Isla slipped out of Andrew’s arms, lifting her chin. “I’m going to change. If I’m to face my enemies, I’d rather not do it in a nightdress.”
A flurry of movement broke out as they all rushed to dress and gather what they needed for the cold night ahead. Once ready to leave, Edmund opened the door, his eyes sweeping the hallway.
“Where do you suggest we go?” Juliette asked.
“George,” Edmund said. “He’ll meet us outside the student accommodations and take us through the old service tunnels beneath the east wing—no one uses them anymore. From there, we can reach the caretaker’s lodge on the far side of the grounds. It’s off the usual paths, and he knows every hidden entrance.”
The four of them left Andrew’s suite, moving cautiously toward the stairs. A noise from below made them freeze. Quiet footsteps and the creak of floorboards told them they weren’t alone.
Andrew felt Isla’s hand clutch around his arm.
Edmund ushered their group into an alcove. The space was tight, the air thick with dust and tension. Andrew’s shoulders brushed the cold wall behind him, every nerve alert. He despised waiting—hiding—while possible danger crept closer. Were thepeople climbing the staircase friend or foe? Edmund’s stillness offered no answer.
He heard Isla hold her breath as six men slipped quietly past. Thanks to Edmund’s broad frame, Andrew couldn’t see much—just the flicker of movement and the soft rasp of boots on the floorboards.
“They’re wearing masks,” Juliette whispered.
That answered one question—they weren’t allies.
When the footsteps faded down the corridor, Edmund motioned for them to move. Andrew’s pulse thundered in his chest as they eased out of hiding. Every creak of the old building felt deafening; even their breathing seemed too loud. They crept toward the staircase, each step a careful dance to avoid betraying their position.
Just as they reached the top step, Edmund’s boot found a treacherous floorboard. The long groaning creak might as well have been a siren.
“She’s there!” a voice shouted.
Andrew spun at the shout to see the masked men turning back toward them, setting off at a run in unison.
Before Andrew could react, Mrs. Harris’s door flew open. The elderly caretaker—wearing her dressing gown and slippers—thrust out a wrinkled hand. A sheet of ice shot across the hallway, slick and glittering, forming an impromptu tripwire. Two of the masked men went sprawling with a crash that rattled the windows.
The remaining four stumbled to leap over their fallen companions.
“Go!” Mrs. Harris barked, already retreating behind her door. “I’ll be fine!” He saw that her door was already sealed shut with ice.
Bless the woman—half busybody, half guardian angel. Who’d have thought she had such reflexes? Thanks to her, they had a head start.
And then they ran.
Chapter Forty-Five
Bursting from the apartment building, Isla ran, her skirt tangling around her legs. Her hand slipped from Andrew’s grasp and she stumbled to the ground, crying out as a projectile clump of dirt bashed her shoulder. She turned her head just in time to see Edmund drop back from the lead. He pivoted, hand glowing white, and unleashed a bolt of lightning from his palm.
The wind whipped around them, rattling iron railings and sending shadows dancing across pointed archways. Gargoyles glared from every ledge, their eyes glinting in the torchlight as though mocking the frantic quartet.
Andrew helped her to her feet, positioning himself at her side, Juliette on the other. Edmund moved in front, forming a protective barrier. Her fear spiked when she saw that they were outnumbered two to one, men’s faces hidden beneath balaclavas.
The scent of rain-soaked stone mixed with scorched magic was sharp and metallic. Lights flickered into existence on both sides—fire, ice, lightning—and made the darkness feel eerie as each prepared for the clash to come.
Edmund raised his hands, and a powerful wind whipped up the already turbulent British weather, summoning the wind—thunder and lightning crashed across the sky, and Isla felt her whole body tremble in fear.
The air thickened, charged with static and primal energy. A low rumble built like the overhead expanse was growling. Then, along with a loud crack of thunder, wind exploded into an organized circular motion.
A cyclone tore through the courtyard, roaring to life with impossible force—spiraling upward as it whipped around the six masked men. One by one they were lifted from the floor, limbs flailing. The air burned cold and electric, the noise deafening. It was surreal for Isla to be this close to such raw power and not be affected by it. Edmund’s control was astounding.
“Andrew!” Edmund’s voice cut through the chaos, commanding and fierce. “Get the women away! I’ll hold them off for as long as I can, but I cannot keep this up for long!”
Lightning flickered in the air around him, chasing across his broad shoulders like silver fire. Isla felt her stomach twist—she could sense the strain in the wind, the wild energy Edmund was barely holding together. In that moment he looked like Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders.
She felt Andrew shift slightly, summoning a thick mist that swirled around her skirt, encasing them in a protective shroud, obscuring the vision of their pursuers to their exact location—if they could see anything as they spun around. Andrew was trying to shield their escape.
