She lunges.
3
MIRANDA
Physics dictates that every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Matilde lunges across the table with the velocity of a striking viper, her jaw unhinged, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth.
My brain screamspredator, but my hands rely on leverage.
I grab the heavy silver candelabra in front of me. It’s solid sterling, three branches, dripping with hot wax. I don’t swing it; I shove it. I use the table as a fulcrum and thrust the base into Matilde’s chest just as her claws graze the silk of my bodice.
Thud.
The impact sounds wet. It stops her forward momentum just long enough for her to stagger back, snarling—a sound that vibrates in the sub-bass frequency, rattling the china.
"Run," I whisper to myself. The command overrides the paralysis seizing my limbs.
I kick off my heels. Traction is critical. I can’t sprint on polished hardwood in stilettos. I bolt for the archway, my stockinged feet slipping on the Persian rug before finding grip. Behind me, the dining room explodes into chaos. Chairssplinter. Wood snaps. It sounds like a demolition crew taking a sledgehammer to the furniture, but faster. Violently faster.
I hit the hallway, the air heavy with the scent of burning wax and copper.
"Get her!" The silver-haired man’s voice echoes, distorting into a shriek that hurts my eardrums.
I don't look back. I run.
The house, which seemed merely large before, now stretches like a distorted funhouse. The gas lamps flicker as I tear past them, shadows lengthening and twisting. I hear them behind me. It’s not the sound of footsteps. It’s the sound of displaced air.Whoosh. Whoosh.They aren't running; they’re closing the distance with inhumane speed.
I skid around a corner, my shoulder slamming into the wainscoting. Pain flares—sharp, hot, grounding—but I use the bounce to propel myself toward the foyer.
A figure steps out from the shadows of the library, blocking my path.
It’s the male servant who served the soup. The vacant look is gone, replaced by a hungry, black-eyed focus. He stands perfectly still, blocking the exit to the front door.
"Ms. Fredson," he says, his voice a monotone drone. "Please return to the table. The main course is waiting."
"Move," I gasp, my lungs burning.
He steps forward, arms spreading wide. He’s going to tackle me.
Adrenaline floods my system, dumping cortisol into my blood. Fight or flight. The flight path is blocked.
I grab a heavy, wrought-iron fire poker from the stand next to the library entrance. It’s rusted, heavy, unbalanced.
He lunges.
I swing the iron bar with both hands, putting the full torque of my hips into the motion. The pointed end connects with his chest, right under the sternum.
Chunk.
The metal punches through his vest, through the shirt, sinking inches deep into the meat of him. The force of the blow knocks him back against the wall. He slides down, the poker sticking out of his chest like a morbid flag.
"Oh god," I choke out. The mechanic in me shuts down; the human takes over. I just killed a man. I just murdered the help. "I... I didn't mean..."
I let go of the handle, stepping forward, hands shaking violently. "Hey, stay with me. I need pressure on the wound. I need?—"
The servant looks up.
He isn't gasping for air. There is no blood bubbling at his lips. He looks at the iron bar protruding from his sternum, then looks at me. He looks annoyed.
