Stealing Infinity, page 34
And failing that, at least I won’t vanish without anyone knowing I was once here.
Do not swear by the moon,
for she changes constantly.
—William Shakespeare
114
At the sound of footsteps, I spring into position.
With my back against the wall, I crouch low in the shadows, head bent in submission, hands pressed together as though praying for redemption.
Whoever it is, they’re in for a surprise.
I am not the broken girl they’re expecting to find.
In my hand I grip three bits of steel I’ve fastened together and sharpened into a weapon I have every intention of using.
“She still in there?” a gruff male voice calls.
“All yours if you want her,” another one replies.
“Hope you didn’t start without me.” The first voice cracks. “But you can have her when I’m done. If there’s anything left, that is.” He laughs, a horrible guttural sound that only strengthens my determination to do whatever necessary to find my way out of this hell.
Only problem is, I have no idea where to go once I escape.
The footsteps pause just outside my door.
A face peers through the iron bars.
It’s a man I don’t recognize, though the fine cut of his clothes leaves me to wonder if maybe he’s here to release me. But when I note the salacious leer on his face, I realize he’s interested only in what he can take.
A terrible screech of metal grating on metal echoes through the space, and I press the weapon tighter between my palms.
The door creaks open—
I shift my weight from my heels to my toes.
The man enters—
I leap into the air, weapon at the ready.
“Que diab—” Before he can finish, the jagged tip is pressed flush to his neck.
“Here’s what you’re going to do.” I maneuver the sharpest part of my hastily crafted blade until it pierces his flesh, leaving no doubt I am not to be messed with. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to give me that key, then you’re going to stay locked inside like an obedient prisoner. And when you’re asked what happened, you’re going to say you were so drunk that you have no idea how you got here, but you never saw me. Comprenez-vous?”
It’s a good start, but a second later, he whirls around with such force, it throws me right off, sending me crashing into the wall as an explosion of pain shoots up my arm, the weapon falls from my fingers, and the man kicks it clear across the cell where I can no longer reach it.
I cower before him, my stomach lurching at the sight of his hateful gaze and lecherous grin as his hands busy themselves with unfastening his pants.
“There’s nowhere to run,” he says. “So you may as well try to enjoy it.”
I brace against the wall. My heart thrashing, my knees threatening to crumple beneath me, I use all my best French, hurl a string of profanities I learned from Oliver and Finn, but the man only laughs. And when he goes about dropping his breeches, my body freezes with terror as my mind reels with the realization of the horrifying fate that awaits me.
No. No! There’s no way—this cannot be happening. I’m dreaming, caught in a nightmare—I have to wake up, I have to—
With his pants bunched around his knees, I’m amazed at how he still manages to grab at me, spin me around, and smash me hard against the wall, as he grips either side of my waist.
The ease in which he approaches this violence tells me this is not the first time he’s committed such an act. But if I have anything to do with it, it will be his last.
A low grunt sounds from his throat as he grabs the hem of my gown and starts to lift it to my hips. Though he doesn’t get very far before a shot of adrenaline races through me, and I spring back to life, jamming my foot into his knee so hard, I hear a satisfying crack.
He howls in pain, arcs an arm toward my head. But with his pants dragging down to his ankles, he struggles for balance.
I steal the moment to duck out from under him and race for the weapon, only to have him reel on me and yank my skirts so hard, I’m pulled right off my feet and drop to the ground.
He’s on top of me now. His weight so suffocating, I fight for every ounce of air I can squeeze into my lungs, as his own rancid breath blows hot in my ear, and his fat, greasy fingers tear hard at my dress.
I peer an eye open, seeing the rat in the far corner. She’s taken a break from cannibalizing her baby and centered her beady eyes on me as I stretch my arm forward, practically pulling it loose from its socket, but the weapon remains stubbornly out of my reach.
In my ear, the man voices harsh words meant to insult, but I’m way beyond listening and far beyond caring what he has to say.
With a terrible groan, he pulls me up against him, smacks me so hard across the cheek, I can feel the burn of his metal ring branding my skin. And though I continue to struggle, kicking, fighting with everything I’ve got, he’s too heavy, too strong, and with my body caught between the ground and him, my blows bear no effect.
I close my eyes, stifle a tormented cry, when my hair comes loose and one of the many pins and combs that keep the overly complicated updo in place tumbles before me.
I snap my eyes open, my gaze landing on a diamond fan with two sharp prongs.
Are they sharp enough?
Only one way to find out.
The man latches his lips to my ear, tells me to relax and enjoy the inevitable.
Then his fingers grasp at my legs, just as I slam my hand backward and jab the hairpin into his face.
He reels back in shock, and I use the moment to scramble out from under him and race for the weapon.
When I turn, I find him sprawled on the ground, pants twisted around his feet, and a hand clutched to the place just beneath his eye where he yanks the pin free.
A torrent of blood gushes forth. His brow furrows, lips draw tightly together. He’s completely enraged.
I inch toward the door. It’s wide open and it would be so easy to escape—except that the man still has the key, and he’s screaming so loudly now, I’m afraid the guard will hear.
I need to find a way to silence him. Whatever it takes.
He yells at me, calling me a thief, a whore, and a whole lot of other things Finn and Oliver never taught me, but I can assume they’re not exactly flattering.
His one good eye wide and crazed, the man struggles to stand and come at me again, but his knee bends the wrong way, sending him reeling back toward the ground.
I rush toward him, weapon at the ready. “Give me the key,” I say.
The man spits in my face.
I respond by slamming the blade hard into his neck, tearing away at his silk and lace cravat before hitting his flesh.
With blood oozing from the twin wounds I’ve made, I shove a ball of lace into his mouth, then yank my stockings from my pocket and use them to tie the man’s hands behind his back.
I’m just reaching into his jacket, searching for the key, when he manages to shove his good knee into my gut, nearly knocking the air right out of me.
A storm of rage rushes through me, and I plunge the blade deep into his chest.
I’m about to do it again when a shadow looms over me, and a male voice says, “Stop! You’re going to kill him.”
115
“Maybe he deserves killing!” I snap.
With unseeing eyes, I raise the blade again, only to have it snatched right out of my hand.
“It’s enough. You’ve done enough. Trust me, once you’ve killed, you can never go back.”
I look up to find a boy holding my handmade weapon at his side. He’s strangely familiar, but the part of his face not hidden by his mask is veiled by shadow.
Retrieving a square of white cotton from his pocket, he offers it to me. “You have blood—” He motions to my cheek and then to my chin.
I make quick work of it, and when I return the square, he stares at the blue embroidery marking the center for so long, you’d think he was seeing it for the very first time.
I turn back to the bloodied man on the floor, and the boy says, “It’s not your place to change history. That man has a role to play that surpasses this moment. By killing him, you risk leaving a ripple in time that’ll have far-reaching effects.”
“That’s not my problem.” I scoff, torn between wanting to finish the job and the horrible realization of what I’ve already done, the sort of damage I’m still capable of.
“Let’s leave him alive and make sure that it’s not.” The boy offers his hand, but I brush it aside and find my own way to my feet.
“Who are you?” I ask, taking a deliberate step back. He doesn’t appear to mean any harm, but no one’s above suspicion anymore. Also, he’s acting kind of strange.
He shakes his head. Wipes a hand across his chin. “I found something,” he says. “Out there, on the ground.” He nods toward a place somewhere beyond the walls of this cell. “I think it belongs to you.”
I glance over my shoulder, then back at him, warily watching as he takes a step forward and leans into the light.
His hair is long and golden. His nose prominent, jaw strong. And though the cluster of medals on his jacket, along with the fine cut of his breeches and shine of his polished black boots, suggest he’s someone of significance, my attention is claimed by the small golden charm he now holds in the center of his outstretched palm.
It’s a gilded cage with a moon and star caught inside.
“Thanks to you, I remember.” His voice is merely a whisper. “And now it’s time for you to remember, too.” He takes another step toward me until there’s only a breath of space left spanning between us.
My hand trembles as I reach for the charm, fold my fingers around it, and gasp at the sudden rush of images that swirl through my head like a cyclone.
Braxton.
Gray Wolf.
Arthur.
Elodie.
The portal that’s going to close—and my own annihilation, if that happens before I can reach it.
My mind is a tempest of memory.
“My name is Killian de Luce,” the boy says. “And I want to help you. Will you let me?” His voice is gentle, kind.
I gaze back with wide, frightened eyes. “Unless you hold great favor with the king, they’ll make you pay for helping me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t care about that anymore. I remember who I am now.”
“And who’s that?” My voice trembles.
“I’m one of you.”
Killian extends an arm toward the wall at my back, and at first, I’m not sure what he’s getting at.
But when I follow the length of his finger, I find the place where I scratched my name into the rock, along with the initials AAD, in a final bid to hang on to my memories.
“Arthur’s Artful Dodgers,” he says, as my jaw falls slack with disbelief. “And you’re Natasha.”
“But that’s impossible—” I start, before I realize it’s not. I shake my head, begin again. “How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Too long.” He sighs, reaches for my hand.
“There’s a guard out there,” I warn, but Killian shakes his head.
“I took care of him. He’s sleeping it off. Still, we need to get out of here before he wakes up.”
I start to head out, but then I remember there’s one more thing left to do.
“Natasha—whatever you’re doing, we don’t have time for this!” Killian watches anxiously as I crouch down to where the man lies slumped and bloodied on the floor.
I reach for his hand and snatch the ring right off his finger, same one he clocked me with earlier. And though he’s bound and gagged, the uninjured eye that stares back is filled with vivid dreams of revenge.
Once the ring is secured in my pocket, I look back toward the markings I left on the wall, where I publicly declared myself a member of Arthur’s Artful Dodgers.
“Should I try to scratch it out?” I ask, but Killian is quick to shake his head.
“Leave it,” he says. “You’re part of the annals of history now. Don’t deprive future historians the fun of deciphering the meaning behind AAD.”
He laughs, but I wonder if this slight change in events caused it to already appear in a history book somewhere.
If I ever make it back to the palace in real time, will I find my name etched on these walls?
Something to contemplate at another time, in another place.
I’m about to step out of the cell when Killian stops me. “Your shoe,” he says, retrieving the one I must’ve lost during the struggle and that, according to the bite marks along the heel, the rat was quick to claim as her own. “Also”—he motions toward my face—“you missed a spot. May I?”
My first reaction is to flinch, and the moment he takes note, he’s quick to hand over my weapon.
“I want you to feel safe,” he says. “But I also want to clean the blood off your face. I mean no offense, but you’re a bit of a mess, and it’s a whole other world up there. We need to at least try to blend in.”
With the blade clutched in my hand, I watch as Killian gently sweeps the handkerchief across the tip of my chin and a spot on my jaw, before slipping it back into his pocket.
“Also—” He points toward my nest of hair that’s left in a half-up, half-down tangle of frizz. Removing the rest of the pins, he hands them to me, then coaxes his hands expertly through my hair until it falls in damp waves that tumble over my shoulders.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much better.” He grins. “Though I’m afraid there’s not much I can do about your dress so, here.” He slips free of his frock coat and arranges it over my shoulders.
“Were you a stylist in your past life?” I ask, sinking into the warmth, a welcome respite from the frigid, damp cold that’s left me in a permanent state of shaking and numbness.
“I’ve been many things.” He laughs. “But now, I’m soon to be a wanted man, so—”
Without another word, he ushers me out of the cell, and after locking the man inside, Killian and I run for our lives.
116
First thing I see when we reach the end of the hall is the guard who locked me in the cell now slumped on the ground, and the man responsible for putting me there bleeding out from a knife wound.
“What have you done?” I cry, pausing to approach the groundskeeper who, from what I can tell, will soon be dead if he’s not already.
“I did what I had to,” Killian snaps. “Now come. And hurry. We need to keep moving before someone finds us both here.”
I know he’s right. There’s not even a second to spare. But that small leather pouch is still tied at the groundskeeper’s waist, and even if there’s only the most miniscule chance that the guard might’ve returned the golden ball to him, I still need to check.
I bend down beside him. My gaze skimming past the wound in his belly, I focus on the strange round symbol tattooed on the crook of his arm. An intricate series of interlinking circles—a design that’s somehow familiar.
I lean closer, wanting to get a better look, when Killian says, “No use mourning the Timekeeper.”
I turn to Killian in confusion. “The what?”
But he just shakes his head and says, “You done there?”
I return to the dying man before me, loosen the drawstring of the small leather bag, and sneak a finger inside. Only to exhale in relief when I find the sun has sunk to the bottom.
After stashing the golden ball into one of my pockets, I get to my feet with Killian’s help, and together we race toward a spiral stairway.
“How long do we have?” he asks as I rush to keep up.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “My mask stopped working just after I arrived.”
He glances over his shoulder. “That was no accident,” he says, his tone unmistakably cryptic, leaving me to wonder if it’s how he ended up stuck here. But there’s no time to discuss. We need to keep moving.
“Take my hand and walk quickly,” he says. “But don’t run until it’s safe.”
“But we need to get to the portal!” I argue.
“First, we need to get out of here without attracting any undue notice.”
I walk alongside him, keeping my eye on the prize—the exit, the garden beyond, and, with any luck, the sculpture of Deceit that leads to the doorway that I fiercely hope will stay open long enough for us to reach it.
I had two hours. And the last time I checked, I’d already burned through a good portion of that. Considering the events that unfolded since then, it feels like I’ve been here for days. If the portal is closed and we’re trapped in 1745 with an angry man locked away in a cell, a murdered groundskeeper, and a guard who can awaken at any second, then Killian is doomed, and I’m… Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter, since I’ll cease to exist.
The thought alone is enough to quicken my pace. I don’t care what Killian says, we can’t afford any delays. But Killian has other ideas, and the next thing I know, he’s lifted me off my feet, swooped me into his arms, and practically swallowed me in his embrace.
“What the hell?” I punch him hard on the shoulder. “I knew I couldn’t trust you! I knew—” I press the blade to his chest, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Don’t fight me,” he says, breathing into my ear. “Or do fight me, but only in a way that looks playful.”
“What the fu—”
Next thing I know, he covers my mouth with his, but unlike Jago, Killian doesn’t fake the kiss. His lips are gentle, warm, and all too familiar. But unlike the last time we kissed, I’m not in a Fade and I absolutely cannot, will not, play along with his game.
I peek an eye open to see two guards storming toward us. They slow as they pass, taking a moment to scrutinize Killian and me in a way that has me certain they can see right through this facade of a clinch.
