“Father,” Perry whispered. “I won’t let you do this.”
Her father glanced at her, his blue eyes sad. “I’m sorry, Octavia. So sorry I didn’t believe you.” His hand closed around the hilt of his sword. “I must make things right.”
Perry lurched forward, slamming the sword back into its sheath and holding his hand there. “No! Dying won’t make anything right!”
“I don’t intend to die,” he replied.
“Come, old man,” Moncrieff called. “No one else can challenge me. Let my steel taste blood today.”
Perry looked up into her father’s face, silently pleading with him to say no. The earl gently removed her hand from the sword hilt. “Let me do this,” he said. “Let me make amends.”
Only Garrett saw the stubborn change come over her face and recognized it for what it was. There was a moment where he could have stopped her. The “no” even formed on his lips, but something held his tongue. Perry needed to do this. She needed to prove to herself that she could, and only he, with his own nightmares, understood precisely why.
Perry threw her father’s hand off and grabbed the hilt. Steel screamed as she withdrew it, spinning on her heel to face the Moncrieff.
“So be it,” Perry whispered, staring at the duke. “I challenge you to the death.”
“Octavia!” Her father, of all people, reaching for her shoulder.
She threw him off, stepping out of his way with a subtle grace. All of her attention was locked on the duke. Somewhere deep inside, she’d always known it would come to this point. She needed it. To bury the past, once and for all. That was why she’d taken her father’s lessons and used Lynch to hone her skills.
The duke’s gaze flickered between her and her father. He didn’t want this, she realized. No, he wanted to kill someone else, someone that she loved. If it couldn’t be Garrett, then her father would be enough to twist the blade deep inside her.
“I was born of the Echelon and I am a blue blood,” she called out. The entire Echelon knew it after last night. The girl who’d seen her eyes at the ball had spread the rumors, no doubt. “Thus I have the right to challenge you.”
“She states the law,” the Duchess of Casavian added.
“She’s a woman. I’m not dueling a bloody woman,” the duke snapped.
“Are you afraid?” the duchess asked mockingly, and Perry glanced her way.
Perhaps not an ally, but the duchess seemed to have some sort of disagreement with the duke. And perhaps she understood what it was like to be a female blue blood in this world.
“Coward,” Perry said softly. She reached down and fisted a handful of her skirts, slashing them off just below the knee. “The Duke of Moncrieff is a coward and a fool.”
Oh, those black eyes narrowed on her. He drew his blade with a hiss. “Nobody calls me a coward. Not even you, Octavia.”
“I just did,” Perry replied, giving him a tight little smile as she kicked off her heeled slippers. Her stockinged feet slid on the timber parquetry beneath her, flexing a little as she found her balance. It all seemed so easy now, like slipping into an old routine.
A muscle ticked in Moncrieff’s jaw.
“You will never take power,” Perry taunted. “The prince consort will likely strip you of your title and execute you for your plans.” She let a small smile show. “And you were defeated by a
Nighthawk
.”
“I accept.” The duke yanked at his coat and tossed it aside, his broad chest straining against the gleaming white silk of his waistcoat.
“Perry,” Garrett warned.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t, at this moment. Still, he deserved something. “Trust me.”
“I do,” he replied. “It’s him I don’t trust.”
“A wise assessment,” the duke muttered.
Whispers had started in the hall below. People were straining to get a better look, lured by the sight of bared steel.
“Perry,” Lynch called.
She let her attention shift to him.
He nodded at her soberly. “Remember that you are a Nighthawk.”
Fight
like
one
. She nodded back, saluted him with the sword, and then turned to face the duke, feeling whole for the first time in years. “
Allez
,” she called, and the duel began.
***
“Tell me, Master Reed… Do you enjoy soiled goods?” the Moncrieff mocked.
Garrett surged forward, but a hand came out of nowhere and locked around his upper arm.
A gasp went up as the duke’s sword slashed across Perry’s cheek, cutting her from ear to eyebrow.
He swam through the darkness, finally focusing on Lynch’s face. Lynch shook his head sharply. “You’re distracting her.”
Garrett let out the breath he’d been holding and glanced away. It was true. The duke had scored three slashes in the last minute alone, while her attention was divided. But Garrett’s hands quivered, the hunger aching inside him. This was his woman, and it was harder than he’d thought to watch her fight her battles.
Lynch stepped into his field of vision, forcing him to step back. Steel rang on steel, and the crowd gasped.
“Control yourself,” Lynch murmured. “Let her do what she needs to do.”
“She’s losing—”
“Yes.” Those gray eyes bored through him. “Because she’s thinking about his words. About the effect it’s having on you.”
“It’s not just me,” he snarled, following the path of Perry’s frequent glances. Hague leaned against the Egyptian exhibit, his beard so thick it almost seemed to engulf his face.
As if sensing his gaze, Hague turned, a steel monocle enlarging his pupil grotesquely. Light reflected back off the fellow’s jaw, gleaming on a plate of steel beneath the beard.
Garrett shot Perry an anguished glance as another chorus of
oohs
and
aahs
echoed in the hall. Steel screamed against steel and Perry was forced back against the rail overlooking the great hall below. She ground her teeth together as the duke’s blade forced her own close to her face.
Come
on.
Garrett’s fingernails left little half-moons in the palms of his hands. Their eyes met, and he silently prayed for her to disengage.
“
Hit
him
,” he mouthed. Then tapped his forehead.
Her eyes widened momentarily, then she realized what he meant. Her arms gave way, bringing the blades dangerously close to her throat, and the Duke pushed forward. Perry dealt him a stunning crack to the head with her forehead, shoving with the sword at the same time.
Blood splattered on the white marble floors as the Moncrieff staggered to the side, a slash welling on his smooth cheek. He looked shocked. Only for a moment, though. Then the tip of his steel lashed out at her.
Perry dove out of the way and the blade sheared through the railing, sending shards of gilt flying. She spun, lashing out with her foot and hitting the Moncrieff high in the chest. He staggered again, but Perry was already running, pushing through the crowd to get more space at the top of the stairs.
“Go,” Lynch ordered Garrett, giving him a shove as the duke gave chase. “Take care of Hague. I’ll watch. I promise you, I won’t let her fall.”
Garrett shot her another anguished look. She was dancing like a lithe shadow, the swagged gathering of her bustle curving over her bottom and the long, elegant muscles in her legs flexing as she lunged, her stockinged feet slipping on the parquetry floors.
He tore his gaze away. Hague stalked slowly through the crowd, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched Perry with an intensity that was unnerving. He was moving to place himself within her vision again.
“Take Byrnes,” Lynch said. “To watch your back.”
Both Byrnes and Garrett stared at each other. Garrett gave a short nod. “I’ll need someone. Wouldn’t be the first trap the duke’s planned.” It was as much of an apology as he could give.
Tension drained out of Byrnes’s shoulders. “Finally. Some action.”
“I want him alive,” Garrett snarled.
***
Garrett was gone. So too was Hague.
Perry ducked beneath a swipe meant to cut her face. She’d started to notice something in the last minute. The duke’s chest rose and fell with startling alacrity. He hadn’t expected her to last this long, and from the way his blows were becoming wider and more aggressive, he was hoping to finish this quickly. She was outmatched in strength and reach, but she was faster than he was and her endurance was better.
“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.
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?” Garrett 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.