Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(43)

As they whipped around, my hand slapped over my mouth. I wanted to rip the words from the air, stuff them back down my throat, and scuttle away like a scared rabbit.

Oh sweet Moses, what have I done?

Eustace Clarkson’s sword pinged against the stone wall as he ripped it from its hilt. I fumbled for the dagger in my boot, slicing through my skirts as I withdrew it. Eustace advanced down the alley toward me. I backed up as his gaze raked down my body.

Letting go of Rachel, the red-haired, bucktoothed Charles hooted, “Stand down Eus, it’s just a wench. A pretty wee black-haired one at that. Now we can each have one.”

“Well, well. And so we can.” The nasty grin on Eustace’s pitted face sent a sharp new fear through me.

Something Phoebe had once said shivered through me. Be mindful, Hope. Men in the Middle Ages think nothing of rape. In most cases, it’s not even a crime.

At the time, it had seemed ridiculous. But as Eustace sheathed his sword and took another step in my direction, the horror of it suddenly seemed all too real.

Rachel, seeing her shot, took it. She darted between the men and bolted toward the street. As she ran, her enormous golden eyes locked with mine.

Run, she mouthed.





Chapter 20


I DIDN’T WAIT TO ASK QUESTIONS.

Rachel shoved the pile of crates over to buy us a few, precious seconds. Her yellow veil billowed behind her as we sprinted through the narrow streets.

“This way,” she called.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind us, but I didn’t look back. All my attention was focused on not tripping and stabbing myself with the knife still clenched in my hand.

Rachel ducked through a low doorway. The pungency of worked leather. Boxes of scraps and barrels of nails. A cobbler’s shop. The owner’s eyes went wide as Rachel muttered something to him in a language I thought was very old Hebrew. The man thrust his chin toward the curtained back of the shop.

“Come,” Rachel huffed. “There’s another way out.”

In the tiny rear living quarters, a woman sat on a neatly made bed, nursing a baby. I had a second to register the aromas of fried garlic and onions before racing after Rachel toward the open door of a rear entrance.

I misjudged the door frame’s height. My forehead slammed into the low, wooden beam. Green and white sparks bloomed through my sight. The blade dropped from my suddenly nerveless hand. Two beats later, the blinding pain hit and I nearly went to my knees.

Rachel panted. “We cannot tarry. You know not what Eustace Clarkson is capable of. We must away.”

I couldn’t leave my dagger behind. Collum had given it to me. Had trusted me with it. I bent and groped for it through a nimbus of agony. I nicked my thumb but managed to snatch it up before Rachel dragged me out the door.

A crash, angry yells, and a cry of alarm sounded from inside the shop. Rachel slammed the door shut and wedged a stone in the jamb to slow them. With a firm grip under my elbow, she hauled me with her. At the entrance to the street, I heard the door crash open behind us.

Close. Too close.

Rachel gasped when a cloaked, hooded figure darted toward us from the mouth of the shadowed, narrow alley. I skidded into her back, almost knocking her over. I knew what she was thinking. Trapped. We’re trapped. But when the person quickly shoved past us, Rachel wasted no time. She grabbed my arm, wrenching me out onto the main street. The ring of swords colliding sounded behind us, and I could barely keep up as Rachel hustled us away. Through a haze of red pain, something about the way the stranger had moved—agile, fluid—niggled at me.

My vision tripled and blurred as Rachel led me down one winding street after another.

When I faltered for the third time, she paused, her face going ashen as she panted. “Oh, I am sorry, mistress. You are bleeding. I—I didn’t realize. May I take your blade from you? I’d hate for you to faint and fall upon it.”

When I swiped at my eyes to clear them, my fingers came away slick with blood.

“No,” I said, “I’ve got it.” Blinking, I blindly fumbled the blade back into its sheath.

Rachel scraped back strands of her chestnut hair before scanning my face. “We should get you home at once, mistress. Where do you live?”

Through pulsing throbs, I told her of Mabray House, and where I thought it was located.

“I know it well.” Rachel nodded. “But we must stop that bleeding first.”

She guided me to a stack of crates draped with fishing net. Layers of silvery scales littered the muddy ground, reflecting the wintry sky in a dull rainbow. The pain and pervasive stench of rotten fish made my gut roll and heave.

Kneeling before me, the girl’s golden-brown eyes examined an area high on the left side of my forehead. “Forgive me, mistress, but you look quite the horror.”

Murmuring to herself, she reached into one of several leather bags hanging from the belt circling her narrow waist. Tipping a corked bottle onto soft cloth, she deftly cleaned away the blood and wound a long strip around my head. A fresh green smell of herbs and cut grass soothed the nausea but did little to ease the agony firing through my skull.

“Oh, but you must be in pain, mistress. Back at my grandfather’s shop, I have the black poppy. It would help, though it be a far walk.”

Black poppy? That was opium. Pure and undistilled. Like taking a shot of heroin. Tempting, but I wasn’t quite to that point yet.