A Trail of Fire (50 page)

The comte was rubbing a finger over his upper lip; she didn’t know if he was expressing doubt or trying not to laugh, but either way, it made her angry.

‘So one of them told me to tell ye that, and I did!’ she said, lapsing into Scots. ‘I dinna ken what it is ye’re no supposed to do, but I’d advise ye not to do it!’

It occurred to her belatedly that perhaps killing her was the thing he wasn’t supposed to do, and she was about to put this notion to him, but by the time she had disentangled enough French grammar to have a go at it, the coach was slowing, bumping from side to side as it turned off the main road. A sickly smell seeped into the air, and she sat up straight, her heart in her throat.

‘Mary, Joseph, and Bride,’ she said, her voice no more than a squeak. ‘Where
are
we?’

Michael leapt from the coach almost before it had stopped moving. He daren’t let them get too far ahead of him; his driver had nearly missed the turning as it was, and the comte’s coach had come to a halt minutes before his own reached it.

‘Talk to the other driver,’ he shouted at his own, half-visible on the box. ‘Find out why the comte has come here! Find out what he’s doing!’

Nothing good
. He was sure of that. Though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would kidnap a nun and drag her out of Paris in the dark, only to stop at the edge of a public cemetery. Unless . . . half-heard rumours of depraved men who murdered and dismembered their victims, even those who
ate
. . . his wame rose and he nearly vomited, but it wasn’t possible to vomit and run at the same time, and he could see a pale splotch on the darkness that he thought – he hoped, he feared – must be Joan.

Suddenly, the night burst into flower. A huge puff of green fire bloomed in the darkness, and by its eerie glow, he saw her clearly, her hair flying in the wind.

He opened his mouth to shout, to call out to her, but he had no breath, and before he could recover it, she vanished into the ground, the comte following her, torch in hand.

He reached the mineshaft moments later, and below, he saw the faintest green glow, just vanishing down a white chalk tunnel. Without an instant’s hesitation, he flung himself down the ladder.

‘Do you hear anything?’ the comte kept asking her, as they stumbled along the white-walled tunnels, he grasping her so hard by the arm that he’d surely leave bruises on her skin.

‘No,’ she gasped. ‘What— am I listening for?’

He merely shook his head in a displeased way, but more as though he were listening for something himself, than because he was angry with her for not hearing it.

She still had a faint hope that he’d meant what he said, and would take her back. He did mean to go back himself; he’d lit several torches and left them burning along their way. So he wasn’t about to disappear into the hill altogether, taking her with him to the lighted ballroom where people danced all night with the Fine Folk, unaware that their own world slipped past beyond the stones of the hill.

The comte stopped abruptly, hand squeezing harder round her arm.

‘Be still,’ he said, very quietly, though she wasn’t making any noise. ‘Listen.’

She listened as hard as possible – and thought she did hear something. What she thought she heard, though, was footsteps, far in the distance. Behind them. Her heart seized up for a moment.

‘What— what do
you
hear?’ she thought of asking. He glanced down at her, but not as though he really saw her.

‘Them,’ he said. ‘The stones. They make a buzzing sound, most of the time. If it’s close to a fire-feast or a sun-feast, though, they begin to sing.’

‘Do they?’ she said faintly. He was hearing
something
, and evidently it wasn’t the footsteps she’d heard. They’d stopped now, as though whoever followed was waiting, maybe stealing along, one step at a time, careful now to make no sound.

Was it another of the Auld Ones? If it was, it didn’t want to be heard. It was cold here underground, but sweat crawled down the crease of her back, and her nape prickled, imagining something ancient and sharp-toothed, leaping out of the dark just behind . . .

‘Yes,’ he said, and his face was intent. He looked at her sharply again, and this time, he saw her.

‘You don’t hear them,’ he said, with certainty, and she shook her head.

‘No,’ she whispered. Her lips felt stiff. ‘I don’t— I don’t hear anything.’

He pressed his lips tight together, but after a moment, lifted his chin, gesturing toward another tunnel, where there seemed to be something painted on the chalk.

He paused there to light another torch – this one burned a brilliant yellow, and stank of sulphur – and she saw by its light the wavering shape of the Virgin and an angel. Her heart lifted a little at the sight, for surely faeries would have no such thing in their lair.

‘Come,’ he said, and now took her by the hand. His own was cold.

Michael caught a glimpse of them as they moved into a side tunnel. The comte had lit another torch, a red one this time – how did he do that? – and it was easy to follow its glow.

How far down in the bowels of the earth were they? He had long since lost track of the turnings, though he might be able to get back by following the torches – assuming they hadn’t all burned out.

He still had no plan in mind, other than to follow them until they stopped. Then he’d make himself known, and . . . well, take Joan away, by whatever means proved necessary.

Swallowing hard, rosary still wrapped around his left hand and pen-knife in his right, he stepped into the shadows.

The chamber was round, and quite large. Big enough that the torchlight didn’t reach all the edges, but it lit the pentagram inscribed into the floor in the centre.

The noise was making Rakoczy’s bones ache, and often as he had heard it, it never failed to make his heart race and his hands sweat. He let go of the nun’s hand for a moment, to wipe his palm on the skirts of his coat, not wanting to disgust her. She looked scared, but not terrified, and if she heard it, surely she— Her eyes widened suddenly and she let out a small yelp.

‘Who’s
that
?’ she said.

He whirled, to see Raymond, apparently come out of nowhere, standing tranquilly in the centre of the pentagram.

‘
Bonsoir
,
mademoiselle
,’ the frog said, bowing politely.

‘Ah . . .
bonsoir
,’ the girl replied faintly. She made to back away, and Rakoczy seized her by the wrist.

‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Rakoczy interposed his body between Raymond and the nun.

‘Very likely the same thing you are,’ the frog replied. ‘Might you introduce your
petite amie
, sir?’

Shock, anger, and sheer confusion robbed Rakoczy of speech for a moment. What was the infernal creature
doing
here? Wait— the girl! The lost daughter he’d mentioned; the nun was the daughter!
Tabernac
, had the frog sired this girl on La Dame Blanche?

In any case, he’d plainly discovered the nun’s whereabouts, and somehow had followed them to this place. He took hold of the girl’s arm again, firmly.

‘She is a Scotch,’ he said. ‘And as you see, a nun. No concern of yours.’

The frog looked amused, cool and unruffled. Rakoczy was sweating, the noise beating against his skin in waves. He could feel the little bag of stones in his pocket, a hard lump against his heart. They seemed to be warm, warmer even than his skin.

‘I doubt that she is, really,’ said Raymond. ‘Why is she a concern of yours, though?’

‘That’s also none of your business.’ He was trying to think. He couldn’t lay out the stones, not with the damned frog standing there. Could he just leave with the girl? But if the frog meant him harm . . . and if the girl truly wasn’t . . .

Raymond ignored the incivility, and bowed again to the girl.

‘I am Master Raymond, my dear,’ he said. ‘And you?’

‘Joan Mac—’ she said. ‘Er . . . Sister Gregory, I mean.’ She pulled hard against Rakoczy’s grip. ‘Um. If I’m not the concern of either of you gentlemen . . .’

‘She’s my concern, gentlemen.’ The voice was high with nerves, but firm. Rakoczy looked round, shocked to see the young wine merchant walk into the chamber, dishevelled and dirty, but eyes fixed on the girl. At his side, the nun gasped.

‘Sister.’ The merchant bowed. He was white-faced, but not sweating. He looked as though the chill of the cavern had seeped into his bones, but put out a hand from which the beads of a wooden rosary swung. ‘You dropped your rosary.’

Joan thought she might faint from sheer relief. Her knees wobbled from terror and exhaustion, but she summoned enough strength to wrench free of the comte and run, stumbling, into Michael’s arms. He grabbed her and hauled her away from the comte, half-dragging her.

The comte made an angry sound and took a step in her direction, but Michael said, ‘Stop right there, ye wicked bugger!’ just as the little froggy-faced man said sharply, ‘Stop!’

The comte swung first toward one and then the other. He looked . . . crazed. Joan swallowed and nudged Michael, urging him toward the chamber’s door, only then noticing the pen-knife in his hand.

‘What were ye going to do wi’
that
?’ she whispered, half-hysterical. ‘Shave him?’