by Zoë Archer
No time was wasted as he turned and plowed through the living storm. He remembered exactly the position of the Heir—some sod named Baslow, as Catullus recalled—who held the Ankh.
Even though the Ankh’s magic buffered the Heirs from the scarabs, their visibility was still hindered by the swarm. The hazy shape of Baslow stood in the middle of the street, searching. Catullus contemplated firing his shotgun at him—but he’d give away his position if he missed, which, at this distance, and with the confusing barrage of scarabs, was not unlikely.
No guns, then. Not yet. Using the beetles to hide his approach, Catullus eased around Baslow, then tackled him from behind. The Heir’s gun flew from his hand, but he held tight to the Ankh.
They grappled and rolled over the cobbled ground, wrestling for the Ankh. Catullus gritted his teeth when the Heir threw a solid punch to his ribs, then countered with his own to Baslow’s jaw.
Still, the Heir managed to spit, “You can’t stop it, Graves. The Blades will be destroyed. England will rise again.”
“Not at this cost.”
They struggled together on the ground. Catullus knotted his fist in Baslow’s thin hair and pounded the Heir’s head against the paving stones. Baslow’s eyes grew hazy. Seizing his advantage, Catullus reared up and drove an elbow into the Heir’s wrist. A spasm forced Baslow’s grip on the Ankh to loosen. Catullus grabbed the Ankh.
At that moment, the scarabs dropped from the sky. In thick waves they fell, and as soon as their bodies hit the ground, they burst into clouds of desert-scented sand. An inch-deep coating of sand covered all surfaces. The village, cottages, and shops were thickly smothered in grit and were of a fashion culturally midway between Egypt and England. Catullus tucked the Ankh into a hidden pocket in his jacket.
Baslow regained his wits, and writhed as he fumbled for something on his leg. He brought his hand up, clutching a knife. Catullus dodged the intended blows, holding the stabbing arm away, but Baslow’s loss of the Ankh gave the Heir a surge of strength. His knife burned a slash down Catullus’s shoulder.
Heavy black fabric suddenly covered Baslow’s face. Gemma, her teeth bared in a fierce snarl, wrapped the cashmere coat over the Heir’s head and wrested it closed.
Baslow struggled to dislodge her, but she held tight. The Heir began to flop like a fish washed ashore.
In a single, swift motion, Catullus pried the knife from Baslow’s hand and shoved it between his ribs, right into his heart.
Baslow jerked, then went still.
Catullus leapt up, ready to take on the remaining Heirs. But, aside from those already lying dead in the street, the others were gone.
He turned his gaze back to Gemma. For a moment, all either could do was stare at each other, panting, over the Heir’s body. She glanced down at the corpse, then back up at Catullus, her eyes wide. Even as they drifted away from Baslow’s unmoving form, Catullus returned her gaze levelly.
This was him, as well. Not only an inventor, an adventurer. But, when it was necessary, a killer. He didn’t enjoy killing—it bothered the hell out of him at the beginning—yet he learned that sometimes there wasn’t a choice. End one life to protect many more. So he did it when he had to, clean and fast, without apology.
That did not mean his heart didn’t pound in his chest as he watched Gemma learn this aspect of him, her eyes straying to the knife sticking from Baslow’s chest. She also glanced behind her, where the Heir that had attacked her now sprawled in the street, dark with blood.
She turned her bright gaze back to Catullus. Swallowed. And then nodded. A small nod, but one that showed she understood.
When he reached for her, to brush sand from her hair, she didn’t flinch or edge away. She smiled, and performed the same service for him, sweeping her hands along his sand-covered shoulders. He reclaimed his coat from the body, shook it out, then donned the garment.
The sounds of nearby combat reached them—guns firing, men cursing, a large animal roaring.
Taking hold of Gemma’s wrist, Catullus sprinted toward the noise. The battle was not over.
In the small square at the center of the village, the Blades and remaining Heirs fought. Heirs positioned themselves in doorways and behind flower boxes at the far end of the square. Catullus recognized some of the men from their eastern assault. Felt a fierce satisfaction to see that some bled from injuries inflicted by the barrel bomb.
Bennett and London had taken up positions behind the wall surrounding the stone monument, firing on the Heirs. In another recessed doorway, closer to the Heirs, Astrid had her rifle blazing. And … hell … Lesperance in human form lay propped against the doorjamb, clutching at a wound in his arm. Blood dripped from his elbow to splatter on the ground.
Dodging bullets, Catullus and Gemma sprinted across the square to crouch beside Bennett and London.
Bennett looked relieved to see them, but grim. “Thanks for stopping that damned scarab infestation.” He nodded toward the gritty sand carpeting the square.
“Status?”
“Took out two of theirs, but we can’t hold out against them for too much longer.”
“And the troughs?” Catullus asked. He glanced over to the three horse troughs that were arranged in front of the village postal office. In order for Catullus’s plan to work, the Heirs would have to advance.
“We need to flush the Heirs out and corral them into place. Don’t know how. They’re dug in, won’t budge. Tried to fake a retreat so they’d follow. But they didn’t.”
“What happened to Lesperance?” asked Gemma.
Bennett’s face hardened with rage. “When we attempted the retreat, an Heir made a grab for London. Seems that she’s something of a prize, being the sister of the Heirs’ leader.”
Gemma started in astonishment from this revelation, but Bennett continued. “I was pinned down, couldn’t do anything. Lesperance turned wolf and ripped the bastard’s throat out.” He nodded toward a splayed body in the square. “Not before catching a bullet.”
“This ends, now,” Catullus growled. He glanced at Gemma. “Pistols loaded?”
She held up two guns—her derringer and a revolver—and looked keen to use them.
“Good lass. I’ll need cover.”
“It’s yours.”
His heart swelled at her quick courage. A magic-and-gun battle with Heirs had to be a far cry from anything she’d ever experienced, yet she held firm to her valor.
“On my count,” he said, readying himself. “One … two … three.”
Under Gemma’s covering gunfire, he ran across the square.
Gemma used the stone wall surrounding the cross to help keep her aim steady. Among her, Day, and his wife, they lay down enough bullets to distract the Heirs from Catullus.
Blessedly, he made it uninjured to the doorway in which Astrid and Lesperance hunkered. Gemma finally released the breath she had been holding.
Catullus examined the wound in Lesperance’s arm, and, even though Gemma couldn’t hear what they were saying over the noise, she saw Lesperance’s assurance that his injury wasn’t serious. The two men conferred about something. Astrid tried to object to whatever it was they discussed, but Lesperance seemed adamant.
Finally, with an angry nod, Astrid consented. But looked downright surly.
Lesperance transformed, shimmering, into a hawk. He immediately launched himself up into the air. A tenuous moment as he struggled aloft, hampered by his wound, and then he gathered himself and soared high. He outpaced the Heirs’ bullets in seconds, disappearing into the hazy dawn.
Gemma wondered if he meant to go find help, but she didn’t think anyone could arrive in time. What, then?
The Blades and the Heirs continued to trade gunfire, smoke filling the square. Gemma noted that the Heirs had lost several men, but they still outnumbered the Blades almost two to one. She didn’t know anything about combat, yet surely there had to be some way, some advantage the Blades could take to tip the balance.
A terrifying r
oar echoed through the square. Only the threat of being shot kept Gemma from leaping to her feet. Men screaming in panic replaced the sound of gunfire. The Heirs all bolted from their positions, looks of blank terror on their well-born faces. Within a moment, Gemma realized what caused such fear.
Lumbering after the Heirs with surprising speed, an enormous grizzly bear pursued. Lesperance. Gemma had not fully grasped how gigantic he truly was in his bear form—the darkness had hidden his size—but now seeing him, easily the largest animal she’d ever encountered, his lips peeled back to reveal a set of huge white teeth, it was all she could do to tamp down the primitive instinct to flee. She’d seen one bear, a female, when in Canada, and at a goodly distance. This one, however, made the grizzly she’d spotted seem like a miniature suitable for a nursery. She had to remind herself that this fearsome bear was actually Lesperance, an ally.
In a group, the Heirs ran, with Lesperance close behind them. When one of the men tried to break away, a growl and swipe of Lesperance’s paws kept them together. That’s when Gemma saw what Lesperance was doing. He herded the Heirs straight toward the post office—and the positioned horse troughs.
As soon as the Heirs had been maneuvered into the proper place, Catullus leapt from his cover. He lobbed three bottles in rapid succession. Each one splashed into the water-filled troughs. The troughs exploded in a rain of fire and steam. A rattling boom, and then water splattered down on the Heirs.
Only it wasn’t water anymore. Whatever had been in the bottles Catullus threw, it had transformed the water into a different substance. It made the Heirs scream, shrill, agonized sounds. Their clothing sizzled and dropped from their bodies, the flesh beneath also blistering. The weapons they held were flung away as the metal corroded within seconds.
Clawing at their faces, shrieking in pain, the Heirs reeled around the square. One ran right into Lesperance’s path. A swipe of the bear’s paw had the man slumping to the ground, his torso ripped open. Gemma winced at the sight. She’d heard of bear attacks when out in the Canadian wilderness, and seen animal carcasses left behind by grizzlies, but she’d been fortunate to have never witnessed a bear killing anything except salmon.
Astrid dropped another Heir with a single shot.
“Fall back!” one of Heirs yelled.
The remaining men fled the square. Some limped. Others ran full-out.
Bennett, Astrid, and Catullus gave chase, using what remained of their ammunition to ensure there were no stragglers. Gemma and London followed, but by the time Gemma reached Catullus’s side, all of the Heirs either had abandoned the village or lay in the road.
The Blades, and Gemma, stood in the empty street. Sand covered everything. The walls lining the main street bore countless bullet holes. Broken windows threw back partial reflections, silvery and black.
After the chaos of the last half hour, the silence that fell deafened in its nullity. Then, incongruously, a bird began to sing.
Morning.
Gathered in the empty saloon, the Blades silently considered the man propped up in a chair. A stout rope tied him down, binding his arms. Cuts and abrasions marked his face. His clothes were torn.
He glared at them with a mixture of hatred and fear. “You going to torture me?”
“Blades don’t torture,” Astrid said. From one corner of the saloon, she finished bandaging a partially clad Lesperance’s injury. The wound had already begun to heal—perhaps another of Lesperance’s magical abilities. “Unlike Heirs.”
Gemma, standing behind the bar, watched Catullus stride toward the prisoner. The captive Heir blanched as Catullus towered over him.
“Tell us what you know about the Primal Source.”
But the Heir sneered. “You Blades are a lot of misguided fools—trying to stop what needs to be done.” He glanced over at Mrs. Day, seated nearby. Disgust twisted his features. “Never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Joseph Edgeworth’s daughter is now the Blades’ whore.” He spat.
Day’s fist smashed into the Heir’s face, and the man slumped in his seat, out cold. Blood and teeth spattered down the Heir’s dirty shirtfront. Only Catullus’s restraining hand on Day’s arm kept him from punching the Heir again. Catullus’s arm shook with the force it took to hold his friend in check.
“Let go of me, Cat,” Day snarled.
“We’re better than this,” Catullus answered with enforced calm.
Day bared his teeth. “I’m not. Hands off, or I take you down, too.”
A smaller hand rested on Day’s tense forearm. “Don’t,” Mrs. Day said softly. “I understand languages better than anyone. His words mean nothing. And you mean everything.”
Jaw tight, Day slowly lowered his arm and stepped back, though clearly he wanted nothing more than to beat the Heir into a paste. Instead, he gathered his wife into a protective embrace and moved them both toward the cold fireplace at one end of the saloon, as if standing next to the Heir would prove too much of a temptation for violence.
Catullus set his hands on his hips, staring down at the unconscious prisoner. Without turning around, he asked, “Astrid, are you sure Arthur is drawn to the Primal Source?”
“Not a doubt in my mind,” she answered immediately. “I can feel it now. The Primal Source called him into being, and he’s following it, like a beacon.”
“So, wherever the Primal Source is now, that’s where Arthur is headed.” Catullus frowned at the captive Heirs. “Trouble is, there are numerous properties belonging to the Heirs. The Primal Source could be in any of them.”
“This jackass has to know which one,” Gemma said, drifting closer.
Catullus rubbed his jaw, mulling over their options. “Getting him to talk is going to be difficult.”
“I could cross-examine him,” Lesperance offered.
“Doubt he’ll respond to questioning,” Catullus answered.
Lesperance’s grin was feral. “On the stand, I’ve made defendants cry and soil themselves.”
“Sounds … untidy,” said Catullus.
“Let me persuade him.” His blue eyes sharp, Day took a step forward, but his wife maintained a surprisingly strong grip on him.
“There has to be another way,” she said, quiet but firm. Gemma looked at Catullus and the other Blades. “There is.”
“First, I need something to drink.” No sooner had the words left her mouth than Catullus handed her a full pewter mug. She smiled her thanks, and, as she sipped at the malty beer, their gazes held, fraught with promise of more. He looked at her with undisguised heat and need. No reticence. No uncertainty. And this sent a profound ache through her, an ache of wanting. Making love with him before the battle was just a taste. They had barely begun to map the new land of their shared desire, and she burned with the need to explore it.
Yet it must wait. The siege had been survived, but more had to be done before any of her or Catullus’s wants could be satisfied.
Gemma took a drink of the beer. Then splashed the remainder of the mug’s contents in the Heir’s face.
He sputtered awake. Through the liquid dripping down his face, he glared at Gemma standing above him. “You’re that Yankee strumpet.”
Catullus tensed, his hands coiling into fists, but Gemma held him back. He muttered something, then relaxed his hands.
The prisoner would never know just how often and how close he came to being walloped into oblivion.
She shook her head at the prisoner. “What is it with you Heirs? Seems any woman who has a mind of her own suddenly becomes a slut.”
“Because you Blades trollops don’t know your proper place,” the Heir shot back. “Women are fragile, delicate creatures, meant to strengthen their country by offering their men the comforts and solace of home. Anything else is unnatural, disgusting. Whorish.”
Gemma glanced at Mrs. Day. “You had to listen to this claptrap?”
The Englishwoman’s mouth curled, wry. “All the time.”
“I like being a slut
,” said Gemma. “How about you?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Day with a smile, “I like it, too. Very much.”
“Can’t keep my legs together,” added Astrid.
“We’re all whores, and happy to be so.” Gemma crossed her arms over her chest as she turned back to the bound Heir. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get down to business. Where is the Primal Source being kept?”
The Heir only glowered at her.
She stared back at him, urging her magic to draw the answer from him. But she felt herself batter against a will trained in resistance. He would not give easily.
Gemma stilled, closing her eyes and reaching into herself to call upon the magic that dwelled within her. It did not take much, just a slight tug upon an invisible, yet glowing, thread, and she felt it unfold—the power that bound her to generations and generations of her family, far back into houses of weathered stone, the gold and green hills of Tuscany. Vineyards and fountains. This was the gift of her kinsmen, and she needed it, now more than ever.
When she opened her eyes, the Heir recoiled with a hiss. He tried to look away, but the strength in her gaze wouldn’t let him.
“Where is the Primal Source being kept?” Gemma repeated.
The Heir shook, fighting her magic. She did not relent, prying open the locked chambers of his mind. He had a remarkably simple mind, but it had been reinforced with a sense of privilege and prerogative. A lifetime of believing he, and the cause he supported, were right. Gemma shoved at this bulwark, strengthened by her magic.
The Heir began to sweat as he trembled.
“In London,” he yelped. “In the Heirs’ headquarters in London.” Shocked at himself, his eyes went round.
Loud swearing behind her broke Gemma’s concentration. She turned from the Heir to see all of the Blades grim-faced, especially Astrid, who continued to swear in the most explicit and elaborate curses Gemma had ever heard.
“London,” Catullus growled, pacing. “God damn it. I cannot begin to imagine what variety of chaos Arthur could cause in London.”
