by Zoë Archer
Catullus whirled back to the Heirs. One of them, a ruddy, burly fellow called Risby, sneered at him. “Nowhere to go, Graves,” he taunted.
“There’s always forward,” Catullus said.
Risby barely managed a yelp when Catullus lunged and grabbed him by his lapels. The Heir flailed, trying to break free. Catullus wouldn’t allow his opponent time to gather his wits. Using his body as an axis, Catullus spun Risby around. The Heir was heavy, yet energy surged through Catullus. He whirled in a parody of a dance, and, employing centrifugal force, swung Risby about, releasing the Heir in time to send him hurtling straight toward the peryton.
Risby waved his arms, trying to stop his course, but his weight worked against him. He slammed into the peryton. The beast shrieked, releasing Henry. Bennett and London quickly pulled Henry away.
Crazed with bloodlust, the peryton attacked Risby. It clamped its teeth on the Heir’s beefy neck and ripped.
Gemma and London looked away as Risby, missing the front of his throat, gurgled. The peryton tore at Risby in a frenzy. Blood sprayed across the expensive wallpaper. Heirs swore. One gagged.
The peryton glanced up from its work, its muzzle dark with gore. Blades braced themselves for another assault, but the creature only stared at them.
“Why isn’t it attacking?” asked Gemma, finally turning around.
“Look at its shadow now,” Catullus said.
Instead of casting the shadow of a man, as it had before, the peryton’s shadow was that of a deer.
Thalia, leaning against Huntley, frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“A peryton can kill only once,” explained Catullus. “Not a very effective guard,” said Gemma. “It can’t be hurt, either. So it can successfully repel one intruder.”
“But there’s more than one of us.” Gemma, still pale, managed a fierce smile.
Catullus glanced over at the Blades. Henry, Thalia, and Huntley were all wounded. Then, in a display of strength that impressed the hell out of Catullus, Thalia and her husband stood, ready to battle despite their injuries. They and the other Blades faced the Heirs, who were visibly shaken by the violent death of Risby.
“We’ll handle this lot,” said Huntley. He issued commands like a born soldier. “Day, take your wife, Graves, and Miss Murphy to the Primal Source. It’ll take all your brains and guile to free the damned thing.”
Catullus almost asked if Huntley was all right with being left behind, but the grim set of the former soldier’s mouth and the light of battle in his eyes left no room for doubt. Catullus had seen Huntley in battle, and knew the man was a force unto himself. If anyone ought to be concerned, it should be the Heirs.
“We’ll reconnoiter at the entrance,” said Catullus. If we all survive.
Huntley only nodded, his mind already preparing for combat. Beside him, Thalia had the same look of fierce readiness. Two warriors preparing to fight side by side.
“Time to move out,” clipped Bennett.
The small group consisting of Bennett, London, Gemma, and Catullus broke away from the contingent of Blades. They edged past the torn body of Risby and the peryton, who only stared at them with disinterest. Catullus and the others darted down the hallway. Catullus couldn’t spare a glance behind him, yet he heard the sounds of combat as the Blades and the Heirs clashed.
“All right?” he asked as Gemma sprinted beside him.
Her face was pale, freckles standing out like rubies in snow, yet she nodded. “I’m dandy. But I don’t think I’ll eat rare roast beef for a long time.” She fought a shudder. “Never seen anything like that happen to a man.”
“I can’t promise you won’t see something like that again,” he said with regret.
“You don’t have to.”
“This way,” said Bennett, ahead. He kicked open a door and waved them in.
They found themselves in a sitting room. It was a strangely domestic space, complete with bookshelves, a sofa, desk, and fireplace. A fire crackled cheerfully in the grate and filled the room with gentle warmth. If one discounted the sounds of a dragon roaring outside and gunfire inside, it could be any pleasant, tastefully furnished English parlor.
“This isn’t the time for a cozy fireside chat,” Catullus noted dryly.
Bennett looked provoked. “You scientists, understanding only what you can see.” He strode toward the desk and pulled out and shut drawers in a sequence only he could fathom. At once, the wall behind the desk slid to one side, revealing a hidden staircase. London beamed at her husband.
“This was as far as I got,” Bennett said. “And I was lucky to do so, with most of the Heirs away at Kew Gardens and then at the Chelsea Embankment. Couldn’t map everything. But I believe that if we go up the stairs and to the left, we ought to find the chamber that houses the Primal Source.”
“Believe, but don’t know for certain,” said Catullus. “Now we’ve a collaborative expedition of discovery.”
“But I blazed the primary trail.”
“You didn’t go all the way,” Catullus noted.
“For God’s sake,” snapped Gemma. “Enough with the schoolyard swaggering, and let’s get the hell on with it.”
Mildly abashed, Bennett and Catullus nodded. Everyone started toward the revealed staircase.
The fire suddenly blazed higher, tongues of flame reaching up to lick along the walls of the sitting room. Catullus pulled Gemma behind him, shielding her, and raised an arm to protect his own eyes. Bennett, too, moved to shelter his wife from the blaze.
A dark figure emerged from the fire. As the flames receded, they revealed the figure’s scarred, twisted face, a visible record of cowardice and greed.
London gasped, clutching Bennett’s arm reflexively.
“Welcome home, sister,” sneered Jonas Edgeworth.
Chapter 23
Through the Fire
It was the face from a nightmare. Thick scars twisted the man’s visage into a permanent sneer, and one of his eyelids had been fused shut so that he glared at the world with a single, burning eye. Expensive clothing hid his body, but Gemma saw that several of his fingers were likewise stuck together by a webwork of scar tissue. Though he stood tall and broad of shoulder, his whole body must be covered in the relics of a horrible burn.
Gemma had seen healed burn victims before. How could she not, when only four years earlier Chicago had turned into an inferno? Enough Chicagoans bore the marks of those awful two and a half days that Gemma did not flinch or turn away from their sadly disfigured faces and bodies. She, like everyone in Chicago, learned that a person’s exterior did not reflect who they truly were. Accident, not an evil heart, marked them. Even pity was unwarranted, insulting.
The man who had just emerged from the fire—he was different. Gemma felt malevolence radiating out from him like heat from the fire. He stared at London with so much burning hatred, it was a wonder London didn’t simply burst into flame.
London was stronger than that. She recovered from her shock and moved out from behind the shelter of her husband. Gemma could only admire the Englishwoman’s courage.
“This was never my home, Jonas,” she said, gesturing to the parlor.
“And that’s why you whored yourself and killed Father,” he snapped. “Why you’re here now with the Blades of the Rose.”
Day took a step toward the man, and only London’s hand on his arm stopped him from planting a fist right into the man’s scarred face.
“This isn’t about righting familial wrongs, Edgeworth,” said Catullus.
Gemma understood: This enraged, embittered man was London’s brother and a member of the Heirs of Albion. And somehow, the fire that once burned him now gave him a power over that same element, allowing him to travel through it.
Edgeworth swung his blistering gaze toward Catullus. His face contorted even more, a combination of rage and disgust.
“The Graves species has been a blight in Britain for generations,” he spat. “Thinking you’re as good or better
than the superior white race. Look at you, with your black skin in knightly rags, nothing but a travesty of English chivalry.”
Gemma felt torn between vomiting and beating Edgeworth’s head in like a rotten pumpkin. Maybe she could do both. She, too, took a step toward the Heir, only to find Catullus gently restraining her.
“Nothing is more pathetic than a name-calling bully,” Catullus said calmly to Edgeworth.
This shook the Heir. “I can do more than call names,” he snarled. He lifted his hands. From his upright palms, two streams of fire shot out.
They dove in different directions, Day and London one way, Catullus and Gemma in another. Glancing up from the floor, beneath the solid mass of Catullus, Gemma saw the charred spots on the walls where she and the other Blades had been standing seconds earlier.
All four of them exchanged stunned glances. Edgeworth’s power far surpassed anything they’d anticipated.
Edgeworth laughed, a bleak, grating sound. “The Transportive Fire took away my life, but gave me a new one, and a new gift.”
Gemma had no idea what he was talking about, and she didn’t really care. All she cared about was moving the Blades out of this parlor before Edgeworth roasted them. They had to find the Primal Source and get it the hell out of here.
“The stairs,” she whispered to Catullus on top of her.
He made quick calculations, then subtly nodded. “On my count,” he whispered back. “One, two, now.”
Catullus rose up on his knees and fired a blast from his shotgun at Edgeworth. The Heir threw up a shield of fire.
Using this distraction, Catullus grabbed Gemma’s wrist, and they both ran toward the stairs. Day and London immediately followed.
Edgeworth recovered enough to shoot flame after them. The banisters of the narrow, steep staircase caught fire before Gemma and London could use it for balance. Everyone ran up the secret stairs, but Catullus lingered near the entrance.
On the landing, Gemma stopped and hissed, “Goddamn it, don’t fight him on your own!”
“Not planning on it,” he answered. He ran his hands over the walls enclosing the stairs, then smiled tightly. “This.” He pushed on an unseen panel, and the wall hiding the staircase slid shut just as Edgeworth was about to run after them.
An outraged, thwarted roar sounded behind the closed wall. “Move your sodding arses!” Day shouted above them. Catullus bounded up to Gemma, taking the stairs three at a time, leaping over them with a savage grace. Hands intertwined, they continued up the flight of steps together. The fire along the banisters grew, tracing the stairs with heat and light.
Husband and wife waited for them at the top of the stairs. London’s face was ashen. “I had no idea,” she breathed. “No idea how twisted his mind had become.” She swallowed hard. “He wants us dead. He wants me dead. Oh, God.”
“I’m sorry,” Gemma murmured, placing what she hoped was a comforting hand over London’s.
Day’s arm around his wife’s shoulders tightened. She seemed to draw strength from him, and even Gemma. Drawing herself up, a focused calm settled over her. “We have to move forward,” she said.
Love and pride shone in Day’s eyes—the expression seemed familiar to Gemma, and she realized then that Bennett Day looked at his wife the same way Catullus looked at her. Gemma’s heart pounded within her ribs. They must succeed, must survive.
“I’ll guess this way,” Day said. He led them down another hallway, one that looked confusingly like the passage a floor below. The hall abruptly opened into a large room with parquet floors and tall windows. A ballroom of some kind. At one end of the ballroom stood a large lit fireplace. Unlit, several grown men could easily stand within the fireplace. But this wasn’t very interesting compared to the sight in the middle of the ballroom.
A bear fought with a gigantic creature that looked like an unholy mix between a wolf and a man. Across the creature’s face ran a white scar, bisecting its eye.
The Blades and Gemma stared at the spectacle. The bear and the beast locked together in mortal combat, claws and teeth and echoing roars in the elegant room. Every moment brought fresh wonders to Gemma’s already amazed senses.
“As Huntley might say, ‘Bugger me,’” said Day. “What in hell?”
“That’s Lesperance,” Gemma said. She had no idea how he got here, but, given that he had the ability to fly, she was sure he’d gone around the normal routes.
“And Bracebridge,” added Catullus. “He and Lesperance have a grievance.”
“I don’t see Astrid,” London said.
“Must still be attending to her own vengeance.”
“No shortage of interesting views,” Day noted, pointing to the windows at their backs.
Everyone turned to see Arthur outside in the square, locked in battle with the dragon. From the looks of things, Arthur wouldn’t be breaking away any time soon to lend a hand to the Blades. The king dove and attacked using Excalibur, his sword flying in gleaming arcs, and the dragon countered with strikes of its claws. When Arthur lunged, aiming for the dragon’s throat, it took to the air, hovering above its foe and launching a series of feints. The dragon’s roars shook the glass in the windows.
Outside, two myths fought with savage determination. And inside the ballroom two massive beasts engaged in vicious combat.
“Though I’d love to hang about and place bets on the outcome,” Day said, “we have to keep going. The chamber with the Primal Source must be—”
“Whore!” screamed a voice from the other end of the ballroom. “Traitors! You cannot thwart the destiny of Britain!”
Oh, God, she’d only heard that voice once before and hated it already.
Edgeworth sprang from the fire at the end of the ballroom. Heedless of the fellow Heir standing between him and his prey, Edgeworth threw jets of flame across the room. Bracebridge and Lesperance leapt apart as the fire cut between them.
Gemma again found herself diving for cover. Flames roared above her, coming close enough to sizzle across her scalp. The fire slammed into the wall behind her, and immediately began to spread. It crept up the walls in growing waves.
“Son of a bitch,” Gemma muttered. “He’ll burn the damned place down. With him and the Heirs in it.”
“Edgeworth’s not exactly thinking logically,” came Catullus’s dry response. He reached out, grabbed the leg of a semicircular table wedged against the wall, and dragged it in front of him and Gemma. Lamps and assorted gewgaws fell from the tabletop, shattering. Bennett Day used several gilt chairs as a barricade to shield himself and London.
From behind their fortifications, the Blades took aim at Edgeworth. At least Lesperance and the creature he fought had taken their battle out of the ballroom—Gemma heard their roars down one of the many corridors snaking off of the assembly room—so that when she and the Blades unleashed a volley of bullets, Lesperance couldn’t be caught in the crossfire.
They traded fire. Bullets from the Heirs, actual fire from Edgeworth. The Heir defended himself behind shields of flame. He threw blazing streams at the Blades, until their cover began to burn.
Catullus slapped at the fire, swearing all the while. But his attempts to douse the flames couldn’t stop their growth. They had no place to hide.
Everything shook violently. Plaster cracked and bricks fell as something enormous slammed into the side of the building. Catullus dragged Gemma to one side as the wall behind them collapsed inward, destroyed by the force of Arthur and the dragon ramming into it.
The mythic enemies grappled, then staggered away, caught up in their combat. They left behind a huge hole—and a useful distraction.
“Never underestimate the value of a proper exit,” said Day with a grin. He and London darted toward one of the open doors opposite the broken windows.
“Always getting a line in,” muttered Catullus, but he and Gemma both followed.
Edgeworth, dodging more falling plasterwork, couldn’t stop their exodus.
The four of them
sprinted down a corridor, this one more utilitarian and less sumptuous than the others. Open doors lined the hallway.
“Which one?” Catullus demanded as they ran.
“If my guess is correct,” answered Day, “it’s the second door on the right at the end, then, I believe, up another set of stairs. But those are educated guesses.”
“How educated?” asked Catullus. “Harrow level?”
Day snorted. “Don’t insult me. I’m an Old Wykehamist. ‘Dulce Domum.’”
The men ran with athletic, long-limbed grace, while Gemma and London struggled to keep up in their confining dresses.
“Maybe Astrid and Thalia have the right idea,” Gemma panted.
London made a face. “Ladies aren’t even supposed to run, let alone wear trousers.” “To hell with being a lady.” “Forever and ever. Amen.”
London bit back a yelp when her brother pounced from one of the open doors. Any question as to how he’d gotten ahead of them from the ballroom was answered by the lit fireplace in the room from which he’d come.
Edgeworth’s hands wrapped around London’s throat. Gemma was already slamming her elbows into his back by the time Day appeared to brutally punch his brother-in-law in the jaw. Sputtering, spitting teeth and blood, Edgeworth released his sister, but as he did so, fires erupted around him. The greater his rage grew, the more fire seemed to leap from him involuntarily. Catullus lunged forward to pull Gemma out of the way of the flames.
Edgeworth, snarling, disappeared back into the fire.
From another room, a clot of Heirs spilled out. With them was a three-armed, six-eyed giant, a club in each meaty hand. This new threat advanced.
Rather than look defeated or appalled, Day only grinned. “This Winchester man thinks it’s the second door from the end, on the right. There should be stairs. Go up the stairs, and then I believe it’s on your left. I’m happy to scrap with this lot while you go for the Primal Source, if you would.”
“Gladly,” answered Catullus, also grinning.
Gemma and London shared a look, heavy with sympathy for one another. Each of them in love with madmen. They gave each other encouraging smiles before both turning back to their respective men. Day happily readied himself for his anticipated brawl. Gemma thought about one day introducing him to her brothers.
