The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE




LASHED BY THE STORM, WILL CLUNG ON TO THE CORNICE WITH aching fingers, edging forward one fumbling step at a time. Beneath him, the grey waters of the Seine churned around the base of the Pont Notre-Dame’s stone footings. One slip and he would be lost to the currents, never to surface again.

‘It would be easier to let go.’

Snapping his head round at the voice, the spy looked into glistening black eyes. Jenny clung to the ledge behind him, her mottled skin now tinged with broken veins as if she were decomposing a little more each time he saw her. Her rain-soaked hair hung lank, her skirts clinging to her too-thin frame.

‘Get thee away from me, devil,’ the spy growled. ‘I am not in the mood for your trickery.’

Jenny pressed her blue lips close to his ear and whispered, ‘You have betrayed me. Where is that deep love that you professed so strongly? A love that would never die, that would survive the vast gulfs of time and space between us, my sweet? It tripped off your tongue so easily. Were you lying to me? Were you lying to yourself?’

‘I love you still, as deeply as ever.’ Keeping his head turned away from that haunting face, Will focused all his attention on the gloom shrouding the end of the bridge. ‘Love is more complex than you would imagine in your narrow world of misery. And we are all pulled by currents we cannot fathom.’

Refusing to acknowledge any more of the whispered lies and threats and low, mocking laughter, he edged forward. When he passed the bridge’s midway point, he realized he could no longer sense the presence at his back, but the weight he felt upon his shoulders did not lift.

With cold, painful fingers, the spy pulled himself up the cornice at the far end and eased his head above the parapet. The towering bulk of the cathedral loomed over the rain-lashed island. He thought how the tall windows on the twin towers resembled the eyes of a judgemental god looking down upon him.

A warren of dark, deserted buildings sprawled away from the wall. Pulling himself over the parapet, Will hurried through the narrow alleys until he overlooked a small cobbled square in front of the cathedral. The stained glass was afire, candlelight flooding out of the open doors.

Three pale figures moved on to the bridge and were lost among the towering merchants’ houses, while others drifted out of the cathedral, pausing to exchange brief words with their fellows. Watching the ebb and flow for long moments, Will decided there were only two guards who patrolled the fringes of the square.

The spy huddled in the shadows close to the wall, wrapping his black cloak around him, and waited for his moment.

Thunder pealed overhead, and lightning lit up the front of the church. When the glare faded, only the guards remained. One walked near to where Will hid, the other stood by the cathedral door, attention fixed on the bright interior.

Drawing Dee’s blowpipe from the hidden pocket in his cloak, the spy dipped a dart in the lethal blue paste and inserted it in the end of the tube. A pool of black ink in the deeper shadow, he waited with the pipe to his lips until the pale figure was only feet away. Will blew into the tube. The Enemy clutched at his face. The spy was moving before the guard crumpled to the wet cobbles.

His footsteps masked by the torrent of rainwater gushing off the cathedral roof, he slipped into the shadows next to the wall, unseen. Whisking out his dagger, he crept forward, sliding the blade across the sentry’s neck in a flash. He dumped the body out of sight just around the corner of the building.

The relentless pounding of the rain matched the beating of the spy’s heart. Peering in through the open door, he was relieved to see no further Enemies waited just inside the church. Notre Dame was flooded with golden light from the ranks of candles running along the nave. The Unseelie Court swarmed like ants in the far depths of the cathedral, studying charts, locked in discussions, or at work on tasks beyond Will’s ability to comprehend. Some appeared to be maintaining weapons of unknown use, while others chanted in low voices as they inscribed symbols on the stone flags.

Keeping low, Will slipped along the rear wall of the cathedral to what appeared to be a small storeroom. He slid inside, unseen. Crouching in the shadows, he continued to observe the activity in the cathedral through a narrow slit in the door.

A tall mirror in a gilt frame stood incongruously in the centre of the nave, surrounded by a circle of squat candles. As Will watched, the glass became opaque, attracting the attention of the Fay near to it. One of them hurried away, returning a moment later with a grotesquely obese figure, naked to the waist, his sweating, shaven head gleaming in the candlelight.

Wheezing from the exertion, he shuffled into the circle and peered into the looking glass with his porcine eyes. The milky haze cleared to reveal Fabian’s doleful reflection. He was standing in a dark place, perhaps still in the catacombs beneath the Reims seminary. For long moments, the two figures engaged in conversation. Although he couldn’t overhear what was said, Will suspected he was the subject of their debate. He began to formulate a plan.

Scrabbling through the contents of the storeroom, the spy uncovered a dirty sheet. He returned to the door, from where he watched the corpulent figure begin to lose his temper in a language the spy didn’t understand. The other pale figures crowded around the mirror to listen to the argument.

When one of the Fay passed near the door, the spy fired another poisonous dart. Leaping from the storeroom, Will flung the sheet over the convulsing being and tossed one of Dee’s powder-packages after it. The chemicals ignited in a flash of searing light. Ablaze, the being careered down the side aisle of the cathedral, his screams ringing off the walls.

Will threw himself behind the back row of heavy wooden pews and crawled to the other side of the church. While the Unseelie Court flocked to stifle the flames on the body of their dying fellow, the spy kept his attention on the bald-headed mound of shivering flesh. Just as he had hoped, the grotesque figure called out in his wavering, sibilant voice and directed four of the Fay towards the altar.

From his hiding place, the spy noticed a knee-high sculpture of human bones topped with a skull. Standing in another circle of squat candles, it glowed with a faint emerald light.

The Corpus-Scythe, Will guessed.

With alacrity, the four pale figures lifted it into a wooden chest with rope handles on either end, and carried it along the central aisle. Trying to protect it at all costs. Keeping below the Enemy’s line of sight, the spy slipped out into the storm-blasted night.

In front of the cathedral, the small cobbled area already lay under an inch of water. Will could barely see more than a few feet through the torrential rain, but that would help him. Crouching in the shadows along the wall, he took out the blowpipe and darts and waited.

The four Fay emerged with the wooden chest a moment later. Cloaked by the night and the gale, Will was invisible to them. His first dart struck the nearest Fay on the hand. As the pale figure began to convulse, the spy loaded a second poison-tipped dart and propelled it into the neck of one of the Enemy at the rear.

The chest splashed into the deepening pool of rainwater.

As the remaining two pale figures drew their rapiers, Will ghosted along the wall behind them and thrust his dagger under the ribcage of his third foe. When the final Fay began to turn, the spy plunged his blade into his opponent’s throat.

Sheathing his weapon, Will grasped the chest by both handles. It was lighter than he anticipated. But he had only splashed four steps across the cobbles when a warning cry rang out. A bedraggled Meg stood in the nearest alley. Her eyes were wide with terror and with a trembling hand she was pointing above him.

Will spun round. Above the main doorway ran a long gallery of statues of the kings of Israel. One of them was moving.

Lightning illuminated the graven relief. Crawling across the carvings like a giant spider was Xanthus, his shaven, symbol-etched head turned towards the spy.

Mouth torn wide in a bestial roar, the Hunter leapt.