The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(96)

“Jack the Ripper,” Maggie murmured.

Brynn shook her head. “Much, much older than him. Jack was only one of his more recent disguises. There have been so many others. And now he’s the Blackout Beast.”

“I’ve dreamed of the Beast,” Maggie said. Brynn. It’s so strange to see Brynn. Does this mean I’m dying?

She knew, with the certainty of dreams, that somewhere in the labyrinth lurked the Beast, biding its time, waiting to come for her. She could hear it as it pawed the ground, snorting.

Then in the dream, or hallucination, or whatever it was—it charged. She couldn’t see it clearly in the dimness, couldn’t see if it was a boar, or an ox, or some kind of prehistoric mammoth. But it was gigantic, with scarlet eyes in a goat’s face, flaring nostrils, and sweating flanks. The body of a man and the legs of a bull. A Minotaur. The Beast.

As it charged her, Maggie rolled away at the last moment. It galloped past, red eyes smoldering. Hidden once again in shadows, it threw back its head and howled.

Maggie struggled to her feet and waited, knowing the Beast was biding its time.

Are you the hunter or the hunted? Maggie heard Brynn call. As time expanded and contracted, Maggie felt hundreds of years come and go in a few breaths.

In the shadows, she could hear it snorting and growling, cloven hooves pawing at the ground.

Once again, it charged her. Maggie waited until the last possible moment, then somersaulted to one side—but not before grabbing and ripping out a knife from the Beast’s hide. It felt cold in her hand. Solid. Heavy.



The Beast turned and bellowed, its goat eyes shining with pure hatred. Blood trickled from its side.

Maggie had the prickly déjà vu feeling of taking part in an age-old dance. She stood, stance wide.

With a deep bellow, the Beast charged once more.

She felt cold to the bone. She lifted the knife she’d pulled, then realized it was a gun.

The kaleidoscope turned once again, and Nicholas Reitter stood in front of her, on the blood-spattered carpet of the library, a long stiletto in hand. He looked up at her, eyes glazed with hatred. She stared as his face changed from naked anger to a contemptuous smile.

When she saw his lips lift in that parody of a smile, she felt nothing but overpowering fury. It would be easy, so easy, to shoot him, taunted a voice inside her. It would feel so good, so satisfying, to watch him die.

She thought of all the dead bodies of women she’d seen, of Brynn’s lifeless face, of all the violence that the Beast had done. That Reitter had done. Rage and hatred coursed through her veins, making her want to hurt back. To kill. Just pull the trigger. Pull it. Get a bit of your own back—

But no. She lowered the gun, hands shaking, and took a step away. No, she thought. No.

He leered as he screamed, “Fucking whore.” Then he lunged.

I will not let you kill me. Maggie aimed at his head and pulled the trigger. I will not die for you. The kick of the gun made her stagger backwards, hands smarting, as the roar of the explosion filled her ears, and the acrid smoke burned her lungs.

Reitter fell backwards to the floor with a violent crash, legs and arms akimbo.



Maggie stood over him, gazing down into what was left of his jaw. A pool of blood began to spread on the carpet.

She stood there, the gun still hot in her hand, watching him bleed. Her mind was blank with shock, the thud of her heart like a drumbeat in her ears, the air of the library cold on her face.

She’d struck a blow of revenge for Brynn. For all the murdered women. For herself. She wasn’t proud—but she wasn’t ashamed, either. It was kill or be killed. The hunter or the hunted. And she had made the decision to kill—in order to live.

She stood over the body, gun still pointed down, breathing heavily.

There was banging at the front door, then a deafening crash as the Metropolitan Police officers broke it down. Maggie looked up and saw Durgin in the lead, his own pistol drawn.

“I shot him,” she told him, in a voice that sounded surprisingly normal. She could only watch as he and the officers took in the fallen body, the widening circle of red on the carpet, and then her own blood-flecked face.

One of the men knelt down to take Reitter’s pulse. “He’s alive,” he told them. “We need to get him to hospital.”

As the men carried Reitter out, Maggie reached up to wipe at a tear rolling down her face. But when her fingers came away red, she stared down at them, transfixed by the sight of Reitter’s blood.

“You’re safe now,” Durgin said, putting an arm around her as they watched the men carrying Reitter leave. “You’re all right.”

Somehow in that moment, Maggie knew exactly what to do. She took her fingers and smeared a line of blood across one cheek, then the other, then her forehead. She was now a hunter.





Chapter Nineteen


As early morning sunlight streamed through the windows, Sarah yawned and stretched in bed. “May I make you a cup of tea, darling?” she said in perfect French, tracing the line of his jaw with one finger.

Hugh beamed. “Thank you, dearest. That would be lovely,” he replied, stroking her dark, silky hair.

The leggy brunette slipped into her red silk robe and went down to the kitchen. “It’s a bit like playing house, isn’t it?” she called to Hugh, who’d followed behind. She began to rummage through the cupboards to find the tea things and bread and jam for breakfast.