The Space Between (Outlander, #7.5)(36)

The comte was rubbing a finger over his upper lip; she didn’t know if he was expressing doubt or trying not to laugh, but either way it made her angry.

“So one of them told me to tell ye that, and I did!” she said, lapsing into Scots. “I dinna ken what it is ye’re no supposed to do, but I’d advise ye not to do it!”

It occurred to her belatedly that perhaps killing her was the thing he wasn’t supposed to do, and she was about to put this notion to him, but by the time she had disentangled enough grammar to have a go at it, the coach was slowing, bumping from side to side as it turned off the main road. A sickly smell seeped into the air, and she sat up straight, her heart in her throat.

“Mary, Joseph, and Bride,” she said, her voice no more than a squeak. “Where are we?”

* * *

Michael leapt from the coach almost before it had stopped moving. He daren’t let them get too far ahead of him; his driver had nearly missed the turning, as it was, and the comte’s coach had come to a halt minutes before his own reached it.

“Talk to the other driver,” he shouted at his own, half visible on the box. “Find out why the comte has come here! Find out what he’s doing!”

Nothing good. He was sure of that. Though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would kidnap a nun and drag her out of Paris in the dark, only to stop at the edge of a public cemetery. Unless … half-heard rumors of depraved men who murdered and dismembered their victims, even those who ate … His wame rose and he nearly vomited, but it wasn’t possible to vomit and run at the same time, and he could see a pale splotch on the darkness that he thought—he hoped, he feared—must be Joan.

Suddenly the night burst into flower. A huge puff of green fire bloomed in the darkness, and by its eerie glow he saw her clearly, her hair flying in the wind.

He opened his mouth to shout, to call out to her, but he had no breath, and before he could recover it she vanished into the ground, the comte following her, torch in hand.

He reached the shaft moments later, and he saw below the faintest green glow, just vanishing down a tunnel. Without an instant’s hesitation, he flung himself down the ladder.

* * *

“Do you hear anything?” the comte kept asking her as they stumbled along the white-walled tunnels, he grasping her so hard by the arm that he’d surely leave bruises on her skin.

“No,” she gasped. “What … am I listening for?”

He merely shook his head in a displeased way, but more as though he was listening for something himself than because he was angry with her for not hearing it.

She had some hopes that he’d meant what he said and would take her back. He did mean to go back himself; he’d lit several torches and left them burning along their way. So he wasn’t about to disappear into the hill altogether, taking her with him to the lighted ballroom where people danced all night with the Fine Folk, unaware that their own world slipped past beyond the stones of the hill.

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.