Darling Beast (Maiden Lane #7)(27)

A flash and a horrific bang.

Lily screamed, half-crouching in reaction, her hands over her ears.

She started forward, afraid she’d see blood—afraid to see Caliban’s dynamic face rendered slack by death—but the men were still struggling. Somehow the shot had missed them both.

“Mama?”

Indio’s voice was high and scared, his eyes fixed on the men wrestling on the ground. Lily thought her heart would beat right out of her breast. She flew to her son, catching him up in her arms even though she hadn’t carried Indio for years. She turned with him clutched to her chest, in time to see the stranger draw a second pistol. Caliban grabbed the other man’s wrist and glanced up, as if searching for her.

Their eyes met, and she didn’t know what he saw in hers, but his face was distorted in a scowl, his visage warlike and grim.

A man like this could kill, she thought, somewhere in the back of her mind where she was still sane. I should be afraid of a man like this.

Then he jerked his chin, sharply, and the message was clear: he wanted her and Indio gone.

A better woman might’ve stayed, might’ve argued or in some way helped him, but evidently she wasn’t that better woman.

Lily turned and fled, stumbling, sobbing, clutching Indio.

And as she did she heard the second shot.

Chapter Six

So the king took the baby and walled him up in an impenetrable labyrinth at the center of the island. There the monster lived and grew, unseen by any human. But on certain nights there could be heard a mournful lowing such as a bull might make, and on those nights the people of the island shivered and shuttered their windows…

—From The Minotaur

Trevillion stared up into Kilbourne’s bloodied face and knew he was about to die of hubris.

The first pistol shot had missed Kilbourne completely, the second had bloodied his thick skull but hadn’t seemed to slow the man down at all. Maybe nothing would. Maybe Kilbourne was like some mindless beast, driven into a killing rage, unfeeling of any pain.

It was pure, stubborn hubris for a cripple to come after a fully capable man—especially a man as large and muscled as Kilbourne. Hubris to announce his presence to his quarry instead of disabling him first.

Hubris to think he was the man he’d been before the accident.

Trevillion continued to struggle, even though he’d discharged both pistols, his leg was screaming, and he had no hope of overpowering Kilbourne. He might be a prideful bastard, but he was a stubborn prideful bastard and if this was to be his last hour, then by damn, he’d go down fighting.

Kilbourne’s forearm was across his throat, pressing down, stealing the air from his lungs. In the giant’s other fist was a hideously curved knife. Trevillion expected to feel the hooked blade sinking into his skull at any moment.

Black spots floated in Trevillion’s vision and he wished viciously that he’d drawn both his pistols before he’d called to Kilbourne. He’d’ve at least had the chance to shoot when the big man charged. He’d worried about the woman getting caught by a shot, though…

His leg stopped hurting. That was worrying.

Blackness closed in, narrowing his vision.

Then suddenly light, air, and pain returned.

He rolled, coughing violently as his lungs drew air, his leg spasming torturously. Trevillion threw out his hand, grasping blindly for any sort of weapon. The pistols were already discharged, but if he could at least reach his walking stick, perhaps he could crack it over Kilbourne’s head.

He looked up.

Kilbourne was squatting nearby like some hulking native, his hands hanging between his knees, the hooked knife dangling from one. The left side of his face was painted red with blood and he looked a veritable savage.

Except for his eyes. He was simply watching Trevillion struggle—warily, to be sure, but in no way threateningly.

Trevillion narrowed his own eyes, glancing around. “You’re expecting someone to come to your aid.”

Kilbourne blinked and at last an expression showed in his blank face—sardonic humor. He shook his head.

“What then?” Trevillion had managed to prop himself on his elbows, but with his leg in such pain he wouldn’t be standing anytime in the next half hour. “What are you waiting for?”

Was the man a sadist to draw out death so?

Kilbourne shrugged and pushed his knife into his belt, then reached to the side for something, making Trevillion tense.

The other man handed him his stick.

Trevillion glanced incredulously between his walking stick and the murderer before snatching it out of the other’s hand. “Why don’t you answer me? Can’t you talk?”

Again the sardonic half-smile and Kilbourne simply shook his head.

Trevillion stared. He was on his back, unarmed except for a walking stick, and pathetically helpless, and Kilbourne had made no move against him.

Worse, he’d helped him.

Trevillion cocked his head, the thought arising, simple, organic, and patently true. “You never killed those men, did you?”

APOLLO STARED AT the man on the ground, ignoring the stinging of his scalp. He’d recognized him at once. Captain James Trevillion. He knew the soldier’s name now—he’d learned it years ago in Bedlam—but on the morning he’d been arrested, the other man had just been a dragoon in a red coat. The herald to his coming downfall.