CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The smell comes first: whiskey, woodsmoke, and mildew.
My head is throbbing and the scent of the air isn’t to blame, but it can’t be helping.
My limbs don’t seem to belong to me, and it’s a battle to open my eyes.
A blur of earth tones swims into view, taking its sweet time becoming anything remotely discernible.
Then the thing I’m looking at rushes into focus with stomach-dropping force.
A lion. An actual lion. Fang-baring, yellow-eyed, hungry.
This is where it all ends. I have no training for this, and even if I did, I still can’t move. I’m lion food, a little bedtime snack that won’t even put up a fight. Then someone touches my hand.
Grant.
His fingers just barely brush mine, but it’s enough to pull me from my doom spiral.
We’ve been tied up side by side in heavy wooden chairs, bound with thick rope by our ankles and wrists and middles, duct tape covering our mouths.
The lion, I see now, is only a head—stuffed and mounted on the wall and accompanied by a zebra, a cheetah, and what looks like a rhinoceros horn.
The room we’re in sags under the weight of its own opulence—ornate wallpaper peeling at the edges, tarnished sconces on the walls.
A fire growls in the fireplace. It’s all very Haunted Mansion.
Everywhere I look are trophy hunting mementos, creepy old oil portraits, antique-looking swords, and absolutely no windows.
Grant and I trade incoherent Are you okays, each replying with muffled affirmatives. Of course, the bar for okay is fairly low when you’ve been drugged and tied up in someone’s crypt of a man cave.
Searching my brain for escape methods feels like trudging through a swamp.
For one glorious, fleeting moment, I remember step one: Breathe deep and make your body as big as possible.
Then I remember that this is what you’re supposed to do during the tying-up so that there’s slack in your ropes when you exhale and relax your muscles.
Since I had all the muscle tension of overcooked asparagus at the time, my ropes are tight.
My arms are bound to the armrests from wrist to elbow; I can’t even begin to reach the knots.
I might as well be an old-timey ingenue in a black-and-white movie.
All that’s missing is a train track and an ominous chugga-chugga-chugga in the distance.
Instead, there are footsteps. Distant at first, then right outside the door. I freeze. Keys scratch and click in the door’s locks and it swings open.
I see the shoes first, and follow them up a crisp tuxedo to stare into a face framed by slicked-back hair. The man I bumped into at the gala.
He gives us an appraising smile as he pockets his ring of ancient-looking keys.
“Welcome, friends,” he says in a silky voice that feels like cold fingernails down my neck.
He traipses to a jaundiced globe in the corner of the room and tips it open to reveal an assortment of glass bottles and tumblers.
Pouring himself a scotch, he says, “I trust you’re feeling refreshed after your little catnap?
You’ll have some pins and needles, I expect, but not to worry—you’ll be just fine. For now.”
He turns back to us and chuckles, a humorless closed-mouth sound that would be cliché in its evilness if he didn’t do it so well.
His eyes sparkle over the rim of his glass, then he frowns mid-sip.
“Forgive me,” he says. “Terribly rude not to make an introduction. I am Alistair Walton-Hornsby, Sixteenth Earl of Colchester.”
With slow, creaking steps, he approaches us and leans down until the alcohol on his breath stings my eyes. “And you are?”
I may be tied up, but I don’t know how many more chances we’ll have to get him within striking distance. Plus, I saw something like this in Charlie’s Angels. I quickly heft all my weight to jump up in my chair and slam to the ground, with the goal of breaking the chair and freeing my legs.
Turns out, Charlie’s Angels lied. The chair legs hold firm.
I do, however, manage to land one of them on Alistair’s foot. He jerks back with a grunt of pain, then turns a vicious scowl on me before cutting me across the cheek with a hard backhanded slap. Grant’s yell is muted by the tape as he lurches forward ineffectually, eyes blazing.
Alistair laughs.
“A valiant protector,” he observes. “How very encouraging.” He fetches a carved chair from across the room, dragging it toward us with the low, wooden scraping of a coffin lid sliding into place.
“Tell me,” he says, taking his seat in front of us, “would you like to know why I’ve brought you here this evening?”
We’re silent, for obvious reasons, and he clicks his tongue in mock self-reproach.
“Oh, dear me,” he says, then reaches forward and rips the duct tape from both of our mouths simultaneously, sending us into outbursts of pained profanity.
“Let’s try that again: Would you like to know why I’ve brought you here?
” This time he speaks slowly, in a measured tone that lets us know his patience is in finite supply.
He cups a hand around his ear.
“Why,” we both say woodenly.
“Ever so glad you asked.” He stands and begins to pace the room. “You see, I am a member of a grand tradition of Britons. The titled ranks of gentlemen whose forefathers paved the way for a society of manners, of nobility and decency. Of chivalry and respectability.”
Grant scoffs. “And snobbery, and inbreeding, and hunting endangered species that make you feel small.”
Alistair quirks an eyebrow. “I see you’ve met Harold,” he says, strolling over to give the taxidermied lion a delicate scratch under the chin, as if it were a house cat.
“Say what you will, though your ignorance shows. You are here because you stand in stark contrast to the legacy of the aristocracy. You’re boastful, you’re profane, you have no qualms against vulgar displays of passion. ”
He spits the word out like poison on his tongue. Passion. But it winds around me like ivy, calling on my memory of Grant in the rain. His fervent gaze, his hand on my arm. His steadiness. His strength.
Focus. I need to focus. The chill of Alistair’s scrutiny seems to help.
“So, what?” I say. “Why bring us here? Why not just shoot us in the street, since you’re such a fabulous shot?”
Alistair tsk-tsks me. “Please. Like a common delinquent? Where’s the honor in that?”
“As opposed to the honor of drugging people and dragging them to a murder dungeon,” says Grant.
Alistair sighs. “No, no. You’re getting this all wrong. It is an unskilled hunter indeed who simply traps his prey. There is no victory in that. No, my good man, this is a test. A test I alone can offer you.” He leers at me, his pale eyes glimmering. “And do you know why that is?”
“Because you’re Allison Walmart-Horny, Nineteenth Earl of Who the Fuck Cares?”
“Good one,” says Grant.
Alistair ignores me and continues, “Because I am among the last who treasure the old ways. Who know what constitutes true nobility—a distinction that can only be inherited, or earned.”
He drifts toward the fireplace, and Grant and I exchange nervous glances.
“The art of the duel,” he says quietly, “is one of many noble customs lost to the cruel sweep of time.” He steps up onto the outer hearth and reaches for the crisscrossed swords displayed above the mantel.
Carefully, he grasps them by the handles and lifts them from their resting place, then makes his way back toward us.
“That is,” he adds, “lost to all but the truest of gentlemen.”
With a quick series of sudden and highly improbable slashes, he slices through the ropes around Grant’s torso, then frees his wrists and ankles. Dread creeps up to me like floodwater.
“This isn’t a death sentence, you see,” says Alistair. “It’s a chance to prove me wrong, to prove yourself worthy. To duel for your life and hers.” He holds out one of the swords to Grant, who blinks at it before emitting a harsh, incredulous laugh.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
But Alistair doubles down on his stony stare and tosses the sword at Grant. I flinch as Grant catches it clumsily, just barely missing the blade.
“But I don’t know how to—”
Alistair clicks his tongue. “Oh, do have some faith. It’s a longsword, not a unicycle.” He studies his own sword as he strolls to the center of the room. “Besides,” he says, “do you think Arthur knew how to pull the sword from the stone?”
“Let me do it,” I blurt, though I’ve never even held a sword, much less fought with one. Still, my well-practiced defense instincts must be good for something. Or maybe I’ll just get a nice, clean decapitation out of the deal.
But Grant looks at me earnestly and shakes his head no.
I feel sick as he gets to his feet and takes his place opposite Alistair. This isn’t fair. None of my training accounted for an attack of the eighteenth century. I start twisting and pulling against my restraints, but they hold fast.
“I don’t suppose you feel like telling me the rules here,” Grant says. He handles his weapon with trepidation, as though hoping for a How to Fight with Swords manual to fall out.
“The rules are simple,” says Alistair, slicing the air with a few practice swoops. “If you win, you’re free. Both of you. And if I win, you’re dead.” He smiles and drops his voice to a near-purr. “You should know: I always win.”
Grant reluctantly holds his sword up, like a child play-fighting with a pool noodle.
Alistair leans into a starting position, fixing Grant with a deadly sneer.
I can’t watch. I squeeze my eyes shut and claw fruitlessly at the ropes around my hands, less out of hope of breaking free and more because I need to do something.
Anything to pull me away from the horror about to unfold before me—the tang of blood in the air, the sound of the blade piercing his skin. Bile rises in my throat.