Leena felt the pistol St. Silas had given her nestled in her pocket, but she could not reach it while Kilworth kept a grip on his rifle.
He leaned closer, lifting one sweaty palm toward her. “But perhaps you do not know who the Saint truly is and require some assistance to escape his clutches. Consider my hand a helping one.”
Leena slapped that helping hand away.
“Touch me and—” she warned viciously, but the harsh slam of the rifle against the floor silenced her. Both she and Mrs. Van jumped backward, startled by the dull echo of metal on wood.
Then, almost tenderly, Kilworth turned to Mrs. Van and lifted her chin with the butt of his gun. Leena imagined the shiver of cool steel on her own skin and seethed in fury.
“You’ve fed on humans before,” Kilworth said softly to Mrs. Van, disgust curdling his face. “I know that look. You see our despair and make a feast out of it. What is it that your kind says—joy tastes bitter? You ought to be executed for your crimes.” He glanced briefly at Leena. “You may go, chit. The demon stays with me. I have the notion that she may hold the answers to a few of my mostpressingquestions.”
Leena could not say at what point she had stopped viewing Mrs. Van as somethingother.Nor could she forget how tirelessly Mrs. Van had aided her in nursing Rami back to health, or all those mornings when Mrs. Van had taken particular care with her curls. All the meals she’d cooked for them back in Golborne. The broths. The pots of tea.
“Make it fair,” Leena said quietly. Her pulse bounded. “Give us a head start. You’ve always wanted to hunt one ofherkind before, haven’t you? Now is your chance.”
Kilworth’s bloodshot eyes didn’t fall from Mrs. Van’s face. “I’ve always wondered iftheybleed like us.” The allure of the hunt had given him a wild look, as if he was already in the forest, smelling his prey.
He lowered the rifle and slammed it again on the floorboards.Thud. Thud. Thud.“I will grant her five minutes.”
Neither Mrs. Van nor Leena moved.
“Now.” Kilworth’s eyes were on the clock above their heads. The rifle continued to slam its rhythmic beats.
“Go,” Leena shouted.
When Mrs. Van didn’t move, she grabbed the other woman’s arm and forced them both through the door. Lord Kilworth’s attention was still fixed on the clock, his lips moving imperceptibly as he counted down the seconds.
Leena stood at the threshold of the room. Her mind focused. Her blood slowed. She grabbed hold of the pistol in her pocket, drew it out, and unlockedit.
Then, holding the weapon in a death grip, she aimed the muzzle at Kilworth and fired.
It jarred her shoulders and she fell back against the bedroom door. But St. Silas had warned her about this, so she was prepared for the pain.
The shot echoed across the winding halls of Weavingshaw like a scream.
Then Leena’s heart dropped.
The kick of the pistol had been too much. She had only managed to clip Kilworth in the ear, blood dripping from the cut in a trickle, the bullet implanting itself instead in the wooden post of the bed.
Kilworth’s face twisted with sudden fury.
In one practiced motion, his rifle swung toward her, his finger hovering over the trigger.
Leena lurched out of the way as the bullet whizzed by, missing her by mere millimeters.
She and Mrs. Van bolted.
Leena’s bare feet pounded against the floorboards, with Mrs. Van only seconds in front of her. As they slipped down the stairs, Leena turned back to find that Kilworth hadn’t yet followed them. A sinking sensation descended in her chest when she realized that he was waiting for them to leave tracks. That he wasstill hunting them.
“Outside?” Leena whispered, but Mrs. Van shook her head.
“He’s planning on that. He’ll shoot at us from the window.”
The ceiling above them creaked—the hollow thud of the rifle striking wood.
Terror built behind Leena’s eyes. She looked for a phantom to lead them out, a servant to offer help, but for the first time in a long time the house was completely bereft of any living or dead creatures. She didn’t have time to question this stark emptiness, her mind intent entirely on survival.
Scrambling, she tore through the drawers of one of the long mahogany tables lining the hallway until she found a lamp and a box of matches. She motioned for Mrs. Van to follow her, retracing the same steps St. Silas had taken when he’d led them toward the crypts. They moved fast and silently, ears pricked for any approaching footsteps.
