Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Grace slipped out the door just as the crowd crushed against it. Unless Emmy wanted to be stampeded, she had to let her go.
“We need to get out of here.” With one hand firmly in Emmy’s, Jack pushed his way through the fleeing crowd, flourishing the
gun at anyone who got in their way. For the most part, the guests were far too busy rushing the exits to give a damn about
them.
“Is Caleb all right?” Jimmy ducked as a powerful wind whipped another flower arrangement dangerously close to their heads.
“With any luck, he’s already down by the ferries, resting.” As much as she wanted him to deliver the trophies to the newspapers
like she’d claimed, Caleb was far too weak. And loath as she was to care for anyone in the Society, Emmy did not want to trigger
another witch hunt.
But they’d stolen the trophies. The Society didn’t need to know the rest.
A guard stormed toward them, gun cocked, but Jack slide tackled him, sending the gun spinning across the dance floor. “I know
a back exit. Follow me.”
As if she’d leave his side.
Hurrying along the perimeter of the ballroom, they passed a pair of curtains being consumed by Fontaine flames. Jack slowed,
staring at the black fire. “From the firework?”
A dark fireball whirred past them, nearly singeing Emmy.
“Grace.” Emmy searched through the smoke. “She has the relic, and she can—”
“Steal conjury,” he finished. “I see she isn’t done smearing my name.”
Another ball of black fire streamed across the ballroom, thick smoke trailing in its wake. Motioning for Jimmy to follow, Jack kicked open a servants’ entrance.
“I’d say ‘ladies first,’ but by now, I know better.” Jack turned to Jimmy. “You take the front. We’ll follow.”
With a quick nod, Jimmy disappeared into the pitch-black stairwell. Emmy gripped Jack’s hand, and he gave hers a returning
squeeze as he began the dark descent. How relieved she was, how blissfully euphoric, that he was alive and holding her hand—
Strong arms plucked her from the stairwell. Kicking wildly, she tried to get her feet on the ground, to strike whoever had—
A cool blade pressed against her throat.
“You have caused me to suffer quite the ordeal,” Oliver growled in her ear.
Jack surged from the stairwell. Eyes wide, he cocked his gun, flipping the safety.
“Put that down,” Oliver snarled, “or I’ll slit her throat from her chin to her chest.”
“Shoot him!” Emmy screeched. “Before—”
She froze in Oliver’s arms. His goddamn suppression conjury. With the knife still against her throat, she was a stiff porcelain
doll, completely defenseless.
Jack knew it, too. His face was tortured, and he kept the gun pointed at them as if searching for an angle that would not
hurt Emmy. With infuriating resolve, he set the gun on the floor. “C’mon, Ollie. It’s me you want.”
Don’t you dare, she tried to scream, tried to tell him with the intensity of her glare.
“Get on your knees,” Oliver growled.
Don’t you dare, she tried to say, but all she managed was a pathetic whimper.
Jack hesitated.
Oliver pressed the knife deeper into her neck. Pain burst from the wound, and a warm rivulet of blood oozed down her collarbone, her dress. But Emmy could not wince, could not even put on a brave face.
Jack watched her as he lowered himself to his knees. She could practically see his heart racing in his chest: Thump thump thump.
“Don’t hate me.” He managed to smile sheepishly. Still trying to take care of her.
I’ll never let anything bad happen to you again. I swear it.
He was a liar, because this was far worse than Oliver slitting her throat. Emmy tried to summon the brume, but Oliver’s hold
was too strong. She should have chased Grace down for the relic, should never have let it out of her sight.
Oliver dumped Emmy on the floor and lifted his knife above Jack, just as he had in the alley.
But this time, when he brought it down, the blade tore through Jack’s throat.
Emmy tried to scream, tried to scream, tried to scream—
A riot of red splashed from Jack’s neck, an infuriatingly pretty shade, spilling over the same pristine marble floors as Papa’s.
Jack’s hands flailed to his throat, shock widening his eyes—
Thump thump.
Her scream made it past her lips. She struggled to her feet, her limbs as heavy as iron.
Thump thump.
Emmy staggered to him. Wide-eyed, he tried to speak, but a terrible choking sound escaped his perfect mouth.
Thump thump.
Emmy pressed her hands over the horrible wound.
Crimson poured between her fingers, warm and slick and pulsing with every beat of his heart.
She tore at her skirts to make a tourniquet, just as she’d done for Caleb, and she wrapped the fabric around Jack’s neck, but she could not squeeze it tight enough without further choking him, could not keep the blood from spilling into his airways—
There had to be something she could do to help him, but she couldn’t think past that awful spluttering sound. He was hurting,
and frightened, and drowning in his own blood.
“Don’t you dare die,” she rasped. Squeezing her eyes shut, she called to her conjury.
Thump.
After relying on the relic for so long, Emmy could hardly feel the brume without it. Still she dug, but her magic only whispered
in response, and there was so much blood. Too much—
Thump.
Jack’s hands jerked forward, searching as if he could no longer see, and she yanked at the brume, finally filling her lungs
with a heavy wisp of power. She was San Rocco’s daughter. She had survived her mother’s death, and her father’s, and two years
alone in a barren cell. She was more powerful than she knew—even without an amplifier. She had to be.
Digging deeper, she imagined Jack’s throat stitching back together, just as he’d stitched her back together. He’d ignited
her fury when the fire in her had nearly gone out, had propelled her to be strong when she was collapsing. And she would not
fail him now, not when he needed her for once.
But blood still leaked from his neck like water through a sieve. He was so pale, so frightened, just like Papa had been, and
what the hell could she do? She couldn’t stop the bleeding, couldn’t lose him, too—
His choking sounds worsened, his desperation cleaving her heart in two. He was dying, and scared, and she couldn’t stop it,
couldn’t do a damn thing, just like Papa—
Later, she’d hate herself for letting go of the brume—and his wound. For quitting, when there might have been some fractional
bit of healing conjury buried in her.
Her hand was slick with blood as she slipped it into Jack’s.
“You’re a good man, Jack Fontaine,” she whispered in his ear, and he ceased flailing.
An awful wetness accompanied each of his breaths, but he squeezed her hand, and what was left of her heart shattered into a million worthless pieces.
“You’re selfless, and you’re brave, and you’re good.
And you were right about us. You hear me, Jack? You were right.”
Blood no longer seeped from his neck. Had she slowed the bleeding? Not daring to breathe, Emmy pressed her ear to his chest,
listening for that thump thump thump.
Silence.
“Jack,” Emmy whispered. With trembling fingers, she caressed his cheek, but what should have been hot skin was quickly losing
its warmth. She stared at those beautiful gray eyes, waiting for them to find her, like they always did. But they remained
empty.
“He’s dead,” Oliver informed her coolly, still twirling that knife.
The truth of his taunt buried itself in her chest like an arrow. She could not pull it out.
Because Jack Fontaine was dead.
The world narrowed around Oliver, and something raw snapped within Emmy. She thrust herself at the pistol, still right where
Jack had laid it at Oliver’s feet. She did not know how to use it, but she knew to press it to his chest. She knew to squeeze
the trigger.
As it fired, the kickback knocked her onto the marble floor.
Oliver stumbled backward, crashing to the ground, too. Smoke burned her eyes, her throat, but Emmy made herself climb to her
feet to watch him writhe and twitch.
The sight of Jack, lifeless beside Oliver, pulverized the last pieces of Emmy.
She would never be the same.
She was no longer human as she climbed to her feet and screamed, with all her might, for Grace.