attached rope out of the window. He had no time to test if it would hold. Hanging out into the tearing wind, the spy grasped the rope and slid down.
He was hurled around wildly by the gale and blinded by the downpour. Smashed against the stone of the tower, he held on with shaking hands, then kicked away from the wall to continue his descent. As he swung, he glimpsed a face in one of the open arched windows along the gallery between the towers. He was sure it had been Meg. Was it she who had left the tower door ajar?
Will felt a wrench and the grapnel gave way. Arms whirling, he fell, the rope tumbling around him.
Slamming into the rain-slick cathedral roof, the spy felt his breath driven from his lungs. He had no time to recover. Numb from the impact, he careered down the steep pitch on his back.
When he glanced down, he saw the edge of the roof racing towards him.
Will curled his hand around the tangled rope and yanked hard. The grapnel flew through the air and crashed ahead of him; jerking his arm up, caught the cold iron of the hook with his free hand as he sped by. With his stomach flipping, he shot over the edge.
Overcome by the dizzying sensation of falling, the spy felt every bone in his body jar when the grapnel caught on the coping at the edge of the roof. He slammed against the stone wall once more. His fingers slipped, then held tight.
He didn’t look down, but he could feel the drop pulling beneath his feet. On straining arms, he hauled himself up, grabbed the edge of the coping with his right hand and pulled himself back on to the roof.
Will kneeled on the brink of the abyss and caught his breath. He felt the furious gale tear at him, threatening to pitch him over the side, and he knew he had to move on. But when he looked up, he saw he was not alone. Near the north tower, Xanthus now balanced on the edge of the roof, seemingly oblivious to the wind and the rain. Illuminated by the white light of a lightning flash, the predator stretched out his arms and closed his eyes in beatific supplication to the heavens.
‘Across your world I have pursued you, for the vengeance demanded by my brother and my people,’ the Hunter roared above the howling gale. ‘But this ends now. Your time has come, spy.’
Your time has come, Will’s devil whispered in his ear.
Returning the grapnel to the pocket in his cloak, the spy saw there was still a chance that he could follow his original plan. In the shadow of the soaring spire where the transepts crossed, a white stone arm reached towards the Seine. Will identified numerous places where he could descend – if he could but reach the roof of the southern transept before Xanthus caught him.
But the spy was gripped by a puzzling sight. Stooping on the edge of the roof, the Hunter was removing an object from the sack he had strapped to his back. Silver gleamed.
The Wish-Crux.
The box the Enemy had attempted to use that rainswept night at Lud’s Church.
Transfixed, Will watched the hunched figure set the gleaming chest on the coping and open the lid with a careful, almost awed motion. Will thought the dark within the box seemed to suck as powerfully as the void beside him.
After a moment, he saw movement in the black depths. Small shapes emerged into the driving rain and began to skitter along the edge of the roof towards him. Overcome by a grim foreboding, Will turned and lurched into the buffeting wind along the edge of the abyss. His shoes slipped on the wet stone. Arms outstretched to steady himself, he fought to maintain his balance.
Above the south transept, the spy glanced back. In the hunch of the Hunter’s slowly loping form, Will saw weakness, perhaps exhaustion. Could it be that the predator’s strength had been drained by his control of the elements during their long pursuit?
The spy’s gaze was drawn back to that black trail of scurrying forms, each one almost as big as the palm of his hand.
Spiders?
Certainly like no spiders he had ever seen before.
On the south transept roof, Will was held fast by the crashing waves of wind. Bowing his head, he pressed on, one agonizing step at a time. Blinded by the driving rain, the thunder rolling out above