Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(64)

The comte stopped abruptly, hand squeezing harder round her arm.

“Be still,” he said very quietly, though she wasn’t making any noise. “Listen.”

She listened as hard as possible—and thought she did hear something. What she thought she heard, though, was footsteps, far in the distance. Behind them. Her heart seized up for a moment.

“What—what do you hear?” she thought of asking. He glanced down at her, but not as though he really saw her.

“Them,” he said. “The stones. They make a buzzing sound, most of the time. If it’s close to a fire feast or a sun feast, though, they begin to sing.”

“Do they?” she said faintly. He was hearing something, and evidently it wasn’t the footsteps she’d heard. The footsteps had stopped now, as though whoever followed was waiting, maybe stealing along, one step at a time, careful to make no sound.

“Yes,” he said, and his face was intent. He looked at her sharply again, and this time he saw her.

“You don’t hear them,” he said with certainty, and she shook her head. He pressed his lips tight together but after a moment lifted his chin, gesturing toward another tunnel, where there seemed to be something painted on the chalk.

He paused there to light another torch—this one burned a brilliant yellow and stank of sulfur—and she saw by its light the wavering shape of the Virgin and Child. Her heart lifted at the sight, for surely faeries would have no such thing in their lair.

“Come,” he said, and now took her by the hand. His own was cold.



MICHAEL CAUGHT A glimpse of them as they moved into a side tunnel. The comte had lit another torch, a red one this time—how did he do that?—and it was easy to follow its glow.

How far down in the bowels of the earth were they? He had long since lost track of the turnings, though he might be able to get back by following the torches—assuming they hadn’t all burned out.

He still had no plan in mind, other than to follow them until they stopped. Then he’d make himself known and…well, take Joan away, by whatever means proved necessary.

Swallowing hard, rosary still wrapped around his left hand and penknife in his right, he stepped into the shadows.



THE CHAMBER WAS round and quite large. Big enough that the torchlight didn’t reach all the edges, but it lit the pentagram inscribed into the floor in the center.

The noise was making Rakoczy’s bones ache, and as often as he had heard it, it never failed to make his heart race and his hands sweat. He let go of the nun’s hand for a moment to wipe his palm on the skirts of his coat, not wanting to disgust her. She looked scared but not terrified, and if she heard it, surely she—

Her eyes had widened suddenly.

“Who’s that?” she said.

He whirled, to see Raymond standing tranquilly in the center of the pentagram.

“Bon soir, mademoiselle,” the frog said, bowing politely.

“Ah…bon soir,” the girl replied faintly.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Rakoczy interposed his body between Raymond and the nun.

“Very likely the same thing you are,” the frog replied. “Might you introduce your petite amie, sir?”

Shock, anger, and sheer confusion robbed Rakoczy of speech for a moment. What was the infernal creature doing here? Wait—the girl! The lost daughter he’d mentioned: the nun was the daughter! He’d discovered her whereabouts and somehow followed them to this place. Rakoczy took hold of the girl’s arm again, firmly.

“She is a Scotch,” he said. “And, as you see, a nun. No concern of yours.”

The frog looked amused, cool and unruffled. Rakoczy was sweating, the noise beating against his skin in waves. He could feel the little bag of stones in his pocket, a hard lump against his heart. They seemed to be warm, warmer even than his skin.

“I doubt that she is, really,” said Raymond. “Why is she a concern of yours, though?”

“That’s also none of your business.” He was trying to think. He couldn’t lay out the stones, not with the damned frog standing there. Could he just leave with the girl? But if the frog meant him harm…and if the girl truly wasn’t…

Raymond ignored the incivility and bowed again to the girl.

“I am Master Raymond, my dear,” he said. “And you?”

“Joan Mac—” she said. “Er…Sister Gregory, I mean.” She tried to pull away from Rakoczy’s grip. “Um. If I’m not the concern of either of you gentlemen—”

“She’s my concern, gentlemen.” The voice was high with nerves, but firm. Rakoczy looked round, shocked to see the young wine merchant walk into the chamber, disheveled and dirty but eyes fixed on the girl. At Rakoczy’s side, the nun gasped.

“Sister.” The merchant bowed. He was white-faced but not sweating. He looked as though the chill of the cavern had seeped into his bones, but he put out a hand, from which the beads of a wooden rosary swung. “You dropped your rosary.”



JOAN THOUGHT SHE might faint from sheer relief. Her knees wobbled from terror and exhaustion, but she summoned enough strength to wrench free of the comte and run, stumbling, into Michael’s arms. He grabbed her and hauled her away from the comte, half-dragging her.

The comte made an angry sound and took a step in Joan’s direction, but Michael said, “Stop right there, ye wicked bugger!” just as the little froggy-faced man said sharply, “Stop!”