Page 165 of The Dragon and the Dove

‘No.’ He thought again of Lark’s threat. Andreas has thousands of Rose-bearers at his beck and call. A skyful of Strix… And don’t forget the soul-eater. ‘We need all the saints we can get.’

Except—

Except…

His lips twisted.

‘It’s hurting her, isn’t it?’ she said quietly. ‘Val’s worried too.’

‘Just leave it, Anouk.’

More shadows spilled, seeping over the edges of House Armand.

Kill, kill, kill.

Let the dragon out.

Anouk edged closer, looking down on the swelling crowd. More refuse flew, their chant changing to demon, demon, demon when they spotted her.

‘We’ll win them back. Once Andreas is dead and the Strix have been banished, they’ll return to their senses and see us for who we really are. We’ll show them.’

‘Maybe you will.’ Ransom chewed on the inside of his cheek. ‘In time you can rebuild this city, rebuild their trust… but I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

Because I am the dark they fear.

‘Ransom,’ she said, softly. ‘What’s going on?’

Night pooled at their feet. A midnight sky without stars, a bottomless well of fear, a black hole waiting to swallow him.

He said, ‘Seraphine is dying.’

The silence roared. The wind picked up, burying the baying crowd in a shroud of mist as if this terrible revelation demanded privacy and Saint Maurius had deigned to give it to them.

Ransom had known it for some time, the thought so terrifying, he’d buried it in the furthest reaches of his soul, smothered it with snakes and hounds and a mad devouring dragon. Then he started to feel it, the subtle fraying of the thread that bound him to her. Every saint, every gift. As that vine of thorns spread across her body, the bridge between their souls weakened.

Seraphine was leaving him.

It was the first time he’d ever uttered it aloud. It felt like he had gutted himself with a knife, wrenched the words out of his soul and hung them like bunting between them.

Anouk said in a small voice, ‘How do you know?’

‘Because she knows. She’s just afraid to tell me.’

Anouk was shaking her head. ‘Tell her to stop, then. We have enough saints.’

But there stirred another vicious truth. ‘For Andreas to be defeated, he must first be unmade.’

One more ritual.

One more thorn.

‘There must be another way.’

‘Fate is not that kind, Anouk.’ No, fate was not kind at all. He could see it now in painful vivid clarity. Oriel had not blessed Seraphine. The Saint of Destiny had blessed the city. Seraphine was merely her vessel. Her sacrifice.

Anouk wilted.