The interior of the car was a pressurized space that blocked every sound — the hum of the tires rolling on pavement, the creak of leather seats adjusting to fit bodies — leaving only the memory of his fathers voice. He stared at his reflection in the darkened glass of the tinted window. The crystalline blue eyes staring back didn't seem to belong to him anymore. They seemed to belong to someone genetically cursed by his father to be forever cold — a genetic curse that had awakened after seven years of silence.
The car glided through the awakening streets of Marseille as if it were swimming in shallow waters. Outside, the city began to awaken. Bakeries were pulling fresh-baked baguettes out of ovens. Workers in navy jumpsuits carrying large thermoses were headed to the shipyard. Their lives existed in sunshine, schedules and the worry of everyday things.
Adélard, however, was being transported in a world of shadow beneath all of this — a passenger in the belly of the beast.
"5 MINUTES," the driver stated. His voice sounded as flat as the engines of the car. He didn't glance at Adélard in the rear view mirror. To him, Adélard wasn't a boy. He was cargo.
Adélard's fingers reached into his pocket and grasped the tattered silk scarf. He rubbed his thumb along the faded red flowers embroidered onto the scarf. It was the last thing left that smelled of home (the last place he would ever go).
He thought about his father — the Architect. The man hadn't merely faked his death; he'd created a work of art that spread misery throughout his sons' lives.
He watched us starve, Adélard thought. He watched Leon cry.
The car came to a stop at the curb next to Gare de Marseille-Saint-Charles. The grand stairs leading up to the station stood above the car like a monumental tribute to a city that took pride in its past while rotting from within.
"Locker 412", the driver stated. For the first time, he glanced back. His eyes showed no emotion. "the Architect is watching you. Don't make us send the cleaners to the tailor SHOP. You have one hour to collect what is inside Locker 412 and get to your destination."
Adélard did not respond. He got out of the car. The brass key dug into his palm. He did not look back as the car drove away into morning traffic. He was alone now. A 17 year old ghost lost in a sea of commuters.
The station was a madhouse. The clacking of a huge split-flap departure board filled the high ceiling with a constant "clack-clack-clack" of sound like some sort of mechanical heart beat. Commuters swarmed towards their TGVs, and there was a thick layer of smells floating in the air — floor wax, burned coffee, and the stench of many sweaty bodies.
Adélard flowed through the crowds like a ghost. Each time a businessman dressed in a suit bumped into him, Adélard automatically felt around his waistband for the iron pipe he kept hidden. He felt like he'd aged centuries compared to everyone else in the station. He wasn't a student; he wasn't traveling; he wasn't a son.
He was a delivery boy for a dead man.
He located the locker bank in a narrow, dimly lit passageway adjacent to the west tracks. The fluorescent overhead bulb buzzed with a steady rhythm.
412.
He inserted the key into the slot, and when he turned it, it made a loud, metallic thudding noise that vibrated up his arm and landed in his chest. He yanked the metal door open.
There wasn't a bomb inside, nor was there a brick of money. There was simply a manila envelope, and inside it was a long, thin case wrapped in black velvet. And then there was something else in the bottom right-hand corner of the locker – a small plastic-wrapped lemon drop candy.
Adélard sucked in a quick breath. That was the exact same candy his dad gave him after each football practice session. It wasn't a treat; it was a tease. I'm always here, it whispered. I watch everything.
He stuffed the lemon drop candy into his pocket, his jaws clenched together in anger. He grabbed both items and slumped against the row of lockers to protect them from view as they passed by another station employee. first, he opened the manila envelope.
In it was a photograph of a man in his late fifties – Jean-Paul Valmont – who was listed as deputy director of port authority. Mr. Valmont wore a dignified expression, and his silver hair was styled perfectly, and he wore a suit worth more than Adélard's life.
Underneath the photograph was a single sheet of paper with writing done in precise handwriting by his father:
Target: Jean-Paul Valmont
Location: The Old Port/ private dock 7
Objective: Valmont has digital storage containing witness testimony for an upcoming tribunal at dockside. Collect it.
Instructions: do not kill him. Break him psychologically. Make him understand that 'the ghost' is watching him…so that he will serve as a warning to others considering contacting authorities.
A shiver crawled up Adélard's spine as he read these words. This wasn't just a delivery job...this was an attack on an elected government official...and this marked the moment where he went from being a victim of Marseilles docks to becoming one of its predators. He gazed at Mr. Valmont's picture -- Mr. Valmont had children, probably had a house built in those hills somewhere, a life separate from the grease and grime.
He unzipped the velvet case.
Inside were two very heavy brass knuckle dusters forged specifically for this purpose and each was inscribed with an elegant letter- ghost, plus one high tensile collapse baton and one disposable mobile phone.
The mobile phone beeped immediately afterward. A text message appeared on the bright green display:
[SURVEILLANCE SHOWS YOU ARE ON SCHEDULE. VALMONT ARRIVES AT BERTH 7 IN TWENTY MINUTES. HE IS ALONE. DON'T BLINK, ASCHEMIST. REMEMBER THE TAILOR SHOP.]
Adélard stared at the brass knuckle dusters. They were branded goods. When he used them, he wouldn't be committing a street mugging ; he'd be acting as messenger for the Architect...he'd be "Hound-in-training"."
He thought about Leon. He considered how his brother would wake up this morning in the rear of Sam's Stitches, with the piece of silk clutched tightly in his hand; how his brother would wait for a sibling who is preparing to commit an armed robbery. With each passing second he delayed getting started as a "cleaner" lit the flame at the front door of Sam's place.
He stuffed the folder into his jacket and dropped the brass knuckles into his pocket. They felt perfectly balanced and natural. It seemed as though his hand has been holding onto them their entire lives.
Adélard headed towards the exit from the station, walking away from all the people rushing around. He was not going to play football. He was not heading for a future. He was heading for the Inheritance.