Page 81 of Last Rites

It was a gallows walk, as plain and merciless as a noose swinging in the sun.

And I could do nothing.

Rosie’s hand settled on my shoulder, and I swallowed the urge to snarl at her. She’d kept me from enough. I wouldn’t be robbed of what little remained, this fleeting glimpse of my darling. This parting glance.

They would take him to Ashpoint. He would die. Merrick would kill him and revel in it.

No. I wouldn’t allow that. I wouldn’t cower and watch. There were only two of them, and I had… given away my knife.

Releasing the window ledge, I clenched my fists and stood to spin toward where Ben hovered. My brows dipped as I fixed my gaze on him.

“What do you use to cut the meat?” I asked him.

The big man blinked, then swung toward the back of the shop. “I have knives… a saw for bones…”

“I’ll take them.”

Ben hesitated. “Which?”

“Any. All. Anything that could kill a man.”

Rosie gasped. “Penny, you wouldn’t!”

My throat tightened, but I forced a growl through it. “I might.” My hands shook, but I curled them into fists until my nails bit my palms. “If they think they can drag Kit to his death and I’ll just sit here, they’re wrong.”

Ben’s expression hardened, then he straightened, resolute. “I’ll go with you.”

From the shadowed corner, the cluster of townsfolk stirred, voices overlapping into a statement of defiance, pledging their assistance, too.

Their eyes fixed on me—steady, afraid, determined all at once. I nodded to them, then turned back to Ben. “Everything you have, then. Quickly.”

He scrambled to the back of the shop, and when he returned, his arms were loaded with blades and tools. Some gleamed, some were dull, but all of them could hurt, and that was enough.

I reached for the big, square cleaver, the kind made for splitting joints and bone. I tested its weight, my pulse quickening, then glanced at Rosie. She stood slightly back, cheeks pale and lips pressed together.

My question must have been clear enough on my face, because she nodded before I even got a word out.

She stepped forward and took a serrated blade from Ben and turned it over in her hands.

The growing distance between Kit and me wouldn’t let me stall for long. Ben had dragged us in through the side door, but I planned to go out through the front. Barge into the street and call Klaus and Violette down. I would make them deal with me and my small army, and if blood was spilled in the process… so be it.

Shoving the door wide, I strode out into the muggy night. My eyes locked ahead, to where Violette and Klaus were marching Kit along the road. Not far. Not yet out of reach.

I broke into a sprint, trusting the others to follow. My breath sawed in and out, each inhale sharp as glass, each exhale a rasp. My feet pounded the cobbles, eating the distance between us. I had ground to make up, and I intended to barrel down on them before they could turn. Then I would tackle them and knock Kit free of their grasp.

I wouldn’t shout. Wouldn’t alert them. Not until they were helpless to defend against it.

I was so intent on my silence that the crack of a gruff voice calling out “Halt!” seemed to splinter the air.

My legs jolted, momentum stuttering. I skidded to a stop, cleaver swinging wide as I whipped my head around.

I was alone.

Ben, Rosie, the townsfolk—my small army—were still back by the shop’s steps, a good dozen yards behind. Their weapons lay scattered in the dirt, and their hands stretched high as shadows loomed over them.

Troops on horseback.

One after another they emerged from side streets, hooves striking stone with a thunderous rhythm. They circled and closed in fast, cutting off every retreat and every chance of flight.