Chapter Twenty-Five
T WENTY - F IVE
I race from the house with Henry in pursuit. I smell horses, and I consider running to the stables. Felix might sleep there, and I trust him. But I won’t put him in Henry’s path. The only person I’d dare put there is Bishop.
I run full out, my skirts held up. I aim a fireball behind me, and Henry curses, stumbling and slowing and falling behind.
I don’t hear Reginald, and at first, I thought that was strange, but now I understand.
He isn’t going to risk anyone else seeing him.
That way, he can claim he had nothing to do with my escape.
I tear along the side of the house. It’s hard going, overgrown with brush where another house might have gardens.
I fight my way through, thorns scratching every inch of bare skin.
It would be easier if I veered farther from the house, but I don’t dare give any credence to the lie that I was escaping.
The house is at least two stories. There might be a third—or at least some sleeping quarters in the tall attic. The second level is where most of the bedchambers are located. Any help is up there. Far above me. In closed bedchambers where the inhabitants are sound asleep.
Why had I not realized that? Did I think I could find an open window and climb through?
I squint upward as I run. There are open windows. It’s a cool night after a warm day, and windows have been opened for sleep. Do I shout? Hope to wake—?
Light! A lamp flickers through one of those open windows. Reginald thought everyone was asleep, but he missed Henry. Is that the enforcer’s room?
If someone else is awake, I need to get their attention.
And what if it’s one of the wolves who won’t care? Who’ll see Henry in pursuit and shut the window?
A smell hits, and my chin jerks up, my eyes widening as I stare at that open window.
Vanilla and anise.
Do I actually smell Bishop? Or is that the treacherous scent of hope?
I don’t care. I can’t care.
“Bishop!” I shout. “Bishop! Please!”
A chair clatters above as I stop below that high window. A figure appears, tall and dark-haired and unmistakable.
“Delia?” he murmurs, almost too low to hear, as if he has fallen asleep and is dreaming of me outside his window. Because that makes far more sense than the reality.
“Bishop! Please! I’ve been chased out here. It’s a trick. A trap.”
“What?” He snaps to himself now, and he wrenches on the window, yanking it up and leaning out.
“Let me in. Please.”
He looks around in confusion, as if still not convinced he isn’t dreaming. “Yes, of course. Meet me downstairs. The front door. I’ll—Cordelia!”
His shout comes at the very moment Henry’s scent wafts past. I wheel as the man steps from the thick bushes. For a moment, I think he won’t attack. Bishop is right there, watching, and Henry wouldn’t dare—
Henry lunges at me. I retreat, hands rising in a knockback, but my gown catches on a thorny bush. I stumble, and my spell flies astray.
Henry grabs me and yanks me to face him, and in his smile I see the truth. He’s not giving up so easily. After all, Bishop is trapped upstairs in his room, and whatever happens will be Henry’s word against mine.
Henry grabs me by the arm, kicks my feet out from under me and starts to drag me. I scrabble, trying to get my footing before realizing I need to cast a spell. Now.
I look up to that window… and it’s black. Bishop is already gone. He must be running for the stairs. Out of sight. Unable to see what’s happening.
I cast an energy bolt. It hits Henry in the legs, and he staggers, only to quickly recover. I need more. I need to do what I did to him earlier today. Summon that grief and rage, feel it burn red-hot through me.
But I can’t find it while I’m panicking. Henry grabs my arm, and I ready the other to hit him with a knockback, but he grabs that wrist, too, and starts dragging me, and I’m fighting wildly—
A distant crash, like glass shattering, and I look up just in time to see Bishop leap through his bedroom window. The moment seems to freeze there as I stare, certain I can’t possibly be seeing what I seem to be seeing.
He didn’t run downstairs. He backed up… to smash through the window.
He hits the ground hard, landing in a crouch, head forward, hair hanging, one hand on the ground, and I know he’s hurt himself. He must have. He just jumped out a second-story window.
He needs time to recover. Time I don’t have as Henry drags me deeper into the forest. I need a witch spell, and my mind flies through the possibilities but there aren’t enough offensive witch spells and Henry has my hands, and I’m not sure I dare cast too much and risk draining my magic.
Blood rushes in my ears, pounding and roaring, sounding like something outside of me. Then Henry goes flying. Knocked clean off his feet, his hand jerking free from my arm.
I wheel to see Henry on the ground with Bishop over him, as I realize that roar and pounding I heard didn’t come from inside me at all. Bishop is on him, and in a heartbeat, the two men are rolling on the ground, locked in a fight moving too fast for me to even see who’s winning.
Bishop is young and strong and fast, but Henry is a behemoth of a man, a werewolf Alpha’s enforcer.
I struggle to follow the blows, wincing as blood flies, trying to tell whose blood it is, who’s gasping in pain. Between the speed and the darkness, I can’t see anything, and I don’t dare try to help, in case my spells hit Bishop.
I dance there, ready to cast if Bishop needs it—if he’s thrown from the fray and I can mask him with a cover spell, or if I can strike Henry with a fireball or another energy bolt.
A binding spell would be perfect. That’s witch magic that traps a person in place, but notoriously difficult to hold for long. Still, I wouldn’t need to hold Henry for long. Just enough to let Bishop pin him. Yes, if I can—
A blur, someone running through the bushes.
I whirl as Henry’s son, Harry, barrels through. My binding spell turns on him, which is a mistake. Oh, it works, stopping him in his tracks. But then what? I can’t hold it until Bishop is free, and I can’t cast anything stronger while I hold the binding.
I run at Harry and plow my fist into his stomach, as hard as I can. The binding spell breaks, and he falls back, and I slam him with a fireball to the face. He yelps, batting at it and stumbling away.
A shape charges from the left. I spin, hands rising, only to see Oliver. He rams into the younger Cain, knocking him down. The two begin to fight, and shouts in the darkness tell me more of Bishop’s allies are out here, facing off against Henry’s confederates.
“Enough!” a voice thunders. “What the hell is going on here?”
Silas storms through the trees, and the first thing he sees, naturally, is me. Four of his wolves are on the ground, locked in battle, but the person he bears down on is his daughter, standing there in her bedraggled dress.
I lock my knees and hold my ground. “Reginald tricked me into escaping.”
Silas peers around. “Who?”
“Reginald. I—I don’t know where he went, but he came to my cell and set me free, and then I realized it was a trick.”
“A trick?” Silas looks around at the forest. “But you did escape?”
A grunt from behind, as Henry says, “Reginald wasn’t there. The girl escaped.”
“No,” I say firmly. “Reginald drugged my guard. He came to my cell. He made up some story about taking me to my grandmother.”
“Your what ?” Silas says.
“My grandmother. Obviously I know she’s dead, so I was supposed to panic and run past him. Then he could claim I escaped.” I meet his gaze. “If I were going to make up a story, it’d be far less ridiculous than ‘your elderly advisor claimed he was taking me to my dead grandmother.’”
Behind me, hands land on my hips, and I jump, but smell Bishop even before he presses against my back, holding me to him.
“Cordelia didn’t flee,” Bishop says. “She came to my window and called for my help. I watched Henry drag her into the forest.”
I nod. “My scent trail will show that I stayed close to the house. I went straight to Bishop.”
Silas’s gaze falls on me, narrowed, assessing. I suppose I ought to simper, play the broken filly who has learned her lesson and run to her newly acknowledged “master” for protection. But I can’t act that well.
“I know better than to run away,” I say simply.
Silas looks from one of us to the other, and then around at those gathering from the forest. When Henry says, “I didn’t see Reginald,” Silas snaps, “Silence.” Then he turns to the wolves and points from one to the next, giving orders.
“You, bring me Reginald. You, check on Miles. He was her guard tonight. You, find my daughter’s trail.
All of you. Confirm or disprove her story.
I want the truth, whatever that may be.”
“May I take Cordelia inside?” Bishop asks.
Silas grunts.
“May I take her to her bedroom? The cell isn’t safe, and I think she’s proven she won’t run.”
“Unless it’s a trick,” Silas mutters. “Return only to flee at a more opportune time. Fine. You take her inside, but she’s your responsibility.”
“I’ll be the one to guard her from now on.”
“Good.”
“To be extra careful, I’ll stay in her bedchamber, not the adjoining room.”
Silas slowly turns our way.
“On her bedroom floor, of course,” Bishop says. “Until our wedding night.”
Silas doesn’t exactly smile. He’s too angry for that. But a glimmer seeps into his eyes.
“I don’t care where you sleep. I’ll speak to both of you tomorrow.”