She staggered to her hands and knees, her first thought to crawl behind Poole and grab him around the legs, but Tristan kept his body in front of her, shielding her as he shifted in a wide arc around Poole. He was doing everything he could to protect her, which put him at a further disadvantage. How could he fend off Poole if part of his attention wasfocused on her?
A weapon. Tristan needed a weapon, but what? Sophia scrabbled blindly at the ground, praying she’d come across a loose rock or even a branch, but she found only dirt and a few loose pebbles. It wasn’t much, but if she could get close enough to Poole and catch him unawares, she might be able to blind him.
Sophia snatched up a handful of the dirt in a tight fist and scrambled into a crouch, ready to scurry around Tristan to get to Poole, but a grunt of pain stopped her. She stumbled to her feet just in time to see Poole drag the edge of his blade across Tristan’s forearm.
“That one’ll bleed nicely.” Poole sprung back with a bloodthirsty smirk and flicked his gaze over the blade of his dagger, his mouth curling with satisfaction at the blood dripping from the tip. “Not feeling dizzy, are you, Gray? It’ll be your chest next time.”
Sophia watched in horror as blood spurted from Tristan’s wound, turning the sleeve of his white shirt a dark red. Nausea swamped her, nearly sending her to her knees again.
Tristan pressed his other hand against the wound to staunch the flow, but he didn’t waste his energy replying to the taunt. His gaze darted from Poole’s face to the dagger in his hand as he and Poole continued to circle each other.
Poole lunged again, missed, then lunged a second time, aiming his blade at Tristan’s chest. Tristan dodged at the last minute and the strike flew wide. Before Poole could regain his balance, Tristan charged at him, grabbing him around the waist and knocking him onto his back on the ground. The breath left Poole’s lungs in a stunned whoosh. Tristan fell on top of him and closed his hands around Poole’s throat, but Sophia could see his wounded arm was stiff. He was weakened by blood loss, as well, and Poole managed tothrow him off.
Sophia rushed forward then, ready to blind Poole with the dirt in her hand while he was down, but for all that Poole lacked cleverness, he was a skilled fighter, as deadly with a dagger as he was vicious. He was up again in a flash, rolling onto his feet in one smooth move.
He saw Sophia approach from the corner of his eye and sent her sprawling with one blow from the back of his hand. She vaguely registered a howl of rage, and the sounds of a furious scuffle as she crumpledto the ground.
Don’t swoon. Not now, not now…
The clouds had receded, and a dark sky sprinkled with stars swam above her. Their bright edges blurred together, then began to fade to black as her vision tunneled, but just as consciousness threatened to desert her, the spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church came into focus, the light gray stone pale against the midnight sky.
Henry’s spire…
That spire was the last thing Henry Gerrard had seen before his eyes closed forever. He would have found serenity in the sight of that spire reaching into the heavens—a final moment of peace before his heart beat its last. Sophia could understand that peace as she lay on her back, her gaze fixed on the spire soaring into the sky.
She’d have to remember to tell Tristan how it felt…
Because she wouldn’t die here tonight. She wouldn’t die, and she’d do whatever she must to see to it Tristan didn’t either. The spire of St. Clement Dane’s Church wouldn’t be the last thing she ever saw.
It had begun here, but it wouldn’t end here.
Sophia dragged in deep breaths as she stared up at the spire, focusing on it until the dizziness receded. One breath, another…slowly, her heart ceased its panicked thrashing, and the darkness receded from the edges of her vision. A calm descended over her, almost as if someone were whispering soothingly into her ear.
Such a good girl, Sophia…
Not a good girl, no. She’d never been that, had never even understood what it meant to be that. But maybe once, just this one time, she couldbe the heroine.
Sophia staggered to her feet, blood spurting out of her nose from the blow to her face. Tristan and Poole were scrambling in the dirt, each of them trying to pin the other to the ground and gain the upper hand. Hope surged in Sophia’s chest as Tristan rolled on top of Poole, but she didn’t wait to see who’d emerge the victor.
There was no time.
Instead she flew towards the church, stopping halfway there and falling to her knees in front of the dilapidated crypt she’d hidden inside earlier tonight. There was a heavy marble cross half-buried in the dirt in front of the arched doorway. She’d noticed there was a long, deep crack in it, close to the bottom. One kick was all it would take to break it, but she’d have to land the blow carefully, or she risked the entire thing crumbling to pieces.
The cross tilted crazily in the loose dirt at its base. She clawed at the ground, shoving the dirt to one side, then staggered to her feet and muttered a quick prayer just as she brought her heel down hard right over the crack near bottom of the cross.
The marble fractured with a cold, hollow snap. Bits of chipped stone flew everywhere, but the cross remained mostly intact, and heavy enough to use as a weapon. Sophia heaved it up in both hands and ran with it back to where Tristan and Poole were struggling in the dirt.
What she saw when she drew near made her freeze, and her heart stop in her chest.
Tristan was on his back, with Poole on top of him. Poole’s hands were raised over his head, and between them he held the dagger, the point aimed for Tristan’s heart. The faint hint of moonlight peeking through the clouds gleamed dully on the blade as it arced downwards. Tristan caught Poole’s wrists before Poole could plunge the dagger into his chest, but gravity and momentum worked against him.
He was able to slow the dagger, but not to stop it. Poole’s wrists slipped through Tristan’s fingers and the dagger plunged downward into Tristan’s chest.
A scream echoed around them in the clear, dark night then—a scream filled with an inhuman anguish. At first Sophia thought it must be Tristan screaming with pain, but as her feet pounded across the graveyard towards him, she realized it wasn’t.
It washer.
She was flying across the ground, running faster than she’d ever run in her life, yet her feet felt sluggish and her legs heavy as she watched Poole raise his hands over his head a second time, and dear God, they seemed miles away still, the expanse of ground between her and Tristan vast, an ocean. She wasn’t fast enough—she wasn’t going to make it to them in time to stop Poole from stabbing Tristana second time.
