The Light Within (Shadow and Light Duology #2)

21. Julien

twenty-one

Julien

J ulien was having the most delightful dream.

It was summer, a blissfully hot summer’s day, and he and Cinn were eating ice cream on the riverbank. Lavender ice cream, shaped into roses. Elliot and Darcy were somewhere nearby, joining them soon. The blue sky stretched out above him, and the intense sun bathed his face in a wave of joyful warmth. The sheer completeness of the moment enveloped him, wrapping him in a cocoon of contentment. Contentment that he’d never felt before.

A chill suddenly prickled his skin, slicing through the summer’s day like a cold blade. His instincts flared, pulling him from the depths of sleep. The room was unnervingly silent, save for the faintest of clicks, like a door softly creaking. He reached out, searching for the familiar warmth of Cinn beside him, but his hand met only empty sheets. He jolted awake, his heart pounded with a primal sense of dread.

Something was wrong.

Something was terribly wrong.

Julien went to shout Cinn’s name, caught himself at the very last second.

Julien slid out of bed, his movements deliberate. He placed his feet on the floor, muscles tense like a coiled spring. With small steps and shallow breaths, he moved slowly, avoiding any hint of noise. In the thick darkness, he padded towards the lounge area, ears straining for any sound of Cinn. The outlines of furniture became clear, and he inched forward with mounting dread.

As he reached the doorway, Julien’s pulse stuttered, the sight before him sending a shockwave through his body, freezing him in his tracks.

Two dark figures, dressed in black, dragged Cinn across the floor. Julien’s breath caught in his throat, a surge of panic rising as he tried to process what he was seeing. Cinn wasn’t resisting, wasn’t moving at all. His body hung limp, unnaturally still, as if someone had knocked him unconscious. Or worse. The sight of his lifeless form in their grip sent an icy wave of terror crashing over him.

The glass doors leading to the balcony were open wide, plummeting the room to sub-zero temperatures. Barefoot and in pyjamas, Julien already had the disadvantage.

With a grunt, the duo dropped Cinn like a sack of potatoes, tossing him against the wall. One reached down to grab a huge swath of material—a sack? A body-sized sack?

One assailant reached for Cinn’s legs while the other held out the body bag.

Oh, God. If he’s dead…

Nausea roiled in Julien.

He’d had precious moments to form a plan, but hadn’t, so all he could do was charge into the room.

“Stop!”

Julien threw his hands out, flickering the overhead lights in warning. These men had to be moteblessed—this couldn’t be random. They’d see Julien was about to channel. They’d surrender, and back away from Cinn slowly. Then he’d knock them off their feet, knock them out, then knock them around until he got the information he wanted.

Because whoever was responsible for this now had a ticking bomb strapped to their back, fuse lit.

The two men did not surrender .

Both reached for guns previously unseen, moving in unison, mirror images.

The muted clicks as they trained their guns on Julien indicated they had silencers.

The pair looked at each other in silent communication.

One pointed their gun at Cinn.

The world seemed to freeze, the moment stretching into an eternity. Julien’s mind raced, a surge of raw panic and fury crashing over him like a tidal wave. That monster had a gun pointed at Cinn— his Cinn. His vision narrowed, focussing solely on the assailant’s finger tightening on the trigger. The room blurred at the edges, the ticking of his own heart slowing, each beat an agonising thud in his ears.

Without conscious thought, he channelled, reaching for motes. The motes. The ones that were always there, waiting for him. Their energy surged through him, and it was like they were singing to him, thrilled to finally be used after a decade of being repressed.

The sheer amount of power almost had Julien reeling backwards.

He was invincible.

Unstoppable.

The men shouted, waving their guns in warning, but Julien wasn’t listening. His mind screamed for the guns to be removed, to be gone— now . In an instant, the energy built up inside him released, a blinding flash of power ripping through the air. The guns exploded in their hands, the metallic shards bursting outward in a deadly spray.

No time for hesitation—Julien reached for windmotes, channelling the shattered metal towards them.

The two men barely had time to register their shock before the shards tore through them, ripping through flesh and bone with brutal efficiency. Their bodies crumpled to the floor, blood pooling around them, eyes wide with the realisation that they’d just met their end .

Julien released his hold on the motes immediately, falling to his knees and pressing his fist to his mouth. The power coursing through him vanished like a snuffed-out candle, leaving him with two dead bodies.

Putain .

What have you done?

A noise from the balcony had Julien spinning. Another man, frozen still, stared through the open doors, taking in the scene. How much had they seen? Julien’s heart lurched as they locked eyes. He’d need to kill them now, too.

In a blink, the figure jumped over the balcony railing, disappearing. Julien took a single step towards it, but then a noise came from Cinn’s body, slumped on the floor—a choked cough.

Alive.

Somehow, it wasn’t a surprise. Perhaps because Julien couldn’t possibly fathom a world without him.

He threw himself down beside Cinn, bringing his heavy head onto his lap. His eyes were wide open, blinking rapidly. Desperately.

Julien ran his fingers through Cinn’s hair.

Alive. Awake…

“Cinn?” Julien lightly slapped his cheek.

His fingers grazed over traces of something fine, something granular. A cool sensation seeped across his skin. Julien held his fingers up to the light. Something white…

Ahh .

Julien should kick himself. Of course. They’d drugged Cinn with Frostbite.

He could already feel the effects of the miniscule amount he’d touched numb his fingers. With his sleeve, he brushed the remaining traces from Cinn’s cheek.

“Hold on.” He delivered a swift promise in the shape of a kiss to Cinn’s forehead and was rewarded with some more blinks .

Julien stood and surveyed the bodies. Steeled himself—this was going to take some mental preparation.

The floor was a chaotic tangle of limbs and blood, peppered with small shards of bullets. Julien wasn’t squeamish, but this… wasn’t pretty.

After a deep breath, Julien crouched, then rolled the closest body over, covering his hands in hot, thick blood. He avoided looking closely at the dead man’s face, torn to shreds, clumps of skin hanging loose. It was nobody he recognised, he was sure.

A leather sling bag hung around the man’s waist, now partially torn. Julien pulled out its contents, sifting through grimy receipts, small knives, and a few crumpled maps of Paris. Interesting, but his mind was solely fixated on finding the red pellets these two had surely carried—the antidote to Frostbite. Finally, his fingers closed around a small plastic cylinder.

Gotcha .

Without wasting a moment, he grabbed Cinn’s chin, yanking it down and forcing the antidote into his mouth. The pellet dissolved almost instantly, fizzing on his tongue.

Julien held Cinn close, his hand gently cradling the back of his head as he waited.

Cinn’s chest began to rise and fall with more rhythm, each breath deeper and more deliberate than the last. His arm muscles twitched, an elbow jolting out, jamming painfully into Julien’s side.

“Holy fuck,” Cinn croaked out.

And then, as they gazed into each other’s eyes, reunited after their near-death experience, Cinn said those magic words: “Get me a cigarette?”

Julien dropped his hold on him, sending Cinn sprawling to the floor. It wasn’t like he’d expected a gushing thank you for saving his life, or anything. “You’re joking.”

Cinn wasn’t .

But, he had almost died, Julien supposed, so he went to fetch the materials before disabling the smoke alarm. Its activation was the last thing they needed right now.

Leaning out of the window, Cinn smoked with a shaky hand, the cigarette’s ember glowing softly against the night air. He offered it to Julien, who took one quick drag to steady his still pounding heart.

Grimacing, Cinn made a tsk sound as he brushed his fingers over the arm of his new silk pyjamas, now splattered in blood. “I don’t think these are rip proof after all.”

“What?” Julien moved Cinn’s fingers. The blood on the silk wasn’t from the men—it was Cinn’s. His blood turned to ice.

What have you done?

“It’s just a scratch,” Cinn said quickly.

A scratch from a bullet you exploded.

And if that bullet fragment had ‘scratched’ an artery in Cinn’s neck…

“I almost killed you,” Julien stated calmly. It was a fact.

“Julien—”

“I didn’t think, I just acted, just like last time.”

Julien stood, turning away from Cinn to press clenched fists against the wall.

Softer now, Cinn repeated, “Julien,” but Julien ignored him, leaving to find something to bandage Cinn’s arm.

He returned with a scrap of sheet he’d cut with scissors, then carefully wrapped the makeshift gauze around Cinn’s arm, ensuring it was tight enough to stem the bleeding.

“Julien!” Cinn’s voice, insistent now, forced Julien to look at him. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.”

Cinn flicked the butt of his cigarette out of the window, closed it with a slam .

The noise was loud. Had anyone heard all the earlier commotion? The shattering of metal had created a sharp, jarring sound, then a clatter of debris had hit the walls and floor. Hopefully, the other guests slept through it.

“So… these bodies… they’re dead,” said Cinn, rather unnecessarily. He nudged one body with his bare foot. “Should we… call the police?”

“ Non .” Julien tried not to look exasperated, but honestly .

Calling Eleanor was the first idea on the tip of his tongue, before the gut-wrenching knowledge of her betrayal came flooding back to him.

“Alright. No. Course not. So what are we going to do?” The panic in Cinn’s voice only amplified Julien’s own. “Fuck!”

“I’m sorry to say this,” Julien said as calmly as he could manage. “You don’t quite know how sorry I am. But we’re going to have to put them in Maz’s boot.”

The shock on Cinn’s face hammered home to Julien just how horrific the idea was.

“No.” Cinn shook his head. “ No !”

“Well, what else are we going to do with them?” Julien snapped. Then wanted to kick himself, because it was him that had just straight up murdered two people, leaving Cinn traumatised at best, arrested again at worst, with no Eleanor to rely on for backup. Overwhelming tidal waves of emotion that he’d so far repressed bubbled to the surface.

What have you done?

“I’m so sorry,” Julien croaked out, between the fingers that were now pressed over his mouth. This date was supposed to be perfect, was perfect, but now there were dead bodies, and he’d hurt Cinn, and everything was falling apart.

Julien felt his knees hit the floor before Cinn caught him, pulling him onto an armchair and wrapping his arms around him. Cinn pressed Julien’s face against his chest. He repeatedly worked his fingers through Julien’s hair, murmuring things like, ‘Hey, you saved me,’ and ‘I would be dead by now if it wasn’t for you.’

“There was someone else on the balcony,” Julien said. “A third man. I think he saw everything.”

Julien untangled himself from Cinn’s embrace, because as much as he needed it, he couldn’t accept the comfort right now. There were dead bodies to be dealt with and such.

He slipped onto the balcony, looking down into the dark abyss of a side alley. There was no ladder left behind, no rope—only a maze of shadows and the faint echo of distant city sounds. The only sign of life was a stray cat slinking between trash cans, its eyes reflecting the meagre light.

What was their assailants’ plan, exactly?

Julien sighed, then went to check over the bodies again. His fingers shook, and acid roiled in his gut, but he forced himself to inspect the bodies of the men he’d murdered. He found no ID cards or any identifying objects on the two men.

Two men, well built, late thirties.

Two men with families they’d never come home to.

They were going to hurt him. And if you had the choice, you’d let it happen all over again. It was the truth. Julien felt it to his core.

But that didn’t change the fact that he had blood on his hands.

Again.

His heart sped, racing as though trying to outrun the guilt and the horror of it all.

Julien was spiralling.

He needed help, quickly.

“I’m ringing Darcy,” Julien said.

If only she was down the corridor, in another room. The simple act of her being there would have calmed him. Between the pair of them, they would have had it all sorted out in no time. They’d probably still make the hotel breakfast.

Cinn snorted. “ Darcy ? What’s Darcy going to do?”

“Tell us how to get blood out of the rug, curtains, and furniture for one.”

Julien picked up the phone, input the international code, then dialled the number for her cottage, long since committed to memory.

Darcy answered on the third ring. Julien opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue.

Nothing came out.

“Hello?” Darcy repeated. She sounded far away. So far away.

Cinn gave him a what are you doing look.

Again, Julien tried to talk, but produced no sound, his eyes glued to the two bodies, their blood pooling on the floor.

What have you done? was what Béatrice never explicitly said, back in the ruined church, when she’d dragged herself on an injured leg towards him and their dead mother. But Julien said it enough times for the both of them. That day, and almost every day that followed.

The phone was snatched out of his fingers. Cinn pressed it to his ear. “Darce? There’s been a bit of a… situation…”

Julien wandered away from him, to sit by the window, staring out at the dark sky that would soon break into dawn.

Their reservation ended today. They had a mere handful of hours to clean up.

Julien didn’t hear Cinn end the call, only felt the press of his hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to the hotel’s kitchen. I’ll be right back. Will you be okay?”

Cinn must have decided Julien’s silence was a good enough response, because the door to their suite opened and closed behind him.

An undetermined amount of time passed, with Julien on the armchair staring blankly out of the window, avoiding the bodies’ lifeless eyes, the blood that had now dried in thick clumps, and the smattering of gore across the floor.

A stench already filled the room. Julien’s stomach turned at what horrors they’d have to experience next.

When Cinn returned, he tossed a cardboard box full of cleaning supplies down in front of them. “They don’t bother locking anything here. The guests must be too posh to knick stuff.”

Kneeling down on the floor beside him, Cinn took Julien’s hand.

“Look, I know what you’re feeling. I went through this last year, remember? Only this time, it was self-defence. It was us or them. They made their choice when they broke into our room and grabbed me.”

What Cinn didn’t understand, was that this was less about the fact he’d killed two people—he’d kill them all over again in a heartbeat, for Cinn—and more about the fact he’d lost control of himself. Like last time.

“Darcy suggested you channel some water or some shit. Pressure hose style? Then tell housekeeping the tub exploded. Maybe you could blast it or something?”

“I’m not a Power Ranger,” Julien bit out.

Instead of glowering at him, Cinn burst into laughter. “How do you know about Power Rangers? You’ll figure something out. First job, though, is tossing the bodies out the window and stuffing them in Maz before it gets too light. You’ll have to go to reception and get the keys back.”

Julien stared down at his bare feet, sticky from stepping through puddles of blood.

They’d need another long, hot bath after this.

Maz was many things, but built to transport dead bodies was not one of them. The main issue was that she only had room for one body in her boot, meaning the other had to be laid across the back seat. Every time Julien glanced in his rear-view mirror, the black sack caught his eye, a constant reminder of his extra passengers.

They’d set off an hour before check-out, wanting to be well on their way in case housekeeping wanted to talk to them about their flooded room.

They had left it blood free, for the most part. They’d even cleverly explained to the receptionist the smell of chemicals resulted from their attempt to clean up the hot tub explosion.

The journey to the church was painful. Not only was the traffic heavy on the way out of the city, but Cinn kept asking Julien if he was okay again and again, not seeming to accept, ‘I’m fine’ as an answer.

They’d swung by the closed jazz club, with Julien breaking in through the back door to retrieve their possessions from the cloakroom. Then they’d visited a hardware store in the city’s outskirts, where they’d purchased a shovel, for when they found a pleasant countryside resting place for their extra passengers later, deep in rural France.

But first, it was straight on to Moret-sur-Loing, where the church awaited.

It wasn’t ideal attending the house of God with two dead bodies in the back of their car, but really, what were they to do?

Nestled on the edge of the village, they drove Maz up the long, winding road that led to the small building. The church’s steeple, slender and graceful, pierced the pale winter sky, and the bare branches of the surrounding trees, outlined against the pale horizon, framed the scene like an old painting.

The church stood serenely against a backdrop of rolling countryside, its ancient stone walls crowned with a steep, slate-tiled roof dusted with the first hints of snowfall. But not each of its four walls looked the same .

Julien glanced at Cinn, waiting for him to comment on the appearance of the church, make the connection between what he knew about his mother’s death and what he saw in front of him.

To give the church credit, the rebuilding effort had attempted to match the previous architecture, but the contrast was evident: the new sections, though skillfully done, stood out with a slightly fresher hue and cleaner lines, lacking the centuries-old patina of the rest of the church. The once-smooth walls were now a patchwork of restored sections and ruins, where the newer stonework struggled to blend seamlessly with the weathered, original materials.

“Have you been back here—”

“ Non .”

Oh, how Julien didn’t want to think about that day, especially after what had just happened back at the hotel. It was one big, cosmic joke.

His mother had grown up in this tiny village, Moret-sur-Loing, describing this church as her childhood sanctuary. But it wasn’t so much the building that she routinely came back to visit, but its priest, Father Gérard.

After the Calamities of Nineteen Sixty-Five occurred, and a small fraction of the world population became moteblessed, an often-studied phenomenon came to light—some communities emerged with denser percentages of moteblessed than others. The village of Moret-sur-Loing was one such location, with Father Gérard one such individual.

“We’re just here to talk to Father Gérard.”

No trips down memory lane, merci bien .

“I should prepare you. The moteblessed wing of the Christian church believes that being moteblessed is a gift from God.”

“I’m guessing that you disagree?”

Julien snorted. “ Mère was very religious, but I’m not.” Not since that day, anyway. What god would allow him to kill his own mother? “And if he offers to bless you with water, heads up that it’ll be infused with something.”

Julien pulled Maz right up to the building, feeling the car’s tyres skid against the gravel as he braked. The quicker this visit was over, the better. Cinn was practically running to keep up with him as Julien marched up to the front door with its scuffed dark wood. He ignored the ornate knocker shaped like a lion’s head and pressed on the iron handle.

The door swung open to reveal a dimly lit interior that Julien partially recognised from his handful of visits here. Candlelight danced unevenly across the stone walls, dramatizing the stark contrast between the ancient stone and the newer, lighter materials used in the rebuilt sections. The high, vaulted ceiling arched overhead, but halfway down the nave, the wooden beams and fresh mortar betrayed the point where the old church met the new.

He couldn’t help but flinch at the sight, but Julien dragged his gaze away. It wouldn’t do to get distracted by memories of that day.

Stepping further inside, the pungent scent of incense immediately filled Julien’s nostrils, both overwhelming and familiar. Cedarwood and frankincense. It was exactly as he remembered it from over a decade ago, unchanged despite everything else that had been lost.

Of course, there was one other thing that had survived that day, miraculously unscathed. A true holy miracle.

At the far end of the aisle, near the altar, stood Father Gérard, his hands folded in front of him, eyes solemn as he watched Julien and Cinn approach.

Father Gérard’s gaze was calm and steady. He wasn’t surprised to see Julien.

“ Père ,” Julien said, his voice more clipped than he intended. He nodded towards Cinn, who looked as French as a British tourist in a beret and a striped shirt. “Or rather, Father.”

Cinn gave him a nudge with his elbow .

Had he sounded rude? Maybe, but Julien was too damn exhausted to care.

Some days, it felt like Béatrice had died just yesterday; on others, like a lifetime had passed. The weight of it all blurred time, leaving him frayed at the edges. He was all done with this now. He had nothing left in the tank.

“Julien Montaigne! And a new friend,” the priest said in thickly accented English.

Father Gérard shook Cinn’s hand first, causing him to squirm uncomfortably. Then the old man hobbled over to sit on a pew, his movements slow and deliberate, each step seeming to weigh heavily on his frail frame.

The priest had seemed ancient when Julien was a child, and now he was almost spectral, a fragile remnant of the past Julien wanted to forget.

“I’ve been waiting for you to pay a visit.”

“Have you?” Julien said flatly. “What a surprise.”

Father Gérard’s face crumpled. Julien cared very little.

“You sound angry, child. Tell me, what is the matter? Tell me your problem.”

“My problem?”

Cinn squeezed tightly around Julien’s arm in warning.

“My problem is that you were having secret meetings with my dead sister.”

A ripple of laughter echoed through the church.

“These were not ‘secret meetings,’ Julien. We were not meeting by moonlight in disguises. Young Béatrice was lost, and I was acting as shepherd.”

“Ah,” Julien said. “You were guiding her. I see. So I’m guessing you advised her not to continue her involvement with the Arcane Purifiers?”

Father Gérard flinched.

Cinn tugged on Julien’s sleeve. “ Julien.”

Julien ripped his arm from Cinn’s grasp.

“Now that—” Father Gérard’s words were interrupted by a harsh coughing fit, his frail body trembling with each ragged breath.

Reaching deep within his well of patience, Julien waited.

“No,” Father Gérard stated firmly. “I did not encourage her away from the Arcane Purifiers. Our cause is too great. The Lord’s plan unfolds beyond our grasp, and we must not falter in our duty.”

If this priest dared to suggest that it was Béatrice’s path to die, Julien wouldn’t be able to control his actions, he knew that for sure.

Then, Father Gérard’s words snagged in Julien’s mind. Our cause.

Julien studied the old man. “What do you mean, Father? Are you a member of AP?”

A heavy silence settled over the church, the kind that stretched and thickened.

The priest smoothed a hand over his vestments, his fingers trembling slightly as he sought to compose himself. “I am.”

Again, Cinn tugged at Julien’s sleeve. Again, he brushed him off.

“You?” Julien spluttered out. This was the last thing he’d expected to learn today.

“Hey! Listen! I feel really weird, like,” Cinn hissed into his ear.

Julien spun to face Cinn, who slowly lowered himself down onto another pew. Was he feeling faint? Had this morning’s blood loss caught up with him? “What do you mean, weird?”

Cinn stared down at his ever-present gold warding band. Then, after squeezing it tightly, he started to take it off. What on earth?

“ Non ! What are you doing?” Julien said, exasperated and oh-so tired. Not now. The last thing he needed right now was Cinn disappearing on him.

The priest coughed again. He seemed to have more to say, eyeing Julien with an oddly urgent expression, like he had to get his next words out quickly. “I am. And so was she.”

“Béatrice? Oui , I’ve got that by now,” Julien replied sharply.

Abruptly, Father Gérard stood up, on shaking legs. “No, Julien,” the priest said. “I meant, your mother.”

What? A cold dread crawled up Julien’s spine, louder than any alarm.

Was the priest suggesting…

Non . Impossible .

Julien opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

A hand closed around his wrist. Cinn’s. He tugged Julien towards him, but his face looked vacant, slipping out of usual expressive form. “She’s… calling me,” he said. “She needs to talk to me.”