The interior of the lighthouse was a vertical tomb of rusty metal and cold granite. It did not smell of the Mediterranean's salt spray; it smelled like a mechanic's workshop in a vault — heavy industrial oils, dry graphite scents, and the sharp metallic taste of gun oil. The spiral staircase creaked in rhythm with each gust of wind that shook its metal structure echoing throughout the hollow room.
At the bottom of the stairs, Adélard held the tattered silk scarf in his hand, feeling like a cold, wet weight. His heart pounded fiercely in his chest, however, his blood felt like mush. He looked at the large brass key he clutched in his hand — the reward for a night spent crawling around in the gutters — and glanced upward at the darkness beyond.
The voice that called out to him was not warm and inviting like a father calling to his children. It was not the voice of the man who lifted him onto his shoulders to watch football matches or of the man who claimed to have drowned seven years prior. The voice was articulate, calculated and showed absolutely no emotional attachment. It was the voice of a man who had spent ten years talking solely to shadows.
"Come into the light, Adélard," the voice demanded.
A man slowly made his way down the stairs. He did not stumble. Instead, his movement was fluid, calculated, and quiet. When he finally reached the ground level, the faint yellow glow of a shop light dangling overhead illuminated him.
He was tall and had a framework that consisted entirely of hard lines and edges covered in a black trench coat that seemed to be formed from a shadow. His blond hair, similar to Adélard's own dirty-blond hair, had turned to a premature silver. However, his eyes were what frightened Adélard. They were a piercing crystalline blue that resembled the ones he saw staring back at him every morning in the mirror, but unlike those eyes, this man's had gazed into the abyss and found that he enjoyed what he saw.
"Dad?" Adélard asked softly, almost whispering.
The man did not make any gestures to hug him. In fact, he didn't even blink. He stood with both hands clasped together behind his back, exuding an aura of total authority.
"That name belongs to a person I am no longer," the man stated. "You can refer to me as the Architect. Or you can refer to me as nothing at all. That really does not matter either way."
Adélard's grip on the iron railing tightened. The shock was replaced by an intense anger. "You were alive? We lived in filth for seven years... Leon has pictures of you near his bed. Every night, he says prayers to a dead man. And Mom... Mom nearly died trying to feed us! And you were living in hiding?! Working for Rourke?!"
The Architect took a single deliberate step closer to Adélard. Outside, the three black sedans remained stationary with their headlights casting long distorted shadows of the two men along the lighthouse walls.
"I didn't 'work' for Rourke, Adélard. I created him," the Architect said flatly, using a tone as cold as the stone beneath their feet. "I wrote the secrets. I kept track of every bribe paid and every murder committed and every shadow-deal made to keep this city from sinking into the sea. I faked my death to get rid of Rourke's enemies knocking on our doorstep. If I had stayed 'dad', you and your brother would have been killed in your cribs."
He glanced at Adélard's bloody knuckles with dispassionate curiosity. "That is why I became the Ghost so you wouldn't need to do anything. But you... you demonstrated last night that whatever was passed down from your mother through your bloodline cannot remain in daylight for too long. You went into the Vieux Port and accepted a job offer. You chose that path."
"Why did I choose it?" Adélard screamed at him as his words bounced off the iron walls. "For Mom! The Captain told me she was here! You used her as leverage! Where is she?!"
The Architect exhaled quietly. "She is precisely where she should be. She serves as collateral to ensure your commitment to working for Rourke. You gave Rourke proof that you physically have the ability by delivering that package to the Captain. Now Rourke wants to determine whether you mentally have enough strength to handle the 'real' Marseille."
He removed a small leather-bound notebook (a replica of the one Adélard had just handed over) from his jacket and waved it in front of Adélard's face. "You sent that package last night as a test. It was a decoy. Your actual job starts now. The key you hold in your hand… it unlocks a locker located at the Saint-Charles train station. Within that locker is your first legitimate task. You will complete it without thinking twice about questioning it, or hesitating for even a moment, or showing any sort of compassion."
"And if I refuse?" Adélard spat as fire burned in his eyes as he vowed revenge. "If I use this pipe and bash your head in right now?"
The Architect did not react — he didn't even raise his hands to defend himself. "Then you will be the second Aschemist to meet an untimely demise at these docks. While your corpse is being weighed with chains, Rourke's 'cleaners' will go visit a small tailor shop named Sam's Stitches. I think your brother might be staying there tonight? That shop is such a delicate location… it would burn so quickly."
The mention of Leon was a knife pressing against Adélard's neck. His anger rapidly turned into ice-cold fear.
"You're a monster," Adélard whispered.
"I'm a practical person," the Architect replied coolly. "I'm the reason you are still drawing breaths. Walk to the car. You have one hour to arrive at the station. Should you arrive late by even a single minute, the deal is nullified and the cleaners come after your brother."
Adélard felt his whole world spinning out of control. The man before him was not his father – he was a highly functioning horror show - a combination of the ghost writer of secrets and enforcer of shadows.
"One day," Adélard said with venomous intent seething within his words. "I'll find out where you hide her. And when I do…I'll be coming back for you." Not as your son… but as what I've become.
The Architect smiled slightly -- almost imperceptibly -- for the first time since entering the lighthouse. "I certainly hope so. A weapon is worthless if it lacks an edge. Move along now...the sun is rising and the shadows are waiting."
Adélard left the lighthouse and entered the pale bright light of Marseille's dawn. The cold biting wind slapped him across his face but he did not notice it. He felt only the weight of the key in his pocket and the damp silk scarf clinging to his chest.
All three black sedans sat parked side-by-side like giant insects waiting for prey to emerge from its lair. Each vehicle simultaneously opened its door allowing Adélard to enter the lead sedan. He climbed inside without hesitation and closed the door behind him. The rich luxurious scent of fine leather filled his nostrils combined with an odor reminiscent of polished steel.
As Adélard watched through the rear window as the lighthouse receded into distance behind him he observed the Architect standing atop the iron structure looking like an unmoving dark shape against a growing purple sky.
In that instant he realized that what he sought after was false. There were no heroes in France's outskirts; only Architects and ruins they leave behind them; and he was merely provided with tools for his first job.
Adélard poked into his pocket reaching for the brass key; Saint-Charles was his destination...and then came the abyss.