Wicked: the Pack of St James by Noelle Mack

Author:Noelle Mack
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Books
Published: 2009-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Semyon entered the immense cavern that was St. Paul’s through a side door, having bribed a brass polisher who was working late.

The coins were valuable enough to make the man head for the nearest pub and drink up at least one sovereign. Semyon stepped over the rag smeared with polish and the little jar that held the stuff as he moved inside the cathedral.

He was glad for the chance to look around.

The vast, shadowy dome seemed to float overhead, its grandeur barely visible, even with the moonlight coming through the small round windows in it.

Semyon walked quietly, more on the sides of his leather boots than the harder heels. The large black-and-white tiles matched the stride of a tall man. He kept to the outer edge of the circular floor directly under the dome, unwilling to strike out for the center on the black pathways leading to it.

There was no one there, anyway.

He paused to listen for…he knew not what. Or who.

A wandering deacon? A man with a mop?

Even this magnificent edifice, the pride of London, needed mopping.

He heard nothing for some minutes.

And then a shadow detached itself from one of the high recesses behind the square pillars that seemed to support the grand dome.

A man. With a stocky, compact build and measured tread.

Semyon stayed where he was, instinctively sniffing to see if he could pick up a scent.

Beneath the churchly smells of hymnals and pious exhalations there was something different.

It was a faint smell of decay. Like bad teeth. Or something worse.

Semyon, already on his guard, stiffened. That smell alone proved the connection of the kidnapper’s lair to St. Sin.

But would he meet that notorious individual or only this fellow?

The stocky man walked to the very center of the floor under the dome. He looked up to the gallery high above that ran round its gigantic circumference.

Then he looked straight ahead at nothing.

“Come, Mr. Taruskin,” he said clearly. “Follow me.”

Semyon drew in a silent breath and hesitated. He could be shot if he revealed himself. It seemed incredible to him that such a thing could happen in this holy place, but he dared not put his trust in men.

Still—if it meant meeting whoever had engineered the kidnapping of Angelica, he would do it.

He wanted that man, or men, to know that he would tear their throats if they did not leave her alone. Semyon had no idea how they had figured out where he lived, but he remembered, with a flash of chagrin, Ivan’s scolding over his lack of discretion.

He had only himself to blame.

The stocky man walked out of the center to another recess, singing tunelessly under his breath. The grating, unpleasant sound echoed in the half-domes of all the recesses, then, faintly and finally at the top of the great dome that surpassed them all.

Semyon saw that he was walking to the staircase that led to the gallery around the dome’s circumference.

Up he went, tedious step by tedious step, wheezing now and no longer singing. Semyon had no choice but to follow him—there was only one way up.

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