Chapter Seven
Seven
Mistake
“Have I done something?” Aoife opened the door enough for General Holt to see her and a bit of the room behind her, but not enough for him to come in.
“I’m sure you have done something.” His warm smile was disarming in the way most painfully attractive people are disarming. “But you haven’t done anything wrong.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“May I come in?” His smile grew to impressive levels of disarmament. “I wanted to ask about last night.”
“Last night?” Aoife debated opening the door further. He seemed nice, and he was gorgeous, and there was a possibility he was her soulmate. There was also the possibility he was a serial killer.
“The Choosing,” he said. Still showcasing his perfectly white teeth.
“The what?”
A wrinkle formed in General Holt’s smile. “The next Emperor being chosen.”
“I don’t have anything to do with that.”
“You don’t have any …” General Holt laughed. “Modesty. How refreshing. Last night, you followed the Sacred, the cat, to someone. The next Emperor. Did you not?”
“I followed a cat,” Aoife said carefully, one hand on the door, one hand on the door frame, “but I didn’t choose anyone.”
“Yes, yes, of course. The God did.” The man waved his hand dismissively. “But this person, who was it?”
“A bartender. I didn’t get his name. Why?”
“Did he have a great deal of tattoos?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“And two-tone eyes?”
“Why does this matter?” Something about the way he’d said that last sentence put Aoife on edge.
There was a bite to those words laced beneath that voice as smooth as honey.
Why did this man want to know about the bartender?
And how had he even found her? She was no one.
Quite literally. The Gates had transplanted her here only yesterday.
General Holt watched her in silence.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds passed.
General Holt’s disarming smile turned sharp.
Vile. Aoife tried to slam the door, but she was too slow.
He wedged his boot into the door frame, slamming his body into the door and throwing her back.
Instincts Aoife hadn’t called on since childhood reared their head: martial arts classes Mum had made her take for years, even though Aoife had wanted to take ballet, because “ballet is impractical and useless. Karate has real value.” In this exact moment, Mum may have been right.
Aoife couldn’t dance her way out of this one.
She slammed her hands on the ground as her back hit the floor to blunt the fall, pulling up her legs in instinctive preparation for a kip-up.
She didn’t quite get to that last part, out of practice as she was.
General Holt stood over her, a leg on each side of her waist, his hand at the hilt of his sword.
“It matters,” he said, “because you made a mistake.”
Aoife glanced at her surroundings, her heart thrashing in her chest as she tried to plan an escape route. This was bad. This was very, very bad. “What mistake was that?” Distract him. Keep him talking.
“You chose the wrong man.”
She just needed to slip out from under him, and then run. Run like hell. Easy. Right? “Who was I supposed to choose?”
He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “Me. You were supposed to choose me, you fool.”
“I’m sorry.” Aoife tried to keep her voice from shaking, but it wasn’t working. For as many fake-violence scenarios as she had been in at the local dojo, she’d never been in an actually life-threatening situation. “I didn’t know I was supposed to choose you.”
“Please,” he spat, “don’t play dumb.”
“I only play dumb to get out of speeding tickets.”
“You’re going to say it was me.”
“Sorry?”
General Holt crouched down so he was nearly sitting on top of Aoife. Putting him in an excellent position for her to grapple him. Except Aoife hadn’t practised grappling in years. Did she even have the strength?
“I’ll make it well worth your while.” He spoke as if they were discussing him buying her old iPhone.
“How so?” She could grab him with her legs, roll him off her, and then make a mad dash for the door. But he was a lot bigger than her. What if she didn’t have enough force?
“You go to the temple. You declare that it was me you came to last night. Everyone knows I’ll make a better emperor, I was practically bred for it.”
“Okay,” Aoife said, trying to sound genuine. “Sure. I can do that.”
General Holt was silent. Watching her. “On second thought … you could change your mind and tell someone the truth later.” He sat up slightly as he gazed at her, his eyes almost looking regretful.
Almost. “I should probably just kill you. Then we’ll have to do the Choosing again and the right Messenger, the right emperor, will be chosen. ”
There was just enough space between General Holt and Aoife for her to sneak her legs through. It was now or never.
“Let’s not.” Aoife tucked her legs to her chest then fired out with as much power and rage as she could muster.
He stumbled back only slightly, but it was enough.
She rolled to her feet and lunged for the door.
General Holt grabbed her wrist and jerked her back.
He slammed her into the back wall, her brain rattling in her skull from the impact.
That could have gone better.
Hands on her throat. Aoife felt the air vanishing from her lungs.
She almost reached for General Holt’s hands to pry them loose.
Almost. Then, she heard Mortimer-Sensei in her memory, ranting in class when she’d been thirteen years old about silly girls in silly films trying to pry their attacker’s hands off them.
What they should have been doing was going for the eyes.
With her index and middle finger, Aoife jabbed General Holt’s eyes, letting them dig deep into the soft, gooey substance, her fingers sinking into General Holt’s head.
Gross, gross, gross.
General Holt’s grip faltered and Aoife ducked, lunging to the right. He reached for her through teary, blood-shot eyes. Aoife drove her palm into his nose and heard the satisfying crack of bones before she lunged for the door.
Run.
Run, run, run.
Out of the inn she fled, barrelling down the the streets of the city. With every step she felt General Holt getting closer, closer, closer. Aoife cursed her skirt getting between her legs, urging herself onwards despite lungs that couldn’t get enough air.
Faster. She needed to run faster.
Behind the city, Aoife saw woods. Forest. She could lose him there. Maybe. Taking a hard right, her feet and lungs burned as she ran to the cover of trees. The smell of pine and sage hit her like a curse, her feet stumbling as she adjusted to the different terrain.
Run, run, run.
She could hear him behind her. Closer, closer, closer. His stride was too long, his body too strong. She could hear his breath, smell his body. He was going to catch her. He was going to kill her. He was going to—
Aoife fell.
He was here.