“Presumably it was not their design to crowd two souls into one body,” Merden said reflectively. “That would achieve nothing. One assumes they were trying to resurrect a dead child entirely, and suppress the soul of the host. I have never heard of such a thing, but it is theoretically possible. If they were to succeed . . .” He shook his head. “Appalling and unethical, but impressive, in its way. Perhaps they are not so inexperienced after all.”
Lenoir shuddered. “It does not make sense. As far as we know, the kidnappers are not known to the children. They took three corpses, all unrelated, and the parents knew nothing of it. Why resurrect a stranger’s child?”
“That is curious,” Merden agreed. His face turned watery, and he had two heads.
The room tilted.
The floor gave way.
Lenoir slept.
Velvet. Rich and sumptuous and shining in the shifting firelight. Velvet and satin, porcelain and swirling dark ebony. Everything glitters, sight and sound colliding together in a dazzle of flashing jewels and tinkling laughter. Shadows dance on the wall, beautiful and vaguely threatening. The images flicker past too quickly to understand. They bleed together like dyes in a washbasin.
Where are we?
Confusion. Lenoir’s thoughts trickle through his fingers. He is unable to grasp them.
I don’t know.
Yes, you do. The voice is thick and warm, like honey. It fills Lenoir’s mind. He feels its gentle pressure against the inside of his skull. Concentrate, it commands.
Blades of light ricochet off the facets of cut crystal glasses. Fragments of faces reflected in a shattered rainbow. Her eyes, golden, luminous.
Lady Zera’s.
She hands him something. Absinthe. It glows in the bottom of the glass, the violent green of poison. Confusion gives way to fear.
Good. Focus on your fear. What is it?
Absinthe eyes. Porcelain skin. Ebony hair. The youth is standing in the street, the night amassed behind him like an army. He is emotionless. Pitiless. Streetlamps throw shadows on the cobblestones. They coil and twist and resolve into a snake with many tongues, twining around the arm of the beautiful youth with the absinthe eyes.
Somewhere in the vast hollow of the sky, a voice is screaming.
When he woke, Lenoir found himself slumped against the wall near the hearth, shivering. Or was it shaking? He could not be sure. There was a foul taste in his mouth, and his head throbbed horribly.
Merden appeared with a mug in his hand. “Drink this.” Lenoir hesitated, his blurred vision trying to make out the liquid inside. “It is only water,” Merden assured him, and Lenoir took it.
Merden occupied himself in a back room somewhere while Lenoir recuperated. He had no idea how long he had been out, or whether Merden’s efforts to see into his dreams had been successful. The last thing he remembered was discussing the case, and the details of that conversation were vague. They would return in time, he supposed, but right now his thoughts were jumbled and thick.
When Merden reappeared, he continued going about his business as though Lenoir were not there. Perhaps Lenoir should have been grateful to be given all the time he needed to recover, but instead he was irritated at the soothsayer’s mysterious silence.
“Well?” he growled. “Did you succeed?”
“Yes.” Merden did not elaborate.
Back to this, Lenoir thought sourly. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell me what happened?”
Merden regarded him impassively. “Are you much practiced at sarcasm? It is a most unbecoming habit.”
“I have many unbecoming habits, sir, but it is the habit of being stalked by a spirit that concerns me most.”
Merden’s sigh was so grave that it struck fear into Lenoir’s heart. “It is as I thought. The spirit that hunts you is familiar to me. He figures prominently in many Adali legends. He is the Darkwalker, the champion of the dead, and if he counts you among his prey, your time is short.”
Lenoir huddled closer to the hearth, pressing his back against the warm stones. “I already knew that I was marked for death. The spirit made his intent perfectly clear.”
“Most likely you also know why you are so marked.” There was no judgment in Merden’s tone; it was simply a statement of fact. “The spirit exacts vengeance for sins committed against the dead. That is why the Adali treat their departed with such respect, for to defile the dead is to invite the wrath of the spirit. He has been known to my people for as long as our traditions record.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Lenoir spoke mechanically, guided more by habit than conscious thought. He did not really expect to learn anything useful, but he had come here to try.
“Very little, beyond what you have already seen for yourself. He abides in shadows, and is able to move almost instantaneously between them, provided the dark is deep enough. Sunlight is his enemy, but it cannot destroy him completely. He is immortal, though he was once a man.”
That statement pierced the haze of numbness; Lenoir blinked in surprise. “What, an ordinary man?”
“Yes, though he died young. He was called Vincent. Legend tells us little else, except that his immortality is a curse, punishment for some terrible act he committed in life. It must have been terrible indeed, for he was damned to an eternity of slavery, sent forth to visit vengeance upon those who do wrong by the dead. It is said that he has no will of his own, at least none he can exert. He is controlled by an unknown force, compelled to go where he is sent, to kill those who have been marked.”
“Perhaps it is God who compels him,” Lenoir said, turning his gaze to the fire. His thoughts writhed like the flames.
“Would your God show such wrath? What manner of sin would merit such punishment, I wonder?”
“You sound as though you pity him.”
Merden considered this. “Perhaps I do. Enslaved for all eternity, your only purpose to murder and terrorize? Is that not the foulest torture conceivable?”
Lenoir looked at him askance. “You will forgive me, sir, if I have difficulty summoning much sympathy. He has shown little enough for me.”
“Do you deserve sympathy?” Merden asked bluntly.
Lenoir had a brief but vivid memory: a rain-slick street, a body, a shabby transaction of whispers and gold. Lenoir could feel the shape of the coins in his hand, cold as death, heavy as guilt. He had weighed them gently, thinking, So this is the price of silence. The price of murder unanswered, of justice denied. No, he did not deserve sympathy. “Can I be rid of him?” He knew the answer already, but he had to ask.
Sensing his resignation, Merden did not trouble with false comfort. “I am amazed you have avoided him for as long as you have.”
“I was free of him,” Lenoir murmured. “I escaped.” And then the corpse thieves brought him back, led him straight to Lenoir. Fate would not be denied.
“For a time, perhaps, but he was bound to find you. The Darkwalker can see through the eyes of the dead. Their memories are his memories. Their lifeless eyes are his windows to the world. That is how he knows his victims—he sees them. In your line of work, Inspector, it is surprising that it took this long for you to cross his path again.”