Chapter Twenty-Four
Calliope perched stiff-spined on the bed, every muscle pulled as taut as a bowstring.
She ought to have learned how to use a bow and arrows and insisted on bringing them.
Perhaps then she wouldn’t once again be in such a helpless position.
She might even have put a few arrows through a few men’s hearts.
At this point, why even own a pistol? Precious little good it had done her!
It would appear the Furys were leaving their mark upon her.
She hoped Maxen found the print she’d left behind. A reassurance that she was alive. Who knew what the man might be thinking, and she hated that she might be the cause for his worry. She shouldn’t have insisted on taking the boy’s place. Then none of this would have happened.
She sighed softly.
Beyond the chamber, rain ran in slender streams down the window glass, and she couldn’t help but muse how the world had decided to match her mood.
Across from her, Mr. Peregrine lounged as though they were old acquaintances sharing a cup of tea.
So this was what he considered stealing her life?
He really ought to be admitted to Bedlam.
This must have been the least polished she’d seen him in their encounters. His mask had finally slipped.
And it had slipped far.
The smile that had once appeared amiable now bore a cruel cast. That, perhaps, was the greatest alteration in him. She hadn’t quite noticed at first it in the place she was kept with Mr. Rollings, but now she couldn’t miss it.
“Where is Mr. Rollings?” she asked. She hated that she could not quite stop her hands from twisting in her lap.
Peregrine waved a hand as if brushing aside an unimportant matter. “Oh, don’t worry about him. Worry for yourself.”
Her stomach clenched. “You didn’t kill me.”
“No.” He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Not even close. “I didn’t. Nasty business, killing.”
“You have poked the wrong beast, Mr. Peregrine.” She made her voice stronger this time, even if her pulse thundered against her throat. “Maxen is not an enemy you want.”
The man chuckled. “What a straightforward, yet innocent thing to declare. Yes, Miss Turner, I am aware. But our confrontation has been inevitable for years.”
“Why? What did he do to you?”
“Let’s just say it’s not what he did, but what he didn’t do.”
Calliope arched a brow. Not do? “He didn’t cut you into a business deal? Profit margins? Some form of haul?”
The man laughed at that. “Ah, no. It’s something much more precious than that.”
“And what is that?”
“His empire.”
The man was mad. “Well, if that is what you want, then you should just give up now.”
“Perhaps.”
His answers were even more infuriating than Maxen’s brooding. “Why did you approach me anyway?”
Mr. Peregrine shrugged. “Ah, that. Well, what I wanted was beneath your shop. You were just an added reward.”
Beneath her shop? Why was she not surprised there was something beneath her shop? However, “I’m not a reward.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Just what do you think is going to happen, Mr. Peregrine? Are you going to use me to negotiate a piece of the empire? I’m not worth even a sliver.”
“Well, we shall see just how much you are worth soon, won’t we?”
Her whole body stiffened at that. She’d like to believe she was worth more than six months’ rent, but an empire? No. All this for power? It couldn’t be that simple, could it?
“Tell me, Miss Turner, how much faith do you really put into your gutter-borns? Fury runs in their blood, sure, but blood alone doesn’t make a man loyal. Just look at me.”
“What are you saying?” Calliope asked. He wasn’t loyal to his family? “By the by, those gutter-borns, as you call them, would never betray each other.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Miss Turner.”
“Nevertheless, you don’t know Maxen very well.”
He cocked his head with a smile. “Neither do you, I imagine.”
“Perhaps, but he has been nothing but good to me.”
“You are one of the lucky few, and I can count on my hands how many that is.”
So could she. “Let me guess: six.”
“Seven, eight with you.”
Calliope’s brows furrowed. “Who is the seventh?”
“Another scarred rodent.”
Another brother? Maxen was only ever loyal to his family. “Aren’t you a rodent by your definition?” she shot back, annoyed.
He tapped a finger against the armrest of his chair. “I’m one that rose from the gutters, too.”
“Like them.”
“Well, I’ll argue I rose without gruesome scars.”
Calliope scoffed. “Just because you don’t bear physical scars, that doesn’t mean you don’t bear scars at all.”
“Spoken like a truly educated woman.”
She shrugged. “I have sense at times.”
“Just not enough not to fall in with that lot. They would sell their own children if it meant it would save their skin.”
What rot! “Nonsense! Not one of those men would commit such atrocities!”
“Can you say that with complete certainty?”
“Yes.” Because she had come face to face with such a monster before. Lived in her house for years. Was about to be sold to an old man as a wife. But she wouldn’t give this coxcomb the satisfaction of an explanation just for him to twist her words.
“Do you know why you’re still breathing, Miss Turner?”
Her heart lurched. “Why?”
“Alive, you have value. Dead, you are only a message.”
“You broke your word to whoever gave you that instruction, so that doesn’t make you the most loyal person to trust, does it? Anyway, what gives you a right to what they’ve built?”
“In this world, Miss Turner, no one gives you the right to anything. You take it.”
The philosophy of a blackguard. Fabulous.
Her hands fisted in her trousers. It would be best if Maxen didn’t come.
But she knew as clearly as the image of his dark eyes blazing with fury filled her mind that he would come.
She quite imagined that when he raged, the world would either bend or break to his will.
She didn’t know if she should be comforted by that thought or terrified for him.
She chose the former. “You will regret this when he arrives.”
Peregrine cocked his head, studying her as one might study a puzzle. “There will be no regret when I see the look on his face when he realizes he cannot win against me. Ever.”
Her throat went dry.
He’s baiting you, Calliope.
His eyes glinted, like a cat toying with its prey. “Your heroes are such fragile things, Miss Turner.”
Her lips parted, scathing retorts burning on her tongue, but she never had the chance to blast them.
A loud crash came from outside, followed by splintering wood, a blistering curse, the unmistakable thud of fists striking flesh. The beat of boots, a table toppling. Calliope didn’t need to see the storm breaking through the inn’s walls. She knew it in her bones.
Maxen had arrived.
The world might not be breaking today, but this inn just might.
“Fragile?” she taunted.
Peregrine’s smile didn’t falter as he lazily laid his arm over the armrest of the chair and pointed the pistol at her.
“We’ll see about that,” she finished.
*
The door gave way beneath Maxen’s boot with a splintering crack. Wood tore from its hinges, and he stepped into the chamber, eyes finding Calliope instantly. Peregrine rose to his feet, the pistol in his hand snapping to him.
Maxen paid him no mind.
He saw only her.
“Calliope.”
She sat on the bed, her posture proud, defiance flashing despite the pallor that robbed her cheeks of color. A smile lit her face when their gazes locked. The very sight of her rent him asunder.
He strode across the room, lowering onto one knee before her. He clasped her chin between two fingers, tilting her face left then right, hunting for any signs that she’d been harmed.
“Did he hurt you?”
Her throat worked. “No.”
“Did he touch you?”
She shook her head, hair brushing against his hand. He almost pulled off his gloves so he could feel the slight brush.
Good. Then on to business.
He started to rise but paused when his gaze was caught on her wrist—by rope burns. Thunder roared in his skull.
Peregrine, this bloody blackguard.
Slowly, he rose, framing the space between her and the man across from them. A pistol trained on him, almost making him laugh. Did he believe that would stop him? Make him hesitate?
He stepped up to Peregrine and grabbed him by the collar with both hands, hauling him up from his seat and slamming him back against the nearest wall with a force that rattled.
“Maxen!” Calliope cried out in alarm.
“It’s all right, love. He won’t kill me.” The barrel of the pistol pressed against his chest, the hard mouth of it finding his heart. Maxen looked down at it, then back at Peregrine’s cold, infuriatingly amused eyes.
No, he was toying with him.
His brothers fanned out behind him, and Maxen could feel the wave of their agitation, their fury.
“Go on,” he said softly to Peregrine. “Pull it if you dare. I will rise from my damn ashes like a demon and devour you whole.”
Drake cursed. “Maxen.”
“Well,” Reaper drawled. “That escalated nicely.”
“Let me put him down where he stands,” Knight said.
Saint’s voice was low. “Neck. Quick.”
“Or slow,” Knight said. “There’s merit in slow.”
Peregrine gave the barest twitch of a smile, pistol still steady. “One pull, gentlemen, and your mighty Fury King falls.”
Drake’s voice cut through, ever sensible. “Enough posturing. Kill him and you die. Simple math.”
“Ah, so this what brotherly love feels like.”
“What’s your plan here, Peregrine?” Maxen snapped. Something was off. It was almost as if Peregrine wanted this very thing to happen. Expected it to happen. But what did the blackguard hope to gain? There was no winning this battle with them.
“Let’s just strangle him with his own cravat and be done with him,” Reaper suggested. “Slow or fast, doesn’t matter to me.”
“We don’t kill,” Drake pointed out.
Maxen’s whole body was aware of the woman behind him, so he couldn’t very well remove a limb or two.
Reaper chuckled. “I’d say Peregrine looks a little . . . uncomfortable. How’s the cravat, darling? Tight enough? Shall I take over, frère?”
Maxen ignored his brother’s taunt. He had eyes only for the man pinned in his grasp, only for the pulse beating just below his hands.
He had thought only for that pistol aimed at his heart while Calliope’s bruised wrist still burned behind his eyes.
And Christ, for fighting the urge to do exactly what his brothers were taunting about.
“You put your hands on her,” Maxen growled.
“I didn’t,” Peregrine answered, perfectly calm.
“You tied her.”
“A necessary precaution. My fingers didn’t even graze her skin.”
Did that bloody matter? Maxen leaned in, his head a hair’s breadth from Peregrine’s. “Don’t speak to me about necessary. That’s a dangerous road. Fatal even. Just not by my hands.”
The pistol pressed harder into his chest. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give Peregrine the satisfaction of even a damn flinch. “You want my empire,” Maxen said softly. “But all you’ve done is give me reason to burn you and yours—whatever pitiable thing it may be.”
“Mine took you and yours out in seconds. You all could be dead now.”
“A mistake we won’t make again.”
Behind him, the brothers closed the circle.
And Calliope . . .
Maxen pressed Peregrine harder into the wall, his fingers tightening on the man until the perfect cravat bunched and strained. The pistol’s hammer fell into place with a sharp click as Peregrine drew the metal fully back.
Maxen chuckled.
A brutal, grating sound that cut through the storm outside and seemed to quiet the entire room.
“Well, hell and damnation,” Reaper muttered. “Second time in my life I hear him laugh.”
“First time,” Knight muttered.
“That’s not a laugh,” Drake said.
“Do it,” Maxen said. “Let my brothers cut you apart limb from limb before they toss you in a crate bound for China.”
Reaper’s smile sharpened. “I’ll take an ear.”
Dagger’s knuckles cracked. “I’ll take his hands.”
Saint finally spoke, deep and cold. “I’ll take his tongue.”
Knight nodded once. “And his eyes.”
Drake sighed, and Maxen imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose. “We should still take him back.”
“What if that’s what he wants?” Dagger said.
“Good catch,” Reaper said.
Yes, good catch.
Still wouldn’t stop Maxen from dragging him back to the tavern. The dungeon.
The pistol never wavered. Maxen’s grip never slackened.
“Maxen,” Calliope called his name.
He heard nothing else. Not the storm outside, not his brothers shifting closer, not even Peregrine’s breath in his face.
The instant he loosened his grip, Saint was there.
Silent, efficient, his hand slamming into Peregrine’s wrist, pistol clattering across the floor.
His brother had Peregrine disarmed and on his knees, his arm twisted back at such an angle that bone snapped.
Knight crouched to retrieve the fallen weapon, weighing it in his palm before tucking it into his belt. “One less toy for him.”
Reaper smirked from the doorway. “I still vote for death by cravat strangulation.”
Maxen finally exhaled. Turning, he went to Calliope, and in one swift moment, he scooped her up and marched from the room.
Time to go home.