Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(116)

Beast does not so much as check his stride, merely switches direction and begins running toward the stairs that lead to the battlements. I do not know what he has planned, but I follow him blindly. Behind us another shout goes up.

I glance over my shoulder to see that the archers have been summoned and are forming a line in the middle of the courtyard.

Luckily, the stairway is covered with a stone arch, which will afford us some protection, and its narrow width will force the soldiers to go two abreast and slow their pursuit.

However, when we emerge on the battlements, I quickly realize there is nowhere for us to go. I throw a questioning look at Beast, who says nothing but continues running until we reach the farthest tower—the one that looms over the river.

More shouts ring out from below and I look down to see the archers are loading their crossbows. Beast stops and turns to me. “We must jump.”

I stare down at the swollen, roiling river below. “We will be leaping to our deaths.”

“Do I bear a marque?”

I glance up at his forehead, relieved to see there is no dark smudge upon it. “No,” I say in wonder.

“Then we will make it. Trust me.” As he holds out his hand, three crossbow bolts arc by, flying wide.

The sounds of our pursuers grow louder as they gain the stairs. Soon they will be on the battlement behind us and close enough that their arrows will not miss.

I reach out and take Beast’s offered hand. A glorious smile spreads across his face, making it almost beautiful. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Do not let go,” he says, “and kick your feet to get us well clear of the wall.”

I nod, then he tugs us several paces back from the edge. We take deep breaths, filling our lungs with air. There is a shout as one of the men gains the parapet. It is an archer, and he is raising his crossbow.

We take a running start, and then we jump.

The wall drops away beneath us and we are flying through the air. We do not let go of each other but kick and windmill with our free arms, trying to get as far away from the shallows as we can. Beast grins maniacally, as if he will keep us alive by sheer will.

Then a cold, hard shock jars my teeth and sends the rest of the air whooshing from my lungs as the water closes over my head.





Chapter Fifty-Two


THE FRIGID WATER SUCKS ME down into its murky depths. It is dark and disorienting, and I cannot tell which way is up. I remember every story I have ever heard of Saint Mer and how she lures sailors deeper and deeper into her realm until they cannot find their way back.

But this is a river, not the sea.

I try to kick to the surface, but my rich, heavy skirt is already filled with water and has turned to lead, pulling me down like an anchor. Even so, I struggle desperately to swim free. The water is dark and cloudy, and my vision is filled with bubbles swirling, much like snow in a blizzard. And still I am pulled down. I push off my shoes, then fumble at the ribbons around my waist so I can be free of my skirt, but they are wet and my hands clumsy, and no matter how I struggle, they are stuck fast in a tight, wet knot. My lungs burn with the effort of not breathing, and I am not sure how much longer I can hold my breath. Black spots dance before my eyes.

At least I have been spared the fate d’Albret had planned for me. And the fierce retribution of his men. I will die knowing that Charlotte and Louise are safe and that d’Albret will never be able to hurt anyone again.

My feet touch the soft, silty bottom of the river, and still I am too stubborn to take a breath, knowing it will be water that fills my lungs, not the air I crave.

Just as my lungs are ready to spasm, ready to gasp for air when there is nothing but water, an icy hand grabs mine. At first, my heart leaps in joy because I think it is Beast, but surely it is far too cold for any human hand. Has my father come to escort me home?

But it matters not. I kick and strain, letting the hand pull me to the surface, hoping we will make it before my lungs give way. But I am cold, so cold. My own hands no longer work properly, and I lose my grip.

I flounder for a moment, then begin to sink again, until the hand—warmer this time—grabs hold and pulls as I kick frantically for the surface.

Up, up, up he pulls. Just when I am certain my lungs will burst, I break through the surface with a loud splash. I take in great gulping breaths of air as I tread water. I look over to see Beast doing the same, but it is harder for him because he cannot stop smiling. When we finally catch our breath, he reaches down and cuts the ribbons that hold my heavy skirt, and it slowly drifts to the bottom. Then we turn and kick off, letting the strong current of the river begin to carry us away.

I think once more of all those I have loved and lost, and I know that they have found peace at last. And I—I have my whole life before me, and for the first time, it is filled not with fear and darkness, but with love and promise.

And a beast. I cannot help it. I smile, finally able to appreciate the gentle laughter of the gods.





Author’s Note


WHILE GRAVE MERCY TOOK PLACE against a historical and political backdrop, Sybella’s story is a much more personal one, touching only on the fringes of the political happenings of the time. Because of that, I have taken a bit more creative license with this book.

As with Grave Mercy, many of the characters in the book are actual historical figures, and the broad strokes of the politics have been taken directly from history. The duchess did retreat to Rennes with her council, and the French did invade Brittany’s borders and conquer a number of towns.