Chapter 18 - Midnight in Lyon
The cold night air hit our lungs like a bucket of ice water.
We burst through the hidden grate concealed beneath an ornamental fountain at the edge of the Laurent estate’s south lawn. Behind us, the main manor house was already buckling. A subterranean explosion vented through the high ballroom windows, shattering the century-old stained glass in an apocalyptic shower of light and flame.
Sirens echoed in every direction—fire engines, tactical response units, and federal police were converging on the burning estate.
Julian pulled me across the damp grass toward a secluded access road where a nondescript black sedan sat idling, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically against the dense French drizzle. A man in a dark trench coat sat behind the wheel, tapping his fingers against the dashboard.
"That’s my transport," Thomas said, breathing heavily as he clutched his ribs where Beatrice had landed a kick during the struggle. "Get in. We have less than an hour before the border checkpoints are locked down."
Julian paused, holding the black gown tightly against his chest, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the sedan, then at Thomas. "Border checkpoints? Thomas, you said you were with the French Directorate. If you’re with the government, why are we running from the authorities?"
The rain fell harder, plastering my hair to my forehead, soaking through the outer layers of my white wedding dress. The golden silk beneath remained bone dry, repellent to the storm.
"Thomas?" I asked, a sudden chill creeping down my spine that had nothing to do with the weather. "Who is in that car?"
My father did not answer immediately. He wiped the rainwater from his face, looking back at the burning mansion with an expression that was impossible to decipher—neither grief nor triumph, but something cold, calculated, and terrifyingly patient.
"The Directorate didn't authorize this recovery, Clara," Thomas said softly. "The Directorate was dissolved three years ago. The people who sent me... they aren't the government."
Julian reached toward his waistband, but Thomas’s gun was already drawn, leveled calmly at Julian’s chest.
"Put the dress in the trunk, Julian," Thomas said, his voice flat. "Do it slowly."
My heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. "Father... what are you doing?"
"What I should have done twenty-eight years ago," Thomas said, his gray eyes locking onto mine without an ounce of warmth. "Arthur and Beatrice were fools. They thought the value of the spider-silk was in bulletproof vests and military contracts. They had no vision. They couldn't see beyond the next fiscal quarter."
"You used me," I whispered, the betrayal cutting deeper than anything Eleanor had ever done. "You let Eleanor steal the first dress to draw Arthur out. You waited for me to expose them so you could walk into the vault and take the master code."
"You were the only one who could open the biometric vault lock on the Jacquard loom, Clara," Thomas admitted, his voice quiet, devoid of malice, yet brutally cold. "Vivienne tied the electronic release to your specific mitochondrial DNA. Only you, or your direct child, could turn that lock. I needed you at that loom. I needed Beatrice to force the issue."
"You left Eleanor down there to die," Julian growled, stepping in front of me, his eyes blazing with fury. "Your own niece."
May you like
"Collateral damage in a war that started before either of you were born," Thomas replied. "Now, Julian. Place the dress in the trunk. Or Clara becomes a widow before she even signs the civil registry."
---
