Page 189 of Immortal Rose

As if Hugh had summoned him out of the darkness, Reddy appeared behind them, looking as itchy and uncomfortable as he always did in dress attire.

“Go,” Reddy said, taking Viola’s other arm with a look of resignation. “I’ll see to her and Elly.”

“Like hell you will,” Viola protested, glittering like a fairy with her jewels. Hugh gave her one last, longing look, the soppy idiot he was.

“I’m still owed a dance,” he reminded her. “I’ll be back to claim it.”

Her jaw set obstinately, and he wanted to drown in those hazel eyes. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Hugh kissed her hand as he slid free of her hold.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” Reddy reminded him. “I hate funerals. They’re bad for my health.”

With that, Hugh took off—not up the stairs, toward the Patricians who had surrounded Eleanor protectively, but around the hedges lining the grand stairs, to the door hidden behind them. Branches bit and tore at him as he finally got the blasted thing open enough to slip through.

The uproar faded as the door shut, sealing him into the darkness of the hidden passage. His memory drew a map of the fastest, most direct route through them to the servants’ courtyard, where, he knew, Glenmoor always kept a horse at the ready. With all the palace staff’s attention fixed on the ball, there would be no one to impede his use of those corridors.

Hugh ran through the blackness, relishing the memory of Glenmoor’s face as the Crown of Veracity took hold. How very gratifying it had been to watch Eleanor drive in the knife with her questions.

Hugh burst through the false back of a closet, then into the ground floor of the servants’ wing, where he and Viola had entered that first night. Sure enough, as he threw his body around the next corner, Glenmoor, flanked by his policemen, rushed through the inky darkness of the corridor.

Hugh reached into his jacket, taking out the small pistol he’d strapped underneath. He slowed, steadying his grip as he aimed.

“Glenmoor!” he bellowed.

The idiot looked back. Hugh squeezed off the shot.

The roar blistered his ears, spilling smoke into the air. When it cleared, Glenmoor was being dragged between the two policemen now. Blood soaked the left side of his body. Where was the wound? Clearly not the leg, where he’d been aiming.

“You have won nothing,” Glenmoor called back in a thin, reedy voice.

The man on the left dropped Glenmoor’s arm and wheeled around, firing his rifle. Instinct alone sent Hugh diving right, slamming into the wall. His teeth gnashed with the force of the impact, color and light exploding in his vision.

He didn’t need to look down to know he’d been hit; the bullet had sliced through his upper left arm, leaving a hot streak of agony in its wake. That side of his body seized with pain.

“Until next time, brother,” Glenmoor called. “If you survive that long.”

Hugh’s vision swam, splitting the man in two as he barreled down the hall toward him. Hugh swore, tossing the pistol to reach beneath his sleeve for the knife strapped to his forearm. Glenmoor and the other man limped toward that final hallway that would lead them to the waiting courtyard.

Damn him, he wouldn’t slither away. Not this time.

Hugh waited until the last moment to duck as the guard swung the butt of his rifle toward Hugh’s face. Years of sparring at Almici’s seized hold of him, smoothing the flow of Hugh’s strike as he lunged beneath the giant’s arm and spun, sliding the knife out from beneath his sleeve and driving it through the man’s back in a single, lethal stroke. The sucking gasp of breath as the man dropped to his knees told Hugh he’d pierced the lung as intended.

Gripping his bleeding arm in irritation, he ran for the hallway, sliding around the last corner.

A pale face flashed at the doorway, its lower half covered by a white handkerchief. The man’s dress jacket was flecked with grass and reeked of fire smoke. Hugh raised his blade to throw it, but the man was faster, launching something toward him. Black—gleaming—

Hugh lunged to catch the perfume flacon, and, like a waking nightmare, he watched it slip just past the tips of his fingers and shatter against the ground. He had only a second to react, holding his breath as he flung his arm over his nose and mouth. Magic hissed around him like a vile, living thing, spreading its poisonous mist until it choked the hallway.

Somehow, logic overcame his terror, and rather than rush back the way he had come, Hugh followed the attacker out into the clear night air just as Glenmoor and the policeman galloped away on their horse.

Hugh spun, searching for the man who had thrown the bottle, finally releasing his pent-up breath.

God, no—regret bellowed through him. Because, of course, the perfume had splattered onto him, and the moment he was foolish enough to lower his arm, it invaded his senses.

The agony of his wound was nothing to the thorned vines that seemed to tear through his chest. The spiked magic raged in him with each anguished breath he drew.

Damn it—damn it all—