Page 81 of Freedom’s Inferno

I stepped back.

The brakes squealed and the rear door flew open.

“Hey!” I started.

A hand clamped around my arm, hard. Another caught my waist. The force knocked the air out of me. I tried to twist free, my heel scraping the curb, but the grip only tightened. The fog spun, the streetlight turning into a blur of gold and white as I was yanked off balance.

“Charlie!” I screamed, and the world tilted.

Something slammed into the side of my head, an explosion of sound and light, and the world folded in on itself. The fog, the car, the hands on me all dissolved into a single, pulsing blur. My knees went weak, the air vanished from my lungs, and for a moment I wasn’t falling so much as drifting, weightless and unmoored, before everything went dark.

Part Three

The Final Chime

The final chime rings

Chains shatter with hollow sound

Freedom crowned in ash

Interlude

The foyer gleamed under the low amber light, polished floors reflecting the curve of the banister and the dark sheen of the grandfather clock that stood sentry beside the stairs. Lana adjusted one of her earrings, staring at herself in the warped reflection of the clock’s glass. The clock was older than she was, a towering antique Richard claimed had belonged to some distant ancestor, though she doubted the story. He liked to collect things that gave him the illusion of legacy.

They were supposed to be attending a fortieth birthday celebration that evening for one of Richard’s investors. The party was bound to be one of those glittering events filled with people who smiled too much and drank too little, where the presents were exorbitant and every compliment hid a quiet calculation. Lana had picked her dress with care, something elegant but forgettable. She knew better than to draw attention.

Richard hated when people looked too long. At one time, she had loved those nights—the luxury of them, the soft blur of champagne and candlelight, the way she gleamed on Richard’s arm like something gilded and rare. That shine had long since dulled. Now the thought of those events filled her with dread, because she knew what they really were: performances. He flaunted her like a prize he’d won, but behind closed doors, his eyes saw only offenses, imagined slights, and every trace of warmth he once had for her had curdled into suspicion.

As she adjusted the earring, the clasp slipped from her fingers. The tiny backing bounced once against the parquet floor, a bright ping swallowed almost immediately by the hush of the house. It rolled beneath the grandfather clock and disappeared into the shadow at its base.

“Damn it,” she whispered under her breath, crouching, one hand braced against the wood for balance.

Her knees pressed into the hard floor as she reached beneath the clock’s ornate casing, fingertips brushing dust and cool wood. She could almost feel the tiny bit of metal, just out of reach. She was still groping for it when she heard the heavy footsteps.

Richard descended the stairs with the sharp rhythm of authority, adjusting his tie on the way down. The air shifted the moment he saw her crouched there.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice cracked through the space like a whip.

Lana jerked upright, her heart lurching painfully in her chest. “I… I dropped the back to my earring, it… rolled under the clock.” She gestured helplessly toward the floor, still catching her breath. “I was just‒”

“I told you not to touch my fucking clock.” His tone deepened, the words low and dangerous, vibrating through the room like distant thunder.

“I wasn’t—Dickie, I didn’t touch it. I just‒”

“It’s priceless,” he barked, his hand slicing the air. “An antique. You could have scratched the finish or, God forbid, knocked it off balance. Do you have any idea how much that mechanism is worth?”

Lana froze. The right answer didn’t exist. “I didn’t hurt it,” she said, but the words were swallowed by his fury.

Richard’s eyes blazed with something beyond anger, and he looked unhinged. He took a step toward her, and her pulse spiked in her throat.

Her reflection watched from the glass of the clock, warped by the curve, her face pale and frightened in the dim light.

Richard’s voice rose, sharp enough to make her flinch. “You’re too fucking stupid to understand what that clock is worth,” he snarled, stepping closer, “or maybe you’re just too fucking careless.”

One moment his hand was at his side, then there was a flash of motion and something cracked through the air.

Lana tasted iron before she realized what had happened. A sharp pain bloomed at the corner of her mouth. She lifted her hand to her lip, and when she pulled it away, the faintest smear of red painted her fingertips. Lana stared at him, disbelief flickering across her face. The edges of the room hummed, the chandelier, the glass of the clock, the sharp scent of cologne that hung too thick in the air.