He moves with purpose, angling his sword this way and that to deflect and slash at Alistair. He’s the picture of concentration, his forearms flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves, his eyes sharp with intent. It’s like his world has narrowed to this one goal, just the movement of his body and the weapon in his hand.
And more than that—he islovingit. There’s a spark in his eyes, the hint of a smile at his mouth. Something has ignited in him, and he looks more alive than ever before.
It is the hottest thing I have ever seen.
Alistair doesn’t seem to agree, his face warped with disgust and fury. “What are you, the secret fourth musketeer?”
“There already are four musketeers,” Grant grits out between strikes, then blocks Alistair’s sword again with a grunt. “The title …”(CLANG)“is …”(CLASH)“… a misnomer!”
In a seething rage, Alistair swings his sword like a baseball bat at the antique chair he dragged over earlier, sending a shower of wooden splinters toward Grant’s head. Grant swiftly ducks, then slashes at Alistair’s legs.
Alistair leaps up, avoiding the blade, and brings his own sword down with a vengeance. Grant meets it just in time to savehis neck in the most literal sense, using both hands on his sword to push Alistair off.
Stumbling back, Alistair stares daggers at Grant.
“How?” he snarls.
“It’s called a hobby,” Grant says, flipping his sword around with an unbelievably cool flourish. “You should try one that isn’t evil sometime.”
At this point, it’s dawning on me that I probablycouldfigure out how to free myself from these ropes, but I can’t tear my attention away from Grant. This cannot be the same man who once shrieked his personal details at me from the back of a stolen Kia Rio.I’m a professor! I have a cat!Yet not even a whisper ofI’m New England’s answer to Zorro!
There’s more dodging and clashing, more zinging and clanging and probably lots of other sword fighting terminology I don’t know. Alistair is nearly growling with the effort to defeat Grant. Both of them are sweating with exertion and the oppressive heat of the fire.
But Grant has the upper hand now, and his relentless offense is slowly backing Alistair toward the fireplace.
“You can fight all you want,” grits out Alistair. “I willneversaytouché.”
“You just did,” says Grant.
And with a grunt of effort and one flawlessly executed kick to the wrist, he sends Alistair’s sword flying, then seizes him by the collar and plunges his own blade through the fabric and into the fireplace mantel.
Pinned through his shirt and jacket, Alistair dances awkwardly to avoid the lick of flames at his feet. Grant runs to me. I can only stare at him, slack-jawed.
His face creases with concern as he lightly touches my cheek, his eyes lingering on the spot I know is already bruising.
“Are you okay?”
I nod in a dumbstruck haze, and he turns to pick up the other sword. Alistair still twists and squirms in front of the fire, struggling to free himself. Grant returns to me and carefully cuts through the ropes that hold me to the chair. As he starts on the ones binding my legs, he grins up at me a little breathlessly.
“Did you see the kick?”
“Uh,yeah, Grant, I saw the kick,” I say, my voice coming out high and reedy. I can’t even begin to make sense of what I’ve seen or what it’s done to me. “I don’t understand … You said you didn’t know how …”
“Yeah,” he says, freeing my arms. “Like you said. Maintain the element of surprise. Come on.” Tossing the sword aside, he holds out a hand, and I take it without hesitation, stumbling to my feet.
“Wait,” I say, stopping short. I turn back and march toward the knockoff Bond villain shish-kebabed to the mantel. Without a word, I haul off and punch him in the nose. Bone crunches under my fist and I gag.
“Fuckyeah,” says Grant, giving me a celebratory shoulder squeeze as we make for the door.
When we’re both out, I slam the door closed, then curse its lack of dead bolt. Without the keys, it’s unlockable. There’s a tearing of fabric from within the room, then the loudthumpof Alistair falling free.
“Run,” I say.
We turn and scramble up the stairs and into a dim corridor, tripping over the moth-eaten carpet as the door bangs open below us. We race from the thudding footsteps, through a decrepit foyer. I hoick my dress up to my thighs, the better to run with, and am thrilled to find my phone still strapped to my leg.
I dial Lesley as we careen down the front steps and onto the sidewalk, and Lissa answers.
“Omigod, are you two o—”
