Silence darted to the right and for a split second felt a rush of welcome relief because she thought she was free.
Then a heavy hand caught her by the hair, and she knew the night was about to become a nightmare.
Chapter Nineteen
The queen tossed and turned that night on her royal bed, but in the morning she had come to a decision. She dressed with care, wearing her best cloth of gold gown and a diamond and ruby crown. Then she strode into the throne room to meet her suitors. The princes had dressed in their best as well. Prince Eastsun shone in robes of gold and silver, Prince Westmoon wore a doublet sewn with emeralds, and Prince Northwind was fairly encrusted with pearls. All three men stood tall and handsome, perfectly perfect in their splendor.
“Have you made your decision?” Prince Eastsun asked.
Queen Ravenhair tilted her chin. “Yes….”
—from Queen Ravenhair
The first wave of attackers hit like a battering ram. They didn’t seem to have pistols, but they were armed with cudgels, and a few bore swords. Griffin fired his last shot from his remaining pistol, taking down the man leading the charge.
Griffin drew his sword. “For Nick Barnes!”
A shot came from behind him, and then the Vicar’s men from one end and the soldiers from the other converged, and he and Deedle were in the middle of a melee. Griffin swung his sword with one hand, nearly severing a man’s arm. The man howled and fell and was trampled by a horse.
For a moment, through the mass of heaving men, Griffin saw a face—or what might be a face in a nightmare. The man’s flesh looked as if it had turned to wax and melted down the side of his skull before hardening in a grotesque parody of facial features. Griffin blinked and the vision was gone.
Griffin punched another man and was shoved hard in return. Someone swung a cudgel at him, and he took the blow on his left shoulder, his entire arm going numb. He shook his head, trying to clear a trickle of blood from his eyes. He didn’t even remember the wound from which it came. He expected at any moment to be shot or impaled from behind but didn’t bother looking.
Death would find him soon enough.
Beside him Deedle cursed. Griffin turned to see Deedle stagger back from three men. His arm was painted red.
Griffin shouted and charged Deedle’s attackers. He felt his face stretch into a grin as he threw the first man aside. The other two turned tail and ran. Then, suddenly, there was a break and he was face-to-face with a gleaming black boot ornamented with a gold spur. He looked up and saw Wakefield glowering down at him from atop a huge black horse.
“Reading!” Wakefield shouted. “Is this your still?”
“Fuck you,” Griffin replied, and elbowed a short, bandy-legged tough in the face.
Wakefield drew a pistol, aimed it over Griffin’s head, pulled the trigger, and nearly deafened Griffin with the boom! He looked at Griffin again, frowning, and his lips moved, but Griffin couldn’t hear him.
He was jostled from behind and Griffin turned. Deedle was using one of his pistols to beat a man about the head.
Griffin felt a touch on his shoulder and swung his sword.
Wakefield jerked up, then cupped his hand about his mouth, shouting. “Are these your men?”
“Would I be fighting my own men?” Griffin asked in exasperation.
He dodged aside as a man staggered toward him, then kicked the fellow’s feet out from under him before stomping him once viciously in the head. He glanced around. Most of the Vicar’s men were fleeing in disorder, routed by the more experienced fighting of the soldiers.
“It appears you have a business rival, then,” Wakefield observed.
He drew his sword and leaned down to slap the blade against the face of a charging rough. The man spun with the force of the blow and his own momentum, and Griffin finished him off by hitting him across the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. Griffin watched the man slump to the ground and then turned to Wakefield with a sarcastic reply on his lips.
But he saw a movement beyond Wakefield’s giant horse, and Griffin’s shoulders tensed in horror instead.
There at the mouth of the alley, Hero was picking her way delicately toward the fight, the footman beside her armed only with a lantern and a wavering drawn pistol.
“Christ,” Griffin breathed.
Wakefield glanced over his shoulder. “What the hell is my sister doing here, Reading?”
* * *
THOMAS HAD NEVER knelt to anyone. He was aware as he looked up at Lavinia how humble the position was, but that was appropriate: He was a petitioner for her hand. Indeed, he was desperate for her hand. If Lavinia left him, he’d have nothing. If she asked him, he’d crawl to her on hands and knees.