Home > Hidden Huntress(82)

Hidden Huntress(82)
Author: Danielle L. Jensen

“I gave it to a stockman in exchange for an ox, and the ax I used to kill it, as part of the spell that broke you free,” I said, and not waiting for his reaction, I turned and walked away.

Moving as quickly as I could without attracting undue attention, I left the foyer and made my way backstage to the crew entrance. There was no one outside, so I leaned against the stone of the building, gulping in mouthfuls of cold air. The moon was very nearly full, and I stared up at it, wishing the power I’d used had come from such a pure source.

“It has been a long time, Cécile,” a familiar voice said from behind me. I lowered my eyes from the moon, and fear charged through my heart as I came face to face with the pistol leveled between my eyes.

 

 

42

 

 

Cécile

 

 

I opened my mouth to scream, but only a pathetic whine escaped.

“Be silent. I know the powers you hold.”

“Esmeralda?” I choked her name out. “Why are you doing this?”

Her jaw tensed as though she were trying to speak but could not. The pistol wobbled up and down, but steadied when I took a step back. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But the favor has been called due.”

The shot rang loud, tearing apart the stillness of the night. I’d closed my eyes as though not seeing would somehow protect me from the bullet. I held my breath, waiting for the terrible moment when I’d feel hot blood trickling down skin and the pain of metal rending my insides apart. But instead I felt nothing.

Forcing my eyes open, I stared at the flattened bit of metal hanging inches in front of my face, as though it were embedded in an invisible wall. Then beyond it to where Esmeralda lay on her back, the snow splattered with what looked like ink, but what I knew was blood. So very, very much blood.

The bullet dropped from the air to land silently in the snow, and I turned around to see Tristan standing at the crew exit, one arm stretched out in front of him. My gaze went back to Esmeralda, and moving sluggishly, I knelt down next to her, pushed back her hood, and felt for a pulse at her neck. It was a hopeless effort—I could have fit my fist through the hole in her chest.

“Esmeralda.” There was no inflection in Tristan’s voice, no emotion, but his shock made my own hands shake.

“A troll made her do this.” I pulled away my hand, convinced I could feel her skin already beginning to cool beneath my fingertips. “She owned Reagan a favor, and it was called due.”

“I didn’t mean to…” His voice was choked. “You need to help her.”

“She is beyond help,” I said. I did not add that what he’d done to her would have been enough to fell any living thing in this world.

“No!” He fell to his knees, heedless of the pool of blood. “Use magic. Heal her. Fix her. You know how.”

“Tristan, she’s dead.”

He shook his head, expressing utter denial of my words. “Help her.” Grabbing Esmeralda by the shoulders, he pulled her up off the ground, and I almost gagged at the sight of the gore beneath her. “Help her!”

I didn’t know what to do. Someone would have heard the gunshot, and it was only a matter of time before we were discovered. Never mind that we knelt next to a corpse, there would be no explaining the manner in which she died. We had to get away. “Tristan, we need to go.”

Standing up, I caught hold of his arm, trying to drag him up. But he was intractable. Moving him against his will would be impossible. “I didn’t mean…” he said. “I didn’t know it was her.”

He kept trying to say that he hadn’t meant to kill her, but the lie wouldn’t pass his lips.

“Tristan, it was in defense. Whether she wanted to or not, she tried to shoot me.” My feet slid in the slurry of blood and snow, but he wouldn’t let go of her. He was covered with blood, and in the distance, I could hear the sounds of horses coming this way. “We have to run!

None of what I was saying seemed to register with him. The notion that now would be an opportune time to use his name crossed my mind, but I shoved it aside. Making a fist like Fred had taught me, I pulled my arm back and swung, using the strength of my shoulder. My knuckles collided with his cheek and pain burst through my hand. Tristan jerked away, but more in surprise than in pain.

He stared up at me. “I don’t want to leave her like this.”

“We have no choice,” I said, wishing I didn’t need to be so callous. “We need to flee.”

We ran through the blizzard and darkness, my skirts pulled up to my knees with one hand and my heeled shoes in the other. My stockings were soaked through in seconds, and not long after the bottoms tore through, exposing the soles of my feet. I was too afraid to feel the discomfort. The city guard would have found Esmeralda by now, and they did not need to be quick-witted to follow tracks in the snow. We needed to get where other people were and then inside so that we could wash away the evidence. Not that it mattered much. Both Aiden and Fred would know who had killed her, and this might well be the opportunity the Regent’s son was looking for.

“This way,” I hissed, pulling Tristan toward a main boulevard. When we were closer, I slipped my shoes on my numb feet, dropped my skirts, and took his arm. “Smile,” I ordered as we stepped out into the traffic of people on the walkways. There I was able to flag down a cab, neither of us saying anything until the horse was trotting in the direction of the hotel.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” I said. “But you weren’t listening. You were in shock.”

He didn’t reply. We passed through the bubble of light from a lamp, and I saw the white of his cravat was stained with blood. Fingers numb and shaking, I untied it, shoving the fabric into the pocket of my cloak. He was covered in blood, I was sure, but everything else he was wearing was black, so hopefully no one would notice. I squeezed his hand, the leather soaked and sticky. “Tristan, are you all right?”

His jaw tightened, and he pulled his hand out of my grip. “I should take you home first.”

“I’m staying with you,” I said. “I don’t care what people say.”

“Do what you want.”

I bit my lip. His words sounded like an attack, and in a way, they were. But not at me. He was attacking himself. His guilt and grief made my heart hurt, and I knew he was pushing me away to punish himself. “Don’t do this.”

The cab pulled to a stop. “We’re here.” He didn’t wait for the hotel footmen to open the door, instead flinging it open himself and stepping down. I started to follow, but he blocked my way, his gaze fixed on my feet. “You should go home. I’ll pay him to take you there.”

I lifted my chin. “No.”

“Do what you want. You always do anyway,” he snapped, turning to pay the driver and leaving a footman to help me out. Without looking at me once, he offered me an arm and escorted me up the steps into the lobby. It was lovely and grand, with crystal chandeliers and lush carpets, massive framed landscapes and seascapes hanging on walls papered in silk. A man played a piano for a handful of onlookers holding drinks, all of them noticing us while pretending not to as we walked toward the staircase. My presence here with him was scandalous in their eyes, but I was far past caring.

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