by Kim Knox
She growled, the low, throaty sound chasing fear up his spine. “Now.”
His feet moved, driven by her will. For a long second he stared out over the rolling lawns, the trees and hedges. A fox slinked through undergrowth, the flare of its red body stark against the greenery...but no khaki or even grey and scarlet, the colours of a Buckinghamshire regiment. He had to make the assumption Station X would draft in that body of men. He had no other information to go on.
The sourness of Frost’s betrayal burned in Mason’s chest. He had to tell his kardax. He gripped the crenulated stonework, red dust breaking away as he crushed the sandstone under his gloved fingers. She’d forbidden him to speak, but it was important, vital that she know the truth. “Lady...” He gritted out the word.
“Can you see them?”
“Lady, I have to tell you...”
Frost backed away, jumping to the next chimney stack. “There. In the wood. Movement.”
“There’s nothing there.” Mason’s voice was stronger, the push to reveal the traitor building in him. “Lady, he’s lying.”
Theodora stared at him and her fingers tightened around the gun. Forks of colour and electricity cracked within the clear casing. “I want the truth.”
“Lady, they’re moving within the woods.”
Frost’s words grated against Mason. “He is a liar, lady.”
The gun moved between them, her hand steady, her gaze hard. She flicked a glance towards the woods and her eyes narrowed. A heartbeat later and her hard glare was fixed on him again. Mason felt every fierce thud of his heart. He couldn’t disappoint his kardax. “And you can see nothing, Mason?”
“No, lady.”
She aimed the gun at Frost. “I never did trust you.”
Frost straightened, his chin lifting. A little pull to the corner of his mouth suggested a smile. The kardax had every right to kill him, to remove the stain of his treachery...but Frost’s eyes. That intense golden-brown shine, it pulled at Mason, seemed to push under his skin, through the bone and spear his thoughts.
Frost in a slow, careful move pressed his gloved hands together before him. “Lady, believe me, there are men at the edge of the estate.”
The whip of the wind broke the light scent of sandalwood and vanilla across Mason’s senses. Something sparked across his vision. He blinked.
Theodora sneered. “Before the Ilarches honoured me with transfiguration, I used to dream of what my father planned. Of our families uniting. That you and I would marry. Then I became a Cadwallader, and with my change I realised how childish and...unambitious I was. I had the false dreams of a foolish girl.”
Frost tilted his head. “I remind you of your humanity, lady.”
Theodora growled, the low, vicious sound rippling up Mason’s spine. “My weakness.”
Mason stretched his hands, and his solid beliefs, so firm a moment ago, wavered. Frost stepped back across the gap between the stone-built chimneys until he stood no more than a foot away from Theodora. Her hand was steady and her mouth had thinned into an angry line.
“You would have been my wife. Something our slightly insane fathers planned when you were only five years old.” Frost smiled then, the one flowing with charm, but there was something else. Mason thought it was a touch of...regret. “The joy of children would’ve been ours and seeing in the new century together.”
Her smile was dark. “The Ilarches did believe that our union would still prove beneficial. Now, though...” She frowned. “How were you able to trick us?”
“No trick.”
Mason’s heart missed a beat as Frost reached out to touch Theodora’s cheek, but the kardax didn’t move, didn’t flinch.
“And we never met until yesterday.” Frost’s voice was honey smooth, the slow stroke of his fingers tracing an easy pattern against her skin. The stain of red dust from the sandstone added a fierce blush to her cheek. “I wanted to know you. Had heard the talk of others about your fierce intelligence, your beauty. And when I finally met you, face to face, I didn’t think a gun would be between us.”
Her mouth parted. There was almost confusion in her eyes, as if Frost were playing with her conviction as easily as he twisted Mason’s thoughts. And the man’s tone, deep, rich with the temptation of worship wrapped around it, muddied the surety in his own skull.
“Give me the gun, Theodora.” Frost held out his right hand. “Let the start of our life together be more agreeable than this.”
“I—”
“Theodora...”
“My classification is Kardax-3!”
She surged forward and Mason reacted. No thought. Just movement.
And with it came the hard slam of his transfigured body into a tangle of limbs. Mason lurched and crashed into the slope of the slate roof. The scream of fire and pain tore across his new skin, the stench of burnt flesh choking him.
His head fell back against the cold slate, and he tasted death in his mouth.
8. The Battle for Holt Hall
Mason caught his fingers in his hair and let out a slow groan. The ache in his spine faded and the blister of fire was almost a half memory. Had he passed out? His last thought had been that Theodora was going to fire and his loyalty had flared. Not to the kardax, but to Frost. The man he’d been more than happy to betray.
He swore under his breath and opened his eyes.
“Back with me.”
Frost looked at him as he crouched down beside a still Theodora. Bile rose to Mason’s throat at the fierce, open wound in her chest. The remains of her shattered ribcage shimmered in the dull light, as if something clung to the bones. Almost like the fine points of myriad diamonds. Charred skin and blood coated Frost’s gloves and what was left of her clothes. She was a girl. Hardly a woman and the cruel bastards had put her in the middle of a war. His anger surged and he threw curses at the devil that lived in the back of his skull.
“She took the full blast.” Mason didn’t offer it as a question. It was obvious. There wasn’t a mark on Frost, just the singed hems of one of his precious suits and a smear of blood across his cheek. A part of him knew that the bodies they’d been given were almost indestructible...but could anyone rebuild themselves from such carnage? “Is she...?”
Frost pulled off his glove and stroked the line of her jaw. “Almost.”
Her mouth parted and the rattling hiss of air passed her lips. Frost bent his ear to her mouth. His face became an unmoving mask, until he slowly closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry...” Mason didn’t know what to say. Frost had been almost engaged to the girl. He didn’t try to say anything else as Frost snapped straight and yanked too hard at the hem of his waistcoat. White lines edged Frost’s mouth now.
“She was twenty years old. Twenty.” His fingers clamped to his jaw and he drew in a harsh breath. His hand dropped. “Diana married that bastard when Theodora was only sixteen. Cheston said he changed her and her mother on his wedding night.” He swore, long and foul. “I didn’t know the apparatus was here.”
Mason’s chest tightened. He’d caused this. His betrayal had cost Theodora her life. He pushed himself to his feet. “I couldn’t fight the Ilarches’ voice in my head. I betrayed you.”
“No.”
Frost climbed back up onto the raised block supporting the chimney stacks and squinted into the hazy distance. “They’re there. The shield makes them wary. Even the newly fitted pelekys energy weapons—the ones that mirror that gun—they’ve not been tested against something of this magnitude.” He let out a slow breath. “They move and they become obvious targets.”
“They’re there.” Mason repeated the words and horror sank into his gut. He stared down at Theodora’s pale face. He hadn’t seen them, and that error had forced him to call Frost a liar. “You should get out of here.”
F
rost glanced back at him. “We’re both getting out of here.”
“But I betrayed you.”
Frost stilled. “Is that what you think?”
“She’s dead because of me.”
Frost was a blur of movement, so fast that Mason, even with his changed senses, couldn’t track him. His spine slammed into the raised stone of the chimney and Frost pushed hard against him. “She’s dead because of Pandarus. Not you. He killed her when she was sixteen.”
“But...”
Frost gripped the lapels of his jacket and his eyes burned, the shining brown that made Mason forget everything but taking Frost for himself.
“I put you in this position.” For a brief moment, Frost closed his eyes and their foreheads touched. The press of skin against skin seared down to Mason’s toes, and the simple action had him inappropriately hard. “I didn’t think. Damn it all, you had a life before this. And I—”
A piercing whine cut through Mason’s head and he shrank back from Frost. Somehow, he knew the sound. The metal in Theodora’s pocket. It was still active. She couldn’t answer...and they would come looking for her. “You should get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving her there.” Frost glared at him. “And I’m not losing you.” He stepped back, his hand moving to brush light fingers over his jaw. “You have no idea how difficult it is to find a good valet.”
Mason snorted, but the brief flare of humour faded as he looked to Theodora. “Should I...”
“No, I’ll carry her.”
Frost pulled the device from her pocket and crushed it under his boot heel, shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her. Mason moved to wedge open the door as Frost cradled her small body. They moved quickly down the narrow staircase, the treads creaking, and onto the landing. It was empty of people. But there, the groan of a heavy door. Someone was coming up from the cellars on a hunt for Theodora.
“Her room.”
Frost strode forward, no doubt following the faint trace of jasmine mixed with her skin that stained the air. Mason opened the door to her room. It was laced with perfume, but her things were set out as if she slept in an exhibit. Everything a little too perfect, too tidy. Too clean. Untouched. Was it fear of contamination that had everything she owned so pristine?
Frost laid her carefully on her immaculate bed. He found a blanket, covered her, hiding the carnage of her chest and with his thumb and forefinger drew closed her eyes. A pale young girl sleeping. Frost placed a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Theodora. Sleep well.”
He stood straight and wiped at his eyes. “Enough of this. We take the house.” He handed the gun to him. “You’ll need this.”
He hadn’t seen Frost pick it up from the roof. Mason’s fingers reluctantly closed around the grip and it almost melted into his palm. It had been too long since he’d held a weapon, but the weight, the feel, ghosted a familiar memory up his arm. And he fought the very real need to throw the thing out of the nearest window. “You can’t trust me.”
“You’re not theirs.” The familiar glint in Frost’s eyes, the simple look that could make Mason forget to breathe was there again. “You’re mine now.” He shot a look to the window. “We take this house from the inside.”
“But the shield, the attack—”
“Nestor obliterates.” As if Frost’s words were a cue, the room...shuddered, and a fine spray of dust shook free of the gasolier. The air changed, the taste of it thinning. “They’re bombarding the shield. They have no choice. They can’t come in because the nature of the shielding would cut them to ribbons. But we’re inside. If we take the equipment, the things we could learn about the transfiguration process...” He glanced back at Theodora, pale and peaceful. Frost’s hands balled into fists. “And then there are the automata, the kardax.”
The memory of Frost’s leaning in close for the girl’s final words burst back over Mason. “What did Theodora say to you?”
Frost strode out of the room, his spine stiff, anger in every fierce movement. But Mason caught his almost whisper. “She said thank you.”
Mason trapped his hand in his hair, the sour burn in his stomach sickening him. Frost had wanted to believe them dead at the moment of change, but like him, they still held something of their former selves. A ghost, perhaps? Or were they fixed behind a wall of the dark voice’s making?
Mason shoved back any thought on the whispers that could consume his brain and followed the other man out onto the landing. Another shudder shook the hall, and wood and stone groaned. As it died away, the tinkle of crystal and the fall of dust filled the silence.
“How long till they break through?”
Frost stared up at the thick black crack cutting through the ornate plasterwork of the ceiling. “Soon.”
A heavy thud on the floor below froze them both. Mason focused. The step was quick and sure-footed. Leather boots, small, but there was no hint of trailing silk. Yet something in the gait said it was a woman. It was light enough to be Arabella if she, like Theodora, was dressed as a young man.
An armed kardax. Mason pushed down the need to swear.
Frost put his palm over the top of the gun. “Alive.” He mouthed the word, knowing that the kardax would hear the slightest sound. It was insane. Arabella would try to kill them. There’d be no thought of mercy.
But Frost was right. She was as much a victim of Pandarus as they were.
“Bluff?”
Frost nodded at the silent suggestion and led the way down the curve of the stairs. The polite mask of a thyreos settled across his face. Mason put his hands behind his back, keeping the gun from her view.
“What are you doing here?” Arabella’s sharp gaze flicked from Frost to him. She was dressed in the same tweed suit as Theodora, her fair hair hidden beneath a similar bicycle cap. Her smooth features were free of paint and powder, but her cheeks flared red with her impatience. She gripped the newel post, her fingers bloodless. “Where is Kardax-3?”
“On the roof, lady. She sent us back down to stand with you in the cellar.”
The weapon in her hand flared with new sparks, and the sharpened stink in the air forced Mason to pull in a breath. He willed his hand to stay lax around the gun he held, but her eyes narrowed on him, on his upper arm. He had to have tensed, and she’d witnessed the shift in cloth and muscle.
“She stayed under the bombardment of the shield?”
“Yes, lady.” Frost stopped at the bottom stair and Mason stood beside him. “She believed that we would be of more use down here.”
“More use?” Her mouth turned down at the corners and Mason fought the tightness in his chest. Anger burned from her, and the almost cordite stink of the gun in her hand filled Mason’s senses. “You are barely sealed. What use are you against a kardax with four years’ training at the hand of the Ilarches?”
They’d been found out.
Frost struck. He drove his palm up under Arabella’s chin. The crack of modified bone against bone burst across the hall. It would’ve taken down a bull...but she simply rolled her neck and growled.
“Shit. That’s always worked.”
Frost staggered back from her fierce left hook. And the gun. It hummed with colour and energy, the crackle of it thick across Mason’s skin. Her arm was moving, lifting. Aiming. It was Theodora again. Mason surged forward, bringing his own arms up. He tackled Arabella, dragging her to the wooden floor as he slammed his gun into the side of her head.
Power flared through the casing, forking across her temple, spiking into the tangles of her hair. Mason slapped his hand over her mouth as Arabella started to scream. Frost scrambled to yank her gun from her constricted fingers. He pinned her to the floor as her frame bucked against the surge of released energy.
Mason shut his eyes against the rictus of her face, the pain twisting her muscles, her eyes rolli
ng back to show the whites. The blood pushing out from her nose and eyes. But still, her image bloomed behind his eyelids. The copper burn of her blood, her gurgling scream trapped behind his sweating palm, pounded against his other senses.
With no warning, her body slumped.
Mason opened his eyes and pulled his shaking hand away from her face. He dropped the cracked gun and it still spat its fire across the floor, eating into the thick varnish and wood. He sank back. “Is she...?”
Frost pressed his fingers to her throat, and Mason’s own heart pounded, too fast to think, to do anything else but feel the horror of what he’d done. He’d killed before and more than one innocent had died at his hand. The reminder that she was a soldier for the enemy didn’t help him. She wasn’t. She was a pawn, her mind darkened and twisted by a ruthless alien. And he’d killed her.
“There’s a pulse.”
Mason pressed his hand to his mouth and his throat tightened. He swallowed and grabbed hold of the relief churning his gut. Arabella’s face was cracked and blackened, her hair singed and still smoking. But...she was alive. “Will...will she heal?”
“Yes.” Frost sounded certain and Mason wanted that surety. Even if the man was lying to him. He had to believe he’d done what was necessary. “Our skin isn’t the same anymore.” In one quick move, he hefted Arabella over his shoulder. A brief surge from his gun incinerated the broken one eating through the floor. He offered the weapon to Mason. “I have to hide her.”
Mason nodded and wiped his fingers across his damp eyes as Frost disappeared down the landing. Now Arabella would be missed. Another loud boom and the whole house shuddered. Mason grabbed at the cracked newel post. Arabella’s touch, the scent of her skin, the residual warmth still clung to it, and he drew in a calming breath. She was alive.
“Mason.” Frost’s strong hand stroked across Mason’s neck, the contact making his pulse jump. “I secured her in a cupboard. We have to go.”
Mason straightened, remembering his duty. He still considered himself a soldier. His fingers flexed around the gun, just enough to get the feel of it. To know it. Nodding, he stared back along the passage to the door that led down to the cellars. He missed Frost’s touch when it slipped away. “What’s the plan of attack?”
