CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Throwing himself out of the path of the white-faced Hunter, Will heard the chest shatter. The spy rolled back to his feet only to see the Corpus-Scythe lying exposed in the deepening pool of rainwater and Xanthus crouching over it. Will felt a pang of bitter regret. He’d come so close to escaping with his prize, but a face-to-face fight at that moment was a battle he was unlikely to win.
Meg had already fled. He sprinted away from the square towards a narrow street on the northern side of the cathedral. The way ahead was long and straight with no alleys in which he could lose himself.
At his back, the spy heard splashing as the Hunter bounded across the cobbles.
A door to the cathedral hung ajar to his right. Will dived into the dark space and drew the heavy iron bolts, although he knew it would buy him only a few moments. He raced up a flight of broad stone steps two at a time, a plan already forming in his mind. Ignoring the door to what he guessed was the grand gallery connecting the two towers, he continued climbing until his breath burned in his chest.
From far below, the clang of the bolt being drawn back echoed up the well of shadows.
The steps ended atop one of the cathedral’s two towers. From the window space, he had a view across storm-buffeted Paris. Thousands of stars of candlelight flickered in inky space. On the grey Seine, the Unseelie Court fleet glowed with a ghostly luminescence.
Xanthus would think him trapped, the spy thought. That gave him an advantage.
Pulling the grapnel from his cloak’s pocket, Will hooked it on the coping and threw the attached rope out of the window. He had no time to test if it would hold. Hanging out into the tearing wind, the spy grasped the rope and slid down.
He was hurled around wildly by the gale and blinded by the downpour. Smashed against the stone of the tower, he held on with shaking hands, then kicked away from the wall to continue his descent. As he swung, he glimpsed a face in one of the open arched windows along the gallery between the towers. He was sure it had been Meg. Was it she who had left the tower door ajar?
Will felt a wrench and the grapnel gave way. Arms whirling, he fell, the rope tumbling around him.
Slamming into the rain-slick cathedral roof, the spy felt his breath driven from his lungs. He had no time to recover. Numb from the impact, he careered down the steep pitch on his back.
When he glanced down, he saw the edge of the roof racing towards him.
Will curled his hand around the tangled rope and yanked hard. The grapnel flew through the air and crashed ahead of him; jerking his arm up, caught the cold iron of the hook with his free hand as he sped by. With his stomach flipping, he shot over the edge.
Overcome by the dizzying sensation of falling, the spy felt every bone in his body jar when the grapnel caught on the coping at the edge of the roof. He slammed against the stone wall once more. His fingers slipped, then held tight.
He didn’t look down, but he could feel the drop pulling beneath his feet. On straining arms, he hauled himself up, grabbed the edge of the coping with his right hand and pulled himself back on to the roof.
Will kneeled on the brink of the abyss and caught his breath. He felt the furious gale tear at him, threatening to pitch him over the side, and he knew he had to move on. But when he looked up, he saw he was not alone. Near the north tower, Xanthus now balanced on the edge of the roof, seemingly oblivious to the wind and the rain. Illuminated by the white light of a lightning flash, the predator stretched out his arms and closed his eyes in beatific supplication to the heavens.
‘Across your world I have pursued you, for the vengeance demanded by my brother and my people,’ the Hunter roared above the howling gale. ‘But this ends now. Your time has come, spy.’
Returning the grapnel to the pocket in his cloak, the spy saw there was still a chance that he could follow his original plan. In the shadow of the soaring spire where the transepts crossed, a white stone arm reached towards the Seine. Will identified numerous places where he could descend — if he could but reach the roof of the southern transept before Xanthus caught him.
But the spy was gripped by a puzzling sight. Stooping on the edge of the roof, the Hunter was removing an object from the sack he had strapped to his back. Silver gleamed.
The box the Enemy had attempted to use that rainswept night at Lud’s Church.
Transfixed, Will watched the hunched figure set the gleaming chest on the coping and open the lid with a careful, almost awed motion. Will thought the dark within the box seemed to suck as powerfully as the void beside him.
After a moment, he saw movement in the black depths. Small shapes emerged into the driving rain and began to skitter along the edge of the roof towards him. Overcome by a grim foreboding, Will turned and lurched into the buffeting wind along the edge of the abyss. His shoes slipped on the wet stone. Arms outstretched to steady himself, he fought to maintain his balance.
Above the south transept, the spy glanced back. In the hunch of the Hunter’s slowly loping form, Will saw weakness, perhaps exhaustion. Could it be that the predator’s strength had been drained by his control of the elements during their long pursuit?
The spy’s gaze was drawn back to that black trail of scurrying forms, each one almost as big as the palm of his hand.
Certainly like no spiders he had ever seen before.
On the south transept roof, Will was held fast by the crashing waves of wind. Bowing his head, he pressed on, one agonizing step at a time. Blinded by the driving rain, the thunder rolling out above and lightning crashing down in jagged forks, Will felt his world was in turmoil.
Turning, the spy saw the spiders had caught up with him. Although they looked insignificant, he was sure some dark power lurked within them.
‘Damn you! Leave me be!’ the spy raged.
Hammering one shoe down upon the nearest spider, he sensed the black shape burst under his leather sole. It felt like crushing a hen’s egg. Black ichor oozed out from beneath his foot and was washed away by the rain.
Just as he began to think that the skittering things were too easily destroyed, one arachnid propelled itself on to his hose and scurried up his body. He felt each leg like a hot needle stabbing into his flesh. Too fast to be brushed off, it swept down his arm to the back of his hand. With a shiver, the creature sank its fangs into Will and tore away a chunk of flesh.
The spy yelled in pain, blood spraying from his hand. Tearing the spider free, he crushed it in his palm. The black ichor steamed as it gushed between his fingers, and he hurled the squashed remains away. By then the other spiders were swarming across his body, tearing and biting.
Fearful that his thrashing would pitch him over the edge, the spy battled towards a small spire at the end of the transept where there was a patch of shelter. Whenever the snapping jaws bit through his clothes, he felt like he was being burned by hot pokers. Blood ran freely down his arms and legs, and however much he tore the spiders away, others replaced them. Unopposed, they could strip a body in a matter of moments, he realized.
His hands slick with blood, Will gripped on to the spire for support. Through the sheet of rain, he could see the pale, hunched shape of Xanthus creeping towards him. The Hunter had drawn his rapier ready for the killing blow.
The spy ripped the spiders away with gore-drenched hands. He hurled his body repeatedly against the spire to crush more. Yet he felt his strength ebbing with each gout of blood he lost, and he didn’t know how much longer he could endure.
Then his pale foe stood before him, swordpoint twirling in line with Will’s heart. ‘You have led me a merry chase,’ Xanthus said, ‘but finally my brother can rest peacefully, and the High Family will know that Cavillex has been avenged. When your Queen’s head sits on a spike at Nonsuch Palace, yours will rest beside her.’
