The additional guard walked with her hand atop the sword at her belt. She stopped just far enough from the other guard to easily draw her weapon. Together, they blocked the hallway. Two skilled guards did not bode well. The dungeons were expansive. There were probably more.
Alfred straightened and tapped the pommel of his blade. “He says he's one of Garrick's. Is that bastard recruiting again?”
“I wouldn't know.”
While they compared notes, Anais considered pulling off her gloves. They would assume she was a lady having a tryst. But she doubted nobles were allowed at this level of the dungeons, either.
Fidgeting slightly, Anais murmured, “I'm very sorry. I could finish later?”
Alfred chuckled. “No, let’s finish this right now. We’ll help you. Turn around. Back where you came from, girl.” His eyes glinted as he took a step toward her.
Her eyes widened, and she didn’t move.
The woman reached out to Jerome’s arm. “You – What’s your name? Garrick knows better than to send any of his down here.”
Jerome avoided her grasp and placed himself in front of Anais at the same time. “Jacques,” her captain answered smoothly. “Like I said, just doing what I was told. Clearly, my captain made a mistake. I’ll take the girl back upstairs.”
Alfred's smirk twisted into a sneer. “Jacques, is it? I’ll bet I know how your girl got ‘lost’. Pretty face like hers, yeah. No one upstairs has to know. Just share her with us.”
“You’re mistaken,” Jerome said in an icy tone. That cold dismissal would have been a warning to any noble of her court – but then again, they didn’t listen very closely, either.
The woman laughed. “It’s really not your choice, Jacques! If you don’t like it, then get your ass up to your idiot captain. We’ll take good care of the girl.”
This time, when the female guard reached out, Jerome grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm back. He drew his sword at the same time. Anais dropped the linens. The gloves caught on her claws, slowing her by two seconds. The woman snarled and palmed a dagger. Alfred rammed his shoulder into Jerome’s side.
The problem with close quarters was Jerome’s overprotectiveness. He should have known better. If he fought with his full range of motion, the guards would have been on the floor within a minute. Instead, the self-sacrificing fool held his ground, blocked Alfred’s knife to the stomach, and left himself open to the woman’s attack.
Anais finally sank a dagger into Alfred’s thigh. She left it there, yanking another out of her boot just as the woman slammed the pommel of her dagger down at Jerome’s sword arm.
The resulting crunch echoed through the hall.
Alfred’s roar smothered Jerome’s grunt. “You bitch! I’ll cut off your tits for that!” He lunged at her.
The woman yanked Jerome out of the hall. At least her captain could stop worrying about knocking her over now. Although, the limp way his right hand hung was concerning. He was holding his sword in his left hand now.
Anais flattened her back to the wall and used the guard’s momentum to toss him further into the narrow hall. Her dagger went flying at his side. She drew her sword before registering if the dagger hit its mark, following up with a stab through the man’s neck. Clean and deadly, like she had been taught. It was probably more mercy than the guard deserved.
Thudding footsteps echoed from deeper in the dungeons. She stepped out of the hall to find the woman on the ground, screaming and clutching at a knife in her stomach. At least three more guards raced toward Jerome. He glanced at Anais. “I'll hold them. Go!”
She should have hesitated. Even a second. “Thank you.”
He fought almost as well with his left hand. He would be fine. Jerome was always fine.
Chapter 22
Castien
The prince of Akerami laughed over a young courtesan's shoulder as he gripped a cup of wine in one hand and a bare breast in the other. Balak was surrounded by the castle’s working ladies as well as a few pretty males. The Queen favored him. It had been a few days. The prince had not wilted.
Castien's ‘accidental’ head injury had left him confused for a day and a night. He remembered Frances’ concern. Concern for his Queen's pet project, not for the man.
The courtesan knew what he was. A tool, once again. As always. Frustration itched beneath his skin. He needed to act. Even if his memories were disjointed, he knew one thing: Frances was the source of his problems. The alchemist had done something to his mind. The man was the reason behind his inability to think. Kill Frances, and he might find his memories sooner. At least the man would no longer torment him.
Some part of him recoiled at the thought of violence. But he'd poisoned a Queen, hadn’t he? He knew how to use a whip, a sword, daggers. He could carve flesh with knives. His Mistress had delighted in that skill, demanding elaborate designs on the backs of her slaves. He had the training, if not the inclination.
He wondered if he had killed before.
The pinprick of a clawtip tapped his cheek. He tilted his head up, parted his lips for the piece of fruit Mistress slipped into his mouth. Looking into her eyes always settled the confusion.Today, a spark of frustration remained after the thoughts of death swept away. Mistress' smile was cruel and hollow. There was something he didn't like about it.
