“I have the antidote,” Huxley panted. He held up a leather pouch. “Let me go and I’ll give it to you.”
“He won’t,” Magdala rasped. “He’s a liar. Remember the river.”
But Asherton was off-kilter, shaken, and in that brief moment, Huxley reached into his jacket and pulled out a single-shot shotfire. “I was saving this for Zephyr, but I’ll use it on her if I have to.” He turned the weapon toward Magdala. “Tell me where Zephyr is and you both live.”
Asherton stepped between the shotfire and Magdala and dropped his sword. “Shoot me if you want to, but I do not know where Zephyr is.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Asherton’s jaw hardened, and he twitched his splinted arm. Something gleamed in the palm of his hand—something that strangely resembled Madgala'sbread lame.
In a sudden flash, Asherton reached out, gripped Huxley's wrist, and yanked him forward while, in one fluid movement, he slashed out with his injured arm. Blood spattered the walls. A scream caught in Magdala’s throat.
Huxley staggered away from Asherton, clutching his throat, his eyes bulging. Blood spilled over his fingers and dribbled through his lips. He let out a gurgling moan and sank to the floor.
Chapter 49
Asherton snatched the leather pouch from Huxley’s hand and tore it open.
Everything sounded far away and cloudy. Magdala’s body drifted into cold shadows. Smoke choked her. She was sleepy—maybe she would shut her eyes for a moment. Only a moment.
“NO!” Asherton pulled her into his arms. “No, no, Mags! Swallow this. Please, Mags.”
Footsteps pounded on the stone steps and Magdala gagged as something was crammed into her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but Asherton pleaded, “Swallow this. Please!”
It tasted bitter. She wanted to vomit it out, but Asherton was insistent. She coughed and forced herself to swallow.
“That’s it.” Asherton’s voice was thin and tremulous. “Good, good.” He’d just cut a man’s throat. It wasn’t possible, her Asherton, cutting a man’s throat. She played it over in her mind as the walls formed again. Asherton’s face came into focus, hovering over her, his cheeks shining with tears.
“You killed Huxley,” she said softly.
He let out a soggy laugh and said, “I’m sorry, does that botheryou?”
“Not exactly.” She blinked rapidly. “I just didn’t think you …”
“What? You didn’t think I was capable of killing someone?”
“Well …”
“That’s a very rude thing to say to the person who’s just saved your life! I’ll have you know, Miss Devney, that I can kill a man with any kitchen utensil I like.”
Magdala’s head was clearing. The pain rushed back and she moaned.
“Wrap your hand,” he said, suddenly grave again. He tore a strip from his shirt and tied it over the wound. Then he laid his palm against her cheek. “Any bones broken, do you think?”
She shook her head. “My shoulder is dislocated. And then he burned me. But I don’t know … I drifted off and just went somewhere else in my mind …”
“Did he … did any of them …”
“Nothing like that,” she said quickly.
“Do you know where this lets out?”
“No. But it must lead out of the house.”
Asherton lifted her, his splinted arm trembling under her knees, and bore her down the passage. They reached a wall that had caved in and staggered up a flight of stairs to a square of stone in the ceiling. The smoke had followed them, filling the space with a brown cloud. Asherton set Magdala down and felt around the square. But there was no door and no latch or hinges.
“There’s no way out, Mags,” he said.
