Stranger (45 page)

Catullus reappeared at the foot of the spiral stairs. “Down here, Guy Fawkes.”

Edgeworth threw another ball of fire at Catullus, who dematerialized just before being struck.

Gemma didn’t have much time. She jumped up and, darting around the flames now surrounding her, ran to the nearest window. She slammed it shut. Testing the frame, she ensured the window’s tight seal.

She glanced toward the ground floor of the chamber. Catullus now stood near one of the shelves close to the door.

Edgeworth ran to the top of the spiral staircase. He grabbed the metal railings. Within seconds the whole metal structure glowed red-hot. The stair buckled as it grew molten. Bellowing, Edgeworth tore the stair from its anchors in the floor and shoved it toward where Catullus had just materialized. The structure toppled. Catullus barely managed to disappear before being crushed by the glowing hot metal.

Infuriated, Edgeworth leapt down from the gallery and landed on the ground floor in a crouch.

With the gallery cleared of Edgeworth’s presence, Gemma sprinted to the windows. She banged them shut, even as she desperately craved the smokeless air.

At the noise she created, Edgeworth turned to see what she was about. He started to raise his hands to launch a burst of fire at her. A chair, miraculously intact and un-burned, flew at him, thrown by Catullus. Though the chair turned to smoldering splinters before it could touch Edgeworth, it provided enough of a distraction for Edgeworth, allowing Gemma to continue with her task.

She wouldn’t allow herself to look down from the gallery, knowing that if she watched Catullus risking his life for her, all concentration and intent would be lost. So she hurried about her work, coughing, darting around localized fires.

One half of the windows were sealed tightly. She moved down the gallery, heading toward the other half of the room, when the fires blazed higher, blocking her path.
Damn!

Then she remembered: doors. Summoning every bit of concentration, forcing herself to block out the sounds of Catullus baiting Edgeworth, the Heir’s retaliation, the fire and choking smoke, Gemma willed the doors between spaces to open.

A brief sensation of a vacuum, and then she appeared on the other side of the fire. She smiled grimly to herself. This was a use of her family’s magic that no one before Catullus had ever tried. She hoped to make it out alive, if only to quiet her normally garrulous aunts with a demonstration.

Gemma’s smile, dour as it was, faded when she heard Catullus’s grunt of pain. Oh, God. He hadn’t been fast enough. She glanced down to see him rolling out from underneath a toppled, burning shelf. His once-white surcoat now appeared almost black, holes had been burned into his tunic, and blood streaked his face. Edgeworth shrieked with laughter.

She wanted to leap down from the gallery and plunge her knife into Edgeworth’s neck.

That was impossible, so she ran to the remaining windows and shoved them closed.

Almost at once, the atmosphere changed. The air within the chamber thinned. She fought for breath and barely found enough air to even partially fill her lungs. Between the smoke and the rapidly diminishing air, her head spun, her eyes growing hazy.

Gemma reeled. She fell to her hands and knees, struggling to breathe.

Below her, she saw Catullus do the same. He shook his head to stay conscious.

She tried to stand. Her legs wouldn’t work; neither would her arms. She couldn’t open the windows and let in much-needed air. All she could do was force herself not to pass out.

Edgeworth, seeing Catullus grappling with consciousness, roared with laughter. “On your hands and knees,” he gloated. “Exactly the way your kind is meant to be.”

The flames surrounding him leapt higher with his glee. He slowly stalked toward Catullus.

“Familiar position. For you,” gasped Catullus. “Father’s supplicant.”

Enraged, the Heir’s fire blazed higher, stronger. “Shut up! I am the Heirs’ leader.”

Gemma fell to the floor, her arms and legs unable to support her any longer.

“Not leader. Sniveling prince.” Catullus staggered to his feet. “No honor of. Your own. Pale shadow. Of father.”

“Wrong!” screamed Edgeworth. “I am every bit the man he was! More!” The flames around him raged taller.

Gemma could barely keep conscious. She felt the room drawing in on itself, as if it would implode. Crushed. She would be crushed, and Catullus, too. No …

Then a strange thing happened.

Edgeworth’s fire shrank. Sputtered.

The Heir looked down at his hands, confusion in his
face. “The devil—?” He tried to unleash a volley of flame at Catullus, but the blaze came out only as a small pop before flickering into nothingness.

“Not. The devil,” Catullus rasped. “Oxygen. Using yours. Up. Then. No more. Fire.”

Even the flames along the walls and floor dwindled, leaving behind black, brittle remains.

Edgeworth’s eyes went wide as the blaze surrounding him continued to shrivel to nothingness, leaving him unprotected. He darted toward the door, intending to open it and let in air. Catullus threw a kick, landing a heel right in Edgeworth’s thigh. The Heir went sprawling.

Catullus, using stores of stamina Gemma could barely comprehend, ran up and rammed his knee into Edgeworth’s elbow, causing the Heir to yowl and his hand to spasm open. Catullus dove, grabbing hold of the Primal Source.

“No!” screamed Edgeworth. “It’s mine!”

The two men grappled, rolling across the floor. Edgeworth clawed at Catullus’s hand. They drove knees into each other’s chests, snarling, as they scrabbled for dominance. Catullus wedged his forearm underneath Edgeworth’s chin, forcing the Heir back slightly.

Using what had to be his very last breath, Catullus shouted up to her, “Open the windows.”

Clinging to consciousness, Gemma staggered to her feet. She pulled herself up the wall and, summoning every last scrap of strength, smashed the pommel of her dagger through the window. Fresh, cool air rushed in like a blessing. She took deep gulps of air. As soon as she felt herself capable of standing on her own, she turned from the window and began opening the others.

Smoke began to clear. In the center of the room, she saw Catullus grab his fallen sword and face Edgeworth.

The Heir, without his nimbus of fire, was only a man. A man full of anger and frustrated greed. Catullus stood tall
and formidable, ready for combat, a marked contrast to the frantic Edgeworth.

Weaponless, Edgeworth moved toward one of the cases holding a Source. Catullus’s sword stopped him.

“No more magical crutches,” Catullus said.

“But I’m unarmed,” Edgeworth whined.

“You want mercy when you give none.”

Snarling, eyes seething with hatred, Edgeworth grabbed a twisted spike of metal from the ruined staircase and flung himself at Catullus.

Gemma stood at the edge of the gallery, watching the two men clash. She had to do something—but if she went down to help, she’d wind up endangering Catullus more than helping him. She dodged flying cinders as Catullus and Edgeworth slammed together and broke apart.

“Damn you Blades!” Edgeworth screamed. “Treasonous snakes. Enemies of England.”

“Not enemies of England,” Catullus corrected. He blocked a strike and countered with his own. He moved with a speed and skill that stole what breath Gemma had regained. He was beautiful and terrible. “Allies of everyone. Everyone who isn’t a magic-stealing bastard,” he amended.

“Naïve idiots.” Edgeworth launched into a series of strikes, proving that he, too, had trained in swordsmanship. “If England does not seize power, then some other nation will. And then where will your high-minded ideals be? Trampled in the mud, in chains.” He lunged.

“As long as there are Blades of the Rose,” Catullus vowed, deflecting the blow, “we will keep fighting.”

They moved back and forth, ceaseless, brutal in their attacks.

“Because you are fools,” spat Edgeworth.

“Perhaps,” Catullus agreed mildly. Then all mildness fled him, and he became tempered steel, as deadly as the weapon he held. “But I’ll be damned if I let some overprivileged bigot like you defile my homeland and call it patriotism.”

Edgeworth charged, snarling. Then stopped and stared down at Catullus’s sword jammed between his ribs. Gasping, he pulled back. The sword slid free with a wet hiss.

“No,” he rasped. “Father …”

Despite the blood pouring from him, Edgeworth swung again at Catullus.

Gemma flinched as Catullus’s sword swept out and Edgeworth’s head rolled across the floor. His body slumped to the ground. The blood … it was everywhere. She felt sick and yet fiercely glad it was Edgeworth’s blood soaking into the floorboards and not Catullus’s.

Catullus left the corpse, sparing it not a single glance as he sheathed his sword. He took the floor in a few long strides to stand below her. One hand rested on the pommel of his sword as easily as if he was a warrior born and bred—which he was, a warrior of mind and body.

For several moments, they only looked at one another. She marveled at him. He was utterly filthy, covered in sweat and soot and blood, singed and weary. He’d never been more handsome. Her knight. Her champion.

Come to think of it, she’d put up a pretty good fight, too. She materialized in front of him.

“I love you,” she said, because that was precisely what she needed to tell him.

He inhaled sharply, his weariness giving way to fierce triumph. He looked like a man unafraid to seize his chance at happiness.

“I love you,” he answered. “Only and always.”

Gemma once stood on the deck of a gunboat when it fired all of its guns at once. She’d felt the vibrations of it in the marrow of her bones. Nothing, she had believed, could ever top that force, that sensation. She was wrong.

Hearing those words from Catullus dwarfed that explosion into a minuscule pop. It was a wonder she didn’t glow like a sun.

But love could not turn back the force of an inferno. The
floor beneath them groaned and buckled as the walls cracked. Sounds of combat outside—Heirs against Blades, the dragon against Arthur—and imminent collapse of the building filled the chamber.

Catullus pulled Gemma close, shielding her, as pieces of the ceiling rained down on them.

Edgeworth lay dead, and the Primal Source was free, but the battle was far from over.

The building shook, and Catullus heard the dragon’s furious roar, followed by Arthur’s own bellow.

Catullus calculated exactly how much longer the structural integrity of the headquarters could last. His gut clenched when he realized it was only a matter of minutes before everything collapsed.

He had to get Gemma to safety.

“Collect the Sources up in the gallery,” he said, “and I’ll gather the ones down here.”

After everything that had happened, and the fact that the Heirs’ headquarters burned around them, he hated to take his eyes from her. But she vanished from his arms, and he fought a momentary sense of panic at her disappearance, which eased slightly when she reappeared on the gallery. She began to move quickly, approaching the cases on the second level and removing the Sources.

Catullus stepped over Edgeworth’s headless body without breaking stride, registering as much as a piece of shattered furniture.

As Catullus opened each case, he felt a rush of hot anger every time. Every one of the glass containers held not only a
Source, but a tale of thievery and avarice, murder and cruelty. What would they say, these Sources, if given voice? What had they seen? Each had been ripped from its home and people, exploited, forced into servitude and hoarded.

Not so different from his own family’s history.

“You are free now,” he whispered to the Source he now held, an ivory hair comb taken from the East Indies. “We’re all free.” He heard Gemma up in the gallery, and he felt it, his own liberation, urged into being by an American woman with freckles and boundless spirit.

As he quickly opened the cases, one after the other, the power of each Source pulsed like a joyous heart. The bleak, hopeless air within the chamber dissipated, a nightmare dispelled upon waking. He set each Source, including the Primal Source, in the satchel given to him by Merlin. Here was magic: No matter how many Sources he put into the bag, there was more than enough room for all of them, and together, they weighed almost nothing, even the heavy Polynesian stone icons.

Catullus, whimsical from fatigue, wondered if Merlin might be persuaded to create a line of luggage.

“I’ve got them,” Gemma said from above. She had removed her lightweight golden underskirt and used it as a pouch to cradle the Sources. He caught sight of her slim, creamy ankles as she moved to the edge of the gallery.

“That’s a naughty grin,” she noted.

“I have a very lively intellect,” he said without apology. “Just a hint is enough to get me going.”

“Looking forward to exploring that intellect.”

She disappeared, and materialized right in front of him, her goddess’s body pressed against his own. They kissed, their mouths meeting hotly. A confirmation of desire and life after harrowing trials. Trials that were not yet over. The shuddering building confirmed how much danger they still faced.

She looked down at the bundle she’d made of her skirt.
“I collected a dozen Sources. These can’t be all of them. From what you’ve said, the Heirs have been stealing Sources for centuries.”

“They have estates and property throughout England. Sources are kept in all of them. With the Heirs’ headquarters in chaos, we may now have a decent shot at retaking the rest of the captured Sources.”

A corner of her mouth turned up, wry. “Looks like we’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

If they made it out of this inferno. He allowed himself a sigh. “Always.”

“Good. Hate to think that we’d be bored.”

His attention caught. “I have reviewed all the variables, and I can assure you that all data supports my theorem.”

“What theorem is that?”

“That the collective
we
has a much greater probability of happiness than the discrete elements
you
or
I.”

Her gaze warmed further. She beamed, momentarily girlish, and it charmed him. And then she became decisive, briskly efficient. “Let’s get out of this damned place so we can prove that theorem.”

They moved toward the door. Before they left the chamber, both cast a final look at the room that served as a place of defilement and prison. An ugly room, made uglier by the blackened, burned walls and twisted metal lying like a skeleton on the floor. And the body of the ruined man, deformed by madness, undone by hate. The legacy of the Heirs of Albion.

They left the room without looking back.

The hallway outside the chamber was engulfed in flames.

“Aim for there,” Catullus shouted above the din. He pointed to a small area at the other end of the corridor, mercifully untouched by fire.

Holding hands, they concentrated on that one little
spot. He prayed they both had enough focus to transport themselves safely.

He felt the vacuum around him, and for a heartbeat, her hand vanished from within his. Panic tore at him. When he found himself on the far end of the hallway, alone, he swung around. Then exhaled in a rush.

Gemma stood behind him rather than at his side. Her eyes were wide with fear as she searched for him; then she pressed a hand to her chest when she saw him.

“Hell of a way to travel,” she gulped.

They descended the stairs leading to the hallway. Fires continued to blaze all through the massive building. Panicked Heirs choked the hallways thicker than smoke, all of them more intent on fleeing the building than fighting the Blades peppered throughout. As Catullus led Gemma through the labyrinth of corridors and rooms, not a single Heir attempted to stop them. Confusion everywhere. If Catullus hadn’t memorized their route into the building, he and Gemma would have found themselves lost amidst the chaos.

In the ruins of the ballroom, they met up with Bennett and London. Husband and wife both looked decidedly scruffy after enduring God only knew what kind of obstacles. Of the three-armed giant and complement of Heirs, there was no sign. Gunfire sounded distantly. Through the hole in the wall, Catullus and the others could see a bloodied, weary Arthur grappling with an equally wounded and exhausted dragon.

“Now
you show up,” Bennett said, dragging his hands through his hair and making the whole mass stand on end. “After all the hard work is done.” Bennett winced as Arthur caught one of the dragon’s claws in his leg.
“Most
of the hard work.”

“Are you all right?” asked London, much more polite than her husband.

“You look like a burnt roast,” Bennett added. “We’re alive,” said Catullus.

“And we have the Primal Source.” Gemma hefted the bundle she carried. “Plus whatever Sources were kept here.”

London glanced at the encroaching fire. “Jonas?”

Though Catullus was glad to put an end to Edgeworth’s despicable life, he didn’t relish having to tell London that her brother was dead. And by his hand. He gently shook his head.

A brief flare of pain crossed London’s face, followed by something approximating release.

“I’m sorry, love,” murmured Bennett, pulling her close. “But unless we want to join your brother in the afterlife, it’s time to leave.”

Leaving the spectacle of Arthur still battling his foe, they pushed on through the havoc, collecting Blades along the way. Later, Catullus would remember that journey as a succession of summits and valleys, spirits soaring only to plummet down into untapped wellsprings of sorrow. Blades—comrades, colleagues, friends—those that survived counted themselves amongst the walking wounded. They saw their injuries as fortune’s blessing. Others, far too many, lay dead amidst the burning walls.

Blades, their faces streaked with soot and tears, carried bodies. Henry Wilson. Susan Holcot. Matthias Gruber. Renato Scarlatti. Names, faces. Catullus knew some of them well, some not at all, but as he and the other Blades met and progressed through the building, they became part victory parade, part funeral procession, all evacuation.

The building quaked powerfully, nearly throwing everyone to the buckling ground. A massive shriek split the air. It sounded like the dragon, but whether it was a death cry or triumphant proclamation, there was no way to know.

From the smoke, Lesperance emerged, partially dressed, supporting a limping Astrid. Lesperance’s bare chest resembled a roadmap of lacerations, and he’d broken his nose. Blood covered his top lip. He paid no attention to his own injuries, focusing everything on the woman beside him.

Astrid, cradling her ribs, saw the Blades, and her gaze moved over them quickly, assessing who had survived and who had not. When she spotted Catullus, her unreadable expression shifted, and she permitted herself a small smile.

“Your adversaries?” Catullus asked.

“In hell,” Astrid answered, straightening. With Lesperance’s support, she held herself upright as she walked with the Blades.

Thalia and Gabriel Huntley met them on a landing. Hastily made bandages crisscrossed where they’d been attacked by the peryton, yet, other than that, both warriors appeared better off than most of the other Blades. They, too, gauged the living and the dead with the stoicism of seasoned fighters, yet Thalia could not hide the sheen in her eyes when she saw the lifeless bodies.

Catullus would not surrender Gemma’s hand from his grip. With death all around, he needed the tangible proof of her. And she held him just as tightly.

He kept the lead as the Blades picked their way through the rubble of the entryway, meeting up with Sam and Cassandra Reed. Everyone was confronted with the sight of a giant, smoking dragon carcass. Which answered one question, but another arose.

“Arthur,” Sam explained without prompting. “But once he killed the beast, he disappeared.”

A ragged group, the Blades collected in the square. Each of them turned to watch the massive headquarters burn. It was a lurid sight, the stone walls charring as flames leapt along their surfaces, windows glowing like demonic eyes. Heirs escaped in fearful clumps, abandoning the structure that had, only hours before, symbolized the unbending, monolithic principles that united their numbers.

Catullus felt numb as he observed the architectural embodiment of his enemies gutted by fire. The whole roof of the building caved in with a deafening roar. Had the Blades taken any more time getting out, none would have survived.
Perhaps some Heirs were still inside. Perhaps not. Without his spectacles, he could not make out precise details, yet what he saw was enough.

He turned away. There was still so much to do. The headquarters may be destroyed, the Heirs scattered, but only a fool would believe them to be defeated. Men such as them always found ways to survive. Catullus felt so goddamned tired.

Gemma’s slim hand came up to stroke his face. He met her gaze.

“This is what we do,” she said gently. “But not alone.”

He’d thought himself worn down to bone and little else, numb. Yet life and feeling surged through him, a little subdued, to be sure, but there, nonetheless.

Elaborate swearing in Greek heralded the approach of Athena Galanos and Nikos Kallas. The burly sailor scowled as he beheld the headquarters wreathed in flame.

“We missed the good part,” he growled.

“Do not worry, my darling,” Athena soothed, “I am sure there will be plenty of destruction and carnage for us another time.” She turned to Catullus. “Is it done? Has the Primal Source been freed?”

“I’ve got it here.” Catullus took the red stone from his satchel. He felt the eyes of the Blades on him, many of whom had never before seen the most powerful Source.

Athena stared at it, reverent and cautious. She murmured a prayer in Greek, and moved to touch it, before holding herself back. She clearly didn’t trust herself, or her own magic, coming in contact with the Primal Source.

“It must be returned to where it came from,” she said.

“I’ll take it back,” Astrid volunteered immediately.

“We
will take it back,” Lesperance corrected.

“Of course, you’re coming with me,” said Astrid, as if the idea that she might travel without him was too ludicrous to consider.

“And then there are all the other Sources we’ve liberated,” added Catullus. “Each of them must be returned, as well.”

At once, Blades began stepping forward, each of them volunteering to make the arduous journeys necessary to restore the magic to its rightful place.

In the midst of this tumult, Gemma whispered in Catullus’s ear. “Say good-bye to solitude, Mr. Graves. Wherever you go, I’m going, too.”

“Solitude can go rot,” he whispered back. He started when the Primal Source began to glow, gleaming as if lit by an internal flame, yet it gave off no heat.

“Astrid, what’s it doing?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“The other Sources, too,” said Gemma, amazed. She held her bundle aloft, and the whole of the fabric shone from the light of a dozen Sources within.

Every Blade gasped aloud as the Primal Source vanished from Catullus’s hand. A fast check of his satchel and Gemma’s makeshift bag revealed the same thing: Every Source was gone. Disappeared into nothingness.

No!
Catullus felt a surge of anger. “The Heirs?”

“The Sources are home,” said a voice, an ancient voice of profound wisdom.

Merlin materialized out of the smoky air, his robes swirling around him, his eyes dark with magic. Of all the places Catullus expected to see a somewhat deranged, phenomenally powerful sorcerer, standing in a smoke-filled square in Mayfair graded somewhere toward the bottom.

Merlin chuckled when he beheld the Blades gaping at him, though his look became more thoughtful when he glanced at Athena. Recognizing her power, and somewhat beguiled by the beautiful witch. The sorcerer’s weakness. Unsurprisingly, Kallas wrapped a possessive arm around Athena’s waist, and she did not object.

Kallas’s rather primitive but wholly understandable
demonstration seemed to recall Merlin back to himself. He said, “All the Sources have found their ways to their homelands.”

“Including the ones at the other Heir properties?” asked Gemma.

“All of them,” confirmed the sorcerer. “Consider it a boon granted by grateful magic.”

Catullus, Gemma, and the other Blades fell silent, each of them agape at the power of one man—who was not, Catullus suspected, a man, but a manifestation of magic itself.