by, a scary and unfamiliar sensation. Time had always felt like a vast desert stretching endlessly before him; now it slipped through his fingers like a fistful of sand. He started to consider the awful possibility that his captors might return before he could take advantage of his good fortune. He needed to find a way out, and he needed to do it
now
.

Finally, at the bottom of the south wing, Zach found a door. It wasn’t much more than a slab of gloom in the shadows, and stood ajar, judging from the chill air that gusted from it. Zach leaned into it with his shoulder and was rewarded with a slight shudder. Gathering his weight, he threw himself against it, hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. With a loud bark, the door swung free, sending Zach stumbling into a short corridor. He could see sunlight at the far end. A swell of triumph fueled his limbs, and he dashed forward.

He emerged onto a covered walkway surrounding a grassy courtyard overgrown with weeds. Vines sprawled across the pillars and choked the arcades, and moss erupted between flagstones caked in pigeon filth. A light rain drifted down from the sky, stringing watery jewels along the spokes of a large spiderweb. Zach had never seen this courtyard, and he knew with sinking certainty that it was enclosed by the cathedral walls.

But wait. . . .
Zach closed his eyes, remembering the facade of the cathedral as best he could. It had been a long time since he’d been in this part of the city, even longer since he’d paid much attention to the abandoned relic in its midst. But he could swear he recalled a second, smaller door, just to the right of the main doors in the western facade. That would put it at the bottom of the walkway where he now stood. Taking a deep breath and praying as best he knew how, Zach ran to the far end.

Sure enough, the door was there, and his heart leapt. That is, until he saw the chains wrapped around an ancient, rusted lock and realized that the door might as well be made of solid stone.

A sob caught in Zach’s throat, and he sank to his knees. He sat there, slumped in defeat, until a last spasm of defiance sent him hurtling against the door with a scream, his fists pounding painfully against the cold, unyielding wood. He beat the door until the pain became unbearable; then, his rage unspent, he seized a handful of vines and yanked. The stubborn plant didn’t budge, just one more implacable surface in this prison of wood and stone.

Zach paused. He considered the vines more carefully. Snatching up two fistfuls, he hauled against it with all his weight. Some of the thinner stalks snapped, but the bulk of it stayed put. Zach stepped out into the rain and peered up at the covered walkway. It looked flat on top, and was only a few feet shorter than the outer wall. If he could get up there, he could easily get to the top of the wall. Eying the vines again, Zach repeated his experiment with a thick batch growing along one of the pillars supporting the roof of the arcade. As before, it stayed anchored to the stone in spite of Zach’s best efforts to tear it free. Untold years of growing wild against porous, decaying stone had left the roots strong. He tested it one last time, reaching as high as he could and letting himself dangle from the vine. Miraculously, it held.

Zach pulled off his boots, doing his best to avoid the stinging touch of the thistles crowding the edges of the walkway. He tied the laces together and stuffed his already-soaking socks inside. Then he flung his boots up onto the top of the walkway. Choosing the pillar with the thickest vine, he reached above his head and wound his fingers though the ropy plant. Cautiously, he cocked his left leg and grasped the vine with his toes. He pulled.

Roots snapped, and Zach’s foot slipped, but he didn’t fall. Choosing his next foothold more carefully, he found a thicker stalk to anchor his right foot to, and spread his toes wider to distribute his weight. He heaved himself up. Once again, the vine tore free, but not enough to let him fall. Slowly, his heart in his throat, Zach climbed. So long as he didn’t move too sharply, or panic if he slipped a little, the vine would hold.

It took a long time to reach the top of the pillar, and Zach’s arms ached so badly that he almost didn’t have the strength to pull himself over the top. But he did, and he was so overjoyed that he lay on his back and giggled, heedless of the cold rain until he was almost soaked through. He pulled on his boots and heaved himself to the top of the wall surrounding the cloister.

Now he was presented with a new problem. The street was far below, too far for him to jump. The vines didn’t reach the other side of the wall, and there were no footholds he could see. He couldn’t climb, and none of the nearby buildings were close enough to jump to. He needed help.

Zach crouched on the wall, scanning the street for signs of life. For a long time, he saw no one, which wasn’t surprising for this part of town, especially when the weather was foul. Eventually, though, a youth appeared at the far end of the road.