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CHAPTER 49
Simon. I need to tell Simon.
Getting out of the Sanctum is complicated, though. All the doors are locked, so it’s either the window at the far end or ascending the tower to the roof level where I was earlier, and down the scaffolds outside. I’m still in my working skirt, which is full enough that any way out will be awkward, especially in the dark. The broken gallery-level windows are low and wide. They seem like a good option, though I’ll have to be careful.
Replacing the candles on the altar, I stuff the long braid between layers of clothing to free my hands. Then I run to the stairs I came down earlier. Just getting to the gallery makes me dizzy, though, and I pause on the landing to let my head stop spinning. As my breathing returns to normal, I hear the tinkle of glass falling to the floor.
Has Remi come looking for me? I step out into the gallery, where murky light streams through the shattered windows. Halfway to the end, a dark shape slides inside the Sanctum, glass crunching as it lands.
“Is that you, Remi?” I call.
The figure startles and turns to face me. Says nothing. Rainwater drips from the cloak covering him head to knees.
That’s when I know who it is.
Simon always said the killer would be drawn back to the scene of the murders. On Simon’s instructions, Lambert had repeatedly questioned the city guards about men who lingered in those areas. I’m the only one who knows the Sanctum is now one of those places.
I have to get away, outside. I know my way around the building with my eyes closed, but there are too many places to get cornered.
The shadow moves slightly, and metal hisses like it’s being dragged across leather. The sound of a knife being drawn. He takes one step toward me, and the blade of a dagger pushes the cloak aside.
Next to me is a window, but not one I would’ve chosen to climb out. A dozen jagged pieces of glass remain in the frame, pointing inward like teeth. I can’t see what’s outside, but if there’s no scaffold there, it’s several feet down to the arcade roof. The killer takes another, faster step, and I have no choice. I leap at the knee-high ledge and launch myself through the dark opening, shielding my face with my arms and praying something is there for me to land on.
Sharp edges catch in my hair and across my skirt as fabric tears. There’s scaffolding—thank the Light—but it’s a few inches higher than the bottom of the window, and my toe catches on it, dumping me face-first on a platform of woven reeds. I barely have time to realize how I’ve landed when a gloved hand grabs my ankle. Screaming, I kick his fingers with the heel of my boot and get free enough to crawl out of his reach.
Ahead of me is a twenty-foot drop onto irregular blocks of stone. Just as I pull myself up, the killer comes crashing out of thewindow. I turn away from flying bits of glass and swing around the upright pole to the other side. My feet find the next horizontal support, and I move across it, gripping the one over my head.
Step-slide. Step-slide.
I open the distance between us to just out of reach as he lunges for me again. A fleeting wish for my moonstone’s effects, weak as they would be, goes through my mind, but I would never be able to hold on to it. The poles are slippery with rain and cold enough to numb my fingers in seconds, and I need both my hands. Between darkness and water dripping into my eyes, I move almost entirely by feel. My toes bump into the next vertical strut, and I step around it. Here there’s a diagonal pole, too, and I choose to go up rather than stay on this level. The killer follows, grunting, and I nearly fall as my hand reaches for a pole where I expect one but comes up empty. Watching his progress endangers me.
Just get away.
I focus on climbing the web of poles, going up when it seems easier, which is often. If I can get to the roof, I’ll have a straight running path along the gutter. Rainwater drips into my left eye, and I take a precious second to wipe it away. My fingers come away dark with blood. I must have cut my scalp going through the window, but my thick hair probably saved me from a much deeper wound. I can’t tell how much it’s bleeding, though, or if the faintness I feel is from fear, hunger, or loss of blood. Probably all three.
After hauling myself up to the next reed platform, I have to pause until my dizziness subsides. Creaks and groans below tell me what gain I had is dwindling rapidly. I’m next to the clerestory, at the highest row of windows but still two levels below the roof. Here the glass is colorless to let in pure light. The end of a roof beam rests on the edge of my platform, having punchedthrough the window, and if I could trust the scaffolding, I might have considered climbing inside. A narrow triangular fang of glass hangs from the top of the circular frame, and I stretch up to wrest it free.
The skin of my palm splits open against the broken edge, leaking blood on either side. Now I have a weapon, but I doubt my ability to use it effectively. What kind of man am I facing? Simon described him as intelligent, and to have known how to bring the scaffolding down in the short time since I inspected last week, he must be.
A gloved hand appears on the edge of the platform, and I scramble out of its reach. The pointed edge of my makeshift knife scratches across the woven platform, slicing deeper into my palm, but suddenly I have an idea.
Adjusting the glass in my hand, I keep moving backward, dragging the sharp edge along the reeds where they’re lashed around the frame, pressing hard enough to cut through them.
Deeper into the shadows I move until my back is against a corner created by a thicker part of the Sanctum wall. A visible trail of blood leads to me, hopefully obscuring what I’ve done. The killer heaves his upper body over the far end of the platform. With the hood over his head I can still see nothing of his face, but he can see and hear me as I gasp and wheeze. I’m not trying to hide or get away anymore. I’m setting a trap.
As he brings a leg up, I worry he’ll have a close look at what I’ve done, so I hurl the bloody piece of glass in his direction to distract him. He bats it away and rises to his feet. The effort of my throw puts me on the verge of passing out. The killer pauses, like he’s savoring this moment, and draws his knife again.
Yes. Come toward me.
He takes one step forward, then another. Under his feet, the reeds sag, but don’t break. Blackness creeps in from the marginsof my already narrowed and dimming sight. If this isn’t going to work, at least I’ll be unconscious when he kills me.
But then there’s a series of shredding cracks, each one coming more rapidly than the last, and the platform gives, tearing away from the edge like fabric. The killer falls, at first only to his waist, then the impact of his weight rips the remaining hold the reeds have on the frame, and the rest of him vanishes beneath, the last being the hand still holding the dagger.
I sag to the side, fighting the dark waves that seek to cover me, as the scaffolds shudder with every impact the killer makes on the way down. There’s no work being performed below, so there are no more platforms, only poles at several angles. The hits are frequent enough that he never builds up any speed as he falls, but nor can he slow himself. Everything finally ends with a thud as he lands on the slanted roof of the arcade below.
It’s not safe yet. I should get up and move away, but all I can think of is rest. Curling up on the tiny corner of the platform that remains attached, I close my eyes.
Just for a minute.
