Page 128 of Bitter Burn
“Didn’t want to risk the servers,” she says back just as breathlessly.
Adam clears the corner but hesitates. Veronica is a pro—she doesn’t look over at him but she knows he’s there.
“Father,” she bites out. “Help.”
I can take both of them, especially since Adam is unarmed, but the odds will be much, much worse, and Jesus fucking Christ, what is the point of all these fans and inert gas fire suppression systems if a room full of servers doesn’t actually overheat even when you try to make them?
I abruptly let go of Veronica’s wrist, causing her to sway backward, and bring my hand down as hard as I can against the vulnerable tributary of her radial nerve. It’s a basic move and an ugly one, but the crude defense works. Her hand spasms, weakens momentarily, long enough for the weapon to clatter free and spin on the floor.
The three of us dive for the knife—my knees hit the floor, and sweat burns my eyes—and then fucking finally the sound of overheated glass cracks through the air. Flames ripple up to the ceiling like there’s a race, bright orange and licking.
So the servers can overheat after all. Great!
I abandon the knife and decide to tear away to the elevator when I hear a clank and hum, and the treasury’s security walls start to whirr down to the floor, something that would trap all three of us in here with the fire.
I’d rather be sewn into a bag of cats and thrown into the river.
I run, feeling fingers just graze my shirt, and I’m almost to the walls, watching them rattle sedately toward the ground, when I’m grabbed, tripped, and then?—
Pain.
Gut-deep pain.
I’m on the ground with a knife wedged into my side. The metal walls are all the way down. Smoke is gathering on the ceiling.
I’ve lost some time…twenty seconds, maybe thirty. From the pain, I think, because I can breathe; it’s just excruciating. I’m on my back, and I’m looking up at Adam, not Veronica.
The fire is loud. Cracking glass and plastic. It will probably jump server cases, and the continuing heat won’t help. I turned off the fire suppression systems when I turned off the cooling mechanisms. I don’t remember the metal walls being part of the fire suppression plan, but then again, I zoned out a little during Dinah’s last fire safety training session, so my not remembering doesn’t mean much.
The hilt of the knife is still sticking out of the left side of my abdomen, the blade entirely buried. I am going to die down here, but Adam and Veronica will die down here too. The only remaining question is if Tristan will be safe in the grotto, and I don’t have any answer for that. We’re in a tinderbox of cables and lithium batteries; it could take the whole club with it by the end.
“Looks like we’re going down together,” I choke out to Adam. “A shame. I’m sure the Scales would have been so proud of you.”
Adam’s pale brows lift, as if I’ve surprised and disappointed him. “Mr. Trevena, I am the Scales.”
I stare at him. My pain-drenched mind refuses to believe it.
“His Eminence asked me very soon after I took my vows. The last Scales had died, and the cardinal needed someone he could trust, and not just with the work of the saints but his own private work with Ys.” Adam’s expression is one of pity now. “All that time you spent looking for me, and I was right here, just waiting for you to notice.”
Veronica emerges from the glow, her face shining with sweat.
“How do we get out of here?” she asks sharply. “I know you know of a way.”
“I don’t, actually,” I wheeze, then laugh at how little I apparently know my own club, and then scream after laughing. I think that knife is impaling my actual soul, it hurts that fucking much.
Veronica’s eyes glint, and she steps forward—to hasten my death or prolong it, I don’t know—and then there’s a blur. Pearl-haired, in a sweatshirt.
Veronica goes flying, landing on her back and sliding a few feet away, and I drag in an agonizing lungful of air when I realize.
Isolde.
Isolde is here.
There’s more fighting. A scream. I try to get up, try to move at all, but darkness ripples over my vision, and I collapse back in nauseous torment.
And then Isolde is kneeling next to me. There’s blood on her face, and her honeysuckle knife is in her hand. The flames behind her look like a saint’s halo. A real saint. The kind on a holy card. “Mark,” she whispers.
I lift a hand to her face. She is everything beautiful in the world.
