It’s only a glimpse, but I’d never forget the back of that neck, the slope of those shoulders, the little scar on his left ear. My ex-fiancé, nearly my brother-in-law, the proof of my horror. Sitting mere feet away. Tucking into eggs and sausage. Heat and ice flow through my body in equal measure.
“Sir?” the innkeeper prompts.
Mr. Croxton laughs. His eyes travel across the room. Why did I skimp on my disguise? Foolishness, complacency. His brow creases a little when his eyes settle on me. Is it because I’m also looking at him, or does he recognize me? The young woman he found waiting in the home of the lighthouse keeper he planned to steal from.
“Could you send a meal up to my room instead?” I ask the keeper, every muscle tense enough to stop my voice from shaking.
“Of course. Apologies, sir. I should’ve let you know—”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I turn away from the men, looking at the keeper instead. “Is there another exit? I have a lot of luggage, and I don’t wish to disturb.”
“Yes, yes—thank you, sir.”
He directs me to the secondary staircase, promises a platter delivered to my room once he has a moment, then moves on to the next customer.It takes every scrap of self-control left in me not to turn back to the table of villains. If Mr. Croxton is still looking at me, there’s nothing I can do but what I plan on anyway. Leave, quick as the Devil himself.
I collect my bags upstairs. Thomas’s figure is burned into my eyes. As I peer at the mirror, considering adding more to my disguise, his afterimage haunts my reflection. Until it winks.
I whip around, but I’m alone. A Devil’s trick or my mind’s? Did Mr. Pratterman influence them choosing this establishment? What odds are there in us running into each other in so large a city? I’m reduced to my pounding heart, my tired bones, my brutalized soul. All because of Thomas.
What does it mean that he and Croxton are together? What are they planning? The other men—it was a party of all men. This cheap inn isn’t Thomas’s natural habitat. They were all so finely dressed. He’s a gentleman, no reason to attend a church on the outskirts of town or take luncheon at an inn of no import. Did they not want to be seen either?
I thought myself a predator, but once again I’m reminded of the reality. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing, pretending at heartless vengeance. When I stare into the mirror again, all I see is fear.
Did Mr. Pratterman mean himself when talking of Liney and whom she might turn to should I fail? Or Thomas? Did I warn her enough of his danger should he find her without me? Will he now be her lesser evil? Thomas didn’t kill anyone. Only I did.
My hands shake so hard I nearly drop the bag I meant to hoist onto my back. My breathing grows faster, shallower, like Liney’s before an attack. I need to calm down.
A knock at my door. They couldn’t know which room I’m staying in, surely? Did they bribe the keeper? I’ve taken too long.
“Yes?” I call out. The cursed blade is within reach. I shouldn’t use it now; it’s my only hope for killing Bridget, yet if Thomas is on the other side of that door—
“Lunch, sir!” The sound of a tray placed on the floor follows, then footsteps down the stairs.
I nearly attacked a stranger for no reason but fear. Is fear so different from fury? In every sacrifice I’ve made, it’s been fear that fueled me, disguised as wrathful fire. Fear of the Devil, my past, Liney’s future. And my first fear, my last fear: that Thomas may control me again.
I can’t stand frozen by these weak thoughts. Complete the next task. I hoist my bags, step over the food, kick it into the room, close the door, and head down the back set of stairs. I glance back, but no one’s behind me. Only the echoes of clattering plates and Sunday morning chatter.
The stairs lead to a narrow hallway, one way toward the kitchens and the other to the back door. The bags are heavy, but I can’t feel the weight through my surge of energy.
Only a few feet and I’m free of this place. I’ll pick a different inn next time. Or perhaps I’ll come back and kill Thomas once the horrid task is done. Would Liney ever believe that he was to blame for Bridget’s death?
As though conjured from my thoughts, I turn a corner, and there in the flesh stands Thomas Seymour, hand freshly out of his vest with a cigarette.
I take too long. If I didn’t know him, I’d just push past as one man to another. How to explain? My mind is spinning. It’s been so long since we’ve been this close. The smell of cloves and spirits hang in the air. How long has he been back here? Why? Is he cornering me? Will I find Mr. Croxton behind me if I turn tail?
“Do you have a light?” Thomas asks. His voice holds more gravel now. I chose the Devil as my vice; he chose tobacco.
He hasn’t looked up. I still have a chance.
“Sorry, no,” I mutter in as low a register as I can manage without breaking my voice. I begin to move around him, sidestepping him. I should’ve faced away, but the prospect of having him at my back couldmake me retch. Too many memories of hands around my waist and a liquored tongue whispering in my ear.
I’m nearly past him when he grabs my wrist. I look up. I don’t mean to, I shouldn’t, yet it’s impulse. His gold eyes are dark in the dim light of the hall. Recognition draws the cruelty into his face.
My new knife is packed carefully away. I wish I could draw it now. End him as I always intended before Mr. Pratterman changed my plans.
“You can’t be—”
I don’t let him finish. He doesn’t know what I’ve become. I lean down and bite the hand holding me. He draws it back. I see red. I’ve broken skin. I’ve got seconds before I never see the outside again. I shove him back as hard as I can and launch myself at the door only feet away. He’s yelling. I can’t hear him over my thunderous heart soaring at escape.
