Darkwalker

CHAPTER 12

He couldn’t breathe. He had been running for too long; every part of his body protested. His thighs trembled as he doubled over to catch his breath, and his heart thundered so that he could feel it in his temples. He glanced up at the sky, but it was obscured by a cataract of cloud, making it impossible to tell the hour. How long did he have until sunrise? Unless it came soon, there was no chance of him escaping. Not this time.

Mustering what strength he could, Lenoir loped to the end of the alley, but was dismayed to find that it opened into a courtyard. A dead end. The alley was short—perhaps he could retrace his steps in time to find another way. But when he turned he saw them again: eyes in the darkness, eyes that flashed like a cat’s, yet stood too far off the ground to be anything but a man’s.

He whirled back to the courtyard, praying to find an escape route that he had missed before. Perhaps he could climb a balcony, or find a place to hide? But he knew better: he was not a climber, and there was no hiding from his pursuer. Those green eyes could pierce stone.

He ran to a doorway at the far end of the courtyard and pounded on the heavy wood, the blows reverberating within the enclosed space. But the door did not open. No lamp was lit; no one was coming to Lenoir’s aid. And now the green-eyed man had stepped into the courtyard. He moved with uncanny grace, his step liquid. Raven black hair framed a youthful face so pale and beautiful it could have been shaped from marble. And like a sculpture, his expression was fixed, showing no pity, nor any hint of human feeling. His eyes were the color of absinthe, burning with a light that was unmistakably fey.

The green-eyed man loosed the scourge from his belt, that many-tongued whip that sought Lenoir’s flesh. And with a flourish of his wrist that seemed no effort at all, he sent its barbed lashes forth.

The scourge gripped Lenoir’s forearm near the elbow, jerking him to his knees. At first his terror was such that he could make no sound. When finally he screamed, it was with a violence that seemed to tear the inside of his throat. The barbs pierced his arm, but the pain was nothing, nothing compared to the sickening sensation of his flesh dying. There was something wrong with the whip, something terrible, a malevolence so potent that it made him nauseous. A chill rushed up his arm, filled his chest. . . . Now he could feel his consciousness ebbing, as though the barbs piercing his flesh were tiny vampiric fangs, draining his lifeblood. . . .

Lenoir woke to the sound of his own screaming. His frantic gaze took in the room around him, and at first he was wildly disoriented. After a moment his mind sparked to life and he knew he was in his own apartment. Yet the nightmare had been so real, so visceral, that he clutched at his arm, his fingers seeking proof that the scourge was no longer constricted around him like a snake. He felt the familiar numbness below his elbow, cold skin stretched over dead flesh that his blood never warmed. He was used to the morbid sensation by now, but for the first time in ten years, he half fancied that his flesh prickled somehow, like a limb gone to sleep that was slowly regaining circulation.

Lenoir heaved himself out of bed and went to the washbasin to splash water on his face. It was cold and bracing, for he had left his window ajar the previous afternoon and had been too out of sorts to bother closing it when he returned home from Berryvine. He stared at his reflection in the looking glass, willing himself to gain some mastery over his still-fluttering heart. It would do no good to panic, he told himself. If the green-eyed man was really here in the Five Villages, there would be no escaping him. Luck had saved Lenoir the last time, such luck as never visited the same man twice. The nightmare had been vividly accurate in every detail save one: it had been early morning when Lenoir found himself cornered in that courtyard ten years ago—not night as it had been in the dream. Dawn had broken at the far end of the alley, sending a lance of sunlight into the courtyard, and somehow that had saved Lenoir’s life. He could not remember what happened, for he had been virtually unconscious by that time. But he remembered seeing the light, remembered wondering if it was a sliver of Eternity peeking through as the door to Heaven closed, barring his entry. And when he woke, the green-eyed man was gone, along with the terrible scourge he wielded. The only sign that he had ever been there was the scar on Lenoir’s arm, that hideous patch of gray skin that would never again feel warmth, nor any other sensation at all. Forevermore it would feel as though someone else’s flesh had been grafted onto his own, thick and foreign. Forevermore Lenoir would carry that reminder of his brush with death, of his cheating the avenging angel that hunted him.

Yes, an angel, or a demon, perhaps. Either way, Lenoir knew with absolute certainty that although he thought of his attacker as “the green-eyed man,” he was nothing of the kind. Men did not carry cursed weapons that sap human life with a mere touch. Men did not vanish from one shadow only to reappear in another. And no man alive had ever had such eyes—that violent, uncanny green that glimmered as though lit from within. Not a man, but a spirit—a vengeful spirit that sought Lenoir’s blood in payment for his sins.

That morning in the courtyard had been Lenoir’s last in Serles. He had boarded a stagecoach that afternoon, away from his city, away from his country and everything he had ever known. He had gone north to Braeland, that mist-cloaked isthmus stretching like a bridge across the veil to the underworld, the last outpost of civilization before reaching the savage shores beyond. He never saw his pursuer again. He thought he had escaped forever.

But I was wrong. He has come. How could he possibly have found me? But he had, and what was worse, he seemed somehow to be connected to Zach’s disappearance. It must be so, for though there had been many murders in the Five Villages since Lenoir had been here, none had borne the telltale marks of the scourge.

He would drive himself mad thinking about it. He had to get out of the apartment, had to find company. Lenoir grabbed his coat and headed out, making for his destination by instinct more than conscious thought. He needed someplace crowded, someplace familiar and comforting. And he needed a drink. He could only think of only one place that would do.

Zera herself met him at the door. To his inquiring glance, she said, “I had to fire my doorman. You just cannot imagine what he’s been up to.” She raised her eyebrows significantly, but she did not elaborate, and Lenoir did not ask. “Besides,” she continued, looping her arm through Lenoir’s as she led him up the stairs, “there is a certain country charm in welcoming one’s own guests, don’t you think? I believe I shall declare it a fashion.”

“As you say, madam,” Lenoir replied distractedly. His eyes had fixed on a pale green light that came into view as they reached the top of the stairs: a panel of the stained-glass screen that separated the main part of the salon from one of its more notorious corners. When lit from behind, it gave off a glimmer the color of absinthe. This bit of glass often caught Lenoir’s attention as he entered the room, particularly if his mind was preoccupied. Tonight, it positively mesmerized him.

He realized belatedly that Zera was still talking to him. “Nicolas,” she said coolly, “I sense I do not have your undivided attention.”

Lenoir blinked and tore his gaze away from the screen. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

She regarded him with a severe look, her dark eyebrows stitched together. She rarely permitted herself to express such raw displeasure, and it made Lenoir acutely aware of her imposing height. The Adali were an unusually tall race, but Zera’s height so suited her, rendered her so exquisitely statuesque, that Lenoir had ceased to notice it. “I was asking whether you had any news from your informant,” she said.

“My informant?” Lenoir echoed vaguely.

Zera’s mouth tightened. “My word, Inspector, are you quite well? The boy, Nicolas. What’s his name?”

“Zach.” The name brought Lenoir’s whirring mind to a sudden halt. He blinked once, and Zera seemed to come into sharper focus. “His name is Zach, and no—I have not had any news from him. None at all. You see, Zach has been kidnapped.”

Zera’s lips parted, but no sound came. Now it was she who blinked, her customary poise perturbed. “Kidnapped?” She seized Lenoir’s arm and steered him away from the other guests, her head bent conspiratorially. “Nicolas, are you quite sure?”

“I am quite sure,” he said, unsettled by the finality in his own voice. “Zach and another boy were both taken yesterday. We found the house where they were being kept, but only one of the boys was still there. And he was . . . unwell.”

Zera shuddered. “What has the world come to? First children’s corpses and now this. . . .” She frowned suddenly. “Actually . . . Nicolas, do you think they might be related?”

Lenoir had seen this question coming. Zera was uncommonly clever, and she loved to speculate about his work. He supposed it gave her a sense of intrigue. “Kody certainly thinks so.”

“Who is Kody?”

“One of my sergeants. He is a competent investigator, but he is given to elaborate notions of conspiracy. He sees connections everywhere.”

Zera’s long fingers covered her lips, her golden eyes round with wonder. “But in this case, he could be right.”

“It is certainly difficult to dismiss it as coincidence,” Lenoir admitted. “If it had only been Zach . . . So many orphans meet ugly fates in this city. But two children, both nine-year-old boys, just like the corpses . . .” He shook his head, frustrated. “Yet I can think of no logical explanation for it. How are they connected? It makes no sense.”

Zera regarded him for a moment, then looked over her shoulder and waved at a servant. “Here, Nicolas.” Her voice was honeyed with concern. “Come and sit. We will get you some wine, and you will feel better.”

She seated them on a pair of sumptuous chairs near the hearth. Ordinarily, this was a popular spot for patrons of the salon to gather, but Lenoir noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of the servants was whispering to nearby guests, shepherding them to a discreet remove. Zera had mastered the art of catering to the needs of her guests, even those of modest stature such as Lenoir. She seemed to know exactly what they wanted without having to be told. Sometimes she even knew what Lenoir wanted before he knew it himself. And there was something so natural about the way she managed her staff, communicating wordlessly with them so that things seemed simply to unfold according to her unspoken will. Truly, she was a natural-born hostess.

The wine arrived and Lenoir gratefully took a glass. Zera took one too, though she did not raise it to her lips. She waited for Lenoir to speak, perched on the edge of her seat with her long legs crossed daintily at the ankles. Her expression was warm and open, inviting him to confess his troubles. And so he did.

“It has been a long time since I loved my work, Zera. I think you know that.”

She gave him a sad smile. “You do not often seem happy, it’s true.”

“I used to be happy. Or if not happy, at least I was satisfied. At least I had purpose. I was very good at my job. I was the best.”

“You are still the best, Nicolas,” Zera said, leaning forward to put a hand on his knee. “Everyone says so. They say you are a marvel, that you can find out anything you want to know.”

Lenoir snorted softly and sipped his wine. “Perhaps that is so, but that is precisely the problem, you see. I do not want to find out anything—not unless it gets me something. Or gets you something.” He raised an eyebrow, reminding her silently of the many times he had used his investigative skills to pass valuable information to Zera. She was a born hostess to begin with; tipped off about the closet vices of her guests, she was a wonder. Armed with the right information, Zera could coax even the naturally cautious into revealing their sins to her. Thus the powerful and the highborn frequently found themselves beholden to Lady Zera in one way or another. She catered to their whims, indulged their desires, and guarded their secrets. In so doing, she ensured her stature among the influential of Kennian, an elite circle no Adal before her had ever infiltrated.

“This business with Zach—it is the first time in so long that I have actually felt . . . I don’t know . . .” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

“You are too hard on yourself.”

“Am I? Kody does not think so. He despises me and I cannot blame him. I used to see the world through his eyes; I know only too well what I must look like.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kody sees himself as a champion of justice.” Lenoir could not help smirking as he said it. “He wants to subdue the evildoers of the world.”

“That sounds a little childish,” Zera observed coolly. Lenoir was not sure if she really meant it, but he was grateful to her for saying it.

“Maybe it is, but I cannot fault him for his ambitions. I used to share them, more or less. There was a time when I was obsessed with my career, to the point where I virtually forgot what it was to lead a life outside the Prefecture of Police.” He paused. It seemed like another life, long dead and largely unmourned. “I too questioned my superiors when they claimed a case was unsolvable. Back then, there was no such thing—not to me, at least. But that was before.”

“Before what?”

Lenoir was silent for a moment. How could he explain it? Before the betrayal. Before the broken promises, the shattered hopes, the incompetence and outright treachery of those who claimed to shepherd the New Order. “Before I saw justice for what it truly is,” he said finally.

“And what is that?”

“An artificial construct of the powerful, venal and infinitely elastic.”

Zera puffed out a breath. “That’s quite a dark view for a man in your profession, Inspector.”

“It is the truth, though I had to grow up a little before I saw it. I was in love with the law, back when I was young. I was in love with the idea that the law made everyone the same, no matter where they were born or whose blood was in their veins. I wanted to believe in the revolution. I wanted to believe that there was punishment for those who did wrong, no matter how much money they had or how many titles.”

“I think I see what you mean. Even I know that isn’t true.”

Lenoir drank his wine. It was not true, not in Serles and not in the Five Villages. No one thanked you for arresting a man like Lord Feine. It would embarrass too many powerful people—the lord mayor, whose wife was a particular friend of Lady Feine; the speaker of Parliament, Feine’s sometime hunting companion; the myriad of titled relatives who presided over the handsomer properties of the Five Villages. It would shock the sensibilities of the foolish commoners who thought there was something inherently better in the character of a nobleman. Besides, Feine would never remain imprisoned, not when he could buy off the magistrate, the jailer, the local news pamphlets. And once he was out, if he was bloody-minded (which the nobility so often were) he would come after Lenoir, looking for the satisfaction of squashing the insignificant police inspector who dared to smear his precious name. No, justice was not blind. She was a prostitute, for sale to the highest bidder.

“Once I realized the law could be bought,” he continued, “everything changed. I saw what a farce it was, a lot of playacting, everyone just going through the motions, especially where the rich and powerful were concerned. Gradually, I began to understand why. These ridiculous crimes of passion—it was not as though they were serial killers, after all. And you cannot bring back the dead, so what is the point of it, anyway? You will never bring such people to justice, and you cannot undo what they have done.”

Zera nodded sympathetically. “It’s true, unfortunately. There isn’t a punishment in the world that will bring back the dead.”

“And so . . .” Lenoir trailed off. He could not quite bring himself to say it, but he did not have to. Once again, he felt the coins in his hand, cold and heavy. The price of silence.

“And so you let the dead rest,” Zera said firmly, “and kept their secrets to yourself, and if you stayed quiet about what you couldn’t change, and did well by it, that is only human nature. You can’t torture yourself over it, Nicolas. You just grew up and saw the world for what it really is, that’s all.”

So Lenoir had told himself for years. When he woke in the morning and felt no sense of purpose, when he touched the dead flesh on his arm, as numb as his soul, when he drank himself into oblivion and saw the faces of the dead he had betrayed—every day of his life, Lenoir told himself that it was just the way of things, that no sensible man would have done other than he did. But he knew better.

And so did the green-eyed man.