Chapter 48
Asherton stood in the doorway, one arm in a sling, the other gripping a sword. His eyes—the same eyes that had looked at her with such tenderness, such joy—were wild with fury.
Huxley straightened. “If you’d come quicker, I would not have had to mutilate your pretty new bride.”
Asherton’s eyelids fluttered, and his jaw ticked.
He took one step forward, but Huxley straddled Magdala’s back, gripping a handful of her hair.
She inhaled sharply as cold, polished steel scratched under her jaw.
Huxley waggled the knife so it grated her skin.
Warm blood trickled down her neck. “Oh, her artery is so close. I can feel her heartbeat in the steel,” he crooned.
“Tell me where the nix is so I can kill him, and I will let her live.”
Asherton’s gaze fixed on Magdala’s face. A tremble ran through him and his eyes welled, but he blinked the tears away and said, “Let her go and I may listen to your screams for mercy.”
Huxley laughed, but Magdala sensed a hesitation. “I am not the one who will be …”
Scraping and clattering sounded from the hall.
Asherton tipped his head down, fixing Huxley with a look of dark and settled rage. “Better run while you still have the chance.”
He stepped aside as a blur of branches and winding roots exploded through the doorway.
Anton had grown taller than Asherton, his jaws wide enough to bite a man in half. He didn’t hesitate. He went for the royalist closest to the door and snapped her up in his jaws. She shrieked as he sank his teeth into her torso.
The room erupted into chaos—boots pounding and royalists running, shrieking. Shotfire balls sheared off marble pillars.
Huxley dropped Magdala and ran.
Asherton dashed forward and caught her as she sank to the floor.
“Mags.” His voice cracked. “Oh, Mags, what did he do to you?”
She wrapped her arm around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. “You should not have come,” she wheezed.
Asherton slipped his arm out of the sling so he could crush her against his chest. She clung to him, and she was unreasonably happy to see him, even though she knew it was madness. Even though she knew it was suicide.
“You’re so brave, my love,” he said, leaning back and brushing her hair from her sticky face. “A warrior to your core. But I’m here now, and it’s my turn to look after you.”
Ignoring his injured arm, Asherton lifted Magdala and ran for the door, but Anton slid in front of them, chasing a wailing man, and he skidded to a stop, their exit blocked.
Magdala’s mind was a smear of color and memory and pain. She pictured the room in her mind. The mirror and the blue eyes staring back at her. The ghost. The whispers in the walls.
“There’s a passageway,” she murmured.
“What?” Asherton asked.
“The mirror. Break the mirror.”
“But …”
“Do it, Ash!” She set her feet down and tested her legs. She sank to her knees but managed to stay upright.
Asherton grabbed one of the potted fig trees, yanked it out in a scatter of soil, and hurled the pot at the mirror.
It shattered, and a blast of musty air struck Magdala’s cheeks.
A dark void, , lined with stone, gaped behind the mirror.
Asherton ran back to her, gripped her shoulders, and pulled her to her feet, then lifted her over the broken glass and into the passage.
The passageway ran the length of the ballroom, and as Magdala had expected, the exterior wall was a two-way mirror.
Asherton staggered down the length of the mirror, watching as Anton chased the last of the royalists across the bloody floor.
Through the ballroom windows, Magdala glimpsed survivors scrambling over the lawn and into the forest.
Magdala’s vision aligned, but her mouth tasted of copper, and every inhale racked her ribs. Her left hand left a crimson trail behind them on the stone floor.
“Zephyr told me there was a passageway into the kitchen, but he blocked it off years ago so no one could get into the house. He must not have known about this one.”
“Where is Zephyr?” she asked.
“I don’t know. He was behind me, but I ran ahead, and when I turned around, he was gone.”
The passageway took a sharp turn, then angled down. Magdala guessed they must be moving under the dining room now, near the kitchen. The walls were carved from rock, and water dripped into deep grooves in the floor.
Asherton paused on the stairs and adjusted his hold on her.
“Put me down, Ash. Your arm …” she began.
“Gracious, woman, that is the least of our concerns at the moment.”
“I’m trying to be thoughtful,” she muttered.
“It’s not every day you find your wife being tortured in your own house. It makes a man want to be protective. Humor me.”
She let him carry her to the bottom of the stairs. The walls narrowed, the screams from the ballroom fading.
“How did you know about this?” Asherton asked.
“Ghosts,” Magdala replied. “And blue eyes.”
Boots thudded behind them—someone was clattering down the steps. Asherton set Magdala down and drew his sword.
“Go,” he ordered.
“No.” Magdala had no weapons. The floor pitched, but she leaned against the wall. Her clothes were sticky with blood. “No, we stay together.”
“Just one time, do as you’re told.”
She shook her head.
Asherton’s eyes blazed. “Magdala, go!”
“Our blood spills together!” she cried. “That was the agreement!”
“Stubborn woman.” Asherton slashed his sword in the air, and there was a hunger in him Magdala had never seen before.
“COME ON, HUXLEY!” Asherton shouted, flexing his fingers on the sword. “After what you did to my wife, there’s no one I’d rather see!”
Huxley rounded the corner slowly, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other.
“Where is Zephyr?” Huxley asked.
An acrid aroma wafted down the passage. Smoke? Had Huxley set the house on fire?
Intense sleepiness washed over Magdala, and her heart slowed in her chest. Her burns and bruises dulled as she sank down the wall to her knees.
Asherton rushed Huxley eagerly, and their swords sang.
Huxley parried, but Asherton kicked him hard in the stomach, and Huxley stumbled.
With a flurry of rapid cuts, Asherton pushed him back and back, until Huxley tripped on the bottom stair and fell.
It happened so fast, Magdala couldn’t track Asherton’s movements.
“Mercy!” Huxley yelped, shielding his head with his arm.
Asherton raised his sword. “LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO HER!”
Smoke filtered down the passage, burning Magdala’s lungs.
“I gave her amenite!” Huxley cried.
Asherton froze, his eyes wide, then he lowered his sword. “You bastard,” he breathed.
The amenite. She’d forgotten it. But she was forgetting everything, the world fading like water spilled on ink. Magdala sank sideways. Asherton jerked his head toward her, his lips parted, and his face went white as snow.
“I have the antidote,” Huxley panted. He held up a leather pouch. “Let me go and I’ll give it to you.”
“He won’t,” Magdala rasped. “He’s a liar. Remember the river.”
But Asherton was off-kilter, shaken, and in that brief moment, Huxley reached into his jacket and pulled out a single-shot shotfire. “I was saving this for Zephyr, but I’ll use it on her if I have to.” He turned the weapon toward Magdala. “Tell me where Zephyr is and you both live.”
Asherton stepped between the shotfire and Magdala and dropped his sword. “Shoot me if you want to, but I do not know where Zephyr is.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Asherton’s jaw hardened, and he twitched his splinted arm. Something gleamed in the palm of his hand—something that strangely resembled Madgala's bread lame.
In a sudden flash, Asherton reached out, gripped Huxley's wrist, and yanked him forward while, in one fluid movement, he slashed out with his injured arm. Blood spattered the walls. A scream caught in Magdala’s throat.
Huxley staggered away from Asherton, clutching his throat, his eyes bulging. Blood spilled over his fingers and dribbled through his lips. He let out a gurgling moan and sank to the floor.