The Gargoyle and the Gypsy: A Dark Contemporary Romance (The Sacred Duet Book 1)

by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  My head throbbed as I painfully peeled my eyes open.

  Racine must’ve hit me again. Bastard.

  I didn’t know how long I’d been out, but based on the heat and the amount of smoke, it was for some time.

  Oh, God.

  Notre Dame was burning.

  The smoke seared my reality into my brain. He’d done it. The cold, cruel bastard—the pawn who wanted to prove his worth to the lord of the underworld—had set its most famed monument ablaze.

  I was surprised to find my hands and feet untied, but then I remembered it wouldn’t make sense for the woman who ‘started’ the fire to bind herself up after doing so.

  Groaning with the strain, I flattened my palms against the wood of the attic floor, feeling the heat emanating from the timbers, and pushed myself up.

  I made it to my knees before I couldn’t breathe.

  The smoke was too heavy and too thick for me to do anything except curl back down to the floor and gasp in less-smoky air.

  Regaining my wits, I army-crawled over to the door, finding it not only locked, but the handle scalding to the touch.

  Tears dripped from the corners of my eyes both from the smoke and my fear.

  I had to get out of here.

  It was impossible, but I refused to accept it quietly.

  Flattening myself to the floor once more, I scanned around the room, looking for another way out where there was none.

  It was an attic, adjoined to the forest—the roof of the cathedral lined with age-old wood that I could smell in the smoke.

  All that history. All that effort. All that love.

  All burning.

  On the far wall was a small wood-shuttered window. The tiny circle was far too small for me to fit through, assuming I’d have a plan to make it down from the height I was at. But it was a window—one that would open to fresh air if I could make it.

  My muscles cramped from lack of oxygen as I fought through the soot-filled smog.

  Dragging in a deep breath of what I knew to be the cleanest air—relatively speaking—I steeled myself and sprung up from the ground. My arms shooting above my head, I reached for the slats and tried to tip them open.

  They wouldn’t budge.

  I cried into the air-filled pocket of my mouth, straining a few more seconds before I had to drop back to the floor in need of another breath and a moment to let my eyes recover from the burn of the smoke.

  Merde.

  The window was at best, stuck shut. At worst, sealed at some point during the cathedral’s history to stop fur or feathered unwelcome visitors from making the attic their home.

  Think, Esme.

  The main problem was that while there was a lip on each of the slats, I couldn’t get my fingers underneath enough of it for a firm grip.

  I seized with a bout of coughing. The smoke was getting thicker at the floor.

  Double merde.

  I needed a mask or something—

  Still choking, I quickly reached on top of my head, sending up a silent prayer that Hubert hadn’t removed my scarf from my head. Tugging the fine fabric from my hair, I put it over my mouth and allowed the tight silk weave to filter out a good portion of the smoke and ash, allowing me to breathe a little easier.

  Alhamdulillah.

  But holding the scarf gave me another idea.

  If I could thread it through some of the slats, I could pull on that, not to open them, but to rip them from the window entirely.

  But that would mean removing the fabric from my mouth—the fabric that, at this point was the only thing allowing me to breathe.

  Not that it would matter. The smoke was too thick when I stood that even if I chose another piece of clothing as a shield, it wouldn’t give me any more time.

  I pondered the decision for maybe two seconds before I made my choice.

  Staring up at the window, I worked through in my mind how I’d have to feed the scarf through the space between the wood, letting it drop down on the other side of the three slats and then jam my hand underneath the bottom one to grab the end.

  I didn’t know how long I could hold my breath. I figured I had maybe a minute, if I was lucky.

  A minute to accomplish that and have enough strength to actually pull the old, hopefully rotted, wood from the tiny hole.

  But it was my only shot.

  “Give me strength,” I prayed, dragging in three long breaths, adrenaline fortifying my muscles with each inhale.

  Filling my lungs, I shot to my feet once more and pulled the scarf from my mouth.

  My eyes began to burn almost instantly as my fingers fed the end of the fabric through the hot wood. At first, I thought it wasn’t going to go through and just as I was about to shrink down in defeat, the fabric gave way and began to slide into the space.

  My hands move frantically to get the scarf through. I felt the strain beginning on my lungs and hoped it was enough. Only the tips of my fingers fit underneath the last board. Not enough of them to feel or grab anything.

  Biting into my lip and closing my eyes to both the smoke and the pain, I shoved my hand against the wood, feeling as it ripped back the top layer of skin from my fingers and the back of my hand.

  But soon, that burn was dulled by the one in my lungs.

  I was running out of time.

  There was no point in opening my eyes. I couldn’t see beyond the wood slats anyway. Ignoring the pain it brought, I spread my fingers and began to pull my hand toward one side of the window and then the other, tearing off new layers of skin with each movement.

  And then I felt it—the hemmed edge of my scarf.

  Clinging to it for dear life I pulled until I had enough secured in my grasp to tug it back through the window with my hand.

  There was just enough room on the scarf for my two hands to lock around it with no more to spare.

  Locking my grip and planting my feet, I yanked back with all my might.

  But nothing broke.

  I only had a few seconds left—a few seconds to either pull the scarf back, hope I could still breathe down at the floor and try again. Or a few seconds to make my last stand.

  My eyes opened to see my hands wrapped around the scarf, the right one raw and bloody as red trailed down my arm.

  But I also caught slivers of light in the window. Just a hint that my plan was working, if I could stay alive long enough to keep at it.

  So, I stood.

  Tightening my fingers, I turned so that my grip on the scarf was over one shoulder as I backed up close to the wall. Placing one foot and then the other flat against the wall with my knees bent, I prayed one last time.

  Please let him live.

  And then I shoved off like you do against the wall of a swimming pool. I felt my arms jerk back as my mouth opened to gasp in smoke. But as I choked on the air my lungs desperately craved, I heard the creak and grunt of straining and breaking wood, and I told myself it was working.

  I prayed it was.

  As the tension on my arms released, I knew I’d succeeded.

  At least I thought I did as everything faded to black once more.

  This time, I didn’t feel anything as I hit the ground.

  Quinton

  There was an aura in the streets the likes of which I’d never seen.

  I didn’t know how long it had been since the fire started, but judging from the crowds and the news coverage I caught in nearly every window I ran past, I’d guess it had been at least an hour.

  Everywhere I looked, people stood gathered in shock and silence, the muffled sounds of sobs loud enough to drown out the sirens and adorned with the bells of other churches around the city tolling in their grief.

  As I got closer to the Île de la Cité, vast plumes of thick gray smoke billowed from the angry red and yellow flames bursting from the roof and licking around the fire like a flaming coat.

  Mon Dieu.

  My feet faltered as I saw the destruction with my own eyes.

  The heart
of Paris was burning—and my heart right along with it.

  I felt the smoke from the air cling to my tongue as I licked my lips, but the only thing I tasted was my failure—my failure to stop this horror.

  By the time I reached the island in the Seine, it was closed off to the public. I halted when I reached the bridge, about to slip around the barrier when a rippling gasp drew my attention back to the flaming roof.

  Méchant had used the scaffolding to set the blaze—scaffolding that sat directly on top of fire-fueling wood. And it burned like the biggest bonfire.

  For thousands of years, this cathedral had stood.

  It had stood for mercy. It had stood for hope.

  It had stood as a sanctuary.

  And it had stood for love.

  And as I remained paralyzed for those split seconds, I watched as the part of my heart that had fought for the greater good toppled from my chest along with the famous spire, breaking and disintegrating into ash inside me.

  The sobs from the crowd in the distance behind me jarred me back to reality—a reality where the hoses and water cannons were targeted at the flaming roof of the cathedral.

  Mon Dieu.

  Flames galloped across the roof like they’d come from hell itself. The bright blaze whipped and clamored like a starved stampede, devouring everything in its path, and climbed over itself to rise higher into the smoke-darkened sky.

  It was too late to stop the fire, but there was still time to save the church from complete destruction.

  And I prayed there was still time to save ma dame… Ma Gypsy.

  There had to be. I had to save her.

  I could survive this, but I couldn’t survive losing her.

  Shifting around the barriers, I avoided the police altogether and made for the side of the cathedral. The whole area was swarming with firefighters. Many of them manning hoses and water cannons from boats out on the Seine. Their faces a canvas of determination and fear—fear of failure. Fear that what they would do wouldn’t be enough to save Notre Dame.

  And it wouldn’t.

  Not how they were approaching it.

  But I needed to find out where Esme was first. With the height of the flames and the expanse of the interior, I would never find her in time if I just rushed in there.

  I slid my knife from my sleeve once more, hoping I wouldn’t have to use it, but prepared in case I did.

  My eyes scanned the perimeter. I needed to talk to one of the firemen, but not where it would draw the attention of all of them.

  Sticking to the area around the trees, it was easy to avoid notice when the giant, flaming national icon drew every firefighter’s attention.

  I needed to know where it started from—that was where Esme would be.

  I stalked down the side of the cathedral to where there was a group of about five firefighters working to relay water from the Seine, pumping it through hoses for the water cannons to then spray the cathedral.

  I waited until one shifted out of the group and closer to me before reaching out and grabbing the back of his jacket, quickly clapping my hand over his mouth.

  I felt his gasp against my hand and he began to struggle. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  They never listen.

  He still struggled and his muffled cries drew the attention of the rest of them.

  “Hey! What the hell—” One of them began to yell.

  Another scanned for the nearest policeman.

  The third reached for some sort of something he thought to use as a weapon.

  And the fourth started to approach me with misguided bravery, forcing me into pulling up my knife and holding it to my captive’s throat. I kept the metal of the blade almost flat against his skin rather than with the blade poised to slice since I had no intention of harming him. Though I’m sure the trembling man didn’t see it that way.

  “Stop!” I yelled in frustration, letting my head shift to the side of the man in front of me and revealing my face to them.

  Shock and the faint tremors of recognition brought them to silence.

  “I won’t harm him,” I said louder this time. “Just tell me where the fire started.”

  They all gaped at me.

  I didn’t have time for this. “Tell me!”

  The middle man turned down the river and began to yell, “Help! Police!”

  “Goddammit,” I swore, yanking my prisoner roughly, letting his cry escape my grasp. “There’s a woman in there, alright? There’s a woman trapped in there, and I have to fucking save her so please… just tell me where it started.”

  Whether shocked or moved by my demand, they returned to silence, looking among themselves for what to do.

  “They said no one was ins—”

  “I don’t care what they said,” I roared. “There is a woman in there, and I need to find her!”

  Whether it was fearing or knowing the alternative—that if I was right and they didn’t tell me, they would be the ones sent in in search of her when I told the firefighters in charge.

  “Tell me where it started,” I said with a low growl and then, hearing a loud crash of what I assumed to be the roof collapsing inside the cathedral, I begged, “Please.”

  “T-The attic in the north transept,” the man with the knife to his neck stammered. “But I don’t think—”

  I shoved him away. I didn’t care what he thought. He didn’t know.

  He stumbled back, caught by his friends, and turned toward me, unable to hide the shock on his face on seeing my own. Also, unable to hide the tears that stained his soot-streaked cheeks.

  “Do you want to save this cathedral?”

  They continued to stare vacuously at me.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes” came the collective answer.

  Using my knife, I turned and pointed to where the water shot out and over the flames coming out of the cavern where part of the roof had collapse. “Saving the roof won’t save the cathedral; it’s not a supporting structure.” I dragged the knife to the looming towers. “The towers are like bookends. If you focus on the roof and let the flames spread to the wood inside those and thet topple, this whole thing will crumble in an instant.”

  When I looked back to them, I wondered if someone had stun-gunned them while I spoke.

  “Do you hear me?” I yelled at them. “The towers are what will keep Notre Dame standing. You need to get the water aimed at them!”

  It could’ve been my tone—or the way there was another loud crash behind us that seemed to emphasize the truth of my words—but the one in the middle nodded to the others, pointing them in directions to let the men in charge of the water know.

  A second later, it was just him, the man I’d held momentarily hostage, and myself.

  “Who are you?” the one said with an astonished whisper as he rubbed over his throat.

  My head ducked and I found myself turning over my shoulder as I kept walking to say, “I’m the man who protects this place… and the man who is going to save her.”

  All the entrances were closed off. Cones and barricades stood guard, along with handfuls of emergency personnel. Weaving through the stretch of trees along the side, I knew my only shot of getting inside was through the back passage door.

  Narrowly avoiding a few more firemen I had no desire to explain myself to once more, I made my way to the back of the church using the smoke and shadows to conceal my path.

  “Merde.” I swore as the hidden metal levers to open the door from the outside singed my fingertips, but I didn’t pull back.

  And the door didn’t budge.

  The heat outside was overwhelming, but I could feel the pulse of it from the other side of the door and knew it was much worse inside. The heated concoction of dust and debris pulsing out against the walls of the building and sealing the door tight.

  With a low grunt, I took another look at my fingertips, knowing if I walked away from this, it could very well be without fingerprints, and pulled against the scalding h
idden latches in the façade again, ignoring the burn of my flesh over the next minute as I pulled with no luck.

  My heart began to hammer. With every second the rest of the roof was getting closer and closer to collapsing and risked taking Esme with it.

  Fuck.

  I couldn’t lose her.

  With a low growl, I flipped my knife out once more, finding the almost invisible seam in the exterior stone and jammed the blade into it. Swearing under my breath, I felt my side begin to burn under the strain as I wedged it deeper and deeper until I felt the temporary seal pop free.

  Grabbing the handle of the door once more, I turned the levers and sagged with relief almost as strong as the gust of smoke and thick heat that assaulted me.

  Coughing into my elbow, the last thing I saw before I entered the church was the water cannon on this side redirecting its blast to the south tower.

  Thank God.

  I only hoped it wasn’t too late.

  There was no time to absorb the destruction. No time to take in the graveyard of timbers that had become of the center of the church. No time to see the fallen wood and broken stone that decimated the altar.

  No time to process century-old relics destroyed all in the effort for one man to gain power.

  No time to remember what happened and what I’d lost the last time I’d been trapped inside a burning church.

  Holding my cuff over my mouth, I made my way through the debris that invaded the ambulatory as quickly as I could. There was no way to just cut across the center of the church. The splintered timbers, some still ablaze, were too much of an obstacle.

  I could see the north side of the church had sustained more damage, confirming the fireman’s statement that it had started in one of the north attics.

  God, Esme…

  I fought to breathe—and it had nothing to do with the smoke.

  I only hoped if they’d redirected the water cannons there would be one aimed at the north tower now, too, and hopefully the spray would keep her safe.

  I couldn’t think about the alternative.

  I felt my shoes begin to stick to the stone floor from the heat and debris.

  Finally, I reached the access door to the attic. It had been left ajar.