Her hand found the door-latch before pausing. Could she jump from a moving carriage? It hadn’t picked up that much speed yet. What was she supposed to do? Hold fast? What would he do?
Just hold on a little longer.
She let out a shaky breath.
Would that phrase always cling to her? Always with a meaning of survival?
No knocks. The rules were simple.
But she could not abide them. Calliope flipped the latch, shoved her shoulder to the panel, and dropped from the carriage as it continued forward, refusing to think about anything else other than escaping. The road slammed into her, she into it, jarring her insides more harshly than she anticipated. White spots danced beneath her eyelids, and she rolled and rolled. The moment she came to a halt, she stumbled to her feet.
Unfortunately, she didn’t get far.
A gloved hand closed over her mouth. “Easy now.”
She tried to twist, to bite; a man lifted her clean off her feet as if she weighed no more than a shawl. A cap came down over her head, dark and tight. The world vanished. Sound crowded in—the thunder of hooves, voices, one last gunshot swallowed by the road—and then there was nothing but the quick, thunderous drum of her own heart.
Maxen was alive, wasn’t he?
The alternative brought a chill to her.
Everything went black.
*
The taste ofiron coated in his mouth.
Maxen opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back, the earth uncomfortably hard and the sky above unreasonably bright. A dull, insistent throb pulsed at the side of his skull—steady as a drum and promising to haunt him for the remainder of the day.
He rolled, spat red, and got to his knees.
He was going to kill someone.
He’d only ever killed one person in his life, and he vowed his hands—he clenched them into fists—would never take another life. But he was damn well willing to make an exception today.
He took in the scene around him. There was no sign of the carriage. Of Calliope. The earth showed only the rough churn of hooves and wheels, the track scuffed raw, and the bitter breath of gunpowder that hadn’t faded.
No shouts. No answering thunder of hooves from the Fury line.
Where the devil were his brothers? They’d been following at a distance, Saint and Knight riding flank, Reaper holding the rear. They should have been here by now. Unless...
Bloody everlasting hell.
His jaw tightened. Unless those blackguards had struck them too.
Someone betrayed them.
There was no other explanation for what had happened here. He cursed again, his gaze hunting down the evidence layered in the tracks. Six sets of hooves’ imprints came in together, close, tight, moved as one, then split like a forked stream. He glanced in the direction they moved. Damn it. If they hurt his brothers... if they hurt Calliope...
Their world would burn.
The ground beneath him swayed, but he forcibly held himself upright by sheer willpower and rage. Hoofbeats approached, and through the haze of red hurtled Reaper, his black gelding slick with sweat, nostrils flaring. His brother swung down before the horse had even fully halted.
“Frère.” His gaze swept the road. “Where is the mouse?”
Maxen didn’t answer.
Reaper’s jaw worked before his eyes narrowed on Maxen’s temple. “You’re bleeding.”
