One Night With a Spy (29 page)

He half-closed his eyes and turned his head slowly, trying to sense her presence. The only thing he sensed was his own growing dread. He worked his jaw, willing himself to regain his cool objectivity, but there was no such thing where Julia was concerned and never had been.

"That's all right then," Elliot said. He patted Marcus awkwardly on the shoulder. "We'll find her yet."

Marcus looked down at the hand on his jacket. From a distance, he recognized the comfort Elliot was offering, but he could not feel it. All he could feel was a great aching void inside him.

Julia.

Julia opened her eyes.
Diamonds
.

She blinked. No, not diamonds. Only broken glass, fallen from the window to the wooden floor on which she lay. She reached for a brightly glinting shard of it—

Red agony from her wrenched shoulder stabbed through her. She gasped and rolled toward the fetters, desperate to ease the strain. It was a long moment before she could do anything but breathe in and out. Then the memory of watching her last hope walk away brought her to tears once again.

After a moment, she drew a deep breath and wiped her face on her sleeve. "Silly infant." She pushed herself into a sitting position and began to work her shoulder carefully. "You've only stiffened up a bit, which is what you deserve for fainting on the floor like a rag doll."

The glittering shards of glass caught her eye once more. The window was entirely shattered, the mullions between the panes snapped and bent as well. There would be no hiding it.

"Well, he's certainly going to kill you now." The thought did not bring her much unhappiness. If she was dead, then he certainly wouldn't be able to get the secrets of the Royal Four from her—

If she was dead
. Her breath caught and her vision fixed on the triangle of glass closest to her. She reached for it with a shaking hand. It was unthinkable—yet, here she was, thinking it, so obviously it was at least worth contemplating. If she drew the glass across her wrists—no, better across her throat, for she wouldn't want it to take long—

She ought to have let Kurt do it. He was a professional. It probably wouldn't even have hurt. She was going to make a muck of it, no doubt there, but surely it wasn't all that hard?

She dropped the shard into her numb hand where it lay in her lap, and pressed her other fingers to her throat. Her pulse was best found
there
, under her jaw. She felt it jump beneath her touch.

She took a last look at the gray sky and the grimy rooftops and then closed her eyes. She wrapped her fingers around the shard, disregarding the way it cut into her flesh. She lifted her hand.

Jilly, you must fight. You must always fight, even if it means giving in for a time. Fighting means forever trying to win, even when you know you can't.

Mama had fought, right to the last day, fighting for her breath, fighting for her last moment on the earth. Aldus had fought, years past when the doctor had said he was lost, fighting against the hand of death dragging him into darkness.

How dare she willingly reach for that hand?

The hand holding the shard shook. She gritted her teeth and pressed it harder to her skin. Blood began to drip down her wrist.
There
.

No. Perhaps Igby saw me. Perhaps someone is coming.

You are alone. No one is coming for you. You are forever alone.

Depressing but true enough. Then again, forever might not be much longer.

"I cannot let you go."

Julia's eyes flew open. "Marcus?"

His voice had been so clear, so deep and real. There was no one there, of course. She was mad from lack of food. The beatings had disarranged her brains. She was completely alone.

"I cannot let you go."

Marcus would not like what she was doing. Of course, if he himself ever even thought of such a thing, she would give him a tongue-lashing herself—

No, Marcus would fight to his last breath, just like Mama, just like Aldus.

She let her hand drop to her lap and gazed at it. The tip of the glass was clean and unbloodied. She opened her fingers to see several cuts on her palm and finger pads. The blood running down her arm was only a few drips, not her life's blood pooling on the carpet.

She gave a rusty giggle, her relief overwhelming. She was going to die, she had no doubt, but she was going to die fighting, and
that
she could live with.

She laughed out loud at that outrageous thought, just as the door to her room opened.

«
^
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Is it possible to will yourself to be more intelligent, more capable
—
to be more
?

Julia looked into the eyes of the devil and smiled. "Oh, dear," she said cheerfully. "You're still with us."

He shot a cold glance at the shattered window. "That was not wise. Get up. We must leave, quickly."

No. Leaving was a very bad idea. Her people were near and she still held her secrets close, but if he were to lock her away on a ship and continue his torture over a long passage, she was quite sure her strength would fail.

Julia shook her head. "Will you drag me screaming and fighting into the street? I don't think that even the masses of Cheapside would tolerate that easily." She smiled wider. "Besides, I think you are too late. I'm fairly sure I cannot stand at all."

"That would be a pity. I had plans for you. I have waited here in England for so long. At first I waited out the Terror, hoping the masses would kill a few more of the heirs in the meantime. I never thought the Revolution would take—it was a ridiculous notion, the commoners ruling themselves!"

His lip curled. "Then Napoleon came along, as common as dirt but wily and ambitious. He had great respect for such ambition. Yet he has kept me here, on this moldy, foggy, godforsaken island, promising me my ancestral lands, always keeping them just out of reach."

He sneered. "Until you. You were just what I need. Lovely, blonde, just Napoleon's cup of tea. Now look at you. Who would want a bloody-minded, boney cow like you? You'll never make the passage in this condition. I want nothing more than to be rid of you."

He kicked her, a swift, coldly vicious blow just beneath her ribs. She gasped softly and her vision darkened. When she revived, it was to find him pulling her to her feet. Her stomach rebelled but there was nothing in it. Pity. He deserved to be vomited upon.

He stood her on her feet. She wavered, but remained standing, preferring to tower over him rather than be at his feet like a supplicant.

"You're losing your hair," she observed as she looked down at him. "I daresay you'll be wearing a full wig soon."

He dug his fingers deeply into the flesh of her arm. "Quiet!"

She felt a mad giggle rising in her throat. "Or you shan't like me any longer?"

"Or I shall kill you," he said flatly as he dug the key to the wrist irons from his weskit pocket with one hand.

"Oh, is that all?" She smiled widely. "Then I have nothing to lose." As he bent over the rusty lock about her one wrist, she drew a deep breath and raised the glass shard high.

A drop of blood fell from her gashed palm to his neck. He looked up. "What—"

She stabbed downward with all her strength. He was quick, but could not avoid a deep cut to his shoulder as he ducked away. "Bitch!" He clapped a hand to his cut. His blood welled, but Julia despaired when she saw it was not a serious wound.

The iron fell from her wrist and Julia stepped back, keeping the shard high. Her knees failed her and she stumbled. How tragic that when she finally had both the will and the weapon, she lacked the strength to use them.

He struck her to the floor with a single blow to her cheek. His was the power of madness, without mercy or caution.

She fought back the dizziness to push herself up on her hands.

It took only one more blow to send her back to the floor. She lay helpless and barely conscious as he dropped to one knee beside her. He smiled slightly as he took her throat in his hands.

"Weak and stupid female after all," he said scornfully. "If I'd seen you born I would have drowned you then."

She pushed at him weakly but he ignored her, intent on systematically squeezing the life from her like a macabre artist creating death from a piece of wood.

I will die now.

The thought came without real fear. The only emotion that made its way through her fogging mind was rage. This man had done so much to her, to her mother, to the Liars, the Four and England herself. That he should win again—that he should kill her and disappear to work his evil yet more—that thought filled her with such fury that she struck out against him.

She didn't even realize that the glass shard was still in her hand.

The first blow cut through his cheek with ease, the razor edge needing no strength to wound. He started, then struck her hand away.

"Bitch!" He wiped the blood away with one hand and bent to his task with renewed fury, no longer constrained by that eerie callous calm.

She was done for. All she wanted was to disempower him, to remove his invisibility, to burst the bubble of his enchantment. There would be nowhere for him to hide with such a hideous mask.

Her vision was beginning to close. No time left. She struck wildly, slashing at his face again and again—that face that allowed him to lie so easily and well.

He cursed and fought her off, but dared not release her throat long enough for her to take a breath. His blood flowed easily from the gashes. Did he even realize how gravely she'd damaged him with her weak blows?

She would have laughed, had she air to do so, for his disguise was ruined… slashed away… the scars would run across his face like furrows plowed in soil… ruined… now a monster on the outside, too…

Her hands fell to her sides, no longer at her command. She felt nothing now, not even the pain of her throat. He bent over her, shaking her limp form with the force of his choking. His slashed, bloodied face receded from her vision, his enraged eyes—so like hers—giving way to a merciful fog.

Dying… so sorry, Aldus… Marcus… my love… missing you… already…

The sound of thudding footsteps didn't truly register and the breaking of the door meant nothing as she let herself fall fully into the dark.

«
^
»

I cannot be philosophical about death. I hate death in every form. Does that make me weak?

Marcus and Igby burst into the boarding house room to see a crimson monster with his hands around Julia's throat.

"Halt!"

The Chimera sprang back from Julia's still form with a laugh. "Too late, Englishman. Or is it?" He leaped for the broken window. Marcus instinctively moved to stop him.

The Chimera laughed again through the ruined mask of his face. "Capture me or save her? You cannot do both!" He knocked away the remaining glass and vaulted over the sill, disappearing from sight.

Marcus let him go without a moment of hesitation. He hoped the bastard dashed his brains out on the cobbles, but it was likely he could climb down well enough. Marcus could not have cared less.

All he wanted was Julia.

To hell with the Chimera, to hell with the Four, to hell with anyone or anything that ever tried to separate Julia from him again.

She was on the floor, a broken angel on a dirty carpet. "Oh, God," Igby whispered. "Oh, God, the blood—"

Marcus didn't remember crossing the room to drop to his knees next to her. He was just there, reaching a trembling hand to wipe the blood from her face. It was everywhere, running down her cheeks, slashing across her neck, flowing from her brow—

There were no cuts on her face. Marcus ran his hands over her beautiful battered face, but it was whole. A bark of tortured laughter left his throat. "It isn't hers."

He looked up at Igby. "It isn't her blood. She tore the bastard to bits, my girl did."

Igby's face twisted. "That's my lady, all right."

Then Marcus uncovered the purpling bruises around her throat, like a brutal necklace. "Oh, dear God." He pressed his ear to her breast, but his own heart was pounding so from fear. "Julia, oh, please—"

He lifted her half upright, holding her close, pressing his cheek to hers, desperate to feel her breath. He gave her a little shake, his vision blurring in his grief. "Breathe, darling, breathe! Damn it, you stubborn woman,
breathe
!"

He held her close, rocking her limp form slowly as Igby sank to the floor next to him, hands helpless in his lap.

"You have to breathe, J-Julia." He couldn't bear it. She was leaving him. "I don't deserve you, I know, but breathe anyway, my love." He pressed his lips to hers in a desperate, mad attempt to breathe for her, filling her lungs with his own air.

Two, three breaths—then he waited. Nothing.

"Oh, sir—" Igby moaned. "Oh, my lord, sir, I think she's—"

"That's
disgusting
."

The rasping whisper came from the dead woman cradled in Marcus's arms. He pulled back to stare down at her. "Julia?" Her eyes were still closed but she was most definitely not dead. She pushed at him weakly.

"You've been… drinking." She coughed, a dry, painful sound. "I don't ever want to taste… liquor on you again."

He laughed damply, his heart swelling until he could hear his ribs creak. "As you wish, my lady. Never again."

"I'll hold you… to that. I won't tolerate… spirits in our house."

He dropped his face into her neck, washing away the Chimera's blood with his tears. "Oh, my Jilly—"

"Stupid pet name," she gasped. "I'm… Julia."

Marcus broke down, sobbing his laughter into her skin, rocking her in his arms in the filthy room, vowing silently to never, ever let her go again.

«
^
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A wife is a terrible thing to waste.

In the secret chamber of the Four, Marcus stood unrepentant before his former masters. Two men stood while the other two sat at the grotty old table.