Page 94 of The Mask Falling

“You misunderstand, Paige Mahoney,” he said. “I have never used anormaux for personal gain. Only to see the extinction of unnaturalness. Preserving my own life happens to serve that aim, for I am the one who will stand against the Suzerain . . . though I must confess that it gives me some pleasure, to witness you collude in your own destruction.” He glanced at the nearest Vigile. “Call the Minister of Internal Security. Tell her we have a prisoner who requires immediate transportation to the Bastille.”

He left without a backward glance. The door was double-locked in his wake.

The Bastille. Shit. If I entered that windowless prison, no one would be able to reach me.

Goosebumps suddenly coursed over my arms. The golden cord was on fire, and I sensed him.

Arcturus.

13

Trust

He had come for me, as I had known he would. I threw myself toward the window and looked down.

No sign of him in the courtyard. Through the thickening snow, I could make out twelve snipers on the roof. Using my gift against even one of them would finish me off—I knew myself well enough to be sure that I was at my limit.

On the east side of the mansion, the first sniper went down. The next fired several times into the dark before he was flung like a doll off the edge of the roof, into the courtyard below, landing in a pile of twisted limbs. One by one, they fell to a faceless shadow. Arcturus was so gentle with me, it was easy to forget that he had once been a warrior.

At speed, I judged the bone-breaking drop to the roof below and took stock of the furniture. The wardrobe was heavy enough to barricade the door. I ran back across the room, braced my shoulder against it, and shoved.

My body trembled with exertion. The wardrobe refused to budge. In sheer desperation, I threw my full weight against it, planted my heels on the wall, pushed backward with all my might —and with a groan, the wardrobe tipped over and crashed to the floor, throwing up a thundercloud of dust. I landed hard beside it, the impact shuddering through my bruises, my chest. When I had gasped back enough air, I groped for the ledger, which had slipped from under my sweater, and crawled toward my shoes, coughing fit to burst.

Shouts of alarm from beyond the door. The handle rattled before the Vigiles started to batter it with their rifles. Breathless with pain, I shoved on my shoes and lurched back to the window.

Arcturus was much closer. His eyes flashed through the darkness. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, I lifted the coffee table and smashed its legs into the window. Glass shattered. Snow came roaring into the room. The nearest sniper snapped their rifle toward me, only to fall in a hail of blood and brains. Their body crunched onto the gravel below.

The door splintered, and the beam of a flashlight glared in. Arcturus was right below the window now, snow flickering around him. He held out a hand.

A spray of bullets shredded the door. I had seconds. Panting, I scraped the glass from the frame and swung my legs over it. I might fear water, but heights—heights were easy. A Vigile smashed through the weakened door and shone a gun-mounted light into my cell—

—just in time to see me jump.

There were two people in the world I trusted to catch me if I suddenly hurled myself out of a window. Nick Nygård was one of them. Arcturus Mesarthim was the other. Frigid air howled in my ears before the collision. It would have buckled a human. Instead, Arcturus caught me as if I were light as a bottle, and then I was on my feet, barely shaken.

“Who sh-shot that sniper?” I could hardly speak for want of breath. “Mannequin?”

“Yes.” His gaze flicked up. “Move.”

I followed his line of sight to the window. A Vigile was there, her rifle pointed right at us. Bullets hammered into the roof.

Arcturus shielded me as we ran for one of the tall chimneys and took shelter behind it. Ice had turned the roof to a death-trap. My shoes had no grip, and the ledger was slipping. The instant the gunfire ceased, we struck out for the next chimney, then the next. I slid to a stop behind the fourth and tucked my limbs in tight. More Vigiles swarmed in the courtyard below, too low to get a shot at us.

“I expected this to be a somewhat quieter rescue,” Arcturus remarked from his place beside me.

“That wouldn’t be very me.” Brick dust flew as bullets chipped at the chimney. “You have an exit plan?”

“The east courtyard.” He held out my pistol. “Get to its roof.”

“Take this.” I took the gun and thrust the ledger at him in return. “It’s important.”

He tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat. I readied the pistol. When the Vigile stopped to reload again, I took the best aim I could in a snowstorm and opened fire, forcing her back into the attic.

Something flew toward us from inside. It hit the snow beside Arcturus, a canister with a blinking red light. Almost in the same instant I recognized it as a chemical grenade, I kicked it off the roof, into the courtyard below. With a flash and acrack, blue smoke hissed from the canister and scattered the Vigiles. I ran as hard as I could, aiming for the front of the Hôtel Garuche.

Ménard meant to kill me. That canister had contained the blue hand, the deadly nerve agent Scion used against dissenters. It would have paralyzed me. Fighting for breath, half-blinded by snow, I wended between three more chimneys, swerved hard to the right, and charged up a flight of steps, past a dead or unconscious sniper, over the arched entrance to the mansion. With Arcturus behind me, I descended on the other side of the archway, taking the steps two at a time, and vaulted a balustrade, landing on a steeper roof. My shoes slithered on frosted tiles.

Bullets sparked around us as more and more Vigiles took aim from the windows. Arcturus put himself between me and the gunfire. Fear stripped me to an assortment of body parts. Hands on the roof. Feet seeking purchase. Lips numb with cold. Chest fit to burst. The drop to the street from here was too long, and the nearest building was too far to reach.

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