“Come on, Parker,” implores Tristan. “Please don’t make me hurt you.Scream.”
Reaching into her back pocket, Shea withdraws the jagged needle, splinter sharp. She jabs wildly, feeling the soft puncture of flesh as she plunges deep. Tristan falls back with a howl, sulfur-dark blood widening in a circle beneath his ribs.
“I’m sorry,” she cries, taking off at run. “I’m sorry!”
Behind her, Tristan has abandoned all sense. He lunges after Shea with a snarl, gaining on her, even wounded. She rounds the corner at a clip, skidding along the carpet with enough force to cause it to ribbon in on itself. The movement sends her tripping into a narrow console table. She tugs it down behind her, sending a decorative vase crashing to the floor. Glass shatters like shrapnel as she flings herself out onto the landing, racing down the wide staircase.
She’s so intent on watching behind her, she doesn’t see Asher ascending the steps until she slams directly into him.
“Move,” he barks.
He’s got his right eye trained along the bridge of a crossbow, a wooden stake notched in the stirrup. Tristan hurtles around the corner just as Asher lets the cable fly. There’s the whistle of a projectile through the dark. The smack of a palisade finding its mark. Tristan drops to his knees upon the steps, sucking in a breath. The stake protrudes from his abdomen, inches below his heart.
“You missed,” he wheezes.
Asher drops his crossbow, his expression grim. “I never miss.”
A door bangs open somewhere unseen. Cyrus appears, his expression guarded as he takes silent stock of Tristan on the stairs.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks.
For a moment, Shea isn’t sure who he’s speaking to. Slowly, she becomes aware of a lone figure standing atop the landing. It’s Lys, quiet as a specter. Dark as a void. A single strip of moonlight bridges his nose as he peers wordlessly down at Tristan Choi.
“Mercy Ridge is compromised,” says Cyrus. “Keep acting like you don’t see it, and you’ll bring the rest of us down with you.”
Slowly, Lys lifts his eyes to Shea’s. His stare is onyx, glittering bright.
“Change of plans,” he says coldly. “Go upstairs and pack your things. We leave within the hour.”
There’s a bottle waiting for Lysander when he arrives back to his room.
An old whiskey decanter on ice, its contents red. Red, like blood. Red, like that ridiculous fucking dress. A note has been fastened to the neck, the message tied with twine. Unlike the last note, he recognizes the handwriting on this one—he knows it cold.
The queen is valuable, but a hobbled king is powerless.
x Paris
Chess. Of course, it’s chess. It always is. He snatches the bottle off the table, uncorking the crystal finial with a pop of his thumb. Tipping the carafe to the side, he lets the contents trickle onto the rug at his feet.
He’s still standing there when Asher Thorley brightens his doorway.
“Hello, Sunshine,” he says as the liquid thins to a stop. “You’ve caught me at a bad time.”
“I’ve seen your kind kill before,” says Asher, without preamble.
“Oh, good. We’re skipping the small talk.” Pinching one eye shut, Lysander peers into the empty carafe.Asher appears on the other side, large and upside down.“Tell me more.”
“If Tristan Choi wanted Shea dead, she’d be dead. Same with Conall Sullivan.”
Lysander lowers the glass. “An interesting theory.”
“It’s not a theory. They were toying with her.”
“In your expert opinion, of course.”
Lysander sniffs at the lip of the glass. Pig’s blood. His stomach curdles.
“I know it was you who killed Sullivan,” says Asher.
