The Eidolon

  She dropped to her knees with her hands raised in surrender. “Boys, I will not fight you.”

  Emil rushed to her side and drew his swords, pointing them at the closest ones.

  “Don’t take another step,” he said.

  The boys came to an abrupt stop, arms raised to ward off a blow. Veronica wanted to do what she did with all her orphans—wrap them in soft clothes, feed them until they felt sleepy and then tell them the lovely story of Melilot. She wanted to gently reveal a candle of hope, give it to them and encourage them to feed the light until it revealed all the dark corners.

  “You can’t stop us,” one boy said. He was taller than the rest, his expression chiseled in hard, defensive lines. He moved forward with a deliberate step, his wiry strength clear in the way he spun a crow bar in his hand.

  “I won’t hurt you. I won’t make you do anything. You don’t have to listen to me, but you certainly don’t have to listen to Lord Grillett either,” Veronica said. Without hesitating, she tossed aside her hat and goggles. Her long hair tumbled down on her shoulders, thick and unruly. She paid no heed, slowly sweeping her gaze from one side of the room to the other. As she met one pair of eyes after another, most flinched and dropped their gazes to the floor. As though no one had really looked at them in a long time.

  One boy with white-blond hair whispered, “She is a’ angel.”

  “You dolt. It’s not real.” A taller boy clapped the speaker on the side of the head. “Don’t look at ‘er, she’ll draw ya into her lyin’ eyes.” His voice wavered as he spoke, possibly uncertain in the face of such an unfamiliar sight—a person who might care.

  Grillett sighed. He pointed his Smith & Wesson at her. “I don’t blame you, lads, for not seeing what she truly is. That pretty face has fooled the entire Ton, why would you be able to discern what they have not? Now go on.” His voice hardened into steel. “Make her pay for her lies. Show her what you think of adults who ship children off to war.”

  The tall boy who’d challenged Veronica growled, the sound deep and feral. The noise echoed through the crowd, growing in strength, until it became a wave of pain and hatred.

  Veronica remained kneeling. She would block their blows but wouldn’t hurt them. Beside her, Emil sheathed his swords and stepped forward to shield her. He was fierce and elegant as he disarmed them with quick, efficient moves, trying not to harm them. Emil couldn’t save them all—several fell to the floor, groaning, but at least they lived. The boys tried to surround Veronica—not one would be left behind—but Emil fought as he did that day on his airship. Defending the center point presented little challenge to him. She cowered behind him, but knew she couldn’t match his skill at keeping the boys at bay without casualties.

  A moment later, Grillett stepped forward, his gun still drawn. Emil cried out a warning. Grillett pulled the trigger. Veronica threw up her arms to protect her face right before the bullet slammed into her, knocking her backwards.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Little time left

  Veronica waited for the wave of pain to wrap her in its familiar embrace, sharp and hot. But she felt nothing, save the tightness in her chest from the anticipation.

  Emil’s hands cupped her face, damp and warm. “Veronica!” His breath warmed her brow. “Where did it hit you?” Blood streaked his forehead and his turban was gone.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position. Emil dropped his hands but hovered inches away, his eyes frantically searching her person. Her clothing was smattered with a bit of blood here and there, most likely from Enforcers she’d fought. She put her weight on her right hand and lifted her left. There was a hole in her glove, directly in the center of her palm. The bullet must’ve grazed her. She clasped and unclasped her hand. Still strong. Still metal.

  A great breath escaped her lungs, the air burning as it left her lips. She was alive. Unharmed.

  Alive.

  All of the sudden, the odd quiet of the room penetrated her fog. The boys surrounded her, weapons dangling by their sides. Even the fiercest of them looked unsure. Several scurried over toward Claire. The usually calm and quiet girl appeared even more so in this moment. Her gaze was on the floor. Fixed on the body on the floor. Lord Grillett’s.

  “You are alright, canım?” Emil asked in a low voice.

  She nodded. “The bullet grazed me. Grazed my hand.” She held it up for inspection. “Must’ve saved my life.”

  His scarf rose at the corners, indicating a smile. “You, my princess, are very hard to kill. A good quality in a ruler, I’d say.”

  Veronica answered with her own smile. She got lost in the brightness of relief in his eyes for a moment. Then she remembered, “Grillett? What happened to him?”

  Emil inclined his head toward Claire. “He lies there.”

  “Did you … is he dead?”

  He stood and then pulled her gently to her feet. They approached Grillett with cautious steps. The golden giant looked small and rather pathetic lying on the floor, his icy eyes closed, his army scattered and unsure. In the very center of his forehead, just below the rim of his helmet, a large hole fed a river of red spreading down his face. The blood coated his once unnaturally pale white face, ugly now with the bits of skin and clumps of blood clinging to his cheeks. Veronica reached for Claire’s hand with her good one and squeezed it in reassurance. Claire relaxed, leaning into Veronica’s side, her eyes closing at the sight.

  Emil prodded Grillett with the toe of his boot. He didn’t move. Emil sank to the floor and placed his fingers on the pulse at Grillett’s neck. Then waited. Shook his head.

  Yes, Grillett was most certainly dead.

  It didn’t seem possible that such a Goliath could fall. His golden armor caught the shifting light and nearly blinded her. Veronica stepped back. Had he moved? She shook her head. Of course not, what a ninny she was. Afraid of the man, even in death.

  “He’s dead. With a wound like that, he went pretty quickly.” Emil asked quietly. He didn’t look at her, his gaze remaining on the boys still surrounding them, weapons in hand.

  “Whose bullet did this?” Veronica asked.

  Emil shrugged. “I only heard the one shot. After that, I noticed nothing else.” He kept his eyes on Grillett, as though his confession made him uncomfortable.

  I’d have done the same, if it were Emil stopping that bullet’s path. Veronica turned Claire away from the body, knelt, then reached forward a trembling hand and checked Grillett’s pulse again. She had to be sure. It seemed impossible that he lay here at her feet.

  Nothing. Not even a flutter. The leathery skin felt cold and dry beneath her fingers. Chilled perhaps by the metal entombing his upper body. Or by the ice that had long ago splintered and frozen his heart.

  The tallest boy, the one with the feral smile, stepped forward. He opened his mouth to speak but at that moment, the door slammed against the wall and the room flooded with soldiers in the uniform of her Majesty’s army. Veronica rose and stepped in front of Claire, blocking her from view of the door, and gripped the Tesla ray at her side.

  Mercy, it couldn’t be. Her mask, where had she dropped it? She searched the floor, unable to find anything among the heavy pairs of black boots now concealing the carpet. After all she’d done to conceal her true self, she felt exposed, raw. The remembered chill of those snowy days she spent hiding in the garden offered to numb her heart, but she resisted. He’d see her. He’d know.

  The group of soldiers parted, the door opened, and the Duke of Richmond, her Majesty’s favored General, the Hero of the Skies, stepped through. He was still in the full officer’s uniform he wore at the wedding. Unmistakable blood-red coat. Startlingly white gloves.

  “Take these delinquents into custody,” he ordered with a nod at a soldier wearing an officer’s braid. The officer signaled his men.

  Grillett’s boys, only half of them still armed, looked to their feral leader. The boy glanced at Veronica, his expression impossibly dark for such a youth. She silently ple
aded with him. Surrender. Don’t try anything.

  He lifted his chin. For a moment, it looked as though he would order a fight. His shoulders rolled back. Fingers tightened on his weapon.

  Don’t. Please. She didn’t flinch at his continued stare.

  All the boys here would perish at the hands of these experienced soldiers. There could be no other outcome.

  The feral boy bared his teeth but raised both his hands in surrender. He never took his eyes off of her. Not when the soldiers cuffed his hands. Not when one burly sergeant raised his arm and struck him across the side of the head and shoved him forward. Not until he was herded out the door, followed closely by his crew of misfit boys. Their feet dragged the floor, backs hunched, in a pose so familiar to Veronica that her anxiety for their safety flashed into an anger that flamed hotter as each boy left.

  Only Claire remained, no longer hidden. Emil shifted beside Veronica, forming a protective wall.

  The Duke took several slow, even steps forward, hands clasped behind his back in a pose so straight, Veronica knew it to be painful. He glanced down at her black boots, then at her men’s trousers, then her shirt, at the Tesla-ray at her side and the sword strapped at her hips and finally up to her face.

  He stared, relentless in his perusal. Though she wanted to flee, escape his awful eyes, she did not. She let the Duke see her for the first time. She looked him straight on, gilded with armor she’d never had before, armor stronger than Grillett’s—the knowledge that she’d done something right and good.

  When the Duke spoke, he aimed his words like a sword—quick and sharp. “You’re a traitor. After dedicating my life, my whole life to the crown, I discover this. That my own blood has turned into something twisted, wrong and evil. I find that not only have you been dressing as a man, you have blood on your hands! You’ve murdered men. Took it upon yourself to administer justice, rather than trusting in a system I’ve supported and built up for decades.”

  She opened her mouth to respond but he backhanded her with a force that sent her flying several feet. The slap echoed like a gunshot. The light dimmed as her vision blurred and sound muffled. Her cheek burned. Pain resounded in the rest of her body, reminding her she wasn’t fully healed. She tried to rise, but the floor didn’t remain steady.

  Emil reached down to pull her up, his gentle touch converse to the wrath in his eyes. As he put her on her feet, he whispered, “Let me do it.”

  It took her a moment to realize what he offered. Her head ached and her body burned with pain. Before she could consider his words, her Papá continued his rant.

  “Your husband lies nearly dead in the hallway and I find another corpse at your feet—a peer of the realm. There’s something evil in you, child, that I could never fix. No matter how hard I tried. The shame you bring upon me and upon the Richmond name is worse than any punishment you could’ve ever devised for me.”

  Veronica had long anticipated such a final judgment from her papá. His words flew at her but she stared them down until they vanished, utterly powerless. If she cared in the least about his opinion, Veronica would’ve never become the Eidolon in the first place.

  The Duke seemed to realize exactly how far she’d grown apart from him during her silence. He gestured around the room. “This. Bridges. Will be sold. Your ‘orphans’ turned over to the Factory District for a chance at a useful life. And you.” His voice lost all hint of emotion, turning bland and even. He might’ve been ordering Critchton to fetch him his nightly port. He turned his eyes on her, vacant and dead. “You, Veronica, will be executed for your crimes.”

  The Duke nodded at a soldier standing by her. Veronica heard the rush of air and then her legs were swept out from under her.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  No time left

  Emil reached out and snatched Veronica before the soldier could land his blow. He hoisted her up into his arms, cradling her close. She bled from the cut to her cheek, her face sallow and pale.

  “Enough. She’s no longer your responsibility, but a princess of Sombor,” Emil growled.

  The Duke made a slashing gesture with his hand yet spoke in a mild voice. “Veronica committed crimes against the crown. Her newfound royal title will not protect her against that. You will hand her over to me or I will bring all of England’s might against your ridiculous country.” He stepped toward Emil but had to look up to meet his gaze. Emil raised a brow.

  “Boy, I don’t know what relationship you had with Veronica,” the Duke said with a twist of his mouth, “But you must now choose. Your country or the girl?”

  Emil wanted to plunge his sword into this man’s belly and watch as the light left his eyes. But if he did, the Duke’s soldiers would attack without hesitation. He counted at least a dozen in the room, but he’d no idea how many more waited outside. Veronica couldn’t help, and he couldn’t protect her while taking on so many at a time.

  He couldn’t let her Papá take Veronica, could he? After a few moments, a plan grew in his mind. Though his entire being trembled with hearty vehemence, Emil inclined his head stiffly.

  A soldier stepped forward to take Veronica. She turned away from Emil, while squeezing his hand. She understood and was giving her permission. His heart twisted. He whispered, “I’m sorry,” and set her on her feet. He wanted to reach forward, pull her back, cut down any that would challenge him. He wanted her to know he had the beginnings of a plan, that he would still come for her and save her, that he could never leave her. He settled for a light touch of her back as she stepped away from him. He felt the space between them chill, and his heart turn cold as iron.

  With one more quick glance at Emil, Veronica turned and held her hands out to be cuffed.

  Trust me to save you, he wanted to say.

  The Duke used the toe of his highly polished boot to nudge Lord Grillett’s prone body. “This workhouse is a futile symbol of those who refuse to face the world as it is. It too will burn, leaving behind only cold, useless ashes.”

  His Grace turned to leave. He threw a final command over his shoulder to the remaining handful of soldiers. “Kill him.”

  * * *

  Emil whirled and sliced his sword across the arm of the last soldier. The soldier dropped his blade and collapsed on the floor. Emil kicked him, rendering him senseless. A quick search told him all the others remained down and out. He sheathed his sword and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. The Duke’s men hadn’t presented as much of a challenge as he’d anticipated. These soldiers fought cleanly and efficiently, but Emil did not. A swift kick to knock a man’s feet out from under him or a simple punch and they were defeated.

  Emil rushed into the hallway, searching for Durad. He found Kasun in his same post, blood staining his fancy togs. Durad’s body lay behind him, appearing untouched. When Kasun heard Emil’s footsteps, he swung wildly toward him.

  Emil held up his hands. “Kasun. Well done.” He let gratitude soften his voice. “Very well done.”

  Kasun sheathed his sword with an unsteady hand. The scars on his face appeared in sharper relief as he spoke in an unsuccessfully casual tone. “Captain. The prince is alive and safe.”

  “Thank you. Now go. Find me Rosseau.” Emil paused, watching Kasun use the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the sweat from his eyes. It surprised Emil that the fierce Serbian had defended the prince so intensely. “You’ve done me a great service.”

  Kasun straightened up and nodded. He saluted Emil once, crisply, and loped off down the now empty hallway.

  Emil knelt by his prince. Durad’s chest lifted and fell slowly, his eyes remaining shut. Where had he come from? He must’ve suspected something when both Emil and Veronica left the reception. Durad was nearly as good as Emil at slipping in and out of places unseen. What a horrible skill to teach him. Emil certainly hadn’t thought that through.

  As Durad’s blood soaked Emil’s robes, he wished that life would not, for once, find the worst way to cause him pain. He wondered, in fact, if his pa
in or Durad’s were worse. For Emil wasn’t sure if he could survive this. It’d never been the plan to outlive Durad. Emil was to give his life for the Prince, not watch him bleed until he could no longer keep a mortal body.

  Emil half-whispered, half-groaned, “Wake up, hayır, olamaz, wake up!”

  Durad’s eyes twitched open and he coughed. “What did I do now, Emil?” he whispered. “I’m constantly disappointing you, am I not? And now I got myself shot.”

  Emil picked his friend up with gentle hands and clasped him to his chest. “Getting shot is a novice move, Durad. Don’t let it happen again.” His words faded at the end. He couldn’t quite bring himself to a show of optimism, even for his oldest friend.

  Durad smiled, a desperate, twisted one. “I won’t.” He coughed. “Who knew my lovely wife was such a hero? She’s that Eidolon—the one Grillett’s after—isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Emil answered.

  “She’s good for us. For Sombor. She’ll save us all. Keep her safe, Emil.” Durad clasped Emil’s hand and gave him a look filled with a meaning Emil didn’t understand. And then his Prince’s chest rose and fell one more time and then lay still.

  Emil leaned down and pressed a kiss on Durad’s forehead. His soul had indeed risen and vanished to whatever world awaited them after this life. For a moment, Emil wished he could follow. What was this life without the charming, maddening, always grinning Durad? A deep wrenching in his gut strengthened that desire. He felt his strength leave him and he sagged against the wall.

  “What happened, Capitan?” Rosseau’s voice interrupted his thoughts as he rushed down the hallway and then sank heavily to the floor. “The prince! I’ve been looking everywhere. What happened?”

  Emil’s head snapped up. Looked into the shocked eyes of his first mate. It took him several moments to re-surface from the tide of his grief. He shook his head, trying to disperse the fog.

  “Capitan?” Rosseau asked again, this time softly.