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“Are you certain this has nothing to do with the Chasseurs?”
I stared at the flames for a few more seconds, watching the way they moved inexplicably, nothing but the combination of energy and mass. My hands left the mantel, and I turned around to look at Bleu. “No.”
“This wasn’t a normal kidnapping—”
“I’ve been out of the game for seven years, Bleu. I said goodbye to that life the second I knew about Claire.” I didn’t even know they were missing for days after their disappearance. Beatrice was supposed to drop off our daughter so I would have her for the weekend. She didn’t show. And when that happened…I knew there was no chance. If a kidnapping wasn’t solved within the first three days, it would never be solved.
Bleu bowed his head and rubbed his hands together. “Then what’s your solution, Benton? To give up?”
My eyes narrowed on his face, wanting to rip off his head and throw it into the flames. “Never.” I reported it to the police, walked the streets, and asked strangers if they recognized either one of them. I did all the detective work when the police failed to do it themselves. I asked old contacts if they knew anything about a serial kidnapper in the city, and none of them did. Every time I found a new leaf to turn over, there was nothing underneath. And every time I felt a little hope that I might find my little girl, it was short-lived. My hope was repeatedly smashed with a sledgehammer, and every time I tried to regain hope, it was weaker and weaker.
“They might know something.”
“I didn’t leave on good terms.”
“Does it matter?”
I held his gaze and felt the hope in my heart once more, which was a dangerous thing to feel, especially for me…when my daughter was my whole life. I’d sell my soul to the devil for eternity to get her back. There was nothing I wouldn’t give for her. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. “No.”
The Catacombs of Paris possessed a dark history. In the eighteenth century, the cemeteries overflowed, so the dead were compacted in the network of tunnels that stretched over two miles deep underground, Parisians walking directly overhead without knowledge. The Parisian government turned it into a tourist attraction.
Until the Chasseurs bought it.
Now it belonged to one of the most ruthless criminal organizations in Paris.
The government lined their pockets with cash and looked the other way.
I entered the Catacombs through the secret tunnel Parisians were oblivious to and made my way through the graveyard of six million people. Crosses made of stone were in the walls, an arrangement of skulls permanently lining the pathways. Torches lit the way in the dark, casting shadows in the deepest crevices. Iron gates were still erected from where prisoners were kept, and the ceiling expanded over large rooms before they became confined once more. It was cold and drafty, the sun never piercing these deep caves.
Voices grew louder and louder as I approached, entering the large underground cavern that once held concerts long ago. It was the pinnacle of the Catacombs, the grand finale for the journey. Tables were placed in the room where the men sat and drank. Some held weapons while others held drugs. At the front of the room were two large thrones, made of skulls taken from the dead.
The men turned to look at me. Some recognized me, some didn’t.
One of the thrones was occupied, while the other was empty.
With his knees apart, one elbow on the armrest and his fingers resting against his jawline, he stared me down, his brown eyes stuck on me like a scope of a sniper. He was still, like the dead that made up his throne.
Conversations slowly died away as the tone of the room changed, as their leader wordlessly commanded silence.
My footfalls echoed in the cavern because it was so quiet. I moved past the tables and stopped a respectable distance from the man I’d once known as a brother.
Bartholomew.
He kept his position, regarding me with steady eyes, his dark hair perfectly styled like he could attend a dinner party at a moment’s notice. His long-sleeved black shirt was tight on his muscular body, his black jeans the same. Military-style black boots were on his feet, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. His eyes were just as dark as the rest of him, steady on my face, interrogating me with his look.
Then a slow smile crept on to his lips. Gradually, more of his teeth emerged, and his lips curled. A look of mirth came into his gaze, appreciating this moment because of how savory it was. “Benton, this is a pleasure. Truly.”
I had no pride—not anymore. “Not for me.”
His grin widened. “Yes, I surmised.” He rested both arms down on the armrests and gripped the skulls at the very ends, his fingers stretching over the face that had once been a person. He owned the dead in these Catacombs—and now he owned me. “Make your request. Just know that it comes at a price.”
