To Vanquish Darkness (Le Sombre #1)

Chapter 3

3

1836 COUNTRYSIDE BEYOND MORDELLES, FRANCE

A malie, Marcel, and Olivie let out a collective breath as they passed through the wrought-iron gate in the wall. The stone wasn’t impenetrable by any means, but there was a sense of safety that came from leaving the open field.

“That was like a scene from the Grimoire.” Olivie clapped her hands on Amalie’s shoulders and shook her gently then pulled her close. “You flew through the air, your hair whipping around your face like a goddess.”

“It wasn’t that dramatic.” Amalie squeezed her friend’s hand, then stepped back, scanning the moonlit garden. Truthfully, she’d felt as if she was immortal in that moment. Sprinting across the stone. Not giving in to the crushing terror at the sight of Theo crouched in the courtyard. She’d done it. She’d finally avenged her mother’s death and prevented the death of who knew how many more innocent people.

It was over.

For now. Until she found the next one.

Amalie exhaled and led her friends through the arbor. “What happens next?”

“Wine.” Olivie laughed, and Marcel slung an arm over her shoulder.

“Much deserved. Will you be joining us?” he asked.

Amalie exhaled. “I’ll do my best.” She wanted to give in to the relief she felt at completing their mission, but her shoulders were still tight. She couldn’t wear a loose smile like the ones that hung on her friends’ faces. Not yet. She still had one more task for the night.

They’d traveled first by boat directly from the cemetery courtyard where they’d left Theo’s body, then stowed Marcel’s craft in the brush and taken horses through the wood. After catching a few hours of sleep on the floor of a crumbling stone rectory, they’d continued on at first light and dropped the horses at one of Marcel’s contacts in Mordelles, then walked the rest of the way on foot.

Amalie stopped at the steps. This was where she had to continue alone.

“Can I see it?” Marcel, his tunic rumpled and boots coated with mud, held out a hand. Amalie pulled a ring from her pocket. The metal was ice cold and smooth, too dense and heavy for its size. She dropped it into his palm, and he flipped it between his fingers. “D’you think it will be enough?”

Amalie brandished the stake, inspecting the darkened wood where Theo’s blood had seeped into the grain. It looked black as death in the moonlight. “It’s proof. And if it’s not enough on its own, this will seal it.”

Olivie blew out a breath, then dragged a hand through her waves. Her hair was cropped shorter on the right than the left, and it made her pointed chin and high cheekbones look almost sinister. “That could be anyone’s blood.”

“But it’s not.” Amalie held up the wood to the light filtering through the side window, her heart beating too fast in her chest. Do you think it will be enough? She hadn’t told Uncle Oren or Aunt Maurielle anything about her association or training with Les Pourfendeurs de Sang. When she tried bringing it up in the past, they’d called Marcel and the rest of the Blood Slayers radicals. Zealots. But there was a reason the Pourfendeurs were growing by the day.

Women were missing. Not only in Paris, but also in the surrounding towns. Amalie had hoped that once the reports had shown up in the papers, Uncle Oren would finally admit that there was more to the reports than political fearmongering.

He hadn’t listened, and she shouldn’t have been surprised. Every time she attempted to bring up what she’d seen as a child—who she’d seen clutching her mother’s lifeless body with blood dripping from his lips—he insisted her mind was playing tricks on her. That her subconscious was trying to make sense of her grief and lay blame for the pain her mother’s death had caused.

But she knew the truth, and now she finally had proof. He would have to believe her. Especially because the symbol on the ring Marcel still gripped in his palm was identical to the one they’d seen carved into the wood in Paris.

Marcel handed the ring back to her and stopped at the corner of the house. He tucked his tunic back into his trousers. “You’re sure you want to do this alone?”

Amalie nodded, inspecting the oval etched into the metal, tilted on its axis, half light, half dark. A swirl of gold connecting the two. “Trust me, your face in my uncle’s kitchen won’t help my case.”

Marcel nodded. “We’ll see you back in Mordelles, then?”

Olivie reached out and hugged her, and weariness dropped over Amalie like a heavy cloak. “You’re one of us now. A vanquisher.” Olivie pulled back, clasping her shoulders and running a finger over the barely scabbed line Amalie had carved into her skin as they’d left the courtyard. Amalie ran her eyes over the thin scars ringing Olivie’s upper arm. Amalie only had one mark, but she would have more. As soon as she could convince Oren to take Bethany and his daughters out of France.

“I’ll be back. Three days at most.” Amalie steeled herself. Marcel nodded, and Olivie gave her a tight smile as they retreated back through the gap in the wall.

As soon as they were out of sight and earshot, Amalie wretched in the bushes. The feel of the stake in her hand, the sensation of it pushing through flesh and bone?—

She wretched a second time, bracing herself against the wall. It was good. It was right. She had ended the life of a killer.

All the arguments in her head didn’t keep her hands from shaking. When her stomach seemed to have settled, she straightened, drawing in a deep breath. She wiped her mouth with the tail of her shirt, still trembling.

She could do this. Olivie and Marcel would be staying in town for the night, and somehow the knowledge that they wouldn’t be far gave her comfort. Amalie latched the gate leading to her uncle’s house, then drew another slow breath and strode to the front steps.

She lifted the iron knocker and swung it against the plate, hoping her aunt and uncle would at least peer through the window instead of ignoring the sound as they usually did. Bethany would be readying herself for bed, and her cousins, Matilde and Ghislaine, would be tucked beneath their covers at this time of night.

Amalie’s heart twinged at the remembrance of routine. She yearned to be the girl who fell asleep with the sound of soft breathing and the croak of frogs drifting through the window panes instead of drunken shouting or the clatter of cart wheels against stone streets.

Mordelles would never feel like home. But neither would this cottage, if she was being honest with herself. She missed the wide-open spaces. The gardens. The trees that scraped the sky. This was countryside, but not at all like Uncle Oren’s estate that she’d fallen madly in love with as a child. That was the last place she’d lived with her mother. It was still the only place where she felt like she belonged.

The door creaked open, and Patrice ushered her inside with a puzzled expression. His white hair waved like puffed candy floss and he was dressed in a robe over what looked to be blue-striped pajamas. “Amalie, qu'est que?—?”

“Where are they? Uncle Oren and Aunt Maurielle?”

Patrice took in her disheveled appearance, then gaped at the object she held in her hand. “In the study, but?—”

Amalie didn’t wait for Patrice’s carefully curated explanation for why she couldn’t interrupt her aunt and uncle. She felt a bit guilty at greeting the man inappropriately, especially since she’d pulled him from his bed, but this couldn’t wait.

She charged down the hall, barely glancing at the artwork Aunt Maurielle had hung since the last time she’d visited, and slammed her shoulder into the heavy wooden door.

It flew open, and Uncle Oren jumped from his chair. His hand was halfway to the drawer that held his musket when he recognized her face. “Amalie?”

She straightened her shoulders, then strode to the desk and dropped the ring and the bloody spike onto the polished wood with a hollow thump.