The Dagger and the Flame (The City of Fantome, #1)

by Catherine Doyle

Take only what your cloak can carry, and your conscience can bear.

Those who refuse to wield the dagger are doomed to die by its blade.

The light crept in through Seraphine’s window and danced along the pages of her book, and for a moment, she imagined the curious moon was reading over her shoulder.

There had always been a darkness in Mama, and Seraphine feared that if she looked directly at it, it might become a part of her, too. It might destroy their careful little life.

For it was in the falling shadows of Fantome that the Cloaks and Daggers roamed. The rival guilds, one of thieves and the other of assassins, were both powered by Shade—the only magic the once-blessed Kingdom of Valterre had left at its fingertips.

Shade was the dust that lost golden age had left behind. A volatile substance that bent shadows to the will of man. For those skilled in the art of dark magic and trained by the Orders, Shade could be used to steal. To spy. To kill. To avenge. To survive. The Daggers consumed Shade in small doses, temporarily turning their bodies into deadly weapons where one touch alone could kill. The Cloaks never consumed Shade. Rather, they wore it, allowing them to blend in with the night and take from it whatever they wished. They might have considered themselves nobler than their rivals, but to dance with Shade at all was to tempt fate.

The rule was simple: Daggers and Cloaks stayed out of each other’s way. Daggers didn’t thieve and Cloaks didn’t murder.

Those who refuse to wield the dagger are doomed to die by its blade.

Underneath, engraved into a gold plaque, was the motto upon which the Order of Cloaks was founded. Take only what your cloak can carry, and your conscience can bear.

What do you want to be boy, brave or broken?

That night Ransom had his first taste of Shade. And then he killed his father.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Sera.” She laughed, awkwardly. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.” He winked at her. “I have that effect on people.”

“What’s inside it?” She shrugged, embarrassed not to know the answer, to have never asked. “Um. A mother’s love?” “Powerful stuff.”

When the world is at its darkest, we must reach bravely through the shadows to find where the light blooms.

He peered at the knuckle where a shadow-mark had once been. His first mark. For nearly ten years, that whorl had curled around his fingers like a branch of inky thorns. It had stung like them too. Now it was gone.

The hand that had dangled Seraphine like a puppet on a string. The hand she had burned on that balcony. And now it was… clean.

He pressed it to his chest, inhaling deeply as he searched the dark reaches of himself, prodding at the heaviness that lingered there. Was it his imagination or had it lessened? Had some of the darkness inside him been burned away too?

Another question gripped him, so tight he couldn’t breathe from the hope of it… Could she burn all the poison away, so that he could crawl out of this cruel place and leave behind the yawning hollow of darkness that would one day swallow him whole?

What would you give for another chance at freedom? What would you risk to go all the way back? He dropped his head, caressing that little patch of unblemished skin. Everything.

And there she was. His spitfire. She was peering around a stone pillar in her long black cloak, staring right at him. Ransom gave her a slow, lethal smirk. She hugged the column, the shock on her face quickly blooming into horror. He almost felt sorry for her. But this was war, and she had drawn first blood. He had thirty-six stitches in his side to prove it. So he dragged a finger across his neck, and mouthed, I’m going to fucking kill you.

Ransom. The Dagger’s name was Ransom. Living, breathing, seething Ransom. What the hell kind of a name was Ransom?

“I’m flattered, but I’d rather not hold hands, Ransom. I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

“What do you have on you this time, Seraphine? A paperweight? A fountain pen?” His gaze roamed the length of her body. “Do I need to pat you down?” “Maybe you should. Just to be safe.”

He was on her in the next breath, yanking her to unsteady feet, sealing the space between them with the hardness of his body. Immovable. Unyielding. Enraged. “Nice try, spitfire.”

“Nasty nosebleed you’ve got there, Ransom.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me.” “Believe it or not, I’m trying really hard to resist.” “What was all that mouthing about at the Aurore, then? Foreplay?” He blinked, then offered the slash of a smile. “Old habits.”

“What’s in that thing?” She tightened her grip on it, her words coming in a whisper. “A tiny, ancient piece of paper…” His throat bobbed, his expression hungry. “What does it say?” “It says, Fuck off, Ransom.”

My spirit—my fight—comes from my mother. And so does my magic.”

“My strength is your weakness. My secret is your nightmare. And that makes me a lot more dangerous than you.”

“Let’s clear one thing up,” he said, his breath on her lips. “I don’t fear your magic, Seraphine. I want it.”

Her cheeks flared at the memory of his body pressed up against hers, his cruel mouth full of blood, the smell of wild mint on his breath. She shuddered, though she couldn’t tell whether it was from revulsion or something far more dangerous. Something she did not dare to name. Even to herself.

In her desperation to save the mutt, she had revealed a naked terror Ransom hadn’t seen in her before. He had hated the sight of it.

in that moment, as he towered over Seraphine Marchant, he didn’t feel like a Dagger. He felt like his father.

Nadia wrapped her arms around herself, her voice quiet. “If that thing really was Kipp, then that means all these monsters… they’re just…” “People,” said Lark. “They’re just people.”

You are my hobby, Seraphine. Do you want to come out and play?

“The wine,” he hissed back. “Sylvie poisoned the latest batch!”

“It doesn’t just poison the body, Sera. It poisons the soul. It changes you. It takes away the bridge between magic and mortality, until there’s no going back to who you were before.”

“Mama says Sylvie was working on an antidote, too. Magic that would help the monsters.”

He would have taken ten trowels to the face over another minute of those deep, gasping sobs.

Ransom had come all the way out here to confront Seraphine, but the sight of her bent double on the floor had done something unexpected to his chest. It had tightened it to the point of pain and he could not now bring himself to face her, to intrude on an aching loss that so closely mirrored his own.

Now she was arguing with cabbage-head.

Nectar of the Saints. The same wine they served at the Lucky Shell.

Dufort had been just as surprised by the monsters as anyone else. He was the last one to believe they even existed. Whatever she had died for, it was not this.

Hope dances along the horizon. And its name is Lightfire.

In that case, moneybags, I’ve got a new assignment for you. Easy mark. Considerable compensation. Interested?

It appears I have a stalker. Obsessive, relentless, and wretchedly arrogant. Perfect, punchable teeth. I have it on good authority that he has a dodgy liver, as of recently.

You missed my liver, Seraphine. If you come outside, I’ll let you trace my scar to prove it.

A violent heat erupted in her cheeks. She couldn’t shake the image of him lifting his shirt to her, of her hands trailing across the muscled planes of his torso—stop that.

Careful, Dagger. I might burn you again. The paper dart had barely left her hand before returning again. Maybe I want to burn, spitfire.

What is the price on my head? I’ll give you one hundred gold sovereigns to remove it.