Right hand: grab his wrist and twist until his elbow breaks behind him and his grip opens. Catch the knife and—
Jack’s elbow cracked, a horrible sound that made her want to vomit.
She took possession of the knife and—
Dante cut the light.
Jack swiveled in a move that too clearly told her he’d had the training to match Dante’s—and unsurpassed pain resistance.
She lost her grip, but gained the first vestiges of her sight.
So did Jack, for he grabbed at her again.
She held the knife in both hands, a maneuver designed to make her look like an amateur.
He watched her through cool eyes, so different from his previous behavior. He had been camouflaging his true self, using a feigned reckless rage to hide his true intentions. He intended to hold her hostage—or kill her.
She intended to survive.
Like an amateur, she went easily into his arms and, when he grabbed for the hand with the knife, she punched him in the sternum with her right fist. She used the knife she gripped in her left to shove it up under the soft part between his jaw bones, into the flesh, placing the sharp point into his mouth and sinuses and brain.
Jack’s eyes bulged in surprise.
His grip on her loosened.
He gave up his death rattle.
Dante snatched her back against him, leaving his cousin tocrash to the floor. He pulled her toward the door, away from the corpse.
Maarja’s knees collapsed, but she shouted, “The other one. Get the other one.”
Footsteps tapped as the accomplice fled along the corridor and toward the stairs.
She pushed at Dante. “The other one!”
Dante let her go. He dashed out, following the sound of footsteps.
She slipped to her knees.
Then—
Alex’s shout. Octavia’s cry of terror. A slam. A thump. Another burst of adrenaline brought Maarja to her feet. Grabbing her robe, she raced down the stairs after Dante.
Dante’s commanding voice yelled, “Halt!”
A gunshot.
Maarja stopped in her tracks.
Breaking glass.
Dante shouted again, his voice strong, calling for Saint Rees’s security force to join the chase. He gave commands and Maarja could breathe again. That gunshot had not injured him.
Yet from the thunder of feet and the yelling outside and in, it was obvious the knife wielder had not been apprehended.
Maarja found Alex and Octavia in the hallway helping each other to stand, and both wore the shocked, dazed expressions of people who had been wakened into a world of unexpected violence. As Maarja assisted them back into Octavia’s big bed, she babbled stuff like, “Are you badly hurt? I shouldn’t have come home. Let me get ice and a pain reliever. I shouldn’t have involved you…”
Octavia interrupted to say, “Shut up, Maarja. This is your home. All we need to make us feel better is a few of the apple fritters from La Patisserie and some hot coffee.”
