“I don’t know. He was behind me, but I ran ahead, and when I turned around, he was gone.”
The passageway took a sharp turn, then angled down. Magdala guessed they must be moving under the dining room now, near the kitchen. The walls were carved from rock, and water dripped into deep grooves in the floor.
Asherton paused on the stairs and adjusted his hold on her.
“Put me down, Ash. Your arm …” she began.
“Gracious, woman, that is the least of our concerns at the moment.”
“I’m trying to be thoughtful,” she muttered.
“It’s not every day you find your wife being tortured in your own house. It makes a man want to be protective. Humor me.”
She let him carry her to the bottom of the stairs. The walls narrowed, the screams from the ballroom fading.
“How did you know about this?” Asherton asked.
“Ghosts,” Magdala replied. “And blue eyes.”
Boots thudded behind them—someone was clattering down the steps. Asherton set Magdala down and drew his sword.
“Go,” he ordered.
“No.” Magdala had no weapons. The floor pitched, but she leaned against the wall. Her clothes were sticky with blood. “No, we stay together.”
“Just one time, do as you’re told.”
She shook her head.
Asherton’s eyes blazed. “Magdala, go!”
“Our blood spills together!” she cried. “That was the agreement!”
“Stubborn woman.” Asherton slashed his sword in the air, and there was a hunger in him Magdala had never seen before.
“COME ON, HUXLEY!” Asherton shouted, flexing his fingers on the sword. “After what you did to my wife, there’s no one I’d rather see!”
Huxley rounded the corner slowly, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other.
“Where is Zephyr?” Huxley asked.
An acrid aroma wafted down the passage. Smoke? Had Huxley set the house on fire?
Intense sleepiness washed over Magdala, and her heart slowed in her chest. Her burns and bruises dulled as she sank down the wall to her knees.
Asherton rushed Huxley eagerly, and their swords sang. Huxley parried, but Asherton kicked him hard in the stomach, and Huxley stumbled. With a flurry of rapid cuts, Asherton pushed him back and back, until Huxley tripped on the bottom stair and fell. It happened so fast, Magdala couldn’t track Asherton’s movements.
“Mercy!” Huxley yelped, shielding his head with his arm.
Asherton raised his sword. “LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO HER!”
Smoke filtered down the passage, burning Magdala’s lungs.
“I gave her amenite!” Huxley cried.
Asherton froze, his eyes wide, then he lowered his sword. “You bastard,” he breathed.
The amenite. She’d forgotten it. But she was forgetting everything, the world fading like water spilled on ink. Magdala sank sideways. Asherton jerked his head toward her, his lips parted, and his face went white as snow.
