Of Silk and Steam
Page 84
“Caine and the Duchess of Casavian are going to rescue the queen,” he called. “Clear these floors of Coldrush Guards and secure the throne room. Whatever you do, do not present a threat to the prince consort. He has a flare gun to signal a man outside if he feels this has all gone badly.”
Lynch strode up the stairs to meet him. “A bomb?”
Leo nodded. “I’m going to deal with the man with the detonator. Give me two of your Nighthawks. He’s a Falcon and there could be others.”
Lynch snapped his fingers. “Byrnes. Stanton. Follow Barrons and protect him.” He nodded at Leo. “Two of the best.”
“Let’s hope they’re good enough,” he replied, striding down through the tight pack of Nighthawks and gesturing to the two Lynch had chosen.
Twenty-six
Mina shoved both palms against the doors to the throne room. They began to part, sliding open with a gasp of air to reveal the throne and the assemblage of people around it.
A dozen pistols were aimed her way. Frightened debutantes and thralls huddled by the enormous marble columns that supported the domed ceiling, with their lords in front of them. Half of the Echelon was here, roused from a ball by the look of them.
Mina strode through the doors. Seven men guarded the dais, armed with differing levels of weaponry. At the side stood another half-dozen Coldrush Guards, grimly keeping their pistols trained on her.
If she showed one hint of fear—or guilt—she’d be dead. The prince consort couldn’t know she was involved in this. She was the trick card in the revolutionists’ hand.
“Are you insane?” Mina snapped, summoning every bit of arrogance she owned. “Why the devil haven’t you gotten Her Highness away from here? The whole bloody Tower is full of Nighthawks.”
The prince consort looked like hell. His colorless eyes narrowed and his fingers curled over each arm of the throne, making him seem not quite certain what was going on. “What a surprise to see you, Duchess. The last I heard, you were galloping out of here on one of my Trojan destriers.”
“My thanks for attempting a rescue.”
His expression told her nothing about whether he was buying this act or not. “Morioch bargained for your return. Unfortunately it was denied.”
Liar. Still, she started stripping off her leather gloves with a frown. “Did he?” She didn’t dare look at the queen. Emotion was already choking her, and she knew she’d never be able to hide all of it. “I’ve spent most of the past few days locked in a bloody room while half the city burns.”
“Just how, precisely, did you escape?” This came from Balfour, the prince consort’s spymaster.
A dangerous man. Mina glanced his way, tucking her gloves behind her belt. “I didn’t. The Devil of Whitechapel wanted me where he could see me, considering his home is quite undefended. There was no point in arguing, as he was taking me precisely where I wished to go. I simply knifed his man in the back and took my leave when the opportunity presented itself.” She took a step forward and froze as half a dozen pistols lifted. Holding up her hands, she managed her iciest tones. “You think I’ve taken up with that rogue? It seems your senses are leaving you.” A quick, frustrated glance behind her. “As evidenced by the unlocked door. Where are all of the guards? What is going on here? You should be escaping.”
Not that there was anywhere to go.
The prince consort lifted a hand, lace spilling from his sleeve. Dressed in his finest court attire, with a flute of blud-wein in his fingers, he said: “Leave her be, Balfour. I hardly think the Duchess of Casavian foolish enough to consort with the enemy.”
Was that a slur in his voice? “One does have certain standards,” she agreed, stepping closer.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could just make out a rumpled pile of yellow silk at his side. The queen, sitting by his feet with her coronation crown on her gleaming brown hair. A glance showed Mina a pale face but no sign of injury. Intense brown eyes locked on her, as if trying to tell her something. Mina looked away swiftly.
“Certain standards,” Balfour agreed, his eyes narrowing. “But she’s also less than foolish.”
“And why the hell would she come back here?” the prince consort demanded, waving another expansive hand. “She has to know she’s going to die.”
The entire court sprang into a frightened babble.
“Enough!” the prince consort bellowed. “Balfour, shoot the next person who cries out.”
The crowd subsided. A woman was sobbing somewhere.
“What do you mean by die?” Mina asked as the prince consort drained his wine.
“Fetch me another,” he demanded.
Balfour caught the serving man by the arm as he hurried to attend. “I hardly consider that wise, Your High—”
“Wise?” the prince consort mocked. “I want them all here, to join my ball.” He threw his head back and laughed. “All of them, and not a one to walk free. I’ll see them all in hell—”
Mina exchanged a glance with Balfour. He gave a tight shake of his head, just as concerned as she. The rest of the court looked confused, several debutantes whispering worriedly behind their hands. Mina even saw Malloryn in the crowd, a sight that gave her some hope. He was moving nonchalantly through them, circling toward the dais.
“We need to get Her Highness out of here,” she tried again. “We can protect her from this crowd of ruffians, perhaps remove her to the safety of—”
“She’s not going anywhere without me.” The prince consort spilled his wine on his sleeve.
The doors slammed open, striking the walls with a thunderous crash. Mina spun, her hand darting to the sword at her hip, and the court behind her gasped.
Caine strode through the double doors, the sound of fighting drifting up the staircase behind him. The sound cut off abruptly as the doors slowly swung shut, but the effect of it was far greater than that. She felt as though somewhere, very near to here, a coffin lid had slammed shut, blocking out all of the light in her world.
Her mouth went dry, her chest seeming to lock tight. She fought to catch a breath, but she couldn’t. Not in that moment when the duke’s appearance finally gave realization to the outcome that she had feared the most. The one she hadn’t allowed herself to think about.
Caine intercepted a glass of blud-wein from the tray of a hovering drone and strode toward them. “Sorry to miss the celebration.” He took a sip of the wine, surveying the court before draining the glass. His eyes locked on Mina for a second, then he tossed the empty glass aside with a smash, blood staining his lips.
Lynch strode up the stairs to meet him. “A bomb?”
Leo nodded. “I’m going to deal with the man with the detonator. Give me two of your Nighthawks. He’s a Falcon and there could be others.”
Lynch snapped his fingers. “Byrnes. Stanton. Follow Barrons and protect him.” He nodded at Leo. “Two of the best.”
“Let’s hope they’re good enough,” he replied, striding down through the tight pack of Nighthawks and gesturing to the two Lynch had chosen.
Twenty-six
Mina shoved both palms against the doors to the throne room. They began to part, sliding open with a gasp of air to reveal the throne and the assemblage of people around it.
A dozen pistols were aimed her way. Frightened debutantes and thralls huddled by the enormous marble columns that supported the domed ceiling, with their lords in front of them. Half of the Echelon was here, roused from a ball by the look of them.
Mina strode through the doors. Seven men guarded the dais, armed with differing levels of weaponry. At the side stood another half-dozen Coldrush Guards, grimly keeping their pistols trained on her.
If she showed one hint of fear—or guilt—she’d be dead. The prince consort couldn’t know she was involved in this. She was the trick card in the revolutionists’ hand.
“Are you insane?” Mina snapped, summoning every bit of arrogance she owned. “Why the devil haven’t you gotten Her Highness away from here? The whole bloody Tower is full of Nighthawks.”
The prince consort looked like hell. His colorless eyes narrowed and his fingers curled over each arm of the throne, making him seem not quite certain what was going on. “What a surprise to see you, Duchess. The last I heard, you were galloping out of here on one of my Trojan destriers.”
“My thanks for attempting a rescue.”
His expression told her nothing about whether he was buying this act or not. “Morioch bargained for your return. Unfortunately it was denied.”
Liar. Still, she started stripping off her leather gloves with a frown. “Did he?” She didn’t dare look at the queen. Emotion was already choking her, and she knew she’d never be able to hide all of it. “I’ve spent most of the past few days locked in a bloody room while half the city burns.”
“Just how, precisely, did you escape?” This came from Balfour, the prince consort’s spymaster.
A dangerous man. Mina glanced his way, tucking her gloves behind her belt. “I didn’t. The Devil of Whitechapel wanted me where he could see me, considering his home is quite undefended. There was no point in arguing, as he was taking me precisely where I wished to go. I simply knifed his man in the back and took my leave when the opportunity presented itself.” She took a step forward and froze as half a dozen pistols lifted. Holding up her hands, she managed her iciest tones. “You think I’ve taken up with that rogue? It seems your senses are leaving you.” A quick, frustrated glance behind her. “As evidenced by the unlocked door. Where are all of the guards? What is going on here? You should be escaping.”
Not that there was anywhere to go.
The prince consort lifted a hand, lace spilling from his sleeve. Dressed in his finest court attire, with a flute of blud-wein in his fingers, he said: “Leave her be, Balfour. I hardly think the Duchess of Casavian foolish enough to consort with the enemy.”
Was that a slur in his voice? “One does have certain standards,” she agreed, stepping closer.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could just make out a rumpled pile of yellow silk at his side. The queen, sitting by his feet with her coronation crown on her gleaming brown hair. A glance showed Mina a pale face but no sign of injury. Intense brown eyes locked on her, as if trying to tell her something. Mina looked away swiftly.
“Certain standards,” Balfour agreed, his eyes narrowing. “But she’s also less than foolish.”
“And why the hell would she come back here?” the prince consort demanded, waving another expansive hand. “She has to know she’s going to die.”
The entire court sprang into a frightened babble.
“Enough!” the prince consort bellowed. “Balfour, shoot the next person who cries out.”
The crowd subsided. A woman was sobbing somewhere.
“What do you mean by die?” Mina asked as the prince consort drained his wine.
“Fetch me another,” he demanded.
Balfour caught the serving man by the arm as he hurried to attend. “I hardly consider that wise, Your High—”
“Wise?” the prince consort mocked. “I want them all here, to join my ball.” He threw his head back and laughed. “All of them, and not a one to walk free. I’ll see them all in hell—”
Mina exchanged a glance with Balfour. He gave a tight shake of his head, just as concerned as she. The rest of the court looked confused, several debutantes whispering worriedly behind their hands. Mina even saw Malloryn in the crowd, a sight that gave her some hope. He was moving nonchalantly through them, circling toward the dais.
“We need to get Her Highness out of here,” she tried again. “We can protect her from this crowd of ruffians, perhaps remove her to the safety of—”
“She’s not going anywhere without me.” The prince consort spilled his wine on his sleeve.
The doors slammed open, striking the walls with a thunderous crash. Mina spun, her hand darting to the sword at her hip, and the court behind her gasped.
Caine strode through the double doors, the sound of fighting drifting up the staircase behind him. The sound cut off abruptly as the doors slowly swung shut, but the effect of it was far greater than that. She felt as though somewhere, very near to here, a coffin lid had slammed shut, blocking out all of the light in her world.
Her mouth went dry, her chest seeming to lock tight. She fought to catch a breath, but she couldn’t. Not in that moment when the duke’s appearance finally gave realization to the outcome that she had feared the most. The one she hadn’t allowed herself to think about.
Caine intercepted a glass of blud-wein from the tray of a hovering drone and strode toward them. “Sorry to miss the celebration.” He took a sip of the wine, surveying the court before draining the glass. His eyes locked on Mina for a second, then he tossed the empty glass aside with a smash, blood staining his lips.
