by Bec McMaster
“I’ll hazard a guess,” she panted, “that Scotland is notoriously free of fencing masters. Or any opposition of reasonable skill.”
The duke’s lip curled and he lashed out. Their swords squealed as Perry riposted, locking the hilts together.
“Where’s your man now?” he spat.
“Taking care of old business,” she shot back, disengaging and meeting his next strike with a clever prise de fer.
“Hague.” The Moncrieff actually smiled. “I hope that ends well for him.”
Perry danced clear. Something about his tone sent a shiver through her. “What have you planned?”
“Why, nothing, my dear.” His tone was almost solicitous as he cut through her sleeve. The tip of the sword bit into her bicep, and Perry cried out as he wrenched it free with a nasty little smile. “You do realize how very predictable this is? Him showing up here to ruin my exhibition? I couldn’t have extended him a better invite.”
The crowd gasped and Perry staggered into a debutante in acres of pastel pink skirts. Her foot slipped on the silk and the Moncrieff lunged forward. Perry threw herself onto the ground in a roll, coming up on her feet as the girl screamed behind her.
The Moncrieff yanked his blade from the girl’s shoulder and shoved her out of the way. “Clear the bloody floor!” he snapped as a matron screamed and caught the fainting girl.
Perry tried to thrust but her arm felt so heavy. Thick, viscous blood dripped down her sleeve, the lace of her cuffs clinging wetly to her skin. The bleeding would stop soon, but the injury deep within the muscle paralyzed her movements. The duke’s next thrust tore the hilt from her hand. The rapier slid across the parquetry and landed by the top of the stairs.
No time to look for it. The Moncrieff thrust toward her heart.
It was all she could do to drop beneath the blade. Perry hit the polished timber, her hands slapping the ground as the rapier whistled overhead. She had only a bare second to react, for she was vulnerable in this position.
Hooking her foot behind his, she kicked it out from under him and rolled. The duke hit the ground with a curse, but Perry was already up and sprinting, sliding to her knees to snatch up her rapier with her left hand.
Boots echoed behind her. She came up and swung just in time to counter another attack.
“I see,” Perry gasped, “that your thrusts with a blade are almost as ineffective as your attempts at seduction.”
Fury filled the duke’s eyes and he beat her back with furious lunges she could barely deflect.
“Tell me,” the duke demanded. “Would you like your lover’s heart on a plate once Hague is through with him? Or in a box?”
Hitting her corps-à-corps in the shoulder staggered her back, and Perry’s eyes widened as the heel of her foot found no purchase.
She was at the edge of the staircase.
***
“Bloody mirrors,” Byrnes muttered, staring at the mirror maze exhibit. “Of course he had to go in there.”
Garrett glanced behind him, listening for a second to the sound of steel clashing on steel. If he could still hear it, then she was still alive.
Byrnes muttered something under his breath, glaring at the distorted view of himself with an enormous forehead. A plaque at the front read: There is only one way out of the maze, but to find it is to find your way within.
“If there’s only one exit, we’ll have to separate. I’ll enter through it and meet you in the middle,” Byrnes said.
“We’ll trap him there,” Garrett replied and stepped through into the maze.
Twenty-six
Ahead of him he could hear footsteps and harsh breathing. Garrett darted through the mirrored passage, a thousand distorted images of himself reflecting back at him. What a damned foolish exhibit. Designed by some German philosopher to examine the perception of self. He looked at the bug-eyed image staring back at him and wondered how that would ever make him understand himself better.
His quarry thundered ahead of him, darting through the maze. Not even an attempt at stealth, but then perhaps the bastard didn’t realize what was hunting him.
He liked to cut…
Perry’s whisper haunted him. Years of nightmares and fear, forever carved into her soul by this man. The darkness in Garrett curled through his veins in delicious anticipation. He needed Hague—needed the information about how to work the device—but the less rational side of him, the side that hungered for revenge, was dangerously ascendant.
He couldn’t stop seeing Ava and Alice and the other girls trapped in those hideous aquariums. That could have been Perry. Or worse. She could have suffered the same fate as Miss Keller or Miss Fortescue. His hands quivered. Easy to end this. Easy to make sure Hague never hurt another woman again…
Ahead of him a corner loomed. He could see a dark shape distorted in the image and pressed his back against the mirror wall. One hand dropped to the pistol at his side. Then away again. For this he wanted knives. Something bloody.
“Just you and me now, meneer.” Hague’s voice was deeper than he’d expected. Almost guttural with the accent. “You good with knives? As good as me? I like knives. You should know this. She did. She knew how good I was with knives.”
Garrett’s teeth gleamed in his reflection, bared in fury. Blackness washed over him. The urge to tear this bastard apart with his bare hands. “I think you know more about them than I do,” he shot back. “Like how a blade feels when it carves through half your face. Did you like that? Did you know there’s not even a single mark of what you did to her on her flesh, but you… You can’t ever forget what she did to you, can you? You’ll wear it always. Monster. Steel Jaw. A sign of exactly what you are so that no one ever forgets.”
There was a snarl of rage, then a fist smashed through the glass next to his ear. Garrett caught it, using the man’s momentum to slice his own forearm to shreds as he hauled him through the gaping hole. Thousands of glass slivers splintered over him, cutting at his face and hands. Then Hague yanked back and his arm disappeared.
All Garrett could smell was blood. It fired his nerves, left his heart pounding in his ears. He darted around the corner, but Hague was already running down the passage. Away from him.
Coward. He pounded after him, images dancing away from them. Dozens of images of Hague, but only one of them was bleeding. Droplets of it painted a clear path on the floor. Garrett leaped forward and tackled the man, driving him into the reflective wall. Cracks screamed out through the glass and Garrett spun the bastard, grabbing his coat lapels and smashing him back against the mirror.
The thick beard had half torn away, revealing the cold gray gleam of the man’s iron jaw. His teeth were metal too, half of his mouth revealed behind the mess of his lips. Or what was left of them. A nightmare in itself. For a moment Garrett just gaped.
Then Hague’s hand came up, a pistol gleaming in the light. Garrett shoved Hague back as the pistol discharged next to his ear. Glass cascaded from several mirrors as the bullet struck behind him—and exploded.
Not the first time he’d come across firebolt bullets. Rosalind and her humanist contingent had been responsible for unleashing them into the human population. When the bullet struck anything, the chemicals inside it would mix, resulting in an explosive reaction that could even kill a blue blood.
Garrett grabbed the pistol, wrestling with Hague for control. He smashed their hands into the sharp, ragged edges of a broken mirror and Hague screamed, dropping the bloody thing. Garrett kicked it out of the way, going for his knife.
Movement stirred at the corner of Garrett’s vision, distracting him for just a moment, then something hot and sharp stabbed into his back. Twisted. Garrett went down on one knee with a grunt, his vision blazing out in a haze of white. Heat and ice quivered over his flesh. He could smell blood, feel the sting of it as the knife was withdrawn.
Byrnes skidded to a halt with his preferred weapon of choice, a pair of sai, in his hands.
“What took you so long?” G
arrett snapped, twisting free.
“One way in, one way out—they’re both the same,” Byrnes snarled. “Had to double back around and follow you in.”
Not quick enough to dodge the next blow. Blood splashed the glass behind him, the sting igniting his upper arm. Careless. “Work with me,” he snapped at Byrnes.
They fell in together, both of them circling Hague. Every movement sent a shudder of pain up Garrett’s healing back. Catching a glimpse of Byrnes’s cold blue eyes, he feinted forward and Byrnes mirrored him. Hague darted to keep them both in sight, but it was clear he was uneasy. The knife spun but Garrett blocked it, punching hard beneath the man’s arm. Once, twice…three times.
A hiss of breath hit him in the face and he sliced open Hague’s ribs. Letting the blood hunger rise was so easy here. To feel it swamping him, drowning him in the vicious need. He lost track of movement, became nothing more than reaction. This man had hurt Perry. A snarl curled his lip. His forearm came up to block another blow, the knife an extension of his arm as Byrnes darted in on the other side.
Blood welled. Kill him. Garrett swept his knife across the back of Hague’s knee, and the bastard screamed as he went down. Another blow had the knife sinking up to the hilt in the man’s chest, leaving his heels kicking as he gasped and choked on the floor. Finish it. Garrett twisted the blade in Hague’s chest and stopped that awful gurgle.
Slowly he looked up, silence ringing in his ears. Byrnes stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Could have let me know you had that in you.”
“I don’t like to kill,” Garrett said, his voice strangely metallic. “Doesn’t mean I can’t.”
The coldness leached out of him, the hunger receding like a purring, contented cat, its furious need glutted on blood and death. The next step he took, his leg went out from underneath him. Garrett staggered forward into Byrnes’s arms, looking down in surprise. Blood gushed from a stab wound in his thigh. He hadn’t even felt it, lost in the fury of his primal self.
Strong hands held him upright, pushing him back against the wall. “Easy, easy. Here, drink the blood.” A flask pressed against his lips. “You’ll heal.”
He already was. He could feel it burning through him as the craving virus healed the knife wounds in his back and thigh. And just that easily, the hunger washed out of him, leaving him cold and shivering, his vision a riot of color. Of red. A thousand shades, painted across the glass. Across his hands. He looked down at the faint tremble in them. I did that. Or the part of me that could be a monster did.
Byrnes arched an incredulous brow toward the dead man at his feet. “You moved like—”
“It’s because my CV levels are higher than normal.” Made him stronger, faster than he had been.
“So I’d noticed.” Their eyes met. Byrnes shrugged. “It’s easy to reprint the percentages on your spectrometer if one knows what to do. Fitz wanted me to keep an eye on you.”
All along he’d known the truth. And he’d kept Garrett’s secret?
“Why?” he asked, draining Byrnes’s flask.
Byrnes gave a soundless laugh. “You were always Lynch’s favorite. I shouldn’t…” He lowered his head. “I wasn’t angry with you when I was overlooked.”
“You gave me hell.”
“Likewise.” Byrnes returned his stare with an equally cold one. Then sighed. “He made the right decision.”
“Did he? I’ve made a right muck of this.” Garrett sighed. “Perry told me I had too much pride.”
“Maybe in that, we’re truly brothers.” Byrnes held out a hand and helped Garrett to his feet. It was as much an apology as either of them could give. “You should go. They’re still fighting.”
“And the body?”
“I’ll deal with it.”
“Try and find his key—we’ll need it to use the device.” Garrett paused. “I’ll need it.”
“Good luck,” Byrnes muttered, riffling through Hague’s clothes.
***
The newly knit muscle in Garrett’s thigh tore apart as he half ran, half hobbled toward the stairs and the gallery. Dozens of blue bloods had flocked from all corners of the exhibition, drawn like vultures as the clash of steel on steel rang.
He could barely see her. Just a darting form dancing out of the way as the heavier-set duke advanced on her. It felt like years since he’d gone after Hague, but the face of the central clock showed only ten minutes had elapsed. And Perry was still fighting.
A gasp went up from the crowd. Garrett shoved through the gathering, his gaze locked on her, so fierce and defiant. Fighting for her self, as well as her life. She had nowhere to go, her back foot feeling for purchase on the lip of the stairs and a swift glance over her shoulder showing that she knew it. Coldness gripped him with harsh claws. He barely felt the muscle tear in his thigh as he started running.
The duke stepped back a little to give himself space for the final blow. “Good-bye, my sweet Octavia.”
Garrett’s hand dipped into his coat, locking around his pistol. He wasn’t close enough. The bloody thing only had an accurate range of forty feet, but he had to do something.
The duke’s arm drew back.
Garrett shoved through the crowd, forcing his way past foreign dignitaries and princesses alike, cocking the hammer back on the pistol as he ran.
The blade began to fall.
“No!” He lifted the pistol.
And Perry lunged into the thrust, her own blade sinking home. Her body jerked as the duke’s blow struck, the razor tip of his rapier sliding through her back as if through a bag of sand.
“No!” Garrett screamed.
He ran up countless stairs, his thighs burning, his leg threatening to give out beneath him. She was falling, the point of the duke’s blade piercing through the back of her blue dress. A dark shadow bloomed against the silk in a spreading blot and Perry began to topple backward…
Garrett caught her, hands snatching at her tenderly as he tried to lower her to the floor. Blood stained his hands, the front of her dress, everywhere he looked… He could hardly see for the overwhelming rise of the hunger, but her shocked eyes locked on his and became the center of his world. Beside him the Earl of Langford reached for her, both of them helping to lower her onto Garrett’s lap.
“I’ve got you,” he blurted, patting her cheek. His fingers left blood there and he wrenched his hand away, wiping it on his coat.
“Hague?” she whispered.
Garrett swallowed hard as blood broke on her lips. “Dead.” He couldn’t stand to see the rapier sticking out of her chest. “Dammit, Perry. Don’t you dare leave me.” His voice broke.
She gave a weak smile. “Not this time.”
“Promise.”
“Promise.” The word was a whisper. Then her head lolled to the side as she tried to see what was going on.
The duke was on his knees, the hilt of Perry’s rapier sitting dead center in his chest. He looked shocked, his fingers touching the hilt as if to wonder how it had gotten there. Slowly he crumpled forward, his forehead bouncing on the timber floor as his body slumped. Blood pooled around him.
“Got him,” Perry whispered. “I knew I could do it.”
Lynch knelt down beside them grimly, his fingers wrapping around the blade in her chest. “Give her blood,” he said. “We have to get this out. It’s close to the heart.”
“What if it cuts her inside again?” her father demanded, stilling Lynch’s hand.
“If it begins to heal around the steel, she’ll only lose more blood later,” Lynch replied grimly. “And if she moves, we don’t know what it will do to her heart.”
The earl looked devastated. “Oh, Octavia… What were you thinking?” He swallowed hard and reached for her hand. “You should have let me do it.”
“I killed him,” she whispered, triumph gleaming in her eyes. “I finally ended this.”
But at what cost? Both Garrett and Lynch exchanged a sharp glance, then Lynch nodded. Time to do this.
; Garrett slashed his wrist against the rapier and pressed it to her lips. Perry’s eyes flickered, the focus draining out of them, but some hint of the hunger swirled to the surface, her pupils becoming little black pinpricks at the scent of his blood.
“Drink,” he urged her brokenly. Thank God his craving levels were so high. The virus would help to heal her, if he could get enough blood into her…if the blade came out cleanly…if it hadn’t hit an artery or the heart…
“One, two…” Lynch yanked the blade clear on “three,” pressing his palm down on her chest to put pressure on her wound.
Perry’s teeth sank into Garrett’s wrist and she screamed. The pain of it barely touched him. Garrett felt as though he existed outside of his body at the moment, watching as she panted. Words tumbled from his lips, urging her to drink, telling her he wouldn’t let her go. Ever.
Slowly her hands clutched at his arm and her lips locked around the healing slash. The wet rasp of her tongue set it to bleeding again and then she was suckling at his skin.
Her eyes locked on his, her mouth greedy. Garrett could feel the pull. A month and a half ago, their positions had been reversed. He suddenly wondered whether she had felt like this, begging him to drink as he choked on his own blood. Wondered if her own chest had felt tight as a drum, hoping to a God he didn’t believe in that it would be enough. Her lips left his skin in one final kiss, and she sucked in air as if she’d been drowning. But she was alive. And her eyes were black with the force of her own hunger.
“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I’ve told you that today. But you need to heal, so that I can tell you again tomorrow. And the day after that. I made you a promise—”
Her eyes fluttered closed in dreamy surrender, her body slumping into his arms. Unconscious.
Slowly the world began to come back into focus. Lynch was standing, bellowing at the curious crowd to stand clear. The Earl of Langford’s eyes were locked on Garrett, seeing everything that he couldn’t be bothered to hide.