Into the Dim (26 page)

“Bit of privacy, lads?” Bran moved toward me, smirking at the guards as he ran a finger down the side of my neck and across my chest, lingering at the edge of my bodice.

Most of them chuckled and headed down the steps. Only one, balding and with a wrestler's build, stayed in place. He wasn't dressed like the others. Instead he wore a tunic like Bran's, though it stretched tight across his brawny shoulders.

He grumbled to Bran. “Celia gave specific instructions that we—
both
of us, mind—were to bring the girls to her at once. There's no time for this.”

His accent wasn't right. It came slow to his lips, as though he was translating in his head as he went. A flick of black poked out above the ratty bandage around his neck. It curved in toward his jaw line. The fangs and forked tongue of a serpent, inked into his skin.

“Who's in charge here, Flint?”

When the guard's face hardened, Bran laughed and clapped the man's shoulder. “Come now, man.” Bran spoke so low, I could barely hear. “Surely after all the pains I went to, softening her up enough to reveal their plans, I deserve to have a little bit of fun before we have to turn her over?”

Horror pressed down on me. I clenched my teeth as tears of rage burned my eyes.

No. No! This cannot be happening.

I tried to struggle to my feet, but without my hands I only toppled sideways. I lay there, panting with the futility of it.

When Flint hesitated, Bran pressed. “Come on, I know you want to get back to the Hound and Barrel. To that blond chippy I saw on your lap earlier. Give me half an hour, eh? Bet there are plenty of empty chambers around here, with everyone celebrating below.”

Flint licked his lips as his gaze roved down my body. “Well”—he dropped all pretense, and when he spoke again it was with a strong Australian accent—“bet a pretty little thing like her ain't even been plucked yet, eh, mate?”

Bran laughed. I wanted to scream.

“I'll even keep her hands bound,” Bran waggled his eyebrows. “Where's she going to go?”

The man glanced over at me again and chuckled. “Right-o, Bran. See you in a bit, then.”

Bran stood listening as the man's heavy tread faded.

I tried to formulate a plan. The second he approached, I'd kick him as hard as I could in the kneecap, then . . .

Before I could even think it through, Bran hurried over, leaned down, and, with a quick jerk of a small knife, sliced through my bonds.

I scuttled back. “Get away from me.”

Sighing, Bran picked up the stuttering torch and shoved it into a nearby iron bracket. “I'm not going to hurt you, Hope. But I had to tell Flint something to get him to leave.”

I rose, rubbing my wrists.

“Why should I believe a word you say?” I filled my words with every ounce of scorn I could muster.

He ignored the question. “I'll do what I can to get your friend away from the guards, though it may not be possible. My mother doesn't know your entry point, so I'd suggest you go back to wherever you came through and wait until it's time for you to go back.”

When he finally turned, shadows emphasized his cheekbones and hooded his deep-set eyes. I stepped back, still wary. The torch flared, and I saw his face clearly for the first time. Odd eyes. Still beautiful, emerald and sapphire. But all light and humor they'd once held were gone.

“Bran,” I began, but he shook his head.

“I'll tell my mother you ran,” he continued. “That you banged me on the head or something. But you can't go back to that house. She knows where you're staying now. Get yourself tucked away somewhere. I'll try to retrieve your friend and meet you. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I snarled, “not without my mother and
both
my friends.”

“Your friends,” he snorted, and ripped off supple leather gloves, stuffing them into his belt. “If you mean MacPherson, he's done. Finished. After the stunt he pulled, he'll swing for sure. Forget him.”

The memory of Collum being dragged away limp and helpless stabbed at me. “I won't leave him.”

I realized instantly I'd said something wrong as all emotion faded and the mask dropped back into place. “So Mother was right. When I told her what happened at the river, she said you were cunning, just like your mother. That you knew all along who I was, and that you'd play me for a fool.”

“
I
played
you?
” Incredulous, without thought I shoved him. I had none of Phoebe's tactical training. Knew zero about aikido or karate or whatever the hell it was she studied. But he wasn't expecting it, and he tumbled backwards onto his butt. Looming over him, I yelled with all the pent-up frustration I'd stored over the last eight months. “Are you kidding me? Up until a week ago, I had no idea time travel even existed! I was nothing but a homeschooled
loser
without a mom.”

He threw up his palms as if to stop me, but I was so not done.

“Then,” I continued, my words dripping venom, “I get dragged to Scotland and told,
Oh, by the way, your mom's not dead. She's just trapped in freaking time!
”

“Hope—”

“And, to add icing to my crap cake, just when the world was falling out from under me—again—I meet a guy. A regular guy, who I
thought
might like me. I started to wonder if maybe I wasn't such a loser after all.”

Bran got to his feet with an easy grace. Something about the way he moved was oddly familiar. Then it struck me. “It was you in that alley yesterday,” I gasped. “You stopped Eustace and that other guy from chasing me and Rachel.”

His eyes dropped to his boots.

“Why?” I begged. I was choking on a clutter of emotions I couldn't begin to unravel. “Was it all a lie, then? Everything? The accident at the river, too?”

“Is that what you think?”

“What am I supposed to think, Bran?” I spat. “Why don't you tell me, hmm?”

His response was acrid, sour. “I have
never
let myself get close to anyone, because of the bloody lie I live every day. Okay, so my mother was wrong and you
didn't
know. And yes, I was spying on you, but I was only supposed to take your picture and report back. The fall was real.”

I spun away, disgusted.

He crossed in three quick strides and grabbed my arm, twisting me to face him. His voice rasped with emotion. “But you helped me. You were so kind. So concerned. And so damn beautiful. I—I'd forgotten that. Years—
years
—I've waited to talk to you. Then finally . . .”

Realizing what he'd said, his eyes widened. He dropped my arm as though it was a rattler and backed away.

“Years?” I said. “What the hell are you talking about, Bran?”

The river. That moment of strange familiarity.

He refused to meet my eyes as he pulled out the worn-looking silver medallion I remembered and began worrying it between his thumb and forefinger. “Nothing,” he muttered. After a long moment, he brought it to his lips, then tucked it back into his shirt.

“There's only one thing I can do for you,” he said coolly. “We only just learned where you were staying. If we can get there and grab your friend before my mother arrives, I can tell the guards the orders have changed. I'll escort both of you to an inn I know on the edge of the city. Tomorrow, gather food and water, then go back to wherever you came through until the Dim comes back for you. It's the best I can offer.”

I stared at him. The best he could offer? Was I supposed to fall to my knees in gratitude?

“And the others?” I asked in a voice rimmed with frost.

“There's nothing I can do for your mother or MacPherson.” Bran snatched the torch and moved down the steps without looking to see if I'd follow. “You have to let them go.”

W
E DIDN
'
T SPEAK ON THE LONG RIDE BACK TO THE CITY
. Bran set such a brisk pace, I was hard-pressed to keep up on the mount that was waiting for me outside the palace. As we galloped across slick, muddy cobblestones, my veil flew off. My hair came unmoored and streamed behind me. Snowflakes caked in my eyelashes, refreezing on my cheeks as they melted.

Sure, there was a cowardly instant before we reentered the city walls, where I thought of trying to make a run for it. Just take off across the fields. Find the glade. Hide out in the forest until the Dim came for me. The impulse quickly faded when I thought of what they might do to Phoebe. They had my friend, and I would never leave her—leave any of them—behind.

A guard with a massive tangled beard met us at the courtyard gate of Mabray House. Bran dismounted and told him to keep me there, as he'd only be a moment. I huddled in the saddle and tried to rub the ache from my thighs. Beard face leered up at me, grimy teeth showing through the mass of hair. I stopped, feeling a smug satisfaction when I saw blood caked near his split lip.

“Aww,” I said, the rage building inside making me reckless, “did my friend do that?” I flicked a finger at his mouth. “You remember her. Little bitty thing. Barely bigger than the fleas that probably live in that mangy beard?”

The man's grip tightened on my horse's bridle. He jerked her head down savagely to get to me.

“Rackley!” Bran barked from the doorway, leading a bound and gagged Phoebe. “Leave her be.”

Her hands were tied so tight before her, I could see them reddening even in the bouncing torchlight. Her auburn wig hung slightly askew. Bran, following my stricken gaze, discreetly tugged it back into place.

Phoebe swore through the cloth gag stuffed into her mouth and tried to lunge at him. Bran handed her off to a gangly youth with a lantern jaw, who picked Phoebe up—keeping well out of foot range—and swung her into the saddle.

“You are dismissed,” Bran told his men as he swung up onto his own mount, taking Phoebe's lead rein. “I've no more need of you tonight.”

Rackley mumbled into his beard but didn't dispute the order. The young guard, though, looked dubious. “Are you certain, milord? The little wench throws a mean punch. And the lady shan't be pleased if aught goes amiss.”

“I have my orders,” Bran insisted. “Lady Celia has plans for them.”

“Yes I do, my son,” a female voice called from the gate.

I froze, unable to draw breath as the woman's throaty laugh drifted through the night. I shot a questioning look at Bran, but his face was inscrutable as he stared at her silhouette, backlit by torchlight.

When the riders clacked into the courtyard, the last of my hope floated away with the whirling snowflakes. First came the burly Flint. Bran's jaw tightened at the sight of him, but the man only shrugged as if to say,
Sorry, mate, you don't pay the bills.

Though she was much older than she'd been in the photo I'd seen in the library, I had no trouble recognizing her.

Celia Alvarez. The elegant features had coarsened from that of the pretty young girl. But she was still lovely, with a heart-shaped face and high forehead. When she saw me, her wide mouth stretched into a satisfied smile.

She chuckled at my expression, a throaty sensual sound that crawled down my spine like a centipede.

“I wondered, you know”—she spoke in a heavy Spanish accent—“what you would look like now.” My knuckles whitened on the pommel as she shrugged and moved closer, so that her knee grazed mine. “My son's pictures do not do you justice.”

Bran moved his horse to my other side. They hemmed me in, and I felt the familiar tightening begin to swell in my chest.

“You were right,” she said to Bran. “She is pretty.”

“Mother,” Bran started, but someone called out, cutting him off.

“Lady Celia.” My head whipped around at the familiar voice. “May we get on with this? I have other duties to attend.”

I hadn't even noticed him, all my attention focused on my mother's enemy.

Thomas Becket pursed his lips as he looked me over. “I have a cell ready for her.”

“Cell?” Bran asked.

“Yes.” Celia clapped her hands, delighted. “Sarah's daughter shall go with the good father.” She gestured at Phoebe, who was glaring hard at her over the gag. “I had thought to let Moira's granddaughter go. Then I remembered years ago overhearing her warn her son away from me. So I believe they shall both suffer.”

“Milady,” Becket interjected, “I have no time for this. I want the girl taken into custody. Now. I must return to His Grace.”

Celia's dark eyes flew to his face. “You will get me the Jews' stone, yes?”

“Yes, but the king—”

“No excuses,” she snapped. “That was our arrangement when I came to you all those months ago. I gave you the gold to finance your rise, did I not? And I told you of the holy visions, yes? That you would become powerful. The king's right hand? That if you get me this stone, you will rise as high as the king himself. And are these things not coming to pass?”

Thomas Becket blanched. “Yes, milady,” he mumbled. “You did. They . . . they have.”

“Then take the girl,” Celia said. “And get me the stone.” Her upper lip peeled back from white teeth. “Or go back to being nothing but a lowly priest. A nothing. The son of a petty knight.”

I tried to catch Bran's gaze, but he was staring down at his horse's mane, frowning. As Celia turned away from Becket, her eyes rolled to the sky in contempt.

She hates him,
I realized.
She's just using his greed to get to the Nonius Stone.

I swallowed down the shards of fear and straightened in my saddle. As a plan began to coil out before me, Celia raised a hand.

“Guards,” she called. “You may dice for the little redhead. Whoever wins can take her. Do what you will. Pass her around if you wish. I care not. The other will enjoy the hospitality of the good father's prison cell.”