Chapter 22
With Duncan guarding over them, Sharyn struggled for her folded knife.
She had zippered the karambit into an inner pocket of her crossbody satchel.
She had managed to slip the blade past security during the bag check at the entrance.
The strange book, with its copper bands and crystalline orb, had drawn eyes away from the hidden weapon.
She pulled the blade free and flipped it open, hearing her father’s admonishment.
Never bring a knife to a gunfight.
Still, she refused to simply give in.
She also chose to defy her father, too, proving one didn’t need a gun.
Not when armed with razor claws and a sharp beak.
A dark shadow swooped overhead and dove down like a feathered arrow. A screech of fury burst from the raven’s chest.
Hugh must have trailed after them, either on his own or sent by Moira’s father. Ever smart, ever protective, the raven crashed into the first Beefeater, ripping at the man’s face with talons and driving his beak like a battering ram again and again.
The man bellowed at the savage mauling and batted wildly. In a panic, he accidentally fired his weapon. The recoil knocked the pistol loose, where it clattered to the stone path.
Duncan rushed forward and slammed into the gunman’s belly like a linebacker, lifting him off his feet.
Sharyn reacted with a reflex ingrained into her from countless jiujitsu bouts.
Take every advantage offered.
She followed at Duncan’s heels. As he shouldered the gunman up, she pocketed her knife, slid on her knees, and snatched the abandoned pistol—a Glock 17 threaded with suppressor.
Cradling the pistol in both hands, she fired at the second man in the doorway.
She squeezed the trigger three times, until a round struck his face.
As her target fell backward into the Tower, Duncan turned and tossed his attacker over the edge of the parapet. Arms flailing, the man fell away. His body struck with a wet slap on the dark cobblestones far below.
The battlement’s third defender landed on the path. Hugh limped, holding a wing askew, plainly injured.
But he was not the only one.
“Guard the door,” Sharyn ordered Duncan as she rushed to the others.
Tag sat on his knees next to Moira. Blood welled through the side of her sweater. “Bullet went through and through, I think,” Tag assessed.
Moira tried to push to her feet. “I can manage.”
She could not and fell back to her bottom.
Tag shrugged off his jacket and hurriedly bunched up the lower half. “Lift your arms. This is going to hurt.”
“Do it,” Moira seethed between clenched teeth.
Tag pressed his wadded up jacket against her wounded side. Moira moaned, her eyes squeezed tight. He then quickly tied the coat’s sleeves around her thin waist and knotted them tight.
“Help her get moving,” Tag said, struggling to gain his feet himself.
As Archie hauled her up, Moira cursed a bloody streak, which was echoed by Hugh, who came limping up. It was plain where the raven had picked up this foul habit.
“Stay, my boyo,” she groaned to the bird, recognizing he was hurt. “Extra biscuits when I get back, I promise.”
Hugh clucked at her, sounding like a chicken, which he certainly was not by any definition of the word.
They set off toward the open door into the Beauchamp Tower, trying for as much speed as possible. Sharyn glanced back along the battlement.
Hugh leaped to a perch atop the parapet, casting his gaze in all directions, continuing his role as the Tower’s guardian, likely still worried about Moira.
“We’ll take it from here,” Sharyn whispered, clutching her pistol.
She then rushed after the others, stepping over the man she had shot. She kept her gaze away. She had dropped many an opponent, but she had never killed anyone. While the death was justified, a darkness weighed on her. She knew she would need time to come to terms with this.
Just not now.
She hurried with the group down through the depths of the dark tower, where plaster still covered sections of raw stone.
Tour exhibits dotted their path. As she ran a hand along a wall for support, she felt the scars of ancient graffiti carved into the stone, left behind by either guards or prisoners.
They finally reached the exit, where the door had been left open. They paused at the threshold. It lay a full landing below the level of the Tower Green.
Sharyn edged up, climbing the steps with Duncan, who had collected the pistol from the man she had shot.
She hunched with him at the top step. She noted the tremor in Duncan’s hand as he held the weapon.
She didn’t know if it was from terror, adrenaline, or, like her, the knowledge that he had killed someone this night.
She pushed this all down and forced her focus ahead.
After failing to encounter anyone else inside the Tower, she hoped this meant the enemy had limited numbers.
If so, she could guess why that was. The Tower’s thirty-two Warders must be a close-knit group.
The enemy’s masquerade risked exposure if the bastards brought too many impostors into the Tower.
The attackers must have used the cover of nightfall before changing into their costumes, and they had planned on escaping with the last tourists after acquiring the book.
Praying she was right, she huddled low and searched the grounds.
By now, twilight had darkened to a moonless night.
A heavy layer of mist had settled over the parklands, where a few lamps glowed.
The flight across the battlement had dropped them halfway along the Tower Green.
A well-lit path stretched directly ahead, bisecting the lawn in two.
It led to the bulk of the White Tower castle, which was brightly illuminated, like a turreted birthday cake sitting at the center of the fog-shrouded grounds.
She spotted no one moving out there. From the rowhouses to her right, she heard the occasional soft pop of a pistol. But she had to strain to hear it. The noise was barely discernible, muffled by the house’s thick brick walls.
Still, one thing was evident . . .
“Kelly is still holding ground,” Duncan noted quietly.
But for how much longer?
She dropped down to the others, intending not to waste the constable’s efforts. “We must go,” she warned. “But cautiously. No telling if more of the bastards are out there.
Moira nodded, pain clipping her words. “To get out, we’d best avoid the main West Gate and Middle Drawbridge. If we circle behind the White Tower, we can make for the eastern exit. It’s smaller, mostly a service access and emergency route.”
“I think this counts as an emergency,” Archie mumbled.
Sharyn recognized a significant flaw in this plan. “The enemy will surely have all exits watched.”
And outside, there would be no restrictions on their numbers.
“You may be right.” Moira waved ahead. “But we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it.”
They got moving again. At the top of the steps, they circled the edge of the green, sticking to the deeper mists and shadows, and headed away from the rowhouse corner.
Occasionally, vague shapes stirred in the distance.
From their silhouettes, they were mostly Beefeaters, who appeared to be herding late-straying tourists toward the exits.
Whether these Warders were friend or foe, it was impossible to tell.