Lenoir stood on unsteady legs. He did not want to hear any more. None of it would help him. Nothing could help him.
He paid Merden’s fee—a staggering amount—and lurched out into the street. It was just before dawn. One more day to face, one last chance to find Zach and deliver him from the dark arts that awaited him. One way or another, Zach’s fate was all but decided.
Lenoir turned his steps toward the station. He was exhausted, but he could not afford to sleep. Besides, he had no wish to face the dreams that would await him. He needed to put the green-eyed man out of his mind. He needed to focus all his energy on finding Zach. Kody was an early riser, and would be at the station soon. They would recruit others—Izar, perhaps, and any other sergeants worth their pay. There were few enough of them, but Lenoir would take all the help he could get.
The streets were quiet. In a few minutes, the lamps would be doused, and the market district would come alive for the day’s trade. Lenoir told himself that these few minutes were safe, that the green-eyed man could not possibly find him in time to do him harm.
He was wrong.
Lenoir did not see where the attack came from, but the street behind him bucked and shattered. He shielded his head against a hail of cobblestones, peering between his arms for a glimpse of the spirit. He caught a flicker of movement, and he dove instinctively in the opposite direction. The air cracked like a pistol shot as the whip missed its target. Lenoir scrambled to his feet.
The spirit was standing directly in front of him, poised for another strike.
“Damn you, Vincent!” Lenoir screamed in impotent rage. Such was his fury at being cheated out of one last day that it momentarily eclipsed even his fear.
The spirit froze, arm suspended midmotion, and for the first time, Lenoir saw genuine emotion in those uncanny green eyes. It was surprise.
The spirit was stunned for only a moment, but it was long enough for Lenoir to break away, heading back the way he had come toward a labyrinth of back alleys. He knew these streets well, and if he chose his route carefully, there was a chance he could lose his pursuer amidst the maze of twists and turns.
It soon became clear, however, that the Darkwalker knew these streets at least as well as Lenoir. How could he not, when he was older than the city itself?
Fool.
The spirit easily anticipated his path, for many of the alleys were dead ends. It took no more than a brief glance at each intersection to track his prey. All Lenoir had succeeded in doing was cornering himself in a series of shadowed canyons that would delay the touch of dawn. It was no longer dark enough for the spirit to leap ahead of him, but the height of the buildings would shelter him from the sun for a good while yet, far too long for Lenoir to keep up his frantic pace. The spirit would not tire, but Lenoir could already feel his lungs burning. It was hopeless. Still, he kept running, instinct driving him on.
Before long, he found himself back in the square where Merden’s shop was located, and he made for open ground. Though dawn had broken, however, the sun’s rays had yet to clear the tops of the buildings.
Merden was outside, closing up shop. Lenoir’s frantic footfalls drew his attention, and when he looked up, he gasped and pinned himself against the door.
“Get inside!” Lenoir cried, making for the other side of the square.
Merden hesitated, transfixed in horror. Then he spun and unlocked the door, disappearing inside. Lenoir was relieved; he did not want the soothsayer’s blood on his hands. They were stained enough already.
He was heading due east, he realized grimly. Continuing in this direction would only delay his exposure to sunlight. But what choice did he have? He could hear the spirit’s footfalls behind him, so close. He could be no more than a hand-span outside the reach of the scourge.
“Vincent!” called a cool, clear voice.
The shock of it brought Lenoir up short. He whirled around.
So did the green-eyed man. Apparently, a thousand-odd years of immortality was not enough to erase the instinct to respond to one’s own name.
Merden was standing in the middle of the square, a long wooden staff in his hand, and as Vincent turned, the soothsayer threw his arm high. The tip of the staff flared with a light so blinding that Lenoir had to shield his eyes.
He did not dare waste the opportunity. Turning his back on the square, Lenoir kept running. He was loath to leave Merden behind, but the soothsayer had seemed so calm, so in command of himself, that it was tempting to believe he was in no danger. Would the spirit kill someone not expressly marked for death? Lenoir had no way of knowing.
He ran until he could not take another step. His knees gave out, and he collapsed in the street, gasping for air. It was only then that he felt the warmth of the sunlight bathing the street. He had survived.
Lenoir found Merden back in his shop, sipping tea. The soothsayer looked rattled, much more so than he had in the square. He did not, however, seem surprised to see Lenoir.
“Lavender tea? Calms the nerves.”
Lenoir scarcely registered the question. “How did you do it?” he whispered in awe. “What magic do you possess that you can summon sunlight at your will?”
Merden stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Is that what you think you saw?” He rose and moved behind the counter. He drew out the staff, showing it to Lenoir. There was an angled mirror lashed to the end. This was no magic; Merden had merely used the mirror to reflect the sun’s rays down into the square.
“I use it to search for items on the top shelf,” Merden explained, demonstrating. “Hardly arcane technique.”
Lenoir fell into a chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Incredible. You saved my life, Merden.”
“You are endowed with an uncommon store of luck, Inspector,” Merden said soberly. “My people believe that such gifts are not random.”
Lenoir made a wry face. “And yet I do not feel so very lucky.”
“That is understandable.”
“Perhaps I will take some of that tea.”
“That too is understandable,” said Merden, and he fetched another mug.
CHAPTER 18
The station was still relatively deserted when Lenoir arrived, for the hour was yet early. Even so, the place was charged with a strange energy. Watchmen stood huddled in close groups of twos and threes, speaking in low tones. There were at least half a dozen sergeants in the kennel, unusual at this early hour, and they were all donning weapons and coats as though intending to hit the streets en masse. One of the scribes, a pretty young woman whose name Lenoir did not know, leaned against a nearby desk, weeping. Something was wrong.
He spotted the chief across the room, shaking his head and scowling as he listened to a report from Sergeant Innes. The chief was almost never seen down in the kennel, preferring the private space of his office. And he was certainly never at the station before breakfast.
Something was very wrong.
“Chief,” Lenoir called.
The chief glanced up, his mouth tightening when he saw Lenoir. He shook his head again and dismissed Innes. “Where have you been?” he asked gruffly as Lenoir approached.
“I worked through the night,” Lenoir replied, an uneasy feeling creeping over him. “What has happened?”
Chief Lendon Reck paused, regarding Lenoir with tired eyes. His skin sagged around the deep lines of his face, and his thick eyebrows, drawn together in a characteristically severe line, were almost completely gray. He should have retired long ago, probably, but the chief seemed to think there was no one in Kennian capable of taking his place. In principle, Lenoir agreed, but he did not think he had ever seen the chief looking quite so worn as he did at this moment.