Page 51 of Consort of the Crime Queen

An earsplitting crack shatters a vase near my face. I recoil in shock as shards cut my skin, slicing like shrapnel. One of the men in black has spotted me.

I bolt back down the corridor, his shouts echoing behind me. I've got to arm myself. I sprint for the underground gun range, lungs burning, ignoring the sting of cuts on my feet as my heels crunch broken glass. More gunfire spiderwebs the plaster walls around me. I duck low, trying not to stumble on the debris now coating the once-pristine floor.

The gun range door is locked when I get to it, and it won't take my code, even the third time I punch it in. Lyssa must have locked down this room, too, which was smart…but unfortunate for me. I'm out of time, so I abandon the plan and sprint on, breathless and terrified. Heavy boots pound the floor somewhere behind me. I careen around a corner into the east wing, scanning wildly for an escape route.

The kitchen. If I can get to the kitchen?—

I swing myself around the door of the kitchen and head straight for the service door, unlocking it with shaking fingers, then slamming through it and out into the night. It's raining heavily, and I slip on the wet step, fall headlong, and hit damp earth. The impact knocks the air from my lungs. A stabbing stitch pierces my side but I stagger up and keep running, my shoes sinking into the muddy ground with each step.

If I can make it to the gardening shed, I know there's a rifle stashed inside, left over from a rabbit infestation—one of the gardeners told me once, when I ran into him during the day.

But I'm in my element now. No one knows these gardens at night better than I do, and very quickly, I hear my pursuer leave off, cursing and crashing through bushes. Shadows swallow me as I plunge through the night garden and keep going. In the inky, wet dark, I navigate more by memory than sight. The little wooden shed is just ahead, barely visible beyond a weeping willow's cascading tendrils.

I sprint the last ten yards to the locked wooden door. Grabbing the wrought iron handle, I yank desperately with every ounce of strength. It doesn't budge. The hinges don't even creak. Out of time, I resort to throwing my shoulder into the weathered wood over and over, ignoring the pain exploding down my arm.

"Need some help with that?"

I whirl at the unexpected shout, heart leaping into my throat. Tony melts out of the rain, panting a little, and overwhelming relief crashes over me.

"Tony! Oh, thank God. What's going on?" I ask urgently.

"Nero," he says. "Nero's what's going on. You gotta come with me, kid. I need to get you somewhere safe."

He grabs my throbbing arm, firmer than needed. I wince at the pressure, but I can't deny how relieved I still am to have Tony with me. And the rain is easing up, finally, as a loud rumble of thunder suggests the storm is moving away. Tony pulls out his gun and looks around, as though trying to figure out which way to go.

"Where's Hadria? Is she okay?" I hated how my voice shakes, betraying my fear.

"Shh," he says, listening to our surrounds. "Okay. Let's go."

I pull back a little as he starts pulling me with him. "Tony, tell me. Is Hadria alright?"

He looks down at me. I can't see his face properly in the dark, but his voice sounds strange. "I didn't wanna tell you like this, kid, but…she's gone. Ilona put her down."

Hadria…dead?

No. That can't—she can't be?—

"No!"

"Hush up!" he hisses at me. "You want someone to hear us?"

Sorrow and boiling rage surge within me, but Tony's strong grip forces me to stumble deeper into the shadowed trees, uncaring of the branches whipping at us. My mind reels, struggling to process his impossible words.

Hadria can't be dead.

She can't be…

I don't know how long Tony pulls me with him, but when I look around, we're getting close to the gates, and I can hear gunfire up ahead. "Wait," I croak, trying to slow down. "Wait. We're going the wrong way."

Surely we should be going away from the noise?

"Get a move on," Tony snaps, and gives me a hard tug.

"Where's Lyssa?" I demand.

"Dead. Probably. Who gives a fuck, girl? Get moving, or I'll—" He breaks off.

"Or you'll what?" I ask, my voice oddly calm. "Kill me?" Because I understand at last. Tony isn't an ally at all.

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