Page 163 of Outcast’s Vow

There’s a scream. And then silence.

Where?

I immediately start running, heading to the sound of my husband’s name. I don’t dare guess what’s happening, but I feel, intuitively, that something is terribly, terribly wrong.

I dash into one of the side doors and I end up in a small circular room. This is where the scream came from. There are people here, gathered around something slumped on the ground. I spot Cromwell and my father and...

It’s my husband on the ground.

It’s my Baptiste. His body.

I run to him. I’m screaming his name. I’m pushing past people to get to my love. I fall to my knees in front of him, terrified of the worst.

But he’s moving. His eyes flicker. He sees me as my hands clasp around his. There’s red on his shirt. The wetness clings to his skin.

“I’m okay, Sylvie,” he’s rasping through labored breathing. “I’m fine.”

I’m holding him now, so tightly.

I don’t want to lose him. Not again.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding...”

“It’s just a slash. I’ll survive.”

“You’re hurt. Oh, God. There’s so much blood.”

Baptiste is looking up past me. At Father standing over us.

“It was the Masked Killer.”

There’s a rawness in my husband’s voice. He’s suffering more than he lets on.

“What?”

“He’s here,” Baptiste explains in a whisper. “He ambushed me in this room. He had a knife. I managed to wrestle him off, but he was trying to kill me. He very nearly succeeded. I’m lucky he just got my arm.”

“Did you see his face?” Father asks, his usual calm collectedness now completely replaced by urgent alarm. “Did you see who it was? Could you identify him?”

Baptiste shakes his head. It pains him to even do so. My fingers squeeze even more in reassurance.

“No, he had his mask. I nearly made it slip, but he was too good. He’s skilled, Elwood. Trained. No doubt about that.”

My father looks shocked, and not in a way I have ever seen him be before. There’s a crack in his façade. Something human. Someone frightened.

“You,” he points at two men standing nearby. “Round up the others. Go find the killer.”

And then Father turns to Cromwell.

“We must put an end to this madness,” he says to his Elder.

As Father continues to bark orders, I offer my husband a hand. I help pull him to his feet.

“Put your weight on me,” I say.

“No.”

“Do it, Baptiste.”