A bell started clanging from inside the gatehouse, and more guards appeared, pouring out of doorways she hadn’t known existed. They were yelling, raising their muskets, and she heard the crack of gunfire, one shot after another.
Rune staggered with each impact. The relic in her eye socket showed her dark shadows moving, and she became aware of how his body jerked and twisted, how he fought to stay upright. He didn’t fall, he started running toward the center of the courtyard, drawing them away from her.
Seraphina stood alone in the archway, the open gate at her back. She’d known this, so why was she disappointed? He’d only told her he would come with her to appease her, distract her, and convince her to let him get her out. He’d lied every time, and she’d known. It didn’t mean the confirmation hurt less.
A watchman came at her from the side, his boots splashing through mud. She sensed him just in time and spun to face him. He swung something at her head, probably a club, and she ducked under it. She went low, driving her fist into his throat, aiming for his Adam’s apple. He made a wet, choking sound and staggered back. She followed him, striking at his eyes with her fingers, and when he tried to grab her wrists, she twisted free and slammed her knee into his groin. He collapsed, gurgling and gasping.
Her body buzzed with exhilaration. When attacked, she moved on instinct, defending herself and going for the most vulnerable spots. She had to fight dirty as a woman, especially unarmed. Briar had taught her. Seraphina could hear her now.
“Never allow a man to get close enough. He will overpower you with his sheer mass. If someone has to die, let it not be you.”
“Don’t I know it,” she’d told Briar.
Rune had fallen. There were shadows on top of him, a mass of bodies. She heard the thud of clubs and boots striking flesh. Was he even fighting back, or had he given up?
Another watchman lunged at her. Seraphina heard him coming, sensed the shape of him, and this time, he had a musket. She sidestepped his thrust, avoiding the bayonet, and grabbed the barrel, yanking it toward her. He stumbled forward, off balance, and she twisted the weapon out of his hands. It was heavier than she’d expected. She swung it hard, aiming for his head, and felt the stock connect with the back of his skull. He went down without a sound.
There were too many, though. They were swarming Rune, and she was too far away to help him. Even if she tried, even if she fought her way through all of them, he wouldn’t come with her. He’d made his choice.
He didn’t want to be saved.
A shout came from her left, and she knew she was out of time. If she stayed, they would catch her, throw her back in a cell, or worse. Everything Rune had done would be for nothing.
Seraphina turned and bolted through the broken gate, into the darkness beyond, into the freezing rain and the empty streets of Ingolstadt. Her feet pounded against cobblestones, she almost lost a boot, and she held onto her skirts, focusing on the shadows dancing behind the implanted relic, judging the distance between herself and a lamp post, avoiding it at the last moment. She ran without knowing where she was going. She would orient herself later.
She’d escaped, but she’d left him behind.
He’d lied to her, yes, but she’d let him lie.
She’d known, and she’d let him do it anyway, went along with his plan. She felt betrayed, but what right did she have when she was out, and he was going to be dragged back in?
Rune was going to die. Soon, they’d decide the investigation had gone for too long, a swift joke of a trial would find him guilty of murder, and his head would roll.
Seraphina had to stop thinking about him.
It was a matter of time, but the truth was undeniable: Rune was no more.
Chapter Twelve
His body knew it was meant to be with the worms.
He lay limp as they dragged him by the scruff of his shirt, his body leaving deep furrows in the mud. He was drenched, the freezing rain stabbing his eyes, and he closed them to protect his mind from the immensity of the open sky. He was covered in dirt and his own blood. He didn’t look like a person anymore, but then again, he never had.
Cursing and kicking him, the watchmen dragged him through dark corridors, down three sets of stairs, into the bowels of the prison. The cells here didn’t have windows. The stone smelled of mold and piss, of rot and rat leavings. They threw him in one that was barely big enough for two people to fit at the same time, pushed him against the back wall and secured his wrists and ankles with iron cuffs, the chains short and bolted to the floor. One of the guards kicked him in the shin, the other spat on him.
Rune hung his head and stared at a dark smudge between his dirty feet.
“How did he get out?” the sergeant’s voice boomed from down the corridor.
The watchmen stepped out of his way. The two men in the cell with Rune removed themselves to let him enter.
“I won’t ask again. How did he get out?”
He was fuming. He looked down at Rune with utter disgust, but his question and rage were first and foremost directed at his inferiors.
“He broke the lock,” one guard provided.
“How?”
