Frozen by the door, it took everything you had not to drop the tray.
Hunter Highton stared at you like you had stepped on his tail. His square jaw clenched as he gnashed his polished teeth. The man’s golden skin turned the color of sour milk. Broad shoulders tensed as he looked you dead in the face.
Sicarius’s sly grin was smooth as silk. “Mr. Highton, whatever is the matter?”
Forget divorce. Mariticide was the only rational solution to this problem.
With a forced smile, you strolled to the master’s side, setting the elegant silver tray upon the crystal and bronze coffee table. Steaming rose red tea filled the cups, hiding the frilly peonies on the bottom. You turned the delicate handles to face each of the occupants before placing a stirring spoon and a single, molded sugar cube on each saucer.
“Do be careful not to choke, Master,” you stated in a saccharine sweet tone.
Your husband accepted the drink, chuckling as he took his first sip.
Mrs. Highton glanced back and forth between your stiff, venomous expression and the shaking shoulders of her host. “Have I missed something, Mr. Estrova?”
He shook his head. “No, just a joke between myself and my maid.”
Hunter’s eye twitched. “When did you acquire this maid?”
“Early snow season last year. She came highly recommended by a close personal friend.” Sicarius turned to Evangeline. “Mrs. Highton, you are well-traveled. Did you ever meet Professor Campbell of Illestrad?”
Her button nose wrinkled. “Yes, a few times at my parents’ dinner parties. My father was one of his early students at Carlsbridge.”
“What was your impression of him?”
She pursed her pink, painted lips. “Not to speak ill of the dead, but churlish and biting. Rather like a disgruntled parrot.”
Sicarius threw his head back and laughed. “A poetic summary of which he’d likely approve.” Your husband cast his thumb towards you. “My maid was in his employ for about a decade and a half.”
“A decade and a half?” Mrs. Highton looked like she might faint. “Good gods, how did she survive?”
Sicarius grinned. “She is a talented woman.”
The word “talented” caused something dark to flash across Hunter’s snidely curled face. “And what exactly are her talents?” he asked, as sour as a lemon.
His wife kicked the glossy toe of his patent leather shoe.
Sicarius leaned into the wide arms of his tufted, wingback chair. “Aside from a terrifying forte in polishing, transcription and taking dictation.”
“Dictation?” The murky smile on Hunter’s lips looked poisonous to the touch. He took the cup from your hand, his finger brushing against yours. “So she is literate now, is she?”
You recoiled, swallowing down a hiss.
“‘Now,’ darling?” Mrs. Highton glanced from your tempered discomfort to her husband’s pointed stare. “Do you know her?”
Hunter folded his calloused hands under his cleft chin. The dimples in his cheeks looked like the venom pits on a viper. “She was my personal chambermaid growing up.”
Sicarius lifted his cup to his lips. “What a coincidence,” he murmured.
“She was not very good back then, and her manners were much coarser,” Hunter continued, waving his arm. “I can only assume that the professor’s training corrected that.”
Mrs. Highton cringed before plastering on a polite smile. “Professor Campbell’s standards were very exacting. I had two secretaries who worked for him once. They called him an ill-tempered tyrant.”
Hunter sneered at your sober silence. “Well, she did always like men who knew how to handle snippy creatures.” He took a swig of his teacup like he was slugging from a rum bottle. “She married our kennel master. What a strange match that was.”
Hunter’s words stabbed through your composure like hot iron pokers. Shaking hands clamped together at your waist. The taste of copper flooded your mouth as you bit your tongue hard. Your fingers tingled with icy cold. Prickling pain threaded up elbows.
Blue eyes rolled between you and the guest with glee. The clock in the hall chimed seven times. “Well,” Sicarius set his cup upon the table. “Shall we move to the dining room? I am sure Mr. Ellsworth will be along with our dinner shortly.”
Like a well-coordinated dance, the three stood in graceful synchrony. Turning your flaming cheeks away from Hunter’s vile gaze, you gathered the tea set and hurried to place it on the tray. As your guests bustled out the door, Sicarius flashed you a wink and curled his hands into a cat’s paws. When he pantomimed an air scratch, you snatched up a cup and jerked your hand over your shoulder. With a smug smile, he ducked out the door.
Over the past eight months, you realized that attending any of Sicarius Estrova’s dinner parties was like watching a bridge collapse in slow motion. His habit of setting warring viewpoints across the table from each other was like mixing gunpowder and sparks. It no longer surprised you to see heated debates between “genteel” peoples. Despite tempers as ferocious as a barn fire, most guests managed to make their snide remarks in language fit for a charity ball. However, dinner with the Hightons was a true spectacle. Their fight was a slow waltz of domestic disquiet that threatened to swallow everything from dinner to the base of the hill under a smoldering flame.
“While it is sweet of you to cater to my wife’s peculiarities, I do not know how you can stand this rabbit food,” Hunter murmured, picking at the spinach and egg quiche like a child. As the jiggling filling plopped off his fork, he made a face like he had stepped into a bog.
Mrs. Highton, the vegetarian, chewed her meal before dabbing her lips with a dainty grace. “What my husband is trying to say, Mr. Estrova, is that he is unaccustomed to having such a gracious host.” She glared at the brunet. “He rarely gets out in society these days.”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “My wife, by comparison, spends all her time at her father’s company, playing at being a businesswoman.” He sighed and shook his head. “Even when it makes her a laughing stock, Calcraft is compelled to indulge his precious princess.”
Mrs. Highton’s elegant fingers coiled around the stem of her crystal wine glass. Her palms were white from the pressure. “Father has always invited you to learn more about the business you will inherit, Hunter dearest. However, since you are disinclined to such visits, I must routinely send my regrets.”
Hunter snatched up a bite of rosemary fried potato and chewed it like it was a bitter root. “Perhaps if my wife was around the house instead of at the dressmaker, I could afford to go out more.”
“If you could find time to leave the track club and help father, we might afford a great deal of things, my love.” She sipped her wine. “Another new maid, for instance? You do go through them quite frequently.”
Hunter’s face glowed red like a poker. Beside you, Reeves’s teeth clamped down on his lip to keep in the laugh. It barely helped. His shoulders were still shaking.
Sicarius folded his hands in front of his face. “On that note, please convey my sincerest regards to your father for the new pistols. For such a large caliber bullet, the kickback is infinitesimal.”
All at once, green eyes lit with excitement. “Do mention that to Her Highness when you next see her, Mr. Estrova. We are targeting that line to law enforcement, but the smoothness of the action should be very appealing to soldiers with scarred shoulders and women alike.”
Her husband snorted, flashing his palms in the air. “I can see it now: ‘Dainty weaponry for domestic ladies.’ Lord Dankworth and the Upper House will be in an uproar over your marketing tactics, sweetie.”
Evangeline’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps they would not be if my darling husband were to show them the merits of such a weapon?”
“And turn myself into your father’s little sales pitch?” Hunter rolled his eyes.
Your husband’s smooth smile was placid as the moon. He nodded to Mr. Reeves. “Mrs. Highton, my footman is quite a weapons enthusiast as well. We both had a few questions about your new fast load magazines. Would you be so kind as to indulge us?”
Hunter sneered. “You need not be so polite about it. You can hardly stop her talking about her toys.”
The dining chair screeched off the carpet and onto the wooden floor. Sicarius rose to his feet in perfect synchrony with the woman before him. Mr. Highton was two seconds behind. His wife’s grin was all taut tension. “Anything for our most loyal customer.” She held out both hands and gestured to the door. “Shall we have a look at it now?”
Sicarius nodded his head. “May I borrow your wife for a moment, Mr. Highton?”
“Everyone else has,” Hunter murmured, taking a slug from his wine glass. “Where is the toilet, Estrova?”
Sicarius tilted his chin and flashed you a coy smile. “Just down the hall. Allow me to show you while my staff sets the table for dessert.” He nodded at Reeves and jerked a thumb towards the exit.
As the four of them strolled out the door, you turned to Ellsworth with a mixture of raised brows and a horrified expression. When the dining room snapped shut, a polite cough huffed from the butler’s teeth. “I shall go retrieve another bottle of wine,” he declared.
“I doubt it will improve the civility of the conversation,” you muttered.
Ellsworth sniffed. “Yes, but I suspect we will need some lubrication for the friction between them before the night is out.”
“Then I shall handle the dessert.” You nodded to the tray of flourless chocolate ganache cake. “I wish to remain as far from that bathroom as possible.”
“Understood, Mrs. Estrova.” Ellsworth turned on his heel and strolled out the room.
Shaking your head, you began to circle the long table, collecting dish after dish. While Mrs. Highton’s plate was missing a bit of everything, Hunter’s was only devoid of his ribeye and half the potatoes. The pile of tarragon butter mushrooms and his Gravelorne grown watercress salad remained untouched. Glazed sweet onions from the red wine sauce were piled to the side near the smashed quiche.
“So picky,” you said, setting the plates upon the cart.
“Why bother with inferior things?”
You whipped around, only to find Hunter Highton’s broad-shouldered frame filling the doorway. Despite the meal, his eyes were dark with hunger. It made your skin crawl. He crossed the room in a few strides. You backed away, hitting the wall beside the naked painting. His burning hand grabbed your wrist, and he hauled you to the door.
“We need to talk,” he grunted.
You staggered forward, tripping over your own feet as he dragged you around the corner of the west hall. His bulky arms caged you between two china vases. As you opened your mouth to protest, meaty hands snatched up your shoulders.
“What are you doing?” you squeaked.
One muscular palm slammed into the wall, clipping the edge of your ear. “What am I doing!?” he demanded. “What are you doing?”
There, pinned under Hunter’s furious gaze, the same terrifying paralysis that gripped you the night of his eighteenth birthday wrapped itself deep into your muscles. Your chest filled with ice as the nightmare from your younger days reared back to life. Despite all your years of practice, there was no snippy comeback, no violent curse, no raised palm that your panic-addled brain could muster. Everything you had learned, everything you promised yourself, lay forgotten as you curled away from his hot, garlic-butter breath. It was then that you realized how deep the trauma went.
No matter how far you ran or how high you climbed, Hunter Highton would always remain your boogeyman.
“So, letting the kennel dog breed you wasn’t enough, was it? As soon as he croaked, that lying mouth of yours latches on to the first wrinkled cock that walks by?” Hunter sneered in your face as his hard grip ground your shoulder into the thick plaster. One hand came up to trace your lips. “I knew you were faking it that night. You’re a slut, just like the rest of them.”
Shallow, stilted breaths were your only reply.
“Do you know how much trouble you caused for me?” His fingers grabbed your scalp and yanked your hair from the root. The frilled headband hit the wood with a quiet clunk before bouncing down the hall. “While that brute of yours was strangling me, my prissy, perfect older brother sniveled off to tell father! Instead of going off to university like everyone else, I had to marry that daddy-complex Calcraft whore just to avoid being disowned.” Hunter’s face was the color of an eggplant. Hot, acrid spit splattered your cheeks. “You ruined my life!”
As he jerked your head back and forth, baby strands began to peel from your scalp. With trembling lips, you tried to talk. Just as you began to form the first word, Hunter slammed your head backward. Skin splitting pain blurred your vision. Something wet rolled across your scalp. You could taste iron.
“Don’t speak!” Hunter snarled, wrenching your head up. “No more of your lies!”
While dizzy grey overtook the corners of your sight, he shoved his knee between your legs. Reeling from the head wound, you started to slide down the wall. A hard elbow hit your chest, knocking the wind from your lungs as it pinned you in place. One hand reached for the buttons of your dress.
“How is your new master going to like you when he learns his hussy maid runs around screwing the guests between courses?”
All at once, there was a wheezing gasp noise that sounded like an accordion being crushed. The hold on you loosened. Your body crumpled to the floor. The world spun around. Through your jumping vision, you could make out three things: Hunter Highton clutching his throat, your husband standing behind his guest, and a long stiletto knife gleaming in Sicarius’s hand.
Sicarius smirked at the man before him, wagging the blade back and forth like the pendulum on a metronome. “I knew you were an impatient man from everything I was told but you really could not wait for dessert to be over?” The master of Gravelorne clicked his tongue. “Wherever did you learn your manners?”
Startled brown eyes looked from you to the scarred man and back again. A puff of air rasped between Hunter’s fingers. He traced the front of his throat. Beneath flaps of loose flesh, you could see a black hole sputtering open and closed with each breath.
Your husband dragged your stunned attacker by his collar to the center of the hall. Sicarius stabbed a spot on the left side of Hunter’s stomach, just below his ribs. When the nobleman doubled over, a flash of silver glinted in the lamplight. The blade dragged over Hunter’s jugular, losing a burbling stream of crimson gore. Mr. Highton staggered away, gripping his oozing neck wound. Splatters of blood filled the air with each stumbling step. Large feet caught on the ruined carpet runner. Hunter slammed face-first into the floor. A boney crunch reached your ears.
As your horror-crippled brain began to process the events laying before you, a warm hand patted your head.
“Honestly, kitten, you will bite the man you want to have sex with, but not an attacker?” Sicarius scoffed. “I am glad to be the favorite but your tastes are almost as kinky as mine.”
You stared at the grisly mess before you, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish flopping on dry land. As you watched, a long shadow appeared around the corner. Clutching a cigarette, Mrs. Evangeline Highton rounded the bend. Her green eyes took in the scene.
Hunter reached for his wife, a burbling explosion of breath and blood blasting out of the stab wound in his trachea.
The blonde’s beautiful features gnarled in disgust. She tugged up her glittering hemline, wrapping it tightly around her calves. Fine silver slippers took a step back from the filthy sight. Her nose wrinkled, and she buried it in the back of her hand. With a voice as gentle as a blizzard, she said only one thing:
“I told you to stop chasing the maids, Hunter dear.”
Mr. Highton’s eyes darkened. His shaking hand dropped to the floor. The smell of copper hung heavy in the passage. Loud footsteps clattered up the front hall. Around the corner appeared Reeves, Lyle, and Ellsworth.
Lady Highton turned to your husband. “Well,” she huffed, smearing on a polished smile. “Dinner was lovely, Mr. Estrova. When shall I learn what tragic accident befell my husband?”
Sicarius smirked, wiping some stray scarlet from his pale cheek. “It is very unfortunate, but it seems he woke in the middle of the night and, still quite drunk, wandered off into the forest. The ferals that live there are very vicious. I doubt the police will even find the bones.”
“Poor Hunter. He always was a bit scared of dogs. It must have been terrible.” She took a long drag of her cigarette before blowing a perfect ring of smoke from lush lips. “I will arrange a closed casket funeral.”
Your husband bowed low. “I shall be sure to send flowers.”
“Georgette was right, Mr. Estrova.” She gave you a knowing smile. “You are ever so kind to widows.”
As the blonde disappeared around the bend of the hall, Reeves let out a low whistle. He strolled to his master’s side, keeping a wary watch on the corner. “Women are terrifying.”
Your husband kneeled down beside you and nodded to the massive puddle of coagulating blood. It long overran the seams of the wool rug and spilled onto the polished hardwood floors. “Ellsworth, do you believe we can save the carpet?”
The butler raised a lone eyebrow.
His master chuckled, scooping your limp form into his chest. “Very well then, burn it and order new hall treatments to match.”
“Of course, sir,” Ellsworth replied with a stiff bow.
Lyle scratched his cheek, toeing the corpse. “So… since it’s not a shooting accident anymore, what do you want me to do about the stiff?”
Cheerful wrinkles formed at the corner of icy eyes. “Have Mr. Norton use the hedge trimmers to remove one arm and toss it near a dog trail. I want the edges jagged, like they were shredded by teeth.”
“And the bones go to Mrs. Norton, I presume?” Reeves asked, crossing his arms. “What do you want her to make this time?”
Sicarius pet your blood-matted scalp. “Perhaps a hair comb for my wife. If the china is not durable enough, then tell her to just make some small flowers and I will have Voskart and Bronsk put them on an ivory base. If she has enough left, I believe the garage needed a new washbasin.”
Lyle giggled between gritted teeth. “Sorry about the last one.”
Reeves groaned. “You broke Lord Eisenhall?”
The mechanic shrugged. “Dropped a wrench on him.”
“Oh… so not that different from the first time around.”
“Yeah, I had a good chuckle about it. Kinda poetic like.” Lyle turned back to the silver-haired man. “Better give Mrs. Norton a third option, sir. You know how fussy she can be about her art.”
Your husband cocked his head this way and that before a flash of inspiration lit his face. “A food bowl for Lemon.”
Lyle clicked his tongue and gave his employer a thumbs up. “Got it!”
The footman peered at your vacant expression. He waved his hand back and forth, but there was no response from your dull eyes. “Brandy again?”
Sicarius’s eyes narrowed. He curled protective arms around your cold body. “Tea, Garrick.” Your husband pressed his forehead to yours. “The poor thing has head trauma. The last thing she needs is alcohol.”
“On it,” Reeves agreed, bustling off to the kitchen.
As your fuzzy mind reeled with horrifying pieces of new information, your demonic savior swept you up the stairs.
How much time passed between Sicarius setting you on the bed and someone pressing the teacup into your hand, you could not say. The dim splatter of the rainfall showerhead was hard to hear over the thoughts buzzing in your head.
Hunter Highton was dead. Your husband slaughtered him. Not killed him. Slaughtered him like an animal. No, not just slaughtered him. Slaughtered him and then told the staff of Gravelorne how to mutilate the corpse and divide up the evidence.
“Give the bones to Mrs. Norton.”
“All the bone china in this house is her custom craft.”
Your hands began to shake. Red liquid sloshed inside the delicate curves of the beautiful bone china. The saucer clattered against the painted rim. A wave of nausea bubbled up in your throat. The cup slipped from your fingers. Hot tea splattered onto your skirt. Your thighs burned. Copper pipes screeched as the steam-heated water came to a halt. You looked in the mirror. Your face was like a wax death mask. It was a perfect mimic of the expression Alex wore when he saw “Lady Milton’s” lily-painted vase.
Every plate you had eaten off of.
The knobs of your dresser.
His pencil cups.
Each and every sink.
The tea sets.
Over fifty flower vases.
“Kitten, did you drink your tea?”
Horror glazed eyes lifted up to the source of the voice. Your husband’s silver locks were plastered to his skull. With only a towel wrapped around his hips, he took a seat beside you on the bed. The back of Sicarius’s hand pressed against your brow. He frowned before patting your face from cheek to cheek.
“You still feel cold,” he murmured before looking down. The cup was sideways in your apron. Rosehip and hibiscus tea stained the white fabric a pale pink. Sicarius brushed a stray hair out of your face. “I suppose a bath ought to help.”
The gaudy china bathtub.
“How many?” you whispered.
Sicarius pursed his lips and reached under your armpits. “We need to get you warmed up first.”
You shook your head back and forth, sending reeling pain streaming across your body. As you burped bile, Sicarius sighed and rubbed your back.
“If I tell you, will you let me get you some aspirin?”
With a grimace, you nodded slowly.
“I lost the exact count a while ago.” He tapped his chin. “Between all of us, we are nearing three hundred now.”
Hollow eyes stared at the man before you. “All of us?” you croaked.
“Well, I do not know that you can count Alex. The boy has always been a conscientious objector,” Sicarius wagged a finger. “…but very loyal. I think he understands what we do is for the best.”
“You told me you worked in the shipping trade, not murder.”
His fanged grin looked better fit for a Shadowhound than the master of some grand estate. He waved a flippant hand. “Oh, it is hardly work. Not really. Killing naughty nobles is more like a hobby.”
A hobby!?
“You see, even in our modern era, nobles are like little spiders. They build their webs wherever they like and live in their own little world outside petty rules.” He shrugged. “I got sick of seeing them go unpunished just because they had influence and money. They needed to pay for their crimes just like anyone else.”
Your teeth chattered. “What crimes?”
Blue eyes glowed like fae fire. “For example, beating their wheel-chair bound mechanic until his spleen ruptures because he asked for pay. Others might cut the ears off their butler because they think he took too long with their wine. Some even short the checks of their blind cook and threaten his family when he has the nerve to protest!” Sicarius laid one proud hand on his chest. “I fix that noble problem for no cost save a favor owed to me later.”
Your mouth ran dry. “Just nobles?”
Sicarius gestured to the grand room. “Kitten, you are not naive. Do you honestly believe that I can run a business empire without handling people properly?”
Ice flooded your veins.
He sighed like he was in a stage tragedy. “I give the useful non-nobles a chance to comply, but there will always be a few stubborn ones who insist on getting between me and what I want. Their deaths are just a necessity, not a pleasure.” He tapped the china cup. “I do not keep them.”
“What do you mean, comply?” you whispered.
“Switch to my side and enjoy the perks.” He chuckled. “Reeves, for example, was an excellent acquisition. In exchange for joining my household, he got to keep his life and use the knowledge acquired in his previous profession for better purposes.” Sicarius sighed and pinched his nose. “He is rather unmotivated about being a footman though. It drives Ellsworth mad.”
You swallowed to steady your voice. “What was his previous profession?”
Sicarius pressed his hand to the wound on his lower ribs. “Assassin.”
“Assassin!?” you squeaked.
“And a rather good one too. He came the closest of all those my dear half-brother has sent so far.” Sicarius grinned and shook his head. “Rather pathetic that he could be bought off though. The King of Gamoid should really be able to pay them more.”
Your jaw hit the floor. “Your brother is the King of Gamoid!?”
Sicarius clicked his tongue. “Half-brother. Half,” he emphasized, tapping your nose. “We may share the same father, but the ‘common’ Estella Estrova was much smarter than his noble-bred wife. Mother removed us from the country as the queen started eliminating any competition for the throne.” He snorted. “I think she hated us in particular. You saw the painting. Estella was the prettiest of the mistresses.”
Was he really bragging about his mother at a time like this?
“Still, I give His Highness some credit. After all these years of tit-for-tat, I have not been able to get close enough to collect my prize yet.”
“Your prize?”
“His bones, of course.” Sicarius grinned like a child clutching his favorite toy. “I plan to make him into a urinal.”
Heart pounding in your chest, you looked up at the monster you married. His face was alight with unadulterated joy as he cheerfully chatted about murder, assassination attempts, foreign politics and his mother’s beauty like every subject was equal. Slowly, the long clogged gears inside your head clinked into place.
“You kill people and make their bones into your furniture for fun.”
Sicarius kneeled before you, took your cold fingers in his, and puffed his warm breath on them. “We should really get you in that bath. That wound needs to be cleaned.”
As you sat on his bed, wearing his ring and holding a serial killer’s blood-stained hands, a feeling of heinous revulsion engulfed your body. Shaking, you reached for the buttons of your uniform. It was as if the little spiders speared your heart with their venomous pikes. Their icy poison was drifting through your veins, threatening to consume you. Before it paralyzed you whole, your dazed brain managed to come to one conclusion.
“You are evil.”
Sicarius’s comforting smile transformed into a villainous sneer. “Well, of course I am, kitten. I told you before: blood-borne nobles are evil without exception.”
“So you admit it, just like that?”
He snapped his fingers. “Just like that,” he agreed. Sicarius turned his back to you and strolled to the dresser. The towel hit the floor with a ‘fwump.’ Standing nude in the middle of the room, he cast his arms wide as his proud grin stretched from ear to ear. “I must admit this entire conversation is such a relief. I hated keeping secrets from the woman I love.”
You choked. “L-love!?”
“Oh, dear. I think that blow to your head knocked your memory a bit loose. Do you not recall us having this discussion many times before?”
You gaped at him. “You can not be serious!”
He pointed at his nose. “Of course, I can not be Sirius. My name is Sicarius.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it!”
A short snicker flew from his lips. He stared straight at you, not even trying to conceal his shaking shoulders.
Your nails tore into the palms of your hands. Vitriolic rage bubbled up into your throat. An accusing finger jabbed at the silver-haired madman. “You are an unrepentant murderer, and you fully mean to keep on murdering!”
“So?”
“So!?” you demanded, stomping your foot. “So, I will not support this!”
A low, slow clapping filled the room. “Excellent! A little teasing, and she has found her claws again!” He pulled a pair of pants up hairy legs, tying them into place around his tapered waist. Tugging on his slippers, he grinned at you. “Though you must understand, whether you support me or not, you are still my lawful wedded wife until death does us part.”
All rational thought screeched to a halt.
Sicarius stalked towards you, his eyes dark, and grin bright. You recoiled, but he snatched up your wrist and dragged you into his chest. A lone finger tapped the notch of your collar bone, right where his necklace sat. “And if you think I would let you go after all the effort I put into collaring you, then you are sorely mistaken, kitten.”
With each beat of your racing heart, your pulse throbbed at the corners of your vision. Sicarius patted your shoulder. “Well, while you ponder that little complication, I shall go fetch you some aspirin.”
Your husband strolled to the closet and wrapped himself in his dressing gown. Then he meandered to the door, humming a swinging tune. Terror overtook your brain. Blood rushed to your lungs. Your lips tingled cold. You lunged for the exit, but he was too quick. The latch snapped shut, locking from the outside. You reached for the key around your neck, only to find the double chain choker in its place. Patting down your uniform, you remembered a single fact:
There were no pockets in this dress.
Frantically, you tore at the handle, rattling the wood in its frame. “Sicarius!” Your fist banged on the door. “Let me out!” you shrieked.
A throaty cackle was followed by three, cheerful little words: “I will not.”
As the jaunty melody drifted further and further from the door, your hands clutched your skull. Panicked eyes darted back and forth, searching the room for a place where he might keep the key. When they settled upon the waterfall desk, you threw yourself at the drawers. Papers scattered everywhere as you ripped through the contents. Finding nothing, you tore through the room like a hurricane of hysteria.
No key.
No key.
Oh, stars above, there was no key.
You slumped onto the reading stool, clutching a hand to your painful, pounding heart. Hyperventilating, you gripped your apron to your chest and began to sob.
All at once, a night breeze rattled the window.
Burning eyes looked up. The full moon drifted from behind a cloud, scattering its light through the pane. Silver beams made the trails of snot smeared on your sleeve glitter. You reached for the window only to find it bolted shut from the outside. Just beyond your glass prison, thick old yew bushes stretched halfway to the second story. Their branches were strong.
If you hung from the ledge and dropped down, would they be enough to cushion the fall?
You looked back to the door from which Sicarius Estrova might soon return.
With one adrenaline-fueled heave, the heavy stool flew through the pane and into the night air.